Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  “Gabe, you look great!” A fortyish woman with silver-streaked black hair and a wide, friendly smile walked up and threw her arms around Gabe. Next to her, his friend Lawrence grinned from behind a reddish-gray beard. He was still as lanky as a teenager and wore the type of plaid sport shirt and gray slacks that made Mr. J. C. Penney a multimillionaire.

  “Janet, you haven’t changed a bit,” Gabe said, hugging her and shaking Lawrence’s hand. “Hey, buddy, how’s the nightclub business?”

  “Don’t ask.” Lawrence grimaced. “Cocktail waitresses, cooks, bouncers, the liquor license board. Musicians and girl singers. It’s enough to drive a man to drink. Fortunately I can count whiskey as a business expense.”

  “Oh, pipe down,” Cordie June said, sticking her tongue out at him. “You know you love it.”

  Janet gave me a friendly look. “Benni, right? I can’t believe you captured our elusive Gabe here. After his divorce, we didn’t think anyone was capable of that.”

  “I’m just now realizing what an apparent coup it was,” I said, glancing up at Gabe and rolling my eyes.

  “I keep telling her how lucky she is, but she won’t believe me,” Gabe said. A collective groan erupted from his friends.

  “Then she’s smart and pretty,” Dewey said.

  “Well, look what happens when Kansas opens the borders. All kinds of riffraff blows across the prairie.” Rob Harlow eased around Dewey and Cordie June. His dark blond hair had turned just gray enough to take the edge off his boyish handsomeness. He flashed an audacious grin capable of seducing any woman in the room from eight to eighty. He was the kind of guy your mother dreamed about having as a son-in-law—until he turned out to be a serial killer.

  “You must be Benni,” he said, bestowing his smile upon me.

  “Must be,” I said, wondering why in the world my thoughts crept to serial killers upon meeting this perfectly nice man.

  “Nice to meet you.” He held my gaze just a couple of seconds longer than necessary before turning to Gabe. “You haven’t changed a bit, buddy. Still busting lowlifes in the mean streets?”

  “I’m a suit now,” Gabe answered mildly. “The only thing I bust these days is patrol officers who take too many sick days.”

  “You wrangled this depraved old hombre off the streets?” Rob said to me, his mouth turned down, impressed. “I didn’t think anyone could do that with the wild man here. His first wife sure couldn’t. What did you lure him into your lair with?”

  “Lucky me,” I said sweetly. “He was already semi-tame when I captured him.” I was getting more than a little annoyed at the continued references to a nefarious past I knew nothing about.

  Becky walked up and clapped her hands for attention. “Everyone find a seat. Cordie June and Tyler are going to sing for us.”

  Next to the jukebox, Cordie June stood talking to a petite woman dressed in tight black jeans and a black silk tank top. The woman had pale blond hair cut tomboy-short and spiky. They started fiddling with the switch on a microphone hooked into Stan’s stereo system. The blonde turned and called for Stan’s help. Lawrence got there before Stan and took care of the problem. She rewarded him with a flawless smile.

  “Is that the Amish woman?” I whispered to Gabe. I set my Coke down on the small table next to the red plaid easy chair he’d claimed, and perched on the chair’s padded arm.

  “Appears so.” He picked a stuffed cherry tomato off my plate of food and popped it in his mouth.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “No surprise there. Homely women were never Rob’s forte.”

  Not much taller than my five feet one, her only accessory was a pair of long silver and turquoise Navajo earrings. I searched her fluid, small-featured face and sensual gray eyes, trying to picture her clothed in the shapeless dress and white apron of an Amish woman.

