Keys of Heaven (16 page)

C
arefully, patiently, Henry drew his thumb along the soft, damp curve of the clay that would become the handle of a batter bowl, this second depression next to the first forming a ridge in the center like a vein or a stem. At the terminus of the curve, the clay splayed outward, clinging to the body of the bowl in the shape of a peony leaf, a sample of which he had found in Sadie's garden and pressed between the pages of his sketchbook as a model.

There. Henry straightened with satisfaction.

The classes he'd taken in historical pottery methods, and the hours of research he'd done on the Art Nouveau and Arts and Crafts movements, were beginning to pay off. Already his sketchbook had taken on a different character, full of natural forms instead of the abstracts he'd been working with without success in Denver.

This landscape around the farm abounded with natural forms. From the curves of pine needles to the flutter of poplar leaves, from the angle of a chicken's tail to the swirl of an eddy in the creek, his eyes had been opened to what the D.W. Frith rep had called the “inspiration in the flowers and fields.”

He wasn't the first to have done so, but with the “sky and water glaze” adapted with different tints to suggest the light coming through leaves and petals, he was definitely on to something. And with each piece, he refined it more. With each stroke of the brush, he found his joy again.

Along with his art, he had found a measure of joy in other places, too. Ginny's smile flickered in his memory, as did the warmth of her arms around him and the soft brush of curls as she laid her head on his shoulder. It had been a long time since he'd held a woman like that—well, if you didn't count that brief embrace with Sarah in the garden a few weeks back, which wasn't the same thing.

No, that one had ended in a push and a denial, and this one had ended in a kiss and a promise. Two totally different experiences, and he'd tell anyone which he preferred.

Gravel crunched under the wheels of a buggy outside the studio, and he grabbed a rag and wiped his hands. Not for the first time, he wondered if putting up that
ARTISAN
sign at the end of the lane hadn't been a mistake. There was far too much traffic around here for a man to focus on his work. Though the Amish typically didn't drive down to watch him. Maybe someone needed a hand—or a car or a phone.

Shapes appeared in the wide swath of sunlight between the heavy barn doors and he blinked.

No. It couldn't be.

Priscilla Mast gave Eric Parker a push in the small of his back while a skinny teenager wearing an Amish hat and broadfall pants leaned on the door with his hands in his pockets.

Henry didn't care who the second boy was. He stared at Eric in astonishment.

“Did your family change their minds?” he finally asked. “Are you going to stay with Caleb Yoder after all?”

Eric gulped and looked at Priscilla for help, but she merely raised her eyebrows at him and folded her arms.

This didn't smell right. He didn't have much experience with kids, but he had a whole lot of experience with guilty consciences.

“Eric? Where are your parents? Ginny didn't mention that she had another reservation for them so soon.”

“At home. In Connecticut. I guess.”

It took him a second to absorb this. And the look of the kid—wrinkled, dirty, and eyeing the plate of chocolate chip cookies Ginny had sent home with him way too avidly even for a thirteen-year-old boy—told him something he didn't want to know.

Priscilla could hold her peace no longer. “He ran away. He took a bus and a train and a buggy and here he is, without his parents knowing a thing.”

“They can probably guess,” Eric mumbled.

“You ran away? From Connecticut?” Henry repeated. “Are you kidding me?”

“I wish he was,” Priscilla said. “So we're here to use your phone, please, to call his parents.”

“Yes.” Good plan. Excellent plan. One that would no doubt bring Trent and Isabel Parker back into his life with a screaming sound like a jet coming in for a landing. “I can't believe it, Eric. What were you thinking?”

“I wanted to come here, not go to California.” He wouldn't raise his eyes from the floor, but Henry saw his gaze dart to the bench once or twice. Looking for something.

“Your lantern is in that box over there, ready to ship to you,” he said.

A little of Eric's tension drained away. “You didn't throw it out.”

“Of course not. It's not mine. But what is mine right now is a boatload of responsibility for you, and I'll tell you right now, I don't appreciate it.”

The kid wilted, and Henry's conscience twinged, but it had to be said. “I thought more of you, Eric. We pursue our art with passion, not deceit and defiance.”

“I couldn't think of anything else to do.”

“I bet you could have, if you tried.”

“You heard my parents. What they said.”

