A Flicker of Hope Page 6

  Thomas nodded. “I wanted to get started on it as soon as possible. It won’t be long before the first frost, and I’d like to be under roof by winter.”

  Bishop Zook removed his hat and ran his hand through his thin gray hair, then put his hat back on. “You don’t plan to rebuild on the same site, do you?”

  “Nay, I think the new haus will go between that stand of birch trees”—he pointed to a cluster of trees off to his right—“and the big maple.” Thomas caught sight of Noreen in his peripheral vision, her lackluster expression one of profound sadness. He hadn’t told her the plans or his intention of taking down the big maple that they had once sat under while planning their future. He had promised to build a swing and mount it on the low-hanging branch. But that was fifteen years ago. It wasn’t like they spent much time together in the yard. His memory flashed to the time he guided her blindfolded down the wooded path to this location. He’d tied blue rags around the trees to mark this very spot.

  “Once everyone finishes harvesting their crops, we’ll organize a work bee. What about your winter wheat?”

  “It’s planted.” The weather dictated planting and harvest times, understandably so. An early frost would be detrimental. “The sugar beets can wait until after the haus is built and the corn crop is gone. What wasn’t consumed by fire was destroyed by excess water. It’ll mold.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see that we all give fodder for your silage bin.”

  “Danki.” Thomas studied the sandy soil. He wished there was another way. He didn’t like taking handouts.

  “Where did you and Noreen stay last nacht?”

  “Here. I wanted to make sure the fire didn’t start again.”

  The bishop’s gaze traveled over the destruction. “Our daadihaus is empty.”

  Thomas pretended to ponder the offer. Sleeping on a mattress rather than on a mound of hay did sound tempting.

  “Alice would love the company.”

  Don’t commit. Their lives would be an open book—his life—Noreen was leaving.

  “Alice already started airing it out.”

  “I appreciate your offer.” But . . . but what? Jonathan’s mother-in-law lived in his daadihaus. Levi and Rebecca just had a new boppli. He and Noreen had no place to go.

  “Lunch is ready,” Alice called from a picnic blanket placed under the crimson canopy of the big maple.

  Thomas glanced at his dirty hands. “I better wash up.”

  The bishop examined his own and ambled alongside Thomas to the pump.

  Once cleaned up, they approached the picnic area. Noreen waited until Thomas sat down before handing him a plate with a ham-and-cheese sandwich and two scoops of potato salad.

  “Danki.” Thomas cracked a smile at Noreen, keenly aware the bishop and Alice were watching. He couldn’t hide their strained relationship. Perhaps he shouldn’t try.

  “It’s a little chilly today,” Alice said, breaking the silence.

  Shoveling debris, Thomas hadn’t noticed, but he appreciated the bishop for agreeing with Alice and continuing the conversation about the soon-approaching winter season.

  Every year, speculations were made if it’d be a hard winter, which in northern Michigan it almost always was. Noreen was quiet. Probably reflecting on the worst snowstorm of all time—the first winter they were married. The snow was waist high in some areas, the wind brutal, and, trapped inside, they both despised the coldness before the winter was over.

  “Would you like a peanut butter cookie?” Alice held out the tin of cookies.

  “Danki.” Thomas took one and bit into it, but his appetite was gone, thinking about that winter so long ago. He wasn’t sure why the flood of memories had to appear now. Perhaps it had something to do with Noreen wanting to leave.

  Once the meal ended, he and the bishop wandered over to the mound of ashes, leaving the women to continue their talk about curtains and rugs.

  Bishop Zook peered over the sideboards of the wagon. “Have you found anything salvageable?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I don’t expect to.”

  “You never know.” The bishop scanned the massive pile as though silently taking inventory of all that was lost.

  Thomas recalled the long hours—a labor of love—it took to build the house. How proud and excited he was to hammer the last nail. The feeling of accomplishment so grand, everything else paled in comparison. Take heed and beware of covetousness, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of the things he possesses. Recalling the parable of the rich fool, Thomas pushed his prideful memories to the back of his mind.

  Bishop Zook cleared his throat. “I understand Noreen was in the haus when it caught fire. How is she doing?”

