The Lesson

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  The men exchanged glances.

  “A week?”

  Still no response.

  The oatmeal M.K. ate for breakfast shifted and rolled, turning into concrete. “Surely, she couldn’t have been badly hurt.” Meekly, she added, “Could she?”

  Orin exhaled. “No, she’s not too terribly hurt. But she seems to sense she might be facing imminent demise.”

  “Oh, is that all? Alice has been predicting her imminent demise for years!” M.K. looked hopefully at the men. “She’s had two feet in the grave for as long as I’ve known her! Everybody knows Alice is as sound as a dollar. Maybe she needs to be working, to keep her mind busy.” M.K. put a finger in the air. “Was mer net im Kopp hot, hot mer in de Fiess.” If your brain doesn’t work, your feet must. “Fern is always telling me that.”

  Orin scratched his neck. “I’m guessing we’ll need you to substitute for two weeks. Maybe three, tops.”

  M.K. blew out a puff of air. “Okay. Three weeks.” She could do this for three weeks. “I just want to warn you. I’m not much of a teacher.”

  Over her head, Orin and Wayne exchanged a look: Is she always like this?

  “You like to read,” Allen King offered. His jowls jiggled through his sparse whiskers as he spoke. “Why, you’ve got your nose in a book all the time! Just last Sunday, the preacher pointed out that you were reading during his sermon. Remember?”

  M.K. remembered. She had tried to leave the book in the buggy, but she just couldn’t concentrate on a thing until she found out if Robinson Crusoe was eaten by cannibals. She didn’t think so, because it would have made a very strange and abrupt ending to the book. But she had to know for sure. So she slipped it under her apron and sat in the far left corner, against the wall. Ruthie covered for her by leaning forward, keeping her out of range of Fern’s eagle eyes. She still wasn’t sure how Ruthie’s father, preaching at the time—and everybody knew he was a long-winded, dry-bone preacher—happened to notice M.K.’s book. He had paused and pointed a long finger at M.K. “Mary Kate Lapp! Put that book away on the Sabbath.”

  It was mortifying.

  Fern confiscated her book and returned it to the library. She gave M.K. a one-minute lecture about how even good things become idols when they distract us from God. Fern was famous for her one-minute lectures.

  “Isn’t there anyone else who might like to teach?” M.K. protested weakly.

  “Nope,” Orin said. “Can’t think of any.”

  “Really? I can think of all kinds of people who would be wonderful teachers: Gideon Smucker, Ruthie Glick, Ethan King, even . . . even . . . Jimmy Fisher!” She nearly choked on the words because, even though she and Jimmy had made their peace over the years, he wasn’t the brightest lantern in the barn. But she was desperate! And desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “No,” Orin repeated, shaking his head. “We are confident you are the one.”

  All three men looked at her, waiting for her to agree with them. And what could she say? It was her fault that Alice was injured. The families were counting on the start of school. The scholars shouldn’t be penalized. She grabbed her elbows. “The thing is, Orin, the thing is, I really don’t want to be a teacher.”

  That was putting it mildly. She was absolutely sure she would be bored to death if she were confined to these four walls in this stuffy room. Every day, the same as the day before. Hadn’t she put in her time? Eight long years. How much more could she endure from this little schoolhouse?

  A general silence met M.K.’s confession. The men exchanged awkward glances. Orin walked up to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Mary Kate, being Amish means you care less about what’s best for you and more about what’s best for the church.”

  Certainly, the inside of M.K.’s head had gone numb. Against her will, she had been strategically cornered. There was no way to respond to Orin’s comment without sounding like she was a fence jumper. And she wasn’t a fence jumper. She definitely wasn’t. Well, maybe a little. Lately, she’d even been thinking of jumping all the way to Hong Kong. Or maybe Madrid. She couldn’t quite decide.

  This is all your doing, Fern! she thought for the hundred and first time. Inwardly, M.K. sighed, defeated. Outwardly, she agreed with Orin and spent the next half hour getting a tutorial about how to keep the coal heater from acting up on a cold winter morning. She started to explain that she would only be here for three weeks, gone long before winter, so she didn’t need to learn how to feed coal into the stove, but she decided to keep her mouth shut. No one listened to a word she said in this town, anyway.

