The Sugar Haus Inn

by Serena B. Miller

  At the nearby CVS, Rachel, who had never purchased antibiotics for a child, was stunned when the medication took most of the rest of Joe’s cash.

  “What will you do?” she asked. “There’s nothing left to repair your truck.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll give my son his medicine and thank God I had enough to cover it.”

  She had known some dedicated family men—her father had been one—but this man seemed to live for his child and his child alone. And yet, unless he had resources she didn’t know about, he could barely buy Bobby a Happy Meal with what he had left in his pocket.

  As she followed him back to the car and began driving west toward Sugarcreek, she wondered what lengths the man would go to care for his child. In her estimation, if he wasn’t already a criminal, being penni-

  less with Bobby to care for could very well make him one.

  She wondered what she would do under the same circumstances. She suspected there was almost nothing she wouldn’t do if it was the only way she had to feed her hungry child—or get him medical treatment.

  As much as she was growing to admire Joe’s dedication to his son, she also believed it was that very dedication that could put her aunts at risk if he grew desperate enough.

  And although she’d dabbled in it before, discovering who he was had just become her number-one priority.

  “Could we stop and get Bobby’s Tylenol out of my truck?” Joe asked.

  “Sure.”

  In a few minutes, they were parked behind Joe’s broken vehicle. With Bobby asleep in the backseat, Joe unlocked the truck and extricated the fever medicine. He caught her shining a penlight on the license plate.

  “Texas?” she asked.

  Joe slammed the truck door shut. “Yes.”

  “You’re from Texas?”

  “I’m from a lot of places.”

  “Where did you get the truck, Joe?” She aimed the penlight straight at him.

  “Get that light out of my eyes, Rachel.” His voice was menacing. For the first time, she fully comprehended that she was alone in a back alley with a large man, a stranger she had just witnessed tossing a 138-pound rock across the width of a good-sized room. She weighed eight pounds less than that rock. Goose bumps raised along her arms.

  She backed up, automatically reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

  “Don’t act like I’m going to attack you,” he said. “I’m not a monster. I’m not a thief. I’m not a criminal. I’m not going to hurt you or your aunts. I just want to get my child back to the cabin, give him his medicine, find some way to get my truck fixed, and then get out of here.”

  He covered his eyes with one hand. “But in the meantime, would you please quit pointing that LED light at my retinas!”

  His voice sounded more exasperated than menacing. She clicked off the penlight. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I did not steal the truck, if that’s what you’re worrying about. It’s on loan from a friend. If you run the tags and talk with him, he’ll vouch for me.”

  “I’ll do just that.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  Joe held up the bottle of liquid Tylenol. “We could stand here all night sounding like junior high kids fussing at each other, or we could get my sick child into bed. Your call, Officer.”

  “Put Bobby’s booster seat in my car and get in.”

  Chapter 6

  Rain splattered against the Mustang’s windshield and scattered festival visitors as Joe and Rachel drove through town. Lightning flashed in the sky directly overhead.

  “It’s going to be a bad one,” Rachel observed as they pulled into the farmhouse driveway. “I hope all the festival tents hold.”

  When they arrived, Lydia held the door open and illuminated their way with a flashlight, as they ran through the rain and onto the porch.

  “How is the boy?” she asked, as they entered the darkened house.

  Joe automatically grappled with the wall inside the front door, searching for a light switch.

  “You may have this, if you like.” Lydia handed him the flashlight.

  He immediately realized his error. Of course this nonelectric house had no light switches.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “All Englischers do that,” Lydia said. “When the inn was still open, we were always washing fingerprints off the walls.”

  Rachel, used to visiting her aunts in the evening, had already turned on the LED penlight with which she had blinded Joe. Lydia led them into the front room, where Bertha helped him get bubble-gum-scented medication down a resistant Bobby.

  “If I can borrow an umbrella, I’ll take my son out to the cabin now,” Joe said.

  He was passionately looking forward to being back in the private little cabin, where they could be alone. He had spent more than enough time this evening with Rachel watching his every move.

  “No,” Bertha said. “The child should stay in here. With us.”

  “In the house?” Rachel said.

  Joe heard a world of worry in that one question, and he resented it. “I’d prefer to take him to the cabin.”

  Bertha had other plans. With her leg propped on a footstool and her white prayer kapp askew from having dozed with her head against the back of the chair, she made her proclamation.

  “Bobby might get chilled in the cabin, and you would not have us near if his fever spiked again. Bobby will sleep on one couch. You will sleep on the other.” Bertha’s voice was firm. “Lydia has already set out quilts and pillows. We could put you upstairs in a room, but this way you will be right outside my bedroom if you need me.”

  “I don’t want to impose any more than I already have.”

  “This is not about you, Joe,” Bertha said firmly. “It is about your child.”

  He could tell from the look on Rachel’s face that she was not a bit happy with Bertha’s decision. What she didn’t understand was, neither was he.

  “Do not argue.” Bertha glanced at Rachel. “Either of you. I have made up my mind.” She folded her arms over her chest.

