The Haven (8 page)

Yes, breakfast in the Stoltzes’ home was a quiet affair, interrupted only by the rustle of newspaper pages as his parents exchanged sections. Cold cereal and coffee were the only items on the menu. Sensory underload.

No wonder Will felt stunned.

M.K. hadn’t made up her mind yet about the yellow dog that followed Sadie home. He was a crazy dog, with an unpredictable streak running through him. They ended up calling him Doozy. He would bark at the silliest things without warning, like a leaf skittering across the driveway or a shadow moving across a windowpane, or a towel flapping on the clothesline. On the other hand, he was very predictable about other things. Every single time a buggy came to call, for example, Doozy could be found hiding under the porch. The poor thing was half starved and flea-bitten, and though Fern usually didn’t have a sympathetic bone in her body, for some reason she took to this pathetic creature. When M.K. pointed out this contradiction to her, Fern raised one eyebrow and replied, “What I like best about dogs is that they wag their tails instead of their tongues.”

Fern! So prickly.

M.K. left Fern baking in the kitchen to go see what Sadie was doing with the baby. She curled up on Sadie’s bed and watched her sister feed the baby a bottle. He would drink a little, then fall asleep, then jerk awake and start drinking as if he were starved. The baby held one hand up in the air, fingers splayed like a starfish. M.K. loved looking at his little hands. They were so small, so perfect.

Her mind drifted to the unsolved dilemma: to whom did this baby belong?

“Later today, maybe I can take the basket and go ask around town.”

“No,” Sadie said with an uncharacteristic firmness. “You’ve already created enough problems. The last thing I want is to have you poking your nose into this.”

M.K. looked up at her, serious, and blinked once. How were they going to figure out who the baby’s mother was with
that
attitude? This business with Sadie reminded her of doing math problems. Sometimes they worked out. Sometimes you were back where you started.

Sadie put the baby into his basket and covered him with a little blanket. “M.K., I think maybe we have a special job ahead of us. Something important.”

Mary Kate was just about to ask what she was talking about as she heard the yellow dog wander up and down the hallway, completely stumped by this new environment. He wasn’t the brightest of dogs. He came into Sadie’s room and curled up on the small rug by the side of her bed. “Fern is going to have a conniption when she finds you indoors.” The dog looked up at her with sad, brown eyes. Then he cocked his head, ran to the window, and let out a low growl.

M.K. jumped off the bed to see what he had noticed. “Oh no,” she said. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. Edith Fisher had rolled up the driveway in her buggy. Worse still, Jimmy Fisher was beside her, looking angry and sullen. She looked down at the dog, who was still growling a little. She patted his head. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look.”

She saw her father walk out of the barn to greet Edith, who was out of the buggy and walking toward the house. Jimmy followed behind, hands in his pockets, scuffing the gravel with his feet.

She knew what this was all about. She had hoped to avoid this, but it figured that Jimmy would try to pin this on her. She saw her father look up at the house and catch sight of her in the window. He motioned to her to come downstairs. She sighed, deeply annoyed with Jimmy, and went out to meet them. Sadie followed behind, far too happily, M.K. noticed.

When they reached Amos, he said, “M.K., I understand you challenged Jimmy to a buggy race, from Bent N’ Dent to Blue Lake Pond.”

She glared at Jimmy. “Nolo contendere.”

Her father paid no mind to her Latin. “And I understand that a police officer pulled Jimmy over after clocking him at thirty-five miles per hour—” He stopped abruptly and turned to look at Jimmy. “Really? You got that old gelding up to thirty-five miles per hour?”

Jimmy brightened. “Sure did.”

Amos whistled, one note up, one down, impressed.

“Amos Lapp!” Edith Fisher snapped, trying to remind Amos of the gravity of this matter. She could snap with very little provocation.

Amos turned to M.K. “And when you heard the police siren, you made a fast break into someone’s driveway, leaving Jimmy to get caught by the police officer.”

M.K. started to smirk, but Jimmy saw it and glowered at her. Her smile faded.

Edith drew herself up tall. “The police officer brought Jimmy home and said he would forget about a ticket if Jimmy would complete thirty-five hours of community service. One for every mile per hour, he said.” She touched the back of her bun. “Fortunate for us that policeman happens to be a regular egg customer at our hatchery.” Her glance shifted to M.K. “It only seems fair to have Mary Kate do the community service. She’s the one who tempted my Jimmy. After all, what boy can turn down a challenge?”

What?! M.K. was outraged. She wondered what would happen if she gave Edith Fisher the shock of her lifetime.
For your information, Edith Fisher, your son Jimmy has a ten-speed bicycle hidden behind your stinky henhouse!
He sneaks out late on Saturday nights and goes roaring around Stoney Ridge.
It was a piece of valuable information M.K. had stumbled upon and tucked away, with many other Jimmy Fisher crimes and indignities and grievances, for future use.

