When Hope Blossoms (26 page)

Tim shrugged. “Not a problem. Dents in the fender won’t keep it from running.”

“S’pose that’s true,” the mechanic said with a smile, “but I betcha that was one pretty truck in its day. Like everything, though, time takes its toll.”

Tim nodded absently. He took his truck keys from the man’s hand and clomped across the lot to his waiting vehicle. He paused for a moment, his gaze roving across the old truck, recalling the day he drove it off the showroom lot. Such pride had filled him then at the sleek blue paint and abundance of silver chrome. Years of sitting in the sun had faded the once bright blue to a dingy gray. Some of the chrome strips had fallen off. Other pieces were bent or tarnished. Another Scripture tiptoed through his mind, offering gentle admonishment.
“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt . . .”
He climbed into the truck and slammed the door.

Although work waited at home, he took advantage of his visit to the larger city to shop at the grocery store. He stocked up on paper products, including the biggest bag of paper plates he could find. Since Bekah wouldn’t be doing the dishes anymore, he might as well simplify his life a bit. He roved the aisles, aware of the muffled thump of his bootheels against the tiled floor, the sound out of place with the squeak of tennis shoes and
flap-flap
of rubber-soled flip-flops worn by most of the other shoppers.

Funny . . . As a boy he’d always felt like he stuck out in his homemade clothes, trailing his white-capped mother. Now here he was dressed in store-bought Levi’s and a pocketed T-shirt—typical farmer’s attire—feeling the same way. Like a misfit. What would it take for him to feel as though he belonged somewhere?

His cart stacked high with flat cases of canned soup, boxed mac-and-cheese, cereal, and frozen pizzas, he squeaked to the checkout and loaded everything on the conveyor belt. The cashier—maybe twenty-five years old with streaked blond hair lying in flattened locks across her shoulders and an abundance of makeup accentuating her dark eyes and high cheekbones—flirted with him while she scanned the items, calling him “Cowboy” and hinting that he could benefit from a good home-cooked meal. Tim imagined most men would be flattered by that kind of attention, but it left him feeling as though bugs crawled under his skin.

He flicked his debit card through the scanner, wincing at the amount owed, and scooted out of the store as quickly as possible. Out in the parking lot, a gust of wind roared around the building and tried to lift the bag of paper plates from the cart’s belly. Tim clamped his hand over the bag and looked skyward. His heart gave a leap of hope. Clouds—thick and billowing, with gray underbellies—formed a wall in the north. Rain?

Another blast of wind, hot yet heavy with moisture, propelled him forward. He thumped the cases of canned goods into the truck’s bed and piled everything else on the passenger side of the cab. That wind was liable to lift anything lighter than ten pounds and send it sailing. Eager to be back in Weaverly before the storm hit, he pushed the empty cart into a nearby corral, then climbed behind the steering wheel and set off for home.

When he reached the highway, he snapped on his radio, hoping for a weather report. Static crackled, making his ears hurt, but he kept it on. He sat through two country tunes and a few lame jokes offered by an announcer before he heard, “And now, let’s get our latest weather news. . . .”

Tim cranked up the volume and tipped his head, straining to hear over the whine of the wind through a crack in the windshield. “Folks, what we’re looking at is a hot, extremely humid and highly unstable air mass with dew points exceeding eighty degrees, joining up with a cold front traveling from the Midwest.” The announcer’s voice held a bright tone that contradicted the grim report. “Strange as we might find it, considering it’s summertime rather than spring, this kind of activity can develop tornadoes. That’s right, tornadoes in July! Right now we’re saying we’re at moderate risk for severe weather, but stay posted. We’ll update you as things change. And now, let’s go to sports . . .”

Tim snapped off the radio. Rain they needed. But tornadoes? No thanks! He looked at the sky again. The clouds that had given him such a lift a few minutes ago now appeared ominous. He gritted his teeth, battling the urge to petition the heavens for protection. But why bother? The Father he’d ignored for the past umpteen years had no reason to listen to anything he’d say now.

Besides, surely the Mennonites were already praying the tornadoes away. For one brief second, he experienced a strong desire to join them.

B
ekah hunched over Mom’s machine, guiding fabric beneath the rapidly undulating needle. A neat seam emerged, binding the skirt to the bodice. Amazing how much she could get done with no one around to bother her. She’d only cut out the pieces for her new dress last night, and already she was more than halfway finished sewing the pieces together. By the time Mom and the kids got back from Topeka, she might be ready to try it on so Mom could pin the hem.

She finished sewing the seam and snipped the threads with the scissors. Laying the pieces aside, she reached for a sleeve, and the telephone rang. She rolled her eyes. Probably Mom, checking in. As if Bekah was a baby who couldn’t take care of herself.

