Trading Secrets (9 page)

“Come on,” Katy calls out as she spots me hovering by the back door. “Hurry and join us, Micah.”

She scoots over on the bench, making a space between her and Sarah. I am both grateful and humiliated. I cannot wait to escape this place. As usual, the prayer time is silent and seems to last about fifteen minutes, although it's probably less than three. However, I try to utilize this quiet moment to steady my nerves. I remind myself that these people don't actually hate me. At least I don't think they do. After all, they are Christians, and they take their beliefs very seriously. Remembering that this is supposed to be a prayer time, I focus my own prayer and silently thank God for this breakfast—and I ask him to help me get out of here quickly.

“Amen,” Zach's dad says solemnly, and then he reaches for a plate stacked with pancakes.

“Is Micah a boy or a girl?” Samuel quietly asks his dad.

“Samuel,” Ruth scolds her little brother. “You know she's a girl.”

“It's okay,” I tell the precocious four-year-old. “I did look like a boy before. Sorry about the confusion.”

He gives me a funny look, then sticks his spoon into a bowl of oatmeal, but his mom has a scowl which appears to be carving a deep line in the center of her forehead. I wonder if I need to apologize all over again. Were my letters not sufficient? Or should I just keep quiet and eat my breakfast? I go with the latter. Conversation is minimal, and each minute feels like ten. Finally, Zach's dad pulls out the Bible and reads from Psalms. He is barely closing the book before Katy and Sarah spring to their feet and start clearing the table. Like clockwork, they start washing the dishes, but before they're done, Ruth, who's been sweeping the floor, points to the clock and announces it's time to go to school.

“I'll bring the buggy around,” Zach declares as he reaches for his straw hat.

“I'll be in the south field when you get back,” Zach's dad tells him as he stands and finishes his coffee. “If the soil's not too wet, I want to start harrowing today.”

“I'll meet you there,” Zach calls out as he exits the kitchen.

“Do you want help?” I ask Zach's dad as he pulls on a jacket.

“What?” He gives me a puzzled look, and everyone else in the kitchen gets eerily quiet.

“With the planting,” I say nonchalantly, as if it's perfectly normal for an English girl to assist this man with his farm
work. As if to prove my sincerity I stand up straight and tall, looking him directly in the eyes. “Remember, I came here to help, Mr. Miller. Do you want me to work in the fields with you today? I might as well work until my clothes are dry enough for me to go home. Remember how I worked with you and Zach on Saturday?”

He exchanges a perplexed glance with his wife.

“Micah did come here to help with the planting,” she says quickly. For a moment I think I spot a glint of trouble in her eyes. Or perhaps she just wants to get me out of her house. “Why not let her help you with planting?”

“But I, um, she is a—”

“She worked with you the day she came,” Mrs. Miller points out. “Why not let her work again today? She came to help Zach with his chores. Remember?”

Mr. Miller looks seriously disturbed as he rubs his whiskered chin, but then he just shrugs as if to give in. “
Ja
, sure, she can help in the fields if she wants.” But as he exits the kitchen, the back door seems to slam more loudly than necessary.

“There is your brother,” Mrs. Miller calls out. “Hurry,
kinder
, don't be late for school.”

I go out the back door with them, watching as they rush to the buggy and climb aboard. What a strange way to be transported to school each day. I can hardly imagine what it must feel like riding behind the slow-plodding horse day in, day out. But it's just part of the daily routine that Zach has written to me about. First you work, then you go to school, then you come home and you work some more. Maybe the sluggish ride in the buggy is like a little reprieve. A break from all the work they do the rest of the time. I've seen it with my own eyes—these kids definitely work hard. Some people
might even raise the question of child labor laws, although I doubt they could make much of a case. Still, I wonder about these things as I tie the laces on my dirty shoes. I also wonder what I've gotten myself into by volunteering like I just did.

