When Hope Blossoms

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  For a moment indecision niggled. Mr. Roper had told her not to open any doors. But how else would she find a broom? “I won’t go into the rooms,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll just open and peek so I can find a broom.” She moved to the single door closest to the bathroom and inched it open. Although the curtains were drawn, shrouding the room in shadows, Bekah glimpsed a twin-sized bed bearing a spread spattered all over with cars and trucks in primary colors. A shelf cluttered with toys stood next to the bed. A little boy’s bedroom.

  Curiosity wiggled through Bekah’s middle. Mr. Roper had a son?

  “Bekah?”

  Bekah jolted and slammed the door closed, whirling to face Adri. “Don’t scare me like that!”

  “But I found a broom.” Adri thrust a straw-bristled broom at Bekah. “It was stuck beside the ’frigerator.”

  Bekah snatched the broom from her sister and gave Adri a little push toward the living room. “Go sit down, like I said. And no more snooping!” Although she aimed the warning at Adri, she knew she needed it even more than her sister did.

  She swept the floor, making sure to chase every crumb and bit of fuzz from beneath the edges of the cabinets. The accumulation shocked her. Mr. Roper must have forgotten what a broom was for. Then she filled her bucket with warm, soapy water and set to work with the sponge. Her knees ached by the time she was finished, but the old linoleum looked much better. She pushed to her feet and pointed at Adri. “You stay put. I’m gonna clean the bathroom.”

  Adri whined, “Can’t I get down?”

  “No.” Bekah lifted the bucket with both hands. “You’ll just get in my way.” She waddled to the bathroom, careful not to splash the mucky water over the bucket’s rim. After emptying the bucket in the bathtub, she gave the bathroom a thorough cleaning from top to bottom. When every surface sparkled, she rinsed her bucket and sponge and returned to the kitchen to see if the floor had dried. To her surprise, she’d spent an hour and a half in the bathroom. The clock on the stove showed eleven o’clock—the morning was almost gone. And Adri was curled on the sofa, fast asleep.

  Bekah had intended to dust and vacuum, but she got another idea. Judging by the dry bread crumbs all over the kitchen floor, Mr. Roper ate a lot of sandwiches. Maybe she could make up a big casserole. Wouldn’t he appreciate a hot lunch after working all morning? He had a microwave oven, so he could reheat portions and eat for several meals. Opening and closing doors carefully to avoid disturbing her sleeping sister, she explored cabinets and discovered a box of macaroni noodles, two small cans of tuna, canned peas, and a half-filled bag of rippled potato chips. A peek in the fridge revealed milk and butter, and she’d already found flour in a tall plastic canister. Mr. Roper had everything she needed to make a tuna-noodle casserole.

  Humming to herself, Bekah filled a large pot with water and set it on the stove to heat. She preset the oven to three hundred fifty degrees, just as Mom had taught her, then opened all the cans, drained the contents, and set them aside. She melted butter in a skillet and stirred in some flour for thickening the sauce. The butter-flour mixture turned frothy. It was ready for the milk.

  She retrieved the carton, then glanced at the big kettle of water. Steam rose, and with it an odd odor. Bekah carefully lifted the pan and checked the burner—had she neglected to clean off some food particles? But nothing seemed amiss. She set the pan back down and looked around the room, puzzled. The smell was getting stronger by the minute.

  A wisp of gray crept from the edge of the oven door. Her heart pounding in alarm, Bekah cracked the door open. Smoke billowed, choking her. Fire! She slammed the door closed and raced around the counter. Grabbing Adri by the hand, she yanked the drowsing little girl from the sofa. “Wake up! We’ve gotta get out of here! Fire!”

  Adri started to cry as Bekah dragged her out of the house. Bekah ran into the yard on her bare feet, pulling a wailing Adri beside her. She bellowed, “Mr. Roper! Mr. Roper! I set your house on fire!”

  16

  Tim stepped back from the row of wooden boxes he’d carefully stacked two high, three across. Bands of pastel colors—each box different—gave the illusion of a modern art sculpture. A few bees flitted in and out of the openings, and a steady low-toned hum let him know many more were inside. Not keen on hot temperatures, they’d wait until tomorrow morning when it was cooler to be active, but he smiled at the few explorers zigzagging near the safety of the hives.

