Keys of Heaven
Page 12
Linda saw her coming, and waved. Before long, the two met on the slope of the hill, which had either been planted in a hay mix, or had been left to go fallow. Sarah rather suspected it was the latter.
Linda wore a calico scarf over her hair, and perspiration glinted on her forehead. She wore no apron, just a dress and a pair of sneakers without shoelaces. You could never say that Linda was vain about her appearance. But she was certainly looking a little better.
“Hallo,” Sarah said when she was close enough. “Ella said you were out this way, so I thought I’d come to meet you.” She touched the spiky yellow flowers of the tall cluster of plants between them. “And look what I’ve found.”
“Besides me, you mean?”
“You’re flourishing as well as the buttercups—much better than the last time I saw you. But I was talking about this.” She turned over a leaf and inspected the underside. No bugs, just healthy veins and stems, and lots of tender inner leaves. “This is mullein. The nicest clump of it I’ve seen around here. It’s used for respiratory problems, and it also heals on the outside. Ruth just told me about a salve she makes for muscle and tissue pain, and since people are out of doors more in the summer and can get hurt on the farm equipment, I thought it might be wise to have some of that salve on hand. Do you think Arlon would mind if I harvested these?”
Linda laughed. “I don’t think he’d mind if you brought a horse and mower over here and took the whole field. If someone needs something, Arlon will be the first to give it to him. Sometimes I think—” She stopped.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. He has a giving heart and an open hand, that’s all. Both of them do, and so did their Dat before them. Between that and what he and Crist have got going out in the barn, it’s a wonder they don’t just let the whole farm go to meadow weeds. You could invite every herbalist in Lancaster County to come and harvest it.” The thought made her smile again, and made Sarah wonder what on earth was really going on here.
“What’s out in the barn?” She hardly dared ask. Maybe she didn’t want to know.
“Come and I’ll show you.”
“Just let me cut some of these plants first.”
Sarah had taken to carrying a small knife and a plastic bag in her pockets, just in case she ran across a plant she could use.
But she’d put the mullein and a little water in the bucket she kept in the buggy, and then they wouldn’t be wilted by the time she got home. What a lucky find! She’d have enough leaves to dry for teas, along with several jars of salve.
Denkes, dear Lord, for bringing me here and showing me the gift of these plants. I pray that you would show me how I can help Linda, too. Use my hands, Lord, and help me to give her good advice.
Linda held out her arms and Sarah filled them with leafy cut stalks of mullein. She filled her own arms, too, so that they probably looked like an advancing forest as they made their way across the field to the opening in the fence where the men came in with the horses.
“How are you feeling, Linda? I didn’t really come here to harvest your plants—I came to see how you were.”
Behind her armful of yellow flowers, Linda’s face flushed. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“Well, there wasn’t really an opportunity to speak of such personal things at church. You and Ella were busy.”
“I feel fine.”
“You’re taking the tea three times a day? And the tincture?”
“Ja. But I was right—with all the water you’re having me drink, I spend half the day in the bathroom.”
“Better that than being dehydrated. Give it time. You’ll find your body will adjust—we retain water because the body is afraid it isn’t going to get enough. Once we keep it well supplied, it releases the stored water and the stress, too.”
“I did find that,” Linda allowed.
So small a proof, but if it led to faith in the larger treatments, then that was good.
They crossed the lawn to the buggy and stood the mullein plants up in the bucket. Some water from the hose would keep them fresh until it was time to go.
“So show me what your husband and brother-in-law have going in the barn, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Laugh? Why, what have they got in there to laugh about?”
Linda said nothing, just smiled and motioned Sarah through the open barn doors. Half a dozen cats scattered when they walked in, and the buggy horse looked curiously over its stall at them as they passed.
Old Dan Peachey, Crist and Arlon’s grandfather, had kept dairy cattle years ago, but all signs of that in the milking parlor were gone except for the grates running along the floor to the unused manure pit. The cement floor had been power-washed and was so clean that for a moment Sarah wondered if Ella and Linda scrubbed this one instead of the one in the kitchen. And all over it, on shelves, and on workbenches, were pieces of machinery in various stages of construction or repair.
It looked like a well-organized junkyard.
“What…is it?” Sarah finally asked. “Are they doing appliance repair?”
“Here’s where you’re not to laugh,” Linda said. “They’re inventing.”
Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “This is why they’ve left planting their fields so late?”
“Part of the reason. They get so caught up in a project that a week can go by and they realize the work out on the farm has gotten away from them.” Linda pointed to an apparatus that involved fan blades and a battery. “That’s a solar fan. Most of what they’re doing involves solar power and batteries. Have you seen the big bank up on the roof of the barn?”
Sarah shook her head. They’d come in on the house side, not the side that looked over the south fields.
Ah. The south side, where the sun spent most of the day.
“It powers the barn so that they hardly ever need to use the generator when they work out here. Except maybe in the winter, when the snow clouds set in. The batteries store the power and they use it at night.”
Solar batteries cost a fortune. Was that where the money was going?
