by Kelly Long
“What do you mean?”
“A kiss is proper in its time.”
He shook his head, feeling out of his depth.
“Talk to me, Sarah—please. Tell me the truth of what you’re saying.”
She turned back to face him, and he was troubled to see tears damp on her cheeks.
“Oh, Sarah, please don’t cry. I promise I’ll never do anything that makes you uncomfortable again.”
She lifted her eyes to his own. “I’m telling the truth, Doctor. It was not uncomfortable or unpleasant. It was too pleasant. I—I’ve never had anyone kiss me but my family before.”
“Oh. Not even growing up? A boyfriend, perhaps?”
She smiled without mirth. “You mean Jacob Wyse, don’t you? No, not even him as a friend.”
Her words shook him as vapid images of his own life rose up to confront him, casual kisses with girls through high school, a parade of steady girlfriends through college who would have been all too glad to do much more than kiss. Girls dressed in short dresses and shorter skirts. Easy hugging and hand holding, touches that meant nothing and more than nothing when he thought of his moments with this simple Amish girl. He swallowed hard.
“Then you’ve given me two gifts today—the garden and the kiss.”
“You think I’m strange,” she said resignedly.
He didn’t touch her; he couldn’t. He used his voice instead. “Sarah . . . I think myself strange. The world’s never made so much sense as when I see it with you.”
She nodded. “It’s our way to ‘be in the world, but not of the world.’ If I am showing you the world so that it makes sense, then I am failing Der Herr . . . my faith.”
“I’m not explaining myself right. And I’m not backpedaling or trying to fool you about what I mean. I mean that I have clarity, a clearness when I’m with you that I don’t have at other times.” He rubbed his shoe in the dirt. “I remember when I was ten, right after my parents died, I went to a frozen lake near where I lived. The ice was thin on the shoreline, so I broke off a big piece and put it in front of my face. I could still see the lake, but everything was blurry and far off. I felt safe behind that ice. In a lot of ways, I’ve lived like I’ve still had that ice in front of me—a shield, a protection . . . but with you—you make me put the ice down; you melt it. And I’m alive again.”
She shook her head “It’s the Lord; He’s doing this for you. Not me.”
“It is God through you, Sarah King, working through you because you permit it. Thank you.”
She studied him, visibly weighing his words. Finally, she quietly said, “Gern gschehne—you’re welcome.”
The bang of the screen door caused them both to start as Mrs. King came down the back porch steps with a faint frown.
“Sarah, are you finished?”
“Jah, Mamm. I’m done.” She did not meet his intense look. “For now.”
She watched the doctor go around the back of the house after he mentioned going on a promised call, until she realized that Mamm had spoken to her.
“I’m sorry, Mamm—what is it?”
“I just hope that you are using wisdom in your doings with the doctor, Sarah. Don’t forget what Father told you.”
“I know, Mamm,” Sarah spoke, hoping her eyes would not betray her thoughts, then immediately regretting the deception. “What did you want me for?”
Mamm frowned but went on. “I asked Mrs. Bustle if she might need some help dusting and cleaning, and she said that she’d be grateful. Are you willing to help?”
“Ach, jah, certainly.”
“I’ll get the boys to muck out the barns. I don’t know what was in Mr. Fisher’s head, but it had little to do with his farm.”
Sarah said nothing, thinking of the anger in Matthew Fisher’s eyes at the stand.
Mamm patted her arm. “Come along, child. I didn’t mean to make you think of unhappy things. Let’s just help Mrs. Bustle.”
Sarah nodded and followed Mamm indoors. Parts of the house were indeed still in a muddle. Sarah got a brown bag and began to gather newspapers from the floor of a still-cluttered room off the kitchen. The various ads for clothing or fast food stared up at her, and she tried not to look too hard as she rolled the papers to be burned later. There was no doubt that working at the stand had made her more observant of the Englisch ways of dress and their mannerisms, and sometimes she found a particular pair of shoes or a blouse that a woman customer was wearing to be very attractive. And very worldly, she reminded herself.
