7
With Birdy’s permission (which took very little persuasion because she thought Nyna the Mynah was thoroughly winsome), Patrick brought his bird in its cage into the kitchen during afternoon tutoring sessions with Ruthie, hoping the bird would pick up some Penn Dutch. Ruthie was baffled by his devotion to that bird. It was the noisiest thing. Lots of needless ear-piercing whistles and screeches, followed by shrieks of random Bible verses: “Jesus wept!” “Pray continually!” “Rejoice!” “No other gods!” “Do unto others!”
In the kitchen, Ruthie cut up apples, dusted them with cinnamon, and put them in a bowl. Then she poured two glasses of iced tea. “Why do you like that bird so much?”
“Nyna? Because . . . she speaks truth.”
Ruthie let out a laugh. “You teach it—” she corrected herself “—you teach her every word she knows!” Patrick must have spent hours teaching Nyna the Mynah to mimic him.
Patrick smiled. “She can say, ‘Gut Tag’ if she’s in a good mood.”
“That’s why you brought her along to Stoney Ridge? To teach her Penn Dutch?”
“Sort of. Mostly, I didn’t want to leave her behind.”
Ruthie took a sip of iced tea. “So what did you leave behind?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, which, she was learning, was typical of Patrick. He thought carefully before he spoke. But then he said, “My parents. My friends. My car.”
She reflected on his answer as he set Nyna the Mynah’s cage on a stool in the corner. It was a life condensed to short, concise words, a little like Nyna herself. Staccato-ese. And Ruthie’s own life in such terms—what would she leave behind if she walked away from being Amish?
My family. My home. My sense of well-being.
That last phrase bubbled out of nowhere, but it literally took her breath away. It was a revelation. If she were being brutally honest with herself, it filled her with anxiety to think of what life might be without the safety net of family, home, and the security that came with being Amish.
But was that any reason to stay? Fear of the unknown?
She watched Patrick coax Nyna to mimic him. He had absolutely no fear of the unknown. She had to admit, he was growing on her. She liked his openness, his transparency. He was refreshingly honest about himself.
So different from Luke, who was always hiding things.
And along with Patrick’s candor was the fact that he didn’t seem particularly charmed by Ruthie. He seemed impervious to her. Or, at the very least, indifferent. She admired that in him too, because most of the young men she knew in her church were tongue-tied and struck by bouts of profound immaturity around girls of their age.
“Why didn’t you bring your car along?”
He turned toward her. “Part of the adventure is living without it.”
She leaned her elbows on the table and propped her chin in the palm of her hands. “I suppose I’ve led a very boring life. The biggest adventure I’ve ever had is when Dad took us all to Niagara Falls. In a bus. But it was rainy and foggy and we couldn’t see the waterfalls.”
“I’m almost never bored,” Patrick said. “In fact, I can’t remember ever being really, truly bored.”
“So you’ve had lots of adventures, then?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “Almost none. This summer, it’s my first true solo adventure.”
She swept the kitchen with a glance to make sure no little sister was within listening distance and leaned across the table. “I drove a car once. A friend of mine keeps one hidden.” She didn’t say whom.
“But that’s against the rules.”
Ruthie wiggled her eyebrows. “Exactly.” A recurring motto of Luke’s floated through her mind: If you come across a rule you don’t like, just change it.
Patrick smiled, amused. “You think it’s that much fun to drive a car?”
“Yes.”
A slow grin spread over Patrick’s face. “Try driving from Ontario, Canada, to Pennsylvania during a steamy hot July, stuck in the back of a car, with a huge shedding dog that has horrible breath. Then you’ll see how fun a car can be.” He reached out and took a slice of apple. “But maybe the fun of it is knowing you’re not supposed to.” He chewed his apple slice, swallowed, then said, “Maybe it’s as simple as the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.”
She suddenly felt annoyed. And aware of how immature she must seem to him. A cliché! She was a cliché. How embarrassing.
But Patrick seemed oblivious to her embarrassment. “Everyone has been so kind to me here. A total stranger.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get too syrupy. You haven’t been here very long.”
“True, but I’m committed. At least for this month. My parents want me to return to finish up college. I’m hoping I can change their mind.”
She leaned back in her chair. “You said you wanted to know what it’s like to be truly Amish, right? Not just what the tourists think it means.”
“I did. I said that. I meant it.”
“Good. Then, you should come to a frolic.”
