When Mercy Rains (30 page)

Danny kicked a rock and it bounced against a mailbox post and ricocheted into the street again, sending up a tiny puff of dust. Paul frowned at his son. “Careful there. You don’t want to hit someone’s vehicle or house.”

Danny poked out his lower lip and didn’t say anything.

Paul nudged his shoulder. “Stop pouting. You’re too big for that.”

Danny squinted upward. “Not trying to pout, but I’m mad. Can’t I be mad? God made emotions, so why can’t I use them?”

Paul swallowed a chuckle. He would’ve asked the same kind of question when he was Danny’s age. He draped his arm across his son’s shoulders as they ambled along together, Danny stretching his stride to match Paul’s. “You’re right that God made emotions, and being mad is an honest feeling. So, yes, you can be angry. But remember the Bible tells us, ‘Be ye angry, and sin not.’ In other words, it’s okay to feel angry, but you shouldn’t let anger make you say or do things that would be hurtful.”

“So I shouldn’t have kicked the rock.”

Paul nodded.

“Well … I’m sorry. I guess.”

Paul coughed to cover another chuckle. At least Danny was honest.

“But I don’t want to spend my whole summer with just you.”

This time Paul let his laughter roll. He snagged Danny against his hip and chafed his son’s shoulder with his open palm. “Thanks, buddy. That really makes my day.”

Danny grinned sheepishly. “That didn’t come out right. But I go with you to work at the Zimmerman farm where there aren’t any kids. And then on Sunday, we go home instead of going to somebody’s house where there’d be kids.” His scowl returned. “Did I make you mad when I asked you about Jay’s aunt? Is that why you won’t go eat with his family?”

Sweat trickled down Paul’s temple. From the sun or from an inner heat inspired by thoughts of Suzy? He swept the dribble away with his fingertips. “I’m not mad at you. But I hope you haven’t spent any more time talking about Jay’s aunt.” He aimed a warning look at Danny. “Have you?”

His son shook his head.

Paul blew out a breath of relief as he guided Danny up the sidewalk to their house. “Good. As I said, I’m not mad at you, so don’t worry.”

“Then are you mad at Jay’s aunt?”

Paul paused at the base of the porch steps. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well, Jay says—”

“I thought you weren’t talking to Jay anymore about his aunt.”

“I haven’t been talking, I’ve only been listening.”

Paul closed his eyes, gathering patience. A child’s reasoning …

“And Jay says his dad and his aunt Shelley are both really mad at his aunt Suzanne. But he doesn’t know why for sure. Something about her going away and causing trouble.” Danny angled his head. “So is that why you want to stay away from the Zimmermans except when you have to work at the farm? Because you’re mad at her, too?”

Paul’s heart sank. He’d asked Suzy’s forgiveness, but it seemed there were a few other people who would benefit from his apology for playing a role in Suzy’s leave-taking. He rubbed his hand over Danny’s short hair and left it standing in sweat-stiffened ridges. “I’m not mad at her. As I told you before, the Zimmermans have a big family and extra people just get in the way.”

“Okay.”

Thankfully, Danny seemed ready to rest the topic of eating with the Zimmermans. Paul started up the steps.

“Dad, can I ask you something else?”

Paul opened the front door and ushered his son over the threshold. “What’s that?”

“Jay thinks his aunt and his cousin Alexa are pretty nice. He doesn’t like his dad being mad, and he wants to find out what kind of trouble his aunt caused so he can help fix it. Do you know what happened? So I can tell Jay, and he can help his dad not be mad anymore?”

Paul offered a silent prayer for wisdom before answering. “Danny, the ‘trouble’ isn’t anything Jay can fix, and it isn’t something he should worry about. You tell him I said so. You can also tell him I’ll talk to his dad—see if I can help him not be mad anymore, okay?”

Danny nodded, his face serious. “Sure, Dad. I’ll tell him.”

“Now …” Paul forced a smile. “Go change out of your church clothes. I’ll
make up some sandwiches and grab a couple bananas or apples and those cupcakes Alexa sent home with me yesterday, and we’ll take our lunch to the park. Sound good?”

