The Hope of Refuge (6 page)

Quiet.

Deep.

And… secretive?

The car he’d gotten out of passed the wagon, revealing a man about Mahlon’s age, wearing a military uniform of some type. When she looked to where she’d last seen Mahlon, he was nowhere in sight. As Rachel pulled into his driveway, Deborah realized he’d probably gone up the wooden steps that ran along the outside of his home and led straight to his bedroom—the private entrance she thought he never used.

She climbed down, waved to her friends, and headed for the front door.

What was going on? His quietness worked against them sometimes. It wasn’t always easy to know his thoughts. But through the years she’d carried his secrets. Few others, if any, knew that the weight of becoming the provider for himself and his mother before he graduated at thirteen had silently panicked him or that after 9/11 he’d struggled to accept the Old Ways.

She tapped on the screen door and then went inside.

Ada placed the flatiron on the stove, stepped around the ironing board, and hugged her.
“Gut
morning.”

“Gut morning, Ada. Where’s Mahlon?”

“Still asleep. I don’t know when the last time was that he needed me to wake him, so I refuse to start now. Besides, with all the work to set up for the auction tomorrow and all he hopes to get done today, I figure he needs every minute of rest he can squeeze in.”

Hoping her face didn’t reveal how much was going through her mind, Deborah drew a shaky breath. “Do you mind if I go up and wake him?”

“Not a bit.”

As she began climbing the narrow steps, she heard water start running overhead. His home consisted of a small kitchen and sitting area downstairs and two small bedrooms and a bath upstairs. A hint of steam escaped under the bathroom door.

She tapped on the door. “Mahlon?”

“Hey, Deb. I’m in the shower. You’re here early. I’ll be out in a few.”

He didn’t sound any different. She heard no hint of guilt.

Okay.” Rather than go downstairs, she went into his room. It looked like a single man’s room and not much different from the last time she’d seen it, when he was a teen. Clean clothes were stacked on his dresser, dirty ones piled in a corner. Parts of a newspaper lay beside his chair-each folded in a way that let her know which sections he’d read and which he’d chosen to ignore. A wad of cash on his nightstand caught her eye, and she went to it.

He came into the room, buttoning his shirt. His face and what she could see of his chest were still wet, reminding her of the boy he’d once been. “You’re just full of surprises today. First you’re here early, and then you’re in my room.” The smile on his face didn’t hide the circles under his eyes. He pulled his suspenders over his shoulders and tucked his shirt into his pants. “Something wrong?”

Weighing her emotions against what she knew of him, she refused to sound stressed or harsh. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, tell me, and if there is, I’ll see what I can do to fix it.” His eyes radiated something she couldn’t define, but she knew that tone in his voice. The one that hinted of forced patience, usually when life doled out responsibilities he resented.

“You don’t have to fix anything. I’m not part of what you consider your lot in life.” When he didn’t smile or chuckle or assure her she was the best part of his life, she felt suddenly unsure. “Am I?”

He shook his head. “You know better than that. I’m hungry. Are you?”

Hurt that he’d evaded the question, she tried to catch his eye but couldn’t. She’d seen him dodge questions from his mother a hundred times, but she’d always thought he confided everything in her.

She went to the nightstand and pointed at the money. “Are you working a second job?”

“No. I wouldn’t have time even if I had the desire. Your brother has me logging too much overtime. I’d wanted us to have all day together, but I could only get off until after lunch.”

Without saying a word about the money, he turned his back to her and went to his dresser.

“If you’re just working one job, then where were you coming from when I saw you get out of that man’s car?”

He kept his back to her for several moments. “Oh, is that what this is about?” After pulling a pair of socks out of a drawer, he sat on his bed with his back still to her. “Eric Shriver is home on leave, so we spent some time together. That’s all.”

“I didn’t realize he was back in the States.” Nor did she know that Mahlon still considered Eric a friend to spend time with. They’d become friends about six years ago when he and Ephraim installed a set of kitchen cabinets for Eric’s parents. But Mahlon had chosen to lay that friendship aside when he joined the faith. Or had he? Was he friends with a soldier?

After he put on his shoes, he stood. “He came home last week. So, you looking forward to house hunting this morning?”

Realizing he didn’t want to talk about his time with Eric, she chose not to push, but the hurt from earlier spread through her.

He studied her before moving in closer. “It was nothing, Deb. He came up here last night and wanted to talk, so I went with him.”

“You’ve been out all night… just talking?”

“Hey, you two,” Ada called. “The Realtor just pulled up.”

“Be down in a minute.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Is my Deb showing a bit of insecurity? Because if she is, I want to ignore our beliefs, get a camera, and take a photo during this rare event.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t doubt your love or faithfulness—only your good sense, which has been in question on occasion.”

He brushed his lips against her cheek. “I have you, which means my good sense is amazing.”

“Well…now, that’s true.”

Laughing, he released her. “You’ve never been short on friends, so you can’t really understand how Eric feels. But I’ve never made friends easily either, so the two of us are a little alike. Should I cut him out simply because while he’s been serving in Iraq, I joined a church that believes in nonresistance?” He grabbed a comb off his dresser and ran it through his brown hair, yanking at the curls with annoyance.

In his first few years of knowing Eric, she wondered at times if Mahlon would join the faith. Sometimes their bond seemed to defy more than the religious and political boundaries that separated them. It ignored reason. But she knew if she pushed Mahlon on the topic, he’d grow quieter than quiet. And that didn’t help either of them.

She moved in front of him. “If I don’t have you, I’ll always be short on friends. So I guess I can understand how Eric feels. But it seems odd for two people who look at life so differently to want to spend time together.”

