Beneath the Summer Sun

by Kelly Irvin

  Nathan looked up at Leo. “What do you mean?”

  “No matter how much time you spent with him, it wouldn’t have been enough.” Leo’s jaw worked. His eyes grew dark with emotion. The pain told Jennie he relived his loss at that moment and every day.

  “Your father lived a good life. He used up every minute of his time on earth.” Plain folks might not evangelize, but Jennie understood the good it could do. They brought folks closer to God. “His time was done and now he rests, a good and faithful servant.”

  “I begrudged him that.” Nathan hung his head. “I was selfish. I wanted him for myself.”

  “All kinner feel that way.” Leo’s voice held urgency. “All of them. I did. I was so angry with Gott when my daed died. I wanted him for myself. I thought I had a better plan than Gott. Such bigheadedness.”

  “And now?” Had he healed enough to get on with his life? Could he be trusted? Could he teach Matthew these lessons? Or did Matthew have to learn them on his own? “Can you see now what Gott’s plan was for you?”

  “I can see He has one and He’s waiting for me to get on board.” Leo grimaced. “I reckon He’s waiting on all of us to do that.”

  Wise men came in all shapes and sizes. As did fools. Nathan tore his gaze from the look on Leo’s face. The guy had it bad. He was a good, kind person who loved Jennie and couldn’t hide it. He didn’t want to hide it. Nathan understood that feeling. Until now, he’d thought himself to be first in line to express it. He stood as Jennie squeezed past him and started down the steps. She smelled like cookies. Snickerdoodles, all cinnamon and vanilla. His throat ached. His already-battered heart shrunk under the flurry of blows. She had brought Leo with her to talk to Freeman.

  Like a stand-in head of household. A stand-in father. He was Plain. Nathan was not. He had history with her, that was obvious. Nathan did not.

  “Leo, wait.”

  His eyebrows tented and Leo frowned. He swiveled and glanced at Jennie’s departing figure. His expression seemed to say “I’m with her.”

  “Just for a second. Alone.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” Leo called after Jennie. She nodded and kept going.

  Leo came back up the steps. He remained standing.

  “What are your intentions with Jennie?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you dating her?”

  Leo’s mouth opened and closed. Clouds swept across his face. The pulse along his jawline pounded. “Why?”

  One terse syllable.

  “I’ve thrown my hat in the ring.”

  Leo’s headshake was so vigorous his hat shifted, until it was in danger of falling to the ground. “I’m sorry about your father. Take care of yourself.” Again, he started down the stairs.

  Nathan stood. “She knows how I feel.”

  “She’ll ignore it.”

  “I’m in love with her.”

  “You’re Mennischt.” No disdain marred the words. Leo offered it as a respectful statement of fact.

  “I could make her happy.”

  “We were just talking about Gott’s plan for you.”

  “I know.”

  Leo’s words were nearly lost in the stamp of his boot against the wooden steps. “He’s chuckling now, you can be sure of that.”

  What did that mean? Nathan watched them drive away, the words ringing in his ears.

  “There you are. I thought maybe you got lost.” Freeman pushed through the screen door. His tone held pique. “We’re late getting started. Are you ready to discuss Articles Sixteen and Seventeen?”

  Ecclesiastical Ban or Separation from the Church. Of Shunning the Separated. Where the Amish and the Mennonites first parted ways. How fitting.

  He faced the bishop. “My father died yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Freeman’s smile disappeared. He settled into the rocker and pointed to the other chair. “You’ll be leaving us then to be with your family, your mother?”

  “Not for a week or two. It’ll take that long, maybe longer, to wade through the red tape, to bring him home from overseas.”

  “Then you have time to continue your studies.” Freeman paused, his expression thoughtful. “If you plan to come back.”

  His father’s death hadn’t changed his plan. Had it? The look on Leo’s face had changed nothing. Jennie had nothing to do with his plan. Okay, Jennie wasn’t the only reason.

