The Haven (27 page)

You could have heard a pin drop, a heart beat. Will’s eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open, noiseless.

So, Fern had been after something! Amos’s heart swelled in admiration for her. Somehow, she seemed to know just how to pressure this man into cracking, admitting something he apparently had kept hidden for—well, at least for Will’s twenty-one years. It boggled Amos’s mind—to think Fern grew up in the same church as Will’s father in Millersburg, Ohio! Even more astonishing was the shock registered on Will’s face. To think that Charles Stoltz, a.k.a. Little Chuckie Stoltzfus, had never told his son that he had been raised Amish.

Fern insisted he stay for dinner, overruling Charles Stoltz’s many objections. Amos suspected there were only a few people who ever told this man what to do—and his Fern was one of them.

Dinner was torture. As they settled in to eat, Will sat there, stunned, wordless. Amos felt sorry for him. Will had shared a few stories about his father with Amos—never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that fancy doctor, with all his degrees, had been raised Plain.

Nothing about Dr. Stoltz seemed Plain now. Certainly not the outside trappings—the clothes, the car. Not a trace of a Deitsch accent. Not a mannerism. Not a single hint of his humble beginnings. Even his surname had been modified. All evidence of his upbringing had been washed away, swept clean.

No one said much at dinner. Except for Fern. She just kept on talking, reminiscing about stories she remembered about Little Chuckie—which seemed to mortify him—updating him about the people in his church as if he had asked. Amos thought she might be trying to squeeze information out of him for Will’s sake. “So if I remember right, you were dead set on going to college.”

“That’s right.” It was pretty clear that Charles Stoltz didn’t want his past sifted through.

“And your father was dead set against you getting a college education.” Fern swallowed a bite of chicken. “He was determined to have you farm alongside of him.”

Charles remained unresponsive and helped himself to a spoonful of mashed potatoes. He cut two precise squares of his chicken.

“Broke your parents’ hearts when you ran off,” Fern said. “I sure do remember that.”

Charles cut his meat with such intensity that Amos feared he might go right through the plate.

“That’s sort of flip-flopped,” M.K. said as she poured a pool of gravy over the potatoes on her plate until Fern stopped her. “Your dad wanted you to be a farmer and you ran off to be a doctor. You want Will to be a doctor and he ran off to be a farmer.”

At the exact same moment, as if it had been orchestrated, Charles’s and Will’s forks clattered against their plates.

No one said much else for the rest of the dinner. Except for Fern.

A
s soon as dinner ended, Will’s father leaned over and quietly told him to go get packed up, that they needed to leave as soon as he was ready. Will nodded once and said only, “All right.”

As Will crested the small hill that led down to the cottage, he couldn’t believe what he had learned about his father tonight. He felt a shock go through him, as real as lightning. Once he had opened a hot oven at eye level to put in a frozen pizza and he was hit by a wave of heat so strong and severe that it temporarily blinded him. The discovery about his father had the same effect.

His father was raised Amish? Dr. Charles William Stoltz had once been Chuckie Stoltzfus, a simple farm boy? Did his mother know? It was too much to take in.

So he wasn’t the only one in the family who kept secrets! He grew somber. The revelation about his father—as big as it was—only served as a distraction. The reason his father was here tonight hadn’t gone away—Will was facing some serious problems.

Will stopped at the doorway of his cottage. The sun had dropped low on the horizon. He watched, transfixed, as the sky filled with deepening hues of red and orange, then purple. In the morning, the sun would rise; tomorrow evening, about this time, it would set. A regular cycle. He stood there for a long moment, marveling at the earth’s precise alignment on its axis when so many other things in life seemed crooked.

Suddenly the fact that he was looking at the last little bit of the sun for this day, knowing that it would rise again in the morning, that it was a solid fact the world could count on—it was a very comforting thought. And the fact that the sun had hung in place since the creation of the world and would be there until the heavens passed away—that God had ordained all of this into being. It struck Will that this same God might have a thought or two for him and his future, as well.

The sun had slipped below the horizon, but the sky was filled with an extraordinary lighting. The world seemed different. The cornfields seemed extra green, the pine trees so vivid they were almost jarring. It was like getting a pair of glasses that were overcorrected. Everything seemed startlingly clear to him.

Fern continued her endless monologue of informing Charles of the people of Millersburg, Ohio, as Sadie and Mary Kate washed the dinner dishes. Amos could tell that Charles was growing increasingly uncomfortable with all these unwanted memories thrust upon him. He finally took pity on the man.

