Mending Fences

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  The boy wiped his mouth with his shirt and turned to face Luke. “Every nook and cranny.”

  Luke must have looked skeptical, because Rudy crossed his heart. “I’m telling the truth. I’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember.”

  Luke sighed. “Okay, then tell me everything you know. Leave nothing out.”

  Rudy beamed. “How much time ya got?”

  “As much time as you have knowledge.” Luke didn’t think it would take long. But it did. Turned out the boy actually knew his way up and down this swamp, and even made some sense as he talked. When Rudy finally exhausted himself of information, he paused and looked at Luke.

  “So, then, Rudy, how’d you like to help me catch a rattlesnake?”

  The boy looked like he’d just been given the moon.

  Luke stared at David’s long fence-mending list. He’d made it through four pages. Sixteen families. He’d written a long letter of apology to his stepfather, Galen King, asking him to forgive him for causing the death of his prize horse. If there was anything he could do to make amends, he offered to do it. So far, he hadn’t heard back. That was not a surprise.

  The last apology he’d made was surprisingly easy. He had ridden his scooter over to the Sisters’ House, five old sisters—now four—who lived together in a house as old as they were. Long ago, he’d broken an upstairs window with a baseball. He apologized to the old sisters, quite sincerely, but they only stared at him with blank looks on their wrinkled faces.

  “We don’t remember,” one of them said.

  “And if we don’t, then you shouldn’t either,” said another. They sent him home with a paper bag full of freshly made chocolate chip cookies. He would have to do something nice for them soon. Mow their lawn, maybe. Fix their rotting porch steps.

  With the Sisters’ House crossed off the list, there were only two names left. Ruthie Stoltzfus and Patrick Kelly.

  It was time to face Ruthie and Patrick. He’d taken pains to avoid both of them for the last few months. It wasn’t difficult to do because Ruthie had been avoiding him too. He knew her that well, or at least, he had known her that well.

  Luke had always thought he and Ruthie would end up together, had counted on the bond they had in common to be unbreakable. Both had lost a parent. Both were middle children who’d been overshadowed by older siblings with big, consuming problems. For Ruthie, that meant Katrina and Jesse. For Luke, that meant Tobe and Bethany. Their younger siblings were adorable and uncomplicated. Luke and Ruthie loved their families, but they both grew up feeling invisible.

  Hold on, Luke Schrock. Hold it. There I go down that well-rutted path of self-pity. Blaming parents has an expiration date, his counselor told him. Own your choices, own your problems.

  He “recalibrated” his thoughts, almost like shuffling a deck of cards in his head. David called it taking every thought captive to God. When he took time to respond to that inner jab, to take captive those dragging thoughts, he literally felt lighter, like he’d dropped a stone out of a backpack.

  Okay. He took in a deep breath. The time had come to face Ruthie and Patrick. He spent some time on his knees, then took the scooter and headed over to the Inn at Eagle Hill. It was his family’s home, a bed-and-breakfast business his mother had started after moving here. She was a survivor, his mother. Rose Schrock King didn’t have an easy path, but she was a faithful woman. As a widow with four children, she had to find a way to support her family, and she figured out a way to do it.

  The Inn at Eagle Hill was a beautiful old farmhouse set against a hillside. As he scootered up the gravel driveway, he saw Ruthie and Patrick coming down from the hillside, holding hands. A swirl of envy rolled around in his stomach. They looked so happy. This was what he had wanted for himself. She was the one he had wanted. The Inn at Eagle Hill was his own family’s home, and yet he wasn’t welcomed here, not really. His mother had asked Ruthie to run the inn while she and Galen were in Kentucky. She hadn’t asked Luke.

  He didn’t blame his mother. Fresh out of rehab, Luke wasn’t ready for the burden of running the business. Galen probably had an opinion too. It wasn’t that Luke didn’t have a high regard for Galen. He did. But Galen had little tolerance for Luke, especially after he hurt his horse on that awful night—the night it all came crashing down. The bottoming-out night.

  Ruthie spotted Luke first, and came to an abrupt stop. He lifted his hand in a light wave. Patrick looked down at him and gently tugged on Ruthie’s hand. Luke could read their thoughts. She didn’t want to have to talk to him, but Patrick would insist. He was that kind of a guy. A good guy. A very good guy.

