The Road Home (12 page)

Bobby paused for a minute and then asked a question. “So, my old friend, why do you want to know all this? I thought it was a closed case as far as you and Jerusha were concerned.”

“Yes, it is all in the past. Jerusha and I seldom think about it.”

“What then?” Bobby asked.

Reuben looked down at the table. “It's Jenny. She's been pestering us with questions, and the whole issue of who she really is has become
of great importance to her. Her head is filled with all kinds of fantasies about the possibilities.”

Just then Jolene returned with lunch balanced on her arms. She bent down and slid the first plate of turkey in front of Bobby and then handed Reuben the other one.

“Hot plates,” she said with a grin.

“Didn't seem to bother you any,” Bobby said.

“I'm a tough old biddy,” Jolene answered as she headed off.

“Back to Jenny,” Bobby said.

“I think Jenny is going to ask you to help her find out about the man and the car,” Reuben said slowly.

“What if she does?”

“I'm asking you not to help her. I'm afraid for Jenny. She's headstrong and determined, and this crazy idea of hers could lead her to places she doesn't need to know about. If she comes to you, I'm asking you to put roadblocks in her way, to hedge her in. The world isn't for Jenny. She belongs with us, with her Amish family, in Apple Creek. I've seen what's out there, and I know that the plain way is best, especially for Jenny.”

“But, Reuben,” Bobby said, “she's almost grown up. You can't run her life forever.”

“Our way is different from the
Englisch
way. We want our girls to be safe and secure while they're at home and unspoiled when they marry. As long as Jenny is under my roof, I'm responsible for her. When she marries, I will hand that responsibility over to her husband.”

“Can I remind you of something, old friend?” Bobby asked quietly.

“I know what you're going to say. Yeah, I do feel most secure when I have rules to follow. Call it a weakness if you want, but to me, it can also be a strength. But, in spite of what you might think about me, I'm not trying to impose my rules on Jenny for the sake of having my own way. It's because she's my daughter, like flesh and blood to me. I love
her very much, and to the extent that I can, I want to keep her from the pain.”

Bobby looked at Reuben. There were tears brimming in his eyes. Reuben quickly wiped them away with his sleeve.

“Okay, Reuben,” he said, “I'll do what I can. But Jenny is headstrong. I may not be able to keep her from finding things out on her own.”

“I'll worry about that part,” Reuben said. “I'm only asking you to intervene if she comes to you. I'm not asking you to lie, I'm just asking that you not volunteer information or lead her down a path that will start her thinking. She's a very intelligent girl, and if she gets on a scent, she is relentless. I know it's awkward for you because I also know how much you love her too.”

Bobby took a bite of his turkey and sat silently chewing it. “If Jenny asks, I'll only tell her what she could read in the newspaper. After all, she works at the library, and if what you say is true about her determination to find her birth parents, she's probably already way ahead of me. I won't volunteer any information, but that's about all I can do.”

“That's enough for now,” Reuben replied. “And I thank you for your help.”

Bobby poured some cream into his coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. “Sure, Reuben, it's not a problem. I want the best for her too.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

A Helping Hand

J
OHNNY DROVE SLOWLY AROUND THE BLOCK
and then circled it again, trying to find that Amish girl he had almost hit. After a while he gave up and turned the van back onto Walnut Street and headed in the direction Jenny had pointed. She had said the sheriff's office was at the corner of Walnut and North. After he had driven a few blocks he came to North Street and saw the building across the street.

Johnny pulled up to the curb. He wanted to get out and go in and tell the first person he saw about what had happened in San Francisco, but the possibility of being put in jail himself dampened his enthusiasm. He started to open the van door but paused, debating whether he should really do this. Things seemed a little less urgent in the daylight.

As he sat there he heard a car pull up behind him. His heart jumped, and he looked back. A big man in a large Stetson hat, dark sunglasses, with a gun on his hip was getting out of a sheriff's cruiser. The man walked slowly up to the van and stood by the window as Johnny rolled it down.

“Yes, officer, can I help you?”

“Got any ID, son?” the sheriff asked.

“Idee 'bout what?” Johnny asked.

The officer stared at him impassively.

“It's a joke, officer,” Johnny said as he reached into his coat pocket for his wallet. He opened it, took out his New York driver's license, and handed it to the officer. He noticed that the big man had a nametag that read Bull pinned to his light-brown shirt.

Appropriate!

“You're a long way from home, son. Which way are you headed?”

“Well, actually, officer, I'm headed to Nashville,” Johnny lied. “I've got some gigs down there playing with a band.”

“I didn't know they had any psycho-dylic bands in Nashville.” The officer attempted to smile at what he obviously thought was a joke, but the expression was more frightening than friendly.

