A Little Bit of Charm (18 page)

Rachel looked eager, but Sarah leaned over the seat. “Who's that? I hadn't planned to gad about all over the county. When you run a chicken farm, you don't get any paid vacation days.”

“Truly, I understand,” Donna said. “But the distance isn't far, and I think this visit will help you understand how important immunizations are, especially the polio vaccine.”

Sarah shrugged and settled back to watch the scenery. Rachel asked question after question about Kristen and Amber, unconcerned about the destination of their side trip. A few minutes later they pulled into the yard of a modest farm on the other side of Charm. The house needed a coat of paint, but otherwise everything looked neat and tidy. Crimson and gold mums still bloomed in the flower beds, awaiting the first heavy frost that was soon to come.

“Who lives here? Are they Amish or Mennonite?” Rachel pointed to a man harvesting corn for silage in the distance. He and his team were small dots against a faraway hill.

“They are an elderly couple who lease their land to Old Order members like you. They have lived here for years. The husband has retired from farming.” Donna drew in a deep breath. “I spoke with the woman on the phone. She agreed to talk to you ladies today, although she doesn't spend much time thinking about polio
anymore.” Turning off the ignition, Donna looked from one to the other.

“What is this about?” Sarah leaned forward over the seat.

“This woman contracted polio as a child, before the vaccines became readily available. She has spent her entire life in a wheelchair, never regaining use of her legs. She eventually married and has enjoyed a good life, so she doesn't want our pity or anyone else's. I explained what the board of health is trying to accomplish in the Plain community. She said we could visit, but we can't stay long.”

Rachel and Sarah exchanged a glance and climbed out of the car.

A long visit proved unnecessary. The elderly woman with a deeply lined face answered the door and then invited them into her living room. She was working on a huge jigsaw puzzle. She was very frail, while her disability made her appear even frailer. “You've come to see what polio looks like?” she said with little preamble. Rachel and Sarah exchanged a glance and nodded their heads.

The women threw back the crocheted afghan covering her legs. She pulled up her print housedress to above her knees. Her legs were bent and misshapen, thin as robin legs. “I can't lift them. I feel nothing in my feet. Poor circulation will eventually cause me to lose my legs at some point. I can't remember ever walking or running or playing as a normal child.” Her voice was the only strong part of her body. “I've been confined to this chair my whole life. Now I need help getting in and out of bed, washing, and even eating. A physical therapist comes three times a week to exercise my arms, but they weaken just the same. I must try to keep whatever muscle I have from wasting away.” She was almost as pale as skim milk. “My husband cooks my favorite foods, but lately even my appetite has abandoned me.” She threw the afghan over her legs.

“We shall pray for you,” said Sarah, visibly shaken.

“Thank you. I'm a praying woman myself.” The woman opened her palms as though in supplication, her eyes deep-set and hollow. “But if you can prevent this from happening to others, then you should do so.”

The woman seemed to affect Rachel deeply. She began to cry.

“No,” the woman said kindly. “Don't cry for me. I'm in God's hands and there's no better place to be.” She held out a hand to Rachel.

Rachel wiped her face, took the woman's hand, and hugged her gently around the neck. “We'll try our best.”

Sarah murmured a prayer in
Deutsch
that needed no interpretation.

A few moments later Donna thanked the woman and then herded Rachel and Sarah from the room and out of the house. Rachel seemed reluctant to leave, but the woman had done her part. They had all seen firsthand what the disease could do.

No one spoke until they had climbed into the car and were almost back on the highway. Then Sarah said in a scratchy voice, “I'll help you, Donna. I'll do my best to convince the bishop.” Her attitude had softened considerably.

“Thank you, Sarah. I would much appreciate that.”

Rachel stared out the window, her chatter about horses and English teenagers gone.

Donna drove the short distance to the bishop's farm. “Does your bishop know we're coming today?”

“Yes. His wife said he's always home. But if he's not, we can sit and wait on the porch.” Sarah kneaded her handkerchief into a ball.

Donna wondered if she should have left a note for Amber to brown the ground meat for tonight's chili. She pictured three women rocking on the porch until nightfall. But they waited no more than fifteen minutes after their arrival. A stooped, white-haired man emerged from the barn and limped toward the house.
As he approached, Donna thought she would have no problem convincing a simple farmer of the seriousness of the matter, easily enlisting his cooperation. As he struggled up the steps, she noticed that hay still clung to his pant legs and a ladybug was stuck to his long beard. It was easy to underestimate the unfashionable elderly.

“Good day, Sarah, Rachel,” he said. “You are the social worker, Mrs. Cline? I'm James Mast. I hope you haven't been waiting long.”

“Not at all. How do you do, Reverend Mast?”

“James will do. I've never set foot in a theological seminary.” His smile turned his eyes into a web of wrinkles. “How can I help you?”

Donna opened her mouth but the squeaky screen door drew her attention. Mrs. Mast carried out a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade and four glasses. Four, not five—and then she disappeared back into the house. Bishop Mast poured with a shaky hand and distributed the glasses. After taking a hearty swallow, Donna concisely explained her work and the reason for her visit. Despite the brevity of her information, she left no
i
's undotted and no
t
's uncrossed.