  He met them at the bottom of the hill. “Were you eagle watching?”

  “We were,” Patrick said.

  Luke had used English for Patrick’s sake, but was surprised by Patrick responding back in Penn Dutch. So, then, he had mastered the language in the last year. Pretty impressive. Izzy was still struggling with it, hesitant to speak it, though Luke could tell she understood most of it.

  “There’s two nests now,” Patrick said. “Last year’s babies have returned and made their own home.”

  “Two of them?” Luke said. “I remember when that first nest was built. Took the pair a couple of weeks to build it. It ended up as big as a bathtub. A tangle of sticks, but on the inside, lined like velvet. Supposed to weigh a ton, a full ton. Hard to believe.” He pressed his lips together, suddenly aware he’d been talking too fast, too nervous. Pressure talking.

  Ruthie’s eyes were fixed on him in a hard glare. He looked right at her. “I came to talk to you both, if you have time.”

  “We don’t,” she said in a cold tone.

  Patrick’s elbow nudged her. “Yes we do.” He pointed to the house. “Let’s go sit on the porch and get out of the sun.”

  The three of them walked to the porch and sat down. Luke had to admire the well-cared-for condition of the house. Ruthie sat on the far side of Patrick, and Luke pulled the rocking chair out a little, so he could face her, too, and not just talk to her profile.

  He cleared his throat. “I came to apologize to you for the ways I hurt you. I know I did some terrible things.”

  Ruthie snapped her head around. “Why? Why did you do such terrible things?”

  Luke took in a deep breath. “To be honest, I was jealous of Patrick. I saw how close you two were getting. I felt as if my life was out of control.”

  “You killed his pet bird.”

  Nyna the Mynah. Patrick had patiently taught Scripture verses to that bird, and somehow that bird kept preaching them at Luke. He felt like it was throwing rocks at him. He had hated that bird.

  He could hardly believe he was once that guy. But he had been, and he needed to confess this sin and ask for their forgiveness. “I am . . . so sorry. Truly, I am.” He cleared his throat again. “No excuses. It was a dreadful thing to do. It was downright evil. Hurting you, Patrick, that was so wrong.” He turned his gaze to Ruthie. “I hurt you too, Ruthie. I tried to drag you into my downward spiral. I saw that you were finding peace inside, and feeling settled about joining the church, and it made me panic. I felt kind of . . . abandoned.”

  He wished she would say something. It would be easier if she expressed her anger, her disgust for him. The silence, that was harder to take.

  “All I can do is let you know that I am truly sorry, that I wish there was something I could do to change the past. But I can’t. I can only make a better future. I’m asking you both to forgive me. I know the Amish have to say they forgive . . . but I don’t want you to do that until you truly believe it.” He rose. “I’ll wait for it.” He let out a breath. “Okay, that’s what I came to say.”

  “Luke,” Patrick said, “if it’s my forgiveness that you need, then you have it.”

  There was a pause, an opportunity for Ruthie to chime in. She didn’t.

  “Ruthie,” Patrick said, “we’re all sinful in God’s eyes, each one of us. You and I, we aren’t any less sinful than Luke. I
f we think we are, then we’re fooling ourselves.”

  Ruthie looked at him, jaw dropped. Then she snapped her mouth shut.

  A long, quiet moment passed, broken when Patrick stood up. “Luke, thank you for coming. I know it wasn’t easy. Consider yourself forgiven by me. I hope we can be friends.” Standing there on the porch of the Inn at Eagle Hill, Luke felt blessed by Patrick’s humility. By the mercy Patrick handed to him. Why had he waited so long to come? How had he misunderstood Patrick’s character so entirely?

  He glanced at Ruthie.

  “It’s going to take me some time,” she said, arms tightly crossed.

  “I understand, Ruthie. Take all the time you need.” But Luke felt encouraged. He put his hat back on, nodded to them both, and turned to leave. He had to leave fast because he could feel tears clogging his throat. He made it to the scooter before they started coming. One by one, then a steady stream. All the way home, the tears kept coming. Hard tears, deep tears.

