A Quilt for Jenna (13 page)

B
OBBY
H
ALVERSON SAT DOWN
in Betty's living room and put his head in his hands. It was midmorning on Friday. He had been up since before dawn, and he was exhausted. “No sign of Jerusha?” he asked.

“No, Mark didn't find Jerusha,” Betty answered. “But of course he couldn't have known she was with Henry, and when I told him, he went right out to see if he could find her.”

“I'll help him, but I don't know where to begin,” said Bobby. “It looks like Henry broke down somewhere and was trying to get help. He could have wandered over to Mark's place from any direction in this whiteout. Didn't Henry say anything?”

“No,” Betty answered. “He's not awake yet. He's still in danger. He's been moved over to Dr. Samuels' office on Buckeye Street. Doc said he would send someone over as soon as Henry wakes up.”

“What am I going to do, Betty? Jerusha is out in this storm, and she could be anywhere between Apple Creek and the Knepp place.”

“Bobby, you can't go out now. You're exhausted. Why don't you stay here and rest. When Henry regains consciousness, he can tell us where the car is.”

“But that could be too late. Jerusha's in danger in this weather. It might be too late already.”

“Tell you what. Just lie down on the sofa and rest for an hour. I'll wake you up in plenty of time to make another pass down to Apple Creek. Obviously Henry came up the back way into town, or he wouldn't have showed up on Knepp Lane. That should narrow down your search area.”

Bobby let out a deep breath and thought for a moment. “Okay, I'll rest for a while, but I'm too wound up to sleep. I sure could use something to eat though.”

“You're in the right place. I've got Henry's share of the turkey left over, plenty of gravy, and some of my famous biscuits. I'll brew you up a gallon of coffee.”

“Mind if I pull the tractor into your shed and plug in the battery charger so I can get the glow plugs juiced up?” Bobby asked. “I can't just let it sit there idling or I'll run out of diesel.”

“Sure thing, Bobby. You go ahead and I'll be in the kitchen.”

Bobby trudged out to the tractor, climbed in, drove it around back to the Lowensteins' big shed, and shut it down. Then he pulled the battery charger out of the toolbox, plugged it in, and clamped the wires on the battery posts. He made his way back to the house through the howling wind and stepped into the kitchen.

“Sit down, Bobby,” Betty said. “I got a plate all hot for you.”

As he ate, Bobby thought about the years he had known Reuben and everything they had been through together. For a moment a scene captured his thoughts like an awful nightmare. Men were fighting like animals in the mud, shooting and stabbing each other and screaming insanely. Bullets whistled by, and every few seconds he heard the sickening splat as one struck human flesh. And in the forefront of the battle was Reuben Springer, wounded but still fighting like a berserker to defend his fellow Marines against the attack. Bobby shook his head and tried to shake off the vision.

What a mess! It's like all the messes you and I have gotten into
.
I guess we were made for trouble, buddy. Since that first day we met it's been nothin' but trouble...

The first time Bobby met Reuben, there was definitely trouble. Bobby had been drinking in his favorite bar in Wooster. It was November of 1941. Bobby usually drank alone. He liked sitting at a small table in the back of the room where it was dark and he could nurse a brew while he watched the goings-on without having to put up with some stupid drunk trying to make conversation with him. At a table near the bar a bunch of construction workers had been going hot and heavy for some time and were getting noisier and more obnoxious with each pitcher of beer. One of the men, a big red-faced loudmouth named Clancy, was doing the lion's share of the talking.

“I tell you, we're going to get into it with the Japs pretty soon,” he said thickly, “and when we do, we'll show 'em what it means to mess with Americans. If we go to war, I'm signing up on the first day. What about you?”

“I got a wife and kids” mumbled another worker named Smitty. “I'm not so sure I want to get all shot up so I'm no good to my family.”

“What are you, yellow?” Clancy snarled. “Nothin' worse than a yellow coward. Well, we'll remember you hiding behind mama's skirts as we go off to fight.”

“Aw, lay off. I ain't no slacker,” the other man muttered. “And besides, you're too old to join up.”

Clancy went on, ignoring Smitty's remark. “And the truth is, we got a town full of cowards walkin' around here in their fancy hats like they own the place, but they're yellow. They were yellow in the last war and they're gonna' quit on America in the next one too. Them Amish. It sticks in my craw, the way they're always talkin' about loving one another while they let real Americans who love their country die for them, and they don't lift a finger. They're cowards, plain and simple. Ain't nobody more yellow than the Amish, and if I'm wrong, well, say it ain't so.”

“It ain't so,” said a quiet voice.

Bobby hadn't noticed when the young man stepped up to the bar just a few feet from the table of drunks, so when the quiet voice corrected Clancy, Bobby looked up. Standing at the bar was a tall, dark-haired man in his early twenties. He had the look of someone who had seen hard work. He had broad shoulders, long arms, a handsome, symmetrical face, and piercing blue eyes.

“Whad'ya say?” asked Clancy, turning to face the newcomer.

“I said the Amish aren't cowards,” said the young man.

“Sure they are,” said Clancy. “Yellow-bellied stinking traitors who let the real men die while they hide out on their farms and live off the fat of the land.”

