Sarah's Garden (20 page)
“
Ach
, Tom does this often,”
Grossmudder
Stolis muttered. “And there ain’t no need to kill him over it.”
Grant froze. “What did you say?”
The old woman leaned closer, as if he were hard of hearing. “I said, Tom does this often!”
The younger Mrs. Stolis appeared as perplexed as Grant. “What do you mean,
Mamm
Stolis?”
The old woman glared at them, then started to laugh. She laughed so hard, she wheezed, and when she did, Tom jumped up to rub his face against hers.
The young Mrs. Stolis screamed, and Grant felt a chill run down his spine.
Grossmudder
Stolis stroked the now-purring cat with a gnarled hand. “You’ve seen things, Doctor, but you ain’t seen everything yet. Can’t you tell when a cat’s playin’ possum?”
“What?”
“He plays dead. How do you think he ’s lasted in and out of all the nights of twenty-one years? If he looks dead, most things won’t want to be eating him. I tell you he’s got years left in him. Years. Just like me, ain’t that right, Tom?” Tom blinked at Grant and seemed to agree.
Grant drove away, realizing the old woman and the old cat had taught him a valuable lesson. He did not know everything there was to know about life and about love, he thought. There were things of the heart that endured beyond time and medicine and expectation, and he wondered if he ’d ever get the chance to really have that kind of a heart experience with Sarah. He sighed as he glanced in his rearview mirror and decided he should have asked the old cat for some advice.
H
e had just driven past the boundary of the King property when he noticed someone in a blue jacket moving through the starkness of the empty field. He pulled the car over and got out. His long legs made short work of the distance across the field, but the person in the blue coat must have caught sight of him because he took off, headed for the tree line of the woods at the back of the property.
Grant pressed on and, in a sudden burst of speed, was able to grab the tail end of the blue coat just as the man entered the woods. He pulled, realizing that he was much taller and outweighed the other runner, and felled the man against the cold earth.
“All right,” Grant gasped, turning the struggling body over. “Who are—”
He broke off when he recognized the angry, dirty face of Matthew Fisher.
The boy had ceased to struggle and glared up at him, much as he had the day Grant had grabbed him by the nape of the neck at the stand.
“You’re the Kings’ arsonist, aren’t you?” Grant asked, still taking deep breaths of cold air.
“I don’t have to tell you nothing.”
Grant eased up on his hold and leaned back on his knees, somehow feeling that the boy wasn’t going to run again at that moment.
“Why Sarah? Why the Kings?”
“What difference does it make to you?”
“I lost my father when I was ten. I know you lost your father in a way—it changes you.”
Matthew wrenched from him, his dark eyes filling with sudden tears. “Just shut up.”
“No . . . not until I know that you’re done with the fires.”
“Ha. Do you think that’s the only way to make somebody pay?”
“It’s your way . . . like your father burned your mother’s face. Do you want to be the same kind of man?”
“Shut up, you . . .”
Grant let him go. “Go on, run away; but you’re going to have to face yourself sometime. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”
The boy took off between the trees, and Grant rose slowly to his feet to pick his way back across the field. It had only been a suspicion really, about the arson, but the blue coat matched up. He’d have to let Mr. King know, though he doubted the police could catch the boy in the maze of the woods even at this time of year.
He sighed, chilled, as he got back in his car and thought about old Mrs. Stolis. No, he didn’t know everything, and he wished Matthew Fisher didn’t know as much as he did about the evil of man.
T
he week at the Kemp farm seemed to take wings, and Sarah found herself feeling better as she spent time talking with John Kemp’s
mamm
, eating the tasty meals Chelsea prepared to tempt her, and holding her tiny nephew. When she returned home, there was color back in her cheeks and a renewed spirit within her, but when she went to greet Father, she found him pale and somewhat absentminded.
“Father,” she asked with concern. “Are you ill?”
“
Nee
.” He smiled, patting her cheek. “I’m just growing old, that’s all.”
Sarah looked at
Mamm
, but she only shrugged with a worried frown and turned back to the stove.
So Sarah went back to the stand the next day and sat close to the kerosene heater Luke had brought that morning. She clutched her gloved hands together and tried to repress a shiver. She found it hard to believe that she’d ever thought, in the summers past, that it was too hot when the early November weather was as cold as it was.
