The Waiting Page 23

  Jorie sat on the porch steps, her arms wrapped around her bent legs, her eyes turned up to the sky, to the lovely, wispy cirrus clouds that looked like the flowing tails of running horses. Mares’ tails. The sunshine felt so good after such a long, gray winter. Slowly, she tipped her head back and let herself be drawn, up, up, up into the periwinkle blue of the sky.

  Suddenly a deep and familiar voice broke the silence. “Thoreau once said a cloudless sky is like a meadow without flowers and a sea without sails.”

  Jorie had to squint against the sun to see Ben. He stood leaning against the white picket fencing that surrounded the farmhouse, one booted foot crossed over the other, his straw hat dangling from his fingers. In his hand was a book to lend to her. It was one of their favorite things to do – share books and discuss them. Oh, the arguments they would have over plots and themes! It made her smile to think of those times.

  She watched Ben carefully. There was something in his expression: a longing? Sadness? Something else too. She wished she could tell what was going on in that head of his. And what a head – despite being too thin, he had an arresting face. Angular cheekbones, dark eyebrows rimming those penetrating eyes. Those eyes . . . Her grandmother said recently that Ben had cold eyes. Those eyes weren’t cold, certainly not when they were looking at her. Not cold at all.

  Jorie smiled. “I’d have to agree with Mr. Thoreau. Cloud watching can be addictive.”

  He walked over and handed her the book To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, then sat down beside her, stretched out his long legs, and leaned back on his elbows.

  “What do you think about when you look up at that big sky?” she asked him.

  “Truth be told, I think about what a fool I am,” he said. “Before I went away, I looked up at that sky and felt desperate to see the edge of the world.” He glanced at her. “So I did. And the sky looks just as blue and welcoming and innocent over there as it does here.” He scraped a hand over his jaw. “But it isn’t.”

  She wondered what kinds of things he did see over there, in Vietnam, but didn’t dare ask. He could be like a skittish sheep if asked too many questions. They used to be able to talk about all kinds of things, but that was long ago. She didn’t even know if she knew him anymore. There were complexities to Ben that she just couldn’t seem to puzzle out. His experience in Vietnam had left a taint on him, wounds and scars that couldn’t be seen but were just as real as if they were on the flesh. Yet there was still laughter in him, and unexpected wells of gentleness. She let the silence lay between them. Sometimes, she thought, silence was the only thing that could bring two people together.

  “Have you ever seen a Greyhound track, Jorie?” He gave a short laugh. “No, of course not. I saw one once. These witless greyhound dogs go around and around a track, trying to catch this rabbit running along the fence line. A mechanical rabbit!” He paused. “That’s what I feel like, like one of those stupid dogs. I get so close, but I never seem to catch the prize.”

  For a moment Jorie stared at him in wonder. “But Ben, they’re not meant to catch it.”

  The easy charm had vanished. He looked aloof and formidable, eyes narrowed in a silent accusation. Then he pushed himself upright, his boots hitting the porch step with a soft thud. He stood and walked away without a word to her.

  Ephraim was cleaning out the buggy by the back of the barn one afternoon when a car pulled into Beacon Hollow’s drive. It was driving fast and came to a sharp stop by the farmhouse. He dropped the sponge in the bucket with a splash and walked to the car curiously, surprised to see his brother Ben jump out and wave to him.

  “Ephraim, come with me! I need you to show us where the new vet’s office is.” Ben’s voice grew impatient, frustrated that Ephraim wasn’t hurrying. “Come on – we’ve got an emergency.”

  Ephraim had skidded to a halt when he saw the driver of the car: Jerry Gingerich. Ben pulled Ephraim’s arm and practically pushed him in the backseat of the car.

  Jerry turned the car around to head back to the road. “Which way, kid?”

  Ephraim didn’t answer until Ben turned to him. “Over at the K-Kings’ old c-cottage on the m-main r-road.”

  Jerry turned right and gunned the engine, causing Ephraim to slide against the door. He heard an odd moaning sound and peered over the front seat. There was Rex, covered with a bloody towel, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

  “At his house?” Ben asked.