  “She’s fine.” His matter-of-fact answer was met by Bishop Zook’s disapproving frown. Thomas should have made a point to sound sincere even though what he said was true. Anytime he would ask Noreen how she was doing, she always replied fine. About everything. Always just fine.

  Bishop Zook glanced over in the women’s direction, then quirked his brow at Thomas. “You sure about that? I’ve known the two of you—and both your parents—for years . . .” Bishop Zook droned on unaware Thomas had tuned him out.

  Thomas didn’t need more sage advice. He’d be a rich man if he’d collected everyone’s two cents over the years. Fatigue settled into his bones. Too many cookies. Now he needed a nap. Thomas rubbed his temples.

  Bishop Zook stopped talking and, with a slightly cocked head, eyed Thomas hard. “You haven’t been listening, have you?”

  “Sorry. I haven’t had any—” sleep. He went silent, averting his gaze to the debris pile. “Nay, I wasn’t listening. I’m sorry.”

  “I know this can be a stressful time for both you and Noreen. Men and women don’t always react or even grieve alike.”

  He should have known. Noreen said something this morning to Patty, and his sister-in-law felt obliged to tell her cousin, Alice, who in turn told the bishop.

  “I suggest you pray.”

  “I do.” He prayed, read the Bible, studied the Scriptures, followed the Ordnung. What else must he do?

  “Do you and Noreen pray together?”

  Thomas tugged his collarless shirt. “Sometimes.”

  Bishop Zook was silent a moment. “God calls us to dwell with our wives with understanding,” he said, quoting from 1 Peter. “ ‘Give honor to the wife, as to the weaker vessel, and as being heirs together of the grace of life’”—he patted Thomas’s shoulder—“ ‘that your prayers may not be hindered.’”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Make more of an effort and watch and see how God responds.”

  More effort, sure. That’ll be easy. He forced a smile. “I will.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  May, fifteen years earlier

  THOMAS WIPED HIS HANDS ALONG THE SIDES OF HIS PANTS and drew a deep breath before entering the hospital room. Mr. Trombly was lying on the bed, an oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and wires connected him to a machine beeping in tune with squiggly lines bouncing on a wall monitor. Thomas stepped closer, careful not to wake Mr. Trombly. His withered form appeared emaciated. If Thomas hadn’t seen his chest rise and fall, he would have thought the man had died.

  Someone cleared their throat and Thomas jolted.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bishop Zook said.

  Thomas swallowed hard. When he received news that Mr. Trombly had wanted to see him, he wasn’t expecting to meet with the bishop at the same time. “How is he?”

  Before the bishop could answer, Mr. Trombly’s eyes opened. He lifted a trembling hand to his face and pushed the oxygen mask away from his mouth. “Thomas?”

  “I’m here.” The man’s skin held a gray, deathly cast. He’d aged in the month since his admission, looking now to be a man in his eighties rather than the active man in his late fifties.

  “How long have I been here?” Mr. Trombly’s voice strained.

  “Thirty-two days.” T
homas cleared his throat, unsure what else to say. He had tried to visit several times only to be turned away by Mrs. Trombly. When Thomas inquired, he was given the same abbreviated information: “He’s alive, his heart is weak.” She was holding back what she really wanted to say, that Thomas had stressed her husband—caused the heart attack.

  “I’m dying,” he rasped.

  Thomas jerked his gaze over to Bishop Zook who, sitting quietly in the corner, nodded solemnly.

  A knot formed in Thomas’s throat. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He merely wanted to obtain Mr. Trombly’s blessing to marry his daughter.

  “After mei accident—”

  The man’s face pinched in what looked like pain.

  Thomas turned to the bishop. “Should we call the nurse?”

  Bishop Zook pushed off the chair and approached the bed. Standing next to the hand railing opposite Thomas, he assisted Mr. Trombly with repositioning the oxygen mask. “Would you like me to tell him, Abe?”

  Mr. Trombly flicked his eyelids.

  “When he was hospitalized after his accident, the doctor found a tiny mass on his kidney. Apparently it’s growing,” the bishop said.

  “Can’t they do surgery?”

