The Waiting Page 9

  Now Cal set his jaw. As calmly as a frustrated man could, he asked, “You’re saying that these children are better off without me?”

  “No, of course not. But you’re a minister now. That was God’s doing.” She rolled her eyes as if God should have consulted her first. “He knew Mary Ann would be taken from us. You don’t have time to be doing laundry and ironing clothes and cooking meals and milking cows and taking care of two children. I can’t imagine how you’re doing your minister duties too.”

  What she meant, Cal knew, was that he probably wasn’t doing his minister duties. It wasn’t far from the truth, either. He felt like he was treading water and barely able to keep his head up.

  Sylvia started up the stairs. “I’m going to pack a few things for Maggie.”

  Matthew scooted his chair next to Cal’s. “Are you going to let that happen?” he whispered forcefully. “I know you’re grieving, but get hold of yourself.”

  Cal planted his elbows as if anchoring himself into the tabletop. “Sylvia!” She stopped, midway up the stairs, and came back down to the kitchen with a curious look on her face. “I am the head of this family. And I will not let you take my family from me.” He stood, his palms facedown on the table, drawing strength from all that a family table symbolized. “That’s the last I want to hear on this subject.”

  Sylvia’s face grew hard and her mouth set in a stern line. She grabbed Esther’s hand and marched out the door.

  Matthew stood by the window, watching them climb into their buggy. “Why do I feel you just poked a sleeping bear?”

  On the buggy ride home, Sylvia silently fumed while Esther, bored, dozed off. Sylvia reviewed the many red flags of trouble she observed at Beacon Hollow. First and foremost, what was Jorie King doing there? She saw her talking to Cal by Mary Ann’s garden, saw them look into each other’s eyes. Sylvia knew she wasn’t supposed to hate, that it was a sin. But it was a sin to think you were something special too, and that was Jorie King, in a nutshell. She remembered Jorie as a little girl, with an impish face and unruly hair. She had been headstrong and daring. No doubt spoiled, as the daughter of a far-too-lenient minister. And as a young woman, Jorie was famous for the number of suitors she had turned down. It dawned on Sylvia that Jorie might be trying to set her cap on a prize like Cal, now that Ben and Mary Ann were gone.

  Poor Cal. He was distraught without Mary Ann, that was plain to see. He looked as haggard and worn out as his clothes, all wrinkled and rumpled. And that house! Why, she had never seen such an unkempt house. Her sister would be shamed.

  Somehow, she needed to help Cal. If only he weren’t so stubborn! Why couldn’t he accept help? As Sylvia turned onto her drive, she came to a decision: she would not let poor Mary Ann down. Maggie needed her, Ephraim needed her, and, clearly, Cal needed her.

  After Sylvia left, Cal sent Maggie and Ephraim to the garden to weed. Matthew offered to help fix the wringer washer, so Cal went to the workshop in the barn to look for the tools he would need. Bud Schultz walked over from his farm and joined him.

  “I saw Hurricane Sylvia leave.” Bud whistled. “Roar in, roar out.” A beefy man in his late sixties, Bud’s eyes grazed over the tools hanging on Cal’s neatly organized pegboard.

  Cal found his toolbox and looked through it for his wrench. “She wasn’t too happy.”

  Bud unhooked a hammer from the wall and held it up, lifting his bushy upswept eyebrows in a question to borrow it. Cal gave a nod and Bud tucked the hammer claw on the hook of his overalls. “Any reason in particular this time?”

  “She doesn’t think I’m much of a mother, I suppose. Or a father. Or a minister, for that matter.”

  Bud leaned against Cal’s workbench. “You know, Cal, people have been known to marry again.”

  Cal jerked his head up. “She hasn’t been gone very long.”

  Bud breathed loudly through his nose. “Have you even thought about it?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you should. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Marrying a woman I do not love is apt to be a cure worse than its affliction.” Cal found the wrench he was looking for and closed up his toolbox.

  “Who said anything about marrying a woman you don’t love?” Bud said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.

  “Aw, Bud, I just never expected to grow old with anyone else.” Cal looked at his neighbor, a man who was dear to him.