  Orin seemed enraptured with this heater, describing each part with loving detail. Blah, blah, blah. She stopped listening to Orin when he got distracted with a loose seam holding the stovetop pipe in one piece. She had a bad experience with a stovepipe once—courtesy of Jimmy Fisher—and liked to stay clear of them. Finally, Orin ran out of things to inform M.K. about.

  And then M.K. and Doozy slunk home.

  As soon as his mother had gone to town, Jimmy Fisher made a beeline to Windmill Farm to talk to Mary Kate. No one answered his knock at the farmhouse. He crossed over to the barn to look for Amos but couldn’t find him. Then he saw Fern hanging wet laundry on the clothesline. The soapy scent of fresh laundry perfumed the morning air. Jimmy breathed in deeply—it was one of his favorite smells. But he thought twice about meeting up with Fern and scooted behind a tree. Fern thoroughly intimidated him. Thankfully, he spotted Hank Lapp in his buggy shop. The shop was an old carriage barn, with a small apartment up above where Hank lived. Buggies and parts, in various stages of disarray, littered the shop floor.

  “JIMMY FISHER!” Hank boomed, when he caught sight of him. “You’re a little late for fishing today, boy. I went out before dawn.” Hank Lapp’s sun-leathered face exploded into a smile.

  Being around Hank always reminded Jimmy of the effects of electricity—instantly, a dark room would be filled with dazzling light and a fellow had to blink rapidly to allow his eyes to adjust to the brightness. Jimmy leaned against the buggy Hank was tinkering on. One side of the buggy was dented, as if it had been broadsided by a car. Buggy and car collisions were a frequent occurrence in Lancaster County, and the buggies always took the brunt of it. But, as Hank often said, it meant he would always have plenty of work.

  “I didn’t come to go fishing, Hank. Wish I had joined you this morning, though. No, I came by to talk to Mary Kate. Is she working at the honey cabin?”

  “Naw. She’s down at the schoolhouse. Should be back any minute now.” He picked up a long piece of cut fiberboard and held it up against the side of the buggy to see if it would fit as a replacement part. “But she’ll be in no mood for yikkity yakking.” He motioned to Jimmy to hand him a screw. “BLAST. Cut it too short.”

  Jimmy’s gaze shifted to the hay field. He saw someone out there behind Amos’s two draft horses, cutting hay, but he could tell that someone wasn’t Amos. “Who’s that?”

  Hank looked out to the field. “Young fellow Amos hired to cut hay.”

  Jimmy squinted his eyes. “I can’t tell who he is. Someone new? Why didn’t Amos hire me?”

  “Probably cuz you have a knack for disappearing whenever there’s a need for hard work.”

  Jimmy was deeply offended. “That’s not true.” Maybe it was partially true.

  Hank bore down on Jimmy with his good eye. “I hear you’ve developed a fondness for pony racing these days.”

  “I just prefer the front end of the horse to the back end. But I could use some extra cash, seeing as how I have a girlfriend.”

  Hank strode to the workbench and rummaged around for some tools. “Oh? A new flavor of the month?”

  “It’s not like that this time, Hank. I think I have found my missus.”

  Hank frowned at one tool, threw it down, picked up another. “Just how long have you been courting your potential missus?”

  “Well, see, that’s why I need to talk to M.K. I haven’t quite met my missus
yet.”

  Hank jerked his head up. A big “HAW!” burst out of him. “You and Paul are cut out of the same cloth! Immer gucka. Nie net am kaufen.” Always looking, never buying.

  Jimmy frowned. Hank Lapp was hardly one to give marital advice. He was a dedicated bachelor. Hank had been mildly courting Jimmy’s mother for years now—if you could call it courting. He showed up regularly for Sunday dinner, followed by a long nap in a recliner chair.

  Why Jimmy’s mother put up with Hank was a mystery. But then, in a way, the casualness of Hank’s courting must appeal to her as well. Edith Fisher could remain in complete charge of her life—and her sons—and didn’t have to change anything to suit a man. Jimmy loved his mother, but he wasn’t blind to her faults. He remembered how henpecked his own father had been. Ironic for a man who had raised chickens and sold eggs for a living.

