by Kelly Long
“You need to wet the ground.” Luke declared, pouring water from a tin watering can over the clasp of their hands. They both jumped, pulling apart.
“Danki.” Sarah looked up at her brother, who regarded her with a frown. She rose and the doctor did the same, clearing his throat.
“If you would allow me, Miss King, I’d consider it a privilege to see your own garden sometime.”
She nodded and was about to speak when her brother James came around the back of the house.
“Dr. Williams, if you could come, please—the bishop’s favorite cow is down; he’d appreciate you making a call.”
Grant nodded, then turned to grin at Sarah. “My first house call here,” he murmured. “Pray for me. I’ll get my bag.” He hurried off and she avoided looking at Luke, who’d come to stand beside her.
“You’re playing dangerous games, Sarah,” Luke announced, shouldering his shovel. And when she would have protested, he shook his head. “And no, I’m not telling Father and Mamm. I like the doctor too, but you—you’d better stick to a good Amish man.” He started to walk away.
“Where are you going?” Sarah found her voice at last.
“To ride with the Englischer to the bishop’s.” He grinned back at her. “He’ll need directions.”
Pray for him. Pray for me, she thought. She could not be trusted, even though her parents had told her that they believed in her. And then Jacob’s mocking words and Luke’s warning . . . it was all too much. She was just being neighborly, she rationalized. Yet she found the doctor so unlike anyone she’d ever met in the community. Yes, he was worldly, with his electricity and casual talk, but he was also kind and sincere.
She rubbed her shoe in a patch of the earth and thought of how to pray for him. Then she began to walk around the perimeter of the unplanted garden, moving and praying at the same time. She asked for blessings on the doctor’s home and on his work. And she prayed unbidden words from her soul that he would be healthy and happy, and greater still, accepted by the Amish community around him.
CHAPTER 6
When the red sports car swung onto the bishop’s lane, Ezekiel Loftus, Grant was amazed to see more than a dozen buggies assembled outside the large farmhouse and barns.
“Church meeting?” he asked Luke.
“New vet.”
“Ah.”
He grabbed his bag and a box of generalized “downed cow” equipment and headed for the largest barn. It was stuffed to capacity with Amish folk, a few onlooker animals from side stalls, and one hapless ill cow, proclaimed as Tweet, lying bloated in despair in the middle of the barn floor.
Milk fever; stage three, Grant thought with a silent groan, and he had no idea of what steps had already been taken to “help” the cow. He’d discovered early in his studies that finding out what a client had already attempted was not always easy. He’d pried information out of self-prescribing, helpful owners that ranged from dandruff shampoo to garlic bologna and everything in between. He’d learned not to blink an eye. Most of the time, the cures were odd but harmless, and he usually was able to intercede in time, but this was different.
Luke had explained succinctly on the brief ride what the bishop meant to the community. “He’s the head of everything, next to Der Herr, the Lord.”
“Great.”
“Jah, really great.”
Really great, Grant thought as he faced the man who seemed half his size and three times his age. Here was a typical Amish farmer who surely must be close to ninety. His wizened countenance was not exactly dour but neither was it hopeful, and Grant extended a hand only to have it grasped by a firm grip and a welcoming smile of relief that threatened to split the wrinkled face in two.
“Dr. Williams, thank you for coming so quickly. Tweet here, well, she’s my favorite . . . practically the mother of the herd . . .” The little man bobbed his head, and Grant saw tears sparkle in his coal black eyes.
It was not the first time he’d seen a grown man cry over a cow. He recalled a Mr. Boon from vet training who’d proudly displayed a tattoo of his favorite cow on his rugged forearm and had wept openly when she had to be euthanized due to old age. He thought about sharing the tale but decided tattooing, cow or otherwise, was probably out of the realm of the bishop’s appreciation. In any case, he now had the chance to help a true animal lover, something he enjoyed. It was also an opportunity to make or break his practice in the community, he thought. If the bishop’s cow should meet with an unfortunate end, he could just picture the bleak, empty months of no calls and a failed try at a life’s dream. But if the cow responded to the classic treatment for the ailment, it might mean a more ready acceptance. He clapped the bishop on the shoulder in an attitude of comfort.
