Still Life in Shadows

by Alice J. Wisler

  “I’ll be at the apartment tomorrow afternoon when Amos arrives,” Gideon told Ormond. Bruce usually got into town around three. He’d greet Amos and get the lad situated in an apartment. Lad. Even after all these years, he called young boys lads, just as his parents had.

  “Where is this one coming from?”

  “Lancaster. He sounds really young.”

  As he continued with the Mustang, Gideon recalled that day when a lad had come to his father’s farm. Gideon had seen the gate to the orchard wide open, the goat wandering around outside of it. But the scene his mind played over and over was the one after his father had noticed someone had been in his orchard.

  The evening air was cool, the shed door cold and hard. Gideon placed his ear against it and thought he heard a whimper, like a calf when it was hungry. “Are you all right?” he asked. There was no reply so he tried again, this time his voice a little louder. “Are you all right?” The autumn wind circled his head, ruffling his brown curls. He was about to ask if the lad would like a bowl of soup when footsteps rounded the corner. His hands shook and his legs froze, though he knew he must run before his father caught him.

  No more! Gideon nearly said it aloud as he lowered the car to the ground. He gave the lug nuts a few more tweaks with the ratchet. Then he opened the door and climbed in. He revved the engine and backed the Mustang out of the bay. He usually had Luke take the cars for runs to make sure they were operating smoothly. But he felt the need to drive. Just a few spins around the town, stopping every so often to test the brakes. Though he rarely drove his own 2006 F-150, there were times he needed to get behind the wheel and go.

  Therapy, Ormond called it. “Driving clears your mind,” he insisted. The old man, who had taught him years ago about repairing cars, knew a thing or two about the human condition, too. “Some days you just gotta let her rip, feel the wind in your face, and know that God gave us motorized vehicles for a reason. Driving sure beats going home and kicking the cat.”

  When Gideon got back to the garage from a late lunch—complete with a slice of blackberry pie, two cups of green tea, and a fairly nice conversation sprinkled with a few smiles from Mari—he saw her.

  What is she doing here?

  She was dressed in billowy blue sweatpants that engulfed her small frame and an equally baggy T-shirt. Gone were her jeans from earlier today. With her arms folded across her chest, she stood talking to Ormond.

  “You!” He felt his veins grow hot.

  The girl glanced at him timidly. “I rode my bike here.”

  “I told you no at school today. The answer is still no.”

  “But I’m a hard worker.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I can’t use you.” Had someone advised her to use that hard-worker line on him? He’d heard those words from so many he’d helped to leave their Amish communities. What did they value about their upbringing? They’d ask each other this. Most said they appreciated that they’d been taught how to work hard.

  But Gideon, when he felt like playing devil’s advocate, would tell these young escapees, “Even a workhorse cannot survive on labor and whippings.” Wide-eyed, they’d stare at him. “I still have a scar,” he’d tell them. “Trust me. No child should be punished like that.” Then he’d shut his mouth as the room grew silent, faces uncomfortable, some wanting to ask about this scar but uneasy to do so.

  To the young girl today, Gideon repeated, “I can’t use you.”

  Ormond looked up from his newspaper. “Kiki tells me that a friend taught her to use tools. She says she can fix bikes.”

  Gideon shook his head and stalked out to the bays. Luke was checking the oil under the hood of a white Mercedes.

  “Luva Smithfield wants us to take a look at her new car,” Luke said. “Just bought it this summer. She told me to treat it as I would my own. My own! The only thing I know about owning my own Mercedes is in my dreams.”

  Well, this was no surprise. Most people thought Luva owned Twin Branches, so it was no wonder she could afford a car like this. The first day she’d driven it back from the dealership in Asheville, she’d slowed down Main Street, a proud smile on her face. She’d waved at passersby as if she was riding in the annual Twin Branches Christmas Parade.

  As Gideon noted the shiny rims, the girl slipped up behind him. “I’m a hard worker. I can fix bikes. You can ask Ricky. He’ll tell you how good I am.”

  She has no glassenheit, Gideon thought. Glassenheit—that blessed word for humility his father always shouted. It lodged in his mind along with his father’s harrowing voice. As though pushing the word and memory away, he swatted the air with a broad hand. “Just go. Now.”

  “For Pete’s sake, give me a chance.”