  He glanced down the line of trees, pleased that Parker had stayed right where Tim had directed. The last thing he wanted was for the boy to be stung. Bees wouldn’t attack without provocation, but most people inadvertently provoked them by slapping at them—an honest reaction, but dangerous. He’d only been stung once in all his years at the orchard, and he’d deserved it for trying to smack loose an insect perched on his ear. Over the years, Tim had grown accustomed to bees landing on his hair or his arms, and he’d learned to just go about his business—it would fly off when it realized he wasn’t a tasty blossom.

  With an unhurried stride to avoid alarming the bees, he turned and walked toward Parker. The boy craned his neck, peering past Tim to the boxes. Tim reached his side, and Parker whispered, “Will they be okay now?”

  Parker’s concern for all creatures, great and small, had become clear to Tim over their morning together. Although startled by a spider crawling across the workbench in the barn, Parker had made no attempt to squash the creature. And he’d rescued two roly-poly bugs from frying in the sun by gently flicking them into the shady spot beneath a bush.

  Tim said, “They’ll be fine. They’ll take an afternoon nap, get all settled in, and be ready to start visiting flowers tomorrow.”

  Parker hunched his shoulders and chortled. “Visiting flowers . . . That’s funny.”

  Tim slung his arm across Parker’s shoulders and aimed him for the waiting golf cart at the end of the row of Jonagold trees. While they walked, he explained the purpose of pollination. Parker listened, attentive to Tim’s every word, then asked several questions that Tim answered patiently. After only a short time with the boy, Tim’s fondness for him had grown tenfold. He was going to enjoy having Parker around, even if it did mean long explanations and showing him something three or four times before he grasped what to do. He found pleasure in passing on what he knew to an eager learner.

  A few twists of the ignition key brought the old cart to life, and Parker braced his hands on the seat while they bounced their way along the wide pathway between the trees. Tim turned the wheel, angling the cart toward the barn. On the final turn, the yard and house came into view. Tim frowned. What were Bekah and Adri doing in the middle of the yard, hugging each other? They seemed to be staring at the house, and Tim followed their line of vision. Fingers of smoke escaped from the cracks around his front door. Fear jolted his innards.

  “Hold tight, Parker!” He jammed his foot onto the gas pedal, forcing the cart to its fastest speed. He screeched to a stop a safe distance from the house, nearly sending the cart on its nose. The engine died. Tim yanked the key from the ignition and pointed at Parker. “Stay in the cart.” Then he ran to the girls. “Bekah, what happened?”

  Bekah clung to Adrianna, her face streaked with tears. “I . . . I don’t know. I was going to f-fix you some lunch, bake a tuna casserole, but then the kitchen got a-all smoky, and—”

  Tim groaned. He didn’t need further explanation. “You kids stay right here.” He leaped onto the rickety porch and threw open the door. A fog of whitish-gray smoke, acrid-smelling and thick, greeted him. He covered his mouth and nose with one arm as best he could and plunged forward, squinting through the murky cloud. Unable to see, he walked smack into the bar and bounced backward a few stumbling steps. With his free arm extended, he felt his way around the counter.

  When he reached the stove, he waved his hand wildly, clearing a small patch in front of his face. A pot, boiled dry, sat on a red-hot burner. By squinting and continuing to wave, he managed to see well enough to locate the c
ontrol knobs. He flicked both the burner and the oven dials to OFF and then yanked open the oven door. Fresh smoke, the strongest smelling yet, billowed into his face.

  Coughing, Tim backed away. His eyes burning, he flung the kitchen window open and then stumbled through the main room, opening all the windows. Finally he made his way outside again. In the yard, he leaned forward, propped his hands on his knees, and breathed deeply of the hot-but-clean air.

  The children dashed to him. Adrianna’s wails nearly covered Bekah’s blubbering prattle. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Roper. I didn’t mean to set your house on fire. Honest! I don’t know how it happened. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  Parker started to cry, too, apparently in sympathy to his sisters’ distress.