I'm not stupid. I know full well that Zach's dad doesn't want my help with the planting. He wants nothing to do with me, and nothing would make him and his wife more happy than if I just vanished in a poof of smoke. Yet I also know that I was helpful on Saturday afternoon, and I believe I can be helpful again today. Really, it seems the least I can do for the trouble I've caused this family and the embarrassment I've created for Zach. I hurry to catch up with Mr. Miller as he goes into the pasture where the horses and cows are kept. I watch as he calls to the horses, securing their halters and leading them out so that they can get hitched to the plow. Because, like Jeremiah said, everyone here must work. Including me.

Z
ach's dad says barely a word to me as he leads the horses toward the barn, but since I've nothing to lose, I decide to jump in and be friendly. It's hard to think of much to say beyond lame comments on the weather and attractive countryside. All I get in response is an occasional nod or
humph
. He's clearly not enjoying my idle chatter. I suspect he's a man who likes his peace and quiet. Perhaps all Amish men are like this.

“Get the yoke and harness,” he orders as he tethers one of the horses to the fence next to the barn. At first I feel confused by his command, but I remember when Zach and I removed those items from the horses and stored them in the barn the other day. Not wanting to appear stupid or to disappoint this grim-faced man, I hurry inside the barn and clumsily gather up the yoke and harness. I can only carry enough gear for one horse, and I nearly trip over a strap as I haul the works out to Mr. Miller. He frowns at the jumbled mess I thrust at him, but before he can point out my inept clumsiness, I rush back to the barn to gather the rest of the tack.

By the time I get back, this time without tangling the straps quite as badly, Mr. Miller is already patiently at work with one of the horses. He takes his time getting the straps and pieces into place, speaking quietly to the horse he's working with. Almost like the big animal is his friend.

I stand by watching as he readies the team. It seems obvious he doesn't want my help. I'm not sure if it's because I'm a girl, or English, or just inefficient, but I'm determined not to give up. It's interesting to observe him with his horses. He obviously knows what he's doing, and he uses the right words to get them to move around and cooperate with him as he gets them all hooked up.

“What do those words mean?” I ask as he starts leading the horses across what appears to be a recently plowed field—a sea of lumpy brown soil.

He explains the commands, squinting into the morning sun to peer curiously at me as we walk. I'm sure he thinks I'm an odd one.

“Oh.” I try to absorb this information as he stops beside what looks like an antique piece of farm equipment. It's made entirely of rusty metal and looks like it came from a previous century. But it must be operable because he's hitching up the horses in front of it.

“Does it hurt the horses to pull that heavy plow?” I look over the gigantic field where I assume we'll be working. I can't imagine how long it will take to get it all planted. At the slow rate we'll be going, I'm guessing it will be days.

“First of all, this is not a plow,” Mr. Miller says without looking up. “It is a harrow.”

“Oh.” I nod like this makes sense. A harrow.

“And the horses don't pull it, they push it.”

“They push it?” Okay, I might not know much about horses and plows, but if a horse is in front of something, it seems like he must be pulling.

“This is a yoke.” He taps the heavy leather piece that goes around the horse's neck as if I didn't already know this, but I keep quiet. “The horse's chest pushes into the yoke as he walks. He pushes, not pulls.”

“Okay.” I feign confidence. “I get that.”

“It's better for the horse to use a good yoke that fits right. It makes the work easier. I use only good yokes.”

“That makes sense.” I offer a stiff smile. Despite his seeming grumpiness, I'm starting to like this man. I can see that he really cares for his horses. He adjusts the brim of his straw hat, then commands the team to go, and the metal on the harness jingles as the horses begin to slowly plod forward.

“You take the lead,” he tells me as he climbs into a metal seat atop the harrow. “Keep the horses going straight.”

“Okay,” I say as I run to get ahead of the team.

“Follow the fence line,” he commands as he works the reins.

I do as he says, walking ahead of the horses and keeping my eye on the fence line, though I get the feeling that this team would know what to do even if I wasn't “leading” them. But I continue along just the same. I'm not sure if it's because I feel I have something to prove to Mr. Miller or because it feels so good to be outside on this beautiful morning. Whatever my reasons, I'm determined to give him my best until my clothes are dry and it's time to go home.

