Tim bolted from the chair. His entire body shook with compressed fury. “Then I guess I’m gonna be stuck forever, because making peace with my father is something I will never do.”
22
Amy pulled her car onto the highway and headed for town. She and the children had enjoyed a less-busy Sunday morning than in past weeks, not having to rise early to prepare their house for services. They’d stayed up late Saturday night, eating popcorn and playing board games, so she’d allowed the children the luxury of sleeping until seven thirty. Then she fixed pancakes, bacon, and eggs for breakfast instead of their usual Sunday-morning cold cereal and fruit. While they ate, she read the story about Daniel in the lions’ den from the Bible storybook she’d received for her fifth birthday. Although the book was tattered and worn, the stories never grew old, and she delighted in sharing them with her children, just as her mother had read to her during her growing-up years. She hoped to pass on the book to her grandchildren one day.
In the backseat, between Adrianna and Parker, a wicker basket held two dozen wax-paper-wrapped peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. She’d never brought something so simple to a fellowship dinner, but Mr. Schell had told her to bring food that would keep without refrigeration or the warmth of a stove, so her options were limited. Today they’d lunch at the Gerbers’ home, so Margaret would surely prepare something more substantial than cold sandwiches.
She glanced in the rearview mirror and caught Parker sticking his nose over the basket and inhaling. She smiled to herself. The sandwiches might be simple fare, but at least one person was pleased with the choice. Parker would eat peanut butter and jelly every day if she let him.
Bekah cradled Amy’s and all three of the children’s Bibles in her lap, holding them as securely as a mother held a newborn. Despite the girl’s up-and-down emotions, she remembered to be respectful of God’s holy Word. The sight of her daughter’s slender fingers clinging tightly to the books created a sting in the back of Amy’s nose. Train up a child in the way he should go . . . She’d done her part; she had to trust that God’s hold on Bekah would remain strong through these turbulent teen years.
She crested the gentle rise that let them know the town was just ahead, and on the other side of the rise she spotted Mr. Roper’s truck, back half on the road, front half in the ditch. Wisps of smoke curled from beneath the hood.
Bekah pointed. “What’s wrong with Mr. Roper’s truck?”
Amy slowed her vehicle. “I’m not sure. But it doesn’t look good.”
Both Parker and Adrianna draped their arms over the seat and stared ahead. Amy pulled onto the shoulder and put the car in park. Although she didn’t expect traffic, she pushed the button for her emergency lights before turning to the children. “You stay in the car. We don’t need you on the road.” Then she hopped out and trotted across the highway to Mr. Roper, who sat on the truck’s back fender with a disgruntled look on his face.
“Are you all right?”
His breath escaped in a mighty huff. “I’m fine. But my truck isn’t.”
White smoke continued to snake from the edges of the hood before being erased by the breeze. “What happened?”
He jammed his thumb toward the front fender. “A dog ran out in front of me. I swerved to avoid it and bounced into the ditch. Wouldn’t you know I’d bounce right into a drop-off. Broke a tie rod, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a leak in my radiator.”
“So you can’t drive it?”
He shook his head, scuffing the toe of his boot on the ground. Dust dimmed the black leather. With a jolt, she realized she’d never seen him so dressed up. Although informal in a crisp-ironed shirt, unfaded jeans, and uncovered head, he looked nice—especially when compared to his usual T-shirts, well-worn blue jeans, and scuffed brown boots. Had he been heading to church, too? None of the men in her fellowship either in Arborville or here in Weaverly would attend a service in something other than a white shirt, black pants, and a lapel-less jacket, but the pearl-buttoned western shirt and dark blue denim suited Mr. Roper. And he probably fit right in with the ranchers in Weaverly.
Realizing where her thoughts had taken her, Amy abruptly turned her attention elsewhere. She glanced up and down the road. How had he managed to end up in the opposite ditch simply from trying to avoid hitting a dog? “The children and I are going in for our morning fellowship. We’re meeting in the insurance office in town. I can give you a ride, take you to your own church, and maybe afterward one of the men in your congregation will help you tow your truck to a service station.”
