When Hope Blossoms (23 page)

R
emember to be home by four today,” Mom called as Bekah herded Parker toward the back door on Tuesday. “I want all of us to go in to the library so I can check my email.”

“I know, I know,” Bekah muttered under her breath. She let the screen door slam shut behind her, then gave Parker a little push that sped his feet.

“Stop pushin’, Bekah.” Parker sounded grumpy—he’d been out of sorts all morning for some reason. Mom had to call him three times before he got out of bed. Then he’d picked at his breakfast and dragged himself around. He needed to straighten up. Mr. Roper wouldn’t want a grouchy worker on his property. He had enough worries with his truck in the shop and his grape harvest for the year ruined. Why couldn’t it rain, anyway?

At least the apple trees were showing signs of a decent harvest. Mr. Roper had taken them on a walk through the trees last week, showing them the hard little balls that would develop into full-grown apples by mid-September. He’d shown them how to count the number of apple buds in a cluster and pick all but three so the apples would grow to a decent size. Too close together, he’d said, and they didn’t develop like they should. Sometimes Bekah wondered if she was like an apple bud, all cramped up with too many others. She needed space to grow into who she was supposed to be, too.

She wheeled Parker’s bicycle to him, waited until he took hold, then hurried back into the garage for her own. “C’mon. Let’s get going.”

Hot wind smacked her in the face, threatening to dislodge her prayer cap. She lowered her head and pumped hard. Parker lagged behind. She called over her shoulder, “Hurry up! You’re slower’n a snail today!” Parker grunted, but he rose up from the seat and put his weight behind the pumps on the pedals, and he caught up to her.

They turned into Mr. Roper’s lane. They hopped off their bikes and leaned them against the barn. Then Parker scuffed inside the barn while Bekah skipped to the house. Mr. Roper always left the little box air-conditioner going, and stepping from the hot, dry wind into the cool trailer home raised a sigh of relief.

As she’d come to expect, Mr. Roper had left a note on the counter, listing things to do that day. Every task looked familiar, except one.
Clear everything from hall closet,
he’d written. Bekah frowned at the instruction. Did he mean for her to throw away everything in the closet, or merely remove the items and put them somewhere else?

Nibbling the inside of her lower lip, she crossed to the hallway and opened the closet door. She examined the contents carefully. Three coats hung on hangers—two of them obviously for a woman and a third for a little boy. Bekah fingered the sailboat design embroidered on the corduroy front of the child’s coat. A few threads were loose on the sail, but Mom could fix that easily. Overall, the coat was in good shape. Why would Mr. Roper want this thrown away? She’d been taught it was irresponsible to dispose of something that could still be used.

Then realization struck. Bekah recoiled from the coat, plastering herself against the paneled wall behind her, her heart pounding. These things had belonged to his wife and son. His
dead
wife and son. She stared at the coats, the faces from the picture Mr. Roper had shown her springing to life in her imagination. She pinched her eyes tight, willing the image away. When she slowly opened her eyes again, right eye first, then left, all she saw was three coats—one little and two big.

Tears stung behind Bekah’s nose, and she sniffed hard. Mr. Roper wanted these things gone because the memories hurt him. She understood. Mom had given away almost all of Dad’s things shortly after his funeral. She’d said it was because they were moving in with Grandpa and there wasn’t room for Dad’s stuff at Grandpa’s house, but even then Bekah had known it was too hard for Mom to look at those things and remember Dad would never use them again.

Mr. Roper had held on to his wife’s and son’s things for a long time. Why would he choose now to let them go? She didn’t know, but she’d do as he asked. He kept empty grocery sacks under his sink to use as garbage bags. Bekah pulled all of them out and began filling them with the items in the closet. The coats went first, wadded into balls. Then she reached for the shoe boxes that lined the closet floor.

She started to jam them into a sack, but curiosity got the best of her. With a surreptitious peek at the windows to be certain no one peered in at her, she lifted the lid on the first box and looked inside. Letters, all addressed to Julia Roper from someone named Grace Armstrong. Bekah came close to opening one of the envelopes, but she and her friends from Arborville wrote letters back and forth, and she wouldn’t want a stranger reading them. So she put them back in the box and closed the lid. She slipped the box into a sack.

In the second shoe box she found photographs. For several minutes she sat cross-legged on the floor and examined each photo by turn. In her religious sect, photographs weren’t allowed, so she didn’t have pictures she could hold to remind her of her past. Not of the house where she’d lived with Mom and Daddy, not of Daddy, not even of herself. But in her hands, right now, she held captured moments from Mr. Roper’s years with his wife and with his son. Her chest felt as tight as an overfilled balloon as she flicked slowly through the images. So many smiling faces. So much pride and joy captured on the shiny paper.