  To warm up, they did a twangy country version of Bonnie Raitt’s “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.” Then they moved quickly into Wynonna’s “Girls with Guitars” and Trisha Yearwood’s “I’ve Been Living on the Wrong Side of Memphis.” They continued through a repertoire of popular country-rock songs I guessed came from their act at Lawrence’s club. They harmonized easily, Cordie June singing an energetic if slightly reedy soprano and Tyler belting out a voice that didn’t match her delicate looks at all—a deep, throbbing alto. Cordie June sang a spirited rendition of “I’ll Always Love You” trying, I imagined, for Dolly’s sincerity and Whitney’s soul. Her voice was young and clear and vibrant. But it was when Tyler ended the impromptu concert with Alabama’s melancholy ballad “We Can’t Love Like This Anymore” that it became obvious who had that elusive quality that makes a person a star. Accompanying herself with only a battered acoustic guitar, Tyler held us breathless with a smoky voice that was a heart-rending mixture of tough and tender. When the last note of the song resonated through the warm room, we were struck silent, captured by the spell of her remarkable voice. A voice that, for that instant, caused each of us to relive a time when love walked away from us before we wanted it to. I glanced at Cordie June, and for just an instant a look of anger darkened her face, then disappeared like a swift Kansas storm cloud.

  “Anyone besides me need a cold beer right now?” Stan suddenly called out. Everyone laughed, and the party started up again. I stood up, and Gabe grabbed my hand, pulling me down into his lap.

  “Want to go across to the Christmas tree farm and make out?” He buried his face in the hollow of my neck.

  “Here’s a cold drink, Friday.” I pointed to my Coke. “I told you, you’re on C-rations for two weeks.”

  “What’s this about C-rats?” Dewey walked up, a bottle of Beck’s in his hand. “Stan’s got a secret stash for us purists. Better get one before they’re gone.”

  “Coke’s fine,” Gabe said, picking up my glass and taking a sip.

  “What’s with him?” Dewey asked me. “Gabe here used to drink us all under the table. You got him on a short leash or something?”

  “Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’ve never even seen him drink.”

  “Hey, bud, you doin’ the twelve-step boogie these days?”

  “Nah,” Gabe said, nudging me to stand up. “I’ve finished everything on your plate. Let’s go see what else Becky fixed for this bash.” He walked away without looking to see whether Dewey or I followed.

  Dewey gave me a curious look. “What was that all about?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Excuse me, I need to find the ladies room.” I walked away, uncomfortable about discussing Gabe even with someone who’d been his friend as long as Dewey. And I was embarrassed that there was yet another piece of Gabe’s life I knew virtually nothing about.

  After a couple of hours of the incessant jukebox and the loud, raucous voices of people already halfway to horrendous hangovers, I wandered upstairs for some peace and quiet. I’d met so many people that evening, their names and faces had already softened to a huge blur. Fortunately the living room was empty. I walked around the room, enjoying the quality and variety of Becky’s quilt collection. I was standing in front of a large turquoise, red, and black Amish Shoofly quilt next to the fireplace, losing myself in the serenity of its bold, simple pattern and intricate stitching when the sound of angry voices drew me over to a front window. I stepped to the side of the window and unabashedly eavesdropped. Looking through a gap in the curtain, I could discern a tiny figure in black etched against the moonlit front porch.

  “Quit following me,” Tyler said, her sultry voice harsh. “You have no rights in my life anymore.” Her earrings swung and flashed, catching the pale light.

  A man’s voice gave a low, urgent reply. He stood back in the shadows, out of my viewing range. Though I strained to make out sentences, I could only hear single words—“home now, Hochmut, Hannah, Gott.” His voice had a foreign sound, almost guttural. Like German. An Amish man?

  “I don’t care, I don’t care.” Her voice sounded desperate now. “Go away. There are p
olice officers here, you know. They could arrest you.”

  “You would have me arrested, Ruth?” the man spat out. Then he muttered a short sentence in the foreign language again, turned, and ran down the porch steps. His figure was a dark outline, his hat and his clothing cut in the style of an earlier century. He was Amish. Obviously someone from Tyler’s past. He threaded his way through the parked cars to a small white car idling out on the dirt road in front of the house. He climbed into the passenger seat, and the vehicle sped away, kicking up dust.

  The front door opened, and I moved hastily back to the Amish quilt and resumed studying it. Picking up a corner of the quilt, I started counting the stitches, hoping Tyler wouldn’t guess I’d overheard the argument.

  “Twelve,” she said behind me. “And I should know. I put every one of them in myself. Though I’d catch heck from my father for bragging about it.”