  Joe now knew exactly what Anna meant when she punctuated a statement by “Bertha says.” The whole household seemed to think that Bertha’s word was law. Perhaps it was just as well. If it were not for this woman, he would be sitting in a tent in the rain tonight with a convulsing little boy.

  This situation had to stop. He had to get his life back in control. It was time to call Henrietta. He would have done it long before now if he had any guarantee that it wouldn’t result in a flood of reporters streaming to this village and destroying what fragile anonymity he had obtained.

  Before going to bed, Bertha took Bobby’s temperature one more time. It had dropped to within a normal range.

  After everyone had left, he threw a pillow on the floor and laid himself down beside Bobby’s makeshift bed. The other couch beckoned, but he wanted to be able to reassure his son with a touch if the little guy awoke during the night. He also wanted to check him every few minutes for a return of the fever.

  As he tossed and turned on the hard wooden floor, he wondered if, after what she had seen tonight, Rachel would make good on her veiled threat to call Social Services.

  Would he, if the roles were switched?

  He honestly didn’t know. The one thing he did know was that he couldn’t allow that to happen. Bobby had to stay with him, no matter what.

  He stared into the darkness as he tried to figure a way out of this mess. The money he had intended to help get them out of here was now gone—transformed into a bottle of pink, life-saving liquid.

  The weight of the rock with which he had won first prize had not done his bad shoulder any good. He’d felt a slight tear deep within it the moment the massive stone had left his hands.

  Getting his career back someday was looking less and less likely.

  The thunderstorm passed as he lay mulling things over. When the thunder and lightning ceased, he noticed a multitude of stars through the w
indow.

  It had been a long time since he had really noticed the night sky. He remembered watching the endless panorama of the stars a lifetime ago, while sitting outside a hut in Western Africa with his father’s arms wrapped securely around him. There, with no light pollution, the stars had seemed close enough to touch.

  He closed his eyes, savoring every detail—the feel of his father’s broad chest against his back, the familiar sounds of the African bush, the small crackling fire behind them, his brother and mother asleep in the hut.

  It had been a rare moment, an evening when he’d had his father all to himself instead of surrendering him to the beck and call of the mission churches he was forever establishing.

  Joe had been six. They had celebrated his birthday only two days earlier. He had received a genuine-leather, American-made baseball for his birthday, along with a homemade bat that had been hand-carved by an African craftsman employed by his mother. Both gifts lay close beside him. He had been guarding them all day from his younger brother, who had a penchant for losing things.

  His father had pointed to the stars. “Did you make those?”

  The stars shined so bright in the dark sky that they seemed to hover directly above Joe’s head—almost within reach.

  “No, Daddy.” Joe laughed at the silly question and with the joy of being in his father’s arms. “I didn’t make them.”

  “Hmm,” his father said. “Isn’t that strange? I didn’t make them either. Who do you suppose did?”

  “God?” Joe was proud of knowing the answer.

  “Why, I believe you’re right. He’s the only one I know of who is big enough and smart enough to make them. Why do you suppose he did that?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Me either.”

  Joe turned to read his father’s face. He’d thought his dad knew everything about God.

  His dad chuckled at his surprise. “I don’t know all the reasons why God made the stars, but I suspect that one reason was as a present to us—just so a little boy and his daddy could talk about how much God loves us and is always watching over us.”

  “Like you watch over me?”

  His father hugged him. “Like I watch over you, except much, much better.”

  Bobby suddenly flailed his legs, kicking off the covers. Joe leaped to his feet, checking for signs that the fever was returning. The child’s forehead was warm, but not hot—and Joe breathed a sigh of relief when Bobby snuggled more deeply into his pillow, breathing quietly and evenly.

  Joe lay back on the floor and was surprised to discover that his own pillow was soaked with tears. He turned it over and once again lay staring out the window—longing for his father and the security he had known as a child, leaning against his father’s chest and being convinced that God had created the stars and the moon just for him.

  It was the sound of rocking that awakened him, along with the melody of a hymn being softly hummed. For a moment he was disoriented, and then he realized he was lying on the floor of an Amish farmhouse. Bertha sat in her rocking chair with his son in her arms and her walker next to her chair.

  “Bobby awoke when I took his temperature,” Bertha said. “I rocked him back to sleep. He was sweating. I believe his fever has truly broken.”

  “That’s good.” Joe sat up and leaned against the couch, watching Bertha in the dim moonlight. Her bare foot pushed against the floor, making the chair rock. She wore a simple robe, and her gray hair was in a long, loose braid and hung over one shoulder. This was the first time he had seen her without her prayer kapp, and although she was completely modest, it made the moment strangely intimate.

  “Aren’t you tired?” he asked. “Do you want me to take him?”

  “No.” She smiled down at the sleeping child. “I am enjoying this.”

  Joe saw so much character and integrity in the old woman’s face that his concept of beauty was suddenly redefined in that moment. He wished he had a camera to forever capture the image of Bertha rocking his sleeping child.

  “When I worked at the orphanage, it seemed as though I always had a lapful of children,” she said. “I miss it.”

  “Those children were blessed to have you.”