All of a sudden it hurt too much to look at the pictures. She dropped them back in the box, slammed the lid in place, and shoved the container into the nearest sack. She started to simply push the third box into the sack without looking inside, but something inside of it rattled, and she couldn’t resist taking a peek.

Only four items rested in the bottom of the box, and Bekah knew they’d been Charlie’s. She stared down at a blue, baby-sized hairbrush with a duck decal on the handle. Nestled next to it was a green-and-yellow-striped rattle. A little plastic case, no bigger than a matchbox, lay snug in the shoe box’s corner. Written on the top was “My First Lost Tooth.” Bekah didn’t unsnap the lid to see if a tooth still sat inside. The final item—a tiny beaded bracelet with the letters on the beads spelling the name CHARLIE—brought a rush of tears.

She slid the last box into the trash sack, her heart aching. How could Mr. Roper ask her to get rid of these things? Maybe he’d asked her because he knew he couldn’t do it himself. Looking at the lumpy sack, envisioning what filled it, Bekah didn’t know if she could do it, either.

A big box was pushed clear back in the corner of the closet. Bekah dragged it out and peeled open the folded-over flaps. The box contained women’s clothing—jeans, shirts, a few skirts and frilly blouses. The kind of clothes Bekah wasn’t allowed to wear. She rummaged through the neat stacks, seeing hints of Julia Roper’s personality in the flowered tops, embroidered blue jeans, and ruffles and flounces. These were the clothes of a pretty woman who was sure of herself. Bekah had never met her, but suddenly she envied Mrs. Roper.

She shoved the box next to the line of sacks and stood. The closet rod and floor were all cleared, but the shelf above the rod still held two boxes—the kind you bought in the store and folded to make a bottom and fitted top. She stuck her fingers through the slotted handle on the closest one and pulled. The weight took her by surprise, and she dropped it. The top popped off, and little boy’s clothing spilled across the floor. With a grunt, Bekah knelt and started to stuff the clothes back into the box, but even if they were just going to the burn pile, she found she couldn’t jam them in any old way. She took the time to fold each item, from plaid shorts and gray-striped overalls to button-up shirts and footed pajamas. By the time she finished, she felt like crying again.

Exercising care, she removed the final box from the shelf. It contained more boy’s clothes as well as a stuffed bear and a soft blanket with one shredded corner. Bekah imagined the round-faced little boy from the pictures holding that corner to drag the blanket around, wearing it out with his grubby fist. A lump filled her throat. She stared into the box. The teddy bear seemed to stare back at her. She slapped the lid in place, hiding the bear from view. Her chest ached. She wished Mr. Roper hadn’t given her this job!

She put the boxes, one on top of the other, by the front door and then piled the sacks around the stack of boxes. Although she knew she should carry it all out to the burn pile now, she couldn’t do it right after seeing what all was inside. It could wait until she’d finished her other cleaning.

Her chin set in a determined angle, she returned to the kitchen.
Wash dishes,
Mr. Roper had written. The task would get her focus elsewhere. As she ran a sink of sudsy water, the front door creaked open. Mr. Roper and Parker stepped inside.

“Bekah, I think Parker needs to go home.” Mr. Roper held his arm around Parker’s shoulders. Worry lines marched across his forehead.

Parker’s face had gotten tan this summer working outside with Mr. Roper, but now he looked sunburnt. Bekah shut off the water and hurried to Mr. Roper’s side. She touched Parker’s forehead. So hot! “Oh, you’re sick.” Regret rose up to choke her when she thought about how impatient she’d been with him. She used her kindest voice. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling good.”

Parker took a step away from Mr. Roper and rested his head on Bekah’s shoulder. He’d grown a lot this summer. She and her brother were now nose to nose in height. She felt awkward patting his back, but she comforted him anyway.

“I think he should go home, but I don’t want him riding his bike.” Mr. Roper grabbed the bill of his cap and shifted the cap back and forth. “I don’t have my truck, so I can’t take you. Do you think your mom would be able to put your bicycles in her trunk?”

Bekah nodded. “She’s put the bikes in the trunk before. Can I use your phone? I’ll call her and have her come get him.”

Mr. Roper led Parker to the sofa. “Parker, you stretch out on the sofa there and wait for your mom, okay?” He stood near while Parker flopped onto the thick cushions. Then he sent an apologetic look in Bekah’s direction. “I’d stay with him until your mom comes, but I agreed to meet the pesticide people at ten thirty so we can spray the trees. They’ll be here any minute.”