She thought it odd that the Fishers took in such papers, for normally the Budget was the only major newspaper read in nearly all Amish communities. Still, there must have been a reason. She went into the kitchen, found a dry rag, and set to dusting the hardwood furniture that the Fishers had left behind, all the while feeling a tingling burn in the palm where the doctor had kissed her hand. Her hands had been dirty, but he’d kissed her as though the earth was part of her, and somehow, she took this as a sincere compliment. It was not one of words but one that acknowledged in some way her oneness with the land, the gift of the Lord. And she felt that it was the closest she had ever let anyone come to seeing her true heart, the one that loved the growing things yet worshipped the Creator of them all.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Bustle’s loud cry. Both Mamm and Sarah ran into the kitchen to find the elderly woman perched atop the kitchen table.
“Another rat?” Mamm asked.
“No . . . it’s the cat,” she stammered. “It’s got something there that’s . . . not quite dead!” She shrieked once more, then pressed her hands to her quivering lips.
Sarah went over to the cat and bent down. “I don’t think he means to hurt it; I think he’s bringing it to us.” She opened the cat’s mouth and took out the squeaking item. “Ach, Mamm, look—it’s a baby bat.”
Mrs. Bustle moved as if to faint and Mrs. King caught her, hastily spritzing her face with the water bottle she’d been using to clean with. Mrs. Bustle came to immediately.
“Oh, Mrs. King, I’m sorry, but a bat!”
“It’s just a baby one,” Sarah said, cradling it in her hands. “You must have a colony living in your attic.”
“What?! Bustle! Mr. Bustle!” Mrs. Bustle let out a delicate roar, and Mamm and Sarah looked at each other in fascination.
Mr. Bustle hurried into the kitchen. “What is it, my dear?”
She pointed a shaking finger. “Do you know anything about a bat living in this house?”
Mr. Bustle had the grace to flush. “Not a single one, no.”
“A colony, then? In the attic?”
Sarah had to hide a smile at the interchange between the couple. Mr. Bustle was doing his best to appear calm in the face of his wife’s near hysteria.
“Maybe a bit of a colony . . . ahem, not a colony, a group rather . . .”
“A group of bats in our attic? And you’ve known about this for how long?”
“Ah, well, that’s difficult to say . . .”
They bantered on while Mamm went back to dusting and Sarah found a warm rag to wrap the baby bat in. She found it amazing how the Englisch displayed their emotions in front of others. She couldn’t recall Mamm and Father ever having such a loud discussion in front of neighbors. She slipped out of the kitchen and found her way upstairs to the attic, taking the gray little mite with her. She entered the darkness without preamble or any thought of turning on the light and gently reattached the baby to the wall near some sleeping adults. She was back downstairs within minutes.
“What did you do with it?” Mrs. Bustle asked, still quivering on the tabletop.
“I put it back with the others; it’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Bustle rolled her eyes, but Mr. Bustle regarded Sarah with a respect that she found hard to fathom but appreciated nonetheless.
CHAPTER 8
Sarah squinted against the sun as she tried to concentrate on her stitches for Chelsea’s baby quilt. She’d come to more greatly realize a
nd appreciate beautiful things, like quilts, among the plainness of her culture. And now, although she still struggled with her precision, the quilt’s small details seemed intensified against the vivid darkness of her skirt. Just like life, she considered, or a flower bloom against the dirt. Quilting was becoming an art for her, one that touched her soul in a place that only growing things had up until now.
She had just bundled her work away and sold her last half-moon pie when she saw the doctor walk down the high road and cut across to the stand. He was visibly upset about something, and she clasped her hands in her lap as she sat back down in her chair, waiting for him to speak. She didn’t have to wait long.
“Tell me, Miss King, are you familiar with a place called Becker’s Beasts and Birds?”
Sarah thought for a moment. “Jah, about eight miles away up the road, on the left.”
“Have you been there?”
“No—it’s a tourist attraction for the Englisch, I believe.”
He dropped angrily down on the top step of the stand. “That’s right and Englisch owned. It’s a pig sty.”
