Josiah for President

by Martha Bolton

  Josiah smiled and nodded. “My quiver is full.”

  “Quiver?”

  “It’s a Bible thing.”

  “Guess I missed that part,” Mark said, noting to himself to look it up later.

  “It means I’ve been abundantly blessed with children. Mary Ann’s inside helping her mama in the kitchen. She’s our teenager.”

  “I got a couple of those kicking at my quiver too. Don’t see ‘em much. Even when they’re home, they’ve got their faces glued to the latest techno-gadget. Sure do miss the younger years.”

  Mark was serious. He did miss when his children had been so young and innocent, when he and Cindy — rather than their kids’ peers and the media — were the major influences of their decisions. He missed those times when his kids would squeal with delight and run to him when he returned home from Washington, throwing their arms around him while calling, “Daddy! Daddy!” He missed when he’d tuck them in at night and read them a bedtime story. Actually, Mark couldn’t recall reading his children any bedtime stories, but he felt justified giving himself poetic license for that pseudomemory. Whatever he did or didn’t do as a father, he still missed the younger age.

  “You’ve got to enjoy all the stages of life, my friend,” Josiah said.

  “I know. It’s just that in our world there’s a lot that competes for a teenager’s attention.”

  “Our Mary Ann doesn’t have a lot of free time. Too many chores to tend to.”

  “And she does them?”

  Josiah smiled in answer.

  “Oh, you are blessed!” Mark said. “You are very blessed, indeed.”

  Josiah gave a knowing nod.

  “But it’s easier for you,” Mark continued, trying his best to rationalize his own life, family dynamics, and his shortcomings as a father. “You’re protected from the outside world here.”

  “You can be as protective as you want, but all families have their burdens to bear, jah?”

  “But this whole cocooning thing that the Amish do …”

  “Cocooning?”

  “You know, protecting your kids from outside influences, especially negative ones. You do that, right?”

  “We separate ourselves from the world, but we don’t think of it as a cocoon.”

  “No, no. Don’t get me wrong,” Mark said. “I think it’s great. I’d love to cocoon my kids like that. Keep ‘em out of trouble.”

  “But a butterfly leaves the cocoon and flies away one day. That’s not our goal. We prefer staying close, even when they’re adults,” Josiah explained. “We believe in community and families who truly care about each other.”

  “I want my teenagers to grow up and stay close too,” Mark said. “At least within a few states. Or countries.”

  Josiah eyed Mark a moment, as if to make sure he was joking.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I love my kids,” Mark said, “but those teen years sure give me heartburn.”

  Josiah pulled back on the reins, stopping the horse by the hitching post near the house. He started to get out of the buggy, then hesitated for a moment, turning away and looking back toward the road.

  “Our oldest child was killed last summer,” he finally said. “We were coming home from the auction in the buggy. It was dark. The driver of the car said he didn’t see us.”

  Mark didn’t know what to say. Somehow he managed, “I’m sorry. It’s a parent’s worst nightmare — outliving one of your kids.”

  “We live apart from your world, sir. But your world doesn’t always live apart from us. But we don’t question God’s will.”

  “You really believe it was God’s will that your child died?”

  “Nothing happens outside of his knowledge and ultimately his will.”

  “But how in the world did you get through a loss like that?”

  “By believing the same things I did before it,” Josiah said, and then he stepped down from the buggy and tied his horse to the hitching post.

  “Dat! Dat!” the children called to Josiah as they ran to him. Josiah greeted each of them with a gentle hug or a pat on the head and then began the introductions.

  “This here’s Esther. She’s ten.”

  Esther looked up and smiled at Mark.

  Josiah pointed to the boy next. “Joseph is our middle child and our only boy. He’s eight.”

  Joseph nodded at Mark and then turned to his little sister. “He’s not gonna bite you,” Joseph told her, pushing her a little closer to the stranger.

  Josiah took Beth’s hand. “Beth is our baby. She’s six.”

