Disappearances

by Linda Byler

  He laughed so happily at the thought, a gurgle of laughter welled up in Sadie’s own throat. Leaning across the aisle, he offered the box of cupcakes with a flourish and a sweeping motion that reminded Sadie of an orchestra conductor.

  “Please accept my humble gift,” he chortled.

  Sadie chose one, then thanked him politely. “You shouldn’t have offered them,” she concluded.

  “And why not? It only increases my pleasure of a fabulous dessert to be able to share it with such beauty as yours. Are you Hutterite? Or perhaps Mennonite?” he asked as quickly.

  Sadie shook her head. “Neither. We’re Amish.”

  Completely flummoxed, he shook his head in confusion. “Never heard of ’em.”

  Sadie barely heard his reply as she bit into the sweetness of the richly textured cupcake. She had never tasted better. She closed her eyes in appreciation to find Mr. Walter Bartlett leaning eagerly across the aisle in anticipation of her evaluation of his gift.

  “Simply the best carrot cake I’ve ever tasted,” she told him honestly.

  Waving a short, puffy finger delightedly, he bent forward at the waist, then sat back, still waving his finger. “Aren’t they? Aren’t they, though? If I compare them to the pumpkin, however, I do remain a bit indecisive for the reason of the frosting. I believe the maple-flavored icing on the pumpkin cupcakes complements the pumpkin better than the cream cheese does justice to the carrot, pineapple, and coconut. Then there’s always the question of the lack of raisins. I have yet to find a single raisin that I feel would elevate the essence of the carrot and pineapple so splendidly.”

  Suddenly a genuine sadness, almost grief, pulled down his happy features until he appeared unusually morose. “But, oh, the day they pulled the German chocolate! That was a hard day, indeed. I walked home that day, opened my umbrella to the pouring rain, so fitting to my loss, and I thought, Where? Where in all the world will they bake those little Dutch chocolate cakes topped with the brown sugar, coconut, and pecan topping? Since, however, I have come to grips with the lack of my favorite cake, substituting the coconut-covered devil’s-food ones. In a way, they are a sad replacement, but it’s all right. I’m no longer grieving.”

  He took a deep breath and sat up straight, squaring his shoulders in a brave and manly fashion, then turned to her with martyred eyes. “So hard, sometimes,” he said quietly then.

  Sadie nodded her sympathy, which brought a sniff of resignation. Mark stirred beside her, and Sadie turned instinctively, but he resumed breathing deeply, lost in his slumber.

  “Husband?” Walter asked politely.

  “Yes,” Sadie nodded.

  “May I ask your destination?”

  “Barre, Oregon?”

  “So far?”

  Sadie nodded. “We’re going to find my husband’s brother, or siblings, we don’t know how many will be there. His family was broken when the children were small, so he’s trying to reunite.”

  Walter nodded happily. “Very good. Very good. Genealogy is such a wonderful thing. With computers now, you just Google everything. So easy.” He nodded companionably.

  Sadie could have told him about her lack of computer knowledge, but decided not to, the Amish and their ways being such a complete mystery. Besides, he had plenty of hardship in life with the baker pulling the German chocolate cakes from the shelves, therefore exposing poor Walter to such deprivation. Dear little round man. Sadie wanted to go home and find a good recipe and bake him two dozen cupcakes and present them to him warm from the oven.

  God made such a wonderful variety of people, all so different and all so special. God must love people like Walter very much, their friendliness, their guilelessness. Likely that’s what one of the disciples looked like when Jesus saw him beneath the olive tree, “and there was no guile in him.” There was no deceit. No cunning. No sly behavior. That was the sort of person Jesus needed to follow him. The honest, the loving, the ones you could just hug and hug, like Dorothy. She was so full of fussing, spitting, complaining, but she was as guileless as this man. This rotund little Walter whose worst vice in life was the sweet desserts on a baker’s shelf, who handed out compliments, wished everyone well minutes after he met them, and seemed unaware of life’s darker side. He was much too busy being Walter Bartlett. Sir Walter Bartlett.

