Through the Autumn Air

by Kelly Irvin

  “It feels good to be outside after being in the kitchen all day.” Burke kept pace. “After a while, food doesn’t smell that good.”

  “And it’s greasy and hot and noisy.”

  “Pretty much.” Burke snatched up a tall, spindly blade of browning grass between two fingers. “Don’t you want to know what Deputy Doolittle said? Or asked me?”

  “I think you mean Deputy Rogers.”

  “Sorry. No disrespect intended.”

  “I know you haven’t been running around the countryside burglarizing folks’ homes.”

  “Only the one. If Mary Katherine hadn’t given me a place to stay that night and helped me find a job, I might’ve done more.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Deputy Doolittle—Rogers—told me not to leave town. He took my fingerprints. I let him. He’s not going to find them anywhere they shouldn’t be. Except on the mustard jar at Mary Katherine’s.”

  “She didn’t mind sharing the mustard.”

  “You’re kind people.” His tone carried a touch of accusation. “I can see the face of Christ in you.”

  “That’s mighty grandiose. We would never be so vain or prideful.” Ezekiel swatted away a horsefly that buzzed his head. “Plain folks show what we believe by our example.”

  Burke’s steps slowed. “You don’t sound all that convinced.”

  “We’re not given a choice in the matter.” Plain folks took their lumps and kept walking. “Gott has a plan for us. We don’t always like it, but He knows what’s best for us.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “Don’t mean to.”

  “Come on. You lost your wife.” Burke’s voice held a tiny quiver when he reached the word wife. “You have a right to your feelings.”

  The pot calling the kettle black. “From what Deputy Rogers said, you’ve had some severe heartaches yourself.”

  “I wish he wouldn’t have told you how my wife died.” Anger replaced the quiver and Burke’s voice grew stronger. “I hate that pity look people get. Like the one you have right now.”

  “It isn’t pity. I just recognize that some folks got it worse than others.”

  “It doesn’t serve a purpose to compare degrees or levels of loss.” Burke waved his way through a swarm of gnats. “Spit it out, my friend.”

  Were they friends? They’d only known each other for a short time. The man worked in Ezekiel’s restaurant and slept in a bedroom down the hall. By the same token, one day he’d move on down the road, gone forever. What did it hurt for Ezekiel to give voice to his thoughts? Maybe then they would leave him alone. “Most days I struggle to hold on to my belief in the Father and the Son.”

  “I get that.” Burke’s voice softened to a hoarse whisper. “But it tends to make a man lonelier. I know that for a fact.”

  “My wife was standing at the counter cooking supper. One minute she’s peeling potatoes.” Keeping his gaze on the trail in front of him, Ezekiel wound his way past a cluster of oversized black-eyed Susans and purple coneheads. “The next, she’s on the floor, dead of an aneurysm. But yours chose to end her life. She chose to leave you alone. I could understand if that shook your faith.”

  “You think my pain is worse because my wife chose to take her own life?”

  “I don’t know.” Ezekiel halted, unable to go forward, but he kept his back to the other man. He couldn’t let him see his face. “She left you behind to find your way on your own. That must hurt.”

  “I was alone in a burnt no-man’s-land where nothing would ever grow again. I’ve come to see that she felt the same way. I failed her. I failed to see her need because I was so wrapped up in mine. She needed me, and I was too selfish to look up in time to see it.” Burke stepped in front of Ezekiel, then turned and faced him. “Having been in that place, I recognize it when I see it in someone else.”

  Unable to bear the agonizing pain that had aged Burke a hundred years, Ezekiel brushed past him. “We believe people have a certain number of days that God has given them on this earth.” He’d said these words many times, to his own children who lost their mother. “When their time is done, He takes them home.”

  “I understand how pompous and cliché those words can sound when a person is in excruciating pain.” Burke chuckled, no mirth in the sound. “I was a chaplain. I helped men and women deal with their pain all the time. I look back and wonder why they didn’t kick me out of their houses. Or beat me senseless.”

