Hidden Mercies

by Serena B. Miller

  Jeremiah was sleeping, but the nurse informed him that his condition had improved to the point that there was a good chance he would be going home when the doctor came in this morning. He would get to go back to his house with his daughter and son-in-law.

  The next thing on his list was a visit to Bishop Ezra Weaver. After he got that out of the way, he would be free to go see Claire for a few minutes.

  He had been to Ezra’s farm many times over the years, usually whenever the bishop and his wife hosted church. Like most Swartzentruber homes, it looked run-down and the yard was scraggly. It would never do for the bishop to appear proud.

  Today, there was an interestingly happy scenario on the porch. He found the bishop and his wife sitting on the porch, each with a chubby, brown baby on their laps, and they were smiling. He did not remember ever having seen the bishop smile . . .

  “Hello,” he said as he walked through the long grass to their house. “My name is Tom Miller. I’m the one who drove your daughter to the hospital.”

  “Did I ever thank you for that?” Bishop Weaver said.

  “There was no need,” Tom said. “I was glad to be able to help. It’s good to see the babies are thriving.”

  The bishop’s wife’s face lit up when he mentioned the babies. “They are such good children!” she said.

  “And beautiful,” Tom ventured.

  Instead of correcting him, the bishop smoothed the curly hair of the little boy on his lap. “I’m afraid most grandparents are a little prejudiced when it comes to our grandchildren, but Mary and I do believe they are exceptionally fine-looking children. Healthy and smart, too! This one here sat up all by himself the other day, and his sister said Grohs Dawdi the other day.”

  Mary laughed. “I am of the opinion that it was gas, but Ezra is quite certain she called him Grandfather.”

  “I am grateful our daughter wanted to bring them to us,” Bishop Weaver said. “Even though the circumstances were regrettable.”

  “God can make triumph out of tragedy.” Tom repeated something he’d heard come from his father’s mouth so many times.

  “That is true,” the bishop said. “What brings you to our home, Tom?”

  “I am in need of counsel, Bishop,” Tom said.

  The bishop’s wife recognized that as her cue to leave the two men alone. Confession was serious business—and not for the wife’s ears unless specifically asked to stay.

  “I will take the children inside,” she said. “It is time for their nap.”

  “You say you need counsel?”

  “Yes. And I also need to make a confession.”

  “This sounds serious, and yet you are not of my flock.”

  “Do you remember a boy named Tobias Troyer?”

  “Jeremiah’s prodigal son? Oh yes, our church has prayed for him to return for many years, but there has been no word.”

  “The prayers of the church have brought him home, Bishop. To stay.”

  • • •

  There was no one on the place to greet him when he got home. Not even Rocky. Then through the screen door, he saw Claire standing in the kitchen. She was canning, of course. That was no surprise. July and August were always the months for preserving food. No self-respecting Amish woman would consider allowing the summer to go by without filling her cellar and pantry to overflowing.

  She was completely alone, her feet were bare, her work dress was stained with the blackberries from which she was making jam, her fingers also. Her prayer Kapp had been replaced with a choring kerchief. She was so absorbed in stirring the jam that she did not hear him open the screen door and step into the kitchen.

  He stood there, listening to her humming to herself as she worked. The steamy kitchen smelled like heaven. He could remember few times when he had felt happier. His decisions and plans were made and he was at peace with them.

  The steam from the kettle was causing her hair to do what it always did, try to make an escape from the braids and pins. There was a curl that had gotten away from her kerchief, and now lay on her neck right at the hairline.

  He knew she was furious at him, but he didn’t care. There was only one thing in the world he wanted to do right now, and so he did it.

  “What on earth!” She whirled around and clapped a hand on the back of her neck. The spoon she had been stirring with was still grasped in her hand. He’d anticipated this reaction and had missed getting splattered with the spoon by stepping away from her the split second after he’d kissed her.

  “Tom! When did you get here?” She was too astonished to remember that she was mad at him.

  He saw the black liquid on the stove start to bubble up and he reached around her and turned the flame out beneath the pot. If he allowed her to burn a kettleful of jam, he really would be in trouble!

  “Earlier today.”

  “Have you seen . . . ?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen my father. He was asleep, so I didn’t wake him, but I did have a chat with the nurse. He’s being released today. Where are the children?”

  “Amy’s with Grace and Levi. Maddy and the others have taken a walk down by the river.”

  “Then that would explain Rocky’s absence.”

  “He is a good snake finder. How long will you be staying?”

  “Permanently.”

  “Do not tease me.” She shook a finger at him.

  “I’m not teasing, Claire.” He stepped toward her. “By the way, that kiss was not a tease, either.”

  Her eyes were wide. “We cannot.”

  “You’re right. But someday . . .” He drew her to him, looked deep into her eyes, and traced the curve of her cheek with one finger. “I know you don’t understand, and I don’t have time right now to explain everything—but please, if you’ve ever trusted anyone in your life—just know that you can trust me now. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

  • • •

  The visit with Bishop Weaver had taken much longer than he expected. He had never considered Ezra Weaver a talkative man, but he had never gone to him for advice before. Bishop Weaver had a great deal to say, and Tom felt that, under the circumstances, it was wise to listen. If he was to accomplish all he wanted to accomplish, he needed the bishop in his corner.

