The single candle stuck in Toby Miller’s oversized banana-nut muffin spoke volumes, but it didn’t say anything worth hearing.
His brother Jason, a grin plastered across his bearded face, struck a match and lit the candle. “Seelich gebortsdaag, Bruder,” he sang off tune. “And many more, old man.”
Twenty-nine wasn’t old. Not by the world’s standard. What Jason really meant was old to be a Plain bachelor. He was right, but he didn’t need to know that. Jason already had a big head. “Danki, but this isn’t the time for this right now. You know Mamm will have a birthday cake tonight.” Toby blew out the candle and tossed it in the wastebasket. He laid the muffin next to his lunch box on the counter that ran below the back window of the Miller Family Auctioneering Company’s largest trailer, currently parked at the Knowles County, Virginia, fairgrounds. “Did you double-check the sound system?”
“I did. So did Dat.”
Toby glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes until he had to be on the platform ready to call the first piece of furniture. “And the furniture’s on the stage?”
“Jah. A six-piece, handcrafted, oak bedroom set.” Grandpa Silas squeezed through the trailer door, bringing with him the mingled scents of nearby grills barbecuing chicken, sausage, brisket, hamburgers, hot dogs, and an assortment of other tasty meats. Like his grandsons, Grandpa’s height stretched to only a few inches below the trailer’s ceiling. He still stood ramrod straight despite his sixty-plus years and the painful osteoarthritis that attacked his joints. “Everything’s ready. When did you become a worrywart?”
“He didn’t. He’s just trying to change the subject.” Jason brushed crumbs from his blond, runaway beard and threw his muffin wrapper into the trash.
Toby didn’t need a mirror to know what he looked like. His younger brother had the same slate-blue eyes, blond hair, broad shoulders, and height as Toby did. Except Jason’s marital status had been rewarded with the beard. “He’s twenty-nine and no closer to being married than he was a year ago. I don’t care, but Mamm sure does.”
Mom had a good heart and a streak of stubbornness when it came to her children’s happiness. They’d better be content or she would know why. Maybe this would be the year Toby made her happy and gave her another daughter-in-law. How would he do that? Toby caught himself shaking his head. A man his age didn’t go to singings, that was for sure. The words of his once-special friend echoed in his head: “What woman would want to spend half the year raising children by herself while her husband plied his trade at auctions across five states?”
His mother, grandmother, and Jason’s wife all did it, but not Janey Hershberger. It took her two years of courting to figure out she couldn’t see herself living that way. “You may think it’s normal, Toby, but no fraa wants to be at home alone half the year while you gallivant across the countryside.”
Toby shrugged on his jacket and settled his black hat farther back on his head. He was content with his life. Really, he was. Absolutely content. Really.
“Your mamm knows how important family is to a Plain man.” A faint grimace etched on his grizzled face, Grandpa rubbed his swollen knuckles. “Family comes second only to faith.”
Silas Miller started the auctioneering company in his midtwenties at a time when Plain communities frowned on the use of microphones and electricity for auctions. He overcame the objections and gained permission from the district to build a business that now supported three generations of Millers. A grandson didn’t argue with a man of his experience. “Mamm also knows what it costs a fraa to have her mann traveling away from home half the year. It hasn’t been easy for her.”
“Nor for your groossmammi either.” Grandpa tugged a prescription bottle from a knapsack on the counter. He winced as he turned the lid and dumped two pills into his calloused palm. “But I’ve never heard either one of them complain. Whatever you decide about courting is your business.”
“Danki, Daadi.” Toby rolled his eyes at his brother. Jason stuck out his tongue. He didn’t always act like a married man with three kids and another on the way. Toby gave him another eye roll. “Grow up, Bruder.”
“You first.”
The trailer door swung open and stayed open, bringing with it a gust of cold air. Dad stood at the bottom of the steps. “Did you all fall asleep in there? It’s time to get this show started.”
“They were jawing me to death.” Grandpa bolted for the steps faster than a man half his age. “You know how they are right before they get on the platform.”
Antsy. That’s how they got. Full of pee and vinegar, to quote Grandma Joanna.
