Mending Fences

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Izzy dropped her hand holding the letter, disappointed. She sighed and finished reading it.

  Second thing. It sounds to me like your mother has done a pretty good job staying out of sight. If she don’t want to bother herself to find you, what are you doing, wasting your time trying to find her? My advice is to let her go, honey. She’ll bring you nothing but heartache.

  Yours truly,

  Grace Miller

  She tucked the letter back in the envelope and bundled everything together to take to the house. Why was this so hard? Or more importantly, why did she feel this compulsion to find her mother? Maybe she should just let it go. Stop looking. She tried that thought on for size as she went up the steep driveway. By the time she reached the top, she knew it didn’t fit. She had to keep trying. She had a question to ask her mother. She just had to keep at it. Her mother was out there, somewhere. She had to find her. She would find her.

  Inside the house, she put the Budget on the table so Fern would see it when she arrived home. The other letters she set at Amos’s place setting. He always sat at the same seat. They all did. Fern said it was the Plain way of letting each person know they belonged somewhere, that they had a place at the table. Ein Platz am Tisch. Izzy liked that feeling. She liked that there was a Plain way of doing everything. After growing up with no structure at all, the Plain structure gave her great comfort.

  She flipped through the pile left on Amos’s chair for her yellow envelope to take up to her room and add to the pile of returned letters. And to cross this particular Grace Miller off the address on her list. Izzy had created a very orderly system with these letters. She was two-thirds of the way through the Ohio Grace Millers. Somehow, making it an orderly project helped her detach from the disappointment she felt when letters were returned. Worse still was the fear she kept suppressed of those letters that were not returned. A fear that her mother might have received one of those letters and didn’t want to be found.

  No. She wasn’t going to allow herself to think that. She needed to think on something else, something upbeat, something lighthearted. As soon as she logged this letter into her spreadsheet, then she would go outside and feed the chickens. Those fat red hens always lifted her spirits.

  She picked up the newspaper, looked through Amos’s bills, swept the floor with her eyes to find today’s letter. Where’d it go?

  The kitchen door opened and in walked Luke Schrock. “You dropped this halfway up the driveway,” he said, handing her the torn yellow envelope.

  She snatched it out of his hands and eyed him carefully. Had he opened her letter? Had he read it? She couldn’t tell. Oh my soul, she hoped not. Before she could think to ask, he was already out the door and off to the barn.

  Luke had often been puzzled about Izzy’s fascination with the day’s mail. He’d seen her put letters in the mailbox, and each day she rushed to be the first to get the mail. Several times, he had noticed the way her countenance changed after she got the day’s mail. She would hurry to the mailbox, a skip in her step, riffle through the letters and junk mail and newspapers, then slowly close the mailbox door. Chin tucked, her shoulders slumped as she walked up the driveway. It was tangible, her discouragement. It was palpable.

  Those were the times, he had figured out, when she didn’t receive what she was looking for. On the very few times when she did receive a letter, like today, she wasn’t fit to keep company with a grizzly bear.

  He thought of asking her to whom she was writing, but knew better than to ask Izzy anything of a private matter. He could practically hear her snap back: “That’s no business of yours, Luke Schrock.”

  Luke hadn’t meant to read this letter, he truly hadn’t. But the letter had fallen out of the envelope on the driveway. As he bent to pick up the letter and envelope, he saw that it was addressed to Izzy. Then a few words in the letter jumped out. Grace Miller . . . out of sight . . . heartache. He couldn’t help himself—he scanned it quickly, reread it, glanced up when he heard the squeaky hinges on the kitchen door open and shut and knew Izzy had gone inside. He stuffed the letter into the envelope and started back up the hill.

  Should he tell her? Should he not? He kicked around the thought of confessing that he had read the letter, but Izzy barely gave him the time of day as it was. If he admitted he’d poked his nose into her private letter, she might not ever speak to him again. She could be tetchy like that.

  He felt a little ashamed of himself, but it was balanced out by the satisfaction he felt in knowing something about her. Inside the house, he handed her the letter and took off to the barn before she could grill him. He knew he would crack. Surprisingly, he’d never been a good liar.