  I turned to face her. Her voice sounded husky, as if on the edge of a sob. Her pink-rimmed eyes blinked rapidly, but the practiced smile of an experienced performer prevailed.

  She held out her hand. “I don’t think we were officially introduced. Tyler Brown. Isn’t this party for you and your husband?”

  “Benni Harper,” I said, taking her hand. Her handshake was firm and confident. “The party’s more for my husband, Gabe. He’s Becky’s brother and grew up with most of these people.”

  “Homecomings,” she said, her voice ironic. “A mixed blessing, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I’m impressed with your stitching. I’ve never been able to do more than eight per inch.”

  “Actually, I’ve seen fourteen. My sister, Hannah, is incredible. But then she works at it a lot more than I do these days.”

  “You don’t quilt anymore?”

  She stared up at the quilt, an almost pensive look coming over her face. “I don’t piece, but I still quilt occasionally. If gigs are slow and I need the money.” She picked up the edge of the quilt. “This was my last quilt before I left the community. I sold it to Becky to help pay for studio time to record a song I wrote about a barrel racer who cheats on her husband with a bull rider. Her husband was the rodeo clown.”

  “Who did she end up with?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

  Tyler gave a self-mocking smile. “Her horse. Who else?”

  I turned back to the quilt. “I guess you probably expend your creative energy in your music now. It’s a shame to lose you as a quilter, though. Your stitching is incredible.”

  She fiddled with one of her earrings. It made a soft, tinkly sound in the quiet living room. “Most people look at quilts and see beauty and order. I see that, but I also see a prison.”

  She seemed open enough about her past, so, remembering what the man on the porch had called her, I said, “Tyler doesn’t sound like an Amish name.”

  “It isn’t. I decided new life, new name. My . . .” She paused and raised her chin a fraction of an inch. “A good friend helped me choose it. Someone who used to come by the cafe where I worked in Miller.”

  “Oh.” Her story fascinated me. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to completely discard one kind of life for another. “How long ago did you leave the community ?” I asked.

  “A year ago last January. I lived in Wichita and got a job as a waitress at a Shoney’s Restaurant. I started going to little clubs, singing in their talent contests and bugging the different owners to give me a try. It was really hard at first.” Her delicate cheeks flushed. “Then I hooked up with T.K., and it got a little easier.”

  “T.K.?”

  “I met him at one of the clubs I sang at. He plays lead guitar in Snake Poison Posse. He was going to come tonight, but a friend of his asked him to fill in on a gig up in Kansas City. T.K.’s been a good friend to me. He’s the one who brought Snake Poison Posse together and asked me to sing lead. We’ve been at Lawrence’s club for about two months now. I’m getting a lot of good experience, but really, the only place to be is Nashville. I’ve got the money to go, but T.K. needs this gig, and I really owe him, so I promised I’d stay through the end of July. Then I’m heading south to Music Row to join all the other hopefuls. I’m hoping to get some studio work so I don’t have to waste time waiting tables.” She smiled thinly. “At least for a while, anyway.”

  “How did you meet Becky?” I asked.

  “I answered an ad she placed in the Wichita newspaper about buying authentic Amish quilts. She was a real lifesaver. I was desperate for money at that point, and she bought all the quilts I owned. Then I told her about my sister, Hannah, and she’s helped Hannah make some extra money by consigning her quilts in some stores in Kansas.” Tyler pulled absently at a strand of hair next to her cheek. “It was just coincidence that she knew Lawrence. But that’s how it is around here; someone you know eventually knows someone else you know. Sometimes that can get a little stifling.”

  “I know,” I said. “The town in California where I’m from is like that. But sometimes it’s nice.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I suppose. If you never do anything that people disapprove of.”

  “Do you ever see your family?” I was curious, knowing enough about Amish customs to assume her choice had caused her to be shunned, that no communication, no relationship, was allowed between her and the Amish community, including her family, for the rest of her life.

  “No.” Her tone told me that it was not a subject open for discussion.

