by Linda Byler
The remainder of the day he bounced between his usual exhaustion and lack of interest to shots of adrenaline that coursed through his limbs.
He left Dewan in the kennel, went to clean the horse stable, thinking he’d be better by himself, the way his head was spinning.
He found Dewan at lunchtime, opening a brown paper lunch sack, peering into the bag, then retrieving the largest sandwich John had ever seen. He laid the sandwich aside and produced a white napkin, which he spread on his lap, carefully smoothing out the rumpled corners. Then he brought out a bag of potato chips and an apple, smooth and round and yellow.
“Dude, you’re staring?” The gentle sentences Dewan uttered always ended in a lilting question, as if the listener had the right to question the statement he had just made.
It spoke of his nature, John supposed, for he was a polite, reasonable young man who knew what he wanted, gave no one reason to doubt he would obtain his goal, but was somehow completely humble at the same time.
“That’s a big sandwich,” John observed.
“That’s my mama. Yeah! My auntie mama. I love this woman.”
He unwrapped the sandwich from the layers of waxed paper and nodded his head as he lifted the corner of the top slice of bread.
“Ham. Lettuce. Mustard. Hot sauce. Cheese. Mayo. Onion. Fried onion. Mm-mm.”
He raised the sandwich to his mouth, expertly shoved a portion into it, and closed his eyes and chewed, uttering small bursts of sound from his throat.
“The best sandwich ever. Yeah!”
He yelled so loud, a few of the dogs began to bark. Puppies yipped their high-voiced chorus.
John watched him take another bite. For the first time in a week, he felt hungry. He wanted a sandwich just like that. With potato chips.
“You hungry?”
“I’ll go to the house.”
“No need, bro. Got another one jus’ like it.”
He bent his head, rummaged in the paper sack, and came up with another very large sandwich. Immediately, John’s mouth watered. The sense of being hungry was like coming home. Honestly, he thought, now where did that come from? Lyme disease was, indeed, extremely weird. He was devastated a few days ago, adrift in a crumbling raft of homesickness, lying in bed, not caring whether he lived or died. And now, suddenly, he could hardly wait to bite into that sandwich.
He relished every bite. Mustard squeezed between slices of ham. Mayonnaise squirted out between lettuce and fried onion, dropped onto his pants leg and lay there in unnoticed white blobs. He ate ravenously, nodding his head to everything Dewan was saying, but caring only about the next bite.
They were in Alvin’s office, a square allotment of space, with painted walls and dusty linoleum floor, metal filing cabinets, wooden shelves containing large volumes of books pertaining to canine health, breeds, dog foods, and everything Alvin could possibly need to know. There were calendars with dogs, of course, extra chairs, a rumpled rug by the door, windows that were so speckled with fly dirt you could barely see out.
Dewan told him he had a girlfriend, a Hispanic girl from out beyond Rohrersville. He stood up, began slapping both back pockets, produced a worn, leather wallet and extracted a faded picture of a round-faced, dark-haired girl who smiled into the camera.
“Only picture I got. Alvin makes me leave my phone in that drawer.” He poked a long, thin finger in the direction of a filing cabinet, then looked at John.
“You don’t have one?”
“No. I did for a while, but my dad doesn’t like it. I’m out of the loop way down here in Kentucky. I want to go home.”
He knew it wasn’t the truth, even as he said it. It had been, though, till the phone call from Lena.
“You need a phone. Don’t matter where you are, you text and call. Send pictures, do whatever. Yeah, man, I be like . . .” He mimicked with his thumbs, then lifted his head in time to his words. “Yo, Mama, where you at?” Or, “Hey, baby!”
“My girlfriend? Her name is Dawnita. She is the most beautiful, the most sweetest girl on the face of the whole earth. I’m one fortunate brotha.”
With that, he pushed against the desk, propelling the office chair backward until it crashed back against the metal desk. He hung his head across the back of the chair, pumped a fist to the ceiling, and let out a howl that reverberated through the small office.
