Chapter 5 #2
Jalon clenched his jaw. He appreciated that the Yoders were caring people, but right now he wasn’t thrilled with their nosiness—although his caring did make Freemont a good bishop, and he was a definite improvement over Bishop Troyer.
True, he had stumbled at first and was unsure of himself.
He also hadn’t wanted the job. But he had a relaxed manner about him, which translated into his sermons.
They weren’t as eloquent, or, thankfully, as long as Emmanuel’s had been.
But they were heartfelt, and everyone knew he genuinely cared about the people he was serving.
“ Nee. It’s all gut ,” Jalon said, fudging the truth a little. More like a lot. “I have to leave Birch Creek for a couple of days, that’s all.”
Freemont didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on his sons, flinching slightly when Judah tripped over his feet and nearly fell, only to right himself and place a split log on the growing pile. “Are you drinking again?” he asked as Judah went back to fetch another piece of split wood.
Since Jalon had asked Freemont to help keep him accountable when it came to his drinking, he wasn’t offended by the question. “I’m sober,” he said. “Have been since I told you I stopped drinking.”
Freemont peered into his eyes, as if he was searching for a lie. He could search all he wanted. Jalon was telling the truth.
Seemingly satisfied, Freemont relaxed his expression. “Do you need anything for yer trip?”
Prayers. Luck. And a guarantee that Phoebe was okay. “I’m gut .”
“All right. Be safe.”
Jalon started for his house. “Tell Mary I’m sorry for missing supper.”
“She’ll understand. Are you leaving now?”
“If I can get a taxi this late. If not, first thing in the morning. I’ll take care of the animals tonight regardless.”
“Godspeed.” Freemont tipped his head toward Jalon.
Jalon rushed home, stopping by the shanty and calling Max, one of the English drivers his family had hired over the years.
Max answered on the second ring and was willing to drive him to Dover, despite the fact that he would get home late since it was almost a four-hour round trip.
“You don’t need me to stick around in Dover? ” Max asked.
Jalon paused. He didn’t know what he would find when he got to Phoebe’s aunt’s house and he didn’t want to put Max out anymore than he already was. “ Nee. I’ll get a taxi there to bring me home.”
“All right, then. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Jalon hung up the phone, made a call to his boss to tell him he wouldn’t be at work for a couple of days, quickly settled the animals in for the night, then washed up.
He couldn’t meet Phoebe smelling like a barnyard.
Then again, if something was wrong, she wouldn’t care what he smelled like. Please let her be okay, Lord. Please.
He threw some clothes into his duffle bag and waited for Max to pick him up. It would be a long, uncertain ride to Dover, but when it was over, for better or worse, he would finally see the woman he loved.
An hour into the trip, the snow and wind started to pick up. Visibility was low, and Max’s car moved at a crawl. “I’ve got to pull over,” he said. “There’s an exit close by. It’s got a truck stop. We can find out there how long this storm is going to last.”
Impatient, Jalon nodded. He couldn’t blame Max for the weather, and the man had been generous enough with his time.
Slowly Max pulled into the parking lot, his back tires fishtailing. He got out of the van and Jalon followed. A blast of wind hit Jalon head-on, nearly knocking him off his feet. He tucked his chin into his coat, glad he’d left his hat in the car or he wouldn’t have it anymore.
The truck stop swarmed with people escaping the storm. The attached restaurant was also full of customers, but Max suggested they find someplace to sit and have a cup of coffee to warm up and kill time until the storm let up.
The wind outside shook the windows of the restaurant. Not wanting to give up their seats once they found them, Max said, “Stay here. I’ll see what the weather report says.”
When he came back, his face was solemn. “Going to storm straight through the night. We’re not going anywhere.”
Midmorning the next day, Max pulled into the driveway of a very plain residence, even plain by Amish standards.
A thick blanket of snow layered the yard, the driveway, the roof.
Dover had felt the brunt of the storm, too, but he could see the snow on the porch and steps had already been shoveled and swept away.
