A Christmas Visitor

by Amy Clipston

  Best get to it or she’d be asleep. He studied the map. His scribbles on the margins had been gathered from a convenience-store clerk, a guy at the Dairy Queen, and the librarian in Beeville. Did the Bee County Amish District go out of its way not to be found? Surely not, considering their store, the honey sales, horse training, and saddle-making businesses. They needed outsiders to survive. What Rocky needed was a GPS. He patted the steering wheel as if the old Dodge Ram with a hundred-fifty thousand miles on its odometer had heard the traitorous thought and taken umbrage.

  “We made it this far, we’re doing fine,” he muttered. To himself, not the truck. He’d replaced the battery in Oklahoma City and the water pump outside Dallas. Blown a tire in Killeen. What else could go wrong? “We should hold off a day or two anyway, let them get used to the idea.”

  Let Frannie get used to the idea. She’d looked as surprised and horrified as her family at his sudden appearance. Her relief had been abundantly clear when he’d taken his leave of the porch shortly after the surly-looking man named Joseph the previous evening. Somehow he’d seen their reunion going differently than that. Her face would light up with that trademark Frannie Mast grin that spread across her face so wide her freckles nearly popped off her nose and cheeks. She’d run to meet him like those cheesy commercials on TV.

  They’d kiss.

  As if they’d done that before. He respected the line Frannie had drawn, even if he longed for so much more. He’d settle for a handshake at this point.

  Frannie wasn’t a beauty by most standards. Rocky’s friends went so far as to call her scrawny when he announced his plans to follow her to Texas. They pointed out he’d never seen her legs, what with the long skirt, or her hair, hidden under that cap, even on the hottest day of the year. He liked her modesty and the thought that she guarded those secrets for the one she would love for the rest of her life. In his eyes, her beauty was unquestionable. The south Texas drawl with the strange German—Deutsch words, as she called them—sprinkled in. From the prayer kapp setting askew on hair the color of carrots to the sea of freckles to the black sneakers she wore everywhere, even to church, she captivated him. Even with tomato stains on her apron and sweat on her dress.

  And she had feelings for him. He had no doubt of that. No matter what lines she drew or how she’d acted the evening before. No waiting. Time to put up or shut up. He shoved his hat back on his head, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out from the motel where, in a moment of eternal optimism, he’d plopped down a month’s worth of rent up front. It took a chunk from his nest egg. He’d have to find a job soon or stick to eating ramen noodles like he had during his college days.

  Thirty minutes later he saw the SUPPORT BEEVILLE BEES, BUY LOCAL HONEY sign on Tynan Road. Score. Three minutes later, the Combination Store, a long, dirty white building with rusted siding and a tin roof, came into sight with its adjacent junk graveyard of buggy parts and farm equipment. They weren’t much for sprucing up around here.

  Close. He was very close. The King farm was a few miles from here. The sun had begun its descent in the western sky. That would make it harder to find the turnoff. Maybe someone at the store could point him in the right direction for one last turn.

  Likely the store was closed. Still, a wagon with a weary-looking Morgan hitched to it stood near the door alongside a shabby black buggy that sported an orange triangle dangling from the back along with a FOR SALE sign. It couldn’t hurt to try.

  Rocky hopped from the truck and strode to the door. To his relief it opened. After a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the dusky interior. Jars of honey, baskets of fresh produce, stacks of straw hats, candles, cookbooks, a quilt, dusty saddles, a couple of handmade rocking chairs, even lip balm made from beeswax. A veritable collection of unrelated stuff. No customers perused the aisles. Nor a salesman.

  Someone had to be here. “Hello?” His voice sounded weak in his own ears. “Hello, anyone here?”

  A man nearly Rocky’s height, beginning to stoop with age in his broad shoulders, strode through a door behind a streaked glass counter. His long beard was snow white. That and the round, wire-rimmed glasses made him a Santa Claus look-alike, or it would have if the beard hadn’t lacked a mustache. “Hello yourself. I’m closed. Just doing some recordkeeping. What can I do you for?”