  “No one will r-rent him office s-space,” Ephraim said, glaring at Jerry. “What happened to R-Rex?”

  “Jerry’s dog took a slug in its leg when we were hunting,” Ben said.

  As they approached the cottage, he pointed to the drive. Jerry pulled in, parked the car, and scooped up Rex in his arms. He ran to the door and knocked until Mrs. Robinson opened it and let him in.

  Ben turned to Ephraim in the backseat. “Poor Jerry. Not sure that dog can be saved. That bullet chewed up its leg pretty bad.”

  “W-what were you h-hunting?” Ephraim asked.

  Ben motioned to him to get out of the car. He pointed, proudly, to the rack on top. He pulled back a covering and there, roped down, was the beautiful cougar, dead. “We got that big cat,” Ben said with evident pride. “Shot it myself. It won’t be going after anybody else’s livestock this summer, that’s for sure.”

  Ephraim whirled around and exploded in rage. “H-how c-could you?”

  Ben looked surprised. “How could I? Easily. I talked Jerry Gingerich into going with me. He’s the best tracker in town. After hearing about Jorie’s foal, I had to do something.” He pulled the cloth back over the cougar and tied the edge to the rack. “She’ll be pretty darn pleased about this kill.”

  “You d-did this to impress Jorie?” Ephraim asked.

  “Well, sure. I guess that was part of it. But Stoney Creek is close to Beacon Hollow, Ephraim. It wouldn’t be long until we started losing stock too. If anybody would know how to track a cat, it would be Jerry Gingerich.”

  Ephraim wiped his eyes with his sleeves. He hated tears, they made him feel weak.

  “Aw, Ephraim,” Ben started, “I know you got a soft spot for critters, but someone needed to get rid of that cat.”

  “W-why did you ever come back? Why didn’t you j-just s-stay away? You ruin everything!” The words had startled Ephraim coming out of his own mouth, and they just kept coming. “You d-don’t understand how th-things are, but you c-come here and you act l-like you own the p-place and you own everybody.”

  A tight look came over Ben’s face, as if he were suffering a hurt somewhere. “What are you talking about?”

  “How c-could you b-be friends with Jerry? He tried to b-beat the l-living t-tar out of Cal! You d-don’t care about C-Cal. You’re always trying to hurt him. You even threw that s-softball right at his head on p-purpose. I know you d-did. You’re even t-taking Jorie away from him! And you d-don’t even care about her! If you d-did, you would have m-married her years ago! You just d-don’t want C-Cal to have her.”

  Ben grabbed Ephraim’s shirt in one hand. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Excuse me?” Mrs. Robinson asked. Her eyes darted anxiously between the two of them. “We need a little help in here. Would you mind coming in to be with your friend while my husband is examining the dog’s injuries? He’s a little . . . distraught.”

  Ben released Ephraim; they eyed each other warily but followed Mrs. Robinson into the cottage. There, huddled in the corner of the room, was Jerry, weeping.

  17

  A few days later, Ben and Cal were alone, having lunch in the kitchen. Lizzie was upstairs changing linens on beds.

  “Cal,” Ben said. “How difficult would it be to get at my share of Beacon Hollow? In cash?”

  Cal looked at him, startled. “Very difficult.”

  “I need the cash to start a business.”

  Cal leaned back in his chair. “What kind of business?”

  “A friend and I were talking about taking folks out during dee
r hunting season.”

  “For the sport of it?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Cal shook his head. “That’s not our way. We don’t kill for the sport of it.”

  Ben took in a deep breath, as if he expected as much from Cal.

  “Why would you need money for that, anyway?”

  “In the off season, we thought we’d lease land for a rifle range.”

  “Who is this ‘we’?”

  “Jerry Gingerich.” Ben frowned. “Look – I don’t know what went on between you and Jerry, but he’s been a friend to me. A real good friend.”

  Cal had to work hard not to make a disparaging comment about Jerry. If he even started . . . no, he checked himself. He shouldn’t even go down that path. He had to trust in God’s justice. “We Plain folk don’t start businesses with the English. You know that.”