  Ezekiel had been on the receiving end of a bunch of words like that. “You did your best. You tried. That’s something.”

  “I quit and ran away.”

  “It’s not for us to have the answers, only to trust and obey.”

  “Yet you can’t seem to do it and you feel exceedingly guilty for it.” Burke flung the blade of grass into the dirt. “I believe God knows and He understands. He, too, suffered a terrible loss.”

  “I reckon He’s getting impatient. I can’t seem to get over it in my heart, as much as my head says it believes that God knows what He’s doing. I say the words, but I can’t bring myself to mean them.”

  “It’ll take whatever time it takes. We don’t grieve on a timeline. He knows that.”

  Ezekiel inhaled the cool, humid air. His throat ached with the effort to keep his voice level. “How do you know?”

  “Because He’s done it with me.”

  “I don’t see you running back to Virginia to your chaplain job.”

  “That part of my life is over. I come seeking a new start.” Burke raised his head to the heavens. “I just don’t know exactly where or doing what. I cut myself loose from my old life without any thought for where to go from there. I just know I’m supposed to be here now.”

  “Sticking your nose in other people’s business?”

  Burke shrugged. “Once a chaplain, always a chaplain.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “Give Him a chance. He’ll shine a light in your life, and you’ll follow it and find the path again.”

  “I’m trying to find God.” The lump grew. Ezekiel cleared his throat. “He’s hidden Himself from me. If He doesn’t show up soon, I’ll give up.”

  “Don’t do that. Think of your children. Your grandchildren. You’ve been given great blessings.”

  “And you have none. How can you be so forgiving of God?”

  God would strike him down. The flash of lightning would burn the grass and the flowers and destroy all life around him. The words had been stuck in his throat for ten years, bottled up by his upbringing and his fear of reaching that point of no return.

  “Feel better?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been needing to say those words for a long time.” Burke man-patted his back. “You’ve torn the Band-Aid off the wound. Now it can heal.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. How did you forgive God?”

  “Who says I did?”

  “So it’s good enough for me, but not you?”

  “God found me wanting, not the other way around.” Burke raised his face to the sky again as if seeking evidence of the divine. “I blew it. I don’t deserve His mercy or His grace.”

  “None of us do. That’s why it’s called grace.”

  Burke snorted. “See. I knew you would get there before me. You’re a good man.”

  Not that good.

  “You don’t believe me. Look at the people He’s placed in your life. Look at Mary Katherine.”

  What did Mary Katherine have to do with anything? Mary Katherine with her sweet smell and quick smile. Mary Katherine, who made heavenly pies and wrote stories.

  Pretty wrapping around a gift of agony down the road? A person couldn’t know the future.

  A ferocious bark filled the sudden silence. Followed by the dog’s high-pitched whining. More barking.

  Burke cocked his head. “Is that Boo?”

  Ezekiel pushed past him. “Kenneth.”

  Boo’s barking grew louder.
Ezekiel raced down the path toward the pond. His boots smacked in the mud. Low-hanging branches and bushes whipped in his face. Time whistled in his ears, passing but not passing. The pounding of his heart filled his head, so loud it muffled any thought but getting to his grandchild. The sound of panting told him Burke kept pace.

  Kenneth lay facedown in the mud, water lapping at his blond hair at the overflowing creek’s edge. One crutch floated in the creek, the other lay just beyond his reach.

  “Lord, have mercy.”

  Ezekiel dropped to his knees. “Kenneth! Kenneth?”

  He rolled over and sighed. His face covered with mud and leaves. His glasses were lopsided and smudged but unbroken. His skin was ruddy and bruised looking. Angry red scratches marred his cheeks. Ezekiel wiped at the mud. “Talk to me, child.”

  His small, dirty hands grasped at Ezekiel’s shirtsleeve. “I fell.”

  “I see that.” Ezekiel’s heart flopped back into his chest and beat again. “Are you hurt?”

  “My nose hurts.”