“It’s high time Jimmy took responsibility for his actions,” Fern said. “You coddle that boy, Edith.”

Everyone whipped their heads around to face Fern, who had appeared out of nowhere like she usually did. Just as Edith was about to get up on her high horse, Amos held up a hand to stop her.

“Now, Fern,” Amos started. “We have no right to tell Edith how to raise her boy.”

Let Fern talk, Dad!
M.K. started to say but thought better of it. Jimmy Fisher
was
coddled. She tried to hold back from shouting by conjuring up a picture of Jimmy staked out in the desert with vultures plucking at his flesh and flies swarming all over his gorgeous head. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make the image gruesome enough. Still, it was a satisfying thought.

“They should both do the community service,” Fern said. “It would do them good.”

Fern! So intrusive!

Amos nodded. “Now, that does seem only fair, Edith.”

“I know of someone who needs help,” Sadie said.

M.K. looked aghast into Sadie’s steady blue eyes.
Et tu, Brutus?
She would have loved to say it aloud but what was the point? Gid was the only one who understood and enjoyed her references to Shakespeare. Everyone else always looked at her as if she were speaking Polish.

Sadie ignored her silent pleas. “An older man. Someone from the Swartzentruber colony.”

“But they all left the area,” Amos said. “A few months ago, the colony up and moved to Ohio to join a larger settlement.”

“This old man must not have gone with them. He’s all alone,” Sadie said. “Maybe on Saturdays, Jimmy could do yard work and M.K. could help with the cooking and cleaning.”

M.K. envisioned months and months of Saturdays down the drain. Worse still, she would have to spend them with the likes of Jimmy Fisher. She raised a finger in the air. “Before this is a fait accompli, I’d just like to point out that—”

Cutting her off at the quick, Fern said, “Sounds like an ideal solution.”

And that was it. M.K.’s fate was sealed. Her Saturdays, for the foreseeable future, were ruined.

Even Edith Fisher looked placated. “I suppose that would suffice. I’ll go along with them on Saturday, just to make sure everything is on the up-and-up.” She arched an eyebrow in M.K.’s direction. “You’ve got no more direction than a newborn calf, and even less good judgment. Seems as if there’s enough trouble going on here at Windmill Farm. I would think you would give your poor father a break.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Sadie said, poking a finger at M.K.

Amos raised an eyebrow. “I’ll go talk to the old Swartzentruber fellow. Plan on them starting next Saturday.”

M.K. sighed and Jimmy blew air out of his mouth. Edith spun on her heels.

“Jimmy! Come along!” His mother’s voice sailed from the buggy.

Jimmy leaned close to M.K. and squinted at her. “You’re making those big words up.”

She squinted back at him. “What big words?”

“No lo contend and feet accomplished. You were throwing them around awhile ago.”

“They’re in the dictionary,” she said sweetly. “Right in front of the word
snitch
.”

D
uring breakfast the next morning, the baby woke up and started to wail. The entire family covered their ears as Sadie tried to settle him down.

“You know,” Amos said, “I hadn’t thought about this for years, but Menno used to yell like that.”

Sadie’s head jerked up. “Really?”

“Yes, just like that. As if someone was pinching him.” He smiled wistfully. “He had colic. We tried everything. Even tried all kinds of formulas—just like you’re doing.”

Fern leaned forward in her chair. “Did anything work?”

“Let’s see. It was awhile ago, you know.” Amos looked up at the ceiling, as if watching a memory pass overhead. “Goat’s milk.” He looked pleased. “Worked like magic.” He snapped his fingers.

Fern looked at him as if a cat had spoken. “And you’re just thinking to offer that up now?” She reached over and scooped the baby out of Sadie’s arms. “Go to Ira Smucker’s right now and get fresh goat’s milk.”

Sadie hesitated. “Let M.K. go.”

Fern sighed. “Fine.” She turned to M.K. “Get a couple of clean jars from under the sink. Lids too. Tell Ira you need the freshest milk he’s got. See if he’ll even milk a goat for you while you watch. And then bring that milk back here. No lollygagging.” She gave M.K. a gentle push in the direction of the kitchen.

M.K. huffed. “I don’t lolly and I don’t gag.”

The baby took a few gulps of air and started to wind up again, like a siren. M.K. grabbed the jars and lids and darted out the door.

Not thirty minutes later, Ira Smucker returned with M.K. in his flatbed wagon, with large containers of sterilized goat’s milk, still steaming, and a goat. Fern and Amos went out to meet them.

“It’s nothing,” Ira told Fern when she thanked him for being so thoughtful. “This goat is a good milker and has a sweet disposition too. Goats can be pretty ornery.” He sneezed a loud sneeze, whipped out his handkerchief, and covering his nose, honked once, then twice.