“Here you go.” Max yawned. “Sure you don’t want me to stick around? Or I can come back and pick you up.”
Shaking his head, Jalon said, “Thank you, but you’ve done more than enough. Go home and get some sleep.” To show his appreciation he paid Max double his usual rate. “Stay safe.”
Jalon stepped out of the van, the cold air enveloping him.
Each breath felt like razor blades slicing through his lungs and every nerve in him danced on edge, and had since the moment they drove across the Tuscarawas County line.
He was running on caffeine and adrenaline.
Max had been able to nap in the booth seat at the restaurant, but Jalon hadn’t, and he’d spent the night drinking cup after cup of coffee until his eyes crossed, the entire time questioning if he’d lost his mind.
He fought with himself, going back and forth on whether to have Max take him right back to Birch Creek. Yet he couldn’t turn back.
Even if nothing was wrong with Phoebe—and he prayed there wasn’t—he had to meet her face-to-face. And he had to know how she felt about his letter.
The driveway led to the small white house with a front porch devoid of any sign of life—not a single rocking chair, end table, or even empty flowerpot to be seen.
He slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, took a deep gulp of air, immediately regretted it as his lungs rebelled from the cold, and started toward the house. Here goes nothing.
As he approached, a small boy bounded out the front door and down the porch steps. He appeared to be around four years old, although Jalon was never good at guessing kids’ ages. The boy didn’t seem to notice Jalon as he settled in the yard and started digging his mitten-covered hands in the snow.
Jalon frowned. Had Max dropped him off at the wrong place?
He had Phoebe’s address stamped on his heart, so he knew he’d told Max the right one.
Maybe in his fatigue he’d made a mistake.
Jalon started for the mailbox at the end of the driveway to check the house number when the little boy looked up and said, “You wanna play?” Then he went back to digging a hole in the snow.
Jalon watched him for a moment. He remembered doing the same thing when he was a kid.
His specialty was snow forts. That reminder brought back memories he didn’t want to think about.
Not wanting to hurt the child’s feelings, he walked over and squatted down.
“I can stay for a few minutes. What are we playing?”
The boy’s eyes grew round, as if he hadn’t expected Jalon to agree to his request. Then he went back to digging in the snow as if he’d never asked Jalon to play.
Jalon thought he’d help him out. “Do you have a ball?”
The boy shook his head. “I used to. Not anymore.” He tossed a handful of snow over his shoulder.
He was dressed for the weather, with several layers of clothes that made moving and digging a challenge, but he was managing.
His dark blue wool hat covered his ears, and a similarly colored scarf hung precariously around his neck.
“A Frisbee?” Jalon asked. “A tricycle?” Although that would be pointless in the snow, but at least it was something. “How about a swing?” Each time the boy shook his head. “Do you have any toys?” Jalon asked.
“I’ve got this.” He pulled out another handful of snow. Instead of throwing it, he attempted to make a snowball.
Now Jalon was convinced he somehow had the wrong address. Phoebe had said her aunt was older, so the boy couldn’t be Aunt Bertha’s son. Her grandson, maybe? Odd that Phoebe never mentioned him.
The boy tossed the pitiful, lopsided snowball, which was more of a snow nugget. “I can’t do it,” he said. He wasn’t exactly pouting, but he was disappointed.
“Let me show you.” Jalon picked up a handful of snow and started to shape it. “You have to keep turning it as you squeeze the snow.” He handed the boy the snowball. “See?”
The child nodded and set it carefully next to him. Then he picked up a handful of snow.
“Turn and squeeze.” Jalon watched him form an imperfect but decent-size snowball. “You’ve got the hang of it now—”
The snowball hit him in the face.
Jalon wiped the snow from his eyes with his gloved hand, expecting to see the boy laughing at him. Instead, the child looked shocked. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know.” Then he added, “I thought it would be fun.”
With a chuckle Jalon wiped the rest of the snow from his face. If he wasn’t cold before, he was now. But he wasn’t upset. Resisting the urge to throw a snowball wasn’t easy, after all.