The stubborn wind blew, shifting the light curtain of near-freezing rain into the deeper regions of the stand, and she moved to adjust some needlepoint pillows farther back on a shelf. She gazed over the baskets of pinecones, both natural and dipped in cinnamon wax, and the ten pumpkin and custard pies she ’d made the previous night. In truth, she had fun arranging the various wreaths, dried mushrooms, and jars of canned items each day. And despite the cold, cars stopped. She learned to have an assortment of ribbon and brown paper for passersby who stopped on a whim, wanting a gift for the upcoming holiday season or some token to take home or to a party.
Mamm
had also given her several quilts from the attics that she ’d completed some years back. It amazed Sarah how fascinated the
Englisch
were with quilts and the act of quilting.
She glanced up at the thought, realizing that she was expecting Grant. She hadn’t seen him since she ’d returned, but a car pulled in, and a man got out who was not the doctor.
He was clad in one of the puffy coats the
Englisch
seemed to prefer in cold weather and wore sunglasses against the glare, as the light began to pierce through the thin rain, catching the dim corners of the leaden surroundings.
He took the glasses off as he mounted the steps to the stand.
“Mornin’, honey. I’d like to see your quilts. Want to get one for my wife for Christmas.”
Sarah rose, dreading the moment when she ’d have to tell him the cost.
Mamm
had insisted that quilts in Lancaster and other places sold for as much as a thousand dollars and had also said she ’d have the arthritis in her neck to prove her workmanship was just as fine.
“No lower than four hundred, Sarah. Don’t forget what I say. Your heart is soft enough to give them away,”
Mamm
had told her as she ’d bundled the quilts into Sarah’s outstretched arms.
“
Jah
,
Mamm
,” Sarah had replied.
So she wriggled her cold fingers inside her gloves and unfolded the blue and white double wedding ring quilt first. She could see the pleasure in the man’s eyes as he surveyed the stitchery.
“That’s real pretty. You got anything with more purple and red in it?”
Sarah opened the Jacob’s Ladder quilt, and the man smiled in satisfaction. “That’ll be the one. I’ll take it.”
Sarah took a deep breath. “It’s four hundred dollars, sir.”
He looked surprised and she shifted nervously, hating this part of the stand. “Four hundred? Honey, you’re selling yourself short. A quilt like this would go for nearly a thousand in some places.”
He ran a rough hand over the colored fabric. “I’ll give you five hundred and you learn a lesson from an older man. Don’t sell for less.”
Sarah swallowed. “Thank you so much. I hope your wife likes it.”
His face took on a faint shadow, though he still smiled. “Well, me too. It’ll be her last Christmas you know—if she can hang on that long. She’s got the breast cancer real bad . . . gone through to the chest wall. The doctors don’t give her much time.” He was counting out the bills as he spoke and Sarah’s eyes filled with quick tears.
He looked at her as he handed over the money and she took it reluctantly. “Don’t feel bad, honey. We ’re believers in the Lord; I’ll see her again one day.”
“Please,” Sarah choked. “Will you let me give you the bed pillows that will match the quilt? I—I’d like a chance to bless her.”
The man smiled. “Why that’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“Can I wrap it for you? I have paper and ribbon.”
“Sure.”
Sarah was concentrated on fitting the paper around the quilt, thinking how much she had to be grateful for when others were suffering so. She wound ribbon around two of the needlepoint pillows, binding them together.
“Thank you, honey. You keep your chin up now!”
“
Ach
, you too and your wife!” Sarah called as he placed the items in his backseat, then got in and drove off with a wave.
Keep your chin up
. . . Sarah pondered his words. He was telling her to be strong, when he had such a weight to bear himself. It made her bow her head in silent thanks to the Lord for sending someone to give her a message of hope that provided her a different perspective on life.
She returned home that evening, frustrated at not having seen Grant, only to encounter
Mamm
’s anxious face.
“Sarah, Father is much worse today than he has been. He doesn’t want to leave his chair.”
Sarah took one look at Father’s ashen complexion and the indecisive faces of her brothers and spoke quickly.
