Hidden Mercies

by Serena B. Miller

  Now you see Marine One. Now you don’t.

  It was an expensive and elaborate precaution the military put into place to protect their commander in chief from attack. At the very least, it gave the president a three-in-four chance of survival if terrorists guessed wrong.

  Tonight, Rick Justice was his copilot and Tom was happy to have him beside him. Rick was a veteran with more than a thousand hours of flight time under his belt. Like Tom, much of that time had been logged flying into and over the unfriendly valleys of Afghanistan.

  Several people rode with the president, including the staff seeing to his and the first lady’s needs. If they wanted a grilled cheese sandwich or the special coffee the first couple preferred, it would be available. A doctor would be aboard, as well. In fact, the presidential jet, Air Force One, which had landed a few minutes earlier at Andrews Air Force Base, had a fully equipped operating room on board, just in case.

  Until the president was safely inside the White House, neither Tom nor any of the other pilots would relax their vigilance. The small, elite group not only had years of training and experience, these men and women who had something more—some ingrained instinct, an extra something that made a helicopter feel like an extension of their own body.

  “Clear sky tonight,” Rick said through his mic.

  “Great flying weather,” Tom said.

  The weather was not just clear, it was perfect. The star-lit sky was crystal clear. His bird, like all the other Marine One helicopters, was maintained and working—as always—with the precision of a Swiss watch.

  Like the pilots, only the best of the best mechanics were chosen to care for the helicopters that transported the president.

  Rick was right. It was wonderful flying weather. This was the kind of night in which Tom wished he could stay in the sky forever.

  Tom had come to the conclusion that this particular president was going to do well. He might even have the wisdom to figure out a way to cool down the fever that always seemed to be raging in the Middle East—if they could keep him alive.

  Yes, his mission was simple—to get the president safely from Andrews Air Force Base to the White House. And yet with every crackpot in the world wanting to kill your passenger—nothing was simple. Every second took complete focus and unending vigilance.

  And that was the problem. Something had changed, and it wasn’t physical. The change was more subtle, and had taken some time to figure out.

  For most of his military life, he had only himself to consider. The fact that he had little to lose, combined with a razor-sharp intellect and well-trained instincts, had given him a fearlessness—an edge that many pilots with families couldn’t achieve. It gave him an uncanny mastery over whatever craft he was flying. He could practically turn himself into a calculating machine when necessary. Clearheaded. Laser-beam focus. That ability was one of the many reasons he was able to perform so superbly.

  Now when he flew, he couldn’t stop seeing the faces of the people he’d left behind.

  He had not written that letter to his father after all. Once he got to Washington and thought it through, it seemed like the coward’s way out. He needed to look his father right in the eyes when he told him that he was Tobias. He did not want to die in a helicopter crash until he could do that. Amy would be devastated if anything happened to him, and that was one little girl who had endured enough heartache for a lifetime. And Claire—he had known he would miss her, but he’d had no earthly idea how much.

  It was as though he had become a family man when he wasn’t looking, and now his life mattered because he mattered to so many people.

  • • •

  The young man who rode up to her house looked familiar. It was Abel, Dorcas’s husband, the young man she had been so impressed with. He was leading a horse behind him.

  “Are Dorcas and the baby all right?” She could think of no other reason this young man should have come.

  “Ja. They are fine. I have come because you delivered my son. I did not have the money to pay you then. I do not have the money to pay you now.”

  “That is okay, Abel. I know it is hard for young couples. I only take donations, and then only if a family can afford it.”

  “I have heard word that you are in need of a new horse? One that is younger than the standardbred you have now?” He glanced at Flora, standing near the fence.

  “I am.”

  “I did some carpentry work for a man yesterday. When I knew you needed a horse, I asked for a young horse from him instead of my pay. He said he would be happy to give me this one. The horse’s name is Copycat. Dorcas and I want you to have him for helping birth our son.”

  Like all Amish, she had dealt with horses her whole life and could see this one was en guta Gaul, a good horse, well muscled, and appeared to be a prize. She could not accept it from this young couple.

  “This is en guta Gaul! It is worth much more than my midwife services,” she said. “I cannot possibly accept him from you.”

  “That is all right, then.” Abel grinned. “Because he is worth much more than the carpentry I did.” He handed her the reins. “Please, he is yours. We are so grateful for our son. We wish to pay the woman who delivered him with such kindness and so skillfully.”

  The horse was beautiful. She could hardly tear her eyes away, she wanted it so badly. Best of all, if she accepted Copycat, she would be able to send Tom’s big fat check, which she had not cashed, back to him. Thanks be to God, as well as a young Amish carpenter, she no longer needed that Englisch man’s charity.

  “I need to tell you, though, Copycat is not like any other horse I’ve ever known.” Abel laughed.

  “Oh, really? How?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s smarter than most horses.”

  “In what way?”

  “He likes to play hide-and-seek.”

  “I’ve never known a horse to do that.”

  “I don’t think he believes he’s a horse.” Abel was still grinning as he wheeled his horse around. “He thinks you can’t see him, even if he’s hiding behind a skinny little tree.”