  The plan hadn’t changed.

  Had it?

  “As far as I know right now, I’ll be coming back.”

  “Sit. We’ll talk about it.”

  Nathan sat. He wiggled his behind, stretched his legs, and pointed his shoes. No words presented themselves.

  “I ain’t getting any younger.” Freeman’s voice was kind, despite the words. “Neither are you, suh.”

  The word suh—son—burned the soft skin of Nathan’s heart. Son. His father would never say that word again. He stood. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m messed up right now.”

  “Sit.”

  His back to Freeman, Nathan gripped the porch railing. “My brother is having a hard time with this.”

  “You both need to be with family.”

  “I hardly know my family.”

  “Which is why you want to adopt this one.”

  Nathan pivoted so he could see Freeman’s face. The other man’s smile held a question. Nathan didn’t want to answer it. “No. Maybe. Is that so wrong?”

  “Doing something for the wrong reason can torpedo a man.” Freeman steepled his stubby fingers propped up on his ample belly. “Maybe a change of topic will help you clear your mind. Let’s talk about the Confession of Faith articles. Did you read them?”

  Nathan had, but he hardly remembered. It seemed years had passed in a scant week. “I understand the concept of tough love.”

  “Could you shun your brother or your sister if they chose not to follow the Ordnung?”

  “I’ve shunned them for years.”

  “Out of anger, not love. When we shun a wayward lamb, it’s to teach him a lesson that will help him return to the fold. You simply wanted to punish.”

  Nathan closed his eyes. They burned with unshed tears. His throat ached. His chest ached. Everything ached.

  “Turns out, you only punished yourself.”

  Freeman’s words were like a sledgehammer to the chest.

  “Get right with your family before you make a decision about your future, your faith, and who you’ll share both with.”

  The big man hoisted himself from the chair and went inside, shutting the screen door with great care as if Nathan slept and he didn’t want to wake him.

  Nathan didn’t move. His body weighed a thousand pounds. His eyelids, a thousand more.

  “Get right with your family before you make a decision about your future, your faith, and who’ll you’ll share both with.”

  What Freeman really meant was get right with God. Nathan had to do that first, before all else.

  God, how do I do that?

  THIRTY-THREE

  The snores reached a crescendo. Nathan laid the articles of confession aside, stood, and stretched. He didn’t mind Blake’s noisy improvisations. At least it meant Nathan had company. Blake had passed out on Nathan’s bed for the second time in as many nights. He stayed close as if guarding Nathan. As if he feared losing another family member in a sudden, cruel, inexplicable second.

  Nathan felt the same way. Despite his determination to persevere on this path—to demonstrate to Freeman he was wrong—Nathan had been staring at the pages for more than an hour. He remembered nothing of what he’d read. Was this God’s plan for him? He had been so sure it was. Now, nothing seemed sure.

  While Blake found solace in deep, mindless, sleep, Nathan found only a restless, toss-and-turn, endless parade of thoughts he couldn’t turn off. Every time he closed his eyes he saw images of his father in his Sunday black suit, standing on the sidewalk in front of his uncle’s house in Arlington. He clapped his hands
and urged them into the car. His mother, clothed in a flowered dress and black sneakers, hugged him tight. She smelled of the sweet scent of Dove soap. She kissed his cheek and then again. He held tight until his aunt peeled his fingers away and wrapped her arms around him from behind. His mother waved from the car until he could no longer see her.

  Nathan turned off the lamp and slipped out the door. He tugged it shut with a gentle click. He turned up the collar of his Windbreaker against a heavy mist that did little to cool the night air. Ten o’clock and it still felt like an afternoon air heavy with heat and humidity. He stuck his hands in his jean pockets, ducked his head against the dank wind, and walked. He had no idea where he was going, but he needed out of that room. He needed to escape his thoughts. The more he thought, the faster he walked. His thoughts didn’t give up. They pursued him, playing cat and mouse with him.