Danny galloped off, releasing a happy shout.

Paul retrieved bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and mustard, and laid it all out. But instead of assembling sandwiches, he propped the heels of his hands on the edge of the counter and bowed his head.
Lord, I wish I’d known how one mistake can create so many issues. I wish I’d been wiser back then, less selfish
. It hurt to know that even Jay—who wasn’t born when he and Suzy suffered their lapse of judgment—was affected by the choice made so long ago.
Help me set things right again. With all the Zimmermans. Amen
.

Paul left Danny with one of his school friends for the day. Partly to make up for denying him the company of friends yesterday, and partly to keep him from overhearing what he planned to tell Clete. He’d given his son a message to deliver to Jay, but he didn’t want any added embellishments.

When he arrived at the Zimmerman farm, Clete’s truck was already parked beside the barn, so Paul shut off the engine of his pickup, said another quick prayer for courage—he might as well be wearing a yellow stripe down his back the way he quivered inside—and then headed for the barn.

Clete was at the workbench in the back corner, tinkering with … something. Paul knew carpentry tools as well as the ABCs, but anything mechanical left him scratching his head. He sidled close. “Hey.”

Clete glanced at him. “Hey yourself.”

“Can we talk for a minute?”

Clete thunked the wrench onto the worktable and swished his palms together. “Might as well. I think this is a lost cause.”

Paul frowned at the clump of metal pieces held together with bands and screws. “What is it?”

“Carburetor from the riding mower. I hoped to overhaul it, but I can’t even get it apart. Some of the pieces are rusted together.”

Paul looked at the engine part again and chuckled. “I think I’ll stick to overhauling kitchens.”

Clete released a snort of amusement and shook his head. Leaning against the sturdy workbench, he folded his arms over his chest. “Did you have a question about the kitchen?”

“No.” Paul pulled in a deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you about Suzy.”

Clete clamped his teeth together, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

Paul pressed on. “You’re mad at her. For leaving and staying away. Maybe even mad at her for trying to find a nurse to take care of your mom instead of sticking around to do it herself.”

“Yeah.”

“Well …” Paul rocked back on his heels. “I think maybe you’re mad at the wrong person. Instead of being mad at Suzy, you should be mad at me.”

Clete’s forehead crunched into a series of furrows. “Why you?”

“Suzy left Arborville to get away from me.”

Clete shook his head. “That doesn’t even make sense. I was just a kid, but I remember you two going off fishing or bike riding or catching frogs. I remember because you were always telling me to scat. I always kind of figured you two would end up together.”

Paul had always kind of figured that, too. But he’d had a good life with Karina—he loved her, and they had Danny. He didn’t regret the life he carved after Suzy left. “I know. We were close. Maybe … too close.” He hoped Clete might read between the lines so he wouldn’t be forced to come right out and say what he’d done. It was hard enough just to hint. At least the morning sun hadn’t lit the barn’s interior too much yet. Paul’s face was on fire, but hopefully Clete wouldn’t notice the telltale flush of embarrassment.

“What do you mean by that?”

Paul ducked his head. So much for hints. He met Clete’s gaze again. “Suzy and I … we went too far one night.”

Clete’s eyes widened. “You …”

Paul nodded. “After that night she wouldn’t talk to me or see me. And then she left for Indiana. I’m pretty sure she went because she was ashamed of what we’d done, and being in the same town with me was too hard for her.” He couldn’t bring himself to share his other fears about how Suzy must have conducted herself when she reached Indiana. Clete didn’t need to form the kind of pictures in his head that tormented Paul late at night.

Clete stared at Paul in silence for several tense minutes, his expression unreadable. Suddenly he jerked upright. “When?”

“When … what?”

“When did you”—Clete ground the words past gritted teeth—“lay with my sister?”

Could Paul’s face get any hotter without him spontaneously combusting? “I don’t remember.”