“Let’s go outside. I’d like to show you the falcon scape before it gets too dark.”

Charles bolted from his chair before Amos finished his sentence. They walked to a high spot that held one of Amos’s favorite views—you could see rolling fields in every direction. Will had tilled and planted those very fields, Amos told Charles. Since the corn and wheat were knee-high, you couldn’t see the wavy furrows and Amos was glad for that. He had a hunch Charles would find fault with Will’s plowing.

“I’m glad Will was able to help you,” Charles said.

Amos nodded. “We’re sorry to think he will be leaving us tonight.”

“He’s banded the chicks. He’s done what he needed to do here for Mahlon. And Will has . . . some things to figure out. I think it’s best if we do it together. At home.”

It was late and the sun had already slid down the horizon, turning the wispy clouds in the sky to gold, purple, and red. Charles noticed. “I’d forgotten the sheer beauty of nature. Sunsets on a farm are like no other.”

Amos nodded. The sunset was particularly spectacular tonight. Maybe it was God’s gift to Will, a blessing and a benediction. “I don’t know how anyone could possibly visit this part of the world and not believe in the perfect hand of God.”

Above their heads Adam floated across the cornfield and let out a shrill whistle. “That’s the tiercel.”

“The male falcon, right?”

Amos must have looked surprised that he would know such a fact.

“The first car I ever bought was a Toyota Tercel.” Charles Stoltz’s cheeks pinked a little. “I’ve always liked birds.” He kicked at a dirt clod with his loafer. “I guess there is a small part of me that is still Plain.”

“Oh, I have a hunch there’s probably a lot of you that is still Plain.”

Charles jerked his head around. “I don’t think so. I left at nineteen and never looked back. Never wanted to. Nor was I welcomed back.”

Adam dove straight down in a stoop, like he was performing for them. They watched his shape shift into an aerodynamic missile. Dozens of small songbirds scattered like buckshot. There was no love lost between the tiercel and the other birds. “Doctoring always seemed like farming to me,” Amos said.

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“You learn to fix things, to make things right again. You do your part—do it well, do it thoroughly, and God provides the rain and sun to do the rest. Just like the work of healing.”

Charles’s eyes were riveted on Adam, who had snatched a barn swallow midair and swooped up to carry it back to the scape. Adam would be back soon. It was taking more and more hunts to keep his family fed. Amos waited a moment, hoping Charles might say something, but he didn’t. So Amos did. “Do you know much about falconry?”

“Its history, mostly, as a sport of game hunting, where they wear those little hoods.” He looked up, as if gathering details in his mind. “Let’s see . . . the first record of falconry was in China in 2200 BC. The tradition made its way around the world—Africa, Egypt, Persia, Europe.” He stroked his chin. “Shakespeare was an avid falconer. Then the sport of falconry declined when firearms came on the scene.”

Oh.
This Dr. Stoltz knew quite a lot about falconry. If Amos ever needed brain surgery, he decided he would definitely want this man to do it. “Falconry is having a revival of sorts. I’ve read of a blueberry farmer in eastern Washington who uses trained falcons as bird abatement. Not peregrines like our falcons—he uses alpomado falcons. The falcons keep raiding birds out of his crops. He calls them his falcon patrol. Uses about twenty birds. All of the handlers have to get permits to become trainers. It’s supposed to be very successful.” Amos grinned. “We’ve been blessed here on Windmill Farm to have Adam and Eve—that’s what Will named our falcons. They’ve helped keep down aviary damage on our crops this spring. Cut way down on those pesky starlings. We’re hoping they’ll come back to breed here next year.”

“Interesting.” And Charles Stoltz did seem interested. Amos had finally hit on the right subject to snag this man’s attention. Above them, Adam did a looping figure eight. “They are . . . fast.”

Amos nodded. “So much of a falcon’s life is spent in the air. The scape is only a place to lay and incubate its eggs, to house its fledglings until it can push them out.”

The two men were mesmerized by Adam’s aerobatics. The falcon was swooping and diving and darting, as if it was having the time of its life.

“Working the falcons is something of an art. The bond between a falconer and its falcon is interesting. It’s a relationship of trust. Every time a falconer lets go, the bird has a choice as to whether it will return or not.” Amos shrugged. “It could be in Mexico tomorrow.” He looked at Charles. “But it has to choose to come back.”

