“Smokey the Bear,” I corrected, trying not to laugh. “Try and be patient, Daddy. Dove hasn’t had a vacation in a long time. Humor her.”
“He’s a bear, dang it. A bear. And a fake one at that.”
“Is not!” Dove squawked in the background. I heard the receiver clunk against something; then her voice bellowed over the line again. “This pea-brained son of mine doesn’t know the difference between a cartoon bear and a real one. What do you think of that?”
“I think since I’m paying for the call we’d better get off. You all try and get along, or at least get it out of your system before you get to Kansas. You’d better behave while you’re here and not embarrass me.”
“Well, isn’t that the mouse calling the cat a queen.”
“I mean it. If you do, I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what?” Dove sounded smug.
Doggone it, she knew there wasn’t a thing I could do. “Quit fighting,” I said and hung up, for once before she did.
I had no sooner settled back down with my on-the-verge-of-divorce couple when the phone rang again.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said, before she could speak. “You’re all just going to have to try and get along or—”
“Oh,” Becky said, her voice dropping an octave in surprise. “Is that you, Benni? Is my mom there?”
“Becky! I’m sorry. I thought you were—Oh, never mind. She went with Gabe to Wichita to be with Rob’s mother. Did you hear about Rob?”
“Are you kidding? My phone started ringing before the paramedics pulled out of his driveway. Derby hasn’t had this much excitement in years. Oh, my, not that Rob trying to commit suicide is exciting. I mean . . .”
“It’s okay, I know what you mean. I’ll tell her you called, but she didn’t say exactly when they’d be home.”
“No, don’t bother. I was just going to ask her if she wanted to come with me to Miller to visit Hannah. I’m taking her some food and some flowers from my garden.”
“Tyler’s sister?”
“You know about Hannah?”
“Tyler told me a little. She said she’s a marvelous quilter.”
“Better than anyone I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty, believe me.” She paused for a moment. “So, you’re all alone?”
I looked down at a snoring Daphne and the magazine in my lap. “To all intents and purposes.”
“Why don’t you come with me, then? I’d love the company. We could get to know each other better.”
“I’m game, but do you think Hannah would mind? I mean, she knows you, but I’m a stranger, and what with Tyler and all . . .”
“I don’t think she’ll mind. She’s very gracious,” Becky said. “I’ll get her to show you some of her quilts if she’s up to it. Who knows, getting her mind off Tyler’s murder for a few minutes might help. I’ll drop the girls off at their friends, then be there in about half an hour.”
A disregard for speed limits was apparently a genetic trait in the Ortiz family, because Becky’s forest-green Jeep Cherokee and heavy foot maneuvered us through Wichita in record time. On Highway 96, heading northwest toward the tiny Amish town of Miller, the landscape finally turned into the Kansas of my imagination : vast golden fields, cut short and spiky now; rows of lush and shadowy green milo, their bushy heads moving softly in the sweltering breeze; and acres of rich brown soil being tilled for the next planting. The shimmering blue sky faded into a starched white where it touched the dark silhouette of trees along the horizon. Becky and I shied away from talk of Tyler’s death, discussing instead the quilt show this weekend, her quilt collection, her studies to become a professional quilt appraiser, and her plans, when her children were older, to conduct workshops and maybe write a book on her specialty—Midwestern Amish quilts. Her method of storing her quilt collection surprised me, layered flat on her guest bed, the top one turned backside up to avoid sun fading.
“I’ve found it’s the best way,” she said. “Folding is too tedious. You’re always having to refold them so they don’t get creases. And rolling them takes up too much room. I didn’t think up the method. A lot of collectors do it that way.” She laughed. “The only problem is when we have guests.” After we exhausted all our quilt talk she asked, “How’s my mother treating you?”
“Fine,” I said, giving her a small smile. What did she expect me to say? That getting to know Greta Garbo would have been easier?
She turned the air conditioner on high and gave me an amused glance. “Hey, you don’t have to pretend with me. I was raised by that woman. Between her and Angel, you might get enough conversation to last five minutes. That’s after a couple of pots of coffee, if you’ve lived in Kansas all your life and if you hadn’t stolen away their precious Gabe.”