  As he went into the barn to the tack room, his mind rolled over with this information. So, Izzy was on a quest to find her mother. Luke gathered the facts he’d just discovered: her name was Grace Miller, she lived in Ohio, and obviously, she wasn’t easy to find.

  Then a new thought roared through as he considered again the letter in the yellow envelope. He would try to find this Grace Miller for Izzy. He could find her, he knew he could. How he’d go about it—that, he had no idea.

  Amos and Fern sat in Dok’s office, waiting for her to finish with a patient so she could tell them the results of Amos’s recent tests that he’d undergone at the hospital. Stress tests, Dok called them. And they did stress Amos. They were awful.

  One of the tests had him hooked up to all kinds of electrical currents while he walked and walked and walked on a treadmill. Another one had monitors taped to his chest that he had to wear for seventy-two hours. He buttoned his top shirt button and kept his coat on during lunch after church, despite a hotter-than-Hades kind of day, hoping no one would notice.

  Amos resented wasting time and money on these tests, because he knew what they would tell him. He knew. His transplanted heart—this magnificent organ given to him by one he loved so dearly—was failing.

  As summer deepened its hold, the weather turned hotter than hinges. Luke’s work changed almost daily, from picking the ripe stone fruit—apricots, peaches, and nectarines—to mowing the first cutting of hay, raking it, and putting it up in the barn. The cut hay would feed Bob, the two milk cows, and Izzy’s sheep through the winter when there was no grass left to graze.

  Luke didn’t mind farm labor as much as he thought he would. He could see the progress he made each day, and working in the open fields was peaceful work. He had a little breather now before the first variety of apples started to ripen, followed soon after by pears. The second mowing of hay wouldn’t start until August. Somehow Amos knew, just by touch, when to cut so that the hay had the most milk in it.

  On a hot July day, as Luke walked down the hill from the orchards to the barn, his gaze took in Windmill Farm. It was a beautiful piece of property, but it seemed like everything, every piece of it, needed fixing. The farm had always been pristine. Now, there was a blade missing off the red windmill, equipment was rusty, and everything squeaked. Everything. Hinges, floorboards, stair steps.

  He tossed his sweaty shirt in a pile on the floor and looked around the small room for another shirt. On the workbench, he noticed the rather extensive fence-mending list that David had given to him. He had planned to get through this list before the end of June. Give it one month. Get all those humbling conversations behind him as quickly as possible. But here it was, July, and he had stalled on it. He picked it up and looked at the next name David had written.

  Alice Smucker. Snake in buggy.

  Oh boy. Here we go.

  He found an old red scooter in the barn and rode it over to Alice Smucker’s. When he knocked on the door, he saw a curtain corner open and drop again, and the sound of scampering inside. He rapped on the door again. “Alice, it’s Luke Schrock. I’d like to talk to you for a minute.” He knocked again. “I’ll stay outside.”

  “Go away!”

  Encouraged that she was at least admitting she was home, he persevered. “Alice, could we just talk? Throu
gh the door, maybe?”

  A long moment of silence. Then, “What do you want?”

  He took off his straw hat and adjusted the brim. “I came to apologize to you. To make amends. I know I scared you, that day I threw a snake in your buggy. It was a stupid thing for me to do. I’m sorry I did it, Alice. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “I forgive you. Now go away.”

  He put his hat back on. “Alice, there’s one more thing.”

  “Go away. I said I forgave you.”

  This was weird, talking through a door. “Alice, I need to ask you if that snake, well, I wondered if it has affected you in some adverse way?”

  Silence.

  He started to ramble, then, something he did whenever he was nervous. Pressure talking, the counselor had called it, and it usually gave him cause for regret. He recalled a time when he talked nonstop during his first group therapy session, until finally someone in the group took off his shoe, threw it at him, and told him to shut up. “David told me to ask you specifically, Alice, if there’s been any lasting effect. Maybe a nightmare? I can understand that. It would be frightening to have a snake in a buggy, and then to have the horse take off down the road like it did.”

