Sarah's Garden (11 page)

Samuel laughed. “Isn’t there any hail in Philadelphia?”

“Not that I’ve seen.” He paused, then amended himself. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

It was true; he ’d spent the last years of his life so buried in books or animal anatomy that he probably couldn’t even tell what day it was, let alone what season. But here was a group of people dependent on the seasons, the mercurial weather, and dealing with the threat of things like hail that could hamper their financial existence. It was all the more reason to have a faith in God’s presence as they did, and it made him respect their culture even more.

“Well, you’ll notice hail here,” Luke broke into his thoughts. “Bet you’ll get to be delivering cows in it too.” Again the mutual laughter, the gentle teasing. Grant felt something shift inside of him, and his throat worked against a rush of emotion.

“What next?” he asked.

“Only three more things for now,” Sarah stated, a small dirt-stained finger pressed against her lips as she thought. “The lettuces, onions, and garlic.” The brothers produced the plants, and Sarah gave a final pat to the earth. Then they all four stood back to consider.

“There,” Sarah announced, her hands clasped once more before her.

For Grant, it was as if the climax to some great symphony had just concluded. He saw the garden, not in its tender beginnings, but in the full-blown profusion to come. There was a balance, a purpose, and a function for each plant, but there was also a threading of beauty running through each row. He had the strange thought that Sarah’s garden, for he could not think of it as his own, was a living quilt with each plant a square and each leaf a stitch.

“It’s like a quilt,” Sarah proclaimed, startling him with the similarity of their thoughts.

“I was just thinking that.”

Samuel and Luke had gathered their few tools and headed back around the side of the house while he called his thanks. He was left alone with her, and the garden, and their shared thoughts. She must have become aware of the gentle quiet, because she self-consciously began to tuck her hair back.

“Please don’t.”

“It’s vain to have my hair show.”

“No, it’s beautiful . . . just like what you’ve done here. How can I ever thank you?”

She shrugged. “They’re simple plants.”

He stepped nearer until he could see the threads of gold that shot through a single tendril of her light brown hair in the sunlight.

“I don’t mean the plants, I mean watching you do this for me. It was a gift.”

She bent her head and he caught up one of her dirt-stained hands into his own. She allowed it, causing him to catch his breath.

“Sarah,” he whispered, raising her hand to his lips. He unfolded the fingers of her hand, like the petals of a new flower, and pressed his mouth into her palm, closing his eyes. He expected her to pull away and was trying to savor as much as he could of the taste of earth and warmth and something distinctly woman. But she didn’t struggle, and he lifted his head and opened his eyes to stare down at her.

She was looking up at him, mesmerized, and he watched awareness swamp back into her eyes as she pulled at his grip. He let her go and she turned, hugging her arms about herself, her head down.

“Sarah . . . Miss King, I meant no disrespect. I just wanted to say thank you. I know it’s not proper in your world . . .” He floundered and had to clench his hands into fists to keep from touching her again.

“Not proper,” she repeated in a choked whisper. “What is proper?”

“What do you mean?”

“A kiss is proper in its time.”

He shook his head, feeling out of his depth.

“Talk to me, Sarah—please. Tell me the truth of what you’re saying.”

She turned back to face him, and he was troubled to see tears damp on her cheeks.

“Oh, Sarah, please don’t cry. I promise I’ll never do anything that makes you uncomfortable again.”

She lifted her eyes to his own. “I’m telling the truth, Doctor. It was not uncomfortable or unpleasant. It was too pleasant. I—I’ve never had anyone kiss me but my family before.”

“Oh. Not even growing up? A boyfriend, perhaps?”

She smiled without mirth. “You mean Jacob Wyse, don’t you? No, not even him as a friend.”

Her words shook him as vapid images of his own life rose up to confront him, casual kisses with girls through high school, a parade of steady girlfriends through college who would have been all too glad to do much more than kiss. Girls dressed in short dresses and shorter skirts. Easy hugging and hand holding, touches that meant nothing and more than nothing when he thought of his moments with this simple Amish girl. He swallowed hard.

“Then you’ve given me two gifts today—the garden and the kiss.”

“You think I’m strange,” she said resignedly.