“What I heard was a dad who was willing to consider a change in your academic future, if he got a chance to have a rational conversation about it. I'm thinking that probably isn't going to happen now, is it?”

Mumble.

“Well, go on. Call them. The phone is on the wall there, right next to—”

“Benny Peachey,” said that individual cheerfully. “I gave him a ride to Willow Creek from Intercourse.”

“Did you, now? Thank you for not letting him sleep on the street anyway. Eric, call. Now.”

“Can't you do it?” he whispered, looking so beaten down and exhausted that Henry's heart melted the rest of the way.

With a sigh, he said, “What's your dad's number?”

The kid gave it to him, one reluctant digit at a time, and Henry braced himself as the call rang through.

“Parker. Did you find him?”

He must think this was the police. “Yes. He's safe. I'm—”

“Isabel!” Trent shouted into the background. “Pick up the phone! They found him!” Then into the receiver, “Where?”

“Mr. Parker, this is Henry Byler, in Willow Creek, Pennsylvania. Eric is here, in my studio.”

A receiver clicked, and a breathless female voice said, “Eric? Honey, is that you?”

Henry repeated what he'd just said, to the same shocked silence. Then he thought he'd better elaborate while he could. “Apparently he took a train to Lancaster, a bus to Intercourse, and a buggy to Willow Creek. I'll say this for your boy—he's got guts.”

Someone was making inarticulate sounds that finally resolved themselves into speech. “Guts?” Trent Parker roared. “You put that kid on the line right now!”

Henry felt a little like a kidnapper as he stretched the phone cord out to provide proof of life. “Your dad wants to talk to you.”

But Eric didn't get to say more than a few mumbled words of apology before the volume on the other end got so loud that Henry took the receiver from his unresisting hand.

“All right, all right, I understand that you're upset, and you have every reason to be. But Eric is safe and I'll see that he gets a square meal and a good night's sleep, so he'll be fine by the time you get here tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?” Isabel snapped, since Trent appeared to have run out of steam.

“I assume you're coming to get him?”

“How can we do that? I've got flight reservations to California tomorrow, with Justin,” Isabel said. “Does that child have any idea how much it would cost us to cancel?”

“But Trent—Mr. Parker—”

“Has to go back to work. Oil companies don't run themselves, you know. Some people can't just work when they feel like it—they have
responsibilities
.”

“In my experience in the corporate world, it's the executive assistants who run most things. But all right. Do you want me to drive him up there?” The bowls would take a couple of days to dry anyway, before he could give them their first firing, so the timing could work.

“Mr. Byler, I just told you, Justin and I will be on a plane, and Trent will be in New York City. He's staying at the company suite while we're gone. It's not going to be much fun for Eric—he hates it in the city and the company isn't all that excited about kids in the suite, either.”

Now, wait just a minute. “Mrs. Parker, do you think you could take twenty-four hours out of your busy life to pay some attention to the boy who loves his art so much he crossed three states by himself to come back to it?”

“The boy who ran away, you mean.” Trent Parker had found his voice again. “The boy I'm half tempted to leave there, since clearly his parents' and brother's feelings don't mean a thing to him. He probably didn't give a single thought to us, or the cops crawling all over town, or his grandparents in California, who practically had a nervous breakdown when they heard he was missing.”

Henry took a deep breath and committed himself. “You know, my offer still stands. He's welcome to stay with Sarah Yoder and Caleb, and take lessons in clay with me for a couple of weeks. That way, Isabel and Justin can get on the plane, and you can stay in the city and focus on business.”

“I can't believe you'd bring that up again when—”

“Trent,” his wife interrupted. “Listen. It's the perfect solution. Even if I did drive up there to get him, I'm not sure I can be trusted not to do some damage, I'm so angry and relieved and horrified that he'd even do this to us. In two weeks everyone will have settled down, Eric will have gotten what he wanted—again—and we can go on with the rest of our summer as planned.”

“I'm not going to reward that boy for his bad behavior!”

Henry wasn't sure being abandoned in a New York apartment would teach the kid much, either. “We'll take good care of him—and you know, there's no disciplinarian like an Amish mother. It won't be any picnic for Eric, I can tell you that.” He glanced at the boy, who was watching him like a baby bird getting ready to fling itself off a branch if he moved too suddenly. “But if he can stick it out, I think it will be worth it, for him and for you.”