John smiled awkwardly. To the Amish, it was considered ill-mannered to show excessive emotion of any kind. Even praying was done in secret, or read from an old German prayer book. He’d never been around—or even imagined—so much spontaneity, such grandiose gestures.
“She work at Chipotle. You know, that burrito place. Best. Thing. Ever.”
“What is it?”
“Restaurant. You know, eating place. Don’t tell me you ain’t allowed going there? No cell phone, no electricity, no television, no nothing. Sheesh!”
John smiled again. Wished he had another sandwich.
“You got a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Just no? That all you got to say? Never did? You telling me you’re not allowed to date, either?”
John couldn’t help laughing. It was a strange feeling, and it sounded even stranger. Instantly, he felt self-conscious, ashamed of the rusty, clacking sound of his dumb laugh.
Dewan’s brown eyes stayed on his face.
“Why you wear them thick glasses, man? No wonder you got Lyme disease. I’d have a disease, too, if I was behind those thick lenses.”
John smiled. His hands went to his glasses, lifted them at the temple. He took them off his face, pulled out his shirttail and wiped them.
“You got nice eyes.” A casual observation, not meant to flatter.
“Thanks.”
“Tell you what. You get yourself an appointment. I’ll take you to get them little round contacts.”
He mimicked inserting a contact lens, lifting his upper lid, then burst out with an infectious sound of pure enjoyment.
They went back to work when Alvin returned. Dewan helped him wean a few litters and give injections amid the chorus of usual barking and high-pitched whining. John stayed at Alvin’s desk, working on records.
Maybe he should get contacts? With Lena’s arrival and all . . .
He felt a decided flutter in his stomach. How could God have chosen a more perfect time for Lena to arrive? He would have gone home, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind. He had hated it here, and still did, in some ways. He avoided his sister, determined that she would be the first one to apologize for treating him so callously.
He decided not to tell anyone about Lena’s arrival, least of all Lydia.
He tumbled wearily into bed late that night, wondering how he could ever summon enough strength to climb out in the morning. His shoulder ached as if the inflammation was, indeed, flammable. He lay on his side, which sent searing pain down his right shoulder blade, then switched to his stomach and turned his head to the right, which didn’t work well at all. He sighed, rolled onto his back, crossed his hands across his chest, and closed his eyes.
Lena was coming to Kentucky.
Who would be teaching her own school, back in Jefferson County? She must be a gifted special-needs teacher to be summoned to Kentucky. Was it merely a coincidence, or fate, or the hand of God, leading them together? Would she remember the touch, that day on the porch swing?
Over and over, he wondered what she meant by saying it was a long story. If Lena and Samuel had broken their relationship, wouldn’t he be one of the first to know? Surely Mam would have mentioned it to Lydia on one of their phone calls.
He’d place his trust in God, which was the substance of his faith. God didn’t always work things out the way everyone thought He would. Or should. If Lena was to be a part of his life, that was all right. If not, that was all right, too.
Or so he tried to convince himself. Really, he wanted Lena to share his life, which was asking too much, he knew. Riddled with anxiety and every other mischief of
Lyme disease, how could he ever think he was good enough?
He wasn’t good enough, that was the thing. And yet he hoped, tossing and turning his weary body far into the night, hearing Alvin leave the house to check on mothers and puppies, then returning.
He pictured Lena’s bright face, the light in her eyes, her white blond hair, the graceful contour of her neck. She was the loveliest girl he had ever seen, or imagined. He thought of Dewan’s explosion of feeling, the freewheeling office chair, the honesty. How frankly he knew he was the most fortunate dude. John smiled. He felt an expansion, a bubble in the region of his chest. He rolled over to muffle the sound of his laugh, that unused cackle that sounded so stupid to his own ears. He laughed again. His shoulders shook. Tears squeezed from beneath his scrunched-up eyes.
