by Gayle Roper
Instead, as he straightened from inspecting the contents of his trunk, he said, “You know, it still isn’t too late to change your mind.”
I bent quickly to pet one of the calico kittens and hide my irritation. “Todd, let it go, will you?”
Even after two years we are like two people on opposite sides of a window. We see each other, we admire each other, but somehow we can’t touch.
Todd nodded, resigned. “Just remember, when you’re ready to leave, I’ll be there to help you find another apartment. But since you insist on staying for the moment, I have a gift for you to make things more bearable.”
He walked back to me, took me by the arm, and led me around the car so I could see into the trunk. There sat a box with a flat screen TV pictured on it, a big red ribbon tied around it.
“Todd! What in the world?”
“My peace offering,” he said. “I’ve behaved like a boor about your move, and I’m sorry because it’s made you unhappy with me. Please accept this with my apologies.” He grinned. “Now you’ll be able to fill your evenings and keep an eye on our favorite local pol, Hurlbert.”
I pointed to the TV, appalled. “You can’t do this.”
Ignoring me, he bent, picked the box up, and started up the walk to the house. “I’ll just take it up to your room.”
“Don’t, Todd,” I said grabbing his arm. “Don’t.”
But he ignored me, knocking on the door with the TV itself. Mary let him in and watched blank faced as Todd went across the living room and upstairs without so much as a hello. I heard him trip on the last step and waited apprehensively for the crash that by some miracle never came.
How terribly rude he must seem to her, I thought as I waited, embarrassed and uncomfortable. I knew that Todd didn’t mean to give offense—he wasn’t that kind of man—but that didn’t change the fact that he had. He returned smiling happily, unaware of my distress, flicking a little wave at Mary and Ruth.
I got into the car quickly, and when we pulled out of the drive, I said sharply, “Whatever possessed you to bring me a TV?”
Todd looked at me in surprise. “I know you were uncertain about bringing one with you for fear of offending the Zooks, but I saw a TV through Jake’s window earlier today, so I figured it was okay. I got you that one on sale. It’s little and won’t take up much space. It gets a great picture.” He grinned at me. “I know because I tried it out this afternoon.”
“You can’t go buying me TVs!” Aside from the embarrassment, the momentary size of the gift felt uncomfortably binding. I much preferred a bouquet of cut flowers. When the flowers died, so did my need to feel grateful. “Besides, with Jake it’s different. Surely you can see that.”
Todd turned onto Route 340, heading toward Lancaster. “What’s different?” he asked.
“Jake can have a TV because it’s a settled issue between him and his parents.” My voice was loud, even to my own ears. I tried to calm myself. “I’ve never even discussed it with them.”
“You mean you need their permission to have a TV in your own rooms even though you aren’t Amish and even though their son has one and even though you’re paying rent?”
I nodded.
“But you have rights here too,” he objected.
“It’s not a matter of rights. It’s a matter of courtesy and respect.”
We came on a buggy moving turtle slow in the buggy lane, which was essentially a broad, macadamized shoulder. We zipped past, and I wondered as always what it felt like to have the air currents from powerful cars, trucks, and tourist buses buffet you as you inched along in such a flimsy contraption. You had to be brave or incredibly foolhardy to be on the road in those things.
Most roads in the area didn’t have buggy lanes, and cars pulled out to pass whenever there was a break in oncoming traffic. I liked the way the tires sang different tunes as they crossed and recrossed the worn patches down the center of each side of these roads, shallow gullies worn in the macadam by the hooves of numberless horses.
“And it’s a matter of grace,” I continued as we turned right at the light in Smoketown to avoid Lancaster City and the bypass with its heavy traffic.
“What’s a matter of grace?” Todd asked. “I thought we were talking about a TV.”
“We are. It’s grace that lets John and Mary suffer Jake’s TV in their house. It goes against their standards, but their love for him lets them accept it.”
“You mean you think they’ll let Jake have one and not you?”
“No.”
Todd frowned. “You aren’t making sense, Kristie.”
“I know.” I searched for words to adequately describe what I saw as John and Mary’s great dilemma. “The Zooks live by a highly codified theological and legal system.”
“I know,” Todd said stiffly. “As you pointed out, I’ve lived in Lancaster all my life.”
“Then you admit they need a powerful reason to break it or bend it. And Jake’s physical condition is that reason.”
“So he can have a TV?”
“Right.”
“And you can’t.”
“Not without asking. After all, it’s their home. I’m the outsider. I’m certain they won’t force their system on me; they’ve been nothing but kindness itself. But they should be allowed to be gracious to their guest instead of being forced to live with another breach in their code.”
“First a trickle, then the world rushes in like a flood,” said Todd sarcastically. “One TV, two TVs, then live burlesque on the front porch.”
“Todd!”
“Don’t worry about their legal system, Kristie. Like any legal system ever devised, it’s full of holes.”
“Spoken like a lawyer.” I sounded as huffy and ill-tempered and sarcastic as he.
