Fearless Hope: A Novel (7 page)

Now he was desperate to fix that machine and didn’t have a clue how to do it.

No writer’s trick he knew would prime the pump, and he was starting to get scared.

•  •  •

“Thelma and I want to help.” Bishop Schrock handed Hope an envelope filled with cash. He had stopped early in the morning on his way to work. She was glad that she had already milked the cow and hung out her wash. It would have been humiliating had he found her in the same shape that Claire had.

With reluctance, Hope accepted her father-in-law’s gift.

“You are our daughter. You are raising our grandchildren,”
he said. “Neither we nor the church want you to be in want. There will be more money when you need it.”

“I am very grateful,” she said, “but I wish we did not have to take this.”

“Don’t worry right now about finances. You should concentrate on these children and keeping yourself strong and healthy so that you can care for them.”

“Thank you, Bishop,” she said.

It felt so strange to be on the receiving end. She and Titus had frequently given what they could for others. It was the Amish way, to share with those in need. They had been happy to help.

Now she was learning that having to be the taker was much, much harder for her than being the giver.

As willing as she knew her people were to help widows and orphans, the last thing she wanted was to live on alms from the church forever. She was young and healthy and a hard worker. From what she could see, she had two choices: either find a job fast, or marry someone who would support her. The last choice, in her opinion, was not an option. Unfortunately, there had been one inquiry along that line already, even though she had not yet needed to flip the calendar to a new month following Titus’s death.

Abimelech Yoder, whom she had caught staring at her after Titus’s funeral, had already brought up the possibility with her father. He was a decent enough man, she supposed, and obviously desperate to place a mother in that kitchen, but she did not love him. She would never love him.

The bishop had brought some brightly colored balloons, which he now blew up for Adam and Carrie. Then he said good-bye, leaving each of the children happily clutching a balloon.

After he left, she tucked the envelope of money away in her
underwear drawer, determined to make it last as long as possible. She fixed the children breakfast, then sat down at her desk, pulled out some plain three-by-five cards, and started making up little advertisements to put in some of the shops in Mt. Hope. She knew how to clean house, cook, and sew. She hoped there would be an
Englisch
woman willing to hire her for a few hours each week.

She did not know many
Englisch
women well, but she had heard that many of them were not particularly skilled in these areas, while Amish women were taught how to keep a house from childhood on. Hopefully, whoever hired her would not mind so much if she brought two well-behaved children with her. She also hoped they wouldn’t mind too much when they found out she was pregnant.

The little card looked bare to her after she had printed her name, the type of work for which she was looking, and the phone number in her shanty. She found some colored pencils and created a small, colorful border around the card, hoping it would make it stand out from other advertisements. Five cards were finished before the children interrupted, wanting to go outside and play.

As she helped them into their warm, outdoor clothes, she gave thanks to God for her loving church and her healthy children. Then she asked God for a special favor. Would He please bless her little cards with success? Would He please allow them to attract the attention of just the right person? Someone He would choose? She did not mind working hard, but she hoped that she could find employment with someone who would at least be kind.

•  •  •

The house was furnished. He felt rested. The deadline was still a worry to him and he felt weird not writing. So, he decided to
ignore Harry’s advice. He recharged his laptop and got back to work. Or at least he tried to.

It was a mistake.

There was a time when he had thought that writer’s block was nothing more than the excuse of a lazy writer. Now he regretted ever having held that opinion. Writer’s block was real and it was deadly. Harry had bought him some time, but the fact remained, if he didn’t produce a book soon, he would have to give back his advance and possibly even face legal action.

The minute he sat down in front of his laptop, a feeling of dread came over him, so strong that he jumped out of his chair as though the laptop were a snake ready to strike. He paced the floor until he could face touching the keyboard again. Found out again that he couldn’t do this.

He had never experienced anything remotely like it before. A professional writer doesn’t wait for the mood to strike. For him, at least in the past, the “mood” struck at precisely eight o’clock in the morning, because he had deliberately trained himself to sit down and write from eight o’clock in the morning until one o’clock in the afternoon. Every day. Rain or shine. Seven days a week. Period.

He usually kept the television on low for background noise. He found the muted sounds comforting. They helped him relax and concentrate. His writing routine then involved stopping, eating a quick lunch in front of the TV. When he had been at his best, he had always taken a long walk so that his body would not atrophy. Then a fifteen-minute nap to ease the switch from creative brain to analytical brain. The afternoon was spent self-editing, doing research, answering e-mails, writing blogs, doing PR, and dealing with the business of being a full-time writer. He broke from that only when Marla got home from her job. Then they would go out to dinner and come home to watch television until they fell asleep.

He was ashamed of the loneliness he was experiencing now. He had never realized before just how much television supplied his need for human interaction. Or how much he had depended emotionally on Marla’s coming home each night.

After the fourth attempt to write a complete sentence without breaking out in a sweat, he gave up and put the laptop away. He was in even worse shape than he had thought. Perhaps Marla was right. Maybe he
did
need a shrink.

H
e was wasting time wandering around, poking through an antiques shop he’d noticed in Mt. Hope. He was loafing again, since it didn’t seem like he had a choice in the matter. Right now, he was fairly certain that he couldn’t force himself to write even if one of his characters held a gun to his head.

He was certainly not a stranger to antiques stores. Marla sometimes dragged him along with her while hunting for unique items to use in her decorating business.

This particular antiques store was better than average. Higher-end items. These things were not just old, they had been expensive before they became antiques. Even Marla would have approved. He made a mental note to bring her here when she came to visit.

The place resembled a Victorian home more than a store. He had almost missed the weathered sign halfway hidden behind the lilac bush.