He gasped for breath. He was still laughing. He could only describe the feeling as delicious, like a square of warm blueberry cobbler with homemade ice cream.
The laughter turned to soft chuckles, and then slowly he drifted off to sleep.
Customers began rolling into Alvin and Lydia’s dog kennel around the last week in November. It wasn’t a good time for John to ask Alvin if he could have the afternoon of the twenty-seventh off.
Lydia was often busy showing puppies, talking to customers who wanted to know every detail about the shots the puppies had, the wormer, the proper registration. Sometimes it took a whole afternoon with one customer, leaving Alvin and Dewan to keep the work going, or talk to more customers themselves. When John finally did ask, Alvin agreed quickly, too distracted by another customer pulling up to ask questions.
John made an appointment at the local eye doctor, and Dewan took him, threading his way through traffic like a seasoned taxicab driver, music pounding out of the speakers in the back, reverberating along the walls of the car, rattling the windows, pulsing through the seats.
He had been warned against exactly this type of music, these spoken lyrics called rap. John tried to extricate himself from the pounding beat, the words that assaulted his ears, but he didn’t have enough nerve to ask Dewan to lower the volume.
So he rode through town, Dewan thumping the steering wheel, propelling his head forward and back in time to the beat.
He was relieved to get to the optometrist’s office, glad to hear the doctor say his contacts could be picked up in three working days.
Quickly, he counted. Yes, he would be wearing them to pick up Lena.
Contacts proved to be difficult, especially putting them in every morning, but by the time the Thursday of Lena’s arrival came, he was fairly comfortable going around without his thick glasses.
He asked Lydia to get a driver for him. She didn’t ask questions, simply nodded and called a local, older gentleman who made some extra cash taking short trips to town, hauling Amish.
So Lydia did not know Lena was arriving, which suited John well. For one thing, she’d jump to conclusions, especially about the contacts, which he would not be able to deny. For another, dozens of questions would follow, which he would be unable to answer. It was best to keep everything to himself.
He slept very little the night before she was to arrive. He dozed fitfully, dreamed he was late to pick her up and she turned around and went back home. His heart hammered in his chest. He broke out in a cold sweat and sat up slowly, waiting for the weakness to pass before making his way to the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of his pale face in the mirror, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip.
Would Lyme disease always be with him? Would he never bounce out of bed with no thought of his health? The road ahead seemed endless, a quagmire of defeat, ravines and mountains of fear and doubt.
He’d thought perhaps the thrill of Lena’s arrival would fortify his strength, make him forget how weak he actually was. And here he was, pale and sweating, peering bleary-eyed at his watery, unguarded reflection.
He began berating himself. How could he hope to have a chance? His brother Samuel was a fine specimen of young manhood, strong, smart, climbing up the ladder at B and S Structures. Here he was, groaning though his days, naming puppies, sitting at Alvin’s desk half the time, no friends . . . except for Dewan, he supposed.
In the morning, he showered and combed his hair, grateful that Lydia had cut it. She had trimmed off the worst of those upturned curls, resulting in a headful of manageable waves. With that and the use of men’s styling gel, he had to admit the situation had vastly improved. He flipped through the row of colorful shirts, finally settling on an almost white shirt with a narrow beige stripe.
He’d be wearing a coat, so the shirt wasn’t important.
Lydia raised an eyebrow when he entered the kitchen.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble with flies,” she remarked wryly, sniffing his scent.
John grinned, nodded.
“What gives?”
“Going to town.”
“Dressed like that? Come on. What’s up?”
Andrew yelled, beat his spoon on the tray of his high chair, chirped like a little bird, then threw his yogurt container on the floor. He watched his mother’s face for the expected disapproval before bending sideways to assess the damage.
“Andrew!”
He looked at John, blinked, then opened his mouth in an oblong O.
John smiled, ruffled the little boy’s hair.
Lydia went to the sink, swiped a dishrag from the counter, bent to wipe spilled yogurt.
“This doesn’t answer my question.”