Bekah looked at Parker. He curled on his side, his eyes closed. She turned to Mr. Roper. The man seemed to need as much assurance as Parker did. “He’ll be okay—he’ll probably sleep. He always does when he has a fever. Besides, Mom’ll be here in just a few minutes. Go ahead and do what you need to.”

Mr. Roper gave Bekah’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Thanks, Bekah. You’re a good kid.”

Bekah’s cheeks warmed at his praise. She offered an embarrassed smile as a thank-you, and he strode out the door. Bekah poked the numbered buttons on Mr. Roper’s phone. Mom answered on the second ring, and Bekah told her about Parker’s fever. A few minutes later, Mom and Adri pulled up Mr. Roper’s lane. Adri stayed in the car, but Mom ran to the house and went straight to Parker, cooing over him as if he were two years old rather than eleven.

Bekah, watching, didn’t mind. When she was sick, she liked having Mom fuss over her. Besides, he deserved it after the way they’d all scolded him that morning, the poor guy. Mom helped Parker to his feet and aimed him for the door. As they headed outside, Bekah’s gaze fell on the tumble of sacks and the boxes.

Clear everything from hall closet.
She knew she should follow Mr. Roper’s instruction, but she couldn’t bear the thought of throwing away the clothes and coats and photographs. Bekah would give anything to have pictures of her dad. Someday Mr. Roper would want those photographs back. And somebody could wear the clothes.

Bekah grabbed Mom’s arm. “Mr. Roper doesn’t want this stuff anymore. Can we put it in the trunk with Parker’s bike?”

Mom glanced across the pile. “It would all fit in the backseat of the car, I think. But are you sure he doesn’t intend to keep it?”

“I’m sure.”

“What are you going to do with all of this?”

Bekah sucked in her lower lip for a moment. “I don’t know . . .” She didn’t know for sure what she’d do with the clothes, but she’d hide the photographs and other little things in her closet so they’d be ready when Mr. Roper wanted them again.

Mom moved forward. “Well, I don’t have time to worry about it right now. I need to get Parker home and to bed. If you want the things, load them quickly so I can go.”

“Thanks, Mom!” Bekah grabbed a handful of sacks. It took three trips, but she crammed everything in beside Adri or around Parker’s bicycle. She felt a little bit like a thief as Mom drove off with Mr. Roper’s things in the car, but she also felt relieved. She turned back toward the house to finish her work for the day, satisfied.

Someday, surely, Mr. Roper would be glad she hadn’t thrown his wife’s and son’s clothing and all those photographs on the burn pile.

P
arker’s fever continued for three days. On the second day, Amy called the clinic in Weaverly and talked with a nurse, who asked several questions. After their conversation, Amy decided not to take him in. He had no rash, no swollen tonsils or glands, no other symptoms that would indicate a serious illness. The nurse surmised he’d contracted a summer cold and advised making sure he drank plenty of fluids and got a sufficient amount of rest; if the fever hadn’t abated by Friday, Amy should bring him in.

Amy found following the nurse’s advice concerning rest easy—all Parker wanted to do was sleep. But she woke him frequently to offer water, juice, or clear broth. He fussed at each interruption but obediently drained cup after cup.

Because he slept so soundly, requiring little attention, Amy was able to continue working. With Bekah entertaining Adrianna, she managed to complete the face on a twin-sized bed quilt. She’d finished the trio of wall hangings previously but still needed to ship them. That required a trip into town to the post office, and she didn’t want to leave Parker while he was ill. Bekah offered to watch him, but Amy didn’t feel comfortable leaving the children alone, even for a little while, until Parker was well again. So Amy’s plans to mail the projects and to check her email at the library were postponed for several days.

Finally, on Friday morning, Parker awakened with a fever-free smile. And a raging appetite. To Amy’s delight, he consumed four pieces of toast and a pile of scrambled eggs, then asked for more toast.

Laughing, Amy ruffled his sleep-flattened hair. “I think you’ve had enough for now. You don’t want to make your tummy sick from too much food all at once.”

Parker sighed, dropping his chin. “Okay, Mom.” He lifted a hopeful face to her. “Can I have peanut-butter sandwiches for lunch, though?” He thrust two fingers upward. “Just two, not three. And a banana.”

Amy laughed again. She pushed out of her chair and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “You sure can.” Picking up her plate and silverware, she looked at Adrianna, who was using her toast as a scoop to push fluffy bits of egg around her plate. “Eat your food instead of playing.”

Adrianna rested her cheek on her fist and carried the toast to her mouth.

