Shelter in the Storm

by Laurel Blount

  Four tan sheriff’s cars, blue lights swirling silently, were parked among the other vehicles. The Walton County deputies had stationed themselves at various intervals and stood cross-armed, guns holstered on their belts, monitoring the situation. The black-garbed line of Amish men standing along the Hochstedler property line faced the milling crowd and formed a different, but no less effective, kind of guard.

  As Joseph watched, one of the cameramen tried to slip past David Miller. The elderly Amish man edged over to stand in front of the intruder and spoke softly. When the cameraman sidestepped him, David moved to block him again, both hands held up in an appeasing gesture. The frustrated Englischer began arguing, pointing emphatically toward the house with his free hand.

  Joseph’s stomach tightened. The Amish had clear-cut ideas about violence that outsiders often didn’t understand. David wouldn’t defend himself, no matter what the angry cameraman did. Instead, David would reason, pointing out that the Hochstedlers were grieving a great loss and needed their privacy. He would do his best to appeal to the man’s better nature.

  But David would not budge. The Englischer would have to physically push the old man down to get into the yard. And if he did, other men would step forward to be knocked down in their turn.

  That was why so many men were standing around on the porch, Joseph realized. They watched the altercation with him, as tense as hounds on the scent of a rabbit, poised to step in if needed, to use their bodies as shields for him and what remained of his family.

  Joseph’s heart had gone numb the instant he’d arrived at his father’s store and seen the blood smeared across the scarred wooden floor. Since that moment he hadn’t wept, not even today when he’d watched his friends shoveling dirt on the pine caskets of his parents. But for some inexplicable reason, the sight of stoop-shouldered David standing stubborn vigil in the front yard came nearer to bringing Joseph to tears than anything else so far.

  To his relief, a deputy stepped forward and herded the pushy cameraman back toward the highway. The men surrounding Joseph relaxed, and their quiet conversations about businesses and livestock resumed.

  “If you need a moment in the fresh air, go around the porch, and down the side steps,” Samuel suggested. “Take some time for yourself behind the house. Keep your back to the road if you don’t want your face splashed all over the news. They tell me those cameras can take pictures from a quarter mile that look like you weren’t standing more than two feet away from them.”

  Joseph nodded shortly. Without looking directly into Samuel’s eyes, he reached out and clasped the man’s forearm, hard. Samuel covered Joseph’s hand with the calloused warmth of his own. Neither man spoke. Then Joseph walked around the L-shaped corner of the porch, leaving his friends behind.

  The boldest younger folks had congregated in knots throughout the yard, staring at the chaos on the road and whispering. This was exciting, and although they were keeping a cautious distance, they didn’t want to miss anything. They shot guilty glances at Joseph, but none of them approached him.

  That suited him fine. If he could make it around the back corner of the house, he’d seek some solitude in the abandoned dairy building. Nobody would look for him there.

  As he passed the kitchen door, it swung open.

  “Joseph!” Naomi smiled at him. “There you are!” She pattered down the five concrete steps. “Isaac and your uncle are asking for you.”

  So much for stealing a few minutes of solitude. “All right.”

  “Were you trying to escape?” Naomi’s gray-green eyes warmed with sympathetic understanding. “I can’t say as I blame you. You can’t turn around in the house without knocking over half a dozen folks, we’re that packed in there. Come.” She tugged his sleeve, pulling him behind Mamm’s wash shed, out of view of the kitchen windows. “Nobody will see you here, and you can stand for a minute and catch your breath.” Her lips curved into a rueful smile. “You used to tell me that all the time, remember? Just stand here for a minute and catch your breath.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then you’d wait with me until I could go on, no matter how many times I told you to run ahead and catch up to the others. You were always kind to me, Joseph. I’ve never forgotten.”

  “I did nothing special.”

