Stoney Ridge 03 - The Lesson Read online

  A laugh burst out of Jenny. She laughed in absolute glee, and to her surprise the others joined in, creating a tangible joy that fell upon the room like soft goose feathers. Something bloomed inside of Jenny at that moment, a leaf unfurling in the spring. It felt so good to be a part of a family.

  Fern rolled her eyes. “Hank has found a fresh audience for his old tales.”

  “Uncle Hank’s tales are always worth hearing again,” Teacher M.K. said. She leaned over to whisper to Jenny, “Unless you happen to be Fern, who says once is all she needs.”

  “I HEARD THAT,” Uncle Hank bellowed. “You, Jenny Yoder, are welcome back every night!” Uncle Hank pinned M.K. with his good eye. “Now that M.K. has gone the ways of crotchety schoolmarms, I’ve been missing having someone appreciate my fine stories!”

  Jenny looked at Teacher M.K. to see if she might be offended, but she was laughing. A warm feeling spread through Jenny. Amos and Fern told her to come back soon, to stop by anytime at all, and the way they said it, she knew they meant it. Fern had even told her to come over for a bread roll making lesson tomorrow afternoon after school, and Jenny thought she just might. She did love those sourdough bread rolls.

  Then Jenny turned to Chris. She saw the way Chris was gazing at Teacher M.K. and she thought, Oh, boy.

  11

  When Fern Lapp told Jenny to join her after school and help her make bread rolls, Chris had a hunch that it would end up being more than a onetime occurrence. Jenny had been kind of lost and alone in Stoney Ridge, and he saw the look of longing on her face as they sat down to that pot roast and potato dinner. It wasn’t about food—it was about having a place at someone’s table. About belonging.

  His instincts were right. Two weeks later, it was getting harder to keep Jenny home from Windmill Farm. Chris nearly gave up trying.

  Now that Fern had an apprentice, she decided to try selling baked goods at her roadside stand that stood at the bottom of the driveway for Windmill Farm. She was even paying Jenny to work the stand after school let out. Townsfolk were starting to drive out to Windmill Farm to pick up a loaf of bread or cinnamon rolls, because it was cheaper than Sweet Tooth Bakery, fresher and tastier. The bakery owner, Nora Stroot, was livid.

  Chris didn’t think Nora Stroot should be too worried about it. When winter came, Chris was pretty sure that Fern would close up the stand and think of something else to keep Jenny busy. Because that, he knew, was the true motive behind Fern’s bread making tutorials. For all her bluster, Fern Lapp was a marshmallow.

  It did concern him, though, to see Jenny start looking and acting like Fern. Everything she talked about now was “Fern said this,” or “Fern said that.” Chris tried to have talks with her, about not getting too attached, and to not become a pest over there at Windmill Farm. In two weeks, she seemed far more attached to Fern than she had ever been to Old Deborah. But then, Old Deborah was . . . really, really . . . old.

  “Pshaw,” Jenny shot back. “Fern said it’s not good to worry too much about what tomorrow holds.” Then she would start scrubbing the kitchen sink as if it were a hotbed of germs. And Chris would sigh.

  But he knew that every child deserved such moments—times of knowing that someone was looking out for you. He had his own: his grandfather lifting him up out of the backseat of the car after a long drive, carrying him into the house and up the stairs and putting him to bed. The scratchiness of his chin, the smell of his aftershave. Jenny deserved this time with Fern, time to make her own memories.

  Jenny was wearing the heart-shaped Lancaster prayer cap now, and Fern showed her how to get her hair to stay pinned in a bun. Jenny was even starting to turn up out of thin air, the same way Fern had of doing. If you asked Chris, Jenny was turning into a cut-down version of Fern Lapp.

  Jenny felt a little sorry for Eugene Miller. Today, he showed up at school with a big black eye. She had asked him about his black eye and he told her he was breaking wild colts for the rodeo in his spare time. She didn’t think that was true. Maybe, but probably not. Anna Mae raised her hand, probably eager to tell the teacher that she was sure Eugene was lying about the rodeo, but Teacher M.K. never did call on her. She had just acted like it was nothing unusual for Anne Mae to keep her hand aimed for the sky. And in a way, it wasn’t.