“Think!” He barked the order, his neck and cheeks mottling with bold red. He might combust before Paul did. “January? June? March? When was it?”

Paul thought back. He’d tried so hard to bury the details of that time, recalling specifics proved difficult. He raised his shoulders in a slow shrug. “I can’t be sure, but … early spring, I think.”

“You think? Or you know?”

Paul thought hard. The snows had melted, but it was still pretty cool. He remembered Suzy shivering and him offering her his jacket as they walked to the barn. He nodded. “Early spring.”

Clete’s expression turned hard. He balled his hands into fists. “You got my sister—” A growl covered whatever else he’d started to say. With a roar, he lunged at Paul and knocked him flat on his back on the hard ground.

The air whooshed from his lungs, and he couldn’t even defend himself when Clete straddled him and plowed his fist into his jaw. Clete cocked his arm to deliver a second blow, but someone shrieked. He leaped up and strode to the corner, leaving Paul lying on the barn floor gasping for breath.

Alexa darted close and leaned over him. “Mr. Aldrich, are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He lied. His jaw ached so badly, speaking was torture. He needed to get up, but he wasn’t sure he should move yet.

“Should I get Mom?”

“No!” Both Paul and Clete barked the reply.

Alexa looked from one man to the other, confusion clouding her face.

Paul cupped his cheek and rolled sideways. With some struggling, he managed to sit up. His tailbone hurt as badly as his jaw. For a farmer, Clete sure packed a wallop. Paul hoped he hadn’t suffered any broken bones. How would he explain to the doctor how he’d gotten hurt? Mennonites were nonviolent. Or so everyone thought.

Alexa held both hands to Paul, and although it stung his pride, he allowed her to tug him to his feet. Concern glimmering in her dark eyes, she kept a grip on him even after he’d proven his legs would support him. She sent curious glances toward both men and sucked on her lower lip. Paul almost laughed, observing her obvious attempt to stifle any questions. What must she be thinking behind those big eyes of hers?

Clete stalked across the floor, and Paul instinctively tensed, preparing for another assault. But Clete pounded past, growling over his shoulder, “Let’s go get that paint, Alexa, so I can be back here by noon.” He stormed out of the barn.

Alexa gawked after him. Her hands, still holding on to Paul, trembled.

“You better go.”

She looked up, her mouth slightly ajar. “Why were you fighting?”

“It’s nothing important. Just something that happened a long time ago.”

“It must’ve been something awful for him to go after you like that. I know Uncle Clete isn’t exactly Mr. Sociable, but I’ve never seen him so angry.”

Paul replayed the brief exchange with Clete, trying to recall exactly why his friend had turned on him. His head pounded, making it difficult to think, but slowly both spoken and unspoken communications came together. Could it be … Squeezing Alexa’s hands, he rasped a question. “Alexa, how old are you?”

“Nine … teen.” She drew the word out slowly, her expression wary.

Nineteen
. He’d done a lousy job of guessing. A sick feeling flooded his stomach. “And”—he gulped—“when were you born?”

“Wh-why?”

He gave her hands a little tug. “When? What month?”

“December.”

“December …”
April, May, June
 … Paul silently counted the months in his head.
Dear God in heaven, no
 … How had he not realized the truth before now? He jerked free of her hands and clutched his temples, taking a backward step. His breakfast oatmeal threatened to make a return appearance.

“Mr. Aldrich?”

Alexa sounded afraid and appeared on the verge of tears. He had to get control of himself. He couldn’t traumatize his daughter.
His daughter!

Swallowing the gorge filling his throat, he forced his lips into what he hoped was the semblance of a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry. I’m holding you up. Clete’s waiting. I know you want to pick out the paint colors. So go on now.”

Her fine eyebrows pinched into a frown. “Are you sure? You look awfully pale. I think I should ask Mom to—”

He wanted nothing from her mother. He shook his head, wincing against the throb in his jaw. “No need for that. Scoot now. And don’t worry, okay?” She bit her lip again, clearly uncertain. What a caring girl she was.