  He shook his head.

  His breathing more controlled, Mr. Trombly removed his mask once again. “That’s why we were moving—tell him, Menno.”

  The bishop cleared his throat. “Abe wanted to make sure Esther was taken care of. He wanted her surrounded by her daughters because when the time came”—he paused briefly—“Esther wouldn’t be able to keep the farm going. In Mio, Verna and Carol Diane’s husbands would take care of things. In addition, they would look after Noreen.”

  “I would have taken care of Noreen and Mrs. Trombly,” Thomas said. “I would have made sure she kept her farm.”

  “It’s all been taken care of nau. The farm has already been sold.”

  A combination of resentment and sorrow warred within him. After his father passed away, Mr. Trombly had given Thomas a job, even praised him for his hard work and for taking care of his mother. And yet, Mr. Trombly wouldn’t consider him for his daughter.

  “Do you love mei daughter?”

  “Yes, with all mei heart.”

  “Will you promise . . . to always love her? Put . . . her needs,” he rasped, the veins in his neck bulging. “Put her needs above your own?”

  “Yes, I promise.” Tears stung Thomas’s eyes. “Do we have your blessing to get married?”

  “Build your haus,” he wheezed, then his eyes closed.

  July, fifteen years ago

  “Ready?” Thomas called out to his brothers, Jonathan and Levi, who were squatting next to the framed eight-foot section of wall. “On three. One, two”—Thomas sucked in a breath—“three.” In unison, they hoisted the studded wall and jimmied it into position. Sweat rivered down the creases of Thomas’s face, stinging his eyes and coating his lips with saltiness as he held the wall.

  “Put a level on it, Levi,” Jonathan said.

  “It’s gut.”

  Thomas drove the nail shank into the stud. Once toenailed to the subfloor baseplate with heavy-duty nails, Thomas stepped back and admired the work. After several weeks of flooding rain that delayed pouring the foundation, it felt good to move forward with the project. Noreen had been gone two long months and he had every intention of marrying her by the end of summer, which meant having the house built.

  Levi jangled a handful of nails. “Are we standing the next wall before we break for lunch?”

  Thomas wanted to keep going, but Jonathan would make the decision. His older brother had more building experience having worked for an Englisch construction company for several years and finishing his own house prior to marrying Patty. Of course when Jonathan was building his place, it wasn’t during haying season, so he had help from most of the men in the district. Thomas couldn’t wait until after harvest. Noreen had indicated in her last letter that her father’s condition was failing quickly.

  Jonathan removed a hankie from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. His face was red from being in the sun too long and his lips looked chapped. “I’d like to get as much done today,” he said, licking his lips. “I have to work the rest of the week.”

  “Let’s do it.” Thomas measured the sixteen-inch center and pencil-marked the spot to nail the two-by-four stud, then measured another sixteen inches for the next stud. Jonathan sawed the boards and Levi nailed the steel plates. They worked well together. At one time they had even discussed forming their own construction company made up of Amish men.

  Before long another wall was built and anchored in place. Thomas slid the hammer through the loop of his tool belt and patted his rumbling stomach. “Let’s eat.”

  Levi shed his tool belt and climbed off the concrete slab. Jonathan set the handsaw down.

  “Daed would have been pleased that you’re using his hammer,” Jonathan said, sitting next to Thomas under the shade of the maple tree. “His father had given it to Daed when he started building the farmhouse for Mamm.”

  Thomas ran his thumb over the hammer’s smooth steel head. He’d never known his grandfather. Thomas was in school when his father died, but the hammer held special significance, knowing it’d been used to build his grandfather’s, father’s, and now his home. He unwrapped the foil from his meat-loaf sandwich and took a bite.

  Jonathan jabbed his elbow into Levi’s side. “I have some of Daed’s tools for you when you’re ready to get married and build a haus.”

  Levi stretched out his long legs before him. “They’ll rust before I’m ready to get hitched.”