  Sadie was sorry to see him weave his way down the aisle, clutching his plastic box of cupcakes, waving his fat little hand in her direction. She’d never see him again. But that was okay. He had touched her life with one wonderful carrot cupcake, a fat little fairy that touched her with his magical wand, filling her train ride with happiness.

  Leaning over, she kissed Mark’s cheek, waking him in the process.

  “You smell like … ?” he said softly. “What were you eating?”

  Sadie giggled and kissed her husband. She loved him when he woke up with that sleepy “little boy” crease on his forehead.

  “Oh, a fairy gave me a carrot cupcake with cream cheese icing.”

  They reached their destination with surprising swiftness, the hours on the train clicking by as quickly as the clicking of the rails. When they emerged with the flow of passengers, standing inside the station, awed at the city lights, the height of the skyscrapers, the smallness of two people alone in a foreign (or so it seemed) place, Sadie clutched Mark’s hand as he called a taxi, then relaxed when the taxi arrived only a moment later.

  Mark had a conversation with the driver, and they were whisked through rain-slick, light-filled streets, a kaleidoscope of brilliance and energy, honking horns, strains of music, shouting pedestrians, and people just moving, moving, moving. Into a hotel lobby, their steps muted on deep, plush carpeting. A few words to the man at the desk, while Sadie looked around at the gigantic green plants growing up toward the windowed ceiling. Was it just a glass ceiling?

  The lights were low and people spoke softly. The women wore high heels, and she felt like the country mouse in the city, which she knew she was, though she sort of enjoyed the privilege, smiling back at inquisitive faces, holding Mark’s hand, glad she was the wife of this tall, dark man who received his share of appreciative glances.

  Sadie felt the hotel room was too costly. Was it really right to spend so much money on one night’s sleep? This seriously bothered her conscience until Mark put it to rest, saying they could sleep in a motel for half the price, but, for safety’s sake, he was not about to go looking for the seedy section of town with the cheap motels.

  “We are Amish and look just different enough to attract attention, so I feel safer right here where folks don’t need my wallet.”

  After that, Sadie relaxed and enjoyed her stay at the beautiful opulent hotel. The fixtures in the bathroom were gold, so she touched them tentatively, carefully, and wiped them clean after her shower just because she felt guilty leaving them water-stained. They weren’t real gold, were they? She asked Mark, and he laughed for a long time, saying no, they didn’t live in King Pharaoh’s time. Sadie felt like a country mouse all over again and told him so. He laughed again and said that was a part of his attraction to her: her childish honesty, the way she spoke her mind.

  “Even when I tell you cabinetmakers are good at their trade?” she asked eyeing him sharply.

  A dark cloud passed over his face, covering his features, then left again when he took a deep breath. “Just forget it, Sadie,” he said gruffly.

  So she did and went to the window, pulling the braided, gold cord to draw the heavy brown drapes aside. She stood, her hands on the wide windowsill, and leaned her forehead on the cold glass, peering down on the streets below, all glossy and golden with light. How did men build a skyscraper? Who ever had enough audacity to attempt it, even? It was amazing. But she guessed as long as there were human beings on the earth, God would impart the wisdom to enable civilization to do whatever was good and necessary.

  “Look at the Egyptians,” she muttered softly without realizing she had said anything at all.

  “What?�
�� Mark asked from his pillows on the bed.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about building skyscrapers. They always did. The Egyptians built those pyramids. A bunch of other things. How could they without equipment? It all seems so brave and … well, who thinks this stuff will even work? Who knows if the concrete and rods and bolts and stuff will hold? It’s the same way with bridges. How can they go ahead and do this awesome amount of work and know it will work?”

  Mark smiled. “It’s called courage and faith. It’s what I need in great quantities for tomorrow. Think about it, Sadie. Our tomorrow is not so different. We planned this, we’re going through with it. We’re hoping what we’re doing will work. No going back now. With a bit of faith and well … let’s not be afraid. It’ll be a spiritual bridge or skyscraper or whatever we want it to be. Imagine, Sadie the possibilities are so … promising. And yet … I’m so terribly afraid. Come to bed. You’re my number one support in this bridge-building project.”

