The Lesson (14 page)

“Looks like the rain isn’t going to let up,” Chris said. “Which means no hay cutting over at Windmill Farm.” Chris gave Jenny that piece of news as they ate their breakfast of oatmeal and strawberry preserves. It was all she could muster together to eat quickly in the horrible kitchen, and besides, the stove wouldn’t stay lit for more than two minutes. “We can get a lot done on the house today.”

Jenny didn’t respond. She didn’t like the way Chris said “we” every time he decided something needed to be done. It meant that Jenny’s free reading time after school would disappear. And for what? This old place was a dump. She didn’t know why Chris wanted to come here—she thought they could have moved in with some other family back in Old Deborah’s church—maybe the Troyers. That’s what she loved most about the Amish. It was like having this huge family, with aunts and uncles and a zillion cousins. But Chris was adamant that they needed to go back to Grandfather
Mitchell’s house and fix it up. He said it was their legacy. Whenever she objected, he only said to trust him.

Chris closed up the small Igloo he had bought for Jenny after she complained about carrying a brown bag, and set it on the tile countertop. “Okay, your lunch is packed,” he said. “Don’t be late for school.” He pointed to the umbrella. “Don’t forget that.”

“You treat me like I can’t remember anything.”

“You forgot once.”

“That was a long time ago, Chris. I was twelve.” She grabbed the Igloo and stomped to the door.

“Jenny!” Chris called. When she spun around, he gently tossed the umbrella at her.

Maybe, she thought, as she opened the umbrella on the front porch, maybe after Chris fixed up the house, he would change his mind about having Mom come live with them. Then Mom could have a place to call home. They could start over, the three of them. Mom would stay off drugs after this last stint in the rehab center. Maybe they could finally be like everybody else, and Jenny wouldn’t feel as if she was always on the outside looking in.

She passed by three Amish farms on her way to the schoolhouse. She would look up and see the family working around the yards, moms and daughters hanging laundry on the clothesline, fathers and sons walking to the barn. A deep, inside-out longing always swept through her. The hardest thing of all was when she caught a whiff of dinner cooking at someone’s house. Those savory aromas made her eyes fill up with tears, sadness spilling over. She heard someone say once that you can’t miss what you’ve never had. That was one of the dumbest things she had ever heard. She never had a normal family and she missed it every single day.

She saw a car heading toward her on the narrow road so she walked to the very edge and waited until it passed. She sucked in her breath when she saw it was a police car and didn’t let the breath out until it passed her by. Police cars always reminded her of her mother.

It wasn’t fair, no. None of it was fair.

It didn’t bother Chris to have a rainy day today, even if it meant he missed a day’s income. He could use a full day to work on the house. He walked around the downstairs rooms, coffee cup in hand, trying to decide where to start the day’s work. He made a list of the things he had done and things still to do, which was much longer. Jenny would vehemently disagree, but it was in surprisingly good condition for an old, abandoned house. He wished he had a boatload of cash to do right by the house—new double-paned windows, new countertops in the kitchen to replace the cracked tiles. But all in all, his plan was coming along, right on schedule. Fresh paint was a wonderful resource too. He was doing the things he could afford to do and it was making a difference. It was the best he could do. In the silence that wasn’t quite silence—the clock ticking softly, the rain dripping on the roof—his thoughts traveled to his grandfather. He thought the Colonel would be pleased with the repairs to the house.

• Replace drywall in the kitchen. 

• Sand and patch and paint the front door. 

• Rip out dry rot in bathroom flooring. 

• Replace flooring in bathroom.

• Repaint interior and exterior.

•
Recaulk windows.

• Sand wooden floors and stain. Varnish.

Chris went back downstairs to prepare the caulking gun to recaulk the windows. He had noticed some staining on the drywall under those windows that faced east—the direction most of the storms came from. When he examined where the water was coming from, he could see that the caulking was gone.

Chris started to caulk the windows facing east and, just to be safe, decided he would later seal all the windows. Outside, the storm was starting to ratchet up. The rain was coming down in sheets. He hoped Jenny had made it to the schoolhouse without getting soaked.

