18
It was a perfect day. Clear blue sky, a steady breeze, and unseasonably cool temperatures after last night’s rain broke the relentless heat wave. Ruthie was hanging sheets on the clothesline when she heard someone call her name. She turned around and saw Mim Schrock standing on the walkway to the house, her hands linked behind her back.
“Mim!” Ruthie threw the clothespins down on the pile of wet sheets and walked over to her friend. Well, she wouldn’t consider Mim a friend, exactly. The girls were a few years apart in age and Ruthie was always a little uncomfortable around Mim. Partly, Mim was acutely shy; mostly, Ruthie was prejudiced by how she kept Jesse dangling on a thin string of hope. But even if the girls weren’t chummy, they were neighbors. “When did you return?”
“Two days ago.”
She thought about asking Mim if she liked Prince Edward Island, but from the way she responded to her question, and the way she twisted her hands nervously in her apron, Ruthie could see this wasn’t a social call. Even on a good day, Mim had a gift for looking as if the sky might fall. She waited for Mim to say what was on her mind.
“I know your relationship with my brother Luke is none of my business . . . and, well . . . this is a really hard thing to talk about . . .”
“Just go ahead and say it,” Ruthie said, thinking she was going to say that Luke had a new girlfriend.
Instead, Mim said, “What I’m wondering is . . .” After a long pause, she began again, “Have you noticed a change in Luke this summer?”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . he seems to be acting crazy.”
“Crazy?” Ruthie said as calmly as she could, switching gears in her mind. “Crazy . . . how do you mean?”
“Sneaky. Belligerent.”
“More than usual?”
“Yes. You haven’t noticed?”
“No, not really.” Other than when he had been drinking. When he was drunk, he was mean. And crazy. But she wasn’t sure she should say so to his sister.
Mim looked relieved. “Well,” she said quietly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Wait. Let’s back up,” Ruthie said slowly. “What do you mean when you say he’s more belligerent than usual?”
“I know he’s always been susceptible to back-acre parties, but he went out last night and didn’t come back until dawn. And it was obvious he’d been drinking. A lot.”
Ruthie waited. None of this seemed like new information.
“Galen and Luke argued this morning. He told Luke that if he doesn’t stop drinking and find a job, he’s going to make him move out when he turns eighteen. Luke stormed out.”
“I heard my mother cry. She never cries. Luke doesn’t realize how he affects our family.” Mim looked away. “Or maybe he does.”
“Mim . . . why are you telling me all this?”
“Luke can be wonderful. Sweet, thoughtful, funny,” Mim said, clearly evading the question. “You know how much you’ve always meant to him. You’ve been one of the few who can see the potential in him.”
Ruthie didn’t know how to answer that.
Mim’s hands curled into a tight ball. “Ruthie, does Luke have any reason to be jealous of you? Is there anyone else in your life?”
She thought of Patrick, but didn’t answer.
“He does, doesn’t he?” she said softly. “That’s why you broke up with him. There’s someone else.”
“No. That’s not why and Luke knows it. I stopped going out with him because he drinks too much. I’ve had enough of it.”
Mim nodded, as if she understood.
Just as Ruthie was starting to relax, Mim added, “Maybe he’s just misunderstood the situation.”
“Misunderstood what situation?”
“He seems to think that there’s something between you and Patrick Kelly.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’re just friends.” She bit her lip. “Why? What did Luke say?”
“It’s not what he said. It’s what he did.”
“What did he do?”
Mim wrapped her arms against her side, as if it hurt her to say what she was going to say. “He killed that black bird of Patrick’s and left it on his doorstep.”
Ruthie gasped. Nyna the Mynah? Patrick loved that silly bird. Loved, loved, loved it. Luke killed his bird. Killed his bird, killed his bird, killed his bird. Those words swirled around in Ruthie’s head. “Has Patrick found out?”
“Yes. He’s . . . quite upset.”
“I should go find him.”
“He left to go bury his bird. I offered to help him, but he said he wanted to be alone.”
Ruthie was still trying to absorb this information. Luke killed Patrick’s bird? She felt a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. “How could Luke do such a thing? Why? Why would he do such a thing?”
“He said he saw the two of you together, taking a walk, and it just made him crazy.”