“Why would it? Why doesn’t it just fly off?”

“Being a predator—it’s a hard life. The falcon has learned that life is easier if it returns to the falconer. It will always get fed, even if it doesn’t catch something. Even if it’s not successful out there. No matter what.” Amos watched Adam circle high above and stoop down to nab a bat, then sail with it back to the scape to feed a chick. “Maybe the falcon just knows a good deal when it sees it.” He looked back at the little cottage. “But the falconer gives the falcon the choice to return.” He walked a few steps, his hands clasped behind him.

Charles remained behind. Glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, Amos realized Charles knew exactly what he was getting at.

At the bottom of the rise, Amos turned to wait for him and pointed to the cottage. “Will’s probably about done packing. I imagine he could use some help carrying things to the car.”

Amos jerked his chin toward the farmhouse. “I might head on back. Give you a moment to talk to your son.” He strode up the hill.

“Amos Lapp?” Charles called out.

Amos spun around.

The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why do I feel as if I’ve just been counseled by an Amish farmer?”

“No charge!” Amos started up the hill again, grinning.

Will finished packing up his belongings and looked around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. The place was still a mess. He shouldn’t leave the cottage like this for Fern, though he remembered a remark she had made when he had tried to help her with a cleaning project at the farmhouse: “Unexpected things happen around you, Will, and cleaning is not always one of them.”
Well, Fern, today I am going to surprise you.
He would leave the cottage as clean as it was when he arrived. He would try to, anyway.

He started a fire in the stove and set a big pail of water on it to boil. Squeezing some dish soap into the sink, he ran cold water and swished his hand in the sink to get the water sudsy. He hadn’t heard his father come in, but suddenly, there he was, stacking dirty dishes on the small counter.

“It won’t take long to wash these dishes,” Will said, glancing at the water that wasn’t even close to boiling. “This is the last thing I need to do.”

“There’s plenty of time,” his father said.

Will almost dropped the dish he was holding. He had never remembered a time in his life when his father wasn’t tense, eager to move on to the next thing. But here he was, patiently stacking dirty dishes with dried food crusted on them. Will set the dishes in to soak and waited for the water to boil. He and his father stood there, awkwardly, side by side, waiting to see bubbles rise to the surface. Why was it taking so long? In his mind, he heard Fern’s voice: A watched pot never boils. Or was it, a boiling pot is never watched? He should have written down her sayings so he would remember them.

Quietly, his father said, “Why didn’t you ever tell me you didn’t want to be a doctor?”

Time skipped a beat before Will said, “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were raised Amish?”

His father wasn’t used to someone crossing him. An eyebrow lifted, but he didn’t respond. Nor did he meet Will’s eyes. He seemed uncomfortable. In a clipped, controlled voice, he said, “I lived under my father’s very large and very heavy thumb. I had to break free.”

Will snorted. “
That
. . . I can understand.”

Then there was silence. It went on that way for a while, the two of them staring at the pot of water, which seemed to refuse to boil, neither one speaking. A perfect example of how things were between Will and his father—neither one would budge.

Sadie had told him that forgiveness was a process, that it didn’t happen overnight. She likened the process to filling a bucket of water at a well. God was the well, forgiveness was the water. Sometimes, she said, the bucket would be leaky and it would require numerous trips to the well. But the important thing, Sadie said, was to keep going to the well to fill the bucket.

She also said that someone had to be willing to take the first step. Will blew air out of his cheeks. This was the hardest thing he had ever had to do . . . but it had to start somewhere. Things had to change.

“Dad, I’m sorry.” The words erupted from Will in a sob. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his watering eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his voice in shreds. “I’ve made a mess of . . . everything.”

Then his father’s arms were around him. Will buried his face in his father’s neck. He wept, unashamed of his tears.

“I’m sorry too,” his father said. “You made some of those choices because you felt trapped.” His father released him and stepped back. “Of all people on this earth, I should have known not to assume you were going to do what I wanted you to do with your life.” He blew a puff of air. “I’m my father’s son. Same song, different verse.” He rested his hands on the counter. “Where do we go from here?”

For the first time that Will could ever remember, his father looked unsure of himself. He never second-guessed himself, and here he was, looking baffled, sad, confused. He had Fern to thank for that. She had completely baffled an unbafflable man. Will felt a twinge of pity for his father. “You haven’t met Hank—he’s Amos’s uncle—but he says life is full of turnarounds.”