  Over the years, Bud had become a part of the Zooks’ family. He joined them for supper nearly every Sunday. They felt comfortable borrowing Bud’s telephone and asking for rides. Bud had a son who left farming behind to become a stockbroker in Philadelphia and visited once a year, only to badger his father into selling the farm and moving to the city. Every year, Bud refused and his son left in a huff.

  “You’re going to have an awfully long and boring life if you don’t give yourself the freedom to love again,” Bud said, thumbs hooked under his overall straps. “Why, you’re a young fellow – scarcely thirty years old! Unless of course, you don’t feel the need . . .” His voice trailed off as a mischievous glint came into his eyes.

  Cal stiffened. “I am a man yet.”

  Bud grinned. “Hoo-boy, that’s a relief.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You know, you Amish folk do a better job than most of us by facing the future as it is.”

  “You’ve been alone an awful long time, Bud. You seem to be doing just fine.”

  Bud walked over to the open door of the barn and scanned his fields. “Maybe I’m a little sorry I didn’t take my own advice.”

  When Jorie returned home from Beacon Hollow, she spotted Doc Williams’s car in the driveway. She went first to the barn, assuming she would find him there. The Kings’ barn was a huge structure, made of stone at the bottom and whitewashed wood at the top. Beyond the barn were forested hills that followed the entire perimeter of the property. Jorie stopped for a brief moment to take in the sight. In autumn, the hills were spectacular – aflame with trees of red, orange, and yellow foliage.

  As Jorie slid open the door, a slice of fading sunlight fell across the freshly swept barn floor. She breathed in the familiar smell of animals and hay. The main part of the building consisted of two aisles of box stalls, separated by a dark, narrow corridor. Most of the stalls were empty at this time of the day. Atlee managed the barn with a precise regimentation: the horses were turned out to graze by rotating pastures. A barn swallow swooped over her and landed on a mud-plastered nest; she could see the hay sticking out of the layers of mud in the nest. She walked through the center of the barn and out the other side, and there she found her grandfather talking to Doc Williams. Standing beside them was that tall, dark-skinned man whom Jorie had met awhile back, when his car ran out of gas in front of Stoney Creek. So he was the new veterinarian.

  “Jorie, I was hoping to see you.” Doc Williams waved her over. “This is Jim Robinson, a vet from Virginia who’s going to be taking over for me. I’ve been showing him around, introducing him to my patients.”

  Jorie knew Doc Williams better than she’d ever known an English person. She always thought he had the makings of a Plain man – when he didn’t know the answer to something, he said so.

  “We’ve met once before.” Jorie shook hands with Dr. Robinson. “Do you know much about horses?” She hoped the answer was yes. Doc Williams knew cats and dogs, but when it came to sheep, cows, and horses, he had to consult his books. He had retired from a city practice and moved to the country, then ended up practicing because there was no nearby vet in the area to handle the Amish farms. Last year a series of misfortunes – a mastitis outbreak at Jonas Lapp’s dairy, bloated sheep from sweet clover at Samuel Riehl’s, and the loss of Stoney Creek’s prize broodmare – and Doc Williams knew it was time he found someone else.

  “My specialty is large animals,” Dr. Robinson told her. “I grew up around horses.” He walked over to the fence where a stallion, Big John, looked at him curiously with glossy black eyes. Big
John stuck his nose over the fence to see if Dr. Robinson might be hiding a carrot or two in his pocket. The doctor chuckled as Big John sniffed his face and hands. “He is absolutely huge! Must be at least seventeen hands.”

  “Eighteen,” Atlee corrected. He wasn’t being proud, he was just stating a fact.

  “These Percherons are such gentle giants.” He stroked Big John’s long forelock.

  “Are you familiar with the breed?” Jorie asked.

  “A little,” Dr. Robinson answered, rubbing his hands along Big John’s large-boned face. “Let’s see, Percherons are from the northwest part of France. Their Arabian ancestry is evident in their large, dark eyes, and gives them an elegance despite their massive size – ”

  Jorie’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. It almost seemed as if he was reading from a textbook.

  “ – a versatile breed known for their intelligence and gentle temperaments. Easy to train, gentle and patient around children.”