  Thomas chuckled. “Mei thoughts exactly. That is until I started courting Noreen.” He recalled his initial reaction when Mr. Trombly was trapped under the thrasher and had asked him to watch over her. She had just reached the age of courting, and watching over her meant driving her home from the Sunday singings. At first he hadn’t wanted to tie up his time, not that he was interested in another girl—he wasn’t. His heart was still wounded from Rachel jumping the fence and he wasn’t keen on starting a new relationship. But he’d made that promise to Noreen’s father and, as it turned out, she was easy to talk to. He recalled the first time he kissed her and how she’d complained he’d stolen her breath. Little did she know at the time, she’d stolen more than his breath, she’d stolen his heart.

  Thomas glanced up as the sun disappeared behind a dark cloud. They didn’t need more rain. Construction had already been delayed enough. He took another bite of his sandwich, washed it down with a drink of water drawn from the well, then finished the meal. He had a letter sitting in the buggy from Noreen he was anxious to read.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Present Day

  WHAT ALL DID YOU TELL PATTY?” THOMAS SAID THROUGH gritted teeth as he waved good-bye to the bishop and his wife.

  “Is this about me going to visit mei family?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t have to go.” She snatched the rake and headed to the pile.

  He closed his eyes, started to count to ten, but only made it to three. He stormed after her. “Fine. You want to go tomorrow? I’ll arrange for someone to drive you.”

  “It’s better than sleeping in the barn by myself.” She whirled the rake into a cinder pile and spiked something tinny with the prongs.

  He shouldn’t have to remind her, but he did. “I wanted to make sure another fire didn’t start.”

  “The fireman said it was unlikely.” She whirled the rake again.

  Thomas conjured a rebuttal in his mind but chose to hold his words. Perhaps they did need time apart. At the same time, he’d rather her family not know about their strained marriage. He had promised her father before he passed away that he would take care of Noreen—love her at all times, put her needs above his own. He’d failed her.

  Thomas marched over to the wagon and grabbed the shovel propped against it. The lack of sleep was wearing on him. His mus
cles were tight. Working a few minutes in what used to be the kitchen, he uncovered the porcelain sink. Intact. Perhaps reusable. He removed a section of drywall that had fallen into the basin and tossed it aside. Lifting the sink, he groaned under its weight, made it a few steps, then set it down.

  “I’ll help.” Noreen dropped her rake.

  “Stay there. You shouldn’t be trekking through this stuff.” He lifted the sink again and was able to move it to the edge of the pile. Blowing out a few quick breaths, he pointed to the shovel he’d set down. “If you would move the shovel so I don’t trip, I should be able to get this.” He hoisted the sink once more and carried it to the wagon where he lowered it to the ground.

  “Do you need help getting it into the wagon?”

  He shook his head. “I think we can reuse it.”

  She looked at the sink and grimaced. “But it leaked.”

  There she went again, reminding him of his inadequacies as a husband. Noreen had made a point of saying something every time she emptied the pail of water he’d placed under the sink to catch the drips.

  “Did you forget?”

  Thomas clenched his jaw. “We don’t have unlimited resources to replace everything.” He struggled to keep his tone even. “Besides, the leak was small.”

  She frowned.

  “Where did you put the tin box yesterday?”

  Her brows crinkled. “On the shelf in the washroom. Why?”

  “Just wanted to know.” He didn’t want to frighten Noreen. There hadn’t been an Amish home burglarized since last year when several of the homes were broken into while everyone was at the bishop’s house for Sunday service. Thomas glanced at the amount of stuff in the wagon, mindful of not overloading it to where the horses wouldn’t be able to pull it. He’d load a few more items, then make a run to the county dump.

  “Do you want me to bring you the tin?”

  “Nay. I don’t want it lost in this mess.” He glanced at the pump. “I’m going to get a drink. Do you want me to fill a cup for you?”

  “Nay danki, but I’ll get yours.”

  “That’s okay.” He lumbered to the pump. Even in their bickering, she was a dutiful wife. Lord, I wish the relationship could be like it was when we were first married. He cranked the handle until icy water sputtered up from the well, then cupped his hands to catch it. After several satisfying gulps, he glanced at the work yet to do. His gaze stopped on Noreen who was standing off to the side, shoulders hunched and shaking. What happened? He dashed across the yard. “Are you hurt?”