  Tim’s throat burned. A foul odor sat on his tongue. He really wanted to turn on the spigot and take a long drink of cool water, but the kids came first. He coughed again to clear his throat, then straightened and put his hand on Bekah’s shoulder. “It’s okay. You didn’t start a fire. There’s no fire.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Bekah blinked rapidly, tears swimming in her eyes. “All that smoke . . .”

  “All that smoke is from plastic dishes melting in the hot oven.”

  The girl stared at him, her mouth agape. “I . . . I didn’t put any plastic dishes in the oven.”

  Tim grimaced. “I know. I did.” Parker quieted, but Adrianna continued to wail. Tim scooped her up, giving her little heaving back several comforting pats. “Hey there, everything’s all right. You can dry up now.”

  Adrianna sniffled, resting her head on Tim’s shoulder and holding tight to his neck. Tim swallowed hard. It’d been a long time since he’d comforted a frightened little one. The child’s weight in his arms felt welcome, despite the scare they’d all been given. Clearing his throat again—the vile taste lingered—he looked at Bekah. “I stuck a bunch of dirty dishes in the oven last night before you and your mom came over so they wouldn’t be sitting in the sink. I forgot about them. So don’t blame yourself. I shouldn’t have left them there.”

  Bekah hung her head and peeked at him through a heavy fringe of lashes. Even though her eyes were brown rather than blue, she looked a lot like her mom. She was a pretty girl. “I should’ve looked inside the oven before I turned it on.”

  Tim wondered what had given her the idea to fix lunch, but he decided he’d wait for another time to address the subject. His questions might be perceived as finding fault, and the girl already looked plenty guilt-ridden.

  He bounced Adrianna, loosening her hold on his neck. “You okay now?”

  The little girl rubbed her fist under her nose and nodded, her lower lip poking out. “I was really a-scared. I thought your house was gonna burn all up.”

  Tim set her down and looked at the house. A few dismal wisps of pale gray smoke still sneaked out from the open windows, but it appeared the worst of it was over. He’d probably be living with the smell for a while, but maybe the closed bedroom doors had kept the smoke from permeating his clothes and bedding. He wanted to kick himself. How could he have been so stupid?

  Heaving a sigh, Tim faced Bekah. “You kids better get on home for your lunch. And don’t worry about coming back afterward. The house’ll take a while to air out, so you won’t be doing any more cleaning today.”

  Fresh tears glittered in Bekah’s eyes. “I really am sorry. D-do you want me to come back . . . tomorrow . . . and finish?”

  Tim understood her unspoken question—did he trust her in his house after the morning’s fiasco? Sadness weighed as heavily on his chest as the smoke that had filled his lungs. How many times had he and Julia read together on the couch after putting Charlie to bed, the old Tupperware bowl full of popcorn between them? The bowl was probably one big melted lump on the bottom of his oven now. The loss saddened him. But he couldn’t blame Bekah for it.

  “Sure. If it’s okay with your mom, you come on back tomorrow morning. The smell should be gone by then.”

  “My shoes are still in there,” Bekah said, cringing.

  Tim scratched his head. He hated to go back in right away, considering how badly his throat burned, but he couldn’t send the girl home on a bicycle with bare feet. “Where’d you leave them?”

  “By the front door.”

  “I’ll get ’em.” Tim held his breath and retrieved Bekah’s shoes. She sat on the grass and pulled them over her feet, then stood. Her forlorn expression tore at Tim’s heart. He gave her shoulder a quick pat. “Don’t you worry. That smoke’ll clear, and it’ll be fine. Head on home now.”

  Heads low, the children scuffed their way to the bicycles. Minutes later, they disappeared behind the trees at the end of the lane. Tim stood for long minutes staring at the house, gathering his courage to go inside and take a look inside his oven. It was just a bowl. Just a stupid bowl. It shouldn’t matter so much.

  But it did.

  On Sunday morning, Amy tucked the Mexicali corn-bread casserole into the oven, then scurried to the counter to clean the dishes. While she rinsed the items, she called over her shoulder, “Bekah? Parker? Adrianna? You need to hurry and get dressed. Mr. Hunsberger will be here soon with the chairs and will need our help setting them up.”