Toby hopped over the steps and landed in the sparse, tender blades of grass just beginning to sprout this first week of March after a long, cold winter. Jason settled in beside him. Their brothers Declan and Elijah joined them with the two oldest Miller men in the lead. They were on the job.
At the platform they parted ways, ready to do their parts. Declan would handle the second auction of garden and farming equipment, while Jason had the third auction of livestock. Orville Katzman, who’d hired their company to handle the huge multifamily moving-slash-estate auction, met Toby at the bottom of the wooden steps. He handed Toby an updated list for the household goods auction. “How’re you, Toby? Are you ready? I hear you’re a bit older today.”
“I’m ready, willing, and able.”
To prove his point Toby snared the list and bounded up the steps. Taking his turn as auctioneer today served as the best birthday present ever. First up, get a feel for the crowd. He gazed out at the sea of farm equipment hats, baseball caps, straw hats, bonnets, black wool coats, and scarves that protected heads from a brisk, chilly March breeze. Some folks, coffee travel mugs in hand, lounged in their canvas camp chairs.
Others stood in clusters along the periphery or settled onto two sets of portable bleachers toward the back of the grassy field. They all talked at once, creating a swell of noise not unlike a flock of blue jays chattering. As casual as they might appear to the untrained eye, they were ready. They had their auction
bid cards in their laps. They’d come to buy. And it was Toby’s job to sell. Nothing could be better than the first auction of the spring season.
The usual bevy of young girls—sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years old—occupied the first row. It happened at every auction. They occasionally bid on small items but rarely bought anything. Jason called them Toby’s fan club. Emmett mostly glowered at them. Toby ignored them. They were harmless, but he was careful not to encourage them.
Adrenaline made his heart pump harder. His fingers tingled with anticipation. His whole body warmed. His cadence organized words in his head and prepared to slide toward the tip of his tongue. Who’ll give me ten dollars? Bid ten. Ten. Ten. Bid. Now fifteen.
He strode to the auctioneer’s table and picked up the microphone. His fingers held it lightly. Otherwise they would cramp before the end of the day. He took a swig from his water bottle and cleared his throat. The crowd quieted. He nodded at Elijah and Emmett. They would act as bid spotters, pointing out bidders he might miss. Elijah ducked his head and nodded. Emmett, who was younger but more outgoing, gave Toby a big thumbs-up. “Ready when you are, Bruder.”
“Wait a minute.” A smirk stretched across his face, Orville strolled over to Toby. He held out his hand. “Let me make a quick announcement.”
What was he up to? A change in the consignments wouldn’t give Orville an expression like a kid about to snatch a cookie from the cookie jar. Warily Toby handed over the mic.
“Folks, could I have your attention please? I want to take a quick moment to share two pieces of news with you.” Orville had a high-pitched, whiny voice not suited for amplification. “Number one, today is our auctioneer’s birthday. Can you folks give Toby Miller a nice, big happy birthday round of applause?”
Heat singed Toby’s neck and face. He ducked his head. It was one thing to be the center of attention for the sake of his job, another for a birthday—everyone had them. No need to make a public spectacle about it. “Orville—”
A chorus of birthday wishes in both English and Pennsylvania Dutch drowned out his protest. Several folks began to sing. Applause rang out. Toby shook his head. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Announcement number two, folks.” The crowd quieted. Orville moved to the platform’s edge. He pointed at Toby’s grandpa, who’d been busy making sure the furniture was properly lined up. “Many of you have been coming to these auctions for years. You know Silas Miller, founder of Miller Family Auctioneering Company. You know he started this business many moons ago, and his company has been our go-to company every year since. I thought you should know this will be his last auction here at the Knowles County Fairgrounds. He’s retiring
. Could you give him a hand, let him know how much you appreciate all his years of hard work?”
What? Something was wrong with Toby’s hearing.
Grandpa never sat still. He loved to work. He loved auctioneering. He loved traveling. For a few seconds, no one reacted. Toby opened his mouth. He closed it.
Then the people were on their feet, clapping. Grandpa hardly seemed to notice. He kept right on working, the way he always had.
As if nothing had changed.
His absence would change everything. He wasn’t just the boss, the administrator, the founder. He was a fixture in every good memory Toby had growing up—on and off the road. He was the level that kept the Miller men on an even keel mile after mile, year after year.