  Jorie and her grandfather exchanged a look, impressed.

  Dr. Robinson turned to Jorie. “I knew of a man who lost his voice to throat cancer. He was able to guide his horses with the slightest touch of his hand.” He looked around the pastures. “Your horses are magnificent. Beautiful conformation. They’re compact and muscular, the neck is crested, with a little feathering on their legs. Are they all dapple gray in your line?”

  “Most,” Atlee said. “We’ve got a new broodmare, though, who looks like she’s been dipped in ink. Name is Fancy.”

  “Because she thinks she’s something special,” Jorie added.

  Dr. Robinson noticed the chalkboard on the barn wall with statistics written about expected foaling dates. “Any chance you keep breeding records?”

  Jorie smiled. “My grandfather keeps very precise records. He’s been breeding these horses for thirty years. Why do you ask?”

  “Not sure if you’re in need of customers, but I have a friend from vet school who’s asked me to keep a lookout for a good Percheron stud.”

  Jorie exchanged another glance with her grandfather. Atlee took a few steps toward Dr. Robinson. “Welcome to Stoney Ridge. We’re delighted to have you here.”

  Two months had passed since Mary Ann’s funeral. The initial shock had worn off and some of the Zook family routines were established again. Ephraim and Cal spent a morning in the fields, pitching ears of dried corn into the stake-side wagon. It was a finger-cold day, when a farmer was forced to accept that winter was right around the corner. Cal had been trying to pasture the livestock each day to save on winter feed, but it was time to keep the animals in the barn, protected from the rain and cold.

  “M-most of the b-birds are gone,” Ephraim said, as they walked between rows.

  “Sometime during this month, we can expect a few northern visitors,” Cal said. He pointed out some northern juncos, feeding on weed seeds along fencerows. “We’re going to have to keep those feeders stocked. Those birds depend on us for handouts.”

  “We’ll be ice-skating on Blue Lake Pond soon,” Maggie said.

  “Not too soon, I hope,” Cal said. “I have a lot to do before nature ends the year.”

  Ephraim gave a little whistle and the two horses stirred. They leaned patiently into their load and pulled ahead fifteen or twenty feet, then stopped. They were so well trained that they could be started and stopped and held in place with nothing more than a whistle or cluck. Matthew was the horse trainer at Beacon Hollow. He had picked out these two horses – then foals – from the Kings’ three years ago and spent time every day working with them.

  Maggie ran back and forth to the house, returning with a fresh water jug. By midmorning, they were ready to let the horses rest and take a break. Cal sat, leaning against a fence post, when Ephraim saw a look of crushing weariness come over him.

  Cal took his hat off and raked his fingers through his hair. “We’ve barely made a dent,” he said, more to himself than to Ephraim. “So far behind and there are still acres and acres to go.”

  “We’ll g-get it d-done, Cal,” Ephraim said, trying to be encouraging. He looked up at the gray flannelled sky and wondered himself how they were going to get all of the corn into that silo. The day had begun with clear skies, but now a layer of threatening clouds had come in and the temperature was dropping, which meant snow was on its way. Rain and snow could ruin the silage, causing it to mold. “I could s-stay home from s-school.”

  “Me too,” Maggie volunteered.

  “No,” Cal said. “You need your schooling. Somehow, it will get done.” He smiled. “Might take a small miracle, but it will get done.”

  Sometime later, they heard the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves turn into Beacon Hollow’s drive. When the buggy driven by a chestnut gelding reached the yard, five bearded men hopped out. They looked around and waved when they saw Cal and Ephraim and Maggie in the field. Cal stood, brushed off his pants, and left the cornfield to cross the pasture and reach the men. Ephraim and Maggie followed behind him.

  “Thought you could use a hand getting the corn in before the snow starts,” said Samuel Riehl, the other minister. Without waiting for an answer, he led the other four neighbors out to the place where Cal and Ephraim had stopped working to rest.

  Ephraim looked up at Cal and saw him blink back tears. Seeing the relief flood his brother’s face made his chest ache.

  The men fanned out, working row by row, clucking the horses to move forward as if they were their own. Cal put his hat back on and adjusted its brim while looking at the men as they worked.

