Stoney Ridge 03 - The Lesson Read online

  “I bumped into the mailman just a few minutes ago,” Rodney said, still smiling. “Thought I’d save you a trip.”

  Jenny grabbed the mail from him and closed the door, but Rodney stuck the toe of his shoe in the threshold, leaving two inches of space to talk through. “I happened to be at the county clerk’s office. Happened to discover that the legal owner of this house is a woman named Grace Mitchell. No one seems to know where she might be.”

  Jenny squeezed the door harder on his foot.

  “I happened to notice the letter you just received is from a Grace Mitchell.” Rodney’s voice rose a few notes from pain inflicted on his foot. “The return address says Marysville, Ohio.”

  Jenny leaned against the door and pushed as hard as she could, and Rodney finally yelped. He pulled his foot out of the threshold and Jenny closed the door tight.

  “Any chance that Grace Mitchell is the daughter of Colonel Mitchell?” Rodney called through the closed door. “Any chance Grace Mitchell is your mother?”

  Jenny locked the door behind him. She tore open her mother’s letter:

  Hi sugar! How ya doing? Listen, Jennygirl, I could sure use some extra cash right now. Would you believe they make us buy our own toothpaste here? I’ll bet Chris has some moola tucked away. Check under his mattress—that’s where he keeps it. SHHHHhhhhh! Just our secret, you and me. Thanks, babygirl! Never forget your mama loves you! XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

  Jenny folded the letter and put it in her pocket as she heard Rodney Gladstone’s car start up and drive down the driveway.

  She had a very bad feeling about today. She often had bad feelings about days, especially Mondays, but this was different. This was worse.

  M.K. had been certain Chris might drop by the schoolhouse or accept Fern’s standing invitation to come to dinner. She thought she might bump into him somewhere. But she hadn’t seen him in nearly two weeks. Their friendship had been progressing, and then, boom, it just ended. M.K. wasn’t good at handling rejection. It had never happened to her.

  It was a beautiful fall afternoon—slightly crisp, with the tangy smell of burning leaves in the air. Fern had planned to can garden-grown pumpkins all day, so M.K. was in no hurry to head home. No sir! Canning food in a steamy kitchen might be her least favorite activity. She took the long way and stopped at the cemetery where her mother and her brother, Menno, were buried. The tops of the trees swayed gently in the breeze. She walked up to her mother’s grave and dropped down to clear away the dandelions and brush a bit of moss off the gravestone. Her mother had been gone for most of M.K.’s life, and she couldn’t quite recall her like she wanted to. Sometimes, she thought she only remembered remembering her.

  She closed her eyes, trying to think what life had been like before her mother died. The images were so mixed up they never made much sense. She remembered a time when her mother had lifted her into the air and laughed as they whirled breathlessly around the room. Her mother smelled like cookies. And she remembered her father coming into the room and wrapping his arms around the two of them. A sandwich hug, he called it, and his littlest girl was the filling.

  That was it. That was about all she clearly remembered of her mother.

  “Are you all right?”

  M.K. lifted her face, and there stood Chris Yoder, his brow furrowed in concern.

  “Are you all right?” he repeated.

  She stumbled to her feet. “Where did you come from?”

  “I was passing by and saw your red scooter by the fence, then I saw you drop like a stone—I thought maybe you’d . . . fainted or a crow was dive-bombing at you . . . something like that.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, feeling oddly nervous, oddly pleased. Chris had been worried about her! She pointed to her mother’s grave. “I was just pulling weeds.”

  Chris walked up to her and read the tombstone out loud. “Margaret Zook Lapp, beloved wife and mother.” When he read the date, his eyebrows lifted. “You must have been young when she died.”

  She nodded. “Only five.”

  He half smiled. His smile was soft. He inclined his head as if he was weighing how much to say. “You must miss her.”

  Would she ever stop missing her mother? “I think about her every day. But you know what that’s like. Don’t you miss your folks?”

  “Yeah, sure.” But Chris looked away when he spoke, and M.K. could tell that he was lying. Too late, she recalled how Jenny had evaded the question about her parents, or where she was from, just like Chris was doing.