  It was a harmless Eastern garter snake, he did remember that much. A common snake in Pennsylvania, kind of a pretty one with a cream belly. Alice had screamed like she was on fire, which scared the horse too. She hadn’t been hurt, just badly shaken. And the horse was fine. He galloped for a while—a jerky canter might be a better description, for he was an old horse and quickly lost interest in the excitement.

  At the time, it had seemed so funny to Luke—watching plump Alice bounce along the buggy’s front seat as the horse took off down the road.

  “I think it’d be good for me to hear how you felt, Alice. Scared, I’m sure. And maybe it’d be good for you to say whatever you want to say to me too. Maybe it would make you feel better.”

  The door cracked open. He saw an eye peer out at him. One big worried eye. “I haven’t left the house. Not since that terrible, terrifying day.” And the door slammed shut.

  Luke let out a soft moan. “Ohhh.”

  ten

  A stillness, deep down in his soul, came over Amos. He stood at the top of the hill and turned slowly in a circle. His gaze wandered from the orchards on one side, to the house and farm on the other. Beyond the weathered fencing of the green pastures, beyond the red barn lined by a creek, beyond the road lined by trees, beyond the distant ridges that surged against the blue sky, filled with white puffy clouds. Something in that “beyond” was beckoning to him.

  But in the pasture below, the cows bellowed a mournful wail. Milking time. Where was Luke?

  By the time Amos had led both cows to their stanchions in the barn and brought hay in for them to munch on, Luke slid open the barn door. “Where you been? The cows need milking.” He knew he sounded testy, but he didn’t like his animals to be kept waiting.

  “Sorry, Amos. I meant to be back by now. I had a little bit of spare time this afternoon, so I went over to Alice Smucker’s.” Luke ran to the back of the barn to get clean milking pails.

  Amos took off his hat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

  As Luke passed him to reach the cows, he said, “Why don’t you go to the house? You look a little beat. I’ll take care of the stock.”

  “Never mind me.” Amos stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “So how’d it go with Alice?” His gaze met Luke’s and he saw him swallow hard, as if a pinecone were stuck halfway down his throat.

  Luke sat on the stool in front of Lemon Thyme and wiped her down. “She said she hasn’t left the house, not since the day I tossed a snake into her buggy.” He glanced up at Amos, then down again. “That was a long time ago.”

  Amos nodded. “She’s pretty bad off.”

  Luke’s head jerked up. “All because of a snake in a buggy? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying it wasn’t a foolish thing to do. It was, it truly was, and I’m ashamed I thought it was funny. But we do live in the country. Snakes in cornfields and gardens are part of everyone’s life. What if a car had backfired? Or if there were thunder and lightning? I mean, there’s all kinds of unpredictable things that happen in life. I remember the tricks Galen had to try to socialize a buggy horse in training. One of them was with snakes. He knew a horse had to be conditioned for just about anything out of the ordinary.”

  Amos took in a deep breath, held it, then let it go. “Alice . . . she’s always been the nervous type. Always imagined the worst kind of scenario. Something about that day, with the snake—well, the worst-case scenario came true for her. It set off something in her, something else, on top of her fear of snakes. She has agoraphobia. She’s afraid to leave her house. David’s tried everything—even brought doctors to her house. Nothing’s helped. She won’t step outside her house on the odd chance that she will encounter a snake.”

  “Well, if David and the doctors can’t help, what can I do about it?”

  Amos lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t have the answer for that. But I do know she’s been suffering.” He went to the door, then turned back. “It’s sure no way to live.”

  A weird feeling came over Luke. His heart started racing and his chest felt tight, like an anvil had dropped on it and he couldn’t fill his lungs with air. He wondered if he might be having a heart attack. One thought kept circling through his head: I did this to Alice. I might not have meant to, but I caused her to go off the deep end.