They had quite a collection of old books. Many of them were religious, which did not surprise him, considering his geographical location. It stood to reason that in a town that practically rolled up its sidewalks on Sunday, there would be
lots of religious books. He stood looking at the confusing array of titles and shook his head. When it came to religious books, he had no idea how to tell which one might have value and which one would not.

That’s how he felt about organized religion in general. He sometimes longed for the comfort of faith, but how on earth could one ever discern truth from fiction? The good and honest from the bad and dishonest?

Something caught his eye on the top shelf: a slender, dark-grained leather case with a latch. He pulled it down, finding it surprisingly heavy. He laid it on a round, claw-foot table near the window, flipped the latch, and lifted the cover.

To his surprise, nestled inside the case was a maroon red, jewel-like, portable typewriter, unlike any that he had ever seen. The ribbon appeared to be intact. He gave one key an experimental tap and was pleased with the smooth action.

The noise brought the proprietor, an elderly woman who looked entirely too fragile to be working at a job. She resembled an old-fashioned librarian, birdlike in her frailty, her gray hair in a classic bun. He judged her to be in her very late eighties or early nineties.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she said. “Ever since my nephew brought it here from an estate sale I wished it could talk. I think it would have quite a lot of interesting stories to tell.”

“What do you know about it?” he asked.

“That’s a portable 1934 Smith & Corona Super-Speed Silent. The family said it once belonged to a relative who was a newspaper correspondent during World War II. It was quite expensive in its time, and considered to be of the highest quality.”

“It’s beautiful.” He ran his hand over the smooth, glass-like finish.

“I can find you a sheet of paper to try it out if you wish.”

“I would appreciate that.”

It did not take her long to find some blank computer paper, which she rolled into the platen. She seemed very familiar with the workings of manual typewriters and he was grateful because he had never used one before. Their time had been long past when he entered high school.

“Now,” she said, “you can try it out.”

She watched over his shoulder as he attempted to use it. At first it seemed awkward and difficult compared to the minimal effort it took to touch the keys on his laptop, but soon he fell into a rhythm and the muted clackety-clack of the keys delighted him. It made him feel as though he were a “real” writer instead of someone who simply created blips on a screen.

“During the war, it was nearly impossible to get a typewriter,” she said. “The military was using every available one, and some of their manufacturing companies were pressed into service to make weapons instead. This instrument would have been a rarity and highly valued. My guess is that the correspondent would have protected it with his life.”

“Do you remember the war well?”

He assumed she was old enough to have gone through it, but it was a little hard to judge her age. She could have been anywhere from seventy to a hundred. She had that timeless quality that some women acquire.

“Oh, my dear boy. Do I remember it?” Her shoulders straightened. “I helped
win
it!”

There was something in the tone of her voice and the pride in her eyes that made him think she had lived it in ways that most people her age had not.

He loved hearing other people’s stories. With plenty of free time on his hands, he probed further.

“How did you live it?” he asked. “Did you grow a Victory Garden? Deal with rationing? Lose a sweetheart or a husband to the war?”

“Oh no. None of that. Stay right here and I’ll show you something.”

Intrigued, he waited until she came back carrying a small, velvet box and handed it to him.

“Open it.”

He did. Inside was a gold medal with the picture of a woman pilot embossed on the front.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked, in awe.

“A Congressional Gold Medal. The highest honor awarded to a civilian. I did a great deal more than grow a Victory Garden during the war. I was a WASP. The Women Airforce Service Pilots. I flew the planes!”

He had read about the civilian women pilots who had ferried various airplanes, including giant bombers, from the factories to the war effort, freeing more male pilots to be in combat.

“You were a WASP?” he said. “What did you fly?”

“I flew nineteen different types of planes, including B-17s, B-25s, P-47s, and P-51s. I received this medal only four years ago. It took an act of Congress and a presidential signature to make it happen, but we were finally recognized for our service to the country. Thirty-eight of us died while ferrying those planes. I remember having to take up a collection to get the casket of one of our pilots back to her people in Kalamazoo. The government didn’t recognize us as military. We paid our own way there and our own way back home, or, as in the case of my friend, other people had to pay it for us.”

“You don’t sound bitter about it.” He inspected the medal. The workmanship was beautiful. “I would be angry if I’d had to wait so long.”

“That was just how it was back then.” She lifted bony shoulders in a shrug. “Our records were closed for thirty years. Historians couldn’t get into them. No one knew. Some people thought it was an empty boast when I told them what I had
done in the war. They thought I was making it up, but I wasn’t.”

A story began to form in his mind.

“Do you have more blank paper?” he asked. “I’d be happy to pay.”

“Of course.” She returned with a small stack. “Feel free. I don’t get much company in here.”

She patted him on the shoulder like a doting aunt, then left to take up her hopeful perch on the stool beside the old-fashioned brass cash register.

He was vaguely aware that people came and went in the store, but he was too busy playing with his new toy to be bothered by them. The few customers seemed to realize that he needed to be left alone.

After a while he stopped typing, pushed back his chair, and blinked. He had been deeply immersed in the story world he had been creating. Surrounded by antique furniture and doilies, he had been transported to an entirely different time, and the words had simply poured out of him.

The paragraphs were filled with typos and strikeovers, but the antique instrument had caused a WWII story to begin to form the minute she had told him about its history. He felt, as he sat there, as though he were the correspondent who once carried and used this machine. His few years working as a wet-behind-the-ears journalist on the streets of New York City had given him some insight into what it might be like to be a young war correspondent who was scared silly, but equally determined to make one’s mark on the world. He could also imagine this lovely older lady as the beautiful young woman she must have been as she climbed behind the controls of a bomber. What courage that must have taken!