The boy had gone back to digging in the snow, the lure of snowballs abandoned. Jalon needed to figure out where Phoebe was, but for some reason he couldn’t leave this little boy just yet. “Did you lose something in the snow?” he asked.
“ Nee. ” He continued to dig.
“Are you hoping to find something, then?”
The child’s eyes lit up. “ Ya! I’m trying to find treasure.”
“What kind of treasure?” At the boy’s confused expression, Jalon said, “Is the treasure money?”
He shook his head. “ Nee. Not money.”
“Is it jewelry?”
“What’s that?”
“Necklaces, rings, bracelets.”
“Never heard of that stuff before.”
“I guess you wouldn’t have.” Jalon tapped his finger on his chin as if in deep thought. “Is the treasure books?”
“Books?” The boy huffed. “Books aren’t treasure.”
“You might think they are someday.” He lifted his hands. “I give up. What’s the treasure?”
He leaned forward and cupped his hand around his mouth. “Cookies. Mei mamm makes the best cookies ever. I don’t get to have them very often, though.”
Jalon frowned at his nonsensical answer.
Cookies wouldn’t be buried in the snow, but to this kid, they were treasure.
His frown deepened. What kind of child didn’t have toys?
And cookies were a rare treat? He looked at the boy a little more closely.
He appeared well cared for, although Jalon could tell even through the thick layers of clothes that the child was on the thin side.
Unable to linger any longer, he said, “Good luck finding yer cookies, pirate.”
“What’s a pirate?”
“Pirates sailed on the ocean a long time ago. They would steal coins and jewelry and put them in treasure chests. Then they would bury the chests and dig them up later.”
“Stealing is wrong.”
“ Ya , it is.”
“I don’t steal. So I’m not a pirate.”
“True, you’re not,” Jalon said, checking himself. “That was probably the wrong word to use.”
“How do you know about pirates?”
“I read about them,” Jalon said, getting to his feet. “In books.”
The boy looked up at him, his blue eyes wide. “I’m sorry I threw the snowball in yer face.”
Jalon hid a grin. “So you said. And I forgive you. Now it’s mei turn to be sorry because I have to geh .”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to find someone. I thought she might be here, but I think I’m at the wrong haus .”
The boy looked up at him, his eyes twice the size they’d been a few minutes ago. “I wish you could stay.”
For some reason Jalon did too. He shook his head, clearing the thought. He hadn’t come here to entertain a child. He needed to find Phoebe and make sure she was all right. “Hope you find yer cookies,” he told him almost absently as he glanced around at his surroundings again.
“I won’t.” He stuck out his bottom lip. “ Mei aenti is mean.”
The words drew him back to the child. “ Yer aenti? ”
Before he could respond, a young woman came out on the front porch. “Malachi, that’s enough time outside. I’ve got hot chocolate for you—” She stopped at the bottom of the steps, her gaze locking on Jalon.
Jalon couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe. The woman had a round face with high, round cheekbones and full lips. Her blue eyes were the color of cornflowers. Beautiful. Then something shifted inside him that transcended his appreciation of her beauty. He wasn’t at the wrong house after all.
“ Mamm? ” The boy ran up to her, then pointed at Jalon. “That man is lost. And I’m sorry I threw a snowball at his face.”
Jalon was lost—lost in the feelings ramming into him. He barely recognized his own voice as he said, “Phoebe?”
Her eyes grew wide and she slowly nodded, a spark of recognition entering them. “Jalon?”
Even her voice was perfect, a sweet, lilting sound that propelled him to her. But he’d only taken two steps when he realized what the child had said to her.
He called her Mamm . He was Phoebe’s son. At that moment she glanced down at Malachi, then back at Jalon, color draining from her face as if silently telling him his assumption was correct.
His body turned to stone. Phoebe had a son. One she’d never mentioned in any of her letters. One she had kept hidden from Jalon.