  Why had he spent all those years avoiding his father? Wouldn’t a man step up and face the past? Why had he spent all those years traveling around selling books to people, never settling down, never having a family? Because he liked being alone? Because he didn’t want a wife and children of his own? What was he so afraid of? Did embracing the Amish faith with its simple precepts and even simpler life represent a way to meet his obligation to Jesus? Or a way to avoid it?

  Stop, God, stop. Please stop.

  His steps carried him faster and faster, past the grocery store, the restaurant, and dark buildings that had been shuttered for the night. Business owners had turned out the lights, closed the doors, and headed home to the warm companionship of family.

  He turned onto Grant Street, barely aware of his surroundings. His heart pounded in his chest. It hurt. Everything hurt. His shoulders, his clenched jaw. He halted and bent over, hands on his knees. His chest heaved. Was this what it felt like to have a heart attack? Had his father suffered this inability to draw a breath of air?

  Breathe. Breathe. He sucked in air. Now out. In. Out.

  He swallowed the bitter bile that rose in his throat.

  In. Out.

  The weakness seeped away, replaced by a strong desire to look up. He raised his head.

  A church loomed over him. Yard security lights illuminated its red brick walls and windows trimmed in white wood. A small steeple rose in the front. The long, narrow stained-glass windows were dark. It wasn’t a large or imposing building. Simply one that said “for where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”

  Seriously, God? Signs. Smack-me-on-the-head signs?

  He sank onto the cement steps in front and laid his head in his arms. No thought came. Not a single, solitary one.

  “Are you all right, son?”

  The gravelly voice came out of the dark night. Nathan rocketed to his feet. A whoosh of adrenaline shot through him. “Where did you come from?”

  “I live down the street.” The elderly, whiskered man wore a Frank Sinatra hat tipped at a rakish angle, black pressed pants, and a black suit coat. His white shirt was buttoned to the top button, tight around the loose, wrinkled skin of his neck. He utilized an ornately carved wooden cane in one hand. The other hand came up in an “I come in peace” motion. Raindrops sparkled on wire-rimmed glasses that perched halfway down his bulbous nose. “Where did you come from?”

  “The motel.”

  “I reckon those steps are more comfortable than the beds at the motel, but I don’t think I’d sleep there.” He tottered a step closer with a gait that said the effort caused him pain. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I don’t plan to sleep here.”

  “What do you plan to do? Sit here until the raindrops wash your sins away?”

  What did this stranger know about his sins? “Just resting a minute.”

  “Isn’t the seat of your pants getting damp?”

  As a matter of fact, it was. All of him was wet. Outside with rain. Inside with tears for the dead and the lost opportunities. He wiped rain from his eyes. Only rain. Not those persistent, nagging tears. “I don’t mind.”

  “Sure you do. Wouldn’t you rather come inside?”

  Nathan glanced back at the doors. Solid, wooden, white. Closed for business. “I didn’t think—”

  “It’s true most churches aren’t open for business twenty-four-seven, but the Son of God never sleeps.” The man dangled a key chain crowded with a dozen keys of various sizes and origins from his stubby index finger. “Join me for a late-night behind-in-pew powwow with the Big Guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Are you the preacher at this church?”

  “I’m Clyde, the caretaker.” He trudged past Nathan and teetered up the steps where he took his time unlocking the door. It squeaked, then groaned in protest when he opened it. “God is the proprietor of this establishment. What’s your name?”

  “Nathan. Nathan Walker.”

  Clyde cocked his head. “Join me.” Then he disappeared into the dark interior.

  Nathan raised his face to the rain. Sit out here in the rain or go inside? God was more likely to strike him down with a bolt of lightning outside than inside His own building. With a tiredness that made him feel a hundred, Nathan hoisted himself from the steps and shuffled inside.