  Beth smiled shyly and then grabbed ahold of her daddy’s pant leg as if it was her tether to life.

  “Now you kids go on inside and get washed up for dinner.”

  The kids obediently ran into the house, Josiah and Mark following. When they reached the front door, Josiah held it open for Mark.

  “Welcome to our home,” he said. Mark stepped through the doorway and, for the first time in his life, entered the world of the Amish.

  Seeing Josiah Stoltzfus outside of the buggy for the first time, Mark took the time to study his rescuer. He guessed Josiah was approximately fifty-five years old. He was taller than average and had a thin build, and he was bearded, which, according to what he understood of Amish culture, meant he was married.

  The house was simply furnished, with handmade chairs and benches. A dining table was at the far end of the living space. Kerosene lamps were strategically located throughout.

  “We call this our family room,” Josiah said. Unlike Mark’s Wisconsin home, there were no family portraits on the wall nor a high-definition television in the center of the living room. Hooks lined the wall on one side of the room and an assortment of Amish clothing hung from each hook. Beneath them sat several baskets filled with various sewing projects. The aroma of home cooking filled the room. It was a smell that took Mark back to his grandparents’ farm.

  “Fried chicken?” he asked.

  “Mama makes the best,” Joseph said.

  A pretty woman stepped into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. She appeared to be in her late thirties, with soft, golden, curly hair and a petite frame.

  “This is my wife, Elizabeth,” Josiah said. “Elizabeth, this is Mark …” Josiah hesitated and then turned to Mark. “I’m sorry. Did you tell me your last name?”

  “Stedman. Mark Stedman.” Mark stretched out his hand toward Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth gently took it and nodded. “Welcome,” she said.

  “Mark will be joining us for dinner.”

  “How nice,” Elizabeth said, smiling without a hint of imposition. “Well, it’s already on the table. Please, come.”

  Josiah led Mark into the kitchen as the children took their places around the dining table.

  “Did you make this?” Mark said, admiring the fine woodwork.

  “I made the table,” Josiah said. “God made the wood.”

  The children giggled and whispered among themselves the same way kids did in any home where an unexpected stranger had just appeared. To children, everything seemed funnier when there was company. But Mark knew he wasn’t in a home like any other. There were no reality shows playing here, no pop music bouncing off the walls. This home was filled with genuine laughter and actual conversation. And it all felt good.

  HARLEY PHILLIPS’S GO-TO GUY WAS HIS SON-IN-LAW, BART. BARTHOLOMEW Rasmussen Templeton III, to be more accurate — and a lot more boring. Had Bart not been family, Harley never would have hired him. The two were polar opposites — politically, socially, and physically.

  Bart was a rule follower. He didn’t color outside the lines, tear the tags off his upholstery, or leave a single button unbuttoned on his shirts. He was dependable, trustworthy, faithful, cooperative … and grossly underappreciated.

  Bart didn’t have any real authority in Harley’s campaign, but he drew a paycheck.

  And he got in the way … at least that was Harley’s assessment.

  Contrasting Bart
’s lean frame, Harley was clearly a health-club dropout. He was married, but his faithfulness was more by default and ongoing rejection than because of anything else. But Harley had more on his mind these days than flirting with interns and secretaries. What satisfied him most was being the victor in a good political challenge. He took a special liking to watching his opponents squirm. It exhilarated him. Surrender and weakness repulsed him. Give Harley Phillips a worthy adversary, and he was in his element. Mark Stedman had proved no match for this political gladiator. With Stedman out of the picture, Harley moved on to the next worthy opponent who stood in the way of his prize.

  “Bart! Get in here!” Harley Phillips demanded.

  Bart hurried into Harley’s office, pen and notepad in hand, just as Harley slammed a letter down on his desk

  “What is it, sir?” Bart said.

  “You wanna explain this?”

  “Explain what, sir?”

  “This letter!”