  Jenny had expected Teacher M.K.’s new-and-improved teaching style would mean she would holler at them and hit her desk with the ruler, but now she would just look at the big boys, with her eyebrow up and her mouth a little pushed to one side. It wasn’t a mean look—it was a smart look. So the big boys stopped and sat down. It wasn’t any fun trying to get the teacher upset because it didn’t look like she could be upset.

  Teacher M.K. was different somehow. It started on that day when she put Eugene Miller in his place. Then she did something pretty smart, which was good for a teacher who had seemed pretty dumb.

  She flip-flopped the day’s work, so reading and arithmetic came in the morning. In the afternoon, she introduced a new period: art. Even Eugene didn’t slip away for the afternoon when he saw what Teacher M.K. had planned. She brought out paper for everybody, and a wooden box with little metal tubes of paint. She showed everyone how to rule a margin for the picture so there would be a white space all around for a frame. She showed them how to wipe brushes carefully while they were painting. Pretty soon everyone just got quiet, they were so happy making pictures.

  Barbara Jean Shrock painted a picture of her baby sister, but she forgot to add eyes and a nose and a mouth. Danny Riehl drew a picture of an airplane. He knew all the different names of airplanes and all about their engines and stuff like that. Anna Mae drew a picture of her and Danny on their wedding day. That made Danny’s face go cherry red.

  Jenny painted a picture of a rainbow with a pot of gold at the bottom of it. She had always thought it might be nice to find a pot of gold someday. Life would be much easier. Maybe then her mother would be happy.

  But it was Eugene Miller’s picture that was the best. He painted a falcon that looked so real it wouldn’t have surprised Jenny if it had taken flight. He said it was a peregrine falcon and that there was a nesting pair at Windmill Farm that returned year after year. He said he had watched them across the street with his binoculars. Teacher M.K. nodded, and she looked really pleased. Eugene didn’t seem nearly as annoying when he was talking about the falcons. Maybe there was hope for him.

  Teacher M.K. had hung all the pictures on the wall. The room seemed much more cheerful after that. Everyone couldn’t stop looking at them.

  That was the day Teacher M.K. put Eugene Miller in his place. That was the day something happened. Something that gave Jenny more to think about than worries about her mom. By the end of that afternoon, the children looked different too. Like something good was going to happen.

  On a gray afternoon in October, M.K. went into the Stoney Ridge public library. She sought out the head librarian and asked, “Do you have any books on reading problems?”

  The librarian’s face turned sad and pitiful. “Are you having a problem with reading, dearie?”

  How insulting! “Not me,” M.K. huffed. “A student of mine.”

  The librarian led her to a section of books at the far end of the library. The sunlight from the window was filled with dust particles. It looked like this section of books hadn’t been visited very often. She pointed to the bottom row. “Those are the only books we have about reading difficulties.”

  M.K. pulled out a few books and went over to a table to sift through them. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for, but she knew Eugene Miller was a bright boy, imaginative and creative and artistic, but he couldn’t read or write at his age level. Not even close. In fact, some of his papers looked like a second grader’s. Untidy, mixed-up letters and numbers. He was easily frustrated, became bored, and that’s when he would start some mischief in the classroom.

  The more she read, the more she thought she was finding what was behind Eugene’s reading struggle: something call
ed dyslexia. She came across one paragraph that leapt out at her:

  “Compared to the average person, a dyslexic generally has very strong visual skills, a vivid imagination, strong practical/manipulative skills—”

  Oh . . . that definitely sounded like Eugene Miller.

  “—innovation, and an above-average intelligence. Basically the right side of the brain is stronger than the left—and that’s what a good artist needs. As a dyslexic you are likely to have a greater appreciation for color, tone, and texture. Your grasp of two-dimensional and three-dimensional form is more acute. You can visualize your art before reaching for the paint brush, and your imagination will allow you to go beyond the norm and create new and innovative expression.”

  M.K. thought about Eugene’s peregrine falcon drawing. It was shockingly beautiful—the minute detail, the haughty gaze in the tercil’s eyes, the vicious-looking talons. It was as vivid and realistic as a photograph. That was it! It seemed as if Eugene had a photograph of it in his mind and was somehow able to transfer that image onto paper.