Scritch, scritch, scritch. He continued brushing his toe on the ground. Dirt stirred, further marring the once-shiny toe of his boot. “Not attending church today.”
“Oh. I thought by the way you were dressed . . .”
He shot her a startled look.
Heat seared her cheeks. She shifted her gaze to the road. “Well, I can’t just leave you here. Who knows when someone else might come along? Let me take you into town, at least. If nothing else, one of the Mennonite men will certainly be willing to come tow your truck where a mechanic can look at it.”
“The closest car repair shop that would be open today is in Topeka.” He spoke flatly, with a tiny hint of resentment, reminding her of the first day they’d met, when he’d hauled Parker and Adrianna home. Over the weeks, he’d lost the gruff, impersonal manner of speaking to her, and she felt rebuffed by the change now, even though his tone was still mild. “One of the Mennonite men would take me all the way to Topeka . . . on worship day?”
Her fluttering ribbons tickled her cheeks. She turned her face to the wind, meeting his gaze. “If it’s necessary, of course they would, Mr. Roper. ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself. . . . ’ That includes meeting needs where they exist.”
He crunched his forehead into a series of lines. “I don’t know . . .”
“Mr. Roper?” Adrianna’s voice carried across the road. She’d rolled down the window and hung her head out, her fingers curled over the windowsill. “Did your truck get broke?”
His face relaxed into a weary smile. “I’m afraid so, Adri.”
Parker crowded next to Adri. “What happened?”
The man pushed to his feet, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Oh, nothing much. A silly ol’ dog ran me right off the road.”
“What a bad dog! My dog Spot wouldn’t do that,” Adrianna proclaimed, and Mr. Roper chuckled. Then the child chirped in a cheery voice, “Why don’tcha get in our car? You can come to service an’ eat lunch with us. It’ll make you feel better.”
Mr. Roper’s terse expression returned, and he spun to face his truck. Amy glanced at the simple watch on her wrist. If they didn’t hurry, they’d be late for their service. They were only a mile from their homes—he could walk to his house easily. Yet she felt guilty leaving the man sitting here in the sun beside the road.
Suddenly he pushed off from the truck’s bed with a vicious thrust of his hand. “I’m holding you up. You’ve got places to be.”
“But—”
“Go.” His tone, although not unkind, was so final it forced her backward a step.
“A-all right, Mr. Roper.” She trotted to her car and slowly pulled onto the road. The children chattered, questioning why she was leaving their friend behind, but she ignored them. She drove to the insurance office and parked. Only one other car sat in the street in front of the office, but through the large plate-glass windows she glimpsed several people inside. Most of the fellowship members must have walked to the building for service.
“Bekah, carry in our Bibles, please. Parker, take the basket with you. Adrianna, careful now—don’t step out into the street. Go right up on the curb.” She offered automatic directions, her mind a mile outside of town where Mr. Roper sat on the side of the road alone, dejected. No matter how abrasive he’d been with her, he needed help. If one of the Mennonite men wasn’t willing to offer his assistance, she’d find someone else who would.
The mom
ent Mrs. Knackstedt’s car pulled away, Tim removed his keys from the ignition of his truck, locked it up—sitting on the highway here, someone might come by and bother it—and then turned his feet toward Weaverly. He needed to call for help, but he’d left his cell phone sitting on his dresser. Although pay phones were fast becoming a thing of the past, the bank still kept one in operation on the outside of the building. He’d make use of it today.
The sun tried to cook his uncovered head and forced him to squint. Why hadn’t he thought to grab a hat? Wind whistled across the fields on either side of the road, raising dust devils that skipped along in their zigzagging manner. Julia had always loved to watch dust devils flit across empty fields, claiming they reminded her of ballet dancers. His feet had never felt less like dancing.
His conversation with Reverend Geary still weighed heavily on him. Make peace with his Mennonite past? How would that eliminate the burden of guilt he carried for letting his wife and son drive away on their own that day? It didn’t make sense. The two halves of his lives were disconnected. One had nothing to do with the other. Yet he couldn’t deny he’d thought more about Julia and Charlie in the past weeks—since the Mennonites had arrived in town—than he had in the previous two years combined.
