The young woman nodded, but continued to be silent.
Then, she whispered, “But I had plans. Today is my day without any homes to clean.”
“I’m sure you’ll be done, quick as a whistle,” Rochelle tried to state it as brightly as she could.
“I’m sure I will. Danke, Aenti Chelle.”
All right. Rochelle decided to leave Emma with her thoughts. At first she’d had her doubts earlier in the year if Emma could handle the clients, when Emma took over the remainder of Betsy’s clients when Betsy’s shop kept her increasingly busy. Emma preferred needlework and quilting to cleaning, something she’d made clear when first accepting the full-time job.
But when living in Pinecraft year-round, a woman had to do what was available to make ends meet, and Emma needed to learn she wasn’t on vacation. And for many Amish or Mennonite women, available work meant waiting tables, cooking, taking in sewing or alteration work, or, in Rochelle’s case and other women like her, cleaning houses.
Rochelle left Emma’s room, but not before she glimpsed a tear on the young woman’s cheek. There was nothing Rochelle could do to make Emma feel better, short of going to Mrs. Gentile’s house and taking care of the home herself. However, she wasn’t about to do so.
She shook off the same feeling she’d had when seeing Silas for the first time in the summer, the feeling of being tired of cleaning up other people’s homes—and messes.
Today, yes, she had classes—and she was due to pick up Lena in fifteen minutes. Rochelle bustled through the kitchen, packing her tote bag, ensuring she had her textbooks in order along with her notepad and enough pens.
Maybe the feeling of being tired of cleaning would pass. The Scriptures spoke of contentment. She ought to work on it, being content and thankful for what she had. After all, this is what she’d chosen for herself, and God had blessed her.
She called out a good-bye to Emma and heard no response, so went on her way.
Whatever came next, he had no idea.
* * *
Silas entered the airport office; the airport business manager had called this morning saying he had a different type of contracted flight available for Silas, should he want it.
Jeremy Stiles, manager, and a pilot himself, was sitting at his desk. “Mr. Fry, I’m glad you could make it in. I know it’s short notice.”
“It’s all right. Flying is what I’m here for. So, you said something about a new flight?”
The older man nodded. “We have a local client who needs an afternoon hop up to Atlanta. However, it’s an overnight trip because of the air traffic. Can’t get the return flight back until tomorrow morning.”
“Afternoon flight, when?”
“Today.”
Silas paused before responding. Yes, this is what he wanted. But overnight, at such short notice? If he said no, he might lose future opportunities. The private piloting industry was competitive enough. All Jeremy had to do was pick up the phone and he’d have someone else to step in.
“I’ll do it.”
“Your overnight accommodations and meals will be paid for by the client, of course. The plane’s in hangar two. Nothing you haven’t flown before.”
“What time is preflight?”
“Two. In the air at three, at the gate in Atlanta by four-thirty, the latest. Destination’s Fulton, not Hartsfield.”
“All right.” He accepted a file folder from Jeremy with more details. “I’ll get started on this.”
Silas left the office by the side door and went down the steps and out to the tarmac, where two hangars stood, housing private planes. The maintenance hangar lay a farther distance away.
He inhaled the scent of fuel and oil when he entered the hangar. There stood the gleaming turboprop described in his folder. Not a sleek Learjet; he wasn’t qualified for those. But this Cheyenne would give them a nice ride and a little bit of elbow room.
And, he didn’t need a copilot and could run the controls himself. He climbed up the drop-down steps and entered the plane.
Nice cockpit, seats for two, but for this flight he didn’t have a copilot.
“Mr. Fry, I presume?” A voice came from the doorway side of the plane, and a man wearing a business suit stepped inside.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ted Kingsley. Jeremy said you’d be out here.”
They shook hands. The man’s brow furrowed as he leaned over to see the cockpit; dark circles made shadows under his eyes.
“I apologize for the short notice. My young son is sick; he’s been taken by medical air transport to Atlanta. His mother is with him, but I wanted to get up there tonight, as soon as possible. How long before we can leave?”
“We’re in the flight plan for three. I’ll see if they can squeeze us in sooner, but I’ll be making my preflight checks no later than two.”
“All right.”
“What’s wrong with your son?”
“He’s waiting for a heart transplant, and they’ve told us a heart will be available tomorrow morning.”
Silas’s gut tightened. “Well, I’ll be praying for him and your family.”
“Thank you. It’s been . . . a long road. He’s only seven.” Mr. Kingsley straightened to a standing position. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”
Silas nodded. “We’ll be ready to get you up there soon.”
Mr. Kingsley left, and Silas continued his instrument check. Then he stopped. He needed to see if Matthew could stay with his uncle and aunt this evening. Lena would be studying at home. Of course, he’d have to get back to the house himself to get a change of clothes and some toiletries.
An overnight trip. Not in his plans, but trips like this reminded him of why he liked to fly. It was almost like a medical mission. He started to grin as he continued checking the plane over, as well as the flight plan.