  By the time Luke reached Windmill Farm, the tears felt less like they were coming from a deep pit inside him, and more like a refreshing summer rain. He leaned the scooter against the barn and stopped for a moment to watch the sun drop behind the orchard hill.

  Confession brought such sweet relief. Why hadn’t he known that? Probably because he had always carefully avoided it. Yet it was the most wonderful gift he could imagine, to feel cleaned up and right before God. The tears kept coming, pouring down his cheeks, but now they weren’t the painful type. They were the good kind. Those wash-the-soul-clean kind of tears.

  nineteen

  Two more unable-to-forward-return-to-sender letters arrived in Windmill Farm’s mailbox. As Izzy walked back up to the house with those returned letters in her hand, she felt thoroughly defeated. Her list of Grace Millers in Ohio was now exhausted, without a single lead left to chase down. Not one. She had no idea what to do next.

  She went upstairs to her bedroom and flopped on the bed. She lay there, eyes staring at the ceiling, when she heard the faint jingle of a buggy arriving. Normally, she would hurry to the window to see who had come. Not now. She couldn’t budge. She was too discouraged. She put her elbow over her eyes, wondering how much it would cost to pay a detective to look for her mother. But where would she find a detective, anyway? Certainly not in Stoney Ridge.

  Maybe she couldn’t find her mother because there was no longer a Grace Miller to find. But then, wouldn’t Izzy be able to track down some kind of death record?

  She was thinking through all that and more, when Jenny burst into her bedroom. “Look what I have for you,” she announced gaily. She held up a brown bag.

  “What?” Izzy said weakly.

  “Buttermilk doughnuts. Glazed. I’ve been experimenting all week and think I finally developed the right recipe. To sell at your farm stand.” She shook the bag. “They’re still warm.”

  Izzy sat up. Doughnuts were, in fact, the most comforting food she could imagine. And Jenny was an exceptional baker.

  As she looked into Jenny’s face, something occurred to her. Here she was, feeling sad and sorrowful about a woman who had walked away from her, when she had a friend who walked right into Izzy’s life. And kept walking into it. Jenny had an uncanny ability to find a way to break through Izzy’s impenetrable shell.

  She studied Jenny’s face thoughtfully, her small, patient face, made with more precision, more fineness than ordinary faces. She’d never told Jenny about her search for her mother. She’d never told anyone. Maybe someday, she’d tell Jenny about her mother. Maybe not, though. It suddenly seemed less important. Maybe it was time to give up the hunt. At least . . . for right now.

  “How did you know?” Izzy said. “I’ve had a craving lately for buttermilk doughnuts.”

  “Glazed,” Jenny said.

  Izzy smiled. A true, deep-down smile. “Even better.”

  For the last few evenings, after supper, Luke had put on Amos’s fishing boots (which were two sizes too large for him—Amos wasn’t as tall as Luke, but he sure had big feet), wore heavy leather gloves, and waded through Teddy Zook’s stinking swamp. In one hand was a long stick to push around the reeds. In the other hand was a sack full of empty plastic juice bottles, and in a backpack were fresh eggs from Izzy’s henhouse. Rudy had joined him a few times until his mother caught wind and put an end to it. Since then, Luke was on his own. He missed him, though. It was nice to be admired by someone, even if that someone was only ten years old.

  He’d learned how to make a humane trap from a book in the library. He cut a flap out of the bottle, just big enough for the snake to get in but not out. The first time he waded alone through the swamp to position the traps, he felt so jumpy that he thought he heard rattles everywhere. The next evening, he grew more accustomed to the sounds floating around the swamp. Most of them were startled birds, and he knew he was the reason they were startled. If he scared off a bird, what made him think he could find and capture a clever Massauga rattlesnake? If there even was one to be caught.

  By the third time, his anxiety about being in a swamp at dusk was nearly gone and he could relax a little as he waded through the murky water. He checked each trap and released two turtles, but no snakes. By now he had a sense of the swamp, its unique sounds and smells and boundaries. He’d learned enough from Teddy to identify most of the snakes he’d come across, and found plenty of them, but no Massauga rattler.