Probably because of Parker. His similarities to Charlie. Not in appearance. Parker was tall and gangly where Charlie had been short and always a little plump. But in tenderness. In eagerness to please. In neediness. And Parker had stirred the old protectiveness to life within Tim’s father-heart.
He needed to cut his ties with the boy. If spending time with Parker was what had brought back all the regrets and started the unsettling dream, then it wasn’t worth it to show him how to use a hammer or run a mower or prune trees. No matter how much satisfaction it brought Tim to share his knowledge with an eager, willing learner, it couldn’t make up for the unsettling dreams, lack of sleep, and haunting memories.
Tim clomped along, mopping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, his mind whirling. School would start in another month and a half. Seven weeks. Over the next couple weeks, he’d start backing off. Maybe have the kids come one day a week instead of two. Then, when school started and they made new friends, he’d ask them to stop visiting the orchard.
“This is Mr. Roper, my best friend.” Parker’s words echoed through Tim’s mind. He felt the pressure of the boy’s skinny arm across his back, the proud hand clamped on his shoulder. He grimaced. It’d be hard to sever ties with the boy. But for the sake of his sanity, he had to.
The sound of an engine caught his attention, and he cupped his hand over his eyes to peer ahead. An older-model pickup truck chugged toward him. Sun glinted on the windshield, turning the glass into one bright glare. Not until the truck slowed to a stop beside him did he see the driver—one of the Mennonite men he’d met at the Fourth of July doings.
The man rested his elbow on the windowsill and smiled at Tim. “Hello. Tim, right? I’m Christian Hunsberger. Mrs. Knackstedt sent me out—said you needed a tow.”
Mrs. Knackstedt . . . Paying him back, no doubt, for the help he’d given her in the past. If he accepted this kind deed, would he then owe her another? Tim squinted up and down the road, hoping someone else might magically appear. No one. He sighed. “Yeah. My truck’s broken down. I was heading to town to call for a tow truck to take me to Topeka.”
Hunsberger smiled, flashing white teeth in a tan, clean-shaven face. “No need for that. I got a hitchball and chain, and a full tank of gas.” He laughed. “Filled up yesterday, even though I wasn’t even near empty. Guess the Lord knew I’d need that gasoline today.”
Despite the shimmering sun overhead, a shiver climbed Tim’s spine. He shuffled his feet, uncertain. “Hate to make a perfect stranger drive all the way to Topeka.” He flicked a glance at the man’s black flat-brimmed hat. “ ’Specially on worship day.”
Again, Hunsberger laughed. “Seems to me Jesus told the synagogue leader that a responsible man waters his oxen on the Sabbath, so what is wrong with necessary work? I figure making sure you aren’t stranded is just as important as watering the oxen.” He bobbed his chin toward the passenger’s side. “Climb in—we’ll go get your truck.”
Tim hesitated. He needed assistance. But did he want to accept it from this affable Mennonite man?
23
Remember to be home by four today,” Mom called as Bekah herded Parker toward the back door on Tuesday. “I want all of us to go in to the library so I can check my email.”
“I know, I know,” Bekah muttered under her breath. She let the screen door slam shut behind her, then gave Parker a little push that sped his feet.
“Stop pushin’, Bekah.” Parker sounded grumpy—he’d been out of sorts all morning for some reason. Mom had to call him three times before he got out of bed. Then he’d picked at his breakfast and dragged himself around. He needed to straighten up. Mr. Roper wouldn’t want a grouchy worker on his property. He had enough worries with his truck in the shop and his grape harvest for the year ruined. Why couldn’t it rain, anyway?
At least the apple trees were showing signs of a decent harvest. Mr. Roper had taken them on a walk through the trees last week, showing them the hard little balls that would develop into full-grown apples by mid-September. He’d shown them how to count the number of apple buds in a cluster and pick all but three so the apples would grow to a decent size. Too close together, he’d said, and they didn’t develop like they should. Sometimes Bekah wondered if she was like an apple bud, all cramped up with too many others. She needed space to grow into who she was supposed to be, too.