  But then he smiled at her and his eyes crinkled at the corners. A funny sensation flitted through her. She felt that peculiar moment of connection weave between them, as if they shared something. Then the moment passed. He was gazing deeply into her eyes with his bright spring-water blue ones and he began to have a mesmerizing effect on her, the same way he had in the barn on that rainy day. She couldn’t have moved away from him any more than the poles of two magnets could be pulled apart. “Are you coming from town?”

  Chris nodded. “Your Uncle Hank needed a part for a buggy he’s working on.”

  “You’re working as much for Uncle Hank’s buggy shop as you are for Dad’s orchards.”

  “I don’t mind. I need the work.” Cayenne tossed her head and whinnied. Chris turned to look at her standing on the road, tied to a fence. “Your uncle is expecting me. I’d better get the part to him.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Do you need a ride home?” A slight smirk covered his face. “Unless, I suppose, your boyfriend is coming to get you?” He started to walk toward the buggy.

  What? “Wait!” she called. “Who’s my boyfriend?” She hurried to catch up with him.

  Chris didn’t answer. He helped M.K. into the buggy, tossed her scooter on the backseat, and climbed up beside her. He gave a quick “tch-tch” to the horse and a light touch on the reins and they were on their way home. He whooshed past a slow-moving car as if in a hurry to deliver M.K. as quickly as possible.

  M.K. tried once again. “Why do you think I have a boyfriend? Because I don’t. I don’t know who told you otherwise, but I do not have a boyfriend.”

  “I see.” He was trying not to grin, but she thought the news pleased him. She hoped so.

  “Are you going to tell me who is spreading rumors about me?”

  Chris remained quiet for a moment, then gave her a sideways glance.

  Right, M.K. thought. The information flowed only one way.

  Fern had left Jenny in the kitchen at Windmill Farm, waiting for the oven buzzer to go off and remind her that the last few pies were done, while she took one pie over to a sick neighbor. Jenny and Fern had made six pies this afternoon—three apple, three pumpkin—and the kitchen was filled with spicy cinnamon. Fern had showed her how to roll out dough and how to keep a bottom crust from getting soggy in the middle.

  Jenny found a piece of paper and an envelope and sat at the kitchen table to write her mother a letter.

  Dear Mom,

  I met a nice lady who is teaching me how to bake. First she taught me to bake sourdough bread rolls. The first batch could have chipped a tooth, but by batch four, they were tasting pretty good. Now she’s teaching me to make pies. Here’s a secret: adding a teaspoon of vinegar into the crust helps to make it flaky. Did you know that?

  Of course she didn’t. Her mother had never baked a piecrust in her life.

  Jenny didn’t know what else to write. She didn’t want to sound too happy, and she didn’t want to seem as if Fern was replacing her role as a mother. Her mom could be touchy about that kind of thing. She had never wanted to hear about what Jenny had learned from Old Deborah either, and she always made fun of their Amish clothing. She used to whisper to Jenny, “As soon as I get out of here, I am giving you a makeover. The works!”

  The first time that she could remember her mom getting released from jail, they moved from Old Deborah’s into a halfway house. Her mom gave Jenny a short haircut and took her to a thrift shop for some new old clothes and plunke
d Chris and Jenny in a public school. Her mother stayed clean for a few months, but it didn’t last long. She had found some work cleaning houses for rich ladies and might have helped herself to their credit cards.

  That time, her mother was sent to jail for a longer time. Something about having priors—whatever that meant. Chris and Jenny settled back comfortably at Old Deborah’s. They had made friends and quickly picked up the Pennsylvania Dutch language from Old Deborah and their friends. Three years later, when their mother was released, she yanked them away from Old Deborah and set up housekeeping in a grungy apartment with cockroaches. Chris and Jenny started yet another public school, but they hated it. They felt as if they were walking a tightrope between two worlds: Amish and English. Kids made fun of them for the way they talked or mocked them because they didn’t know television shows or video games. Just as they had finally made a friend or two and life was beginning to be tolerable, their mother started using drugs again. She bought some meth from an undercover police officer.