“If that woman touches my son, the police are going to hear about it,” Isabel snapped.

“Izzy, would you relax? He's thirteen. Nobody spanks a thirteen-year-old. All right. Fine. Between the two of you, you've got us over a barrel,” Trent said. “Eric stays there for two weeks, and then I'll drive up and get him. But you can tell him from me that the whole art high school idea is off the table. He can't behave like this and expect us to just give him whatever he wants.”

“That's not my department,” Henry said. “But I'll tell him.”

After making arrangements to send clothes and whatever else boys needed these days for a two-week stay, Henry hung up.

“They're not coming?” Eric whispered.

Henry couldn't tell if the boy was devastated or glad. “Does that upset you?”

“No. I hoped they wouldn't. I hoped they'd just go and let me stay with you and Caleb.”

“Well, they have. Your dad isn't happy about it at all, and once he simmers down, I recommend a phone call to apologize. You might not like it, you know, staying on an Amish farm.”

“It ain't so bad.” The boy leaning on the door had been listening the whole time, no doubt wondering what on earth kind of parents would find out their kid had run away—and let him stay where he'd run to. “But you can always run away to Connecticut if you don't.”

Eric shook his head so vigorously, his shaggy skater-boy haircut whipped back and forth.

“Mind telling me who you are, exactly, Benny?” Henry inquired of the strange boy.

“I'm Arlon Peachey's Benny. Our farm's on Stickleback Road. I'm courting Pris here.” He tilted his head in the girl's direction.

Priscilla gasped and flushed as cherry-pink as her dress with embarrassment and indignation. “You are not! What fibs you tell.” She grasped Eric's hand. “Come on, Eric. I'll take you over to Sarah's and get you something decent to eat.” She glared at Benny Peachey. “And no, we do
not
need a ride.”

S
arah saw the little parade coming down the side of the hill between her acres and the Byler place—Henry, Priscilla, Benny Peachey, and…she stared. Then she shook the soil off the last handful of baby carrots and salad greens she and Caleb were pulling for supper, put them in the plastic bowl, and got to her feet.

“Mamm, that can't be—is that Eric Parker?”

“His parents must have changed their minds.” She dusted off her apron and went to meet them.

It took about ten minutes for her and Caleb to understand what had really gone on since the Parker vehicle had roared out of Henry's lane on Wednesday. The thought of what the boy had done staggered her, and helplessly, she spread her hands as if trying to get the measure of it.

“Ran away. From Connecticut. To come back here. How is that even possible for a boy who's only thirteen?”

Since Eric looked to be falling down from hunger and weariness, she didn't really expect an answer from him. But he gathered himself together to reply.

“I wanted to be here. To stay with you, ma'am. And Caleb. And to learn stuff from Henry.”

Now was clearly not the time to teach him that what a person already had was very often what he really wanted. So all Sarah said was, “Please don't call me ma'am, Eric. We don't use honorifics, and that word meant
my lady
in the old days—something you'd call someone of higher status than you. We don't believe in that—we're all equal in the eyes of God.” She smiled and brushed the dirty hair out of his eyes. “My name is Sarah.”

“Yes, ma— Sarah.”

She glanced at Henry. “And his parents have really allowed him to stay with us?”

“I talked them into it,” Henry said. “It seemed like the best plan for everyone, since the family is traveling tomorrow—Trent to New York City, and the other two to California.”

This just beggared belief. Simon had done the next thing to running off, that was true, but he was a man grown, and had a friend with him to share the adventure. Eric had nothing but whatever was in that scuffed black backpack—and a will of iron.

The next two weeks could be very difficult. Offering hospitality with the parents' blessing was one thing. But offering it under duress was very different. She breathed a prayer for wisdom, and then a brief postscript of a prayer that Caleb would not be infected by the same willfulness.

“Come inside, all of you. Caleb and I are having sliced ham, salad, and macaroni and cheese for supper. Would you like to join us?”

“
Denki
, Sarah, but I need to be getting home to do my chores,” Priscilla said.

“I'll give you a ride,” Benny said promptly.

“
Neh
, I would rather walk. It's not far. Good-bye, Henry. See you soon, Eric and Caleb.” And without another word, she cut across the lawn and into the orchard, where a path led between the Mast and the Yoder farms.

“Guess I'll collect my rig, then.” And Benny loped off in the direction of the hill and the path Caleb had worn into it going to help Henry.