Bekah rose from the opposite side of the table. “Yes, Adri, hurry up. I need your plate.” She grabbed Parker’s empty plate and stacked it on top of her own. “As soon as I’m done with the dishes, I’m going over to Mr. Roper’s. It’s his laundry day.”

Parker shot out of his seat, knocking the chair up on two legs with the jerky movement. “I’m going, too.” He started for the stairs.

“Oh no, not you.” Amy caught Parker’s arm and drew him to a stop. “You’re resting today. I’m glad you feel better, but fever wears a body down. Too much activity today could make you sick again. So this is going to be a lazy day for you, young man. You’ll spend it reading or working on a puzzle, not following Mr. Roper around the orchard.”

Parker stuck out his lower lip. “But it’s Friday. It’s a workday. And I didn’t get to work on Tuesday ’cause Mr. Roper made me go home. He
needs
me, Mom.”

Her son’s abject disappointment pierced Amy, but she remained firm. “You can go back next week. But not today.”

Adrianna stuffed the last bite of toast in her mouth and spoke around it. “I’w go to Mr. Woper’s an’ work for Pawkuh today.”

Amy frowned at her youngest. “Mind your manners. And you’ll stay here. You can entertain Parker.” She turned to Bekah, ignoring Parker’s and Adrianna’s hangdog expressions. “What time do you think you’ll finish today?”

Bekah placed the dishes on the counter, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know. Laundry doesn’t take as long over there because he has the automatic dryer.” A dreamy look crossed Bekah’s face. “Sure is nice not to have to fight the wind to hang his sheets and towels on the line.”

Amy’s heart caught. Was she making a mistake, allowing the children to sample so many conveniences at Mr. Roper’s house? He’d said they’d already more than earned their bushel of apples. Maybe she should consider bringing to an end their time with the man. They could continue to pray for him without spending time with him. “Then what time will you be done?”

“If all I do is laundry and clean his bathroom, I’ll be done before noon. Why?”

Amy peeked at her two youngest, waiting to see if their pouts would disappear with her next statement. “I want to go to the library, and I thought all of you would want to go, too.”

Adrianna sat upright, her face lighting. “Yay! I like Miss Bergstrom. She lets me play with the puppets.”

A smile curved Parker’s lips. “I like the puppets, too.”

“Good.” Amy nearly sighed in relief at their change in attitude. “Adrianna, if you’re finished there, you and Parker can go up and get dressed. Then come down and dry dishes for Bekah.”

The two youngest headed upstairs. Bekah was already running water for dishes, so Amy turned toward the sewing room to get started on her work for the day. As she passed the telephone on the corner of the counter, it rang, nearly startling her out of her skin. She yanked up the receiver and said breathlessly, “Hello?”

A familiar throaty chuckle rumbled through the line. “You sound frazzled. Did I call at a bad time?”

Amy laughed, pressing the phone to her ear. “No. The ring just scared the wind out of me. Good morning, Dad.”

Bekah flicked a grin in Amy’s direction and waggled her fingers.

“Bekah says hello,” Amy said into the phone.

“Hello to Bekah, too.”

Amy waved at Bekah, then leaned her hip against the counter. “How are things in Arborville?”

Dad chuckled again, but with restraint this time. “Hmm, that’s the first time you haven’t asked, ‘How are things at home?’ Does that mean Weaverly is home to you now?”

Amy considered Dad’s question. She’d lived her entire lifetime prior to this move in the little community of Arborville, Kansas, surrounded by people she knew as well as her own family. She’d only resided in Weaverly two months, and she knew only a handful of people, yet she felt settled here. She drew in a satisfied breath. “Yes. It is home.”

A short silence reigned, and then Dad’s voice came again, laden with both relief and remorse. “That’s good, Amy. I’m happy for you.”

Amy was happy for herself. “The children and I would sure enjoy a visit from you. We have a sleeping porch upstairs, and Parker and Adrianna love to use it, so we’d put you in Parker’s room if you wanted to spend the night. You could meet the fellowship members from Ohio, and maybe even worship with us if you stayed a whole weekend. What do you say?” Talking to her father, hearing his voice, made her miss him. She hoped he’d agree to a weekend visit.

“Actually, that’s why I called. I need to come see you and bring someone with me.”

Something in Dad’s tone—a forced lightness—offered a warning. A prickle of trepidation crept up Amy’s spine. “Who’s that?”

“James Corey. Do you remember him? He’s the representative from Farmers Aid Agency who . . .”

The prickle increased in intensity. James Corey had paid the accident claim after Gabe’s death. “Is something wrong?”