I laughed. “So it’s not just me?”
She shook her head and smiled. “Now, my dad—you would have liked him. He really loved to talk. I was only nine when he died, but I do remember that about him. I guess I’m the only one who took after him.”
We were silent for a moment. I glanced into the back seat. “What are you bringing to Hannah?”
“Some banana bread, a casserole, a ham. She doesn’t really need it—the Amish community will probably inundate her with food—but it’s the most acceptable way to express sympathy.”
“So even though Hannah wasn’t allowed to see or talk to her sister, they will still acknowledge that she has had a loss?”
Becky gave me a considering look and tapped her nails on the steering wheel. They were long and white under the clear polish. “How much do you know about Tyler?”
“I only talked with her for a short time last night. She told me a little about why she left the Amish to be a singer. And that a good friend helped her pick out her new name. Then we mostly talked about quilting. She said sometimes it was a prison to her. She told me about the stitching in your Amish Shoofly quilt.” I shrugged. “That’s basically it.”
“Well, that’s certainly the condensed version. Like most things with the Amish, it’s more complicated than it appears. They’re called the plain people, but their religion has a pretty complex set of unspoken rules and regulations. In some ways, their life is easy. In other ways, it’s incredibly hard.”
“Too hard for Tyler, I guess.”
“The Amish are very strict in their beliefs about conformity, but they can also be the most compassionate people in the world. Physically and mentally disabled people are treated with the same respect and valued just as much as everyone else in the community. Actually, families consider themselves blessed when they have a ‘special’ child. They believe it helps teach the family patience and compassion. To them, there’s no shame in having a handicap.”
“So why did Tyler leave?”
Becky sighed, signaled a turn, and pulled off the highway onto a smaller road. We passed a green sign so small it would have been easy to miss. Miller—2 miles. “Tyler was special, too. You heard her sing. She had incredible talent. But that kind of special is not encouraged among the Old Order Amish. In fact, it’s discouraged. Teamwork is the most important thing to them. Everyone has the same amount of education and is expected to live their lives exactly like the generations before. Any personal recognition for a special skill or talent is considered prideful. I guess Tyler just didn’t feel that she could deny her talent.”
I considered her words for a moment before answering. “Think about it, though—to pursue that talent she had to give up her whole family, her whole life. Seems like a pretty steep price.”
Becky nervously tapped the steering wheel again. “It really is so sad. When Tyler left about a year and a half ago—oh, and I forgot to mention, Hannah will call her Ruth, which was her original name before she changed it legally—anyway, after Tyler left, it was understood that the community would shun her. You see, she left the church after she joined it, which is one of the worst things you can do. It was very shameful for her family. But Hannah loved Tyler too much to never hear o
f her again, so that’s where I came in.”
“You?”
“Well, we don’t know if it’s quite legal according to Amish law, but it appeased Hannah’s conscience, and also relieved her worry.”
“What?”
“Right after I met Tyler, she told me about her sister’s quilting. I went to Hannah’s farm and introduced myself. In the conversation I let her know that a woman named Tyler who’d once been a plain person herself named Ruth, told me about her. Since then I’ve been a go-between for Hannah and her quilts. Some of them are consigned at Janet’s store, Sunflower Quilts and Crafts in Derby, and I have them placed at three other stores in Kansas. It brings in a good side income for Hannah. If on my visits to Hannah my friend Tyler’s life just happens to come up in the conversation, then . . .” Becky let her voice trail off.
“That’s pretty amazing,” I said, impressed with their clever skirting of the rules. “This must be devastating for Hannah. Have you talked with her since it happened?”
“No, that’s why Rob called Fannie at the fabric store. The Amish don’t have phones in their homes, though they will use public phones or the phones of their non-Amish neighbors if it’s absolutely necessary. If Hannah had to hear news like that, Fannie would be the best person to hear it from. At least Rob wasn’t the one to break it to her. I would have driven out and told her myself before I’d let that happen.” Becky shook her head in disgust.
