Hidden Mercies (25 page)

Rocky didn’t complain about the unusual meal set before him, he just gobbled it up. Then came the tricky part—trying to smear the B&W ointment on Rocky’s open wound.

He let the dog smell the ointment, then he let it watch him put a dab on his own neck.

“See?” he said. “Good stuff.”

Rocky cocked his head, watching him come closer with a dollop of ointment on his fingers.

It took time, and a lot of softly spoken encouraging words, but Tom did manage to cover the wound with the healing ointment without Rocky sinking his teeth into his arm, a risk Tom knew he was taking with a strange dog.

He started back inside to wash off his hands, and Rocky stuck his nose in the door as though expecting an invitation.

Tom hesitated. It wasn’t that he minded having a dog in the apartment, but he wasn’t sure Claire would approve. After all, it was her property. He glanced over at her house and saw that the lamps were already lit in the kitchen. Claire was an early riser, too.

“Let’s wait a bit on that, Rocky.” He blocked Rocky’s entrance. “I think I need to talk to the lady who owns this place first.”

Rocky sat down on his haunches and stared through the screen door until Tom had washed off his hands, gathered his car keys and wallet, and came back outside.

“Gotta go introduce you to Claire and see if you can stay, buddy,” he said as he walked across the driveway to Claire’s kitchen door.

He had no idea what he would do with the dog if she said no.

She had a spatula in her hand when she came to the door. She was dressed for the day, with her prayer
Kapp
already firmly in place.

“Good morning, Claire,” he said. “I wanted to ask if you’d mind if I keep this stray?”

Claire came out onto the porch and took a good look at the dog.

“The poor thing has seen better days.”

“I’m hoping I can rectify that.”

“He will need a good bath.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t want any fleas in the apartment.”

“I’ll get a flea collar—or whatever the vet recommends. It’s been a long time since I owned a dog.”

“Well . . . I would not mind having a good dog around, as long as it gets along with the children.”

“If it shows even the slightest sign of aggressiveness toward you or the children, I won’t keep him.”

“Yes, I cannot have an aggressive animal around.” Her voice was doubtful, and there was a worried frown on her face. “I don’t know, Tom. He looks like he could be very vicious if provoked.”

For a moment, Tom thought he would have to find another home for his dog, when Rocky stepped forward and gave Claire’s hand a quick lick. Then he sat down on his haunches, looked up at her and whined, as though asking to be given a chance.

She took one good long look at the dog’s pleading eyes. “He does seem to be a good dog.”

“I’d like to give him a chance.”

Rocky whined once more, wagged his tail, and Claire melted. “Everyone needs a chance. Even dogs.”

A few hours later, Tom parked his car in front of the apartment and introduced a new and improved Rocky to Amy.

“Oooh, Claire told me you had a new doggie,” she called from her seat on the porch. “What’s its name?”

“Rocky.” Tom walked the dog over to her. “He’s had a busy day. He’s met Jeremiah, paid the vet a visit, made friends with a dog groomer, been deflead, deticked, washed, groomed, and is the new owner of matching food and water bowls and this snazzy new red dog collar and leash.”

“He’s so pretty.”

Tom allowed Rocky to approach Amy.

Amy backed her wheelchair away from the card table and patted her lap. “Here, Rocky! Here, boy!”

Tom was glad he had bought a leash. He wasn’t entirely sure what the dog would do. Some dogs didn’t like children, but Rocky merely walked over, then sat down close to the wheelchair. When Amy reached out to pet him, he closed his eyes and accepted her caress like a gentleman.

“He’s been hurt,” Amy said.

“Yes, he has.”

“Kind of like me and you.”

Her comment surprised him.

“Yes, kinda like me and you.”

“What kind of dog is he?”

“The vet said Rocky was Grand Pyrenees with some shepherd mixed in.”

Amy continued to stroke Rocky’s clean, white fur. “Do you think he’ll make a good watchdog?”

“Maybe. The vet said Great Pyrenees were bred to be guard dogs, and that sometimes rescued strays are the most loyal dogs of all. He said that sometimes they seem to understand what you’ve done for them and love you even more.”