  Eugene was always drawing something. A stick in the dirt, pencil sketches around the edges of his math assignment, caricatures on the chalkboard.

  She closed the book with a sigh. If it might be true that Eugene had dyslexia, what could she really do for him? She was no expert. She had an eighth-grade education. Most of these words were entirely new to her, and she considered herself a first-rate philologist. Still, she checked a few books out and left the library.

  As she walked down the front path of the library, she noticed Chris Yoder coming down the street in his horse and buggy. He saw her and lifted a hand to wave to her. She reached down to pick up her scooter, hoping Chris might offer her a ride home, but when she looked up, he had passed by.

  She didn’t mind too much about Chris. He was friendly enough, but either he was keeping his distance, or she was keeping hers. She didn’t mind too much. Really, not at all, hardly.

  Of all people! The very moment Chris was heading to the sheriff’s office to have a talk with him, Mary Kate Lapp came strolling out of the library—directly across the street from the office. There was no way he was going to pull into the sheriff’s office at that moment. No way at all. He hurried Samson down the street and pulled over at the Sweet Tooth Bakery Shop and waited until he saw Mary Kate zip away, heading in the direction of Windmill Farm. He couldn’t hold back a grin from spreading over his face as he saw her zoom away. She was always darting around Stoney Ridge on that little red push-scooter.

  He looped the reins around the hitching post and walked into the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Hoffman was finishing up a phone call and motioned to the seat across from his desk. Chris sat down and took his black felt hat off, spinning the brim in his hands. Now that it was fall, he had switched from straw hat to felt, along with the other men in his church.

  Sheriff Hoffman put the phone back on the receiver. “Chris Yoder. Got something for me?”

  Chris shrugged. “I’d like you to tell me exactly what you’re looking for.”

  The sheriff inhaled deeply, then blew the air out of his mouth. He leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Chris. This all happened when you were just a little kid. I’ve spoken to a child psychologist about this case. He’s been clear that it’s important to not put any leading thoughts in your head, to just see what you can remember. He said if I try to give you any clues, it might cause you to freeze up. All I can tell you is that every single thing you can remember is helpful to the case.”

  “So . . . it is a case. An actual criminal case. Something my mother was involved in.”

  “I don’t know for sure. It’s just a hunch.” The sheriff scratched his neck. “Have you given any more thought to undergoing hypnosis?”

  “Absolutely not. I will not. You can’t make me. It’s against my church, my beliefs—”

  The sheriff held up a hand to stop him. “Yeah, yeah. I got it. That’s what I figured. So, just keep trying to remember.”

  Chris rose. “It occurred to me that any information I give you might end up connecting my mother to a crime. Have you thought of that?”

  Sheriff Hoffman lifted his eyes and looked directly at Chris. “My job is to find the truth. Somehow, I think that’s what you want too. ‘The truth shall set you free.’ Isn’t that in the Good Book?”

  “The truth shall set you free.” Chris had read those words all his life and never really thought about what they might mean. How would the truth of that day, fourteen years ago, affect him? And Jenny? What would it mean for his mother?

  On the way back to the house, Chris pondered the conversation with the sheriff. Old Deborah made Chris read the Bible out loud to her by lantern light nearly every night after the supper meal. She claimed Scripture could be a powerful comfort and help if a person let the Lord’s message speak to his heart. Old Deborah’s faith was a big sweeping thing and his was faint and faraway.

  When he reached his grandfather’s house, he hopped out of the buggy and walked around to release Samson from his rigging. He tugged on the bridle, guiding him toward the barn as the new moon slid behind a cloud.

  “The truth shall set you free.”

  But what if the truth meant Chris would lose everything?

  It was a sunny, breezy Saturday in mid-October. Working together, Fern and Jenny hung the day’s laundry, shooing away those four little puppies that kept trying to snap at the luffing sheets. Fern kept surprising Jenny. She would have thought Fern would have no patience for something as silly as puppies. Instead, Fern stopped trying to hang laundry and gave her full attention to those crazy puppies. She tossed them sticks and tried to teach them tricks, until they finally wore out and curled up in a mound in the sun. Then she went back to hanging towels and sheets.