  By the time he got to his father’s home later that day, the sun was beginning to set. An auctioneer’s canopied truck was parked in the yard. Blue tarps covered tables filled with items. Household furniture had been brought out and piled around on the porch. Everything was in readiness for the auction Ephraim had set up.

  If he liked his brother-in-law, he would probably be more sympathetic. A houseful of children three hours away. The responsibility of an old man who might or might not ever recover from a stroke. A house and farm to deal with. No doubt the man needed to get back to his own home as soon as possible.

  But he didn’t like him, and he was fairly certain that Ephraim was enjoying this situation a bit too much. He caught a glimpse of him coming out of the barn carrying a mowing scythe over one shoulder. At first, he thought Ephraim was getting ready to do some work on the fence row—then he saw him pile that ancient tool that had belonged to Tom’s great-grandfather on top of one of the tables the auctioneers had placed outside. He nodded to Tom and headed back into the barn, presumably to drag out more of Jeremiah’s tools.

  Tom fingered the Barlow knife his father had given him and that he’d kept in his pocket ever since that moment in the barn. How many other treasures might be gone by tomorrow evening that could never be recovered?

  The speed with which Ephraim had gotten the ball rolling for the auction was impressive. Unless he missed his guess, his brother-in-law had been fantasizing about this moment for years. Perhaps the very reason for his speed in setting this up was his fear that his father-in-law might recover sufficiently to thwart him.

  Tom had done some checking. A farm like this would probably go for well over a half a million dollars—just for the acreage alone. No wonder the ranks of farmers
were dwindling in this area. Who wouldn’t be tempted to sell at prices like that? It took a man as iron-willed as his father to hold on.

  He let himself into the front room through the kitchen. Swartzentruber houses were bare by nature, but there was hardly a stick of furniture or dishware left here. Nearly everything was already sitting out in the yard, on makeshift tables, covered with tarps. His father was sitting up in a twin bed someone had placed in the living room.

  His sister had a straight-back chair pulled up to his father’s bed and was coaxing him to eat some soup. Jeremiah had turned his head away from her and was watching Ephraim out the window.

  “Please, Daed, you need to eat,” she said. “We’re going to take you home with us right after the auction tomorrow. It’s a three-hour trip. You’ll need your strength.”

  “Hello, Faye,” Tom said. “Hello, Jeremiah, I see you got well enough to come home.”

  Jeremiah turned to see him, and although the left side of his face was drooping, his eyes lit up.

  “Here?” He managed to say.

  “Yes, I’m here. Washington didn’t agree with me, so I came back. I’m afraid you people are going to be stuck with me for a long time.” He looked around for something to sit on, but there was nothing.

  “Here, you can have my seat,” Faye said. “He’s not eating anything anyway.”

  “Looks like you’re taking real good care of him,” Tom said.

  “I am trying to.” She glanced out the window where Ephraim was still making trips back and forth. “It is hard to do everything at once. I wish we could wait a few weeks before we had to do this, but my husband says no.”

  “Doesn’t your father have to sign off on this sale before it can happen?”

  “Oh, no.” Faye got up. “He gave me power of attorney a long time ago when he was sick. But I have no business sense, so I’m just doing what my husband thinks best.”

  Well, that explained that.

  “If someone were to offer you and your husband a lump sum for the whole place,” Tom said, “do you think he would be interested?”

  “Several people have already tried that. Some Old Order Amish farmer tried to buy it just yesterday. He made Ephraim a real good offer, but my husband wouldn’t take it. He says it will bring more at auction.”

  For all Tom knew, Ephraim could be right. He was certainly no expert in the value of farmland.

  Tom sat down and hooked one arm over the back of his chair. “Looks like you’ve gotten yourself in a fine mess, my old friend.”

  The pleading look in his father’s eyes was more than he could take. While Faye was in the kitchen washing the dishes, Tom put his hand over his father’s and leaned close. The time had come.

  “Everything is going to be okay, Daed. Tobias just came home.”

  chapter THIRTY-FIVE

  The next day was a gorgeous August Saturday. It would be a nice, clear day for Jeremiah’s farm to go on the auction block.

  Claire dreaded it. Auctions made her sad. They almost always came on the back of some old person getting sick or dying.

  This one made her especially sad. Jeremiah had been her neighbor and friend for much of her life. Even when she was banned, she knew that if she needed him, Jeremiah would help her. He might not speak to her—but he would help her.

  Now there would be a new neighbor on the property next to her. She prayed that whoever purchased the farm would be Amish. The last thing she wanted was another Englisch neighbor. Elizabeth was one thing, but who knew what a strange Englisch neighbor might bring to her doorstep? She had children to think of!

  And yet—the draw to go to the auction was irresistible. Buggies started coming in. The weather was perfect. And there was a marble rolling pin that Jeremiah’s wife had treasured, which Claire wouldn’t mind having if it went for a good price. That was assuming Faye hadn’t already taken possession of it.