  Kenneth’s red nose matched Ezekiel’s. He touched it with one finger. Kenneth winced and yelped. Boo whined. “It’s okay, hund. He’s okay. I reckon. Gut hund, gut hund.”

  “He is a good friend to have.” Still panting, Burke stood, bent over, and put both hands on his knees. “I’m too old to be running around like that.” He straightened and ruffled the dog’s fur. “A man could use a friend like you, buddy.”

  “What are you doing down here by yourself?” Ezekiel didn’t know whether to hug Kenneth or take him to the woodshed. “Your mudder will have your hide when she finds out.”

  “I wanted to say good night to Nate, my frog. Mudder was cleaning up the kitchen. I decided not to wait.” Kenneth didn’t sound too scared of Leah. “I reached down to pick him up. The mud sucked up my crutches. Boom, over I went.”

  Ezekiel pulled him into his lap and hugged him tight against his chest. “Don’t ever do that again. There’s a reason you’re not supposed to be down here alone.”

  “I can do stuff on my own. I’m not a baby.” Kenneth grimaced and tugged free of the hug. “I just got down, and I couldn’t get myself back up.”

  “Everybody needs help sometimes.” Ezekiel glanced at Burke, who shrugged and smiled. “It doesn’t make you a baby.”

  “No one thinks I can help myself ever.” His scowl made him look just like his mother at that age. “Are you going to tell Daed and Mudder?”

  “I think they’ll notice your nose, the scratches, and the mud all over your clothes.” Ezekiel brushed at the mess, but it only made it worse. He didn’t want to imagine the look on his daughter’s face when she found out what Kenneth had done. She would be on fire with indignation, like Lucy had been the time Leah at age four tried to light the stove. “They’ll probably want you to see your doctor tomorrow, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Nee, I’m fine.” Kenneth’s sigh was rueful. “Doctors don’t do nothing to help. They just poke and prod and give me more icky pills to take.”

  Ezekiel tended to agree, but Leah would have his hide if he said as much. “Do as your daed tells you.”

  “I always do.”

  Ezekiel let his harrumph talk for him.

  “Boo’s a good hund, isn’t he?” Kenneth hugged the dog, who lathered the boy with slobbery kisses. That was one way to clean off the mud. “He’s like a big brother, isn’t he?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Do you see Nate anywhere?” Kenneth sounded almost as anxious about the frog as he was about his fall. “I hope I didn’t scare him so bad he decided to move to a new creek.”

  Burke surveyed the scene. “I don’t see him, but he probably called it a night.”

  “This is the only creek within hopping range. We’ll come look for him tomorrow.” Ezekiel stood and lifted Kenneth to his feet. The child didn’t weigh much more than a sack of potatoes. He handed him one crutch and then the other. The boy swayed but didn’t go down. “I better never catch you down here alone again.”

  “You won’t. I promise.”

  The water lapped against the shore in a soothing rhythm. Night sounds overtook them. An owl hooted. Dragonflies buzzed. The frogs took up their songs again. Burke turned and faced the water. “Sometimes the reason to go on living smacks us in the face.”

  “Oftentimes.” Ezekiel put his hand on Kenneth’s shoulder. They began the slow march home. It was tough going on crutches in the soft dirt and mud. “Blessings are everywhere. The trick is to recognize them.”

  They started to gain headway toward the path. Boo trotted ahead, his pink tongue lolling to one side of his mouth.

  “I think you need a dog.” Burke fell into step next to Ezekiel. He began to whistle off-key a tune that sounded a little like “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” “A big one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Burke didn’t answer. His whistle faded away and he began to hum “Amazing Grace.”

  SIXTEEN

  The battery-operated lights shone on a figure walking along the highway’s shoulder. Mary Katherine peered at the figure. Man or woman? Or a delusion brought on by the exhaustion of another day filled with working in the store? And not thinking about Ezekiel and his sugar levels and his winks. They’d done an inventory afterward and she’d had supper with the Grabers. A nice meal cooked by Jennie’s girls. But time had gotten away from her. Dark came early now.