“I think it would be better for us to talk in person. What if we drove over Monday? Would that be all right?”

“M-Monday?”

“The sooner we get this settled, the better.” Now Dad sounded grim.

Amy clutched the receiver with both hands. Her fingers trembled. During her conversation with Dad, Adrianna and Parker had come downstairs and joined Bekah at the sink. They chattered softly together, clinking dishes and rattling silverware into the drawer. She prayed they wouldn’t overhear her next words. “It’s about Gabe, isn’t it? The way he died . . .”

A sigh whisked through the line. “Now, I don’t want you to worry.”

“How can I not worry, Dad?”

“By trusting instead.”

“But—”

“‘The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust. . . .’” Dad’s no-nonsense recital of the verse from Psalm 18 offered a gentle reprimand.

Amy drew in a slow breath. “Yes, Dad.”

Dad spoke again. “Mr. Corey has some questions, but I don’t want you to spend the weekend fretting about this. You know you’ve done nothing wrong.”

No, she hadn’t done anything wrong. But had Gabe?

“I’ll let you go now. Give the children a hug and a kiss from Grandpa. I’ll see you Monday.”

“All right. Good-bye.” Amy placed the receiver in its cradle, then clutched her trembling hands to her ribs. Her stomach whirled, and cotton filled her mouth. She’d come here to escape the speculation. But apparently the speculation was going to follow her all the way to Weaverly.

Bekah poked her head inside the musty barn and called, “Mr. Roper? You in here?”

“Sure am.” The reply came from the far corner of the barn, where a workbench stretched halfway across the wall. “Whatcha need?”

Although morning sunshine painted the yard in bold yellow, the dusty windows blocked light from entering the barn. Bekah hated going inside the wood-framed, creaky building. Even though it was big, it reminded her of an underground cellar with its funny odors and lack of light. Maybe she should ask Mr. Roper about giving the windows a good wash one of these days. It wouldn’t fix the smell, but at least the sun could get in there. “I need to tell you something.”

Mr. Roper stepped toward the middle of the barn. He carried an odd-shaped tool in one hand and a greasy-looking rag in the other. The smell of turpentine drifted to Bekah’s nose. She crinkled her face in distaste and remained rooted in the wide doorway.

“Parker’s over his fever, but he didn’t come with me. Mom wanted him to stay home today and rest. I’m gonna do your laundry, okay?”

“No Parker today, huh?” Did regret or relief tinge his tone? Bekah couldn’t be sure. Before she could reply, he added, “I got bored last night and did a few loads of wash myself. All that’s left is sheets and towels, so you won’t have to hang around long today.”

“Oh.” Bekah inched backward, puzzled by his aloofness. He usually teased with her a little bit. “So . . . there isn’t anything else you want me to do?”

“Nope. Not a thing. Thanks, Bekah.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadowy corner.

Chewing her chapped lower lip, Bekah crossed to the house and let herself inside. After her weeks of working for Mr. Roper, she no longer felt like a trespasser when she entered his house. Without a moment’s pause, she gathered the towels from the bathroom—off the rack, from a hook beside the shower, and off the floor—and threw them into the washing machine. She set the machine, measured in detergent, then went to his bedroom to strip the bed.

Apparently Mr. Roper never made his bed. Every time she’d come in, the spread was all rumpled and the sheets tangled. It looked like he wrestled all night instead of sleeping. She flopped the spread—a tattered blue-and-green plaid with a coffee stain in the middle that wouldn’t wash out—to the floor and then tugged all the sheets free. After dumping the pillows from their cases, she carried the wad to the little utility area off the kitchen and dropped it all on the floor next to the washer.

No note waited on the counter for her, but she always cleaned the bathroom on Friday, so she grabbed the cleaning supplies from the plastic basket under the sink and went to work. She finished just as the washing machine buzzed. She transferred the towels to the dryer, smiling because she didn’t have to send them through a wringer to remove excess water—modern washing machines were wonderful! Then she carefully layered the sheets and pillowcases into the belly of the washer. She’d learned to balance everything so the machine didn’t jiggle back and forth and threaten to walk right out of the utility closet. After programming both machines, she had nothing to do except wait for the humming machines to finish their jobs.

So she went to the living room and looked around. Mr. Roper had magazines on the table in front of the sofa, but she wasn’t interested in tools or woodworking. A television set lurked in the corner. For a moment, Bekah considered turning it on. She’d watched a little TV before, in stores and in some of her schoolmates’ homes back in Arborville, but she knew Mom wouldn’t want her watching it. Mom wouldn’t know if she did it or not, but her conscience wouldn’t let her turn it on.