“That’s true.” Amy grew pensive. “I’m kind of a rescued stray, and I love Claire to pieces. I know exactly how Rocky feels.”

“Maybe you and he will be good friends.”

“I know we will.” Her face lit up. “I made you a present!”

“You did?”

“It’s nice. You want to see?”

“I’d love to see it.”

She picked up the card she had been coloring and handed it to him. He was surprised at the level of skill and artistry that had gone into it. It was much more advanced than what he would have thought a thirteen-year-old could do—but then, what did he know? He wasn’t exactly an expert on children.

“That’s an eagle on the front,” she said. “I copied it out of a bird book Claire gave me.”

“Why an eagle?”

“Because Grace said you were sometimes sad because you weren’t flying helicopters anymore and so I thought I’d try to cheer you up. I wrote a poem just for you. Read it out loud.”

He opened it and read the short verse:

To Tom, Our New Friend

Don’t be sad.

Even birds walk sometimes

Instead of flying.

Walking isn’t such a bad thing,

If you think about it.

Especially if all you can do is . . . sit.

The last line felt like a punch in the gut. He glanced up at her, sitting in her wheelchair, still stroking Rocky’s fur, a look of calm acceptance in her eyes.

“Thank you for my poem. I’ll put it on my bedside table to remind myself to be grateful for what I have.”

“I like making cards,” Amy said.

“Well, you are certainly good at it.”

“We’re all really glad you’re here,” Amy said. “Claire says that if we can get you to stay another couple months, she might have enough money to buy a new horse for our buggy—even if she is helping Rose. She says if she can get a new horse, we won’t have to stop every mile to let Flora rest, which means we won’t have to leave an hour earlier on church Sundays to get there on time.”

Tom doubted that Claire wanted him to have all this information, but he was glad to know she was pleased he was here, even if it was only so that she could buy a new horse.

He also made a note never to let Amy know anything that he didn’t want to have broadcast to the world.

A half hour later, the new dog bowl was on the floor in his kitchen and Rocky was sleeping beside his bed while he napped and gathered his strength from the unusually busy morning—and the conversation with Amy.

C
laire was returning from doing a routine checkup on Laura Yoder and asked Annette if she’d mind her stopping a few minutes to check on Rose. She hadn’t heard from her sister in a few days and wanted to see how she was doing. Annette said she had a book she wanted to finish anyway, and would wait in the car.

She and her sister didn’t bother knocking on each other’s door. They let themselves in and half the time got involved with whatever project the other one was doing.

She opened the screen door, walked into Rose’s kitchen, and stopped cold.

Rose was sitting at a table, her head buried in her folded arms, her shoulders shaking from silent sobs.

Claire flew to her sister’s side. “What in the world is the matter, Rose? What can I do?”

Rose lifted a tear-stained face and immediately started to wipe it dry with her apron.

“N-nothing,” she said. “Just a mood. It will pass.” She looked around the kitchen, her voice suddenly a little too bright. “Can I fix you some tea?”

“Stop it!” Claire took Rose’s face between her two palms. “This is me you’re talking to! Tell me what is wrong.”

“Henry went to town today to get another bank loan.”

“Another one? What do you mean,
another
one?”

“A second mortgage on our house.”

“A
second
mortgage? I never knew you had a first one. Didn’t Henry inherit this place straight out from his father and mother?”

“Yes, he did.” There was a faraway look in Rose’s eyes. “For years we were debt free and he was bringing in a good income. If he can’t get a loan today or an extension on the payments . . . we’ll lose our home, Claire.”

“What about our church? Surely the bishop would make arrangements to help you.”

“Henry refuses to ask them for anything. I think he doesn’t want the church to know where the money has been going or what he’s been doing.”

“And where
has
the money been going?”

“Henry won’t tell me. He says it’s his business and for me to stop nagging him. He says he’s the man of the house and will take care of things. He gets so angry when I try to question him, I’m afraid to say anything.”

“Have you looked in his checkbook?”