After an hour or so, Zach comes out to join us. He's brought another big work horse and the same seeder machine that he used on Saturday. His dad points out that the soil
isn't too wet and says for him to go ahead and get started with the seeding.

“Go help Zach,” Mr. Miller commands me. “I want those rows planted straight.”

I resist the urge to salute him as I go over and position myself in front of Zach's horse. I walk as straight as I can, but sometimes I look back and wonder if it's straight enough. I can just imagine the cornfield growing up all crooked and wobbly after I'm long gone from here. They will look out at it and shake their heads, making comments about how English girls do not make good farmers.

“There's the vet now,” Zach calls out as a white pickup turns into their driveway.

Zach's dad turns to glare at the truck, then turns back to his work, not saying a word to Zach.

“I'll go meet him,” Zach says as he pulls the horse to a stop. He ties the reins to the seeder, then glances at me. “You want to come?”

“Sure,” I say eagerly. Both of us jog across the field, arriving at the barn just as a tall, thin man gets out of the pickup. Zach greets him and even introduces me, explaining how my uncle is a veterinarian too. “He helped us last night,” Zach tells him. “But he thought Molly should be checked again. He said she might need antibiotics.”

“I expect she will,” Dr. Schneider says as we go into the barn.

Zach shows him to the horse, and I try to stay out of their way as the vet opens his bag and goes through a variety of checks on Molly. Eventually he gives her a shot and informs Zach that Molly might not be the best brood mare anymore. “But time will tell,” he says as he packs up his things. He
also gives Zach a bottle of capsules and explains when to administer them. “Make sure she gets them all,” he warns.

“
Ja
,” Zach agrees. “I know that antibiotic prescriptions must be used completely to get the full effect.”

“That's right.” The vet looks slightly surprised.

“Can the medicine be mixed with food?” Zach asks. “To make sure Molly gets it down?”

“Sure. Pour the powder into a little applesauce if you like. That usually works pretty well with most horses.”

Zach nods with a thoughtful expression. “Molly will probably like that.”

Dr. Schneider finishes writing something on a small pad, then looks up. “Do you want to take care of this now? Or should I have my office bill you?”

“We save 10 percent if we pay now?” Zach asks.

“That's right.” He tears the paper from the pad.

“How much is it?”

“It's $350, and that includes the antibiotics.”

Zach looks a little concerned as he pulls out a brown leather wallet and counts out a stack of bills. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly. “I only have three hundred.”

Remembering my backpack in the loft, I hurry up the ladder, remove my own wallet, and pull out two twenties and a ten. I quickly go back down just as Dr. Schneider is getting ready to leave.

“Can I help?” I eagerly hold out the cash. “I mean, since I'm kind of involved.”

Zach looks uncomfortable but says nothing.

“It was my idea to call the vet,” I persist. “Please, let me help. I care about Molly, and I'm really glad that she's got the medicine she needs.” I thrust my money toward the vet,
who looks slightly stunned by my unexpected assertiveness. That's when I remember I'm dressed like an Amish girl. The poor man is probably confused.

“It'll save you 10 percent,” the vet reminds Zach.

“Here,” I tell Dr. Schneider as I put the cash in his hands. “I've got to get back to work.” I quickly leave. Let Zach sort it out.

As I'm striding back toward the field, I hear the pickup door slam shut and footsteps running up from behind me. “Wait,” Zach calls out.

I turn to see him, and as I expected, he looks angry. “Why did you do that?” he demands when he catches up with me.

“Because I care about Molly,” I tell him. “I did it for her.”

He folds his arms across his front and scowls down at the dirt.

“I'm sorry if that offended you,” I say contritely. “You know how we English can be. Pushy. Bossy. Inconsiderate. Selfish.”

I see a tiny trace of a smile playing with his lips.

“See,” I continue, “you can dress me up like an Amish girl, but I'm still the same old English me. Sorry if that offends you. I just wanted to help.”

He lets out a long sigh. “Thank you for helping with Molly.”

“You're very welcome.”

“We better get back to work.” He starts walking again.

“Do you think Molly will be okay?”

“I hope so.” He sounds discouraged.