“He needs to go to the hospital. I’ll run to the telephone shack to call an ambulance; I’m faster.” And she flew out into the freezing darkness.
G
rant swung the car into the lane of the King farm, not even sure why he was doing it. He’d taken the fawn to the animal sanctuary that morning and had then been tied up with a difficult cesarean on a cow, followed by prolonged visits to several farms to complete herd vaccinations, which he’d been working on for nearly two weeks. He hadn’t had the chance to see Sarah in forever, and he chafed at the darkened roadside stand as he passed it. His headlights suddenly picked up a woman crossing the road and he recognized the strands of light brown hair.
He ground the car to a halt and got out. “Sarah, what is it?”
She looked at him wild-eyed, and he caught her shoulders. “It’s Father. He ’s very ill. I need to telephone . . .”
“Get in.” He sped a few yards down the lane, then muttered and stopped again. “Sarah, the battery’s dead in my cell. Run to the telephone shack. Pick up the receiver and dial 9-1-1; someone who will help will answer. Run fast. I’ll go to your father.”
She was out of the car before he ’d finished speaking and started back through the field, stumbling over the earthen clods. She was praying with each step, but she knew that the Lord had sent Grant at that moment. The Lord was in control. She kept repeating the thought over and over as she gained the small gray shack that housed the telephone. She flung the door wide and saw nothing but blank, rough walls and a black telephone and wires mounted on the wall opposite her. The fitful light of the moon allowed her to see the numbers. She lifted the handle with a shaking hand and put it to her ear. She ’d never had to use a phone before. She heard a buzzing sound and recalled the number that Grant had spoken. She put her thin finger in the circle by the nine and turned it clockwise, then did the same for the two ones. She waited, her heart beating in her ears.
“9-1-1 emergency. How can I help you?” The woman’s voice sounded calm and competent.
Sarah sagged against the wall in relief. “Father . . . my father . . . he’s very ill. He needs an ambulance.”
“Is he breathing?”
Jah
. . . yes . . . he’s just very pale and sitting still.” “
“Can you take the phone and go to him while I ask you some questions?”
“No,” she sobbed. “I’m Amish; I’m in a telephone house in the fields.”
“All right, honey, hang on. Can you give me your address?”
Sarah carefully gave her address and directions to the farm from Lockport.
“All right, now I want you to go back to your father and wait for the ambulance. Do you know CPR?”
She thought desperately. “No . . . no . . . What is it?”
“It’s all right, honey. Just go back to your father; try and make him comfortable. The ambulance is on its way . . . should be there in ten minutes or less.”
“I’ll go,” Sarah breathed. “
Danki
.”
She raced back toward the house, her feet beating a steady rhythm to the refrain in her heart.
Let him be well, Lord. Let him be well .
. .
G
rant entered the farm house to an eerie quiet. The family was gathered around Mr. King’s chair, and Mrs. King sobbed. They looked up at him as he crossed the kitchen and
Mamm
cried out, “
Der Herr sie gedankt
, Dr. Williams is here. Please help him!”
Grant hurried to the chair where Mr. King sagged, with his head on one side. He felt for a pulse, relieved to find it weak but present.
“When did this start?”
Mamm
wrung her hands. “He hasn’t been himself for a few days, but tonight he complained about a pain in his arm and then he just seemed to drift off. I couldn’t wake him; I thought he was just tired.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. King, but I think it’s his heart. Let’s get him down on the floor and make him more comfortable. Get some blankets too.” He took off his jacket and pillowed it on the hardwoods while the boys helped him ease their father down and cover him up. Mr. King’s eyelids fluttered, and Grant breathed a prayer of thanks.
“Mr. King, it’s Grant Williams. You’re going to be all right. The ambulance will be coming. Sarah ran to call them.”
Grant kept up the flow of simple sentences, trying to make an anchor of his voice; Mr. King groaned.
“Get a damp cloth, will you, Luke?” he said low.
Sarah flew back into the kitchen as Grant began to wipe down her father’s forehead. She dropped to the old man’s side, next to her
mamm
, and began a rapid flood of Pennsylvania Dutch, in between hiccupping sobs.