  Back Chris and Jenny went to Old Deborah’s.

  The third time Grace Mitchell was released from jail, Old Deborah convinced her to let the children stay at the farm and keep going to the Amish school. She offered to let Grace live with them too. Jenny’s mom complained the entire time that her children had been brainwashed, but Chris noted that she didn’t mind eating Old Deborah’s food or sleeping in a clean bed. She stayed off drugs longer that time—six whole months, but it didn’t last.

  Jenny wanted her mom to get out of the rehab center, but she didn’t want another makeover. It took years to grow her hair out again. She liked being Amish and she doubted her mother would let her remain in the church. Chris said not to worry too much about that because he didn’t expect their mother to ever stay clean.

  Jenny looked around the big kitchen at Windmill Farm. She loved being here. Everything was calm and predictable. Three meals were planned for, each day. Like right now she could open the cupboard and there would be cereal, and on the counter were some apples and pears, and there was milk in the fridge. It was the nicest family Jenny had ever known, and they were all so kind to her and Chris.

  There were moments, like now, when she felt an overwhelming sadness. Why couldn’t she have been born a Lapp? Why couldn’t she have had a mother like Fern and a father like Amos? Not fair. It just wasn’t fair.

  The oven timer went off and Jenny peeked inside. She thought the pies needed just a little more time, so she set the buzzer for another five minutes. She noticed Fern’s coffee can by the buzzer, the one where Fern kept cash. She peeked out the window to make sure no one was coming and opened the can. So much money! There must be hundreds of dollars in that can. What would it be like to have so much money that you could keep extra stored in a coffee can? For she and Chris, it seemed money was barely in their pockets, and it was gone. Whoosh.

  Then she saw Fern’s buggy turn into the driveway. She put the lid on the coffee can and tucked it behind the timer. She hurried to the table and picked up the pencil. It was always so hard to know exactly what to say to her mom. Finally she added:

  Here is a little more money. Sorry it can’t be more, but I have to be careful. Love you! Jenny

  P.S. I’ve grown so tall you won’t believe it!

  She smoothed out two five-dollar bills and put them in an envelope addressed to her mom. Everybody had someone to depend on—but Jenny’s mom only had Jenny. Even Chris didn’t want anything to do with their mother. Taking care of her was up to Jenny.

  It was one of those days that made you feel happy to be alive. On a chilly Saturday morning in mid-November, M.K. decided it was high time to winterize the beehives. The weather this fall had been unseasonably warm. Maybe not warm, but not freezing. Still, she knew winter would arrive, fast and furious. She had spent the morning in the honey cabin, bottling the last of the season’s honey. Now she covered herself with netting and prepared the smoker. As she stapled fresh tarpaper on the outside of the hives, her mind wandered to the first time she had worked with her brother-in-law, Rome, to prepare the hives. It took months before he would let her come close to the hives—he said she had to learn how to be patient before she could be a beekeeper.

  Had she learned to be patient?

  In some areas. Wasn’t she patient with Eugene Miller’s fits-and-starts path to becoming a better reader? It was a slow, slow process, but just when she thought he would never make any progress, there was a breakthrough. Just this week, he had joined in recitations with the rest of his class. She hadn’t asked him to, but she had given him the reading assignment a few days ahead so he could prepare if he wanted to. She had been doing that for weeks now and he had always refused. But this time, he read out loud in a clear, steady voice. Nearly flawless. Her heart swelled with pride for him. As Eugene’s confidence grew, he was far less annoying to the other children. She couldn’t wait to fill Erma Yutzy in on the changes in Eugene. She only hoped that he would have the skills he needed by late May, when he would graduate. Should graduate.

  Such a thought amazed her. She was actually thinking about the end of the term. Wouldn’t Rome be pleased? She was definitely becoming a woman of patience.

  She stapled the last roll of tarpaper and stood back to examine her work. It had to be perfect. The cold weather would slow the bees’ activity, but they could survive by keeping the hive at a comfortable temperature. These bees came from a strain of brown bees that Rome’s mother had bequeathed to him, and he had bequeathed a hive to M.K.