Someone knocked on the door, interrupting him. Had Jenny forgotten something? Chris opened the door to a police officer on his porch. He felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. It was never good news when the police came to his house. The last time he had opened the door to a police officer, he found out that his mother had been arrested again.

“Are you Chris Yoder?”

Chris’s heart thumped so violently he could hardly breathe. “I am.”

“I’m Sheriff Hoffman. I’d like you to come down to the police station with me and answer a few questions.”

“To the police station? Why? For what purpose?”

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Am I being arrested?”

Sheriff Hoffman tilted his head. “Should you be? Have you broken the law, Mr. Yoder?”

“Of course not. But I have a right to know why you want to take me to the police station.”

“I just want to talk to you.” The sheriff looked past Chris into the house. “You’re new around here, aren’t you? Mind if I come in?”

Chris stepped away from the door and the sheriff walked in.

He took a few steps around and whistled. “Lots of work to do.”

Chris held up the caulking gun. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

“I’m fixing up my grandfather’s house.”

“Who was your grandfather?”

“Mitchell. Colonel Mitchell. I called him the Colonel. Everybody did.”

The sheriff flipped a light switch but nothing came on. Chris had never called the electric company to turn the electricity on. No need.

The sheriff looked Chris up and down. “Mitchell isn’t a Plain name.”

“No.”

“But you’re Plain.”

“I was raised Plain. I am Plain. I’ve been baptized.”

The sheriff moved into the kitchen and pushed his booted heel against a worn-out spot in the flooring. “You thinking about ripping up that old linoleum?”

“Maybe.”

“Might have hardwoods underneath. My mother’s kitchen had indoor/outdoor carpet on top. After she passed, we ripped it up and voilà! Hardwoods.” He snapped his fingers, as if it was easy.

Chris knew the sheriff was trying to make him relax. But he had a very bad feeling about this visit.

The sheriff hooked his hands on his hips. “Any chance
you happened to be at the farm of Raymond Gould, a sheep farmer, on the afternoon of August 18?”

Chris took a deep breath. “Yes. I was.”

M.K. started each morning with roll call. She wasn’t really sure why it was necessary—but that was what Alice Smucker had done, and Gid too, so she thought it must be necessary. When she came to the eighth grade, she called out, “Jenny Yoder.” Jenny raised her hand.

“Yoder? Jenny Yoder?” Something clicked. “Is Chris Yoder any relation to you?”

Jenny nodded. “He’s my brother.”

M.K. was a little stunned. She hadn’t expected the sheep murderer and coffee can thief to be anybody’s brother. She stood quietly, studying Jenny. Granted, Jenny didn’t resemble her brother—she had dark auburn hair and he was fair-haired. Except for the color of her blue eyes, they looked nothing alike. He was tall and muscular, she was short and bird-thin. Still, how had she not put the two of them together? M.K. did have a lot on her mind—but she was usually so good at making those kinds of connections.

M.K. heard the rumble of thunder and hurried to shut the schoolhouse windows. Through the window, she noticed the sheriff’s car drive slowly past the schoolhouse. In the backseat was Chris Yoder.

As the car passed by, Chris looked over at the schoolhouse. For one brief second, their eyes met.

M.K. spun around to see if Jenny had seen her brother in the police car, but her head was bent over, tucked into the book she was supposed to be reading from. It was a strategy M.K. had used many times herself. A terrible feeling flooded
through M.K. When she went to see the sheriff this morning, she hadn’t really thought through that Chris Yoder might be arrested and hauled off to jail.

But if he was a thief and a murderer, jail was where he belonged.

Unless, pointed out a small voice in her head that sounded a good deal like Fern, unless . . . he’s not guilty. Unless Mary Kate had no right to accuse another person of crimes. Unless he was another Plain person—one of her own. Unless she had no business meddling in police business.

M.K. felt the courage she had started the day with drip away like ice cream on a July afternoon. She interfered with something she should have left alone.