He didn’t touch her; he couldn’t. He used his voice instead. “Sarah . . . I think myself strange. The world’s never made so much sense as when I see it with you.”

She nodded. “It’s our way to ‘be in the world, but not of the world.’ If I am showing you the world so that it makes sense, then I am failing
Der Herr
. . . my faith.”

“I’m not explaining myself right. And I’m not backpedaling or trying to fool you about what I mean. I mean that I have clarity, a clearness when I’m with you that I don’t have at other times.” He rubbed his shoe in the dirt. “I remember when I was ten, right after my parents died, I went to a frozen lake near where I lived. The ice was thin on the shoreline, so I broke off a big piece and put it in front of my face. I could still see the lake, but everything was blurry and far off. I felt safe behind that ice. In a lot of ways, I’ve lived like I’ve still had that ice in front of me—a shield, a protection . . . but with you—you make me put the ice down; you melt it. And I’m alive again.”

She shook her head “It’s the Lord; He ’s doing this for you. Not me.”

“It is God through you, Sarah King, working through you because you permit it. Thank you.”

She studied him, visibly weighing his words. Finally, she quietly said, “
Gern gschehne
—you’re welcome.”

The bang of the screen door caused them both to start as Mrs. King came down the back porch steps with a faint frown.

“Sarah, are you finished?”

“
Jah
,
Mamm
. I’m done.” She did not meet his intense look. “For now.”

S
he watched the doctor go around the back of the house after he mentioned going on a promised call, until she realized that
Mamm
had spoken to her.

“I’m sorry,
Mamm
—what is it?”

“I just hope that you are using wisdom in your doings with the doctor, Sarah. Don’t forget what Father told you.”

“I know,
Mamm
,” Sarah spoke, hoping her eyes would not betray her thoughts, then immediately regretting the deception. “What did you want me for?”

Mamm
frowned but went on. “I asked Mrs. Bustle if she might need some help dusting and cleaning, and she said that she ’d be grateful. Are you willing to help?”

“
Ach
,
jah
, certainly.”

“I’ll get the boys to muck out the barns. I don’t know what was in Mr. Fisher’s head, but it had little to do with his farm.”

Sarah said nothing, thinking of the anger in Matthew Fisher’s eyes at the stand.

Mamm
patted her arm. “Come along, child. I didn’t mean to make you think of unhappy things. Let’s just help Mrs. Bustle.”

Sarah nodded and followed
Mamm
indoors. Parts of the house were indeed still in a muddle. Sarah got a brown bag and began to gather newspapers from the floor of a still-cluttered room off the kitchen. The various ads for clothing or fast food stared up at her, and she tried not to look too hard as she rolled the papers to be burned later. There was no doubt that working at the stand had made her more observant of the
Englisch
ways of dress and their mannerisms, and sometimes she found a particular pair of shoes or a blouse that a woman customer was wearing to be very attractive. And very worldly, she reminded herself.

She thought it odd that the Fishers took in such papers, for normally the
Budget
was the only major newspaper read in nearly all Amish communities. Still, there must have been a reason. She went into the kitchen, found a dry rag, and set to dusting the hardwood furniture that the Fishers had left behind, all the while feeling a tingling burn in the palm where the doctor had kissed her hand. Her hands had been dirty, but he ’d kissed her as though the earth was part of her, and somehow, she took this as a sincere compliment. It was not one of words but one that acknowledged in some way her oneness with the land, the gift of the Lord. And she felt that it was the closest she had ever let anyone come to seeing her true heart, the one that loved the growing things yet worshipped the Creator of them all.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Bustle ’s loud cry. Both
Mamm
and Sarah ran into the kitchen to find the elderly woman perched atop the kitchen table.

“Another rat?”
Mamm
asked.

“No . . . it’s the cat,” she stammered. “It’s got something there that’s . . . not quite dead!” She shrieked once more, then pressed her hands to her quivering lips.

Sarah went over to the cat and bent down. “I don’t think he means to hurt it; I think he ’s bringing it to us.” She opened the cat’s mouth and took out the squeaking item. “
Ach
,
Mamm
, look—it’s a baby bat.”