Bekah trotted to the telephone and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey. It’s Mom. How are you?”

Bekah fiddled with the phone’s cord, itching to return to her project. “Fine. I’ve been sewing.”

“What’s the weather like there?”

Bekah’d been inside all morning, just as Mom had instructed. How should she know what was going on outside? “Fine, I guess. I haven’t been out.”

The line crackled a little bit, but Mom’s voice came through. “The sky’s pretty dark in the north. Mrs. Gerber thinks a storm might be coming. Just to be safe, why don’t you go out and open the cellar doors so it’s ready for us in case we need it.”

Bekah’s heart started to pound. You didn’t go into the cellar just for a rainstorm. She clutched the telephone receiver two-handed. “She thinks there might be a tornado?” She looked out the window, noticing for the first time a murky gray tinged with an ugly shade of green in place of the usual blue sky. Her hands shook, and she gripped the phone tighter.

A light chuckle came through the line. “Well, honey, it would be a rare thing to have a tornado in July, but it doesn’t hurt to take precautions.” Mom’s sure, unruffled voice helped take the edge off Bekah’s fear. “So prop open the cellar doors and be ready, but don’t worry, all right?”

“All right.” Bekah hugged the phone to her cheek. “When will you be home?”

“We’ve finished at Farm Supply and the bookstore, but we still need to go to the grocery store. I would imagine we’ll be home within another two hours. Will you be all right that much longer?”

Bekah looked at the clock above the stove. Mom and the kids would be back around one thirty. “Yeah, I should be okay.”

“Remember, if you need anything, you can call the Mischlers or the Schells.”

“I know.”

“All right, then. We’ll see you soon, Bekah. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Good-bye.” Bekah placed the receiver in its cradle very carefully, then stood for a few moments, staring at the phone. She hadn’t felt lonely at all until she’d heard her mother’s voice. But now the house felt too empty and quiet. Except for the wind.

With a start, she realized she’d been so busy listening to the hum of the sewing machine, she hadn’t even noticed the wind was blowing harder than usual. She scurried to the kitchen sink and leaned against the cabinet to peek outside. Dust rolled across the ground, carrying bits of dried grass. She crossed to the back door, watching the soybean plants, which had grown to the size of small bushes, sway and dance in the gusting breeze, nearly flattening to the ground with especially strong blasts.

She gave a start. Where were the men? There was always somebody working out there, Monday through Saturday. Why weren’t they working now? Were they fearful of the weather, too? Even though it was hot, Bekah shivered.

Mom had told her to get the cellar doors open, so she retrieved the key for the padlock that secured the planked wooden doors and stepped outside. The wind whipped the screen door from her hand and slammed it against the house. Her skirt plastered to her legs in the back and sent it billowing out front as she walked the short distance to the storm shelter’s doors. She crouched down, pinching her skirt between her knees to hold it out of her way, and unlatched the padlock.

Slipping the heavy lock into her apron pocket with the key, she grabbed one door and flung it open. It landed against the sloped ground with a thud. She opened the second door, then stood for a moment with the wind strong on her back, the ribbons from her cap dancing wildly against her cheeks, and peered into the dank depth of the cellar. She hugged herself. She hated going into the cellar.

Whisking a quick look at the boiling sky, she offered a quick prayer. “God, please don’t make me go in that hole under the ground.” Especially not all alone.

Tim unloaded his truck, keeping an eye on the sky during trips back and forth from the house and his pickup. When he finished, he drove the truck into the barn. The opening was barely wide enough to accommodate the truck’s body, and he brushed the passenger’s side mirror on the warped frame. He’d have to be extra careful backing out again, but the truck would be safer inside in case those clouds let loose with hail.

He cringed, considering the damage hail would do to his trees. The urge to pray, to ask God to hold the storm at bay, tugged at him as strongly as the wind tugged his clothes and hair as he walked to the house. But he gritted his teeth together and held the petition inside.

In the house, he put away everything he’d purchased, taking note of the neatly organized shelves, the clean-swept floors, and scrubbed countertops. Thanks to Bekah’s efforts, the house was as clean as it had been when Julia lived there.
Julia
 . . . His mind flooded with memories of his last moments with her. The kiss good-bye. The wave. The car disappearing over the rise in the road with Charlie in the backseat holding up his favorite tattered teddy in a gesture of farewell.

He clenched his fists to his temples, willing the persistent images away. He needed to replace them, but with what? Photographs—he’d look at photos. Snapshots of happier moments, together moments. Maybe imprinting those on his brain would send the final, heartrending remembrance far away so it would stop haunting him.