  Scuffling noises from overhead let her know the children were bustling around. She hoped Bekah had tossed aside her sour mood with her nightgown. Amy sighed, squirting dish soap into the sink. She’d hated to tell her daughter she couldn’t return to Mr. Roper’s on Saturday, but they had their own chores to see to in readiness for the worship time. Bekah had argued, insisting she needed to complete the cleaning, but Amy remained firm. Mr. Roper could wait until Monday.

  Amy didn’t say so, but she suspected their neighbor didn’t mind a brief break from the children’s presence, considering the mess they’d inadvertently made of his house. She’d taken over a bowl of cold chicken-macaroni salad Friday evening by way of apology and to let him know she needed the children on Saturday. The sharp tang of burnt plastic permeated his entire front room. He’d been kind about it, but the smell surely gave him a headache. Not to mention the destruction of several of his dishes and his oven’s interior.

  Footsteps clattered on the stairs, and Bekah wheeled around the corner. With her hair neatly tucked under a cap and wearing one of her nicest dresses and brown oxfords, she looked ready for worship. Except for her expression.

  Amy quirked one eyebrow. “Did you get up on the wrong side of bed?” If she’d hoped the teasing comment might raise a smile, she was disappointed. Bekah picked up a dishtowel and began drying the clean bowls and spoons without a word. Although she preferred not to start the Lord’s Day with a reprimand, Amy decided she couldn’t ignore Bekah’s pout. “I’ll want you to lose your scowl before the others get here. Remember Ecclesiastes 7:9. ‘Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.’ ”

  Bekah shut the cabinet door with more force than necessary. “I’m not angry.”

  “Your actions and attitude say otherwise.”

  Bekah sucked in a long breath, held it for several seconds, then let it out slowly. When she faced Amy again, some of the fire had faded from her eyes. “I’m more disappointed than anything. I told Mr. Roper I’d do a job for him, and I didn’t get to do it because I . . . I messed up.” Tears winked in her eyes, but she blinked and they disappeared. “I want him to think I’m responsible—like he can count on me.”

  Amy’s irritation with her daughter melted. She tucked Bekah into an embrace. “Honey, I’m sure Mr. Roper understands you didn’t deliberately melt those items in his oven. It was an accident.”

  “But I stunk up his whole house.” With her face pressed to Amy’s shoulder, her voice came out muffled.

  Despite herself, Amy chuckled. “In a few days, he’ll find humor in the situation and all will be well.”

  Bekah pulled loose. “Are you sure?”

  Amy cupped Bekah’s cheek. “I’m sure.” Mr. Roper had been very forgiving when Amy
apologized, claiming responsibility for the mess and asking about the children’s welfare. Her heart warmed toward their neighbor. He really was a very kind man. “He also understood that you and Parker have responsibilities here at home, and he was perfectly willing to put off the rest of the cleaning until after Sunday.”

  Bekah tipped her head, crunching one ribbon against her shoulder. “Mom, has Mr. Roper ever talked about having a child? A boy?”

  Amy moved to the table and wiped the top with her damp dishrag. “No. Why?”

  “There’s a bedroom in his house all set up for a little boy. But he’s always by himself. What do you think happened?”

  Amy gave Bekah a stern look. “I don’t know, but you aren’t to ask. It isn’t polite to pry into other people’s business.”

  “I know.” Bekah curled her hands over the back of a chair, her expression dreamy. “Maybe his boy is all grown up already and moved away, or maybe Mr. Roper and his wife got a divorce and she took the boy away.”

  Amy paused, frowning. “Let’s not talk that way. We don’t want to start rumors.”

  “But that man in town said Mr. Roper used to be a Mennonite. Maybe his wife wanted to stay Mennonite, and he didn’t, so she—”

  “Bekah!” Amy waited until her daughter met her gaze. “No more. I don’t want you speculating about what you saw. If you are going to carry tales away from Mr. Roper’s house, you won’t be allowed to go there anymore. For any reason. Do you understand?”