Yesterday afternoon. She knew he had seen them leave the cottage. She didn’t even mind so much. Luke had been so hot and cold lately that it didn’t bother her one little bit if seeing them made him a little jealous. She wanted him to know she didn’t belong to him. What had that started, though?
“Patrick said something odd. He said that in ancient Greece, leaving a calling card like that—the dead bird on the doorstep—he said it’s a challenge to a duel.”
Silence.
“Does that make any sense to you?”
Ruthie thought of Socrates, of courage, of knowing when to advance and when to retreat. “Yes, it does.”
Mim looked like she was going to cry. “Please don’t tell Luke that I’m the one who told you about the bird. Don’t tell anyone about the bird. Patrick asked me not to say anything. I just . . . I felt as if you should know what was going on between them. Just in case . . .”
“I won’t,” Ruthie said, even though she didn’t owe Mim any promises, especially not over Luke, especially since Mim had broken her brother Jesse’s heart more than a few times. Yet Ruthie would keep the confidence for Patrick’s sake. “Well. Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re welcome,” Mim said. And then—“I’m so sorry.”
As she finished hanging wet sheets on the clothesline, Ruthie thought about Mim’s last words: I’m so sorry. There was something about them that was both poignant and telling. She really did sound sorry, although she wasn’t sure if she felt sorry for Luke or herself.
The one Ruthie felt sorry for was Patrick.
David was on his way home from the Bent N’ Dent one afternoon when he decided to make a quick stop at the cottage next door. He hadn’t seen Patrick Kelly in the last few days and it concerned him when Ruthie said that the Penn Dutch lessons had been put on hold, plus the buggy driving lessons. What had dampened Patrick’s enthusiasm?
As he reached a hand to knock on the cottage door, it swung open. “David!” Patrick said, a surprised look on his face. “I was just on my way out.”
Was it David’s imagination, or did Patrick look extremely fatigued? No . . . no, it wasn’t how he looked, it was how he moved. Slowly, shuffling his feet like an old man. Before he could ask, he noticed the cage in Patrick’s hand. It was empty.
“Where is Nyna?”
“She . . . flew off. The door must have been left open. Just one of those things.”
“Oh Patrick. I’m so sorry. I know you were fond of that bird.”
“Yes. Yes, I was.”
David looked around the trees. “Maybe she’ll come back. Have you looked for her? I could help.”
“No, David. Thank you. She’s gone.”
Patrick stepped on the porch and closed the door, then fiddled with the key to lock it. He was having trouble getting the key into the lock, so David covered his hand with his to guide it in and twist it. “These old locks can be tricky.” He handed the key to Patrick, who took it without a word.
David didn’t like the feel of this. Something wasn’t right and clearly Patrick wasn’t going to say what it was. He felt as if he was pulling teeth out of him to talk, the way conversations often went with his own children. What would Birdy do? Probably come at it from another angle.
“Patrick, now that you’ve been here a few weeks, I’ve been wondering what other things you’ve noticed about the Amish. Other things than quilt shops open on the Sabbath, that is.” He knew that Patrick took long walks around the countryside. He hoped he was seeing the best of the Stoney Ridge church members. The field work, the families working side by side to harvest the garden, the quilting bees.
“I have to admit, I keep coming across things I wouldn’t have expected.”
David’s stomach dropped. “Such as . . .”
“Yesterday, I saw a microwave hooked up to a generator on someone’s back porch. An Amish wife was using it to heat up her coffee. And then I saw a group of teenaged Amish girls with iPhones, making selfies. They even had a selfie stick. That surprised me.”
Selfies? What in the world was a selfie stick?
“Sometimes, to be honest, I don’t even know I’m among the Amish.” Carefully, holding on to the pole, Patrick stepped off the porch and lifted the empty cage. “I need to get this in the garbage. Makes me sad to see it in the cottage. Thanks for looking in on me, David. You’ve been very kind to me. You always make me feel . . . better about everything.”
David’s perspective about everything just went south.
In general, Jesse didn’t have much luck when he told others what to do, but tonight, when he found his dad and Birdy and little sisters in the living room, his voice held no room for negotiation. “Luke Schrock has to go.” He slapped his straw hat against the tabletop, just to add a touch of drama.