“He hid it.”

“Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry.” She wanted to try to cheer her sister up and tell her that things couldn’t possibly be that bad—but things
were
that bad. “Could he have taken to drink?”

“I’ve thought about that. Henry had that wild streak when he was younger,” Rose said. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that. He drank and smoked when we first got married—back when we were still part of the Swartzentruber church, and alcohol and tobacco were not forbidden. After we became part of our Old Order church, the bishop frowned on such things, and Henry stopped smoking and pretty much gave up drinking, and I haven’t smelled anything on him.”

“Can you pinpoint when this behavior started?”

“No. I’ve thought back, and it’s been so gradual, I can’t remember when it started. All I know is, I don’t think Henry loves me anymore.”

She covered Claire’s hand with her own, needing the human contact. “I think he’s jumped the fence and gone against everything we’ve ever believed in or stood for. I think Henry has fallen for another woman.”

•   •   •

A low growl awoke him. He’d been having a dream that he was flying over the mountains of Afghanistan, and for a couple of seconds, he couldn’t understand why his motor had taken on that strange sound.

Then he heard the tap-tapping of Rocky’s toenails on the wooden floor as the dog trotted over to the window, sat on his haunches, and every few seconds growled deep in his throat.

Tom had never been easily frightened, but he had also been physically capable of defending himself most of his adult life.

Now, after struggling to lift that twenty-five-pound bag of dog food, he knew that even though he was stronger, he would lose in a fair fight. He walked over to the window to investigate. The German paratrooper knife he always slept with was gripped tightly in his hand. The docs had attributed that little habit to PTSD as well, but in his opinion, sleeping with a weapon in his hands was merely the prudent thing to do.

As he scanned Claire’s yard and house, he took stock. If someone was trying to break in here or at Claire’s, he did have a Rossi .357 in the drawer beside his bedside table, but hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

His breath caught when he saw a shadow moving against
the white clapboards on the second story of Claire’s house. There was a large oak beside it, with limbs growing close to the house. For a moment he thought someone was trying to climb into an upstairs window. Then he realized that someone was climbing out.

At that moment, he saw a sports car creep into the driveway, headlights off. A girl dressed in jeans and a bright tank top, her hair unbound and flowing down her back, slid down the tree and ran toward the car. The car door closed, and then whoever was driving it backed slowly out of the driveway.

A faint sound of rap music filtered back to him as the car drove away.

So Maddy was having a bit of
Rumspringa
again, was she? He just hoped she would use some common sense. There was a lot more trouble for kids to get into these days than when he was that age.

He and Claire had never gotten into anything when they were
Rumspringa
age. They’d been good kids. He was so in love with her back then, he probably would have continued to be a good kid, hoping he could talk her into marrying him someday. If that had happened, he most likely would have turned into a decent enough Amish husband and been content with that life.

Water over the dam, he told himself. No use crying over spilt milk. He tried to think of more clichés to comfort himself with, and couldn’t. All he knew was that it hurt to think about the past, and so he did as little of it as possible.

“It’s okay, boy.” He tossed Rocky a treat. “You can go back to sleep now.”

Instead of going back to sleep, he switched on the table lamp and selected another book of Levi’s to read. His nephew had interesting taste. All of Mark Twain’s works were there, right beside books on biblical archaeology and some autobiographies.
There wasn’t much else in the way of fiction, except for classics, but he did find an old, dog-eared Agatha Christie mystery. A cozy mystery was about his speed tonight. He put a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and, while waiting, made some cocoa.

There had been a lot of nights when he’d been awakened from a dead sleep, called for an emergency flight, and in the space of sixty seconds, was dressed and running—adrenaline pumping—to his helicopter, ready to do whatever was necessary.

Being awakened by Rocky’s growl had brought on that same adrenaline rush, and he knew he would not get to sleep again until his hair-trigger trained response had calmed down.

Toast and cocoa and a good mystery was as good a way as any to put in time until he could close his eyes again. After a couple hours of
Murder on the Orient Express,
he had calmed down enough to crawl into bed again and drift off.