“You'll stay, won't you, Henry?” Eric said, looking about ready to faint.

“We don't bite,” Caleb told him. “Come on and wash up.” Eric went with him, looking back only once over his shoulder at Henry before they disappeared into the house.

“He looks scared to death,” Henry observed, watching them.

“He should be. Imagine doing such a thing. He's right here in my yard and I still can't believe it. Or that his parents didn't have you drive him home immediately.” She walked over to the edge of the garden, where the big plastic bowl sat.

“I offered, but they said no, and then I offered to keep him here. I think it would be good for the kid, Sarah. Some decent family life.”

“Two weeks in someone else's family isn't going to fix the problems in his own.”

“No, but he might learn a thing or two that would help him handle things better.”

Sarah couldn't imagine what—he was far too old to be taught to obey, which was probably the best thing to help a child “handle things,” but she was going to have to do her best.

Henry followed her around to the outside sink, where she dumped out the vegetables and turned on the cold-water faucet to rinse them. They had parted on slightly chilly terms the other night because he'd been in a hurry to see Ginny, and slightly chilly was no way to be with one's neighbors.

“I hope you will stay for dinner, Henry,” she said, scrubbing the carrots vigorously. “I think Eric would feel more comfortable with you here.”

He ran water into his side of the sink, then took the lettuces and began to wash them. “You might be right. And considering the alternative is boiled eggs and bacon, I'd be happy to.”

“You're not having dinner with Ginny?” came out of her mouth before she even realized the thought was lurking in her mind, ready to spring like a kitten upon any wisp of passing common sense.

“No.” The pile of lettuce and spinach on the counter grew. “We don't see each other every day. About as often as you would see Silas, I suppose.”

“I'm not seeing Silas, as I told you.” She dropped her voice so it was nearly inaudible. “And you're not to say things like that out loud where Caleb can hear.” Then in a more normal tone, she said, “It was interesting, Benny Peachey being the one to bring Eric back to Willow Creek. I wish he hadn't left quite so soon—his mother said she would have him collect some herbs for me and I wanted to talk with him about them.”

“With no Priscilla, there would be no point in his staying. He says he's courting her.”

The carrots were clean, so she returned them to the plastic bowl, along with the clean greens and some cucumbers. “What a man says and what a woman thinks can be two different things. She's writing to Joe, don't forget. That means something to a girl like her.”

“I think it's all in Benny's mind—that, or he just says outrageous things to get her to blush. I wouldn't put it past him.”

“All the same, I won't mention it when I write to Simon. If Priscilla has something to say to Joe, she'll say it herself.”

“She has no trouble saying what needs to be said, I'll give her that. Here, let me carry that in for you.”

She relinquished the bowl. “I'll just be a minute. I want to get some nasturtiums to put in the salad. If Eric is going to stay here, we'll start him off properly.”

As it turned out, Eric did not appreciate the nasturtiums. He did not appreciate salad either, or pickles, or anything remotely resembling a vegetable. He cleaned up every scrap of ham and macaroni, and asked for seconds, but when he asked for thirds, Sarah shook her head. “Not until you eat your salad. Look at Caleb's plate. He knows that God gave us vegetables to help our bodies work properly.”

The boy looked at the plate, then at the bowl of macaroni that she had prudently removed to her end of the table. “But I'm
starving
. I haven't had anything to eat in two
days
.”

“Then you'll find the salad very satisfying.”

He pushed his chair back. “Mom never makes me eat stuff I don't like.”

“No wonder your body is starving, then,” Sarah said imperturbably. “It is not getting what it needs.”

“Eric,” Henry said, buttering another slice of her homemade bread, “we have a deal. You get to stay here instead of all by yourself in your dad's company apartment in the middle of New York. And in exchange for that, you fit in. I'll tell you this—a man can't wedge clay forty pounds at a time if he doesn't get his nutrition. Look at the difference between your arms and Caleb's.”

Caleb looked at his own forearms, below where his shirtsleeves had been rolled up, as if he'd never seen them before. Her boy worked hard and without complaint, and he had the tanned, strong muscles to show for it, even at fourteen. There was a reason the Amish didn't bother to go to a gym or jog, Sarah thought with an inward smile. After the kind of day she and Caleb put in, who would have the energy?