  She shivered in the cool October north wind and peered into the dusk. Maybe she needed a new prescription for her glasses. A woman—no, a girl—stumbled to a halt, her hand to her forehead as if shielding her eyes.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Mary Katherine slowed the buggy. She pulled over to the shoulder and stopped. It was a girl. “Hi there, do you need a ride?”

  “Mrs. Ropp?”

  “Nicole?”

  Coach Wilson’s daughter and Ezekiel’s server wore her purple Mustangs cheerleading outfit and no coat. She had to be chilled in that skimpy outfit. “What are you doing out here all alone in the middle of the night on the side of the road?”

  The girl threw her arms up in the air as if to surrender. Sobs blotted out the sound of frogs and crickets and distant highway traffic.

  “Ach, honey, it’s okay. You’re fine.”

  Whatever it was, it would be okay. At that age everything seemed bigger than it was. Mary Katherine snatched a blanket from the buggy’s backseat, climbed down, and went to Nicole. She wrapped the blanket around the girl’s shaking body. Nicole’s braids were a mess and her shoes dirty. She had a scrape on one knee, but her uniform was as clean as could be expected after a basketball game. She didn’t look seriously hurt. Not physically. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home. It’s not a zippy taxi service, but we’ll get there eventually.”

  Nicole hiccupped another sob in response, but she crawled into the buggy without argument.

  Mary Katherine settled next to her and clucked at Samson. “Tell me what happened.” The girl didn’t have her own car. It had to have been a spat with a boyfriend. No boy worth a lick left a girl on the side of the road, no matter what the argument had been. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Mary Katherine dug around in her bag with her free hand and offered a tissue to Nicole. “It can’t be nothing or you wouldn’t be out here all alone.”

  More sobs.

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I can’t.” Nicole swiped at her face and heaved a dramatic sigh. “Especially you.”

  “Why especially me?”

  She groaned. “Forget I said that. Please.”

  The entreaty in her voice made Mary Katherine glance her way. Thick, woolen clouds clothed the stars and moon. Nicole’s features were hidden in darkness. “It’s forgotten.” Mary Katherine snapped the reins and Samson picked up his pace. “But it’s important for kiddos to know they can tell adults just about anything. If something bad happened to you out here, if someone did somethin
g bad to you, you should find an adult to tell. Just because I’m an Amish woman doesn’t mean you can’t tell me.”

  It was true they didn’t like to get involved in Englisch tussles, and they certainly avoided law enforcement issues whenever possible. But children who needed help needed help. Period.

  Freeman and the others would agree on this one.

  “It’s nothing like that.”

  “You didn’t just wake up and find yourself out here on a dark country road on a school night.”

  “Sometimes after the ball games we don’t go straight home.” She wiggled on the buggy seat. “Some of us get together.”

  “Even the coach’s daughter.”

  “He won’t notice.” Bitterness replaced the earlier fear. “He never does.”

  “I know your daddy. I imagine he pays attention to everything.”

  “He has a busload of players to think about.”

  “You play sports.”

  “I’m not that good. I play because everyone does.” The resignation that filled her voice mingled with sadness too great for a girl her age. “It’s a small school. I’d rather be reading a book.”

  “Like your mom.”

  She’d stopped crying and her breathing was lighter, calmer.

  “So you don’t go home after the ball games. Where do you go?”

  “Here or there. No place in particular.”

  “Keggers?”

  “Mrs. Ropp! What do you know about keggers?”

  “I have ten children. Sometimes Amish kids veer off the road for a bit.” Mary Katherine leaned over and sniffed. “You don’t smell like beer.”

  “I don’t drink. It stinks. It’s gross. I have school tomorrow.”

  “But you went.”

  “They invited me. Usually they don’t.”

  “Because you’re the coach’s daughter.”

  “Yep.”

  “They dumped you on the road because you wouldn’t drink?”

  “No. No. Look, I can’t tell you. Don’t worry about it.”

  She couldn’t tell Mary Katherine. Especially Mary Katherine. Why especially? “Okay. Let’s get you home and to bed.”