“I’ve read about the youth gatherings. The volleyball games, the barbecues.”
“Well, that’s not exactly the kind of frolic I meant.” She reached out to fill up her glass with more iced tea.
“An Amish party, right?”
That, Ruthie thought, was an oxymoron. She frowned as though searching for the right words. She seesawed her hand back and forth in the air. “Yes and no. It’s not churchy, if that’s what you mean. It’s when the community all pitches in to build someone an outbuilding or a shed or a barn. If you’re still here in the fall, I’m sure you’ll be included in corn shocking.” She’d like to see what he thought of Amish living after those soft hands of his were sliced up by the sharp edges of corn husks.
But he looked like she had just handed him the moon on a silver platter. “Count me in. When and where is the next frolic?”
Ridiculous! This guy really was one of a kind. She resisted the urge to say that if he thought she was a tough taskmaster, then just wait until he got bossed around by the men at a barn raising. “Dad announces any upcoming frolics at the end of the church service.” She gave him a smug look. “So you can work yourself to the bone for someone else, and all you’ll get for your kindness and labor is a hearty meal.”
“But they’d do the same for you, wouldn’t they? For your family. For the Schrocks. For everyone. That’s what the community does for each other, right?”
She must have looked confused, because he hastened to add, “It’s based on the book of Acts, about people taking care of each other. ‘Every man according to his ability.’ Acts 11:29. But I’m sure you know.”
“Love never fails!” squawked Nyna, and Patrick’s attention instantly turned to praise his bird.
Ruthie might have known that reference from Acts, but she’d forgotten until Patrick reminded her. She found herself growing increasingly irritated by his romantic notions of being Amish. He refused to see it for what it was. But what irked her most was that he saw things she didn’t see.
She tore a piece of paper from the notepad, a bit more firmly than she needed to, and ended up ripping it in half. She frowned and pulled out another piece of paper, then handed it to him. “Why are you staring at me?”
Patrick’s cheeks went pink. “Did I say something wrong? It seems like I made you mad.”
“No.” Yes. “If you don’t learn Penn Dutch, then you’ll never know when and where to show up for a frolic.” She raised the bar on Patrick. “You are no longer allowed to speak in English. Not a single word.”
That kept him quiet.
Jesse reached for a screwdriver and it slipped right out of his hands and dropped on the ground with a thud. He picked it up and sniffed it. Every single tool had been polished with a thick, greasy coating of lard.
“I distinctly remember that you said to polish the tools,” Leroy said, looking offended, when he and Sammy arrived at the buggy shop for work. “I distinctly remember it. Polish them until you can see your reflection in them. So clean you can comb your hair from it. That’s what you said.” He reflected for a moment. “We did think it was a peculiar custom.”
Sammy nodded. “We thought it was strange. But we did what you asked.”
“Clean and polish! With mineral oil. Not grease them with bacon fat.”
“So that’s where my can of lard went,” came a certain voice, sharp as a pinch. Fern stood at the door, listening to the lecture Jesse was giving to his clueless apprentices about using common sense.
It wasn’t easy to discern, because Fern’s facial expressions were not widely varied, but Jesse thought she might have tossed him a rare and catlike smile of sympathy. On the other hand, it was the same expression she used to convey “what goes around, comes around.”
It was nearly midnight. Standing there at the crest of the steep driveway, Ruthie had one of her odd moments when she felt as though she were on the precipice of discovering something important. What that might be—a calling, an adventure, a true love—who knew? Ruthie didn’t like those moments at all. They only seemed to escalate the longing she felt for whatever it was that she was on the precipice of. What was it?!
Those were the thoughts that were humming messily around her head as she quietly made her way down the gravel driveway, until she saw a bobbing flashlight come toward her. “Luke?”
“Hello there, Ruthie.”
She jumped at the voice. “Patrick!” She exhaled, heart thudding, yet also pinging a little at the sight of him as he approached her. “I didn’t expect to see you.” She popped him in the upper arm like she used to do to her brother Jesse, but the gesture felt far more intimate with Patrick. “What are you doing out so late?” She had made an elaborate effort to sneak out of the house, even to quietly tiptoe past Jesse’s room—where she assumed Patrick was sleeping—and carefully step over the telltale squeaky floorboard. Down the hall, her father could hear that squeaky floorboard like it was a fire alarm.