Eric looked from Caleb's to his own pale, skinny arms. Then at the salad bowl, conveniently located next to his elbow.

“I'm not eating those yellow flowers. They probably have bugs in them.”

“I'll eat them,” Caleb said, removing the last two and popping them in his mouth. “Try the green goddess salad dressing Mamm made. It's really
gut
.”

Sarah felt a sense of satisfaction at seeing the vegetables go down. If nothing else, the boy would go home with two weeks of nutritious meals and exercise under his belt. And then maybe he'd have the emotional stamina to deal with his family. Perhaps that was what Henry had meant.

After the prayer at the end of the meal, Caleb cleared the table. “Come and help me wash the dishes.”

“Is it as hard as making a bed? Priscilla taught me at the Inn, but it was a lot to remember.”

“
Neh.
Much simpler. They go in dirty, they come out clean. Do you want to sing a song?”

While Sarah swept up the kitchen floor, Caleb taught him the Noah song and how to wash dishes, both of which her boy had learned when he was hardly taller than the tabletop. Eric picked up the song quickly, and she smiled at the sound of two boyish voices in her kitchen once again.

Henry rigged up the Coleman lamps in the living room, and when the sweeping and the dishes were done, Sarah settled into her favorite chair next to her mending basket, while Caleb got out the English Bible.

“What are we doing?” Eric wanted to know.

“At night, before we go to bed, Caleb reads a little from the Bible so that we go to sleep with God's words in our minds,” Sarah explained. “Especially since tomorrow is Sunday. We do not go to church until next week, but we'll still spend some quiet time together in the morning.”

Eric seemed less concerned about tomorrow than tonight. “Before we go to bed? It's only eight o'clock.” He looked around. “My superhero cartoons come on at eight. Where's your TV?”

Caleb grinned. “No electricity. No TV. No radio, no computer. But tomorrow we have lots of cows to milk at Daadi's place, so you'll be glad to go to bed.”

“At eight o'clock? I don't think so.”

“That gives you eight hours of sleep, Eric,” Henry pointed out.

Eric did the sum in his head. “You get up at
four in the morning? 
” Eric's dismay seemed to be deepening with every word they said. “I don't have to, do I?” He appealed to Henry.

Sarah kept silent. This was the moment where Henry needed to back her up. Henry had been the one to allow—even request—that Eric stay. If Eric were to do so, he would need to learn their ways for two weeks. If Henry backed down so that the boy would become merely a special guest who did not participate in family life, then she would gently suggest that Eric stay at the Byler place instead of at hers.

Her heart went out to Eric, getting ready to step into the world so wholly unprepared with even the smallest knowledge of how a household worked—or of what responsibility meant, or how it felt to be valued as a part of something bigger than himself. It would be good for him to stay. She could pack lots of lessons into two weeks. He had crossed three states to come here and work with Henry at the pottery studio. If he was willing to do that, he would be willing for the rest.

“I'm afraid you do,” Henry told Eric with gentle firmness.

Sarah's back relaxed into the cushions of her chair.

“Sarah has agreed to feed you, keep your clothes clean, and give you a bed to sleep in. I've agreed to teach you as much as I can in the two weeks we have. We're both giving something. What are you giving?”

It was clear that, as determined as he was to learn and despite all he'd done to get here, Eric was used to thinking in terms of getting, not giving.

“This is what you can give in return for the gifts we're giving you,” Henry said. “You can help Caleb with his chores. You can work in the garden, picking the vegetables you're going to eat at dinner—and yes, you'll eat them. And I'm sure there are other things you can help Sarah with when we're not working in the studio.”

“I would love to have the beds made as nicely as the ones at the Inn,” Sarah said wistfully, as if this possibility had been denied her all her life. “And the boy who helps whip the frosting for the whoopie pies is the boy who gets to lick the beaters afterward.”

“No fair,” Caleb protested.

“There are two beaters,” she reminded him, playfully lowering her voice as if it were their secret.

“So that we don't have to have this conversation again, do you agree that it's fair and right that everyone pitches in?” Henry asked.

After a moment of thought, Eric nodded his head, once. Then he nodded again, several times.

“
Gut
, then,” Caleb said. “We're reading from Matthew this week, Eric.” He handed him the Bible and pointed out the verse where they'd left off the night before. “It's in English. Start right there.”