Love Redeemed (29 page)

Sophie picked up after four rings, her voice soft, drowsy. “Hello?”

The greeting sounded like a question. “I woke you. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called.”

“Michael? What is it?” She still sounded sleepy, but more interested. “What's wrong?”

“Somebody broke into my room.”

“Are you hurt?” Now she sounded wide awake. “You weren't there, were you?”

“No. I was with you.”

“That's good. Silver lining.”

Silver lining? “They took my savings.” Saving up for a real apartment. Maybe to take some classes. To learn to do something besides wash dishes and bus tables.

“Don't tell me you kept money under the mattress.”

“No, behind the dresser.”

“Didn't I tell you to open a savings account?” Her sigh floated over the telephone line. “What am I going to do with you, Michael Daugherty?”

“Nothing.” He was a grownup. He had to figure out what to do for himself, not a young girl. “I don't need you to do anything.”

“Why did you call me?” The question wasn't accusatory or querulous, more wondering.

Why had he called her? Because her voice gave him comfort. Because he needed human contact. He ached for human contact. He ached for someone to hold his hand. He ached to be crushed in a hug and to hug back. Not something he could tell her. To even think such things seemed unmanly. “I don't know.”

“Come on. Don't back down now. What's wrong?”

“I had a bad dream.” Now he sounded like a four-year-old. “It…I just…it was…”

“You wanted to hear a familiar voice.”

“Yes.”

“And you couldn't call home.”

“No.”

“I'm glad you called me.”

He relaxed his grip on the receiver.

“Tell me what the dream was about.”

His grip tightened again, making his fingers ache. “It was just a dream.”

“Then why did you call?”

He lowered himself onto the carpet and leaned against the bed frame. Her even breathing lulled him. His heartbeat slowed. His breathing slowed. His head felt too heavy to hold up. The furniture seemed blurry around the edges. Unreal. His whole life seemed unreal. How had he arrived at this moment? One minute he'd been courting a girl and the next he lived in a motel and washed dishes in a town where a person could go a whole week without seeing someone he knew or talking—really talking—to a single soul. He was awake. Sophie's voice told him that, but his entire life was a continuation of the dream. Only now in the aftermath, blessedly, he could breathe again and his heart seemed to stay in his chest where it belonged. No water threatened to close over his head—for the moment.

Until he closed his eyes again.

He started talking and didn't stop until she'd heard the entire story. She didn't interrupt, but her breathing quickened over the line and once, she sighed.

Spent, he leaned his head back and covered his eyes with his free hand.

He waited for her judgment.

“Michael, are you still there?” Her voice had a breathy quality now, as if she'd been running. “Stay with me, Michael.”

“I'm still here.”

“Come to supper on Saturday.”

Again with her family. Didn't she see? It would only make it worse. And they would want to know what he was doing so far from his own family. Plain families stayed together. “I can't.”

“Come to supper.”

“Aren't you going to say something about what happened?”

“Come to supper.”

He closed his eyes. Be alone or be among folks who were so similar to his own. It would hurt. But it hurt more to sit alone in this motel room that seemed so Godforsaken. “Okay,” he whispered.

“Good. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She said it like a promise. It was the first time she'd given him advance notice that she was coming. He breathed, trying to think what it meant. “Okay.”

“It'll be all right, Michael.”

“Jah.”

He placed the receiver in its place, crawled back onto the bed, and slept.

Chapter 27

M
ichael reached for his hat and then remembered. He didn't wear a hat anymore. Not that kind of hat, anyway. At the diner, he wore a red baseball cap Oscar had given him with the name of the diner embroidered across the front. The Park Corner Diner. An original name, given that the diner sat on a corner across from the park. He ran a hand through his hair to make sure it lay flat, took a breath, and knocked on the door of the one-story house where Sophie Weaver lived. At least he could be thankful that November had brought downright chilly weather and he didn't stink of sweat after his walk. He glanced at the black numbers. Two-zero-two-eight. This was the place. As if the pink scooter in the driveway didn't tell him that. He knocked again.

The door opened. “You're here. You made it.” Sophie, clad in one of her usual dresses with a little flower print and a kapp that didn't quite cover her hair, clapped her hands together as if applauding his performance.

“I'm here.” He shifted from sneaker to sneaker, wishing it weren't so. “You said to come so I came.”

“Come in, come in. Papa and Mama are in the kitchen. The boys went to get some ice cream for after supper.” She grabbed his arm and ushered him in with an enthusiasm that made him regret his own lack of it. “Did you take the bus like I told you?”

“I walked. I needed the exercise.” It sounded like a silly thing to say, but he'd heard a woman say it to a man as she slid into the booth next to the one he was cleaning one day at the diner. She'd been a big woman and she'd ordered a mammoth plate of chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. “I felt like walking, I guess.”

“You were afraid of getting lost again on the bus.” She laughed, a tinkling sound like bells. “I'm telling you, get yourself a smartphone and you can map everything as you go. You'll never get lost again.”

As if he had the money for a smartphone. He'd started saving all over again after the robbery. The police had come and filed a report, but the officer had given him no hope that anyone would be caught and punished for the theft. Anyway, leaving his community didn't mean he'd given up completely on the Ordnung. He might go back…someday. They might welcome him back…someday. He swallowed against the familiar ache in his chest. It felt like an old friend who visited regularly, staying for days at a time.

He followed Sophie and the aroma of frying chicken that made his mouth water. The Weavers' living room wasn't much different from the one he'd left behind at the farm. Nothing on the walls, simple wooden furniture. A stack of books adorned a coffee table, a Bible on top. The windows were open and green curtains ruffled in the occasional cool breeze. There was one big difference, though. A TV set claimed the central spot in the room. A huge TV on a long wooden stand. Not like the one in his hotel room that barely took up a corner of the dresser. He tried not to stare, but Sophie noticed.