“So these machines…”
“This is a winch. This one goes on a washing machine—or it will. Mine is going to be the guinea pig, I’m told.”
“And this?”
“Crist tells me it will power my sewing machine, but it seems awfully big. I think they need to work on that one. I’m glad you’re not laughing.”
“There is no reason to laugh,” Sarah said bravely. “What a good idea—to use the light of the sun God made after dark.”
“As Crist says, it’s just a matter of tinkering until you get something to work.”
And meanwhile, your crops go unplanted and your children run wild. “What about the boys? Do they help? And where are the girls? I meant to say hello but I haven’t seen them.”
“The boys aren’t really interested in inventing, and neither of them have a knack for farming. The girls are over at Ella’s sister’s in Lititz for a couple of weeks for a visit.”
“Why don’t the boys have a knack for farming?” Sarah couldn’t keep the question from coming out. “Is it because they haven’t been taught? Because Arlon is more interested in his inventions?”
Linda turned away and began to walk back through the breezeway, past the horses’ stalls. “I imagine so. It’s not really my place to ask those questions—this isn’t my farm, and they aren’t my boys—except in my heart.”
Sarah took the gentle reproof in the spirit in which it was meant. “You’re right, of course. Well, I hope the boys find something they can do soon. Before you know it, they’ll be courting. A girl will be thinking of a home of her own, and they’ll need to think about supporting her.”
“Is that what you think about Simon?”
Linda would never criticize, Sarah realized, but she certainly got her point across in the kindest possible way.
“I hardly had a chance to think about i
t before he up and left for Colorado. At least he’s getting this travel bug out of his system while he’s young. He’ll be eighteen when he gets back, and it’ll be time to settle down and get serious about a trade—whether it’s buggy-making or something else.”
“Benny is seventeen, and Leon is eighteen already, but I haven’t seen any signs that they want to use a courting buggy. If they had one, that is.”
“Do you think that’s so? Didn’t you see Benny teasing Priscilla Mast on Sunday?”
Linda shook her head. “Benny teases everyone. Even me. And his mother. I wouldn’t use that as an indication that he’s interested in her.”
That was a relief. “Priscilla is writing to Joe Byler anyway. And before that, she was sweet on Simon.”
“She’s a nice girl.”
They stepped out into the yard, and Dulcie lifted her head as if to say, Are you finished? Because I’ve eaten all the grass I can reach.
“I’m glad you’re taking the treatment seriously, Linda,” she said, and squeezed her hand. “I must be on my way, but when you run out of tea, please let me know and I’ll make up some more for you.”
“I will. And I told Crist to save you a few nice roasts and a backstrap from the hunting in the fall. But until then, do you need a gadget of some kind at your place? Crist could make you something.”
“Believe me, between my neighbors and my in-laws, I have everything I need. But denkes for the offer.”
She untied Dulcie and climbed into the buggy. It wasn’t until she was well down the highway that she felt safe enough to laugh out loud. Even if she did need one of the strange solar-powered gadgets, the Peachey boys probably wouldn’t remember to make it for months.
As Dulcie’s hooves clip-clopped their familiar rhythm on the pavement, she sobered, her thoughts returning to all that was neglected in favor of the inventions. How could Linda stand living in such a precarious way, never knowing from one week to the next whether there would be food on the table? How could she bring a baby into that kind of home? Ella had done so, and look at the result—boys who would rather put off work until the playing was done instead of the other way around.
Sarah wasn’t sure what she could do, but there was One who did.
Oh, Lord, Your children have need of you and the provision of Your hand. Help me to know how to help them—how to speak a word in season, how to offer a suggestion when it’s Your will that I speak up. Give me strength to do the right thing, Lord. And help me to know what that is.
Chapter 17
Henry heard the crunch of gravel in the yard through the open barn doors and for a moment wondered what was missing. And then it came to him—the clip-clop of hooves had been replaced by the purr of an engine, which meant either Ginny or the Parkers had just arrived.
He had a feeling that Ginny might still be a little upset about his involvement in this whole fiasco, so it was unlikely to be her Honda CR-V. That left—
Slam! “Is this where you’ve been coming every day when we’re supposed to be vacationing as a family?”
The Parkers.
Henry stepped outside and walked down the ramp to meet them, wiping his dusty hands on a rag. “Hi, Mrs. Parker. Eric. Justin. Mr. Parker. Glad you could come.”
“We might as well book another night in a motel somewhere,” Mr. Parker said, locking the car with his key fob, though there was no one in five acres who would make off with it. “Even if we leave now, we won’t make it home until the small hours tomorrow, and I’d rather not drive that late.”
“We’re leaving,” Isabel Parker said tightly. “I am so done. When you get tired, I can take over. The way I feel right now, I can’t get home soon enough.”
Henry caught Eric’s eye. “I had hoped that Eric would be able to take a few minutes to make some adjustments to his piece before it dries completely. That way, I can give it its first firing.”
“We don’t have time,” Isabel said.