  That was indeed strange behavior, but she was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

  “I will accept this horse with thanks,” she said. “But only if you agree that I can deliver your next baby for free.”

  “I will not turn that offer down,” Abel said. “Gut Gleck.”

  “Good luck to you, too, Abel. And thanks.”

  When she led Copycat out into the pasture, he lay down, rolled over, and gave his back a good scratching by twisting and rolling around in the grass. Then he got up, shook his head, and began to crop the new, spring grass, completely ignoring old Flora.

  Claire had to laugh because Flora gave her such a look when she saw Copycat cavorting around, as if to say, “You brought that into my pasture?”

  Dear Tom,

  (Shall I continue calling you Tom? Or would you prefer Tobias? Frankly, I think Tom better suits who you are now, don’t you agree?)

  A father of a baby I delivered brought me a new standardbred horse as payment. His name is Copycat and he is way too smart to be a horse. He has his own mind, and his own way of doing things, and I think he would happily run the family if I let him.

  He does not particularly enjoy pulling the buggy, and hides behind anything he can find when he knows I’m coming out to get him. He has no idea he is too big to hide behind a tree, and is always quite disappointed when I find him. His head droops, and his body slumps as though to say, “No! You found me? How can that be? I was hiding behind the tree!”

  He does have plenty of pep and enjoys prancing down the road . . . for a while. When he gets tired, or bored—I’m never quite sure which—he will develop a limp. I was concerned until I kept coming home, checking all four hooves, finding nothing at all wrong, and then would see the limp magically disappear once Copycat got unhitched and could romp in the pasture. Flora just puts up with him like the tired old woman she is,
but Rocky adores him, and will give him kisses when Copycat puts his head down close. They are great friends.

  Copycat is also a scamp, and a seasoned escape artist, and it takes a bit of surveillance to keep him from paying visits to Jeremiah’s vegetable garden. The slightest weakness in the fence or the smallest crack in the gate, and Copycat is out exploring new worlds.

  Keeping an eye on him is Amy’s job, and one she thoroughly enjoys. I think, however, that Copycat has figured out that she is the culprit who is tattling on him. He seems to be eying her with suspicion. We are all enjoying him immensely. I never saw a horse with so much personality.

  And so, as you see, I will not be needing your check and I am enclosing it.

  Your friend,

  Claire.

  P.S. Elizabeth moved into your old apartment. She says Levi and Grace are giving her hives.

  P.P.S. Albert says that Jeremiah says he hopes you’re still carrying the knife he gave you.

  Tom glanced at the check, tore it up, and threw it into the trash can. Sending it back to him was such a Claire thing to do. He was glad that he had sent his address back to them so they would be able to get in touch with him if they needed him, and he had to admit, indeed, it felt sweet, hearing the news from home. He appreciated Claire taking the time to tell him all about her new horse.

  There was another envelope that had come with the mail. He recognized Amy’s writing. Claire must have mailed it when she mailed her own letter. When he opened it, there was a hand-drawn picture of what was unmistakably Claire’s house. Morning glories climbed up one side and a little girl sat in a wheelchair on the porch with a big dog lying beside her.

  Inside was another Amy poem. It was the longest one he had ever known her to write.

  Come Back Home

  We long to see your face again,

  To hear your voice and hold your hand.

  Memories of you we hold so dear,

  So come back home. We love you here!

  I’m proud at the courage you have

  To risk your life for another man

  But please come home now, we need you here

  Where friends and family love you so dear.

  I’m sorry to see the path you chose.

  Just know, the doors of home will never close.

  Won’t you please turn around and come back home?

  Here with God, family, and friends—

  Where you’ll never be alone.

  It took several deep breaths before he could steel himself to put that one away in a drawer. He sincerely doubted that anyone in Washington cared enough to write him a poem like that. Or send him a letter telling him about the antics of a crazy-smart horse they were enjoying. Or if he got sick, or disappeared, would anyone even particularly care one way or another? Not when there were at least a two hundred other excellent, well-trained pilots on a waiting list hoping to take his slot.

  He considered writing Claire and Amy back immediately but couldn’t face it. Not right now. He would have to wait for a moment when he could make himself match the tone of Claire’s cheerful note, and Amy’s poem sounded so forlorn, he had no idea how to respond. That picture of a little girl in a wheelchair—that child surely did know how to tug on his heartstrings.

  He microwaved a TV dinner and did something he despised himself for: he watched a sitcom just for the company. He had never been so homesick in his life.

  chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  Claire was sitting on the porch gripping a bucket of freshly picked green beans between her knees. There was a bucket for discards on one side of her and a large cooking pot on the other. Before the end of the day, she would have another shelf of beans to feed her family. In the past, this sort of activity had always given her enjoyment. Today, she was feeling hurt and mad. She snapped handful after handful of beans in half, discarding any diseased ones, taking her anger at herself out on them.