“Well, it’s true. There are so many inconsistencies. Electricity from public utilities is sinful, but water-generated or battery-generated electricity isn’t. Driving a car is sinful, but riding in one isn’t. Owning a vacuum cleaner is wrong, but using one for the woman you clean for isn’t. Hypocrisy.”
“Inconsistency, yes, but not willful hypocrisy.” I was furious at Todd’s unfeeling generalizations. “You’re forgetting that the Zooks are only people trying to accommodate a family tragedy to a very rigid and inflexible way of life.”
“Well, if it’s such a ridiculous way of life, why are you defending it?” Todd was almost shouting.
“I’m not defending the system! I’m defending the Zooks!”
“Why?” he roared.
“Because I like them!”
Silence reverberated like thunder through the car as we struggled for control.
I glared out the front window. A pair of open buggies came racing down the road toward us, each driven by a young Amishman of about sixteen, each boy wearing a bright blue scarf tied cowboy fashion about his neck. Even as I fumed at Todd, I wondered how they kept their hats on at such a reckless speed and where they had gotten their worldly scarves.
He cleared his throat as a prelude to speaking, and I looked away, out the side window.
“I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat again. “I don’t really feel that strongly about the Amish. In fact, though I think they’re wrong, I actually admire their courage and tenacity. My real worry is you.”
“Me?” Startled, I turned to him.
“You’re taking this Amish stuff too seriously.”
I looked at his profile, strong and sharp against the western light. “I told you I’m fine.”
He nodded. “I know. It’s just—” He stopped, frowned, and tried again. “I’m afraid of losing you.” He looked at me, emotion naked on his face. He reached out to me.
I was moved and automatically extended my hand to take his. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
A tension within him resolved, and he relaxed. “I promise not to raise my voice again,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I’ll be good no matter how much I might disagree with you or how silly I think your point of view might
be.”
“Silly?” I pulled my hand away, and my frail calm fled. “Silly?” A switch flicked on in my head. “That’s the trouble with you! I couldn’t put my finger on it before, but now I know. You think I’m silly! You condescend to me, just like my parents and sister. Because I sometimes disagree with you, you think my opinions are foolish! Because I like to paint and buy yellow cars and live on a farm, you think I’m an idiot!”
Todd blinked at my attack and shook his head like a punch-drunk fighter. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit?” he said. “I never called you an idiot or anything close to it.”
“Yes. Yes, you did.” I pointed an accusing finger at him. “Oh, not in those words, but you did.”
“Come on, Kristie, don’t be silly!”
“Aha!” With that final word, I fell silent, and we drove around Lancaster in brooding silence.
Well, we’ve finally touched.
5
When we arrived at Alexander Bailey’s, my favorite restaurant, Todd and I both behaved as if nothing had happened. With no difficulty whatsoever, we slid the glass barrier back between us as we ate a delicious meal of Caesar salad, steak au poivre, and baked Alaska.
Truth to tell, I was appalled about my behavior in the car. I never yelled at people. I considered it undignified and the mark of a thoroughly undisciplined person. I grew up with three people who automatically expressed themselves at full volume, and in reaction I kept my own volume control firmly in the low digits. I might jump to conclusions, the mark of an imaginative, creative person. I might burst into song at the least suggestion, the sign of a culturally literate person. I might like flashy things like yellow cars and beautiful swirls of color, the mark of an artiste. But yell in public? No, no, a thousand times no.
My supervisor during my student-teaching days had recommended strongly that I not even consider teaching high school.
“You’re too gentle and soft spoken,” she said. “Too sweet and kind. They’d eat you alive.”
I spent a long time trying to decide if she was really telling me I was wishy-washy and spineless before I decided she just meant I was quiet. Introspective. Deep. At least, I hoped that was what she meant.
All through dinner Todd and I stayed safely on the surface in our conversation. He told me about a case he was working on, a nasty divorce where the parents were using their kids as pawns and both sets of grandparents were also seeking custody.
“All the grandparents agree that the parents are unfit. Their own kids! Of course, that’s all they agree on.”
I told him about my preparations for the coming school year, rhapsodizing at great length about my new bulletin boards. “I found the most wonderful marbleized paper for the background, and there’s lots of room for the kids to display their work.”
He told me about his difficulty finding a car mechanic he was happy with. “This guy thought that just because I wore a suit to work, I wouldn’t recognize incompetence when I saw it.”
I talked about a new art supply store I had discovered. “Brushes of all sizes and of such quality!” I even regaled him with an expurgated version of my afternoon in the emergency ward. “I was so scared I could barely breathe!”
By the time we left the restaurant, I think we were both thoroughly bored. It was not one of our better evenings.
“Can we stop by the hospital so I can check on Mr. Geohagan?” I asked as I snapped my seat belt. I had to do something to redeem the time.
Todd turned to me with the key almost in the ignition. “Now?” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “We’ll miss the movie.”
“Now. There’s just enough time before visiting hours end, and we’ll still make the nine thirty show.”
“But it’s Saturday night.”
I blinked. “People aren’t allowed to get visits on Saturdays?”
“Okay, okay,” he said with a totally uncharacteristic lack of grace. “We’ll stop if you’re going to be that way. But please don’t be long.”