“Based on what the vet said, she wouldn't be okay without the antibiotics,” I point out. “You should be glad that you had him come out, Zach.”

“
Ja
. . . but if Molly can't be a brood mare, Daed might think I wasted my money on the vet.”

“But you love Molly,” I insist. “And she has that beautiful colt to care for. Don't you think that's worth the money?”

“Ja.”
He declares. “I do.”

We spend about another hour working until Samuel comes running out to the field, announcing that it's time for dinner. Mr. Miller sees to his team, then hoists the boy onto his shoulder and heads back to the house. Zach and I follow at a short distance.

“I know it's wrong to take photographs,” I say to Zach as we walk. “But I would love to have a picture of that.”

“You can take a photo if no one is looking at you,” Zach says quietly.

“Really?” I reach into my pocket and remove my phone.

“Don't say I said that,” he mutters. “But if you take a photo from a distance, people don't seem to mind too much.”

I snap a shot of Zach's dad carrying Samuel on his shoulders. “What if I got a picture of you from a distance?” I ask Zach as I turn off my phone, which is getting close to being dead anyway. “Would you mind?”

He shrugs. “Nah. I probably wouldn't mind if you took one up close.”

“Really?” I reach for my phone.

“Not now,” he says quietly. “See the house? Mamm is probably looking out the kitchen window right now.”

“Oh . . . yeah.” I drop my phone back into my pocket.

Lunch—or dinner as they call it—seems small compared to the other meals. Not because of the food, which is plentiful, but because the table's not nearly as crowded. It's just Zach's parents and Samuel and Zach and me.

“I want to help plant corn,” Samuel announces as we're finishing up.

“
Ja
,” Mr. Miller says. “I think you should.”

Zach's mother starts to protest, but Mr. Miller holds up his
hand to quiet her. “Samuel will work with me this afternoon. He is as strong as an English girl.”

Samuel gives me a victorious smile. Mrs. Miller looks truly vexed, and I can tell she doesn't want her young son going out to work with us. However, she doesn't argue with her husband. Not even in Pennsylvania Dutch. When I offer to help her clear the table, she waves her hand dismissively. “You go work with the men,” she orders.

“Do you think my clothes are dry yet?” I ask hopefully.

She frowns. “No, not yet. But before the children come home from school, I think they will be dry.”

“Thank you.” I force a smile. As we go outside, I do some quick calculating. “The last bus out of town leaves at 4:15,” I tell Zach as we walk back to the field we'd been planting. “That means I need to be heading to town by 2:00 at the latest.” I pull out my phone to see that it's almost 1:30.

“I will take you to town in the buggy,” he tells me.

“Really? Your parents won't mind?”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “Do you think they want to keep you around?”

I laugh. “No. I'm sure they'll be very happy to see the last of me.”

I'm surprised to see that Zach looks a bit sad. Maybe he isn't as happy to see me go as his parents. Still, I suspect it will be a relief to be rid of me. “How long does it take to drive the buggy to town?”

“About an hour. Maybe less if I let the horses go faster.”

“Okay. So we need to leave around 3:00 then.”

“
Ja
. It will make me late picking up the children from school, but they can walk home if they want.”

“How far away is the school?”

“About three miles.”

I point up ahead where Samuel is walking next to his dad. “Was your mom upset that Samuel wanted to work today?”

He shrugs. “Everyone works, no matter how old. But
ja
, Samuel is her baby. She probably wants to keep him that way.”

I laugh. “He's pretty adorable. I can understand that.”

“He has to learn to work. It's good that he wants to be a farmer.” Zach waves his hand. “Someday this will all be his.”

“Samuel's?”

“Most likely. Daed will leave it to him.”

“What about you?” I ask curiously. “You're the oldest son.”

“That's not important.”

“What?” I feel confused. “You mean you don't inherit the farm? I thought because you were the oldest son it would be automatic.”

“You know a lot about Amish?” he asks with arched brows.

“Well, no. Just things I've seen on TV or read about. Or things my Amish pen pal used to write me about.”

“Didn't your Amish pen pal write to you about how the youngest son will inherit the family farm?”