  “Whose buggy is this?” Jimmy said. He recognized his friends’ buggies because they had customized the interiors: fuzzy dice hanging down from the rearview mirror, red shag carpet, a boom box. But this buggy looked pretty plain, stark. Clearly, an adult’s.

  “Bishop’s.” Hank turned the fiberboard right side up. “WELL, LOOKY THERE! I had it upside down.”

  “I thought the bishop’s accident happened months ago.”

  “It did, but it’s hunting season, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’ve been needing to spend my time at Blue Lake Pond. Under my watch, many a goose has flapped its last over that lake.”

  It was always hunting season in Hank Lapp’s mind. “Oooo-eee! I’ll bet Bishop Elmo’s breathing down your neck to get it fixed.”

  Hank glared at Jimmy, and that wasn’t a pretty sight. He had one eye that wandered and when he tried to glare, it gave him a frantic, wild-eyed look. Crazy as a loon. “BOY, DON’T YOU HAVE SOMEPLACE YOU NEED TO BE?”

  A flash of red down on the road caught Jimmy’s eye. It was M.K., zooming along on her scooter. “I do! There’s M.K.” He started down the hill. Over his shoulder, he tossed, “Talk to you later, Hank.”

  Mary Kate saw Jimmy Fisher running down the driveway to meet her, and considered turning the scooter around and zooming away. She didn’t know what was on his mind, but when he kept turning up like he had been doing lately, it usually meant he needed advice or money or both. She was in no mood to be generous with either.

  She hopped off the scooter as the driveway’s incline began, and walked the rest of the way. Doozy ran off to chase a jackrabbit. Poor pup. He tried so often to catch one of those long-eared, long-legged jackrabbits and never could. As M.K. met up with Jimmy, she wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Today was going to be a scorcher.

  “What?” she said flatly.

  Jimmy gave a look of mock offense. “Is that any way to greet your most devoted friend?”

  “I’m in no mood for small talk.” She kept walking. “What do you want?”

  He kept up with her. “Why is everybody so concerned with your mood today?”

  She stopped abruptly. “They’re not. That’s the whole problem. No one is concerned about my mood today or any other day.” She blew air out of her cheeks. “Jimmy, do you ever feel like you’re a horse in a pasture and all you can think about is getting out of the pasture?”

  “No. I feel as if I’m a horse in a race, and I’m in the lead by two stretches. That’s how I feel.”

  She rolled her eyes. The ego of Jimmy Fisher was legendary. “I have just been roped into being the next schoolteacher at Twin Creeks.”

  “What?” Jimmy tilted his head, as if he hadn’t heard her properly. A beat of silence followed. Then another. “You? Of all people, you?”

  And then Jimmy started laughing so hard that M.K. thought he might pass out from a lack of oxygen to the brain. Infuriating! She started marching up the hill.

  Jimmy rushed to catch up with her, gasping to get his laughing fit under control. “I can’t remember a single week going by that Spinster Smucker didn’t end up plunking you in the corner, face against the wall, or making you stay in for recess, or keeping you after school. Not one! Not one single week!” He was overcome with another laughing fit and had to bend over at his knees to wheeze for air. He patted his knees for effect.

  M.K. was disgusted. But what he said was true—she had constantly been in trouble during her years at Twin Creeks School. And it was never her fault! Never. Maybe a few times. She wasn’t sure who was happier on her eighth-grade graduation day: she or Alice Smucker.

  A straw hat in the distant field caught her attention. She shielded her eyes. “Who’s Dad got cutting hay?”

  Jimmy inhaled a couple of deep breaths and tried to wipe the amused look off his face. “Some new guy your dad hired.” He shifted his gaze out to the field. “I don’t know why he didn’t hire me.”

  M.K. watched the new hire. From here, he looked young—twenty, twenty-two-ish. She thought she knew everybody in Stoney Ridge. How did someone slip in without her knowledge? She blamed this teaching job. Too upsetting. “Probably because you’re always running off to horse auctions.”

  Jimmy frowned at her. “I am conducting research.”

  M.K. snorted and started up the hill again. “Research for pony races, you mean.”

  Jimmy caught up with her again. “I’ll ignore that insult because you’re having a bad day. But since we’re discussing my future, I’d like to ask for your help in a very delicate matter.”

  M.K. stopped, intrigued. “What do you need help with?”

  “I’ve found the one.”