I bit back a retort and glanced at my watch. “Don’t worry. They’ll kick me out soon.”
I stopped at the circular desk in the lobby of the hospital and, smiling as sweetly as I could, asked where Mr. Geohagan’s room was.
The receptionist turned to her computer, pressed a few keys, and said, “He’s not allowed visitors except family. Are you family?”
“Just a very good friend.” Oh, dear. I’ve raised my level of relationship again.
“I’m sorry. No visitors.”
“Please,” I said, dropping my smile and looking as desperate as I actually felt. “If I can’t talk with him, I need to talk with someone who can tell me how he’s doing. I’m going crazy not knowing, and I’ve come all this way because I can’t get any satisfaction over the phone.”
Just then an announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Visiting hours are now over. Visiting hours are now over.”
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “Even if they would tell you anything at the nurses’ station, it’s too late.”
I nodded, turned toward the door, and paused. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that she was already packing up to leave, her head buried in her purse. I spun around and walked as quickly as I could past her and toward the elevators. I kept waiting to hear her yell, “Lady, I told you no!”
But I got around the corner and onto the elevator without a problem. I hit the button for the coronary care floor and held my breath until the door slid tightly shut without a security person appearing to escort me out of the building. When I reached my floor, I followed the signs to the nurses’ station.
A nurse was reading some reports, and I stood and waited until she became aware of me.
“May I help you?” she asked. “Visiting hours are over.”
I nodded. “I know. I’m looking for information on Everett Geohagan.”
“Family?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Friend. I just want to know how he is and if he can have visitors tomorrow.”
She clicked some keys on her computer. “He’s doing as well as can be expected.”
“Yeah, I know that. But what does that mean?”
She smiled sympathetically. “He had a mild coronary. The next few days are critical, and we will watch him carefully to be certain nothing further happens. If nothing does, he’ll be able to leave here soon.”
I felt relieved. A mild coronary. That didn’t sound too bad.
“If he’s still doing well tomorrow, may I see him for a few minutes? I promise not to upset him.”
“I’ll leave a note asking his doctor. Call tomorrow before you come in.” She put the report back. “I’m sorry. That’s the best I can do.”
I nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
I found Todd sitting in the car listening to a Phillies game. He was rapping his fingers against the wheel, obviously annoyed at the length of my visit—or was it at the Phillies and their three-point deficit?
“We missed the movie,” he announced with the import of a president announcing, “We lost the war.”
I shrugged. “So we’ll see it next week.”
He just looked at me. Todd was a man who didn’t shift mental gears easily. If you planned to see a movie, by George, that’s what you were supposed to do. “Now what?” he asked.
“How about home?” I said brusquely. I was tired of the responsibility for ruining his life.
We rode the whole way back to the farm in sticky silence. If I put my mind to it, I could be just as stubborn and childish as he could, undoubtedly the mark of a petty person.
As we pulled into the driveway at the farm, our headlights illuminated Ruth and Elam seated in an open buggy, their horse impatiently shaking its head.
Todd pulled up beside them and stopped wheel to wheel with the buggy on my side. I rolled down my window.
“Are you coming or going?” I asked.
“There’s a barn dance tonight at Jake Lapp’s.” Ruth’s voice
was bright with anticipation. “Everybody’s going to be there.”
“Including you two, I assume.”
“You’ve got that right,” Elam said.
“Have a good time!” I waved as they pulled onto the road.
“We will,” called Elam, flicking the reins across the horse’s rump.
They disappeared down the road, the soft jingling of the bridle mingling with the muted rattle of bottles.
“Beer,” Todd said critically. “Hear that? He’s got a case of beer in the back of the buggy.”
“I’m still amazed at Amish dating customs,” I said, momentarily forgetting how miffed I was at him. “Unchaperoned dances, drinking, smoking, pairing off in the darkness. Our pastor would have a fit if his young people acted that way, but the Amish elders seem to accept it—or at least put up with it.”
Todd shrugged. “Rumspringa. This kind of dating encourages early marriage, and the sooner they marry, the less likely they are to leave the group. A single person might risk being shunned, but a married person has many more golden chains binding him to the church and community.” He snorted. “Sort of like life insurance, only it’s lifestyle insurance.”
“That’s a pretty snarky tone,” I snapped in a pretty snarky voice of my own.
We sat awkwardly as silence enveloped us again. Such tension was so unusual between us that I wasn’t certain how to deal with it. Todd appeared as confused as I was.
Finally I said, “At least they’re in the buggy, not a car. Or on a motorcycle.”
“Meaning?”
“That they’re not being too rebellious.” Still, I imagined that after the experience with Jake, Mary and John worried about these two.
Todd shrugged and the sounds of the night creatures filled the car.
“Well, good night,” I said after a few minutes and climbed out of the car.
“Um,” he said eloquently, climbing out and stalking up the walk after me. He bent to kiss me good night, and I turned my head, offering only my cheek.
“What?” he said in that snarky voice. “I’m supposed to kiss it and make it better?”