  “I was wanting some directions to the King farm. I found it yesterday, but I think it was beginner’s luck. I think I’ve gotten turned around or something.”

  “Mordecai or Phineas?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “We have father and son Kings in these parts.”

  Of course. When Frannie spoke of her favorite cousin, Deborah, she’d also mentioned her husband, Phineas, the younger part of the beekeeping father-and-son duo who tended an apiary of more than three hundred hives in this small patch of south Texas. “Mordecai.”

  The man’s genial smile disappeared. His wrinkled hands dotted with brown age spots grasped at suspenders as his steely-blue eyes did a once-over that left Rocky feeling as if he’d just been thoroughly frisked. “You must be Frannie’s Rocky.”

  Frannie’s Rocky. The words had a sweet ring to them. He’d like to be Frannie’s Rocky. He swallowed. “So to speak, sir.”

  “No need to ‘sir’ me. The name’s Leroy.”

  Leroy. Rocky did a quick check on his mental Rolodex. Leroy. Leroy Glick. Frannie had mentioned him during her rambling explanation of the Amish faith and how their communities were structured.

  The bishop.

  Lord, have mercy or shoot me now and put me out of misery.

  “It’s good to meet you, sir, I mean Leroy. You’re the bishop.”

  “I am. Among other things. I reckon Frannie explained what that means.”

  Rocky slipped his ball cap from his head and fanned his face. Sweat slid between his shoulder blades and dampened the back of his best checkered, western-style shirt with its pearl-covered snaps. So much for looking fresh when he visited with Frannie. God, don’t let my deodorant fail. His mama’s preacher said a person could take everything to the good Lord in prayer. Surely he knew what he was talking about. “You make the rules.”

  Leroy shook his head, causing his beard to sway ever so slightly. “The district makes the rules. The Ordnung. We all meet twice a year and decide on them, whether they need changing. I help make sure folks follow the rules.”

  “Right.”

  “Frannie’s on her rumspringa. You know what that is?”

  “Yes, sir—I mean, yes, she explained the running-around thing.”

  “She explain how she has this time to find a proper husband, then she has to decide if she wants to join the church and be Plain for the rest of her life?”

  She did. When she told Rocky she could never yoke herself to an English man. That’s what she called him. An English man. Now it didn’t seem so funny. “I know that.”

  “Then you know coming here isn’t helping her. If you care for her, you’ll go on home.”

  Rocky thought about moving closer to the counter. His feet seemed stuck to the rug in front of the door. “I didn’t come just for Frannie.”

  Leroy’s expression could only be described as skeptical. He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the counter. “We have a phone there in the back. The only one in the district. It’s for business and emergencies.” He cocked his head toward the door through which he had appeared. “Frannie’s mudder and daed call me every day to see how their dochder is. They think this is an emergency. They sent her here to get her away from you. You know that. Yet, here you are.”

  “I know that’s how it looks.”

  “Then most likely that’s how it is.”

&
nbsp; How could he explain? Yes, all he could think of every night when he laid his head on his pillow was Frannie. Her image danced in his mind’s eye, and he fell asleep imagining what their life could be like if it weren’t for this one thing that separated them. This one big thing.

  He went to church every Sunday morning. He slapped a twenty in the basket when it came down his row. All the while wondering how they could talk about this God as the Father, Abba. His own experience with fathers hadn’t amounted to much. The man left his mama—and his ten-year-old son—for the daughter of the feed-store owner. So Rocky bowed to Mama’s demands that he attend church. Then he went home and inhaled her fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and biscuits, determined not to give the Father thing another thought. His emptiness had been filled by college, coaching, and by helping his uncle. Now Uncle Richard was gone too. “I came to see what all the fuss is about.”

  “Fuss?” Leroy straightened, his white caterpillar eyebrows doing a quick push-up. “If you don’t know what the fuss is about, you truly don’t belong here. You’ll only cause her heartache.”