The difference between Miller and the other small towns in Kansas was apparent the minute you drove down Main Street. The first street sign we saw was a black and yellow “Caution—Slow Vehicle” sign depicting a silhouette of an Amish buggy pulled by a high-stepping horse. For such a small town, it had a surprising number of businesses, many with old-fashioned buggies parked outside. Becky slowed the Cherokee down to a crawl as we passed Johnson’s Hardware, Fannie’s Fabrics and Notions, Miller’s Market, Hershberger Blacksmith, The Plain People Antiques, Miller Feed and Grain, The Old Prairie Buggy Shop. Hulking silver grain elevators—a staple in most small Kansas towns, I was rapidly discovering—towered over the town.
Becky parked in front of the Millstone Bakery, a slope-roofed building with brown shingles and a bright blue door.
“Miller seems to be a popular name,” I commented, looking at the owner’s name, Joshua Miller, under the bakery’s hand-carved sign.
“They’re one of the original settling families,” Becky said. “It’s Tyler’s maiden name. Her father is a minister, a very respected member of the community. That made her leaving even more scandalous.” She hitched her purse over her shoulder. “Stan and the girls will skin me alive if I don’t buy some of Mrs. Bontranger’s cinnamon pulaparts while I’m here.” Next to us, tied to the hitching post running the length of the bakery, was a square black Amish buggy with a bright orange triangular slow vehicle warning sign underneath the back window. A dark brown gelding with one white sock waited patiently, his tail flicking at flies. “Good boy,” I murmured, running my hand down the horse’s silky neck.
“You like horses?” Becky asked.
“Yes,” I said, following her into the cool, spicy-smelling bakery. “I used to ride every day on the ranch. I miss it now that I’m a townie.”
“You and Gabe have both had to make big adjustments this last year, haven’t you? We haven’t talked yet about just how you and he got together.” Becky opened the door to the bakery, standing aside to let me enter first. The smell of cinnamon and ginger immediately set my tastebuds to watering. “I’ve heard his version, but as much as I love my brother, I take a lot of what he says with a huge grain of salt. I have to admit, he surprised us all back here. We never expected him to get married again, much less to a cowgirl.”
“Rancher,” I said good-naturedly.
She gave an apologetic laugh. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
She looked at me curiously. “Maybe I shouldn’t bring this up, but since we’re talking about my brother, Mom says you aren’t taking Gabe’s name and that he’s not exactly thrilled about it.”
So he’d told them. I shrugged, not really wanting to go into it with my new sister-in-law, especially since we’d been getting along so well. Apparently this was going to be a stitch in more than one person’s side. “It’s not a big deal. I just want to keep my name.”
“You mean your first husband’s name.”
“My name for the last fifteen years,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It really has nothing to do with how I feel about Gabe.”
She gave me a crooked, appeasing smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I think it’s rather funny actually. Gabe’s always been too macho for his own good. It won’t hurt him to be brought down a peg or two.”
“This is not a political statement I’m making,” I protested, irritated now. “I just don’t want to change my name.”
She wisely dropped the subject and stepped up to the bakery counter.
The woman behind the glass case was as round and soft-looking as the fat dinner rolls she was packing eight to a bag. While she wrapped up Becky’s order, they discussed Tyler’s death in low tones. I sat at a small plastic table drinking a cup of fresh coffee and eating a hot, just-iced caramel roll. The Pennsylvania Dutch heritage of the owners was apparent in the selection of baked goods in the sparkling clean display cases—flaky gooseberry turnovers, dill bread, huge apple butter cookies, strawberry-rhubarb pie, cherry angel rounds, lemon crunch coffee cake. Unable to resist, I bought a loaf of pilgrim bread and some oatmeal-coconut cookies to take back to Gabe and Kathryn.