“I thought it had all different kinds of animals.”
Dr. Williams tilted his head back to look at her and rolled his blue eyes. “A figurative pig sty.”
“Ach.”
“Yes—ach. They’ve got a sun bear in there. Do you know what that is?”
Sarah shook her head and he glanced back to the high road.
“It’s a very rare and beautiful animal. I did a project on them in high school. It’s the smallest of the bear family . . . reaches only four feet in height. It’s got sleek brown or black fur and it comes from Malaysia, but the coolest thing about it is this horseshoe-shaped marking around its neck, muzzle, and eyes; it looks like it’s been touched by the sun with bright yellow or sometimes tan markings. It eats honey . . . doesn’t hurt anyone . . .” His voice lowered. “Come to think of it, that report . . . the sun bear is probably why I decided to become a veterinarian. To find out about the strange and wonderful creatures God made.”
She waited, pleased that he would share such an intimate part of his life with her.
“Anyway . . . Becker’s sun bear hasn’t seen the sun, which it needs, for years. It’s living in its own filth, in a cage it can’t stand upright in. I just . . . I just was so angry with those people, I walked out. I should have tried to buy the thing, but I wanted to grab Becker’s neck even more.”
“Father has great trouble himself when he hears of an Amishman who doesn’t treat his horses right,” Sarah said.
“Yeah . . . I guess it’s all over . . . Englisch, Amish, whatever.”
“So what will you do about this sun bear?”
He swiveled to look at her. “What?”
“Are you going to pray about it? I’ll pray with you.”
“No, I’m not going to pray about it . . . I’m angry!”
“That’s why you should pray.”
He frowned at her, but she held his eyes steadily.
“Don’t tell me, Miss King, that you never get angry, and don’t you dare cite ‘righteous indignation’ to me. Don’t tell me you don’t have moments when you’d just like to grab ahold of someone and rattle them until . . .”
“I’m having one now,” she replied sweetly.
He stared at her, then burst into laughter, shaking his head. “You never cease to amaze me.”
She bent her head at the compliment and he rose to walk near her chair. “I can’t ruffle your feathers with all of my fool blustering, and all you need to do is give a gentle word and you turn me inside out. Why is that?” He reached one long finger down to trace the warm curve of her cheek, and she resisted the urge to turn her face into his hand.
“Are you asking me or yourself?” she said instead, allowing him to lift her chin until she met his gaze.
“I don’t think I know,” he said hoarsely. Gone was the anger in his eyes, but the intensity was still there, blue-gold and blazing. She bit her soft bottom lip.
“You have the sun in your eyes, Dr. Williams.”
“Do I, Miss King?” He bent his long back and lowered his head until his face was bare inches from her own. “You have the earth in yours.”
She watched his heavy lashes drift downward as he moved closer still. She forgot to breathe for a moment, then jumped when the blaring of a horn from a passing car broke the moment. Teenagers shrilled and whistled and the doctor straightened, walking to the top step of the stand, his back to her.
Sarah tried to get her heart to settle and realized where she was—in broad daylight, nearly kissing an Englischer. Why, anyone could have gone past! She rose anxiously to adjust some jars of jam.
“I think I’ll walk on a bit and talk to your father about Becker’s. He . . . ah . . . might have some more answers for me.”
“Yes, of course.” She didn’t turn and let out a deep, tense breath when she heard his footsteps go down the stairs and head out onto the rocky lane that led to the farm. It seemed that no matter what her intentions were when she met with the doctor, she always ended up weakening her resolve within minutes of being in his company. She blindly turned the jam jars once more and was relieved when the brisk trotting of a horse warned her that a customer was coming. Mrs. Loder turned in to the stand, and Sarah drew a breath and prepared to greet her neighbor.