  “I want to know. Isn’t that worth something? I came all this way to find out . . .” He didn’t know Leroy well enough to explain his reservations, so he stopped. Forcing himself to move, he trudged to the first aisle and picked up a large jar of honey the color of amber. It had a bit of honeycomb in it. “The honey looks good. I’ll take a jar of it.”

  He turned and strode to the counter, jar in one hand, the other reaching for the billfold in his back pocket.

  “It’s on the house.” Leroy waved one hand, his expression dismissive. “Consider it a going-away gift.”

  Rocky was not a quitter. “How do I get to Mordecai’s farm?”

  Leroy walked around the counter, his work boots making a thump-thump sound. He tapped the glass in the door. “Head east and make a right turn at the first four-way stop. Follow the dirt road.” He let his hand drop and turned to face Rocky. “What kind of name is Rocky?”

  “I’m named for my Uncle Richard. He was a professional boxer.” He let his voice trail away. Leroy would never understand. Not having a father who stuck around, Rocky had treasured his relationship with his uncle. “He went by Rocky in the ring. So did I.”

  “You hit people for money?”

  “No, I was an amateur.” The words caused a fiery burn to engulf Rocky’s face. He shuffled his feet, working to keep emotion from his voice. “But my uncle did. That’s how he helped my mom out and raised me, so I don’t turn up my nose at what he did for his family. After he retired, he went back to farming. I helped him—until recently.”

  “Reckon you got a point there.” Leroy’s tone was a tad more conciliatory. “So you’re a farmer.”

  “I’m a high school coach now. My mom sold our acreage after my dad left us.” At least Rocky would’ve been if he’d signed the new contract offered by the school district instead of coming to Texas. Somehow the idea of coaching his own basketball and baseball teams at a small Missouri high school didn’t light a fire under him the way it had all through college. “I liked helping my uncle whenever I could. It felt good to be outside working the land.”

  The older man pursed his thin lips, his expression grim. The silence held for a good ninety seconds. “You want to know what the fuss is about? Come see for yourself. Church is at my place Sunday morning in two weeks. Three hours. In German. You’ll see and then you’ll go. In the meantime, give Frannie a wide berth.”

  Leroy Glick did not know Rocky. He only needed a foot in the door. After a quick thanks, Rocky shut the store door behind him, pumped his fist, and whispered, “Yes.” He almost ran to the truck, whistling under his breath.

  All he needed was a foot in the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  Frannie stared at the bedroom ceiling. As it had so many nights since her return to Bee County, sleep eluded her. The sweltering heat, Aenti Abigail’s constant vigilance, the curious side glances of her cousins, the feeling that something was about to happen over which she had no control—all these things conspired to keep her eyes open and her stomach swirling with a mixture of excitement and dread that seemed to be trying to outdo each other. Sweat trickled from her temple into her hair and tickled her ear. Desperate for a breath of air, she eased from the bed, careful not to rock the thin mattress laid over a box spring that squeaked worse than a herd of mice. Hazel muttered in her sleep, turned over, and smacked Rebekah with her chubby hand. Rebekah shushed her sister without opening her eyes.

  Holding her breath, Frannie waited for her cousins to settle, then tiptoed to the room’s only window. No breeze stirred the tattered white curtains. Sounds were muted and distant. The sad coo of a mourning dove carried in the still night air. A barn owl hooted. A dog barked. An eighteen-wheeler changed gears on the highway. A multitude of stars lit the cloudless sky. Gott, what is the plan? Why do I feel this way? Like I have a hole in my heart the size of Texas only Rocky can fill? I know it’s wrong. I want to do the right thing. Help me do the right thing. Send Rocky home. Thy will be done.