  “Well, I’m not planning on being a farmer,” Ben said. “So you can get that notion out of your mind right now.”

  “If you want a business, then do something that’s truly needed. Something you’re skilled at. You’re an able carpenter.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I’ll think about it. But I still need the money now.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m thinking to buy a house in town, for me and Jorie to live in.”

  Cal kept his eyes down. “You aren’t even a church member yet, Ben. Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

  Ben flashed him a dazzling smile. “Gotta start somewhere, brother Cal.”

  “What makes you think Jorie would leave her grandparents and her Percherons?”

  Ben lifted a dark eyebrow. “Because . . . it’s me doing the asking.”

  Cal looked straight at Ben. Sometimes he had the feeling that Ben really didn’t know Jorie at all. He leaned toward him, placing his elbows on the table. “Ben, you’re in a tremendous hurry to do everything but sit down and face your demons.”

  Ben rose to his feet so abruptly that his chair tipped over backward. He glared at Cal. “You’d do anything to keep me down, wouldn’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You know what your problem is, Cal? Just because you had to step into Dad’s shoes when he died, you resent the rest of us for having time to be young.” Ben turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

  Cal got up to pick up Ben’s chair, exasperated. Ben had always been one to flirt with the wild side. His mother used to say Ben was born looking for a rule to break. When their parents were killed, Ben went even further on the precipice. It was Jorie who seemed to temper him and keep him from going too far. Now, it seemed that as Ben’s body grew healthy, his mind grew dark and anxious. There were times when Cal thought Ben seemed as tightly wound as a coiled spring.

  Standing at the kitchen window, Cal watched Ben storm off down the drive, hands jammed in his pockets, head down. Cal felt a little sorry he hadn’t kept those prescription drugs from the Veterans Hospital. He thought maybe Ben could use a sedative or two. He rubbed his knotted fist against his stomach. Or maybe he would take one himself. Dealing with his brother’s moodiness was starting to give him an ulcer. He offered a quick apology to the Lord for such an ungrateful heart. Just a few months ago, he had been praising the Lord for bringing Ben home.

  Later that week, after giving the matter considerable prayer, Cal drove the buggy into town and stopped by the bank to empty out his savings account. The amount wasn’t entirely a quarter of what Beacon Hollow was worth, but it was close. If this would be a way to keep Ben in Stoney Ridge, close to his Amish roots, then Cal would gladly hand it over. He had always known Ben wouldn’t be a farmer; his brother just didn’t have the patience for it. It made him heartsick to think of Ben going into business with the likes of Jerry Gingerich, but Cal believed a man had to make his own decisions. And mistakes.

  When Cal returned to Beacon Hollow, he put the cash in an envelope and laid it on Ben’s pillow. Not much later, he heard a loud whoop of happiness coming from Ben’s room. Ben burst downstairs and found him at his desk. “Thank you, brother Caleb! You won’t be sorry.” Ben pulled on his hat and coat and hurried out the door.

  “Ben!” Cal called after him.

  Ben stopped and turned.

  “Ask Jorie about being the keeper of the song.”

  Ben looked confused.

  “Just . . . just ask her.”

  As Jorie stepped out the side door with an empty laundry basket anchored on her hip, she drew in the scent of the late May afternoon. The fragrance of the grape arbor that wrapped around the back porch drifted her way. She folded the dry laundry as she took it off the line and was about to bend over to lift the basket when she spotted Ben ambling toward her. She smiled.

  “A day like this is so good, don’t you find it so?” she asked when he reached her. She looked up at the puffy white clouds that danced in the sky. “It just sings with the promise of summer. It makes a person want to praise God, and thank him for giving you the life to enjoy it.”

  When he didn’t answer her, she turned to face him. The gentle wind fluttered her cap strings. He took one in each hand and pulled them down until they were stretched taut, then flashed her a dazzling half-smile that made her weak in the knees.

  “Cal said to ask you about being the keeper of the song. What does that mean?”

