The Keeper (23 page)

As she walked along the dirt path that led to the north field, she pondered an idea for a quilt top that was brewing in the back of her mind. She wanted to get home and draw it in her journal before she forgot it. That’s what she did with the quilt tops that popped into her mind, unbidden. She filled up her journal with sketches drawn with colored pencils. She wasn’t sure what she would ever do with the sketches—she still hadn’t recovered from the sting of criticism from last year.

I wasn’t being proud
, she thought, as she walked through the knee-high corn rows. She had just done the very best she could. She had used an old Lancaster pattern but gave it a fresh twist with explosions of color and design—was that being prideful? If so, she just couldn’t help it. It was the way she gave glory to God. To have Edith Fisher accuse her of pride stung her to her core. She’d lost the joy she felt when she created a new quilt top.

As she stood looking out across the land she knew so well, she felt a flutter of panic. It was no surprise to see the furrows Menno had dug weren’t straight and narrow the way they were before her father took sick, but it worried her to see brown on the edges of the cornstalks.

The first drops of rain began to fall. With them came that smell of rain, that dusty smell that was like no other. It was synonymous with joy, with renewal, with life itself. After two years of drought, Julia would never again take a drop of rain for granted.

And rain it was, warm and welcome, with fat drops that splashed on the parched ground. A bolt of lightning split the skies, followed by a clap of thunder that made her ears ring. The rain started falling in curtains, fast and furious. She hurried out of the cornfield and back onto the path. She blinked her eyes, wiped her nose on her sleeve. She was so soaked that her dress stuck to her skin, and her woven bandanna felt like a sodden pancake around her head. Another blast of lightning struck. She jumped as something brushed her legs. Lulu stared up at her, her head cocked to the side. Julia sank to her knees and buried her face in Lulu’s wet, musty fur. Her arms trembled as she drew Lulu close. The dog scraped Julia’s wet cheek with her rough tongue. Another blast of lightning struck. Lulu howled, and Julia jumped to her feet. She needed to find shelter. The cottage where Rome was staying was much closer than the farmhouse. She ran, her bare feet making her sure-footed in the gritty mud.

When she arrived at the cottage, she knocked on the door. “Rome?” She waited, then knocked again, and gave the string latch a gentle pull. She took a step inside and waited until her eyes adjusted to the dark. “Rome, are you here?” No answer. She hadn’t been in the cottage since Fern fixed it up. She used to play hide-and-seek here with Sadie and Menno when they were children, but studiously avoided going inside since the day a bat flew down from its rafters and scared her to the other side of Sunday. Today, it looked quite charming. Clearly, Fern’s doings. Just like the produce table transformation. The cottage looked warm and inviting, swept clean and left tidy. The kitchen had been turned into a well-organized honey extracting room: clean jars lined the shelves. Labels for the jars were stacked in a neat pile. The extractor and buckets were spotless.

She closed her eyes, taking in the smell of beeswax infused in the cottage walls. She realized now why it seemed familiar. It was a scent she associated with Rome—a fragrance that felt strangely reassuring, that all would soon be right with life.

A crackle of lightning sounded in the distance. Shuddering, Lulu chose that moment to shake herself off. Julia grabbed a towel from a hook near the sink and began rubbing the dog’s chest. As she put the towel back, she was startled by what she saw on the kitchen table. Medical books were spread out all over the table. She looked closer and saw they were opened to heart disease. She saw a yellow tablet filled with notes Rome had taken about idiopathic cardiomyopathy. And next to the books was an open Bible, with another yellow tablet half-filled with Scriptures he had found that referred to a man’s heart. His handwriting, Julia noticed, was strong and legible, as if he had been well schooled.

Rome must have bought these books when he went into Lancaster last week.

She doubted he would want to know she had seen what he was researching—otherwise he would have mentioned it. Maybe not. Rome didn’t volunteer much.

Something caught at her throat, something that hurt and made a curious melting feeling deep in her chest. A mixture of sadness and happiness, and a strange, sweet ache that after a moment she realized was hope.

Yesterday’s storm had washed the air, leaving it sweet and fresh. The first solid rain of the summer, Amos thought, and he thanked God for it. At Fern’s urging—some might call it steady nagging—he sat in the rocker on the front porch and tilted back his head, letting the warmth of the morning sun pour over him. Lately, he couldn’t get warm, even on hot, humid days. The problem was his circulation, the doctor said at his last appointment. His heart had to work harder and harder to get oxygen-rich blood circulating through his body. He rubbed his hands. They felt stiff and clumsy, like he was trying to play a wooden whistle with mittens on a winter day.

Suddenly Menno came flying up the driveway and blew past him into the house, not even acknowledging Amos was there. He heard Menno’s heavy footsteps pound up the stairs, then silence. A moment later, a loud “I FOUND IT!” floated out the upstairs windows. Amos leaned forward on his rocking chair, waiting to see
what
had been found.

Menno came thundering down the stairs again, two at a time, out the back door, and thrust his dog-eared
Birds, Birds, Birds!
book into Amos’s hands. It was opened to the American pipit, a small sparrow-sized bird. “Look. I found my bird.”

“The American pipit?” Amos read its description.
Pipits nest in the Arctic and migrate in spring and fall. Birders sometimes hope (but never expect) to find American pipits. Occasional stragglers appear south of Canada out of season during storms.
He looked up at Menno. “You think you spotted a lone American pipit? At the feeder?”