  I moved to a more comfortable topic and picked up the edge of the Shoofly quilt. “I’ve never seen this stitching pattern before.”

  “I took the design from the patterns that are blind-tooled around the Ausbund, our hymn book, but added my own touch. Believe me, my father is a minister, and he just about pulled his beard off when some well-meaning lady in our church pointed it out to him.” Behind her smile was an unmistakable resolve and a hint of steel.

  I glanced back at the tiny, perfect stitches. You had to peer at them very closely and adjust your eyesight, the way you do when you look at an optical illusion, but once you did, inside the simple leaves, in elaborate stitching, the words seized your heart with their passionate plea—NONONONO . . .

  I was stunned silent for a moment. Then I asked, “Why country-western music?”

  She thought for a moment. “The first time I heard it, it struck something in me. It seemed so free and happy, even the sad songs. Have you ever heard the songs in an Amish church service?”

  I shook my head no.

  “They are extremely slow and very structured. To an outsider, it would probably sound like chanting. On some songs it takes thirty seconds just to sing one line of one verse. To sing four verses can sometimes take twenty minutes or more. Sunday evening singing, when the young people get together, is a little better, but not much. For an Amish person singing is supposed to be a reminder of all that is worldly and sinful. From the first time I remember singing, I didn’t feel that way about it. Singing made me feel happy. I would ask my father, Doesn’t God want us to be happy? He would say sternly, ‘Gott wants us to serve Him.’ But can’t we serve Him and be happy? I would ask. He would get so angry with my questions that my sister would break in and ask me to fetch some eggs or go milk the cows.” Tyler gave a deep sigh. “I think I was about thirteen the first time I heard a country song. My cousin Levi had a transistor radio hidden in the barn. The song was ‘I Saw the Light’ by Hank Williams. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “And the first time I sang in front of an audience . . .” Her face flushed with emotion. “I can’t really explain it. It’s like I’d never been born until I heard that applause. For a moment, when things are just right, it feels like . . . like love. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like you’re really loved.” She leaned toward me, her eyes bright and desperate. “I can’t let anything take that away from me. I just can’t.”

  Before I could comment, we were interrupted by a commotion downstairs. Angry male voices echoe
d up the narrow basement stairway. Like teenagers to a schoolyard fight, we rushed toward the frenzied sounds.

  At the bottom of the stairs we watched Lawrence and Rob wrestle with each other in that awkward fighting dance that never looks as polished and masculine in real life as it does in the movies. Gabe pushed his way into the skirmish and pulled Rob back. Dewey and another man grabbed Lawrence. A trickle of blood trailed down from Rob’s nose; Lawrence’s glasses were lost somewhere in the scuffle. Without them, he appeared younger, his eyes wide and white-rimmed, like an owl’s.

  “I mean it,” Lawrence said, stabbing a finger at Rob. “Stay away from her. I mean it.” He shook off Dewey’s arm. “Let me go. I’m fine.”

  “Apparently she likes it,” Rob said. “Let her live her own life.”

  Lawrence lunged for Rob, but Dewey and the other man caught him. “Get him outta here,” Dewey yelled at Gabe. Gabe grasped Rob’s upper arm firmly and led him up the stairs. Tyler and I stepped aside to let them pass.

  “Are you okay, Rob?” Tyler asked, reaching out to him. He irritably shoved her hand away. I widened my eyes at Gabe, who shrugged.

  “Too much beer,” he said in a low voice.

  “Too much testosterone,” I countered. He winked at me.

  “Maybe I should go with them,” Tyler said.

  “Let Gabe walk him around outside,” I said. “He’ll cool down, and they’ll forget all about it.”

  Becky ran up the stairs past Tyler and me, her face white with anger.

  “Looks like Becky’s upset,” I said. “I’ll go up and see if I can help.”

  In the cherry-red and white kitchen, Becky stood frowning in front of the open refrigerator.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

  “No, thanks.” She took out a pitcher of iced tea. “I’m just trying to remove myself from the commotion before I lose my temper.”

  I hopped up onto the white-tiled counter and took the glass of iced tea she offered me. “What was it all about?”