She wheeled Parker’s bicycle to him, waited until he took hold, then hurried back into the garage for her own. “C’mon. Let’s get going.”
Hot wind smacked her in the face, threatening to dislodge her prayer cap. She lowered her head and pumped hard. Parker lagged behind. She called over her shoulder, “Hurry up! You’re slower’n a snail today!” Parker grunted, but he rose up from the seat and put his weight behind the pumps on the pedals, and he caught up to her.
They turned into Mr. Roper’s lane. They hopped off their bikes and leaned them against the barn. Then Parker scuffed inside the barn while Bekah skipped to the house. Mr. Roper always left the little box air-conditioner going, and stepping from the hot, dry wind into the cool trailer home raised a sigh of relief.
As she’d come to expect, Mr. Roper had left a note on the counter, listing things to do that day. Every task looked familiar, except one. Clear everything from hall closet, he’d written. Bekah frowned at the instruction. Did he mean for her to throw away everything in the closet, or merely remove the items and put them somewhere else?
Nibbling the inside of her lower lip, she crossed to the hallway and opened the closet door. She examined the contents carefully. Three coats hung on hangers—two of them obviously for a woman and a third for a little boy. Bekah fingered the sailboat design embroidered on the corduroy front of the child’s coat. A few threads were loose on the sail, but Mom could fix that easily. Overall, the coat was in good shape. Why would Mr. Roper want this thrown away? She’d been taught it was irresponsible to dispose of something that could still be used.
Then realization struck. Bekah recoiled from the coat, plastering herself against the paneled wall behind her, her heart pounding. These things had belonged to his wife and son. His dead wife and son. She stared at the coats, the faces from the picture Mr. Roper had shown her springing to life in her imagination. She pinched her eyes tight, willing the image away. When she slowly opened her eyes again, right eye first, then left, all she saw was three coats—one little and two big.
Tears stung behind Bekah’s nose, and she sniffed hard. Mr. Roper wanted these things gone because the memories hurt him. She understood. Mom had given away almost all of Dad’s things shortly after his funeral. She’d said it was because they were moving in with Grandpa and there wasn’t room for Dad’s stuff at Grandpa’s house, but even then Bekah had know
n it was too hard for Mom to look at those things and remember Dad would never use them again.
Mr. Roper had held on to his wife’s and son’s things for a long time. Why would he choose now to let them go? She didn’t know, but she’d do as he asked. He kept empty grocery sacks under his sink to use as garbage bags. Bekah pulled all of them out and began filling them with the items in the closet. The coats went first, wadded into balls. Then she reached for the shoe boxes that lined the closet floor.
She started to jam them into a sack, but curiosity got the best of her. With a surreptitious peek at the windows to be certain no one peered in at her, she lifted the lid on the first box and looked inside. Letters, all addressed to Julia Roper from someone named Grace Armstrong. Bekah came close to opening one of the envelopes, but she and her friends from Arborville wrote letters back and forth, and she wouldn’t want a stranger reading them. So she put them back in the box and closed the lid. She slipped the box into a sack.
In the second shoe box she found photographs. For several minutes she sat cross-legged on the floor and examined each photo by turn. In her religious sect, photographs weren’t allowed, so she didn’t have pictures she could hold to remind her of her past. Not of the house where she’d lived with Mom and Daddy, not of Daddy, not even of herself. But in her hands, right now, she held captured moments from Mr. Roper’s years with his wife and with his son. Her chest felt as tight as an overfilled balloon as she flicked slowly through the images. So many smiling faces. So much pride and joy captured on the shiny paper.
All of a sudden it hurt too much to look at the pictures. She dropped them back in the box, slammed the lid in place, and shoved the container into the nearest sack. She started to simply push the third box into the sack without looking inside, but something inside of it rattled, and she couldn’t resist taking a peek.
When Hope Blossoms Page 18