  Tears formed. She forced them back. To never see Rocky again. The ache where her heart should be took her breath. God’s plan surely did not include an Englisch man. Doing the right thing wasn’t always easy. Daed taught her that. The memory of her parents’ anxious faces as Daed handed the ticket to the Greyhound bus driver kept her company every day. Daed had clapped his arms around her in a rib-crushing hug. She couldn’t remember him hugging her since she was old enough to sit on his roomy lap and braid his beard. I’m trying, Daed. I’m trying not to disappoint you.

  How Rocky must’ve hurt when his onkel passed. He would’ve been so heartbroken. The little boy who needed a father would still be heartbroken. She peered up at the stars, seeking the constellations her daed had pointed out to her on the long evenings under the Missouri sky. Let Rocky find peace and comfort even if it doesn’t come from me. Give me the strength to do Your will.

  The unmistakable clip-clop of horse’s hooves thudding against sun-hardened dirt rang in the distance. Who would arrive at the King house at this late hour? Everyone slept. Except her. A suitor for Rebekah? It seemed unlikely. Abigail employed the same vigilance over her third daughter as she did Frannie, given cousin Leila’s decision to leave the district to marry outside her faith.

  The buggy came into sight. The darkness hid the driver. The buggy stopped and a shadowy figure hopped out. Butch barked once, twice, then stopped. The dog always welcomed folks he knew. A minute later the flashlight’s beam bounced and found her second-story window. She shaded her eyes and forced herself to keep her voice down. “Who is it?”

  “Who were you expecting?”

  Joseph.

  Frannie drew back from the window, suddenly aware of her thin nightgown. “It’s late. Why are you here?”

  “I reckon that’s obvious.” His hoarse whisper mingled with the night sounds. “Come down. We’ll take a ride.”

  Gott’s answer to her prayer? The tightness in her throat told Frannie it wasn’t the answer for which she’d hoped. A person didn’t always get the answer she wanted. Gott’s plan was bigger than her. She swallowed the lump. So be it. She dressed quickly in the dark, comforted by the steady breathing of her two cousins. Sneakers in her hand, she padded barefoot from the bedroom, down the stairs, and out to the porch where Joseph sat on the steps, one hand scratching Butch’s bony back, staring at the sky as she had done only minutes earlier. Butch, with his black patch of fur around one eye that made him look like a pirate, scrambled to greet her, tail wagging. “No barking, Butch. You’ll wake Onkel Mordecai and he needs his rest.”

  “He’s a good watchdog.” Joseph waited while she tugged on her shoes and then stood. “It’ll be cooler in the buggy. We’
ll whip up a breeze.”

  Something about his clear assumption that she would go with him irked her. Aenti Abigail’s stern face loomed in her mind’s eye followed by Mudder’s worried one. “Sounds good.”

  She lifted her chin and offered him her hand to help her up. His fingers were warm and damp. When he trotted around to the other side, she wiped her hand on her dress. She couldn’t blame him. Hers was surely damp too.

  “Here we go.” Joseph clucked and snapped the reins. The buggy jolted forward. “So, I reckon you were expecting your Englisch man.”

  “Rocky doesn’t drive a buggy.” Nor was he her Englisch man.

  “True.”

  How so much could be said with one word amazed Frannie. “Is that what you came out here to talk to me about? If it is, you should get on home because I get plenty of that from Aenti Abigail.”

  “Nee.” He paused. The pause grew and grew. Joseph snapped the reins again. The buggy picked up speed. “I heard you might help out at the school, now that you’re back.”

  As good a topic as any. She wouldn’t think of the silly jokes and funny stories with which Rocky regaled her about his childhood with a boxing farmer uncle. He knew how to laugh despite the sadness that lurked behind those enormous blue eyes. “My aunt’s idea. Susan has been doing it for years. She doesn’t need help. And if she does, Rebekah fills in.” Aenti Abigail didn’t need Frannie’s help either. She had Hazel to help with cooking and cleaning. Frannie’s role remained to be seen in this tiny district with only a handful of young single men, most of whom had already set their sights on their future fraas. “I worked as a waitress in Jamesport. The money helped out a lot. I liked it.”