  The comforting aromas of soap and sunshine scented the warm air as the damp sheets made a soft fluttering noise in the breeze. Fern said she liked doing laundry; the act of scrubbing something clean felt good to her. Ten minutes later, they went inside to bake cookies.

  Jenny pulled a tray of cookies from the oven and set them out to cool. Fern stuck her thumb in the middle of one cookie. “Do this with each one,” she said to Jenny. Then Fern carefully ladled a spoonful of raspberry jam into the indentation. “That’s why they’re called thumbprint cookies. They’re my top seller. Folks love my raspberry jam.”

  Without thinking, Jenny said, “Old Deborah used to make these, but she liked to use blackberry jam.”

  Fern glanced up from spooning jam into another cookie. “Sadie got her start in healing from a woman in Ohio named Old Deborah. In Berlin.”

  Jenny’s thumb froze, mid-squish. She didn’t dare look at Fern.

  “It was when Sadie was living with Julia and Rome for a few months, right after they got married. Julia is Amos’s eldest daughter. She married Rome Troyer, the Bee Man.”

  Jenny swallowed. She didn’t know what to say.

  Fern put the spoon in the jam jar. “You know Rome and Julia, don’t you?”

  Slowly, Jenny nodded. “We lived with Old Deborah when our mother was . . . indisposed.”

  “Ah,” Fern said in her knowing way. “I take it that Chris doesn’t want anyone to know.”

  Jenny chanced a look at Fern. “Are you going to let him know I told you?”

  Fern tilted her head. “But you didn’t tell me. I guessed. And if Chris isn’t ready to tell us anything more, we’ll just have to wait.”

  Jenny’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, thank you!” She flung her arms around Fern’s middle and burst into tears.

  Now it seemed to be Fern’s turn to not know what to do. Slowly, she put her arms around Jenny and patted her. “Jenny, you know that you can always count on us to help you and Chris. Rome and Julia, too.” She cupped Jenny’s face in her hands, the same way Old Deborah used to. “You just need to let us know if you need help.”

  Fall’s vibrancy was fading. Squash vines and tomatoes had withered to the ground; corn leaves were w
ispy brown paper flecked with fuzzy mildew, abandoned ears shriveled inside. But in the greenhouse at Windmill Farm, it looked and smelled as warm and humid as if spring had arrived.

  When Chris had approached Amos about the market manager’s suggestion that lettuce was needed at the farmer’s market, Amos’s face softened for a moment with pleasure. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and sure. “Good for you. The greenhouse hasn’t been used since my eldest daughter married and moved away. Have at it.”

  He sent Chris directly to Fern, who seemed equally pleased. “The market manager said folks will pay a premium for baby greens,” Chris explained, though Fern didn’t need any convincing. Together, Fern and Chris plotted out a plan to begin lettuce seeds in shallow wooden boxes in the greenhouse. Chris was discovering that Fern had the intuitive sense of a savvy merchant. She was already figuring out when the baby lettuce would be ready for the market, and how to bag them with a green polka-dotted ribbon. “We’ll call ourselves the Salad Stall,” she said, already at work on the sign.

  Chris doted on those baby greens. Amos helped him with a few valuable tips: he added extra alfalfa meal into the soil to ensure a plentiful nitrogen supply. Lettuce, he said, needed a pH of 6.0 to 7.0. They selected a seed mix that included a variety of lettuces, since Chris would be hand snipping the leaves and not uprooting the plants. He showed Chris how to broadcast the seeds by hand and to tamp down the soil by gently massaging it with his palm. Keep the temperature of the greenhouse at 75 degrees, he told Chris.

  None of this Chris knew. He felt as if he was getting a crash course in farming from Amos. He couldn’t soak up enough knowledge from him. It embarrassed him how little he knew when he started this venture. Within a week, he had read every book he could find about lettuce. He learned that lettuce was a member of the sunflower family, and it was one of the oldest known vegetables—dating back to Persia, six centuries before Christ walked the earth. He knew now that the word “lettuce” comes from an Old French word, laities, meaning milk—probably referring to the milky white sap that came out of mature lettuce stems after the farmer snipped off the leaves.