  The household items that had constituted Jeremiah and his family’s life were now spread out all over the tables. Yet another thing that Claire disliked about auctions was that many of people’s possessions looked kind of pitiful sitting out on a table in the hot sun with people fingering them. Jeremiah sat on the side, in a straight-back chair someone had brought out for him. He needed a wheelchair, but Ephraim had apparently been a little too preoccupied with arranging for the auction. Most of the Amish there knew him, and knew the circumstances. They were careful in how they dealt with his things, but there were several Englisch there who found it necessary to talk about the items, and some of the things they said were not flattering. She assumed they didn’t know that the old man sitting in the chair had spent a lifetime using these items and could hear every word.

  Of all the things that happened that morning while a hundred or more people waited for this prime piece of Holmes County real estate to be auctioned in front of the old man’s eyes, she thought the thing she disliked most was an Englisch woman’s loud excitement over some of the “primitives,” as she called them.

  These were things that Jeremiah or his father had made with their own hands. They had not been meant as decorations for an Englisch woman’s home. They were honest household implements that had helped raise a family and run a farm. The fact that Jeremiah had to sit and listen to this was, in her eyes, one of the cruelest things she had ever seen. What could Faye be thinking, doing this to him so soon after his stroke?

  There was almost a party atmosphere developing among the Englisch, some of whom appeared to be tourists who had stumbled upon the auction by accident. But she saw several older Amish men standing silently around Jeremiah, as though trying to cushion the emotional blow of this with their own bodies.

  The auction finally started. The auctioneer began with the lesser items first. Jeremiah’s wife’s pots and pans, some little handmade pot holders.

  Claire had her eye only on the marble rolling pin, and wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the other items. It surprised her that Tom had not come. Perhaps it was too painful for him to watch. Or maybe he decided that he’d rather be in Washington after all.

  A half hour into the auction, Tom pushed his way through the crowd to stand beside her. “What have I missed?”

  “Canning jars and lids, boxes of your mother’s quilt scraps, some pots and pans, a couple afghans. Why are you late?”

  “I was staying in Millersburg and got caught behind an accident on my way here.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, but a livestock truck ended up sideways in the middle of the road. I couldn’t get around it and traffic got so backed up, I couldn’t turn back.”

  “Are you going to bid on anything, Tom?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Hold on a minute.” He held up a card with a number on it several times until he’d won an old, battered cream can.

  “What do you want with a cream can?”

  “It was my mother’s. Hold on.” He bid until he was the owner of an old-fashioned nonmotorized push lawn mower.

  “You plan to use that to mow with? Even I use a gasoline-powered lawn mower.”

  “You don’t understand. Hold on.” He bid and won a crank washing machine. “I want everything.”

  “It would have been easier and cheaper to hand Ephraim a check.”

  “Faye told me that someone had already tried that, and Ephraim wasn’t interested, so we’re going to play it his way. Hold on.” This time he captured a washboard with a hole rusted in the tin.

  Then they moved to some heavy cast-iron Dutch ovens and hand-thrown bowls. Tom bought everything. Murmurs began to stir in the crowd, and people shifted from foot to foot. No one had ever been to an auction where one person managed to, or even wanted to, purchase every single item. At one point she caught a look at Jeremiah. She expected him to look devastated over what was happening. Instead of looking devastated, he looked exultant as he watched Tom bid on one thing after another.

  “He knows, doesn’t he?” she said during a pa
use in the bidding. She nodded toward his father.

  “He does.”

  “I am so glad. Do Faye and Ephraim know?”

  “They will soon.”

  The Englisch lady who loved the “primitives” tried hard to get the ones she had made such a fuss about, which left her husband red-faced and fuming over how far she was bidding over the maximum of what they had agreed to spend. At the end of the flurry of auctioning, Tom was still winning every bid.

  They moved on to the furniture. Tom bid and won on everything that was not nailed down. Eventually, people caught on to the fact that no matter what anyone else bid, Tom would doggedly stay in the bidding until it was won. Several dropped out of bidding against him altogether.

  Claire kept quiet. She didn’t want to distract him. What Tom was trying to do here was admirable, even valiant. But it didn’t make sense. What did he think he was going to do with all of his father’s things once the auction was over? She hoped he didn’t think he was going to store them in Levi’s apartment. There wasn’t room, for one thing. And she’d have to evict Elizabeth for another.

  Two hours into the auction, it was time for the big event—the auctioning of the home and land. Several men who had not yet bid worked their way to the front. Most were Old Order Amish who owned businesses and who she knew were well-to-do. Two were Englisch. Everyone knew that serious money would have to be laid out to get Jeremiah’s acres. Tom might have been able to snatch up every piece of kitchenware, tools, and quilts on the place, but he could not possibly hold out in a bidding war that could easily go beyond half a million.

  “You’re done now, right?” she asked.

  He glanced at her. “I’m just getting started.”

  “Tom, you can’t possibly outbid everyone on the farm itself. I don’t know what a soldier makes, but farms like these—it will go for a half million or more. Land in Holmes County is expensive.”

  “I know exactly what land in Holmes County costs. I asked you to trust me, Claire.”

  And then the bidding for the land started. It was intense and the numbers began to get so high, they practically made her dizzy.