  “You’re right, C-Cal,” Ephraim said, grinning. “Somehow, it’ll g-get done.”

  Cal rested a hand on Ephraim’s back. “The Lord answered our prayers, Ephraim. He gave us neighbors.” He grabbed Maggie’s hand and the three walked over the hay stubble to join the men.

  That evening, as they sat down to evening prayers in the living room, Ephraim noticed that the weariness on Cal’s face was gone, replaced by a look of satisfaction. The fire was crackling in the hearth as Cal read aloud from his Bible. Maggie snuggled close to him on the couch.

  When Cal finished reading, he closed it, and his hands lovingly grazed the top of the old leather Bible. “It was a good day.”

  It was, Ephraim agreed. A very good day.

  5

  Thanksgiving came and passed. It brought the first real snowfall that harkened winter’s arrival. Ephraim woke in the night to the sound of a woman’s scream. He threw off his blankets and ran to the window, lifting it open. He heard Cal’s footsteps heading down the stairs and hurried down to catch up with him before he left the house.

  “D-did you hear it?”

  Cal pulled the rifle off of the wall. “I did. Now go back to bed.” He opened the kitchen drawer for cartridges.

  “W-what w-was it?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of wild creature. It’s not a sound I’ve heard, at least not since I was a boy.”

  “I’ll c-come. I c-can t-track for you.”

  “I need you to stay here with Maggie.”

  “But Cal – ”

  “Stay.” Cal spun around to give him a look that said he meant it. Then he grabbed his hat and coat from the wall pegs and left.

  Ephraim watched him head out past the barn, down to where the sheep were in the meadow. He wanted to go with Cal so badly he could taste it. He thought for a moment of sneaking off anyway, but knowing Maggie, she would get up and wander outside looking for him. He sighed, deeply annoyed, and went back to bed.

  He tried to stay awake to listen for a shot – to know Cal had found the animal – but next thing he knew, someone was shaking him on the shoulder to wake him up.

  “Milking time.” It was Cal’s voice. Sometimes his brother was like a human alarm clock.

  Ephraim opened one eye and saw that the sun was starting to rise. He bolted up. “D-did you get it?”

  “No. But it got our Delilah.”

  Delilah was their best ewe. Matthew had named her Delilah be
cause she welcomed the attention of the rams – any ram – never failing to get pregnant each year. She usually gave them twins too. As Ephraim leaned over to put on his pants, a tear dropped on the floor. He wiped his eyes with his hands, mad at himself for going so soft on a dumb sheep. But he hated animals getting killed. When he trapped the bobcat that kept getting into Amos Esh’s sheep pasture last September, he didn’t mean for it to be killed. He wanted to catch it and take it far away, but Amos Esh got to the trap first and shot it dead.

  Each December, when the air grew cold enough for hog-killing, Ephraim had always found a way to absent himself. He would be in the house or in the barn, far enough away so that he wouldn’t hear the squeals of the hog as it was tied up before being shot in the head, mercifully quick. The hog was dipped in boiling water and hung from a tree next to the toolshed, then gutted and butchered into a thousand pieces. From it they got bacon, ham, loin, sausage, and ribs. Everything was used – “Everything but the squeal” was a line he’d heard all his life. Cal tried to explain that if you wanted ham and bacon, you had to kill a hog. It wasn’t for sport, he said, but for eating. Still, the first time Ephraim witnessed a hog-killing, he ran behind the barn and threw up.

  Ephraim had never even killed a chicken. If Mary Ann asked him to go get a hen for dinner, even an old hen that had stopped laying eggs, he would find Maggie to do the killing for him. She had watched Mary Ann do it so often she was already good at it. A quick twist of the neck and the hen never knew what had happened. Maggie offered to show him how, thinking Ephraim just couldn’t get the hang of it. He would decline, saying it was girl’s work, but that wasn’t true. He just couldn’t stomach it.

  On this morning, out in the barn, Cal let out a big yawn as he wiped down the cows’ teats with antiseptic before attaching the milking pump. The diesel generator that ran the pump hummed in the background. “Ephraim, I’m sorry about last night. I know you could’ve probably found it.”

  Ephraim shrugged.