“She’ll be fine. Now what have you done so far to help her?”
The bishop pursed his lips and the gathered crowd rustled a bit. Here we go, Grant thought.
“I tried to watch her after she calved this last time.”
“Calved? How old did you say she is?”
The old man’s face held a deep fondness. “She’s a little different than other cows, hasn’t given out, hasn’t given up—she’s sixteen.”
Grant nodded, feeling a sinking sensation in his chest. An older-than-old cow calving was a surefire prescription for milk fever and its often deadly results.
“Please go on.”
“I doused her good with Epsom salts.”
Grant smiled. Not a bad homeopathic cure; mixing the salts with water did produce an electrolyte rich solution, but it still lacked the necessary calcium.
“I used the tar oil.”
The bishop lifted the cow’s muzzle gently and Grant saw the familiar staining of “tar oil” around the cow’s mouth. The Amish, he’d read, had a curious reliance on the black oil, some strange mixture of herbs and something like corn syrup, as a cure-all for both man and beast, but the stuff tasted so bad, neither would usually swallow it. He considered briefly, then asked to see the bottle.
“Jah.” The bishop hurried through the crowd to a tool bench and came back with a clear, unlabeled bottle full of black syrup, which he handed over.
Grant popped the cork and sniffed at the contents. He’d learned during his training that tar oil was harmless, but he had never used it to treat an animal before. Curious about the herbal mixture, he wanted to experience it. So he took a brief swig and forced himself to swallow.
There was murmur from the crowd and an anxious gasp from the bishop.
“Are you feeling sick, Doctor?”
It was some moments before Grant could speak, so he nodded, then choked out a response. He’d surely heard the worst of it by now, but the bishop continued.
“And last, the raw onion in her ear.” He indicated the right ear and Grant bent to stare at the offending vegetable, while trying to catch his breath. The bishop sniffed. “I know it’s odd, but Mamm always said there’s nothing like a raw onion.” Grant nodded and pulled the onion out, finding his voice.
He handed the onion over. “Good work. Now I’ll just finish up for you, if I may.”
“Jah,” the little man replied, visibly pleased with the commendation.
Grant slipped a looped rope from his box and gently put one loop around Tweet’s neck and the other around her back foreleg. She rolled a miserable eye at him and he hummed soothingly as he worked. He drew up the solution of calcium, phosphorous, and dextrose into a giant syringe, then squirted a bit out, ignoring the grave silence of the crowd.
“That’ll hurt her a bit.” The bishop wrung his small, work-worn hands, eyeing the giant needle.
“Not much, I promise.”
Grant knelt and found the vein in the damp neck of the animal, dispensing the liquid. Tweet began to shiver and shake, the muscles beneath her skin rippling with the influx of calcium. She began to drool and Grant continued to hum.
“She’s looking a bit worse, jah?” The bishop had dropped beside him and fretted, close to tears again.
“This is normal,” Grant soothed even as he prayed. Dear Lord, let this old cow live.
He finished the injection and waited. It normally took only seconds, but she wasn’t getting to her feet. Instead, the giant eyeballs rolled backward in the sockets as she continued to shake. He felt the palpable dissension of the crowd at his back, but he had to wait.
“Looks like you’ve done more harm than good,” a dry voice pronounced, and Grant looked up to see Jacob Wyse leaning against a support timber.
“We’ll give her a few more minutes,” Grant said levelly, while the bishop stroked the straining neck of the animal. Grant felt sweat dampen his brow, then a thought occurred to him and he rustled in his bag.
“One more injection,” he murmured.
“More than likely to put her out of her misery,” Jacob asserted, but Grant ignored him.