  “I was the blessed one.” She began again to hum the tune that had awakened Joe.

  “I wish I knew how to thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “The Holy Scripture says to treat all strangers as though they were angels. Are you an angel, Joe?”

  Her question so took him by surprise that he almost choked on his reply. “Far from it.”

  “Our niece agrees with you. She thinks you are hiding something.” Bertha hummed some more. “I think she is right. In Haiti, we had men who pretended to want work, only to steal from the orphan children. I quickly learned to distinguish bad men from good. It was a matter of survival—for me and for the children. It is very hard to fool me, Joe.”

  “Fooling you was never my intention.”

  She traced the delicate wings of Bobby’s eyebrows with one finger. “I am not someone who has to tell the things I know in order to look important. This need is like a sickness in some, but God saw fit to give me strength in that area. If someone confides in me, it stays with me. Do you believe me when I tell you this?”

  “Yes. I believe you.”

  “Then I want to know why it is that when you were cutting weeds behind the barn and Bobby could no longer see you, he wet his pants from fear that you would not come back.”

  “He did that?” Joe felt sick.

  “We dealt with it.” Bertha rocked faster and clutched Bobby tighter. “I do not care who you are or what you are running from. Oh, yes,” she said in answer to his questioning glance. “I know you are running. But all I care about is this sick child and how to help him. If you will trust me with the answer to why you are running, I will better know how to help you.”

  “We aren’t your responsibility, Bertha. I’m sorry we have become a worry to you.”

  “You became my spiritual responsibility the moment I allowed you to come under my roof. I believe I have earned the right to know why this child I hold in my arms weeps in his sleep…and why his father groans in his.”

  Joe leaped to his feet and leaned over Bobby. Sure enough, the little boy’s cheeks were wet with tears—the evidence of yet another bad dream.

  He collapsed onto the couch. For once he was grateful for the lack of electric light in the house. It was easier to talk with nothing but pale moonlight in the room. He searched for words to describe the unspeakable.

  “My wife was murdered,” he said. “While I was gone. Someone locked Bobby inside his room. He was there for hours before I returned. He doesn’t seem to have seen or known anything, except that his mommy wouldn’t come for him when he called.”

  “Do you know who did this terrible thing?”

  “No. That’s the problem. No one has any idea.”

  Bertha rocked and rocked as she digested this. “And what were you doing that was so important to take you away from your family?”

  “I was in another city, tending to business. It seemed important at the time. Believe me, if I could go back in time and change things, I would.”

  “Why are you running?”

  How could he explain? His life in LA was so different from her simple, rural Amish lifestyle. He knew he could never truly explain, but she deserved some sort of an answer.

  “I–I’m someone who has been in the public eye for many years. When my wife died, I couldn’t even hear the minister at her graveside for the sound of news helicopters. People took pictures of me and my son as though they thought the funeral were entertainment. I shielded Bobby the best I could, but no matter how much I asked for privacy, they wouldn’t leave us alone. Finally, I just headed out. To grow this beard and keep moving from one place to another was the only thing I could think of to stay out of the public eye.” He rested the back of his head against the couch. “It’s probably impossible for you to understand.”
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br />   Bertha leaned forward. “You think I do not know what it is like to be the object of another’s curiosity?” Her eyes were blazing. For a moment, he got a clear picture of the fierce young woman who had faced down thieves in order to protect the orphan children.

  “When my father died, Englischers took forbidden pictures of our people. When my uncle Isaiah was hurt in a buggy wreck, Englisch passersby grabbed pieces of the broken buggy for souvenirs.” She settled back again. “As individuals, we may not be as famous as you are, but we deal with intrusiveness every day of our lives. For us, just to go to town for a spool of thread during tourist season means stares and Englisch children pointing at us. This is our life too, Joe.”

  He felt chagrined. These peaceful people endured more prying into their day-to-day lives than he had ever realized. “How do you stand it, Bertha?”

  “God gives us strength,” Bertha said. “And once people look their fill, they grow bored. They see that we are not so interesting after all, but just people living our lives. Then they leave us alone and we buy our spools of thread in peace.”

  “You are a wise woman, Bertha.”

  “No.” She waved a dismissive hand. “But I have lived longer. Now we must decide what to do with you. Do you have a plan?”

  “Not really, but a roommate from college has an old hunting cabin in West Virginia. Up in the mountains. He told me a long time ago that if I ever needed to get away, it would be available. I’ve been thinking of going there when I get my truck fixed.”

  Bertha thought this over. “It would be better for Bobby if you stayed here.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Why?”

  Joe hesitated. “Because of Rachel.”

  “Ah yes. Our Rachel. She is a suspicious one, that girl.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Do not judge her too harshly.” Bertha shook her head. “She has been through much.”

  Joe found himself more curious about Rachel than he would have guessed a mere twenty-four hours earlier. “In what way?”

  “She lost her mother when she was young, and then there was her father, my little brother… .” Her eyes took on a faraway gaze. “He was always fascinated with guns. Even as a boy, he was constantly out in the woods target practicing with our father’s hunting rifle.”