  Harley slid the letter across the desk toward his son-in-law with such force that it sailed right off of the desk. Bart reached down, picked it up, and read just enough to get the gist.

  “Oh, this? Yes. I don’t know what happened on this, sir, but …”

  “You dropped the ball. That’s what happened, Bart! You dropped the blasted ball!”

  “You want me to see if they can fix it, sir?”

  “Of course I want them to fix it! What do you think I want, Bart?”

  “I’ll take care of it right away, sir.”

  “Well, see that you do!”

  Bart took the letter and left the room. When he arrived at his desk, he made a call.

  “Three thousand four hundred and seventy-five,” he said into the phone, tapping his pencil forcefully on his desk, nearly snapping it in two.

  “What?” the person on the other end of the line said. It was Bart’s wife, Stella Rose Phillips-Templeton.

  Bart gritted his teeth. “That’s how many times I’ve allowed your father to walk all over me. I know he’s your dad, but there are limits, Stella. And I’m close to reaching mine.”

  Stella was the love of Bart’s life — and the only reason he tolerated his father-in-law. Bart ran everything through her first so she could sufficiently come to his defense in any and all situations involving her father. If Harley wanted to complain about some action of Bart’s — which he usually did — he would back off once he discovered that Stella had first approved it or, in some instances, even suggested it.

  But Harley did have a flair for the dramatic. Launching the letter into the air like that, making Bart retrieve it from the floor after it landed, wasn’t necessary. It was ridiculous. But then, Harley had a master’s degree from the University of the Ridiculous. With his well-honed theatrical skills and his love for making scenes, he might have even been valedictorian of his class.

  “Your dad wants to know why he wasn’t included in the speaker lineup for Friday night. What do I tell him?” Bart asked.

  “The truth. It’s because he ran thirty minutes over the last time they gave him a microphone,” Stella said.

  “I know that, and you know that, but you don’t really want me to remind Harley of that, do you?”

  “He should know the truth.”

  “Not from me.”

  Bart could practically hear Stella click her tongue and roll her eyes. “Put my dad on the phone,” she said.

  Bart put Stella on hold and dialed Harley’s extension. When he told Harley that Stella wanted to speak with him, Harley immediately took the call. Bart conveniently “forgot” to disconnect from his end.

  “Hey, darling,” Bart heard Harley say. “What’s up?”

  “Dad, we tried getting you on the platform at the foundation dinner, but the committee is still upset over your antics last year.”

  “Going over my time? Nonsense! They’re leaning their support toward Anne Kurtzfield; that’s what this is all about. She’s been creeping up in the polls since Mark Stedman dropped out of the race. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know the truth!”

  “It was your speech, Dad. The schedule’s tight, and they’re saying you’re unpredictable.”

  “Unpredictable? That’s bunk! I can be as predictable as they want me to be. What do they want? Forty-five minutes? Thirty? I’ll talk for as long as they want. How many minutes? Just tell me.”

  “None. No minutes. They said no, Dad.”

  “Tell them to call me. We’ll talk about it.”

  “It’s their final decision, Dad.”

  “There are some places I could cut my speech. No problem. I’ll shorten it.”

  “You’re not hearing me, Dad. It’s a no.”

  “That’s their final decision?”

  “That’s their final decision.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to accept it,” Harley said. Bart could hear the insincerity dripping from Harley’s voice.

  Stella waited a beat, then said, “You’re still going up on the stage, aren’t you, Dad?”

  “You bet I am! I’m not rolling over and playing dead for Kurtzfield. If the committee is setting her up to be the front-runner, they’re going to have to steamroll over me to do it!

  “It doesn’t matter to me what that blasted committee says. I wouldn’t have gotten this far in my career if I’d let other political opportunists push me to the side. And I’m not about to be pushed aside now. The stakes are too high. I have to be up on that stage. Every vote counts!”

  “So I guess I’ll see you there, then?” Stella asked with a sigh.