Everyone looked up, surprised by Jesse’s sudden appearance or bold pronouncement, or both. Birdy exchanged a look with his dad. She tried to scoop up the twins, but they executed a perfectly synchronized bob-and-weave to avoid her, Emily to the left, Lydie to the right—until David rose to his feet and they trudged upstairs to start baths, grumbling all the way that they were left out of everything good. Ruthie was over at Katrina and Andy’s, spelling Molly to give her a good night’s sleep, but that meant Molly remained in the living room, looking quite interested, until his dad gave her the look.
“What’s he done?” His dad sat back down in his chair.
Jesse glanced at Molly’s disappearing bare feet on the stairwell, waiting until she reached the top because he knew she had a talent for eavesdropping. He was glad Ruthie wasn’t here to hear this news. He lowered his voice. “He killed Patrick’s bird and left it on the cottage doorstep.” He bumped his fists together and split them apart. “Like it was a twig.” The whole thing made him sick. Literally.
“Oh no.” His father paled, stricken. “Why?”
“Who knows why Luke does what he does? All I know is that he’s kicked up his crazy a notch by killing Patrick’s bird. He’s skidding off a cliff. Dad, he’s gotta go.”
“Go where?” his father said.
“Anywhere but here. Everyone in this town has lost patience with him. No one wants to hire him. You won’t even hire him at the Bent N’ Dent! Galen won’t let him near his horses. His own mother has lost patience with him. Have you noticed how worn out Rose looks? Luke needs to go before something else happens and it’s too late.” He looked straight at his father and boldly pointed his finger at him. “You need to make that call. You’re the bishop. Luke needs to leave this town before he ends up knocking off a liquor store and spending the rest of his life in jail.”
“No way. Not possible.”
“Dad,” Jesse said, “when are you going to wake up and see Luke for what he is?”
“And what would that be?”
“A drunk,” Jesse said. “A selfish, self-destructive drunk.”
“What a person does isn’t the same as who a person is,” his dad said. “There’s good inside of Luke.”
Only his father. Jesse glanced at him, impressed by his ability to try to find good in everybody even when there was no good in someone like Luke. Only his father could think like that.
“Tell me one thing, Jesse.”
Jesse lifted his eyebrows, all ears.
“Don’t you think it’s curious that a young man like Luke who fights so hard against being one of us . . . hasn’t left?”
It was a testament to Patrick’s character that he was still here. Ruthie would have thought he might have packed up and left Stoney Ridge for good after he found Nyna the Mynah dead on his doorstep. She kept Mim’s confidence and didn’t mention a word to him or to anyone else. Nor had Patrick volunteered anything, and she hadn’t seen Luke, which was just as well. She wasn’t sure what she would or could say to him. She didn’t usually let her temper fly, really fly, but when she did, she often had cause for regret.
Tonight, the sky was filled with colorful streaks of clouds. The sunset would be especially beautiful; her father and Birdy and the girls were over at Katrina’s to see the baby, so she asked Patrick if he’d like to go on a hike up the ridge to watch the sun set.
“I’d love to,” he said, when she appeared at the cottage door. In fact, it seemed as if he was waiting for her, but she often got that feeling when she was with Patrick. Like he had all the time in the world for her.
Instead of going straight up the hillside, she decided to take the road. It would be slower, but easier on Patrick. The recent rains had made paths muddy. The road meant fewer obstacles to maneuver, less chance of things that caused him to trip. She was convinced he needed glasses but wasn’t sure how to bring the subject up.
Patrick brought up a book he’d been reading, a book by Richard Foster called Celebration of Discipline, and was explaining to Ruthie about the discipline of prayer when they turned a corner and he breathed out, “Oh boy.” They had come face-to-face with Luke Schrock and a few of his friends. They stood on the side of the road, drinking beer from cans, leaning against Hank Lapp’s yellow golf cart. She could practically feel Patrick tense up. Even the air around them felt charged, like right before lightning struck.
“Well, well,” Luke said, his eyes looking mean. “If it isn’t Saint Patrick and the lovely Ruthie Schrock.”
Ruthie felt trapped. If she snapped at Luke the way she’d like to, it would only escalate his hostility. He wouldn’t lose face in front of his friends.