“No. Not at the feeder, Dad. It eats bugs.” He gave Amos a look as if he couldn’t believe he didn’t know such things. “I found it on the woodpile.” He pulled on Amos’s sleeve. “Come see!”

He dragged Amos out to the woodpile, with Amos puffing for air, which triggered a coughing fit by the time they got there.

About ten feet from the pile, Menno stopped abruptly and pointed. “There!”

Sure enough, there was a small brown bird, perched on top of the woodpile, staring back at them. It was completely unafraid of humans—probably wasn’t accustomed to seeing them, Amos surmised. The bird bobbed and fanned its tail, hopping from one stacked log to another. Its beak disappeared between wood pieces as it nabbed an ant or cricket or spider.

Amos held up the book and compared the markings of the bird to the picture in Menno’s book. “Well, I’ll be,” he whispered. “I wonder if it missed its north-going bus in the spring? Or maybe it’s early for going south. Probably got blown off its course in yesterday’s storm.” He and Menno stood there, in awe at the sight. “Menno, this little bird travels all the way from the Arctic to Mexico, every year. Across thousands of miles. And yet, it stopped on our farm to pay us a visit.” He patted Menno on the back. “And you alone had the vision to notice it. That was no small coincidence, son.”

Menno shook his head. “There’s no such thing, Dad. You always said that what man calls a coincidence, God calls a miracle.” Then his eyes opened wide. “I should call the Rare Bird Alert. They need to know about our miracle.” He backed away slowly so he wouldn’t startle the bird. When he reached the driveway, he bolted to the phone shanty by the schoolhouse.

Amos stayed awhile longer, watching this little brown bird enjoy lunch on the woodpile. “Thank you, God,” he prayed. “For blessings large and small. For a little lonely bird that reminds us that not a sparrow can fall from the sky without your notice.” Finally, he turned to leave. He felt lighter, happier, than he had in a long while.
Maybe today
, he thought,
my heart is starting to heal. Maybe God is bringing me a miracle too.

June turned out to be M.K.’s busiest month, thanks largely to the American pipit, which seemed to enjoy its stay at Windmill Farm. It was in no hurry to leave. When word got out about such a rare bird sighting, visitors came from all over southeastern Pennsylvania. M.K. had never seen so many people at Windmill Farm in all her life. Many Amish bird lovers, but mostly English ones. Sadie ran to the house whenever a car pulled up the long drive. She peeked out the kitchen window as they emerged from their cars—she was curious about English folk but far too shy to speak to them. Menno, on the other hand, greeted each guest like a long-lost friend. M.K. had the crackerjack idea of charging folks for seeing the bird, but when Fern caught wind of it, she made M.K. give the money back.

Fern. So meddlesome!

Fern bought Menno a guest book so that the visitors could sign their names. Each evening, Menno counted up the names. Last night, the number had topped three hundred! Menno was thrilled. Sadie said she was hoping that little bird would soon be on its way and life at Windmill Farm could return to normal. It hadn’t occurred to Menno that the bird wasn’t staying. His face grew red and blotchy as he tried not to cry, so Sadie took it back.

This afternoon, M.K. was directing cars to park alongside the barn so they didn’t clog the driveway. To her delight, the man in the panama hat drove up in a truck and waved to her. His truck was pulling a big silver recreation vehicle that reminded M.K. of a giant can of soda pop. M.K. ran up to the truck and waited until the man hopped out of the cab.

“Hello!” she said. “Are you here to see the bird?”

“I am!” he said, looking pleased. “It’s the talk of the town that there’s a rare bird on an Amish farm. Wasn’t hard to find which farm.” He pointed to the long line of cars.

“I’ll take you out to see it,” she said, abandoning her duties as parking director.

As they walked out to the woodpile, the man said, “Let’s see. The last time I saw you, you were in the library, looking for ways to make a quick buck. Did you have any luck with the shell game?”

She frowned. “I wouldn’t exactly call it luck.”

“Were you able to earn enough money to help your family?”

“
That
would take a mountain of money.”

“Why is that?” He seemed genuinely interested.

“My father needs surgery and I don’t think I could ever make enough nickels off of the shell game to pay for a new heart.”

The man stopped in his tracks. “What’s wrong with his heart?”

M.K. scratched her head. “His heart is wearing out. But we’re praying for a miracle.”

The man rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “I don’t believe in miracles.”

How sad! M.K. counted on miracles. Every day. She watched the man in the panama hat observe the bird until Fern shouted at her to get back to the driveway and direct cars. A traffic jam had formed at the top of the rise.

Later that afternoon, Uncle Hank stormed into the kitchen. “WHEN IS THAT BIRD GONNA HIT THE ROAD?”

Fern was giving a serious beating to egg whites in a metal bowl. Without looking up, she asked, “What’s eating you?”

“MENNO SAYS HE’S TOO BUSY TO GO TURKEY HUNTING WITH ME! And I spotted a flock just this morning. RIPE FOR THE PICKING!” Uncle Hank pulled off his straw hat and tossed it on a bench, then pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and plopped into it. “I need his keen vision.”

“Maybe Fern would like to go with you,” M.K. added, trying to sound helpful. She looked at Uncle Hank with wide and innocent eyes. The truth was, she was still mad at Fern for making her return money to paying bird visitors. It was a substantial amount of money. And folks didn’t bat an eye when she pointed out the cardboard sign listing admission prices: $5 per adult, $2 for children under 12. “She’s always telling me she’s got eyes on the back of her head.”

Uncle Hank eyed Fern with his good eye.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Amos said, sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room with his feet raised. “She doesn’t miss a thing.”