  Chapter 12

  IN THE MORNING, MARK was quiet, his face taut with apprehension. He did not want a hearty breakfast so they had bagels and coffee brought to their room. Sadie noticed Mark’s untouched bagel and the tremor in his hand when he reached for his coffee mug.

  She held her peace, however, knowing he did not like any display of weakness, especially for her to notice and bring it to his attention. This she had learned the hard way, having her feelings hurt repetitively by blurting out a few unmasked words. The silence was broken only by the soft sound of lifted coffee mugs, swallowing, or a clearing of the throat, a napkin dabbed.

  Finally Sadie asked, “You have the address?”

  Mark nodded.

  “So all we need is a taxi, right?”

  “Right. Ready?”

  There was no smile, no affirmation of his love, only a rapid thrust of his arms into his coat sleeves, a shrugging of his shoulders, and a quick pull on the gold door handle, stepping back, his eyebrows raised with impatience as she shrugged into her own wool coat.

  The taxi driver was skilled, talkative, and knew the streets well. Before they had a chance to wonder how far it was, the taxi pulled to a fluid halt, the driver assuring them this was the proper address.

  They peered out the right window, taking in the old brownstone, the Georgian façade, the enormous front door, the huge windows flanked by heavy wooden shutters. The stone on the exterior was aged to perfection, three stories in perfect symmetry, an old, sturdily built home kept well with loving care, standing the test of time.

  The boxwoods surrounding the low windows were trimmed to precision, the inlaid stone walkway and steps leading to the front door a tribute to skilled masons.

  A copper-plated sign by the post beside the stone walkway read “Jackson Peight, MD.”

  “He’s … he’s a doctor?” Sadie whispered.

  Mark said nothing. Then, “Let’s just leave.”

  Sadie shook her head. “Does he know you’re coming?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then we’re going.”

  Sadie opened the door, stepped out of the cab, and breathed deeply. The smell of cold winter air mixed with city odors of traffic and asphalt, that indistinguishable no-name aroma that cloaked all cities. It was not offensive; it was a smell of energetic people and vehicles and food and grass and trees.

  Mark followed and the taxi moved off, leaving them standing on the sidewalk looking up at the house as if it might swallow them alive. Sadie shivered, shaking off the foreboding that threatened to envelop her with its tentacles.

  Mark’s face was ashen. “I can’t do this Sadie. Please. I’m nothing. He’s an English man. A doctor. He’s so much more than me. He’ll laugh in my face.”

  Sadie turned, her hands going to his coat front, giving him a small tug the way she would to a child as a way of slight rebuke.

  “Stop it. Those feelings are of the devil, in Mam’s words. Don’t listen to them. Come.”

  It was Sadie who led the way, who pressed her finger decisively to the ornate doorbell, who rocked back on her heels, lifted her chin, and smiled a much wider, braver smile than she felt.

  A few seconds and the door opened, swung wide. A replica of Mark stood aside. An English replica, his black hair cut short, but the same eyes, the perfect mouth, a plaid button-down shirt tucked into relaxed jeans.

  “Come in. You must be Mark.”

  Mark nodded, his eyes flat, expressionless. He offered his hand and received a firm grip of welcome.

  “Jackson.”

  “Mark.” Then, “Do you remember anything about me?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Mark introduced Sadie. Their coats and luggage were quickly whisked away by an older person Sadie could only guess was the housekeeper. They were led to a room with a fireplace crackling on the far side, facing beige and white chairs and sofas. Tables and various antique dressers holding tastefully displayed vintage items sat atop expensive rugs strewn across the worn oak flooring. Candles flickered on the mantle, lamps gave off a yellow pool of light, illuminating the room in small circles, as if they were a helpmeet to the stripes of sunlight stealing through the heavy wooden slats of the venetian blinds.

  It was a lovely room. The touch of old decor mixed with new required an expert’s eye. Jackson was a year younger than Mark, or was it two? How had he acquired so much at this young age?

  Sadie smiled at appropriate times, answered questions, but was so involved in her assessment of the room, she feared she’d be impolite.