  A jolt shot through her—no one knew how to care for her bees like she did. When she thought about traveling to see a Maori village in New Zealand, she hadn’t taken into consideration what would happen to her bees. How in the world could she ever leave her bees?

  Jimmy Fisher finally located Hank Lapp in the weeds behind the barn. He had his hands held out in front of him, holding onto dowsing rods, gazing at the ground with intent concentration.

  “Looking for water?” Jimmy asked.

  Hank startled and dropped the rods. “I was,” he groused.

  “How do you know when you get close?”

  “When I find it, the rods will move by themselves and cross in my hands.”

  “Let me save you some trouble,” Jimmy said. He went over to the spigot and lifted the hose. “I’m pretty sure the water comes out of the faucets.”

  Hank scowled at him. “For your information, dowsing is a very lucrative skill.”

  “How so?”

  “Let’s say you’re going to invest in a piece of land. Don’t you want to know what’s under the surface?”

  “I’d probably hire a well company.”

  “But who’s going to tell the well company where to dig, eh?” Hank picked up the dowsing rods, holding them lightly in his hands. In spite of the fact that the faucet and the pipes were just a few yards away, over by the barn, the rods did not jump in his hands or twitch or cross. Hank frowned.

  “I just came to tell you that Bishop Elmo is over at the buggy shop. Mad as hops that his buggy isn’t repaired yet.”

  Hank threw down the dowsing rods and pinned Jimmy with a look with his one good eye. “BOY, DON’T YOU HAVE SOMEPLACE YOU NEED TO BE?”

  “I do, actually. I came over to look for M.K., but Fern said she’s off visiting her scholars’ homes.” Jimmy mulled that over. “Why would she bother to waste a perfectly good Saturday afternoon on that?”

  Hank wasn’t listening. His good eye was peeled on an approaching figure. Bishop Elmo had spotted him from across the yard and was heading his way.

  15

  In the schoolhouse, the countdown to Christmas had begun. A secret gift exchange was planned, and parents were coming for a special program. A light dusting of snow one afternoon caused the scholars’ pent-up enthusiasm to explode, like a shaken can of soda. The schoolhouse nearly vibrated with excitement.

  M.K. handed out poems for some of the children who volunteered to recite. Anna Mae Glick chose the longest piece to r
ecite. She was sure she had her part down pat. M.K. wasn’t as sure.

  Each day, the children rehearsed Christmas carols. Day after day, the strains of a miniature heavenly host singing “Joy to the World” wafted out of the schoolhouse. M.K. scanned the ranks—the sun glinted off Danny Riehl’s spectacles. Barbara Jean’s grown-up front teeth were about halfway in now. She didn’t whistle and spit so much when she talked, but her little tongue kept sticking out. She’d grown accustomed to Jenny Yoder’s earnest, birdlike look. A well of fondness rose within M.K. for these children. Imagine that! Fondness.

  And here was another unexpected surprise in the schoolhouse this Christmas season: Eugene Miller. The boy had a beautiful tenor voice. M.K. started using him as a pitch pipe—to set everyone on the right note. He would roll his eyes whenever she asked him for a G or an E flat, but then he would sit up straight and open his mouth and the exact note would float out of his mouth, right on key. He tried hard not to look pleased, but M.K. could tell he was secretly delighted. The changes she had noticed in him lately were astonishing. There were good days and bad days, but Eugene Miller was becoming a different person.

  She had known Eugene all his life, but for the first time she was catching glimpses of how vulnerable he really was. For all his outward swagger, he was a hurt little boy inside, hiding his pain behind pranks and laughter.

  How had she not realized? Eugene Miller was starved for attention.

  It was late in the day, and the day was late in the season. Winter was coming. The shadows were growing dusky. M.K. had just finished grading papers at the schoolhouse and had one more thing to do: she wanted to tape the scholars’ new artwork up on the window as a surprise to them in the morning. She had pushed a desk up against the window and stood on top of it when she heard the door open and spun around to find Chris Yoder standing at the threshold.