* * *
Today, Rochelle had helped dissect a sheep in Anatomy and Physiology. Her stomach felt queasy all the way home, and even Lena commented she looked a tad green when they met in the student center commons. The ride home felt bumpier than usual.
“I’m glad it’s over.” She pulled into Silas’s driveway.
“I thought it was interesting. I’m almost thinking of changing my major to biology.” Lena’s phone chimed from her backpack. “Oh, it’s Dad.”
She pulled it from the front pocket, and took the call. “Hey Dad . . . yes, I just got home. . . . Oh, you are? Well, that’s good. . . . Overnight? Okay, yes . . . I’ll go there for supper . . . yes, I’ll keep my phone charged.” She pushed a button on the phone.
“Is everything okay?”
“Dad has an overnight trip, flying someone to Atlanta. His first overnight trip since we’ve been here. I think he’s nervous.”
“About flying?”
“No. To leave us. He would never say so. Ever since my mother . . . it’s like I’m ten years old again and Matthew is only four. And we’re not.”
“I’m sure every parent feels the same.” Although she had no frame of reference, not having children herself. So how could she say?
“We’ll be fine.”
“And so will he, I’m sure.”
“Well, thanks, Rochelle. I still want to call you Miss Keim.”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Can I call you Chelle sometimes, like Emma and Betsy do?”
“Of course. It’s fine with me.” She smiled as Lena nodded, then left the van.
Rochelle continued on her way home. Silas. Overnight, away from Pinecraft. Funny, she’d miss him being away, just for a night. She’d grown accustomed to him being around. Even not seeing him, it was nice to know he was there, somewhere in the village.
Once arriving home, she found Betsy in the living room, her feet up on an ottoman and looking like a thundercloud.
“Betsy, what is it?” Rochelle set her tote bag on the kitchen table and glanced toward the living area.
“Emma, is what.”
“
Emma?”
“I think she ought to be the one to tell you.”
“Where is she? Is she home?” Rochelle hoped Emma followed through on her visit to the Gentiles’ house to clean.
“Oh, she’s home all right.”
Emma came from the hallway, clutching an apron, a burgundy print. “See? This is the apron we have to wear.” When she saw Rochelle, she froze. “Aenti Chelle.”
“Hello.” Rochelle stared at the apron. “What is it?”
“Ah, my new apron. I got hired at Der Dutchman, as a waitress. I start in two weeks.”
“Two weeks.”
“Um, I was going to talk to you . . . and let you know I’m not going to work for Keim Cleaning anymore. In two weeks. I’ve heard, when giving notice at a job, it’s good manners to give two weeks’ notice.”
A number of things shot into Rochelle’s brain at that moment, and none of them she deemed appropriate to say to a young, carefree—no, careless—Mennonite woman.
“Yes, so it is good manners,” was all she could manage to say. “I’m . . . I need to study. I’ll be in my room for a while.” Rochelle snatched up her tote bag and headed down the hall.
“Aenti Chelle—”
“Emma, hush,” was the last thing Rochelle heard before closing her bedroom door behind her.
* * *
Rochelle, 19
Momma left them peacefully and went on to the world beyond this one, while Rochelle’s world crumbled. Despite knowing what would happen, nothing truly prepared her for it. Dad simply went to his work shed after the funeral home took her momma away.
The house felt empty after the funeral, despite being filled with friends from church and a few Amish family members who decided to overlook the shunning for one day.
Silas stayed close by her, not saying much of anything, at first.
“Here, eat something.” He gave her a plate crammed full of food, most of which she didn’t care for.
“No, I can’t.”
“You need to eat something.”
Right now, she didn’t care about eating. She wanted to tell everyone to go, to let them be while they figured out what to do next.
“I’ll eat later.” Rochelle tried not to sigh. “I pulled out of my semester classes. The professors are going to give me withdrawn status on the courses.”
“But the semester is already half over . . .”
“I . . . I can’t deal with classes right now.” She shook her head. “Maybe in the spring semester. I’m not sure.”
“You need to keep busy.”
Rochelle set the plate on the kitchen counter. “Silas, please. Please stop telling me what I need.”
“I’m only trying to help you.”
He had no idea everything he’d suggested didn’t help. Nothing helped right now. Nothing would. Not for a long time, she knew.
“Of course, you’re trying to help.”
“Then let me.”
“I appreciate your efforts. I do. But please don’t get offended when I tell you what you’re suggesting isn’t helping me.”
Silas raised his hands in surrender. “Never mind. I’ll . . . I’ll go talk to some of the others. You know where I’ll be.”
Rochelle wondered if it would be rude to retreat to her bedroom while everyone visited. If her father could hibernate in his workshop, surely she could go to her room.
She watched as Silas walked from the kitchen.
Later, she’d call him and talk. But not right now. Right now, she felt all talked out.
Whatever came next, he had no idea.
* * *
Rochelle had wandered through the thrift store with Emma and Betsy as they searched for plain glass vases for the wedding flowers to cover the tables at the reception.