Such thoughts were selfish. Toby shoved them aside. If Grandpa felt the need to rest easy more permanently, he’d earned the right. Time for Toby to step up and take the load from his elder.
Dad couldn’t do it, much as he might try. Grandpa handled the bookkeeping, record keeping, and bill paying. Dad had an aversion to anything that involved reading or writing. Nor was he a fan of the technology required to promote their business now that it covered an ever-growing region. Who would take over scheduling, maintenance of the trailers and equipment, and working with the folks who handled the company’s website and computer work?
Toby sought out his father, who was moving an oak curio cabinet with Emmett. His expression grim, he shook his head and mouthed the words, I’ll explain later.
Right now they had an auction to run.
Later, indeed.
English women had it easy. They didn’t have to figure out how to use a porta potty while wearing long dresses. Rachelle Lapp smiled to herself as stepped from the squat structure that smelled of a mixture of cloying, fruity air freshener and other things she’d rather not think about. A small challenge among life’s many. Plus it gave her three minutes of solitude.
She chuckled. Did a porta potty qualify as a good place to be alone? She wasn’t that desperate. She loved her little brothers and sisters. Her siblings would be chomping at the bit to get back to the carnival packed into a small piece of Knowles County Fairground this first Saturday in March. She hated to disappoint them, but they were out of tickets.
Rachelle had saved enough money to buy them each a treat from one of the dozens of food booths that provided a buffer between the carnival and the adjacent auction. That would soften the sting. She had as much fun as they did going to the carnival and auction using what remained of her salary after she gave a portion to her parents to help support their big family. They loved auction days, and having a carnival plant itself on the fairgrounds at the same time was almost too good to be true. Rachelle didn’t ride the rides, but she did live vicariously in their shining faces and laughter.
She let the door close behind her. The cold breeze blew away the porta potty’s stink. Shivering, she buttoned her gray jacket. “All done. Who wants a funnel cake?”
“Me, me!” Sam’s small frame came into dark focus against the sun behind him. “Me and Sean want funnel cakes.”
“Nee, I don’t either.” Sam’s twin brother shook his head so hard his straw hat shifted. “I want fried Oreo ice cream.”
“Sean and I,” Rachelle gently corrected. She encouraged the kids to speak English with her for practice. Most of the time they forgot or resorted to Pennsylvania Dutch when they became excited. When they did speak English, her teacher genes kicked in. “It’s pretty chilly for ice cream, but it’s your call. Why don’t you get one of each and share?”
The twins sat cross-legged on the sparse sprigs of grass forcing themselves through the winter-hardened ground outside the row of porta potties. Where were the others? “Emma? DeeDee? Mandy?”
The girls sat on top of a picnic table several yards from the endless line of porta potties, botching. From the sounds of their breathless words, claps, and giggles, they were doing “Rockin’ Robin.” Mandy waved. “We voted. We decided on Frito pies and caramel apples, if there’s enough money for two things. If not, we’ll be happy with fried Twinkies.”
All good choices. Rachelle did a mental head count. Three girls and two boys. She was missing two boys. Her heartbeat did a weird two-step. “Where’s Michael? And Jonah?”
Sam cocked his head and wrinkled his upturned nose. He scanned the grounds as if his brothers would suddenly reappear. “They were here a minute ago.”
“I know that. I was only in the bathroom for three minutes.” Rachelle swung around for a full 360-degree review of the area. No chunky five-year-old missing a front tooth. No skinny eight-year-old wearing black-framed glasses with an elastic strip to keep them firmly in place. “Emma, where are Michael and Jonah?”
At eleven Emma was the oldest of the siblings on this outing. She should’ve been watching over them in Rachelle’s brief absence. She popped off the picnic table and stuck her hands on her hips. “Michael wanted Jonah to win a teddy bear for
him at the ring-toss booth. I told him nee because we don’t have any more tickets.”
“And then what happened?” Rachelle squeezed hand sanitizer from the bottle on a nearby stand. She rubbed her hands together harder than necessary. “Did he take nee for an answer?”
“You know Michael.”