  The narthex was small and dark. He couldn’t make out much. Dim light spilled through an interior doorway. He followed it and found himself in the sanctuary. Clyde sat in the last pew, his hat in his lap, his shiny, bald head bent. After a second, he looked up and patted the pew. “Have a seat, have a seat. It’s warm in here, we turn the AC down when no one’s here—but it’s dry. And peaceful. I sit here all the time. Just me and my Savior.”

  Nathan slid into the seat, keeping some distance between himself and this man he’d only just met, Savior or no Savior. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. You found your way here all on your own.” Clyde moved his cane to the other side of the pew, fussed with his jacket for a second, then fixed his stare on Nathan. “All righty then. Spill the beans.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “What’s on your mind? You don’t know me from Adam. You might never see me again. You might decide to see me every Sunday morning, I don’t know. But we won’t know, will we, until you tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “And you’ll fix it. Fix me.”

  “Good gracious, no. I’m only a conduit. Sometimes it’s easier to tell the flesh-and-blood person than it is to converse with the Father. Tell me, knowing He’ll hear. Pretend we’re sitting in our lawn chairs at the lake slapping at the mosquitoes, we’ve known each other for years, and you’re filling me in on your week over a glass of lemonade.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do or I wouldn’t offer.”

  It worked. Nathan opened his mouth and the words fell out in neat, complete, orderly sentences. Everything. His childhood. The leukemia. Drive-by parenting. Years as a traveling salesman. The Amish. Jennie. His desire to join the Plain faith. Blake. His father’s death. The incessant voice of God in his head telling him to get to work. Now.

  Or maybe he was simply nuts. Nutty as a fruitcake.

  Clyde didn’t interrupt. He didn’t ask questions. He simply nodded, his gaze fixed on Nathan’s face with a fierce concentration that prodded Nathan to keep going. He talked until his throat was dry and his eyes burned and his back ached against the wooden pew.

  Finally, he finished.

  Silence.

  “Well?”

  Clyde heaved a sigh and picked up his cane. “Well, what?”

  “What do you think? What should I do?”

  “Heavens, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Why did you have me tell you all this?”

  “You weren’t telling me, young man, you were telling your Father.” He pointed up, a look that could only be described as mischievous on his wizened face. “I sometimes act as
an interpreter, but mostly I let the Heavenly One do His thing.”

  He grunted and stood, his joints popping. “Stay as long as you like. I have a cot in the back. I think it’s time for me to rest. Turn out the lights and pull the door shut behind you when you go.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I couldn’t be more serious, young man.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “Now you listen and you take heed.”

  He squeezed past Nathan and made his way down the carpeted aisle, his cane making a thud, thud sound. “Nice meeting you, Nathan,” he called back just as he disappeared through the door.

  What now?

  Nathan closed his eyes. Darkness enveloped him. The anger, hot and fierce, washed over him in giant waves. “Father?” He whispered the word at first, then louder. Yet louder. “Father. Father. Father.”

  The single word encompassed all his fury, pain, his entreaty, his need.

  “Father, answer me. Answer me. What now?”

  Silence.

  He lifted his head and glared at the ceiling shrouded in darkness surely as deep as that which lie within him. “Speak up. Speak up! What do you want from me?”

  Silence.

  He sank onto the pew and lowered his head into his hands. The tears seeped through his fingers. “You could’ve fooled me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable in his own ears. “What now, Lord? What now?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Most people slept at night, didn’t they? Jennie sighed, set her glass of water on the table, and slipped from the rocking chair. She padded on bare feet to the front window, wide open to allow entry of a halfhearted breeze. She could stare out at the moonlit night, inhaling the perfume of fresh-cut grass baked by the July heat. It was no wonder she couldn’t sleep. She’d finally made the leap of faith and gone to work at the store. Now, it would be gone in a few weeks and with it the extra income. Leo was around, giving her gifts, taking on her son, and tearing down her walls. The image of Nathan on Freeman’s porch, his face wracked with grief, crowded her. Her mind reviewed the images. Nathan at the lake. Leo at the auction. Both so appealing even to a woman as wary as she was.