They shared a common shopping cart and pushed it up and down the aisles. They weren’t hard to miss, with one of the wheels rattling.
She stopped at a shelf of all kinds of plaques and pictures, assembled in a jumble. The image of a jet plane, with a swirl of jetstream behind it, caught her attention. Blue sky served as the background for the wall plaque, no larger than a piece of notebook paper.
The poem’s words made her arms bumpy with gooseflesh.
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—Wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air . . .
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
—John Gillespie Magee Jr.
This was Silas. She ought to buy it and put it away for him as a Christmas gift. However, thoughts of a Christmas gift for him would be presumptuous.
He would understand the message of the plaque itself, of course, though maybe none of the others would. She clutched the plaque as tightly as she dared, then set it back on the shelf. No. It was silly. Poetry on a plaque. Maybe she ought to buy him a Scripture plaque instead. Or not buy him anything at all.
But the words . . . so beautiful.
Time to quit worrying what others would think when they saw it. The plaque was meant for Silas.
She snatched it from the shelf as if it might get away from her, then marched to the counter before she changed her mind again.
“Ah, this is a good one,” said the clerk, an older man, older than her Amish Aenti Sarah. “You know the poem?” He studied her kapp and plain dress.
“No, it’s the first time I’ve read it. This is a present, for a friend, who’s a pilot.”
“The man who wrote this was in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was born in China, to missionary parents.” He ran a scanner over the price tag. “I was Air Force, back in the day, so I know the story of the poem.”
“Oh, how interesting. The person this is for, he’s been a missionary pilot before. Or is.”
“Well, I think he’ll like this one just fine, then.” The old man paused. “John Magee, though, he died young. At nineteen. In flight.”
Rochelle almost canceled the transaction right then and there, with Emma and Betsy now standing beside her, looking over her shoulder at the plaque. Neither would understand about her buying a poem for Silas, but she wouldn’t let it deter her either.
“Five dollars, even,” the man said.
She fished a bill from her wallet and gave it to the man.
Died young, at nineteen. She tried not to shudder at the thought.
9
When he and Belinda lived in Africa, Silas had made overnight trips, some over several nights, at least once a month. Tonight, however, he found himself in a midrange hotel near Fulton County Airport on the west side of Atlanta.
The lights and traffic from nearby I-20 glittered not far from his window. A billboard proclaimed Six Flags amusement park lay only two exits away.
He’d been back in the United States more than a year now, and it still often struck him how “much” there was to the country. Every store didn’t have just one type of ketchup; there had to be a minimum of five or six. Same thing for things like laundry soap, toilet paper, and more.
The first trip back to an American grocery store after being out of the country for three years, Belinda had frozen in place in the middle of the paper products aisle.
“There’s too many things,” was all she could say, trying not to burst into tears. Then they made a joke of it, she relaxed, and they went on their way.
&n
bsp; Even now the memory made him chuckle and shake his head.
No wonder some of the most conservative Plain people gave warnings about visiting, let alone living, in Pinecraft. Smack dab in the middle of the outside world, far from the simple farms and rolling hills and fields of Pennsylvania or the Midwest.
Silas’s phone rang on the dresser, where he’d laid his wallet and keys.
Uncle Tobias.
“Hello, Silas. This is Tobias. You’re in Atlanta?”
“Yes, sir. I’m at the hotel now. Getting ready to eat a late supper.” The hotel had a nice-looking restaurant, fancier than anything he was accustomed to. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes. Everything’s fine. Matthew is working on his homework, and Lena is here as well, studying, too.”
“Good. Thanks again. I’m sorry I sprung this on you and Aunt Fran at the last minute.”
“Not a problem. This will save me from eating so many leftovers.”
“Did she hear you?” Silas joked.
“Yes, and I’m getting the stink eye. Anyway, I called to remind you about what Henry and I asked you about the Pinecraft Heritage Committee. I was going to wait, but figured I ought to call you while I’m thinking about it. Our meeting is in two weeks, and our next big fund-raiser is in three. It would be nice to have you on board before then, if you’re willing.”
Oh, yes, the committee. He’d thought about it, to be sure. He was honored they’d asked him, if a bit puzzled at first.
“One thing I should ask is, how long of a commitment is this? A year or so?”
“We don’t have terms for anyone, not yet. We’re still drafting bylaws or guidelines. I think, to begin with, we’d be thankful to have you for as long as you’d like to be on the committee.”
“All right. I tell you what. I’ll give you my decision tomorrow, when I get home.”
“I’m not trying to rush you.”
“I know. But I’ll have plenty of time to think it over and pray about it tonight.”
“Well, stop by when you get home. I’ll be working in the shop.”
“Will do.”
He ended the call and set the phone back on the dresser.
If Belinda were here, she’d be someone he’d discuss it with. He valued her insight and opinion, and now he missed it again acutely.
A Promise of Grace Page 8