“That’s good to hear. I had a very unpleasant experience with a goat once.” M.K. nodded in solemn agreement.

Ira put the handkerchief back in his vest pocket. “If the milk agrees with the baby’s digestion, I thought it’d be easier to have a goat here, rather than having to keep sending M.K. trotting over the hill for fresh supplies.” He led the goat off the wagon and handed the rope to M.K.

“Take her to that far pasture,” Amos said. He turned to make sure M.K. was headed to the right pasture and was surprised to see her losing a game of tug of war with the goat. The goat had dug in its heels and wouldn’t budge, despite M.K.’s efforts to pull it forward. Amos went over to help her and M.K. thrust the rope in his hands, scowling.

“I never did like goats.” Suddenly her attention was riveted to the wagon where Fern and Ira were standing. “Would you look at that? Who would have believed it?”

“What?” Amos looked to where her eyes were fixed.

“Why, Ira Smucker’s ears are burning up red. Redder than a beet.”

Ira sneezed again and honked into a handkerchief.

“Well, maybe he’s sick,” Amos said.

“Oh no. It’s just like Gid. His ears go as red as a tomato every time he gets around Sadie. Like father, like son.”

They locked the goat into the pasture and M.K. went skipping off to the house. Amos turned back and watched Fern and Ira talking. She was laughing at something he said. What could he have said that would be funny? Ira wasn’t funny. Not funny at all. Rather serious and somber, especially since his wife passed on. It would appear that Ira was smitten with Amos’s housekeeper. The thought nettled him. He walked over to join them.

Ira swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Would you mind if I saw the baby?”

Amos’s mouth dropped open. Snapped shut. Since when was Ira Smucker interested in babies?

Fern lifted her chin to Ira and narrowed her eyes. “Are you catching a cold? You shouldn’t be around the baby if you’ve got a cold.” She lowered her voice. “Or Amos, for that matter. He shouldn’t be exposed to a cold. With his heart trouble and all.”

Amos stiffened. Fern treated him like he was a six-year-old!

“No,” Ira said solemnly. “Hay fever. I get it every year about this time.”

“A farmer with hay fever?” Fern frowned. “Never heard of such a thing.”

“Runs in my family,” Ira said sadly.

“Well, since it’s allergies, I suppose it would be fine to see the baby.” She turned to Amos. “Would you mind bringing in those milk containers while I show Ira to the house?”

And off the two of them went, with Fern chattering away to Ira all about the baby as they walked. Amos was left to haul in the milk containers.

He reached to pick up a container and hoist it to the ground, feeling strangely left out.
And just what is that all about, Amos Lapp?
he asked himself.
Are you feeling like a scorned teenager because you think you might have had a claim on Fern Graber? Do you honestly think you stood a chance with her? Well, think again.

Amos knew he wouldn’t exactly be a woman’s dream man. What woman would want to marry a man who took twenty-seven pills a day to keep his body from rejecting his heart. It always, always came back to that.

Sadie was at the end of her rope. The baby seemed to be in agony. He stiffened, his back arched, and let out a whopper of an ear-piercing scream which sent M.K. flying out of the house to find Will Stoltz.

Sadie was a little annoyed that M.K. kept fetching Will from his important bird business whenever the baby started to holler, but he didn’t seem to mind. He would arrive at the house with a pleased grin on his face, head straight to Sadie, and take the crying baby out of her arms. And the baby would settle right down, relieved, as if he knew he was in the hands of a professional. Sadie was relieved too. Will had a knack for soothing this baby.

All morning long, Sadie had been walking the baby around the family room, through the kitchen, and back again. A big circle, around and around, trying to lull him to sleep. When she made a pass through the kitchen, she noticed Fern and Ira heading toward the house. As Ira drew closer to the house, Sadie saw his head jerk up in alarm as he caught the first sound of the baby’s screech. Ira doubled over and Sadie thought he was going to drop to the ground in horror, but then she saw he was merely overcome by a big sneeze. Then another and another. It was quite a dramatic fit of sneezing. Finally, he wiped his nose with his handkerchief and strode a few steps to catch up with Fern.

Sadie pushed the squeaky kitchen door open with her knee and handed the baby to Fern, completely exasperated. “I can’t do a thing with him.”

“Ira brought some fresh goat’s milk to try,” Fern said, talking over the baby’s wail.

Ira remained on the porch, gripped by another sneezing fit.

“Hay fever,” Fern said, letting the door close. “He’ll come in when he’s ready.”

Sadie watched him for a while. “Gid gets hay fever like that too.” She tilted her head. She went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard, took out a container, and opened it. Inside was a chunk of honeycomb from one of M.K.’s hives. Sadie picked up a knife and cut off a section of honeycomb. She put it on a napkin and took it outside to Ira.