Mrs. Bustle moved as if to faint and Mrs. King caught her, hastily spritzing her face with the water bottle she ’d been using to clean with. Mrs. Bustle came to immediately.

“Oh, Mrs. King, I’m sorry, but a bat!”

“It’s just a baby one,” Sarah said, cradling it in her hands. “You must have a colony living in your attic.”

“What?! Bustle! Mr. Bustle!” Mrs. Bustle let out a delicate roar, and
Mamm
and Sarah looked at each other in fascination.

Mr. Bustle hurried into the kitchen. “What is it, my dear?”

She pointed a shaking finger. “Do you know anything about a bat living in this house?”

Mr. Bustle had the grace to flush. “Not a single one, no.”

“A colony, then? In the attic?”

Sarah had to hide a smile at the interchange between the couple. Mr. Bustle was doing his best to appear calm in the face of his wife ’s near hysteria.

“Maybe a bit of a colony . . . ahem, not a colony, a group rather . . .”

“A group of bats in our attic? And you’ve known about this for how long?”

“Ah, well, that’s difficult to say . . .”

They bantered on while
Mamm
went back to dusting and Sarah found a warm rag to wrap the baby bat in. She found it amazing how the
Englisch
displayed their emotions in front of others. She couldn’t recall
Mamm
and Father ever having such a loud discussion in front of neighbors. She slipped out of the kitchen and found her way upstairs to the attic, taking the gray little mite with her. She entered the darkness without preamble or any thought of turning on the light and gently reattached the baby to the wall near some sleeping adults. She was back downstairs within minutes.

“What did you do with it?” Mrs. Bustle asked, still quivering on the tabletop.

“I put it back with the others; it’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Bustle rolled her eyes, but Mr. Bustle regarded Sarah with a respect that she found hard to fathom but appreciated nonetheless.

CHAPTER 8

S
arah squinted against the sun as she tried to concentrate on her stitches for Chelsea’s baby quilt. She ’d come to more greatly realize and appreciate beautiful things, like quilts, among the plainness of her culture. And now, although she still struggled with her precision, the quilt’s small details seemed intensified against the vivid darkness of her skirt. Just like life, she considered, or a flower bloom against the dirt. Quilting was becoming an art for her, one that touched her soul in a place that only growing things had up until now.

She had just bundled her work away and sold her last half-moon pie when she saw the doctor walk down the high road and cut across to the stand. He was visibly upset about something, and she clasped her hands in her lap as she sat back down in her chair, waiting for him to speak. She didn’t have to wait long.

“Tell me, Miss King, are you familiar with a place called Becker’s Beasts and Birds?”

Sarah thought for a moment. “
Jah
, about eight miles away up the road, on the left.”

“Have you been there?”

“No—it’s a tourist attraction for the
Englisch
, I believe.”

He dropped angrily down on the top step of the stand. “That’s right and
Englisch
owned. It’s a pig sty.”

“I thought it had all different kinds of animals.”

Dr. Williams tilted his head back to look at her and rolled his blue eyes. “A figurative pig sty.”

“
Ach
.”

“Yes—
ach
. They’ve got a sun bear in there. Do you know what that is?”

Sarah shook her head and he glanced back to the high road.

“It’s a very rare and beautiful animal. I did a project on them in high school. It’s the smallest of the bear family . . . reaches only four feet in height. It’s got sleek brown or black fur and it comes from Malaysia, but the coolest thing about it is this horseshoe-shaped marking around its neck, muzzle, and eyes; it looks like it’s been touched by the sun with bright yellow or sometimes tan markings. It eats honey . . . doesn’t hurt anyone . . .” His voice lowered. “Come to think of it, that report . . . the sun bear is probably why I decided to become a veterinarian. To find out about the strange and wonderful creatures God made.”

She waited, pleased that he would share such an intimate part of his life with her.

“Anyway . . . Becker’s sun bear hasn’t seen the sun, which it needs, for years. It’s living in its own filth, in a cage it can’t stand upright in. I just . . . I just was so angry with those people, I walked out. I should have tried to buy the thing, but I wanted to grab Becker’s neck even more.”

“Father has great trouble himself when he hears of an Amishman who doesn’t treat his horses right,” Sarah said.