  On the fourth evening, he put on Amos’s galoshes and gloves but couldn’t find the scooter to ride over to Teddy’s. He had to trudge up to the house to ask Izzy where she’d left it. It was a beastly hot night, and Fern and Amos sat in rockers on the front porch, fanning themselves with paper fans.

  “Any idea where Izzy put the scooter?”

  Fern pointed to the marten houses up on the hill near the orchards. “She went to check on the birdhouses.” The marten houses stood guard on the hillside, large vertical wooden “bird condos”—as Amos called them—that sat on top of metal poles. The martens were Windmill Farm’s insect patrol, and Fern and Amos made sure the birds were treated well for their labor.

  “Thanks,” he said, dreading another hike up a steep hill in the hot rubber galoshes. By the time he reached the top of the hill, he saw Izzy pick up the scooter and start down the hill’s narrow path. She didn’t realize Luke was on his way up the hill until it was too late. His wading boots were so cumbersome, above his knees, that he couldn’t move quickly. At the last second, she jumped off the scooter and released it, causing it to crash right into him, knocking him flat on his backside. He looked up, caught his breath.

  Izzy stood over him, peering down with a worried look. It reminded him of the way Bob the buggy horse stood over his cot, breathing down on him with his hay-breath.

  “Luke, I didn’t see you. Are you hurt bad?”

  He blinked a few times, seeing stars. “Who’s Luke?”

  Her dark eyebrows shot up in concern.

  “I’m kidding.” He pushed himself up on his elbows. “I’m fine. No harm done.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I came to borrow the scooter.”

  “Why?”

  He sat up and brushed off his shirt. “Going swamping.”

  “That’s where you’ve been going each night?”

  Well, well. So, she had noticed his absence. “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to find something for Teddy Zook.”

  “What?”

  “A snake.”

  She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “Is that why my hens have been laying less eggs this week? Are you using my eggs to bait the snake into a trap?”

  “Maybe.”

  Izzy frowned. “And you haven’t caught a snake yet.”

  “No. I haven’t found it yet, but I have found plenty of birds.”

  “Birds?” Her interest was piqued. “Well, if you’re seeing birds, then there’s probably no snake where you’re setting the traps. Birds are too smart to f
eed or nest near snakes.”

  Argh. How had he not thought of that?

  Izzy let out a long-suffering sigh. “I guess I’ll just have to go with you.”

  To the creepy, noisy swamp? To trap a snake? Luke was shocked, absolutely stunned, but kept his face as neutral as he could. “Well, Izzy Miller, I knew you had a bite to you, but I didn’t know you were a fan of snakes.” He put his hat back on and started grinning again. “Or maybe there’s something going on between us.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “There’s nothing going on here.” Her hackles rose. “Go by yourself, then.”

  “Hold on, hold on. I’m not trying to get you mad.” Slowly, he stood up. “I’d like your company, Izzy, but it’s just not safe in that swamp. I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt. I’m looking for a rattler.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s something I need to do for Teddy.” He bent down and picked up the scooter. “Mind if I take it?”

  “Be my guest.” He climbed on the scooter, stiffly, because his knees couldn’t bend in the fishermen’s waders. He hoped he didn’t look quite as ridiculous as he felt. As he started down the hill, he heard a shout burst out of Izzy, “Be careful, Luke!”

  He lifted a gloved hand in a wave. Maybe there was something going on here.

  The baptism classes were held after church, with David and Amos taking turns to lead them. David encouraged questions, even debate. It shocked Luke. He had expected a passive experience of listening to long doctrinal statements, and that was one reason he’d avoided signing up. Like so much in life, he’d been wrong. Not even close. The classes were filled with vigorous discussion.

  Take the last class. Luke always had plenty of questions about Amish traditions that had no biblical basis, even innocuous ones. He asked why the Lancaster Amish observe Easter Monday. “There’s no mention of Easter Monday in the Bible. Other Amish don’t observe it. So why do we?”

  David countered with an excellent point. “Always look to the heart of a tradition. Easter Monday might not be in the Bible, but pay attention to its intent. It’s meant to celebrate the first week of Christ’s resurrection. And as for why Lancaster Amish do and others don’t, well, that’s because each church makes its own decisions. Lancaster is one of the oldest settlements. Many of those traditions arrived from the Old Country with our ancestors.”