  “Not for you, maybe, but for me that was plenty special.” She chuckled softly. “I had five older brothers who got awful tired of me holding them up. I was left behind a lot, but never by you. You were a gut friend, always.” She paused, her smile fading. “I’m not being such a good friend though, am I? Here I stand blathering on when you need some time to yourself. I’ll go back inside. Don’t worry. I’ll ask Aaron to stall Melvin and the bishop for you.”

  “Nee.” The protest came out before he thought better of it. “You can stay a minute more, can’t you?”

  Her eyebrows arched, but she answered readily. “Of koors, if you want me to.”

  He did want her to. He didn’t quite know why, and he was too tired to try to figure it out. But he did.

  When they’d arrived back from the funeral, a group of women had already been bustling about the house. They’d come to prepare the meal and to stay with Miriam. His youngest sister hadn’t been injured—at least, not physically. They were all thankful to Gott for sparing her life. Emotionally she was so shattered that her worried siblings had talked it over and decided it best if she didn’t attend the funeral.

  As he’d come through the front door, Naomi had walked out of the kitchen to place a tray of sandwiches on the table set up in the living room. She’d glanced over, and for a second or two, their gazes had connected. She hadn’t smiled or said a word; her eyes had only crinkled just a little in the corners. Then she had put down the sandwiches and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Something about that moment, of seeing her gentle face, had brought him an unexpected scrap of comfort. He’d looked hungrily for Naomi after that, catching glimpses of her moving quietly through the throngs with the other women, refilling pitchers and platters, carrying dirty dishes back to the kitchen. He didn’t know why, but while he was watching her, he’d found it a little easier to breathe.

  Maybe it was because of what she’d told him just before Rhoda had come, about the operation and how she was all better now, miraculously freed from a lifetime of disability. Nobody had expected such a blessing for Naomi, but still, it had happened.

  He glanced sideways at her. She’d followed his lead and was leaning against the dusty wall of the shed. She’d dirty her dress, likely, but she didn’t seem to mind. She stared over the empty, winter brown fields, toying absently with the strings of her kapp.

  She did look a lot better than she used to. Growing up, Naomi had been so scrawny, all wispy hair and huge eyes, with a pale, pointed face. She’d looked like a stiff breeze would blow her right out of the county, and Joseph had never understood how her older brothers could traipse off and leave her gasping behind.

  Now, the sharpness of the December afternoon had pinched a healthy drift of pink in Naomi’s cheeks, and there was a new energy in the way she stood and walked. She was still delicately built—always would be. But she was filling out; her face wasn’t nearly so peaked, and even the light hair smoothed under her kapp seemed glossier and thicker.

  Likely Naomi would go on and live a happy life. Maybe she’d even get married, have some kinder of her own. Joseph couldn’t manage to feel good about much right now, but he felt good about that, for her sake.

  Ja, that was probably why he felt a little better when he looked at her. Right now, Naomi’s story was the one pinprick of shining hope in the pitch-black darkness of his world.

  She turned her head and caught him studying her. She smiled but didn’t speak. He was grateful for that. So many people had been talking to him today, asking questions, waiting for his answers. He could barely put one foot in front of the other, and he
found conversation exhausting. Naomi’s easy silence was a balm to his battered soul.

  She understands, he realized suddenly. Naomi had walked her whole life in the shadow of death. She’d know better than most what comfort this kind of quiet companionship could be.

  His mind flickered to his younger sister, huddled upstairs in her darkened bedroom, not eating, barely speaking. Miriam was his responsibility now, and he had little idea how to help her. Some well-meaning women had already advised that she should be forced to get up. It was wrong, they said, to let her hide herself away in her grief and fear. She must learn to accept from Gott’s hand sorrows as well as blessings, and to lean on her faith and her community.

  Joseph had listened to them patiently, but so far, he had let Miriam be. His farm-bred instincts instructed him to be gentle, warned him that right now his sister needed soft, quiet care, like a calf that had been born too soon. An idea occurred to him, and he cleared his throat.

  “I’ve a kindness to ask of you, Naomi, if you are willing.”