  “The one what? A horse?”

  “No! A woman. I’m in love.” He covered his heart. “A deep, enduring love.”

  “Really?” That was a very strange thought for M.K. She often wondered what it felt like to be in love. Being in love, she imagined, would make all the colors in the world more vivid, all the stars shine more brightly, all the moments of her life dance and crackle with excitement like flames leaping in a bonfire.

  “I met my future bride. Someone whom I am sure you know. After all, you know everybody.”

  She smiled. Finally, someone appreciated her. “Who is that?”

  “Emily Esh.”

  “Emily Esh? Oh Jimmy, she’s . . .” She paused, trying to find the right words to say. It was easy to see why Emily Esh had attracted Jimmy’s attention. She had huge, dinner-plate-sized eyes, an enigmatic, slightly-turned-up-at-the-corners smile, and a figure that curved in all the right places.

  “What?”

  “She’s . . .” How to say this? “She’s super brainy.”

  “So?” His face clouded over. “What’s your point?”

  “It might be hard to impress a girl like Emily. Not to mention that she has plenty of guys fluttering around her.”

  Jimmy kicked a dirt clod with his boot. “You think I’m not smart enough for her?”

  M.K. looked at Jimmy. “You’re enough for any girl, Jimmy.” That wasn’t the problem. She might be a little hard on Jimmy—he was spoiled and impulsive and insensitive and egotistical—but there was a good heart somewhere under that handsome exterior.

  “Will you help me, then? Will you arrange an introduction for me with Emily Esh?”

  M.K. let out a puff of air.

  “Please? I’ll do anything.”

  “Anything?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Anything.” He gave her a sly look. “Besides teach at Twin Creeks School.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Help me solve the murder of the sheep farmer.”

  “What murder?”

  M.K. closed her eyes, thoroughly exasperated. Did she have to do everything around here? “Yesterday afternoon, a sheep farmer was shot to death in his field. Orin Stoltzfus told me this morning that the police can’t find any clues. That means the culprit is still on the loose.”

  Jimmy looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  The sound of a clanging dinner bell floated down the hill. M.K. hadn’t eaten much for breakfast and she was starving. “That’s the deal. As s
oon as we solve the crime, I will introduce you to Emily Esh.” She hurried up the hill. When she got to the top, she heard Jimmy call her name. She spun around.

  “OK!” He grinned. “It’s a deal!”

  The first thing Chris did when he got home from work was to take a shower. Cutting alfalfa hay all day made his entire body feel scratchy and itchy. But he did a good day’s work, Amos Lapp had said, and told him to come back tomorrow. And he paid him generously too before he left for the day. Cash. Enough to buy new shoes for his sister to start school in a few days. And maybe enough to splurge on an ice cream cone afterward.

  When he told Jenny that they were heading into town tonight to go school shopping, she balked. “We should go back to Ohio, so Mom knows where we are.”

  “We’ve been over this, Jenny. If we stayed in Ohio, Child Protective Services would step in and put you in a foster home. And Mom doesn’t need to know where we are. All that matters is we know where she is.”

  Jenny scowled. But then, she was always scowling. Her face was going to be set in a permanent scowl. “She’s going to get out soon. Then things will go back to normal.”

  Normal? What was normal? Their mother was a part-time house cleaner and a full-time drug addict. Old Deborah had been a godsend to them. She was an older Amish woman who became connected to the Ohio Reformatory for Women by fostering prisoners’ children—an informal arrangement, outside of Child Protective Services but blessed by them, that suited everyone. Chris and Jenny had been living with Old Deborah, off and on, since Chris was eight and Jenny was one.

  Once a month, year in and year out, Old Deborah took them by bus to Marysville to visit their mother. The program Old Deborah participated in wasn’t trying to convert children to become Amish. Its goal was to keep incarcerated mothers involved in the lives of their children. Studies showed that there was less recidivism if mothers felt like they were continuing to parent their children. The Marysville warden had created all kinds of programs to enhance the bond with mothers and children. But Chris and Jenny had stayed with Old Deborah longer than they had lived with their mother. They couldn’t help but look Amish, act Amish, talk Amish, and mostly, think Amish. For Chris, for the first time, the whole of his life really began to be transformed into something other than what it had ever been, something leaning toward normal.