She did. The little boy had a stubborn streak longer than a country mile and a city block. Nothing Dad and Mom had done to guide him toward obedience seemed to work. “They can’t be out there on their own, Emma. Michael’s too young and Jonah’s too sweet for this world.”
A stranger could easily take advantage of them. Or take them away. It happened even in places like Lee’s Gulch.
“I’m sorry, Schweschder. I was botching and I thought they were playing with Sam and Sean.” Emma’s face crumpled. Tears threatened. “I’ll find them. I should’ve kept a better watch.”
A small boy with no fear of strangers—no fear of anything in the world, really—and a boy with limited ability to understand all the ways the world could be dangerous were traipsing around together. Rachelle had been responsible for caring for her younger siblings for as long as she could remember. She was good at it. She changed her first diaper at five. Taught her little brothers and sisters to tie their shoes and say their prayers. Even as a grade school kid who herded her younger brothers and sisters like a gangly fair-headed shepherd. She reveled in it. Until just now.
“It’s okay. I’ll find them.” She patted Emma’s shoulder. “You need to stay here. Stay together, all of you. No one else runs off. I’ll find them and bring them back.”
“If we all search for them, we’ll find them faster.” Sam hopped to his feet and dusted off his hands. Sean did the same. They were so identical even Grandma and Grandpa had trouble telling them apart. “Me and Sean will go to the ring-toss booth. I reckon that’s where they are.”
And then Rachelle would be scouring the grounds for four boys instead of two. “Nee, someone else will get lost.” Mom and Dad had entrusted her with the children. She was responsible for keeping them safe. “I’ll be back as soon as I find them.”
Sei so gut, Gott, let no harm come to them. Sei so gut. Direct me to them, sei so gut.
Following Sam’s logic, she headed to the game booths first. The boys had no money, no tickets. How did they think they’d play? Did Jonah even understand he needed a ticket to play? Brushing the thought aside, Rachelle dodged a lady pushing a stroller over the uneven ground while eating a sausage on a stick with one hand. Then a man carrying a boy on his shoulders. The child was eating cotton candy. Some of it stuck to the man’s hair. The crowd thickened as she approached the booths. Balloon pop, bean bag toss, milk-bottle knockdown, ring toss, spin the wheel. Any one of them would fascinate her boys.
Mom would chuckle if she could hear Rachelle’s thoughts. They weren’t her boys, they were her brothers, but somehow they were lodged in that place in her heart where there was so much love
to give. Until she had her own, she poured it on these little guys along with her scholars at school. She had more than enough to go around. The more she gave, the more her supply grew.
Funny how that worked. God was love. Scripture said so. No wonder the supply never ended.
No boys in matching blue shirts, denim pants, suspenders, and matching jackets. No little boy whose dark hair stuck out from under his straw hat in scraggly tuffs because he needed a haircut and never wanted to sit still long enough for Mom to give him one. No short-for-his-age boy with that same hair and ocher eyes enlarged by thick lenses, who always wanted to please.
“Where are you?” Rachelle whispered. “Gott, where are they?”
She stopped at the ring-toss booth. The lady running it nodded at Rachelle’s description of Michael and Jonah. “They were here about ten minutes ago. Two of the cutest little whippersnappers I’ve seen in days.” She had the raspy voice of someone who smoked a lot. Her thin face creased in a jagged yellow-toothed smile at the memory. “I explained that they needed tickets to play. The littlest one was so disappointed I let him toss a few rings to perk him up.”
“Then what happened?”
“Dang if he didn’t get a ring on a bottle.” The lady chortled. “Beginner’s luck. So I gave them each one of the little penguins.”
The stuffed animal would’ve fit in the palms of their hands. “Did you see where they went from here?”
“Honey, I had a crowd by then. All I know is they were thrilled with those little penguins. Kept thanking me over and over again.” She stuck her hands with yellowed fingernails so long they curled into her smudged apron pockets and produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Go to the fairgrounds office. They get lots of lost kids. They have a procedure for finding them.”
Worry an ever-tightening iron ring around her heart, Rachelle squeezed past a cluster of high school boys crowding the booth. Should she report them missing? Nausea rose in her throat. With every minute that ticked by, the more the possibility loomed that they could get into serious trouble.
Much longer and she’d have no choice.
Gott? Where are they?
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