“All right. I’m picking someone up in Dexter Falls. At the Amtrak station.”
“Someone? Who?”
There was no use trying to hide it now.
“Lena Zook.”
“What?”
Lydia plopped into a kitchen chair, still holding the rag that contained blobs of yogurt.
“Why not? What’s wrong with that?”
“But why is she coming here? I thought she was a school-teacher. Who’s teaching her school?
“Her cousin has a special-needs child that she’ll be tutoring. Teaching.”
“Who’s her cousin?”
“I have no idea.”
“Why did she call you? Why not me or Alvin?”
“I was doing bookwork. So I spoke to her.”
“Ah, John.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lydia shook her head, sagged against the edge of the table. She could see nothing but trouble descending in the form of one very pretty girl who belonged to the far superior Samuel.
Dear God in Heaven, I come before Thee in supplication. Without realizing she was praying, she felt quick tears behind her eyelids.
Turning, she rose.
“How many eggs?”
John shook his head. “I’ll eat cereal.”
“There’s bacon. I’m mixing pancake batter.”
“Cereal’s fine.”
He poured his favorite, Cinnamon Life, added milk and sugar, brought it to the table, began to eat.
“Your pills. Did you have your protein shake?”
Dutifully, he shook out the natural vitamins and supplements, mixed the protein powder in water, shook it, gulped it down, then returned to his cereal.
“Think that stuff helps?”
“I imagine it does.”
“John, promise me something. You know Lena is a very attractive girl, a perfect match for Samuel. Promise me you will not fall for her and add more heartbreak to your life. I’m so afraid for you. Somewhere, when your health is better, God has a girl picked out for you. Please wait on God to show you the way.”
John stopped eating, looked at his sister, shrugged.
“You think I don’t know all that?”
“Of course you do, John. But romance is serious business. Young people get married so often for all the wrong reasons. They place appearances and self will ahead of patience and seeking God’s will. It’s a small wonder we have so many marriage problems in this day and age. We’re all spoiled. Too many material goods, too muc
h prosperity, and selfishness thrives.”
“Boy, you’re a prophet of doom and gloom.”
“I’m serious. The only reason I talk to you about this subject is because I care so much. You’re in a weakened condition, which leaves you open to so many more emotional missteps. I just want you to be very careful.”
He had been careful, hadn’t he? If he was to blame for what happened on the porch swing, well, so be it. He had been nothing but careful since then. He’d moved to Kentucky, for goodness’ sake, removing any chance of meddling in Samuel and Lena’s relationship. Why God had sent Lena down after him he didn’t know, but it hadn’t been his doing. Surely there was nothing wrong with meeting her at the train station and making sure she got settled safely.
CHAPTER 17
ANTICIPATION COURSED THROUGH HIS VEINS, IN SPITE OF HIS SISTER’S serious words. The small car couldn’t contain his eagerness, so he found himself pushing against the floor of the vehicle with the soles of his shoes.
The gray November landscape rolled past, a blur of stark trees, small ranch houses, single storied, with garages, two vehicles parked in the driveway. Occasionally, there was a larger, two-story house, but mostly, the countryside was dotted with small, affordable homes.
The driver’s name was Clyde. Clyde Johnston, he’d said. Retired from the state. Worked on the roads all his life, driving big equipment.
And then, mercifully, he fell silent until they entered town, saying they were early, did he want to do anything else first?
John couldn’t think of a single thing to do. He’d gag on coffee, his nerves already as taut as a guitar string. So he said no, they’d sit in the parking lot to wait. Clyde seemed to find that satisfactory and found a spot to park the car, turned off the motor, and adjusted the back of his seat.
“Might as well go in. Trains are often early or late.”
John went, having no clue which door to enter, where the passengers would get off the train, or exactly what time it was. A stiff wind tugged at the collar of his coat, as he bent to close the door of the car.
He appreciated his height, able to see over the milling crowd, the constant movement of vehicles, a whirl of light, color, and sound.