“What does that mean, adjustments? ” Justin wanted to know.
“Come on in and I’ll show you.”
Henry led them into the barn, where Eric went straight to the bench and touched both parts of his lantern as if to say, Everything okay? The plate on which the carved dome would sit needed some trimming on the bottom, Henry explained to the boy’s parents, but not much. Most of the work would be in smoothing the various edges of the carving in the dome.
“You did this?” Mr. Parker asked. He leaned over to inspect the dome. “What are these? Birds?”
Henry resisted the urge to act as tour guide. If Eric was going to stand up for himself and his art, let it be now, with Henry there for moral support. He nodded at him, encouraging him silently to take the lead.
“Yes,” Eric whispered, then cleared his throat. “They’re geese. They make a V pattern, like they’re flying around the light inside. Toward where it’s warm, like geese do in the fall.”
Silently, Henry reached behind him for the sketches, and handed them to the boy.
“I drew it out first on paper.” He showed his father. “Then before I draped the clay over a bowl to make the dome, I made a round paper template with cutouts, and cut the clay through it.” He looked to Henry as if seeking confirmation that those were the right terms to use, and on Henry’s nod, said, “I’m not good enough yet to do it freehand.”
“You sketched these?” Mrs. Parker held the page torn from Henry’s sketchbook.
Justin leaned in. “They look like pterodactyls.”
But instead of losing his temper or fading out the door, hurt and angry, Eric looked his brother in the eye. “They’re stylized, not drawn from life. Which you might know if you ever did anything but play rugby and video games.”
“Hey!” Justin looked wounded. “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I see. And those look like pterodactyls.”
“It’s perfectly clear they’re geese, Justin,” his mother said impatiently. “Stop antagonizing him.” She turned back to her younger son. “So what is it you have to do this afternoon?”
“Not much,” Eric said eagerly. “Henry was going to show me how to trim the plate so it doesn’t wobble on a flat surface.”
“And we do the smoothing on the dome with a flat tool and a bit of water,” Henry said.
“How long will that take?”
“I estimate fifteen minutes for the plate, and maybe an hour for the dome.” At Mrs. Parker’s expression, Henry said, “Clay is a medium that trains a person in patience. I’m sorry that our process takes so long, but I’m not sorry that Eric got a chance to try it. I really think this would be a good direction for him.”
“What, clay?” Again, she returned to the sketches of the geese. “Not drawing or painting?”
“He’s good at that, too, and it’s a necessary skill if he’s going to be designing his own pieces.”
Henry felt Eric’s gaze on him, panicked, silently asking him not to say anything more. “I feel that once Eric gains some more confidence, he should discover what he’s capable of. At the very least, he could use some training in the craft—and the sooner, the better.”
“Training? You mean, like with you?” his father asked, picking up one of Ginny’s completed mugs and blinking as he recognized where the one that was probably in his suitcase had come from.
“Not necessarily with me.” It was time to tell the truth, and it looked like Eric hadn’t mustered up the courage to do it. But instead of laughing and dismissing the thought, his parents were actually having a rational discussion on the subject. “There are a number of very good art academy high schools out there. I think Eric has what it takes to do well. After all,” he added, “there’s no motivation better than doing something you love.”
“There’s no money in it, though.” Mr. Parker’s tone was flat. Dismissive. In another life, he would probably be an art critic. “Why go to a special school unless you’re a prodigy and expect to have a career? What kind of career can a person have…as a potter?”
“It’s not a bad living,” Henry said. “I just signed contracts to do a limited-edition series for D.W. Frith. My work will be in six of their East Coast stores. You might keep an eye out for it in the fall.”
Isabel Parker had perked up at the mention of the exclusive store’s name. “Your work? What work? I get their catalog.”
He walked over and picked up a batter bowl. “These. And a collection of serving plates, and a place setting. In fact, Eric was with me when I got the inspiration for the glaze recipe I’m going to use.”
“It’s going to look like sun sparkling on water, Mom,” Eric said eagerly. “Henry let me help him mix the chemicals. He said I was a good influence.”
“D.W. Frith,” Mr. Parker repeated. “In New York.”
“And other places,” Henry said mildly. “But getting back to Eric, even if he decided to do it only as a hobby, there’s something to be said for the sheer pleasure of doing something well. And if it’s useful, that’s a bonus.”
“A special school.” Mr. Parker didn’t seem to be going with the flow. “Where special means expensive.”
“Or special needs,” Justin threw over his shoulder, ambling toward the doors.
Henry ignored him. “Not necessarily expensive. The most immediate problem, if a person were to start in September, would be a portfolio. That’s what Eric was making a start on here.”
“Oh, so you two have already talked about it and made up your minds, have you?” Isabel sniffed, then sneezed.
“Clay dust. Sorry,” Henry said. “Why don’t you go outside while I show Eric what to do?”
“What’s the point?” Eric had exhausted his small stock of courage. He took the sketches from his mother’s hand. “They’re not going to let me do it. It doesn’t matter. Let’s go home.”