  Jackson was effusive in his welcome, and Sadie could tell Mark was responding, the hooded, evasive light in his eye replaced by a spark of interest, a small smile that wouldn’t be reined in too much longer.

  They were joined by a heavyset woman who floated into the room on waves of cologne, her dress swirling about her buxom figure in swirls of red. Her hair was dark, cut to just below her chin, her face wide with curiosity, taking an interest in everything surrounding her.

  “Hi! I’m Jane. Just plain Jane,” she laughed.

  Introductions followed, Jackson pulling her large form against him closely. He introduced her as his wife of exactly six months and a few days, Jane dipping and beaming, exclaiming at the likeness of the two brothers.

  They were all seated and served coffee and tea before Jackson settled in for a serious talk.

  “Yes, Mark, I do remember. Not everything, likely, the way you do, but I remember the bad times probably just as distinctly as you. The thing, the one single thing, that’s hardest for me is—how could she? How could our mother leave us hungry, uncared for, and simply drive away with that man? You know, it’s funny, but I don’t remember him at all. Can’t imagine his face, his features. That act of a mother abandoning her children is one of the biggest hurdles of my life.”

  Mark nodded. “You feel as if there was something you did wrong. Like, perhaps if we had been better children, or we had done more, or looked better, she wouldn’t have done it. Like we failed her.”

  Jackson watched Mark’s face, incredulous. Finally he shook his head. “I find it unbelievable to hear you say that. I thought I was the only one who wrestled with that demon of my past.”

  Jane clucked her tongue, then laid her head reassuringly on her husband’s shoulder and was instantly gathered into the safety of his arm.

  Jackson continued. “It was tough. Still is. I allow, though, it’s as tough as we let our past control us. The reason I studied medicine … it was a sort of block. The more I buried myself in my studies, the better I was. I was ravenous to learn, to move up the ladder, to excel, to prove myself worthy. I was far ahead in my classes, always. But it really was my saving grace. To stay busy, challenged, immerse myself—it just worked well. My foster parents had the money to put me through college, so I was very fortunate, I realize that. My dad is a surgeon. My mom is the greatest person on the face of the earth. I’m serious. I don’t know why the Lord smiled on me the way he did the day I was put in the foster system, but he did. They
are my parents, my stronghold. It’s amazing to this day.”

  Jane nodded, her eyes wide with emotion.

  Sadie shrank inwardly when Mark cleared his throat and said gruffly, “Yeah, well.”

  There was a space of silence where Sadie watched nervously, knowing Mark was fighting that internal battle of feeling worthless. He drank coffee, ran a hand across the knee of his trousers, fought to rise up against the tide of black nothingness his mother had pitched him into the day she left.

  Then Mark lifted his ravaged eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re lucky.”

  “I know that,” Jackson responded sincerely.

  Then Mark launched into his own tale of the foster care system. The abuse, the existence of a loveless world, the hunger for stability, the batting around from home to home, unwanted, used, the drugs, the alcohol, and finally, his grandfather, the reason he became a member of the Old Order Amish church.

  Jane got up and extracted a box of Kleenex from a heavy holder, dabbed her eyes daintily, clucked, and gasped, shaking her pretty head from side to side as Mark related his story.

  “Wow,” Jackson breathed, finally. “What kept you sane?”

  “I know what it’s like to walk on the edge, let me tell you,” Mark said, with a harsh laugh.

  “Have you gone for counseling?”

  “Oh, yes. A lot of good, positive feelings about myself and my past have come to light through counseling. It’s a good thing. God imparts wisdom to those people, I don’t doubt. I probably would not have made it through my early twenties if it wouldn’t have been for counseling.”

  Sadie nodded.

  “And Sadie.”

  Sadie turned to Mark, a glad light in her eyes, met his own, ignited, but as was the Amish custom, they remained seated apart, awkward and ill at ease with any public display of affection.

  “I’ll have to tell you how we met,” Sadie offered. She began a colorful account of the wintery day with Nevaeh lying in the snow, desperately flagging down the cattle truck that had been moving too fast to begin with. Mark laughingly explaining when you drive a rural Montana roadway, you do not expect to meet a half-dead horse and a very pretty girl in the middle of a snowstorm.