His feet clumsy in his eagerness, he stumbled to the hallway and threw open the closet. An empty space greeted him. For a moment he stared, stunned, certain his eyes deceived him. But then he recalled giving Bekah the task of clearing out the closet. At the height of his nightmares, he’d chosen to dispose of Julia’s and Charlie’s things, hoping the distressing dream would disappear with them. It hadn’t worked—the dream still awakened him at least once a night.

He snapped the closet door closed and aimed his steps for the back door, resolve setting his jaw in a firm line. So getting rid of the stuff hadn’t achieved the purpose. He’d just bring everything back in. He hadn’t lit the burn pile in more than two weeks. The boxes should still be out there, battered and dusty no doubt, but available. He swung the back door open. The wind tried to snatch it from his hand, but he held tight and latched it behind him. He glanced at the sky, noting the sickly grayish-green. His stomach churned. He’d better hurry.

Bending forward into the wind, Tim broke into a jog. He rounded the corner of the barn, heading to the cleared area where he burned his trash. But halfway across the grounds a sudden change in the atmosphere brought him to an abrupt halt. Chills broke out over his body, a prickling awareness of impending doom.

He turned a slow circle, tasting the air, which had fallen heavy and eerily still. His eyes scanned the horizon, from the clear blue in the south to almost lavender in the west and ending at the brackish ugliness that shrouded the north. He lifted his gaze from the wall of gray to the swirling green and black clouds above, and a strange movement caught his attention. A writhing tail, wide at the top, narrowing as it reached toward the earth, emerged from the angry gathering of clouds.

Fear exploded through Tim’s middle. A tornado. Miles away, but traveling in his direction. Panic spurred him to action. He took off at a run for his house to seek protection. But as he reached his back door he suddenly remembered that Mrs. Knackstedt, Parker, and Adri had been in the van, but he hadn’t seen Bekah. Which meant she must have stayed behind. She’d be terrified, there alone. Or maybe she didn’t even know the storm was coming. There’d be no television or radio to warn her.

Tim’s pulse raced so quickly his entire body quivered. Would Mrs. Knackstedt be home by now? There was no way of knowing. But he couldn’t risk leaving the girl to face a tornado alone. With another quick glance at the approaching storm, he changed direction and raced for the barn. Moments later, unmindful of the sideview mirror he’d stripped from the passenger door when backing out of the barn or the dust-laden wind stealing his visibility, he tore down the road toward the Knackstedt place.

Amy resisted tapping her toe in impatience as Margaret checked off the lengthy list of items in her hand. Both women and Parker pushed carts, all of which were well filled. Even if something else were listed, there wasn’t room for one more thing in any of the carts.

Adrianna leaned against Amy’s leg. “Aren’t we done yet, Momma?” The little girl yawned widely. “I’m tired. And hungry.”

“I know.” Amy gave Adrianna a one-armed hug, then lifted her into the basket. She was really too big for the child seat in the cart, but the hours of shopping had worn her out. “As soon as Mrs. Gerber finishes, we’ll go to a drive-through and get you something to eat, all right?”

It seemed silly to purchase fast food when they had full carts, but if they waited until they got home, lunch would be delayed at least another hour. Amy’s stomach growled, too. A hamburger would taste good right now.

“I guess that’s it,” Margaret said, triumph in her voice.

“Then we can go?” Parker grabbed the handle of his cart, his slumped shoulders squaring.

“We can go.” With a grunt, Margaret pushed her cart into motion.

Amy fell in behind Margaret with Parker huffing along behind her. They reached the checkout lines and passed the row of 20-Items-and-Under lanes. Amy had lost count, but she felt certain between the three carts, there were well over one hundred items. She found the shopping exhausting, but somehow Margaret seemed refreshed by the prospect of finding the best bargains so the fellowship’s food dollars stretched the farthest.

Margaret settled on a lane, and Amy moved forward to help her unload the contents of her cart onto the conveyor belt. As the cashier scanned items, the store’s announcement system clicked on. A male voice boomed over the speakers. “Hello, Food Warehouse shoppers. I have just received notice of the possibility of a tornado near Weaverly, Kansas, and moving toward Topeka.”

Amy grabbed for Margaret, who grabbed for Amy at the same time. The women clung, their gazes locked. Amy wondered if her own face was as white as Margaret’s.

“We’ve been advised to remain in the store until the threat passes. If necessary, we will take all customers to the storage room beneath the store. A buzzer will sound, like this—” A blaring
bzzzzzzt
sounded, and then the man’s voice returned. “If you hear the buzzer, please make your way in an orderly fashion to the northwest corner of the store, where employees will guide you to the storage room. Again, all customers are advised to remain in the store until the storm has passed.” A click signaled the end of the announcement.