Grant could see Luke King as he knocked on the clear glass of his front door. The younger man was becoming more and more of a fixture at Grant’s home and had a keen and natural knack for understanding animals and their care. Indeed, it was through Luke that Grant found most of his calls, and the Amish community was becoming receptive to seeing the Englischer and the young Amishman come riding across the fields together in the red sports car. The Ordnung, or the unspoken rules that governed the community as determined by the local bishop, allowed for an Amish person to ride in a car if invited, so long as it was for a good purpose and destination and not for pleasure. An Amish youth or adult may not own an automobile; however, Grant could tell by the way Luke’s eyes would stray to the dashboard and all of its finer points that the rides were a treat for him, albeit a cautious one.
Grant opened the door, expecting a routine call. Instead, Luke removed his straw hat and twisted it between his hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“I hear tell that the only beast Mr. Becker is missing from his business is a woodchuck. I might know where there is one.”
Grant frowned, knowing his friend was saying something important but not quite sure what. Miss King must have told her brother about the sun bear, but what was this about a woodchuck?
“Will you come in?”
Nee . . . but you could come out a bit.” “
“All right.” Grant stepped out onto the porch. He was amazed to see the other three King brothers and their father standing on his front lawn. They all looked solemn, and Grant had a sudden image of himself bending to steal a kiss from Miss King. Was there to be some old-fashioned retribution from her family? He felt his neck grow cold at the thought. Then he noticed the large wooden crate with air holes drilled in it in the back of the family’s wagon, and his imagination ran wild.
“Gentlemen, from what I can gather . . . you have a . . . woodchuck in that crate?”
Mr. King shook his head and stroked his gray beard in apparent thought. “Nee, the crate is empty, for now.” They laughed among themselves, and Grant straightened his spine.
“Well, what can I do to help you? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Luke spoke from beside him, slowly, as if to a child. “It seems that the only beast Mr. Becker, from Becker’s Beasts and Birds, is missing, is a woodchuck. We might know where to find one.”
“Am I . . . the woodchuck?” Grant whispered back, and all the men burst into hearty laughter.
Mr. King took a step up and poised below Grant. “No, son, you’re not a woodchuck; you’re a man. Didn’t anyone teach you this when you were studying veterinary scien
ce?”
Again the laughter, and Grant started to lose his temper, feeling like a fool.
“Look, I don’t understand . . . I think I’ll go back in to my dinner.”
“Ach, don’t lose your spirit now. We’re just fooling with you. The truth is that Mr. Becker has been a sore on our community’s back, but it’s not our way to fight against his kind of mean-spiritedness. But I had a visit with our schoolteacher, Miss Lapp, and she explained that a sun bear might do well in a climate like Hawaii. Is that so?”
Grant stared at him. “Yes . . . Hawaii’s climate is similar to Malaysia.”
“Gut. And do you think there also might be zoos or other places that would take in a creature like a sun bear . . . or a woodchuck . . . if one were to appear on its doorstep?”
“I suppose. It is possible to airmail animals, but the rates are astronomical. What woodchuck?”
Mr. King smiled. “If you haven’t seen yet, Doctor, the women are gathered over across the way. They have it in mind to have a paint vrolijk this evening in your kitchen, with your permission, of course.”
Grant now noticed the group of capped women standing in the distance of the drive, with Miss King at the forefront of the group.
“A paint . . . frolic?”
“A frolic, a party or time of work and enjoyment. Would the Bustles mind, do you think?”
“Ah, no . . . Mr. Bustle’s rented a car and they’ve gone for the weekend back to Philadelphia to visit family.”
“Do you mind, Doctor?”
“No . . . I don’t mind.”
Mr. King clapped his hands with a smile and waved over to the women. “We’re going!” he called.
Grant saw the women start to move forward in a merry group, and Luke gestured for him to come along to the wagon.
“We’re going? Where are we going?”
“To swap the woodchuck, just like you said, Doctor,” Mr. King exclaimed. “Surely you remember suggesting it?”
“I don’t . . . well . . . I don’t really get it.” He paused as Miss King and a horde of Amish women and girls passed by and started up the steps to his house. He met Sarah’s gaze for a moment, heard stray giggles, and still wondered if he were off to some Amish festooning of would-be kissers at the hour of sunset.