“Oh, don't be fooled by this outfit, officer,” Johnny smiled. He lied again. “I've been out in San Francisco, and I wore these clothes while I was playing in the coffeehouses. This is not really my thing.”

“Well, if it's not your thing maybe you should change it to a more inconspicuous thing because you certainly attracted my attention, young man,” Bull said. “We don't see many folks dressed like you or driving such an artistically decorated vehicle around here. If you pass muster with me, I would suggest you follow your dream and head on down to Nashville. Not a lot of tolerance around here for hippies.”

“Have I done something wrong, officer?”

Without looking up from Johnny's license, the sheriff pointed silently to a sign on a pole next to the van.
NO STOPPING AT ANY TIME
.

“Wait here while I run your ID.”

Johnny watched as the big man walked back to his car. The fear of the police among the drug users in San Francisco caused a familiar paranoia to close in on him. It occurred to him that he might be going to jail whether he wanted to or not. In about five minutes Bull came back. He handed Johnny's license back through the window.

“Well, no warrants or tickets as far as I can tell, but then we don't have access to all the modern tools. Now like I said, Wooster is a small town, and you might not fit in here very well. Nashville seems like the place for you, and I would go there ASAP. I'm not going to give you a ticket because that would mean you would have to stick around for traffic court, so a big window of opportunity to move on just opened up for you, son, and if I were you, I'd drive through it.”

“I would like to, officer, but I have a small problem,” Johnny said. “You see, back down the street a girl in funny clothes stepped out in front of me while I was making a turn. I don't think she was watching where she was going, and I had to swerve to keep from hitting her. I ran up on the curb, and I think I bent my suspension. Do you know a shop where I might get it looked at?”

Bull looked at Johnny suspiciously.

“The best shop is Dutch's in Apple Creek. It's about eight miles. Can you make it?”

“I think so,” Johnny said. “How do I get there?”

Bull pointed back down Walnut. “Go down Walnut to Liberty and turn left. Then turn right on Bever Street. That'll put you on 302 South. Keep going until you see the Apple Creek sign. About a block past that is a Quonset hut on the left. That's Dutch's place. He'll get you fixed up.”

“That's interesting, officer,” Johnny said. “The girl I met back there said she lived in Apple Creek. She was Amish, but she said her uncle was the sheriff. Are you her uncle?”

“Oh, no,” Bull smiled, “that would be my boss, Sheriff Bobby. And the girl must have been Jenny Springer. Real pretty, right?”

“Amazing,” Johnny said. “But she didn't seem to like me much.”

Bull laughed out loud. “Bad luck, boy. One of the things we've all learned in Wooster is not to get on Jenny's bad side. She's a real sweet gal most of the time, but she doesn't take much to fools. Not to say that you're a fool or anything. Oh, and speaking of funny clothes…”

Bull looked at Johnny's outfit and smiled again. Then he motioned back down Walnut Street. “Dutch closes early these days, so I'd get going if I were you. Good luck.”

Bull turned and walked back to the cruiser. He was laughing. Johnny could hear him say something about Jenny Springer and laugh some more. Suddenly Johnny felt very out of place. He turned the engine over and put the van in gear. Bull pulled out and passed him. Johnny could see that he was still laughing.

Johnny headed out of town, trying to remember Bull's directions. Back down Walnut, left on Liberty, right on Bever, and follow the road to Apple Creek.

The countryside was beautiful, but Johnny wasn't able to admire much of it as he slowly nursed his van along the road. It was a lovely day, and a nip of fall was in the air. The smell of fallen leaves and wet earth and freshly burned wheat stubble, something he remembered from his childhood adventures to the farm country around his grandfather's place at South Hampton, wafted in through the half-open window. Then Johnny saw something that grabbed his attention.

Up ahead on the right-hand side of the road, a group of men were working together in a large hayfield. They were harvesting and baling the hay, but they weren't using tractors or gas-powered machinery. Instead, a team of horses pulled their baler through the field. A man out front with a horse-drawn hay cutter was mowing down the greenish-brown hay. Behind him, another piece of machinery was raking the hay into long rows. And at the end of the line, a big machine was being pulled by four horses. It was scooping up the hay, baling it, and then dumping the bales onto a large flatbed wagon following close behind.

But it wasn't the machinery that attracted Johnny's attention. It was the men operating the machines. They wore straw hats with wide
brims and overalls or jeans with blue shirts. None of the men had mustaches, but most of them had beards.

Johnny pulled over and got out of the van. He walked to the fence and stared at the scene. There were men of all ages in the group. An old man with a long white beard operated the cutter. Behind him younger men with dark beards drove the horse teams as boys walked alongside them. It seemed to Johnny that the men were teaching the boys as they moved through the field, pointing to the row of hay and calling the boys' attention to the teams of horses and machines as they walked. It was strange, but these were like the men he had seen in his vision or dream or whatever it was that night in San Francisco.