  “Are you kidding me?” Harley said. “I wouldn’t miss this for all our money in China!”

  “Well, then, all I’ll say is watch the sound bites. Like that one.”

  “I’ll only say what I mean to say, sweetie,” Harley replied before hanging up the phone.

  From the next room, Bart heard Harley add, “And I do mean to say plenty!”

  CHAPTER 5

  MARK COULDN’T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME HE SAW A HOME-COOKED spread quite like this — fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, corn on the cob. It was nothing short of a feast. And it wasn’t even a holiday. Nor had this Amish family been expecting any company. It was merely lunch. Or rather, dinner. The congressman couldn’t wait to dive in.

  Mark and Cindy Stedman’s lives had become a series of micro-waved meals, fast food, and delivered pizzas. Mark was proud of the fact that his family still ate together — or at least on the same level of the house. One family member might be in the living room watching television, another might be at the computer in the den, and yet another sitting at the counter in the kitchen, but there was still a sense of togetherness.

  But it’s nothing like this! Mark thought.

  Mark sat down at one of two empty place settings, briefly wondering why there was an extra one. The feast before him canceled out any mathematical errors on the table setter’s part, though. Mark’s mouth was already watering.

  “We always give thanks to the good Lord for his plentiful bounty,” Josiah said.

  “Oh yes, of course,” Mark said, wishing he’d thought to bring up the matter himself.

  Josiah took Elizabeth’s hand in his right and Mark’s hand in his left, and the children followed suit around the table. All of them bowed their heads.

  “Dear Lord,” Josiah began, “we thank you for providing the food that we are about to eat. Thank you for the health that you have given us to work the land and reap the harvest, and we pray a special blessing upon our new friend, Mark, who has found himself here with us this day. We know his journey here was not outside your plan. Amen.”

  By the time Mark raised his head, the bowls of food were already being passed around. This family had thankful hearts, but they also appreciated eating well.

  “Take as much as you like,” Elizabeth told Mark when the potatoes arrived in front of him.

  “These look delicious! It all looks delicious!” he said.

  “Does your wife enjoy cook
ing?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes,” Mark lied. But then he clarified, “Well, she watches cooking shows on TV.”

  That part was true, but watching a cooking show didn’t make someone a cook any more than watching an airplane take off made someone a pilot. Besides, an Amish woman like Elizabeth wouldn’t know about cooking shows on TV. Mark felt the need to explain further, to at least try to be more truthful. Unlike in his world, where perception was everything, there was no need to put on a facade with these folks. He would probably never see them again anyway. For once, he was free to be real.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, my wife and I are both on the go so much, running in different directions, she doesn’t have a lot of free time …”

  “You have kids?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Three,” Mark said proudly.

  “You spend a lot of time with them, jah?”

  “About as much time as they’ll allow, which is about as much time as I can take of their racket. Don’t imagine you have a lot of garage bands here, huh?”

  Josiah glanced over at the empty place setting at the far end of the table. An extra place setting complete with dinner plate, glass, flatware — perfect and untouched. Mark watched as Josiah took Elizabeth’s hand once again. Now Mark understood.

  Tears welled up in Elizabeth’s eyes, but she quickly composed herself. “I would be happy to send some of my favorite recipes home with you for your wife,” she said, dabbing her eyes with her apron.

  “I’m sure she’d like that,” Mark said. “Thank you.”

  “More chicken?” Josiah asked, passing the platter Mark’s way again.

  “Can’t pass up chicken this good!” Mark said as he grabbed another drumstick. He took another scoop of green beans while he was at it.

  “So what line of work are you in, Mark?” Josiah asked.

  “Well, I suppose you could say I’m unemployed.” The truth of that statement surprised Mark. He hadn’t been unemployed in decades, and it felt strange to be saying the word now. Strange and liberating. He knew he would go into another line of work, maybe even get his own talk show or become a news contributor, as other politicians had done after leaving Washington.