“What did you think? We were Old Order? I ride a motorcycle.”

“A scooter.”

“And my papa has a car.”

“I know.”

In the kitchen James Weaver stood at the refrigerator, door open, his head ducked down as if studying the contents. Betty Weaver chopped carrots at the counter and hummed along with a country tune that emanated from a clock radio sitting on the table.

“Mama, Papa, he's here. Michael's here.”

Betty dropped the knife and turned. James disengaged from the refrigerator, a jar of pickles in one hand. “So he is.” James spoke first. “I've heard so much about you, young man, I decided it was time to meet you.”

What exactly had Sophie been telling them about him? Michael was afraid to ask. He had no idea why Sophie had latched on to him. None whatsoever. She chattered on about books he should read when they browsed the shelves at the library and forced him to eat tacos from a street vendor because he needed “to broaden his horizons” and then she sang the praises of her brothers and her mother and her dad, telling him all about the funny things they said at the supper table or the games they played in the backyard after a barbecue. James built houses for a living and her mom took care of the family. Sophie had three brothers and an older sister, who was already married.

Michael shook James's hand and nodded at Betty.

“Well, don't just stand there, James. Take Michael out to the living room.” Betty made shooing motions with her hands. Looking at her, Michael knew what Sophie would look like twenty or twenty-five years from now. Betty was a little rounder and grayer than her daughter, but just as pretty. “Supper will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Sophie, you set the table.”

Frowning, Sophie opened her mouth. “I want to—”

“Don't forget to wash your hands.”

That put an end to the discussion. This had been a bad idea. He didn't know these people. He barely knew Sophie. His stomach knotted, Michael trailed after James, who snatched a bowl of peanuts from the counter and led the way.

“Have a seat, have a seat.” James positioned the bowl on a round table between two recliners and lowered himself into one of them. Sophie's dad was a tall, wiry man whose time in the sun had left its mark on his lined face. His hair was sparse but still dark brown, with only an occasional whisper of the silver that threaded through his beard. “I grabbed the peanuts to hold us over until supper's ready. I don't know about you, but I'm starved.”

“Thank you.” He took a handful of the peanuts more out of politeness than hunger. With the knots in his stomach, there was no way peanuts or anything else would stay down. “You have a nice home.”

“It'll do.” James settled back in his chair. “Sophie tells me you're from New Hope.”

“Jah—yes.”

“You leave before or after you were baptized?”

Michael opened his mouth, closed it. This guy didn't mess around. They'd barely known each other two minutes. Now he knew where Sophie got it.

“Sorry. I know it's not any of my business. I don't know if Sophie told you, but we're pretty active in our community.”

“The Mennonite community.”

“Jah.”

“And you thought I might want to turn Mennonite?”

His face somber, James shook his head. “That's the last thing I'm trying to do. Sophie said you seemed lost and I thought maybe we could help. If nothing else, I'm a good listener.”

Sophie hadn't told her dad the story of how Michael had come to be in Springfield. He was thankful for that. He regretted telling her, letting her know of his weakness and his failings. He'd wanted to leave it behind, get a fresh start. Instead, he'd let it follow him here. “You do this a lot?”

“Help people?”

“Take in Plain men and women who've left home.”

“A few. All men, though. We've yet to have a young woman come our way.”

“I'm not looking for a new church.”

“How about a few new friends who'll stand in the gap for you until you can find your way back to your own church?”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because I hate to see young folks come to this town and get so lost that they can't find their way home.”

“Do you think it's safe for Sophie to drive around on a scooter talking to strange men?” Said aloud the questions sounded hostile and accusatory. “Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. It just seems…dangerous.”

“Talking to the likes of you?” He chuckled. “At first I tried to stop her. But there's no stopping Sophie. It would be like keeping a hummingbird from flapping its wings or a bee from buzzing, a cat from purring. She's wired for it. God called her to it.”

James snagged another handful of peanuts and shook them absently in his big hand. He had calluses and a little dirt under his thumbnail. “God put my Sophie in your path for a reason. It may sound naïve, but Sophie is simply following the example set by Jesus. We want to be friends to the lost.”

“And you think I'm lost?”

“Sophie thinks you're lost. You're not the first Plain boy she's befriended. Or her brothers, either. We've had more than a few share our supper table.”

His discomfort growing, Michael shifted in the chair and eyed the front door longingly. “I'm not a boy.”

“I didn't mean to offend.” James tossed the peanuts into his mouth and chewed with an enthusiasm that would've been amusing had Michael not been so tense, waiting for him to continue. “Sophie has a soft heart. She only wants to offer you a second chance.”

“A second chance?”

“You're a Plain man. You left your community. We may be New Order Mennonite, but we understand what that means. Something powerful happened to you. Something that cut you off not only from your community, but from your church. Some kind of blow to your faith.”

A blow. A powerful blow.
Michael stood. “I should go. I'm sorry. Tell Sophie I'm sorry.”

James popped up from his chair. “Don't go. At least eat with us. It can't hurt you to break bread with my family. I promise. No questions.”

Michael edged toward the door. He didn't want to keep reliving this. He wanted a new start. He'd come for a new start. “I can't.”

His whiskered face filled with concern, James opened the door. “Don't be a stranger, Michael. You're always welcome in our home. Until you decide to go home to yours. We'll pray for you.”

Michael wanted to thank him, but his throat closed. He had to get out. He brushed past Sophie's father and escaped on to the porch.

“You can trust us.”

He looked back. James held the door open as if giving Michael an opportunity to return. He looked a lot like Michael's own daed. Plain, stern, but kind.

“It's only fried chicken.”

“I can't.”