Luke pushed himself off the golf cart, his boots squelching in the mud, and strode up to Patrick. “Ever heard of a game called chicken?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Perfectly harmless game.”
“Perfectly stupid, you mean,” Ruthie said. “It’s a game where there’s nothing to gain and pride stops everyone from backing down.”
“Not true!” Luke said, eyes fixed on Patrick. “It’s a game to find out who is the bravest. We stand in the road and wait for a car to come around the bend. The first one who runs is the chicken.” He walked back to his friends in the golf cart and patted the front of it. “We can even practice. Let’s try it once while I drive the cart.”
Patrick drew in a quick hitching breath.
“Don’t let Luke goad you into anything,” Ruthie whispered. “Let’s leave.”
Patrick snapped his head toward her. “I don’t run,” he said, but he appeared to be trembling. Nearly imperceptible, but she noticed. And then he touched her face. He brushed the curve of her jaw with his fingertips, ever so lightly. He walked over, bold and confident, to Luke, sitting in the golf cart. She looked at Luke’s friends, hoping one or the other might stop this foolishness. But that was a foolish notion in itself. An old proverb danced through her mind: Verglaag der Deiwel bei seinre Schwieyermudder. Don’t expect help from the devil’s friends.
She stood rooted a moment, so that she had to hurry to catch up to Patrick.
A slice of fading sunlight fell across the well-scrubbed hospital waiting room. Luke stretched his legs out flat and leaned back on the hard plastic chair. “He should have moved. Why did he just stand there? It was like he was frozen. He should have just run.”
“Because Patrick is nothing if not brave,” Ruthie said. “He told you. He doesn’t run.”
“Well, somebody has to move or the game of chicken doesn’t work.”
And then she realized the truth. A terrible feeling came over her, a feeling that had been poking at her for weeks but she hadn’t wanted to face it, to even think it. Her entire body began to tingle as if she were being slowly submerged in boiling water. Slowly she looked up. She had to swallow twice before she could speak.
“Luke, a few weeks ago, were you playing chicken on Old Spotted Horse Road?”
He gave her a deer-in-headlights look, then he slipped on his charming rascal’s smile again, but it didn’t quite work. He rolled his broad shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t remember.”
“I think you do remember. I think you’re the reason that man drove his car off the road and ended up having a heart attack at the inn.”
Luke’s smile dimmed. He straightened up and crossed his arms against his chest. His face became subtly guarded. “Ruthie, honey, I know you’re upset, but that’s a pretty nasty accusation.”
She kept her eyes fastened to his. He had a way of making himself look all innocent, a way of making his eyes go sweet and soft as if he were nothing but a mischievous schoolboy. “You did it, didn’t you? And you didn’t wait to see if the driver was all right. You just ran off with your friends. You left him there, alone. He had hit his head, his car had a flat, and you . . . just . . . left.”
“Is that how little you think of me?” He looked over at her now with eyes that were hard and black, staring down at her as if she was nothing more than an annoying insect. “And I think your logic is scrambled because you’ve got a crush on Saint Patrick.” He added a mocking lilt on the last two words.
Patrick had said he didn’t run. She wanted to run and keep on running, out of the hospital, away from Stoney Ridge, and to the ends of the earth.
“If Patrick dies, that means you will have caused the death of two people. Do you realize that, Luke?”
His pulled his hat brim to hide his eyes, and his mouth was set hard. “You’re talking crazy. I’ve had enough.” He got up and started toward the exit.
“Even if Patrick survives, you could be facing years in jail. Years and years,” Ruthie said, but she was talking to Luke’s disappearing back. Before he reached the double doors of the exit, she yelled, “Luke!”
Her shout startled him. He spun around, his eyes filled with fury.
She knew she should stop, but she couldn’t. “You can’t just keep avoiding the truth!”
He stormed back and grabbed her upper arms, their chests inches apart, so she had no choice but to look directly into his face, veins bulging everywhere, his features distorted with rage.
“Let go of me,” Ruthie said as calmly as she could with a pounding heart.
“Quit telling me what to do!”
“Then stop doing such stupid things!”
“Stupid?” he said, ratcheting up his grip another notch.
Wincing now, “Luke, that hurts. Let me go!”
She was conscious, suddenly, that he smelled of beer and sweat and blood. Patrick’s blood.