  It had been several days and Tom had not responded to her letter. She should never have sent it. She had worked entirely too hard to hit just the right note of cheerfulness, and he’d probably seen right through her pitiful attempt to pretend she did not miss him.

  She had no idea what Amy had written him. That card was the first she had ever made that she had not shown her. It had already been sealed, addressed, and stamped before she handed it to her to mail.

  Sarah sat on the floor in front of her with her own small pile of green beans, and Claire noticed that her actions exactly matched hers as the little girl snapped the beans and then threw them on the floor.

  “Here.” Claire moved the pot closer to her daughter and tried to stop her own jerky movements. “Toss them in here. You are a good helper.”

  She was angry at herself for another reason, as well. What had she expected to happen between her and Tom, anyway? Why couldn’t she have been wise enough to protect her heart? And the hearts of her children. She was old enough to know better.

  Inside, Maddy was singing one of her interminable praise songs that she was learning at the New Order youth singings. Annette, her driver, who attended a nearby Christian church, had recently called it a “seven-eleven” song. When Claire asked why, Annette had laughed and said that most of them had seven words sung over and over about eleven times.

  Claire had thought Maddy’s enthusiasm for her new religion would wear off, but it hadn’t. If anything, Maddy was even more involved in Joy’s church now than she was at the beginning. Claire did not feel a bit good about herself for being so annoyed with it all.

  But then, she’d been annoyed with just about everything since Tom left. Oh, allowing him to live in Levi’s apartment had been a mistake in so many, many ways! Last week, without her approval or knowledge, Jesse managed to get his hands on a plastic helicopter model set. He’d found it at a local garage sale and she hadn’t known a thing until she followed the smell of airplane glue and found a half-finished model hidden beneath his bed.

  With school dismissed for the summer, Albert had become the go-between with her family and Jeremiah. It was Albert who carried fresh loaves of bread, or extra fried chicken, or an occasional jar of tapioca pudding. There had never been anything but kind feelings between her and Jeremiah, and because he had lost a son, she knew he must understand her decision to become Old Order Amish in order to be able to fellowship with hers.

  “Maam!” Albert came running back down the road. “There is something wrong with Levi’s grandpa! He cannot speak!”

  Every other thought went out of her head as she ran toward Jeremiah’s.

  • • •

  Finding Tom’s cell phone number was not a problem. He had written it alongside his address when he’d sent it to her. Getting him to answer that cell phone was another thing altogether. She left message after message. It took two weeks for him to respond. By that time, she was completely disgusted with him. She knew he was busy and important, but this was his father!

  “How is he?” Tom asked the minute she answered the phone. She had been outside in her garden when it had begun to ring in her phone shanty. He did not apologize, explain, or even say hello.

  “A little better. The stroke was bad, but he is a strong one and is holding his own.”

  “What is happening? Who is with him?”

  “Faye was here for the first few days. Right now it’s just nurses. Some people from church have come. Bishop Weaver asked me to stop in. Levi has gone in spite of Weaver telling him not to. Faye will be back next week, and Ephraim is coming with her. They are planning to make arrangements to auction off the farm and the contents of the house, and then they are moving him down with them.”

  A curse word came over the phone, followed by an immediate apology.

  “I’m so sorry, Claire. The mission we were on was so top secret, we weren’t allowed personal phones. Mine was here in the apartment.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, Claire, but I just can’t. We’re heading out again—soon. I can
’t tell you when over the phone—or where. It involves national security and . . .”

  Oh, how important that one was! Too important to come home to see his father. Too important to stop his father’s home from being sold to the highest bidder. Tom had been right about Jeremiah’s son-in-law. Ephraim was circling that farm like a vulture, and Faye was too weak-willed to stop him. Only one person could stop him, and that was Tom, who had just let her know that he would not be coming home.

  She no longer had any desire to talk to Tom Miller. She did something that she had never done in her life. She hung up.

  When the phone began to ring again, she ignored it while she finished hoeing her vegetable garden.

  • • •

  It took a week to wrap everything up and go home. During that week, he kept tabs on his father by periodically calling the hospital to check on his status, and he had done more soul-searching than he had ever done in his life. The result of all that soul-searching was that once he went home, he would not be coming back to Washington.

  It was not his father’s stroke alone that was pulling him there, nor was it Claire—although both weighed heavily on his mind—but he had forced himself to face the facts. He was no longer the pilot he had once been. No one knew that but him, but a time would come when it would be apparent. He’d lost heart for the profession he’d once loved.

  His country deserved to have the best pilots in the world protecting their president, and he could no longer claim that status. Not when all he could think about was the people he loved back in Mt. Hope, Ohio.

  He was a Marine. He had sworn to protect the country from any and all dangers. It was one of the toughest things he had ever had to admit, but he had taken a good hard look at himself and faced the fact that he had become the danger from which he needed to protect his country. He should no longer be at the controls of Marine One. He was a good pilot, but he was no longer the best.

  As he drove home, he made plans, devised actions, and organized everything in his mind in order of priority.

  • • •

  The first thing he did upon arriving in Holmes County Friday morning was to go see his father in the hospital.