“It’s magnesium,” he said low to the bishop as he found the vein. “Sometimes it can really make a difference.”
Grant sensed the almost immediate change in the animal’s disposition when he’d emptied the syringe and slipped the rope off her neck and leg. He moved back a bit, motioning the bishop to do likewise. He waited, and suddenly Tweet made a scrambling attempt to rise, causing the bishop to jump to his feet and Grant to join him.
“Kumme, Tweet. Kumme!” the bishop encouraged.
Grant smiled and breathed another prayer, this time of thanks. The cow staggered to her feet and stared around at the onlookers, letting out a perplexed “Moo!”
The bishop shook Grant’s hand, and the onlookers smiled with goodwill; he smiled back. Jacob Wyse seemed to have drifted out of sight. There was a sudden air of festivity as the members of the community shared in the joy of the bishop. The little man wrung Grant’s hand again, as did many other of the men.
“Now, Doctor, please, name your fee,” the bishop commanded jovially, but Grant shook his head.
“I’ve got more than enough worldly goods, sir. God has blessed me financially from my father, all the way back to my great-grandfather, so I want to offer my services for free to the Amish hereabout; it’s my offering to the Lord.”
“Then we are doubly blessed,” the bishop announced, sealing Grant’s acceptance for the moment. “A new vet, and one who works for Der Herr!”
There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.
“Now,” the bishop continued. “We will have something to eat, jah? And you will stay, Doctor, as my guest?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“And then we’ll play volleyball. Do you know how to play?”
Grant ignored the fact that he’d been captain of his team in college and nodded. The community was accepting him, and the feelings that engendered were too close to a heart sore for him to examine at the moment. He could only grin and be part of the crowd as they swarmed into the house for a an early supper of cold ham, potato salad, apple butter, and fresh bread.
Afterward, he was amazed at the rousing game of volleyball that the men got going in their full dress and hats. He had to stretch his long arms many times to get the ball over the net as he also found them to be cunning with a light tip of the ball. He had more fun than he’d ever had in school, even though Jacob Wyse stared grimly at him through the barrier of the net. He didn’t care at the moment; here was a group of men, some older than sixty, some as old as the bishop himself, who loved to play as well as work together, and he realized that it was all part of building a better and stronger community. He found himself grateful to be able to participate in a way of life that seemed to surpass any security he’d found in the world and knew that the Lord had led him here.
Sarah had heard from Luke when he came home to do chores that the bishop’s cow had revived, and she was glad that the doctor would probably be absorbed into that house’s Sunday afternoon doings. She wandered outdoors into the shade of the day and found her favorite place beneath the wild rosebush. It was only on Sunday late afternoons that she might have a bit of time to herself in daylight hours and she savored the opportunity now, listening to the far-off laughter of her brothers as they played kick the can in an adjacent field.
She stroked the delicate pink and white petals of the roses until a welter of blossoms fell down and about her, sticking to her kapp. She felt for each one to remove it and then settled back against the ground to stare up at the blue and white sky, tracing the outline of the mountains and finding shapes like a child in the clouds. She felt a restlessness that was unfamiliar, especially in the midst of her garden. She closed her eyes, then opened them when the sound of a car engine made her bolt upright. She adjusted her head covering and brushed at her apron and skirt. She wondered at the thrilling sensation that filled her chest, then drew a deep, steadying breath and made her way through the rows of vegetables to the entrance of the garden.
Dr. Williams had parked his automobile in front of the pump as Mamm came out to greet him. Sarah listened to his voice, half hiding herself among the cantaloupe vines that grew on a trellis near the open path.
“Will you have some lemonade, Doctor? I heard the good news about the bishop’s cow,” Mamm said politely.
“Actually, if you don’t mind . . . I wanted to look at Miss Ki—Sarah’s kitchen garden,” Dr. Williams said. “She said I might get some ideas for my own garden.”
Sarah wondered what Mamm would think about him asking for her.