“Just stargazing.” He turned the flashlight off and looked up at the black velvet sky. “Where I’m from, there’s an ambient light from the city that kind of erases most of the stars. It’s easy to forget they’re there.” He lifted his head. “It’s hard to sleep when there’s so much beauty to absorb.”
Ruthie looked up at the sky. Yes, a clear night of bright stars was nice, but it had never kept her from sleeping.
“What exactly are you looking at?”
Patrick pointed toward the blanket of night sky in the gap. “Polaris,” he said quietly, and she tried to follow the trajectory of his finger. “Also known as Polestar and Lodestar, but better known as the North Star. It holds nearly still while the entire northern sky turns.”
“Yes.” Patrick smiled. “Just like that. The sky turns like a wheel and Polaris is its hub, always marking true north.”
True north. She liked the sound of that. “Which one is it?”
“First, find the Big Dipper.” He traced it with his finger, and she tried to follow along.
“I don’t see it.”
His hand moved, his arm brushing her shoulder. “Pretend the Big Dipper is the palm of your hand. Wait. Hold on.” He unwrapped her fingers. “Cup your hand, but don’t make a fist. Just pretend you’re holding a mug or a bowl.” He lifted her cupped hand in the sky. “At the top of your fingers, you’ll find the Little Dipper. That can be a little harder to find. See it?”
“Oh, okay. Yes, I see it.”
“Now track down to where your fingers meet the palm of your hand. It’s the end of the Little Dipper’s handle. That bright star is Polaris.”
She saw it then. The North Star. Polaris. True north.
“It always sits over the North Pole. The closer you get to the North Pole, the higher it will be in the sky.”
“So if you’re down by the equator, it would sit low on the horizon.”
“Yes!” Patrick laughed. “Exactly right, Ruthie. You’re a quick study. Its position is constant. It never moves. A navigational marker. People could use it to sail the seas or cross the deserts without getting lost. When slavery existed in the United States, slaves used the North Star to light their way to freedom.”
She eyed Patrick curiously, storing this information away. Then she turned back to the night sky, black and blank but for the stars and a sliver of a new moon.
It seemed to occur to him that he was holding her hand because he suddenly dropped it and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “It’s really not so hard to find, once someone shows you where to look.”
Their gazes caught, and a hot flush started along the top of Ruthie’s ears. She was glad for the darkness. “No, you’re right. Once you know where to look, it’s not hard to find.” True north. Was that her it? The thing she was waiting for?
She stared until her neck ached. “The night sky . . . it’s so vast. It makes me feel incredibly insignificant.”
“Really? I have the opposite reaction. To think that this third planet from the sun, nestled in the Milky Way Galaxy, one galaxy among billions, is the object of God’s attention. Why? Why us? He could have given us one star to admire, but he’s given us billions. And planets too. Did you know that one of the rings of Saturn is braided? No one knows why. Perhaps just to show us God’s infinite creativity. It’s mind-boggling. It makes me feel very, very significant.”
“It makes me feel very, very, very small.”
“I see.”
But how could Patrick see? She doubted he was ever confused. He seemed so sure about everything, so certain, so clear.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Where am I going?”
“It’s late. Nearly midnight. You look like you’re on your way somewhere.”
A familiar sound of a horse’s clip-clop mixed with the clackety sound of iron-clad wheels crunching on the road announced the arrival of a buggy to the bottom of the driveway. Earlier today, against her better judgment, Luke had talked her into going with him to meet some friends. “It’ll help you get your mind off of that stranger in the inn,” he had told her, and that was just the encouragement she needed. She glanced at Patrick. “I’m going to a . . . youth gathering.”
Patrick’s eyes met hers with the faintest lift of his eyebrows, as if she were a puzzle he was trying to piece together. The effect was unsettling. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”
“Do you want to come?”
He shook his head. “Not tonight. I’m a little tired. Maybe next time, though.” He did look tired. Pale, with dark circles under his eyes. Hot, too, for it was a muggy night. His hair fell in tangled strands over his forehead, curling slightly at the ends as he gazed upward. She fought an impulse to brush the hair back out of his eyes, to touch him with the same gentle touch that he would give to his bird. “Thanks for not insisting we talk in Penn Dutch.”
Her eyes went wide. “I forgot!”
He laughed, before stepping around her to walk up the driveway. “Next time, I’ll go with you. I’d like to meet your friends.”
She watched him for a while. He was a strange one, that Patrick Kelly. Unflappable was the word that came to mind. She wished she were unflappable. Unable—or unwilling?—to be flapped. She heard Luke’s horse whinny and hurried down the hill to meet the buggy.