“Chew this,” she said, handing him the napkin. “Some folks say that chewing honeycomb every once in a while will relieve hay fever and stuffy noses.”

He sneezed again, honked his nose again, sneezed, honked, and decided to give the honeycomb remedy a try. Sadie watched him earnestly as he chewed. And chewed. And chewed.

“Do I spit out the wax or swallow it?”

“Chew and chew, then spit out the wax.”

Behind him, Amos climbed up the porch with the goat’s milk container and handed it to Sadie. She went to the kitchen and took out a clean bottle, filled it with the warm goat’s milk, capped the bottle with a rubber nipple, and held it out to Fern. She shook her head and handed the baby to Sadie.

Sadie sat down in the rocking chair and fed the baby. The baby gulped and coughed and spit at the strange taste, but then he settled down to suck. Sadie looked up at Fern.

“Don’t get too hopeful,” Fern said. “It’s not the eating part that troubles him. It’s the digestive part.” She turned to Ira. “Would you like some coffee? I can brew a fresh pot.”

“Thank you, Fern, but I should get home.” Ira walked up to Sadie and put his hands on his knees to bend over and peer at the baby. “Well, with that coloring, there’s no doubt who he belongs to.”

Sadie looked up to ask, “Who?” just as the baby took in too big of a mouthful and started to choke. She held him up against her chest, the way Will had shown her, and jiggled him, patting his back. Dandling, Will called it. When the baby stopped sputtering, she tucked him back in her arms to feed him.

Ira clapped his hands on his knees and straightened up. “Amos, would you mind walking me out? Something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Sadie opened her mouth to ask Ira who he thought the baby resembled, when he spun around, his face brightened. “Why, Sadie Lapp! I haven’t sneezed once since you gave me that honeycomb!” He scratched his head.

“Chew on a little each day and see if it helps,” Sadie said.

“My sister sent me some honeycomb from Indiana,” Ira said. “I’ll give hers a try.”

Sadie shook her head. “It needs to be local honey. It’s the pollen that you’re allergic to. I’ll give you a chunk to take home.”

“I’ll get it,” Fern said, hurrying to the kitchen to wrap up the honeycomb. “I always said Sadie was a born healer.” She put the honeycomb in a Tupperware container and handed it to Ira.

In a low voice, Ira said to Fern, “I’ll see you on Saturday, then,” and she nodded and smiled in return.

Sadie wondered briefly why her father was scowling at Ira, but then the baby started to choke and sputter again. She blew air out of her cheeks. Fern was right. Babies were a heap of trouble.

Amos walked Ira out to his wagon, chatted for a while, waved goodbye to him, and practically bumped right into Fern as he turned around to head to the house. Where had she come from? A gust of wind swept in and knocked his hat off. As he bent to pick it up, he remembered something he hadn’t thought of for a long while. As a child, he thought of the wind as a person with many different voices, somebody you never quite got to know very well because it would arrive without warning and then leave just as suddenly. A lot like Fern. “Oh, didn’t see you there. Sorry about that.”

“What did Ira want to talk to you about?”

Amos frowned. “Fern, if Ira wanted the world to know what was on his mind, he would’ve just stayed in the kitchen.”

She ignored him. “Was he asking about Gid and Sadie?”

Amos lifted his eyebrows. “How did you know that?”

“He’s talking about Gid and Sadie getting married, isn’t he? And soon.”

How did Fern seem to know things without being told? It was unnerving. Nailing shingles to a twister would be simple compared to understanding Fern Graber. “Maybe.”

Now it was Fern’s turn to frown. “Well, Gideon Smucker better have himself another think.” She turned and looked at the house. Will was following M.K. up the porch steps and into the farmhouse.

Amos was annoyed. Fern thought she knew his own daughter better than he did. “Sadie is too young to be thinking about marriage, but Gideon Smucker is a good fellow. He’s crazy about Sadie. Always has been. And last fall, Sadie didn’t seem to mind having Gid around here.”

“That was then and this is now,” Fern said enigmatically.

Amos sighed with the old frustration of this conversation. It bothered him when she spoke in puzzles. Why couldn’t women just say what they meant? Be clear and to the point. Instead, he often felt like he was chasing a tumbleweed on a windy day.

She turned and looked right at him. “What kinds of things were you going to have the bird boy do around the farm?”

“The bird boy? Oh, you mean Will. Plowing, mostly. Help with chores, I suppose.”

“He doesn’t have any farm experience.”

“What makes you say that?”

“His hands. Too soft. They’re not even calloused.”

Amos looked down at his own hands. Rough, large, a few small scars.

“You’ve got to get that bird boy busy.”