“In certain areas it surprises me how much we see things alike. Besides, isn’t being different part of friendship? I certainly don’t feel like you do about cooking or kitchens or new dresses.”

Choosing to trust his judgment, she put her arms around his waist. “But I think you’d look so good in one of my newly sewn dresses.”

He dropped the comb and pulled her close. “You could get away with about any insult as you stand in my bedroom wrapped in my arms…” He bent and kissed her. “But we’d better go.” He took her by the hand and led her down the steps.

Doubting herself, Cara kept walking, searching for Mast Road, hoping something would look familiar. It’d be dark again soon, and they were no better off now than when they left New York more than forty hours ago. Time seemed lost inside a fog of stress and lack of food and sleep, but the days were clearly marked in her mind. She’d left the city Wednesday around midnight, got off the second bus late on Thursday, and currently the Friday afternoon sun was beginning to dip behind the treetops.

Last night’s rain had soaked her clothing, and now the insides of her thighs were raw. Her legs were so weak she kept tripping. She longed for a hot bath and a bed. But it didn’t look like that would happen anytime soon.

Her thin, snug-around-the-waist sweater-shirt was still damp against her skin, but she’d managed to buy a couple of items that her daughter could change in to. After getting off the bus, she’d carried Lori for nearly a mile before spotting a run-down gas station that sold liquor and groceries and even had a rack with overpriced T-shirts, sweatshirts, and hoodies.

The place didn’t have the feel of country life, as she’d imagined. It had a roughness about it that felt very familiar, one that matched New York City. A group of six men, all drunk, based on the number of beer cans and whiskey bottles strewn around them, sat on a porch across the road from the store, playing beat-up guitars and watching her every move.

As she stepped into the store, the bell on the door jingled loudly and woke Lori. She wriggled to get down. When Cara released her, Lori scowled, stomping her feet. “I’m all wet! How’d I get all wet?” Her shrieks pierced the air as she threw herself onto the floor—hunger and exhaustion controlling her.

The man behind the register looked from Lori to Cara, disgust written on his face. He appeared ready to throw them out. When Cara left the store with a small-adult hoodie and socks for Lori, along with bagels, milk, and toiletries, the men across the street had whistled, howled, and made rude comments. Thankfully not one of them budged from their spot on the porch. They were probably too smashed to stand up, which was good, because their mannerisms didn’t suggest good-natured catcalls. They were capable of malice. She saw the truth carved in their features, and she wasted no time getting herself and Lori out of sight. About a mile down the road, she found an old shed, and they stayed there last night.

After a day of walking through Dry Lake, Lori’s feet had blisters. Cara didn’t know anything to do but take off her shoes and let her walk in her socks.

Feeling lost and overwhelmed, Cara studied her surroundings. This was just like her—doing something with absolute hope, only to find that reality trumped it every single time. Like the blood flowing through her veins, anger circled round and round her insides. If having to uproot and travel like this wasn’t enough to make her lash out, the nicotine withdrawal made her a hundred times more irritable. But so far she’d kept her grumpiness tucked deep inside.

The craving for a cigarette tormented her. Her addiction to smokes had started at fifteen, and unlike the rest of life, it came easy. The fact that she rarely paid to indulge in the habit had made getting hooked even easier. At work some of her regulars offered her a cigarette as she waited their tables. She’d slide it into her waitress pouch for later use. Almost nightly other customers left a half-empty pack by accident or as a tip. If she had four to five bucks to spend on a pack right now, she would. Of course the money for the cigarettes was only one of the issues. The other? Lori was with her, and she didn’t know her mother smoked. When Lori was young and asked about the smoky smell clinging to her mom, Cara had shrugged it off as the fault of waitressing in a place that allowed smoking. Her daughter hadn’t asked about the smell in years.

“My feet still hurt,” Lori whined. “And look, I got blood on my socks.”

“It’s from the blisters. Do you need me to carry you?”

She shook her head. “But the pebbles on the road are hurting me, Mom.”

“I know, sweetie. I’ll figure something out soon.”

Lori held her hand and fell into silence again as they kept walking. At the bottom of the hill, another road intersected with this one. Should she go down it in search of Mast Road or keep going straight?

She didn’t know. Whenever she spotted someone or passed a home, she didn’t dare stop to ask. People would think nothing of a mother and child going for a walk on a beautiful spring day in mid-May But their curiosity would turn against her once she asked where a certain road was. It’d begin a peppering of questions. Are you lost? Who are you looking for? Did your car break down? Where do you live? What are you doing on foot?

No, she couldn’t ask.

Lori tugged at her hand. “That road starts with an M, Mom.”

“Does it?” Cara blinked, trying to focus in spite of a pounding headache.

Mast Road
.

Her weariness dampened almost all the relief she felt at finding the road. The search for this sign had begun before dawn. Most of the roads in Dry Lake were long and hilly, but they’d at least found the one they’d been searching for—although she had no idea what the place had in store for them, if anything.

They’d barely gone a hundred feet on Mast Road when she noticed a man on foot, leading a horse-drawn carriage to the front of a home. He went inside for a moment and came back out with a woman and five children. They all got into the rig. To travel like that, they probably were Amish. As they drove past her, she noticed a little girl inside the buggy who was a year or so older than Lori.

Her shoes would fit Lori—without pinching her feet
.

As Cara approached the house, she saw only a screen door between her and the inside of the home. “Let’s knock on that door.”

“What for?”

“Just to see if someone’s home.”

“Mom, look.” Lori pointed at a beer bottle lying in the ditch.

“That’s nasty, babe. Let’s keep moving.”

Lori pulled her hand free and grabbed it. “It looks like brown topaz, like our teacher at school showed us.”