“Your chariot awaits, my lovely damsel,” Luke said, slurring the words.
She stopped abruptly. “You’re drunk.”
“Nonsense.”
She looked at the shine of booze bright in his eyes. Booze-shine. She knew that look well on Luke. “You’re gutter-drunk and I’m not going.”
“Nonsense. That’s ridiculous. I’m church-sober.”
She snorted. His version of church-sober meant mildly intoxicated.
He stared down at her a moment longer, then heaved a deep sigh. He wrapped the reins around the brake handle and swung out of the buggy. “Don’t get on your high horse. I just got the party started a little early, that’s all.” He tapped her nose with his finger and tried to wiggle his brows at her. “Who were you talking to?”
“None of your business.”
In his other hand was a bottle. He held it out to her. “Do you want a drink?”
Ruthie shook her head. “Your drinking has dimmed my enthusiasm for alcohol.”
“Aw, come on, Ruthie. Don’t be like that.” He reached out for her, but she backed up and he nearly fell over.
“I told you. I’m not going with you. You’re mistaken to think I would want to go anywhere with you when you’re like this.”
He gave her a smile. “Look at it this way. I’ve made all the mistakes, so you don’t have to.” He drained his bottle and tossed it in the road, causing it to shatter.
She was already irritated with Luke for showing up drunk. No, that was inaccurate. She wasn’t irritated, she wasn’t annoyed, she wasn’t “out of sorts.” She was flat-out, full-steam, blow-your-top angry. “What is wrong with you? I have three little sisters who walk barefoot everywhere. You’re going to clean up every last shard. Or I will get—”
A strange look came over Luke. He folded up as if someone had let the air out of him and bolted for the side of the road, one hand holding onto the mailbox post, as he threw up the vodka that had soured the contents of his belly.
Ruthie took a few steps, then looked up at the house. Lampshine spilled from Patrick’s open bedroom window in a soft yellow pool. She wondered if he could hear the terrible gagging, choking sounds that came from the road. Grateful he hadn’t accepted her invitation to come tonight, she did wonder what he would have done, or said, if he were witnessing Luke’s . . . disgusting humiliation.
Nothing could be further from what Patrick thought it meant to be Amish. But what did he think it meant? What drew Patrick to them?
The peace in their hearts, she supposed. But what was so peaceful about watching Luke Schrock throw up? Nothing. Nothing at all.
After Luke’s stomach emptied, he slowly straightened, wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve, ran a hand through his mussed hair. She picked up his hat and handed it to him. “I’m going inside.”
“Ruthie, wait.” She could see the throb of the pulse in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
She sighed. “I know. You’re always sorry, Luke.” She started up the hill and he fell into step beside her, his stride long-legged and only a little wavery now.
“Wait.” He pulled on her arm, a little too sharply, and she pulled it away. “Wait. I really am sorry. I won’t do it again.” He crossed his heart to emphasize his sincerity.
“Okay,” she said, not believing him. She glanced over at the mailbox, splattered with the contents of his stomach. And the broken bottle glass that littered the road. “You’d better get a bucket of water and clean that up. And a broom too.”
“Absolutely.” He gave her a dazzling smile. He was feeling better. “Wouldn’t want to shock Molly when she runs to get the mail.” He walked to the horse.
“Now, Luke. Now. Before you meet up with your friends and drink more and forget everything.”
“My, my, aren’t you getting a bit sharp-tongued in your wise old age.”
“I’m not old and I’m not wise. I’m just tired of this.” She pointed to the mailbox. “Use soap and hot water on that.”
Luke swept his hat off his head and bent over at the waist in an exaggerated bow. “Consider it done.”
In the morning, Ruthie woke early and hurried down to the mailbox with a bucket of hot soapy water and a scrub brush to clean up Luke’s mess before anyone else found it first.
She had forgotten about the broken bottle, shattered shards of pieces on the road. Luke! No doubt, he was sleeping off his binge, happily unaware of the effect his foolishness had on others.
“Here, let me help.”
She hadn’t heard Patrick come up behind her and jumped at the sound of his voice. In his hands were a brush and a dustpan. “Don’t want you cutting yourself with the glass.” He bent down and started sweeping the broken vodka bottle into a neat pile.
And that was the moment when Ruthie’s great fondness for Patrick Kelly began.