Inside the Cherokee, the early afternoon sun had turned the air as hot and steamy as a sauna. We packed our baked goods into a cooler Becky had brought along, and drove through the tree-shaded streets onto a small country road, passing acres of bare wheat fields and four or five neat white houses with deep front porches and wildly colorful flower gardens. At the beginning of Hannah’s long dirt driveway stood a hand-painted sign: “Eggs, tomatoes, fresh cream, milk—No Sunday sales.” Driving toward the farm, Becky had to brake quickly twice to avoid the flocks of chickens skittering across our path. Hannah’s house, like the others we’d seen, was a two-story white wood structure with four rectangular windows upstairs and three windows and a new screen door below. The well-scrubbed front porch held only three Shaker-style chairs. The flower garden in front of the house exploded with ruby-red pansies, lavender zinnias, and enormous sunflowers. The pine and cottonwood trees shading the driveway were full of scolding blue jays and a small gray bird whose call sounded like a cat mewing. Two little girls burst out of the house, screaming Becky’s name. Wisps of hair the color and texture of dandelion fluff escaped from the sides of their miniature white caps. Above us, the blue jays screeched in unison.
“Are Paige and Whitney with you?” the smaller of the two girls asked. She looked about six and wore a plain blue short-sleeve dress that swung around legs as plump and smooth as summer zucchinis. Her sister, wearing a similar dress, was older by a year or so. She hopped up and down on one tanned bare foot. In her serious gray eyes and delicate nose, I could see her aunt’s face as it must have looked twenty years ago.
“No, honey, I’m sorry,” Becky said. “They’re with their daddy today. They had a swimming lesson they couldn’t miss.”
“Oh.” The girls’ faces wrinkled in disappointment. The screen door opened again, and their mother walked out. I inhaled sharply when I saw her. The one thing Becky forgot to tell me was that Hannah and Tyler were identical twins.
Becky glanced at me, taking my surprised look to heart. “Oh, my, I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?”
I nodded mutely.
“Twins are genetically very common among the Amish. I’m so used to it that it didn’t even occur to me to mention it.”
“Becky, I’m so glad you came.” Hannah held out a hand. She wore a simple, dark brown dress closed at the neck with straight pins, and a full white apron over it. Her golde
n blond hair was pulled back in a bun and tucked into a fitted white cap identical to her daughters’. Her face—Tyler’s face—was free of any makeup, making her appear younger than her twenty-seven years.
“Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry.” Becky’s eyes filled with tears. She took Hannah’s hand, and they looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Behind them, the girls shuffled their bare feet and played with the loose strands of hair feathering their faces. A small red hen broke the emotional moment by jumping up on the porch and pecking at the clean wood.
Hannah stepped away from Becky and briskly clapped her hands. “Ruthie, Emma, I told you to round up those chickens and put them in their pen. Get along with you and do it now.” Her voice was firm but loving.
“Can we show Becky the new chickies?” the younger girl asked, scurrying across the porch to catch the protesting hen and tuck it under her arm.
“Later, Emma. We have grown-up things to discuss right now.” Hannah turned back to us. “Please come and eat with me.”
Her house was as neat and plain inside as out. Hand-woven rugs softened our steps on the shiny hardwood floors. The long windows had white gossamer curtains pulled to the side, letting the slight breeze blow through a living room that with its simple sofa and straight-backed chairs appeared almost empty, so accustomed was I to the abundance of furniture in the average American home. A natural pine rocker sat next to the front window; a delicate spindle-legged table next to it held a twig basket full of fabric scraps and a frayed leather Bible. On the pale walls there was only a pegged rack, a handmade shelf displaying a curved mantel clock, and a shiny calendar showing a clear mountain lake reflecting a snow-capped mountain. Carrying the food we brought, we followed Hannah into the kitchen, where dishes covered with embroidered tea towels or aluminum foil crowded the countertops.
“There’s plenty,” she said, pulling plates from a cherry-wood hutch that dominated a corner of the kitchen. In the hutch, colorful crystal glassware and fancy teacups fought for space on shelves edged with an eyelet lace border. “Try some of Lavina Yoder’s corn pie.”
Kansas Troubles Page 8