  She nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

  “Could you come back tomorrow to sit with Miriam? They say she shouldn’t be left alone, but I don’t want her worried or bothered. We take our turns sitting with her, but—”

  “You’ve other matters to tend to as well. I understand. I will be happy to stay with her.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, ja, and every day after until you tell me different. I will see to it that nobody worries or bothers Miriam.”

  Naomi spoke simply, but he had no doubt she’d keep her word. A small portion of the immense weight on his heart broke loose and fell away.

  “Denki. I’ll see to it that you are paid for your time.”

  “Nee, you will not. It is my blessing to help you and your family, Joseph.” She laid a gentle hand on his forearm and looked up at him earnestly. “Please don’t rob me of that by offering me money.”

  “Joseph! There you are.” Isaac rounded the corner of the small building, Melvin shuffling behind. Naomi looked down and withdrew her hand. His uncle’s hooded eyes caught the movement, and the older man tightened his lips.

  What did Melvin have against Naomi? No telling, but Melvin liked few people, so it was no surprise to see that sour look on his face. He looked at his own nieces and nephews in much the same way.

  Isaac’s ruddy face was somber. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but we have a situation that must be dealt with. Could we speak with you for a moment, your uncle and I?” The bishop’s eyes darted to Naomi. “Privately?”

  “Excuse mich,” Naomi murmured. “I should be getting back to the kitchen.” She gave Joseph one last smile, then walked toward the house.

  Joseph’s gaze trailed her. When he looked back, his uncle was frowning at him.

  “’Sis en shand, Joseph! Courting on the day of your parents’ funerals. You have been raised to know better.”

  “I was not courting, Melvin. Naomi is a friend, staying at our neighbors’ home, and I was speaking with her about sitting with Miriam while she recovers.”

  His uncle continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Of koors, after spending time with that brother of yours, this is no surprise to me. I had to speak to him several times while he stayed at my home about unseemly behaviors. You youngies have lost all sense of decency.”

  There was little point arguing with Melvin. The old man was stubborn as a goat and about as reasonable. Joseph turned to the bishop instead. “What did you need to speak to me about, Isaac?”

  Isaac Lambright combed his fingers through the gray-streaked waterfall of his beard, his eyes fixed compassionately on Joseph’s face. “The sheriff has come to the house. You could not be found, so your uncle and I took the liberty of talking with him ourselves.”

  “Gut.” Joseph nodded, relieved. “Has he found some way to make the reporters leave?”

  “I’m afraid not. He was here about something else. He—”

  “Those Englischers are coming,” Melvin interrupted. “The boy’s parents. As if they have not caused enough trouble for this family, they must also push themselves in here where they are not wanted nor needed.”

  “The Abbotts are coming here?” Joseph’s heart thumped hard, then went still. “Why?”

  “They would like to pay their respects. Sheriff Townsend said he could prevent this, if you requested it.” Isaac shot a sideways glance at Melvin. “Your uncle felt this might be best, but I told the sheriff to allow them to come. He has gone to get them now.”

  Joseph had no idea what he should say. He didn’t like the idea of any Englischers coming here, not now when he felt so raw, but the idea of facing the Abbotts, of hearing their fumbling expressions of sympathy . . . the thought made him feel sick. He stood silently, waiting for the bishop to speak again.

  “There is no real choice to make here, Joseph. Our faith requires us to offer forgiveness to those who harm us.”

  “To offer forgiveness, ja. We will seek no revenge against them or their son. But for them to look for a welcome here in this house on this day when our grief is still fresh?” Melvin shook his head. “That is too much to ask.”

  For once, Joseph found himself in agreement with his dour uncle, but Isaac shot the older man a hard look. “I disagree. One could reason that the Abbotts have more claim on our sympathies even than Joseph here. He has his faith to sustain him.” The bishop turned entreatingly to Joseph. “Your parents are with Gott now, but the Abbotts’ only son has committed murder and run away like a coward. Me, I would far rather be Elijah Hochstedler than Stephen Abbott this day.”