  He had to get away from the sour reek of the barn. As soon as he finished milking the cows, he bolted outside for fresh air and blinked against the sudden wash of sunlight. He stumbled to the side of the barn to get away from the glare and leaned against the barn’s foundation to take in great gulps of air. Then his eyes lifted and he froze. On this side yard was the pile of wood from the destroyed farm stand. He’d planned to go through the pile to salvage wood and reclaim nails. Amos’s apricots and peaches and nectarines, they’d taken priority. He’d forgotten all about this pile of wood.

  As he gazed at the jumble of broken, splintered lumber, into his mind came a bright flash of insight. This, this is what I’ve done to Alice Smucker. To others on the list. He’d left them in a broken heap. He let out a moan as he dropped to his knees in front of the pile.

  What had he done to these innocent people? What had he done? Why had he done it? Tears started, one after the other until they were streaming down his face. His chin dropped on his chest. “I am a mess. A complete and total mess.”

  “If you ask me, I’ve always thought God does his best work with messes.”

  Luke’s head jerked up. Amos stood a few feet away from him. How long had he been there? Still on his knees, he brushed tears off his face with his shirtsleeve. “Amos, I’ve done this kind of thing to plenty of people. I’ve never cared about what damage I’d left behind.”

  “Until now.”

  Luke gave a slow nod.

  “Maybe this is just the place God wants you to be, Luke. Humble. Contrite. On your knees.”

  The clouds that had filled the afternoon sky were breaking up, limned from the setting sun behind them. Amos watched the moving clouds for a long moment. “A man can never tire of watching the changes in the sky. It fills me with wonder.” He took a step closer and reached out to grab Luke’s arms to lift him to his feet. “The movement of God’s Spirit is always accompanied by a deep sense of awe.”

  “Is that in the Bible?”

  “Nope. That’s a David Stoltzfus quote from last Sunday’s sermon.”

  Duly noted. Luke hadn’t been paying attention.

  Together, Amos and Luke finished caring for the animals for day’s end. Normally, Amos gave Luke instructions about what to do and left him to it. This time, they worked side by side, and Luke noticed how slowly Amos moved, how often he had to rest. He’d always seen Amos take a lot of pills at meals, part and parcel of the heart transplant he’d had years ago, but this seem
ed different.

  Over these last two months that he’d been working directly for Amos, Luke had developed a strong admiration for the man. He’d learned a great deal from him—not just about caring for orchards, but other things too. Like just now, when Amos found him wrung out from emotions, on his knees and crying. He didn’t let him off the hook, never minced words, but he also gave him a hand to help him stand up. There were times when it even occurred to Luke that Amos was the kind of father he’d wished he’d had. Caring, calm, wise. Firm but kind.

  Concern for Amos’s health filled Luke with a brand-new feeling. A sense of purpose. He was needed here, and he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had ever felt needed. The tightness in his chest loosened up, leaving Luke some breathing room for good intentions.

  Purpose number one: cure Alice Smucker.

  It was a scorching Saturday in July. A perfect afternoon to head to the library and bask in the air conditioning.

  At the public library, Luke saw two librarians behind the desk and waited in line for the friendly one. He recognized the other one and wanted to stay clear of her. He’d had a run-in with her before. When it was his turn, he asked the friendly librarian if she knew of any books that helped people overcome their fear of snakes.

  She peered at him over her bifocals. “Ophidiophobia?”

  “Uh, no. I’m trying to help a woman with an abnormal fear of snakes.”

  She tried to swallow a smile. “That’s what it is called. Ophidiophobia. Fear of snakes.” She went to her computer and tapped furiously—it was impressive, for she never looked down at the keyboard—and then she wrote some numbers down for him. “Here’s a few books that might give you the information you’re looking for.” She put a star beside one title. “This one, in particular, would be my choice.”

  “Thank you,” Luke said, meaning it. As he hunted among the bookshelves, he thought of how he enjoyed reading so much that he’d wondered if he might like to work in a library. That was when he’d he’d never go back to the Amish. He’d even filled out a job application and handed it to that crabby librarian. She’d read through his application and pointed out that an eighth-grade education wouldn’t even get him a job flipping burgers at McDonald’s.