  She studied him for a long moment, puzzled. Why that question? Cal’s telling me something, Jorie thought: something has happened with Ben. “It means that we are carrying on for those we love. Caring for Beacon Hollow is the keeper of your folks’ song. I’m the keeper of my grandfather’s song.”

  Ben stared at her with such fierce intensity that she could almost feel it, like a warm gust of breath on her flesh. “Let’s get married, Jorie.” There was a strange gravelly sound to his voice.

  She was shocked silent. That was the last thing she expected to come out of Ben’s mouth. She had been waiting for years for this moment, and now that it was here, she didn’t know what to do with it.

  He took her hands in his. “I’ve been working on a plan. It’s all figured out. I’m going to start a business.”

  “You’re what?” She was stunned.

  “I’ve got the money from Cal. My partner and I – we’re just finalizing details now.”

  She shook her head. “Wait a minute. Cal knows about this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he supports you in this . . . this business?”

  An annoyed look crossed through his eyes. “I don’t need Cal’s approval, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Why would Cal give you money?”

  “He just gave me what’s due me. My quarter of Beacon Hollow.”

  She cocked her head. “Who is your business partner?”

  He looked past her to the horse in the pasture. “Jerry Gingerich.”

  She yanked her hands away as if he had blasphemed. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How could you do such a thing to Cal? To Matthew and Ephraim?”

  “I’m not doing anything to them! I’m trying to make a life for us.”

  “You can’t go into business with the English.”

  Ben’s eyes grew unnaturally hard, set above a stern mouth. She suddenly realized that he didn’t consider himself an Amish man.

  “You know I would never consider marrying someone who isn’t a church member. You know what that would mean.”

  His eyebrows slammed together. “That was your doing! I told you not to get baptized, but you went ahead and did it while I was gone! You made this so much harder for us!”

  “For us?” She tried to draw in a breath, but it caught in her throat. “For us? You mean, harder for you.” She splayed her hand against her heart. “I know what I want, I know who I am.”

  “Jorie,” he said again, impatient now. “I’m finally ready to get married.” His face went soft and his voice grew sweet. “You want this too. I know you do.”

  Did she? She had known him all her life, had loved him for years, almos
t like a habit, and yet she had no idea at all whether or not she loved him anymore.

  She wasn’t looking at him, but she could feel his gaze hard on her, as if he could will the words into being. He never expected her to turn him down. Ben was used to getting what he wanted.

  She fumbled to find the words for a long moment. When she found them, she risked a look at him. “Oh Ben, I can’t fix what’s ailing you.”

  Ben’s face clouded over. At first, his eyes flashed with anger. Then they grew soft again. “Yes, Jorie, you can.” He bent over and took her face in his hands, his thumbs lightly tracing the hollows in her cheeks. “You can fix me. You’re the only one who can. Marry me, Jorie. I count on you. I always have. I don’t know what I would do . . . if I didn’t have you by my side. I need you.” His voice broke on those last three words. He still had her face cupped in his hands. He leaned closer now and kissed her, a kiss from his heart that said so much more than words could ever tell her.

  But it only told her what she didn’t want to hear.

  Sylvia pounded the bread dough again and again, trying to get it to that point when it would be smooth and elastic, ready for its final rising. She supposed it was a silly thing to be doing so late in the afternoon – it wouldn’t be ready to bake until midnight – but she needed something to occupy her head and hands. If she slowed down, her prickling conscience caught up with her.

  When the lump of dough finally passed inspection, she put it into a greased bowl and covered it with a damp towel. She looked around the room for a place for it to rise, deciding on the tabletop by the window where sunlight streamed in. It was a small kitchen for such a big house – barely large enough to hold the rectangular oak table with eight ladder-back chairs. Plenty of seats for the children she was going to have with Noah . . . until he died so unexpectedly on that dreadful winter day, at the young age of thirty-eight. It still irked her that no doctor could figure out what killed Noah. She knew someone – she was pretty sure it was Benjamin Zook – had started a nasty rumor that Noah was henpecked to death.