“They love their country as much as you say you do. Besides, I think you're probably just a lot of talk,” said the stranger.

“Whatta ya mean by that?” snarled Clancy.

“I mean that in my short life, I've observed that those that know, don't say, and those that say, don't know. From listening to you spout off, I'd say that in spite of all your brave talk, the first time a machine gun slug whispers past your ear, you'll cut and run.”

“Why you!” shouted Clancy as he rose up and pushed his chair back so that it tumbled over behind him. “I'll show you who's gonna cut and run.”

Clancy grabbed a beer bottle by its neck off the table and smashed it against the bar. He was stepping forward to thrust his weapon into the young man's face when a strong hand stopped the forward motion of his arm.

“Lemme go, I'm gonna kill this guy,” yelled Clancy, twisting around to get a look at his restrainer. Bobby Halverson's calm face stared back.

“Fight fair, Clancy, or you'll wish you never got out of your chair,” Bobby said softly.

Bobby's steel grip on his wrist made Clancy wince in pain, and the bottle dropped out of his hand. Bobby let him go.

The man named Clancey was not deterred. “I don't need nothing to show pretty boy here how to keep his mouth shut.”

Clancy lurched at the stranger and took a wild swing. The man slipped out of the way of the haymaker and raised his hands with the palms facing out.

“I don't think you want to do this, mister,” the tall young man said quietly.

Clancy roared a profanity and then took another swing, but the stranger ducked beneath it. Quick as a flash he let Clancy have it with a powerful right hand to the stomach and a stunning left fist to the point of his chin. Clancy stayed upright for a moment, but the light had gone out of his eyes. He swayed forward and fell like a log onto another table, scattering glasses and patrons.

Clancy's buddies started to get up, and Reuben backed up toward the bar. Just then the bartender came bustling over and got in between the men and Reuben and pointed to the door.

“That's enough! Party's over, fellas. No brawls in my place. Take your buddy and go on home,” he said. “I'm not gonna serve you any more booze, so you may as well beat it.”

“Aw, Jimmy,” whined another one of the workers, “we're just getting started.”

“You heard me,” said Jimmy. “Come back tomorrow when you sober up.”

The men grumbled and pulled Clancy to his feet. His eyes wandered in their sockets, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin.

“Anybody get the number of that truck?” he said as his buddies dragged him toward the door. He looked at the stranger as he passed by.

“Don't let me see you in here again, or you'll be sorry,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, right, Clancy,” Bobby said as he looked at Clancy's rapidly swelling face.

The young man watched Clancy leave and then turned to Bobby. “Thanks for stepping in, but I really didn't need your help.”

“No problem,” Bobby said. “I just like to see the sides even. How was I supposed to know you could punch like a mule kick?”

“Well, thanks. I guess I could be a little friendlier.” The young man smiled back and stuck out his hand. “I'm Reuben Springer, and speaking of mule kicks, I noticed that Clancy didn't try to stand up to you.”

“Bobby Halverson. Yeah, Clancy and I sorted out our pecking order a long time ago. Now come on and sit down and tell me where you learned to punch like that—particularly if you're friends with Amish.”

The two men made their way back to Bobby's table.

“Jimmy, bring over a couple of beers,” Bobby said.

“I think I'd just like a soda,” said Reuben. “I'm not much of a drinker. As a matter of fact, this is my first time in a bar.”

“You certainly didn't waste any time getting into the swing of things,” Bobby said. “By the way, what made you decide to defend the Amish folks?”

“I am Amish,” said Reuben, taking a breath, “Well, sort of Amish, I guess you'd say.”

“How can you be ‘sort of Amish'?” Bobby asked. “It appears to me you either are or you aren't.”

“It's hard to explain, but right now I'm under the
meidung
—the Amish word for shunning. That means I have done things that violate the Amish way of life, and they've basically thrown me out until I change my ways.”

“What did you do, if you don't mind my asking?” Bobby asked.

“It's not so much what I did, but what I won't do,” Reuben replied. “I won't get baptized and join the church, and I'm way older than most Amish young men are when they do that. And the truth is, I don't really want to join the church. I want to see the world and find out some things on my own instead of taking the church's word for everything. The Amish live under all these rules that have been passed down for generations, but they're just rules to me, and a lot of them don't make any sense. I can't follow after something I don't believe in. So I'm hoping to leave Apple Creek to go out and find out for myself.”

“My folks live in Apple Creek,” said Bobby. “How come I never saw you around?”

“My dad has a farm up here in Wooster,” Reuben replied. “But he married a widow in Apple Creek. She had a bigger place, so we moved there to work it.”

“Well, if you want to leave, why don't you just do it?” Bobby asked.

“I have a little problem,” Reuben said with a slight smile.

“Aha! Woman troubles, eh?” Bobby said. “So you came in here to drown your sorrows, but you don't drink. That's funny! You want to talk about it? I'm a good listener.”

Reuben looked at Bobby intently for a few minutes. “I'm not very good at talking about myself,” he said, “but if you have an hour or so, I'll unburden myself. And if I'm going to really open up,” he said with a grin, “I guess I better have one of those beers after all.”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

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