  Melvin made a disgruntled noise, but Joseph understood what Isaac was saying. And he agreed. He’d rather be grieving as he was today than be in the Englischer’s shoes.

  “They can come, if they wish. I won’t ask the sheriff to prevent it. But you know I’m not so good with words, and I don’t want to make a muddle of this. Will you speak to them for me, Isaac, on behalf of the family?”

  Isaac Lambright was known as an upright man who never shied away from doing what needed doing. Joseph expected a quick agreement to his request.

  Instead, he got an uncomfortable silence.

  “That is not my place,” the bishop protested gently. “This farm and this sorrow belong to you, Joseph. The welcome and the forgiveness are your blessings to give. This is a hard counsel, I know, but I believe this is what your daed would tell you to do, if he were standing here in my place.”

  Joseph’s mind flashed to that last morning in the barn, recalling the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder.

  When our world goes dark, then we must hold hard to the rope of our faith, and trust Gott to lead us out.

  Whatever the Englischers wanted to achieve by coming here, it did not matter. He was Plain, and so he would do what his faith expected of him. “I’ll speak with them.”

  “Gut.” The other man clapped him firmly on the back. “I will be standing right beside you.”

  “Ja, at least while the Englischers with cameras are everywhere taking pictures,” Melvin muttered.

  Isaac turned sharply toward the older man, but before the bishop could speak, Joseph interrupted.

  “What about the rest of my family? Miriam is not able.”

  “Nee,” Melvin agreed immediately. “The maidel has gone feeble-headed. Nobody can expect such a thing of her.”

  “But Caleb and Emma . . . should someone go and find them?”

  Isaac shook his head. “I’m afraid Emma has become a person of interest to the Englisch. Apparently, there is a great price set on a photograph of her, and the men with the cameras are being very persistent. Our folks had quite a time keeping them back during the funeral. Best to keep Emma out of sight, I think.”

  “That girl should have kept herself out of sight to start with,” Melvin said. “Then may
be we wouldn’t be standing here.”

  “Emma’s not the one to blame for this, Melvin.” Joseph didn’t bother to veil his own impatience. He’d heard enough of his uncle’s opinions. “What about Caleb?”

  The bishop looked uneasy at the mention of his new son-in-law. “I don’t think that would be wise, either. Your bruder is grieving too hard to be trusted. I won’t lie to you, Joseph. I fear for Caleb if he can’t rein in his anger.”

  What was it Daed called Caleb? Muleheaded. Joseph squared his shoulders. So, this unpleasant task was to fall to him alone. So be it, then. “All right.”

  The warning whoop of a siren sounded from the road, and the bishop craned his neck to peer over his shoulder. “They are arriving. Melvin, maybe you should wait inside.”

  The old man’s eyes flashed. “That,” he said, “was my intention.” He shuffled toward the house.

  Joseph and the bishop walked side by side across the yard, toward the crowd lining the road. Joseph fixed his eyes on the sheriff’s car that had pulled into the drive, lights strobing. A black sedan pulled in after it and parked. The cameramen descended like a swarm of frenzied ants, jostling each other for prime positions as the driver’s side door opened. The deputies hurried to stand between the vehicle and the reporters, barking orders, herding the mass of eager bodies back.

  Joseph felt a guilty relief that the pushy Englischers were so focused on the Abbotts that they were paying no attention to him. He and Isaac made their long walk unnoticed, except by the watchful men standing on the front porch. As Joseph and Isaac passed the front of the house, the men filed down the steps and silently fell in step behind them.

  Halfway up the drive, Isaac placed a restraining hand on Joseph’s arm. “Shtobb,” he said quietly. “We will wait here. The sheriff will bring them to us.”

  Joseph watched as Mr. Abbott battled his way around the front of the car to open the passenger’s side door. The Englischer helped his wife out. She wore a jet-black skirt and jacket, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Her husband put a protective arm around her narrow shoulders and shepherded her forward.