The Haven

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  “Well, for pity’s sake, Fern, let him in.” Amos looked at Will over the woman’s shoulder and smiled. He pushed the door wide open and motioned for Will to come in.

  Amos pointed to a straight-backed chair across from him on the other side of the large kitchen table. The seat sounded like a creaky hinge when Will sat down. The girl who had watched him from the window, Mary Kate, galloped down the stairs like a newborn filly but stopped abruptly when she saw he was sitting at the table. She sidled into a chair, across from Will, eyes glued to him. Fern brought Will a cup of coffee and, nervously, he gulped it down. No one spoke for a few moments and he wondered if he had done something wrong. He had seen Witness. He knew they drank coffee. Should he have waited to drink it? Was there a certain tradition to drinking Amish coffee that he should have known?

  What was he doing here? he asked himself. Not just the breakfast invitation but the whole business.

  It was so hot in here. Was he getting sick? He wondered what made it so hot in the room, but then he realized it was the woodstove. He’d forgotten how much heat radiated from a woodstove. Will glanced quickly around the large family room. Everything was in its place. And plenty of seating—two large sofas, a rocker, a bench with a colorful knitted afghan folded on it. Bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with titles. Large picture windows brought in plenty of natural lighting. What would his mother say about this room and its decor? What would she call it? At times, she could be a snob. He could hear her brittle voice: “This isn’t shabby chic—this is just plain shabby.”

  Sadie finished sweeping the porch and came inside. She peeked at the sleeping baby, tucked into a corner in the room, and sat next to her sister. Fern finished bringing in platters of food and sat down. Will had never seen so much food in all of his life: stacked blueberry pancakes, pitchers of maple syrup, smoked sausages, a bowl of steaming scrambled eggs, grapefruit. It looked like a smorgasbord! Will picked up his fork but stopped when he realized that Amos Lapp had bowed his head and everyone had followed. Except for him. Will wondered what went on during those seconds of silence. Then Amos lifted his head and everyone dug in like it was their last meal.

  The kitchen door opened and in blasted an older man with wild and wiry white hair sticking out from under his black felt hat. “WHO HAVE WE HERE?” he hollered as he caught sight of Will. His face practically beamed with happiness.

  “Uncle Hank, this is Will Stoltz,” Sadie said. “The game warden wants him to babysit the falcons.” She passed the stack of pancakes to her father.

  Will lifted a finger in the air. “Not really babysitting,” he hurried to explain. “More like protecting an endangered species from an overzealous public.”

  Uncle Hank emitted a noise that was part laugh and part snort. “So you’re set on trying to give the love birds a little privacy!”

  “Oh, fuss and feathers, Hank. Sit down and eat.” Fern clucked at him until he settled down to eat, but he talked and joked and told stories throughout breakfast. Uncle Hank got Mary Kate giggling so hard that milk came out of her nose.

  The food was better than any Will had eaten for a long time. The baked oatmeal was wonderful—crisp on the outside and soft and warm and mealy on the inside. Will wasn’t fond of scrapple but took some to be polite. It was surprisingly good, heavily doctored with sage to mask the contents of offal. Sadie refilled his coffee. And when it was over, Amos bowed his head again, then everyone hopped up and got to work. Amos and Hank went to the barn, Mary Kate went off to feed her chickens, Sadie tended to the baby, so he helped Fern gather dishes from the table and take them to the kitchen.

  “You can go on out and help Amos,” Fern said. “Now that spring is in full gear, he’ll need a lot of help.”

  “Is he healthy?” Will handed a big platter to her. “I mean, I saw this . . . long scar.” He pointed to his neck.

  Fern started filling up the sink with hot water and added liquid soap to it. “Don’t ask Amos about the scar on his neck,” she said. “He doesn’t like to speak of it.”

  Will brought in the last two platters from the table. “You mean about the heart transplant?”

  Her hands splattered the water. In her surprise, she looked right at him. “You mean he told you?”

  Will nodded like it was natural. “Seemed like he wanted to tell me.” She looked a little disappointed, so he thought it would be best to change the subject. “Have you known Amos for a long time?”

  She let out a deep sigh. “Some days, it seems like forever. Other days, it’s like I hardly know him.” She swished her hand in the sink to get the water sudsy. Then she pointed to a towel for him to dry the dishes. He guessed he wasn’t going to make as quick an exit as he thought.

  “It plagues me,” she said. “I have been taking care of his household for over a year now—”

  Will gathered that she meant Amos.

  “—through thick and thin. And there’s been plenty of both. For days on end that man can hardly string two words together.” She scrubbed the spoon she was holding until it shone before she went on. “I always knew he seemed to be drawn to a barn like a magnet, always finding something to tinker with out there. But I never thought there was much talking going on.” She handed him the spoon to dry. Dishes and utensils were coming faster and faster now, as she was starting to get herself worked up. Will was having trouble keeping up. Drying a dish wasn’t something he had done much of. He thought letting dishes air-dry was more than good enough. Better still, paper plates.

  “But the minute my back is turned, Amos starts talking, and freely, to you of all people. A bird sitter!”

  Will lifted a finger. “Just to clarify . . . I’m not exactly a bird sitter. I’m trying to keep an endangered species away from an overzealous public.” He had the spiel memorized now.

  She wasn’t listening to him. “To a boy who isn’t much more than a stranger! I have half a mind to walk out to that barn and ask him why men are the way they are.” She handed him a platter. “I suppose there just isn’t an answer.”

  Will saw the conversation drifting in a no-win direction. For such a tight-lipped woman, she could talk a blue streak once she got started. When Sadie came to the kitchen to ask Fern a question, Will took the opportunity to leave. It was high time he should head out and chase off any bold bird-watchers.

  Afterward, walking up the hill to the falcon scape, Will felt slightly stunned from the whole experience. It wasn’t exactly the enormous quantity of food he had consumed or the Lapp family or the conversation. It was just everything together. He had never felt quite such a sensory overload.

  The aroma of Fern’s strong coffee triggered memories for Will of morning at the table with his father and his mother, at their grand home in Wynwood, a small upscale suburb outside of Philadelphia. But the smell of coffee was where the similarity ended. Breakfast was the one time of the day when his father was calm—before the busyness of his work claimed his energies and consumed his thoughts. Silence reigned. In fact, his parents rarely spoke during breakfast beyond an occasional polite inquiry after the other’s health, or how they slept. But after the workday claimed his father, he treated everyone differently. Indifferently.

  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 hav
e 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.”

  8

  During 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.”

  S
adie’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.