James listened attentively, alternating between sipping his drink and stroking his long white beard. The ladybug flew off. When Donna concluded, he cleared his throat. “I have read a bit about the immunization program required by American public schools. True, it has almost eradicated several childhood diseases. And I have read that some of those diseases—whooping cough, measles, chicken pox—are beginning to make a comeback on college campuses.”

“Exactly, sir. So if—”

He held up an index finger, silencing her. “I also have read the ingredients contained in some of those vaccines—aluminum, ammonium, formaldehyde, which are toxic chemicals—are being injected into young bodies. Did you know that at one time mercury could be found in vaccines?” He shook his head. “This is a
complex question with convincing medical evidence on both sides. I spoke with a parent in this district who has nine children. The parents had the eldest five vaccinated according to the pediatrician's recommendation. The younger four were not and yet have never been sick, other than a minor cold. The older five always seem to be catching ear infections, tonsillitis, strep throat, and whatnot. The mother thinks those vaccines lowered her children's immune systems. But then again, if no one vaccinates, polio and other diseases will rebound. I am a simple farmer and a man of God. I cannot help you, Mrs. Cline. I won't order my district to pursue this when medical evidence seems split down the middle. I will leave this matter up to the parents and to God.” He struggled to his feet. The meeting was over. “Would you ladies care to join my family for dinner? Don't worry, my
fraa
always cooks plenty.” He patted a rounded stomach.

Sarah stood too. “No, Bishop Mast. We must tend to our own families.”

Donna was speechless. Her facts and figures had abandoned her. She hadn't been prepared for someone who had read up on the topic.
Mercury in vaccines?
Mercury had been in many patent medicines, arsenic too. Often old-time drugs killed as many patients as they cured. “Thank you taking time for me, sir. If you have any questions, here is my phone number. I would be happy to discuss this further.”

Intimidated by a gentle man with an eighth-grade education, she left her card on the table on her way down the steps.

Jake stepped onto the porch with his third cup of coffee. He peered up at gray clouds with scattered patches of blue. The October wind cut through his flannel shirt, but at least the rain had stopped.

“Well, weatherman, do you think the rain has quit for the day?” Rachel called from underneath the overhang of the gift shop.

He hadn't noticed her, but as she approached the house, his chest tightened and his neck began to sweat. “I believe it's done. We should hit a balmy sixty degrees by noon.”

Rachel skipped up the steps and shook like a puppy. Rain had dampened her hat brim and clung to her eyelashes, yet she still managed to look like a beauty queen—minus the heavy makeup. “You call sixty balmy? I call it barely tolerable.” She pulled up the collar of her navy blue jacket. “I'm afraid I don't deserve my hourly pay this morning. My scheduled tour never showed up. The rain must have scared them off. I hope my afternoon group comes. I'll leave a note for your dad for when he does this week's payroll.”

Jake leaned against the post. “You're on the time clock from when you arrive until the time you change back into your Amish clothes. That's the agreement you made with Jessie when she hired you.” Briefly he feared she might quit or cut back on her hours. It was hard enough surviving from Saturday night until Wednesday morning without seeing her.

Rachel pursed her lips. “I can't accept pay for standing around and twiddling my thumbs. Goodness, I've already been nibbling from my lunch bag out of sheer boredom.”

Jake consulted the sky once more. “It's down to a mist. Why don't you come along and help me? That way you'll earn your salary. Wait a moment until I get my jacket and Jessie's slicker off the hook. Keep in mind, I guarantee you'll get muddy.”

“Count me in, no matter what the chore. I've been muddy before. Once I fell facedown in a spring pasture. I'd been helping my
daed
get his plow unstuck and suddenly the horse pulled it free.” She grinned at the memory. “
Splat
, in between the rows.”

“You were probably adorable even when covered in mud.”

“Definitely not. Need I remind you what Plain folks fertilize with instead of chemicals? I ran straight for the house to take a shower. My father laughed for days about that.”

Jake tried to form a mental picture of the King family—a family that was no more. “I can only promise cleaner mud than that spring field.” He hurried into the house for extra gloves and their coats.

“What will we be doing?” she asked on their way to the equipment shed. “I should have found out before getting reoutfitted.”

“We'll ride the quads into the hills to remove downed trees or branches that block the bridle trail. We'll check the fence lines too.”

“I don't know how to drive a quad, but at least I know what they are now. I spotted them inside one of your barns.”

He slid back the door. “Keeley's is an automatic.” He pointed at the smallest of four. “You won't have to shift gears, only use the gas and brake pedals.” He pointed out the controls one by one. “It's hard to topple them over, but you'll wear this just in case.” He placed a helmet over her head and tightened the strap under her chin. Touching her face produced an electric sensation, the memory of which would linger for hours.

Rachel climbed astride without hesitation and turned the key. “If only my sisters could see me now. Amy and Nora would be shocked.”

Jake gave Rachel a short lesson, and made her drive around the yard in circles, turning left and right and then braking to a stop.

“I think you're ready. I'll lead and you follow me. Honk your horn to get my attention.”

She honked it twice for good measure and they were off. The sun shone brightly over the harvested fields, but standing water remained on their trail. They splashed through puddles with abandon, heedless of how muddy they became. For several hours they
moved brush, sawed and stacked deadfall, and rode the fence line looking for breaks in the barrier to freedom.