“Jah, certainly. I’ll call her. Sarah! Sarah.” Mamm’s tone was level, and Sarah slunk out from her vines and walked the few steps needed for them to see her.
“Ach, there you are, child. Kumme and show Dr. Williams your garden to give him ideas for his own. I will ask Luke also to accompany you . . . in case he might offer any advice.”
Sarah glanced at the doctor, wondering if he’d realize that they were being chaperoned, as Mamm hollered for Luke. The doctor wore an expression of good humor and was obviously about to speak when her brothers rallied from the field and tried to persuade him to come join their game.
He held up his hands in mock protest. “Maybe in a bit . . . I just finished volleyball at the bishop’s.”
They backed off, and Mamm stood with a faint frown on the porch. “Luke, go with the doctor and your sister to see her garden,” she called.
Mamm . . .,” Luke began to protest. “
“Please,” Mamm said in a way that brooked no response, so Sarah had no choice but to extend her hand to the garden as Luke brought up the rear. “If you’d like to come this way, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Miss King.”
They entered the garden, and Luke shoved a wayward vine out of his way. “I’m not babysitting the both of you,” he whispered. “Sarah, just behave yourself. I’m going to the apple trees to have a nap, and don’t bother telling Mamm either.”
“I won’t,” Sarah snapped, mortified at her brother’s words.
“I didn’t think you would,” Luke quipped and sauntered off.
Sarah couldn’t bring herself to look at the doctor until she heard his laugh.
“So are you in the habit of misbehaving with men in your garden, Miss King?”
She glared after her brother’s retreating form. “I could wring his neck.”
The doctor stepped closer. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Sarah breathed in the delicious smell of him and sought for a clever answer while attempting to rein in her senses and her convictions. “I have never shown another man my garden, other than my father and brothers,” she admitted.
“Then I’m the first? I’m honored.” His voice deepened, and then he reached a long arm to lift something from her head.
“Have you been frolicking among the roses?” He held a pink petal in his open palm and she frowned.
“Of course, and I lie atop the potato hills too,” Sarah quipped. Then realizing that she was bantering with the doctor—an Englischer she hardly knew—the way she did with her older brothers, she blushed.
“I see.” He smiled and traced
the petal down her warm cheek, then tapped her on the nose with it.
She looked away, feeling unstrung and breathless inside, but having no desire to reveal it.
“So what would you like to see first?”
“Back to safe footing, Miss King? Very well. Why have you got these cantaloupes all netted up like this?” She saw him slide the rose petal into the front pocket of his jeans as he studied the mosquito netting that supported each fruit up and along the vine.
“To prevent bottom rot. I do it too on some of my heavier tomatoes. Although you can still have bottom rot without the fruit touching the ground.”
“You’ll have to teach me what to look out for.”
She nodded, then stepped deeper onto the path. “Over here are the salad greens—they’re easy to reach and are closer to the porch for supper.”
“Wait,” he said. “Just . . . wait.”
“What is it?”
He was staring out over the full stretch of the garden, his handsome face intent. He looked down at her. “You don’t see it, do you?”
She looked back at the plants trying to place something out of order. “No . . .”
“It’s beautiful,” he explained. “Breathtaking, want to lie down here and die, beautiful. You’ve captured a patch of heaven in your hands.”
Sarah was shocked. “Please . . . don’t.”
“Oh no, not this time. This time you’re going to see something through the jaded eyes of the world, Miss King. This time you’re going to know what you do in this space of dirt brings something to my heart and mind that I’ve been starving for.” He lowered his voice. “But maybe I never knew I was hungry, until now.”
Her heart thumped as her gaze dropped to his mouth, but then she pulled herself up short. “Would you like some fruit?” she asked coolly.
He lowered his heavy lids on the gleam of blue-gold and shook his head. “No, thank you.”
She glanced out at the refuge of her garden, wondering how to proceed with the conversation when he laughed, breaking the moment. “Come on, show me your favorite plants, and please excuse me for being . . . sentimental.”