  “We repair cars here, not bicycles.” He saw her maroon bicycle leaning against the edge of the building and thought of the damage it had caused. Inside the basket was some sort of stuffed animal. “Go,” he said, hoping his tone was strong enough to make her leave. He gestured toward her bike in case she needed any more convincing. Turning abruptly, he walked back inside the office for a bottle of water. He took a cold Deer Park from the tiny fridge and unscrewed the cap.

  “Please.” The voice came from behind him.

  She was relentless, but so was he. “I said no.”

  As Gideon started back to the bay, Ormond rattled the paper and peered over it at the girl. “Come back tomorrow,” he whispered. “Gideon will be gone from three on.” He gave her one of his wry smiles. Then he chuckled, warm and low, as he did when he told a joke.

  Gideon pretended he had not heard any of it.

  5

  The Ridge Valley Apartments were built on the corner of Azalea and Woods Avenues. Although they once might have been appealing, now they stood like squat mounds of dry clay against the mountain range. A mossy stone fence surrounded the cluster of buildings, and ivy tumbled over the entryway onto the ground beneath. A lone spruce stood by the leaning signpost that read “Come Make Ridge Valley Your Home.”

  Gideon checked his watch. Bruce should be arriving in his semi any minute, with Amos in the passenger seat. He made himself comfortable on a bench near one of the buildings. He thought of Mari—the way she rested her hand against her neck, the tapered fingers adorned with silver rings. Today she’d seemed less moody, relentlessly teasing him about his green tea and asking how work was going. He told her about how some kid had ruined his parking lot. As he told her a few of the details, although not the kid’s name, he realized it was really a small thing compared to the headlines in the daily paper. Mari agreed, making him think he should just let it go. But back at the garage, once he saw Kiki, he couldn’t.

  The sound of an engine hammering along the road grew louder as a long truck pulled to a stop in front of the Valley Ridge Apartments. Gideon recognized the truck, saw Bruce sitting behind the wheel. The passenger door opened, and Amos slithered out. Gideon greeted Bruce over the roar of the engine, handed him an envelope containing his delivery fee, and waited for Amos to gather his belongings.

  Dressed in new Levi’s and a navy T-shirt advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, Amos stood before Gideon. A lit cigarette hung from his mouth. Gideon observed it all, even the watch on his wrist. Amos was already looking like a real Englishman.

  “How long have you been on the road?”

  “You mean when did I leave Lancaster?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Five days ago. At first I was just going to stay in Harrisburg, but then I decided to leave Amish country altogether.”

  “How old are you?” Gideon asked as Amos pulled a black duffel bag off the floor of the cab and thanked Bruce for the ride.

  “Seventeen. I know, I look younger.” Then he smiled and gave Gideon a spontaneous hug.

  Gideon recalled when he left his parents fifteen years ago. The pleasures were here, the forbidden fruits his parents did not tolerate. He had embraced them all—Jim Beam, Marlboro Menthols, and the Rusty Saddle Bar and Grille. He gave up smoking
and drinking within a year. He didn’t like the taste of smoke in his mouth and nose—or the burn of whiskey in his throat. As for the local bar and grill, there had been a cute blonde pool player who frequented the establishment, but when she got engaged, he stopped heading there after work. Instead he walked home to his shows on cable. And he drank Gatorade and discovered bologna sandwiches.

  “Seems to me,” Gideon said as they climbed the stairs to the apartment reserved for Amos, “you made good time.”

  He showed Amos around the sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment. He had no idea if the kid knew about refrigerators, dishwashers, or garbage disposals, so he explained how each appliance worked. At last he said, “I’m sure you’d like to rest.” He pointed to the double bed in the bedroom. “Linens are in the closet.” He flicked on the overhead light. “You know about electricity?” He was glad when Amos smiled.

  “Once you get on your feet you can furnish this place the way you’d like. Right now it’s not much, but it’s safe and dry.” He handed Amos a copy of his terms and conditions to sign. This was standard procedure for all those he helped.

  Amos dropped his duffel bag onto the wooden floor beside the bed, causing the room to echo. From the pocket in the front, a Snickers bar popped out.

  Gideon recalled how his candy bar of choice had been Twix. He never could get enough of that sweet flavor when he first left the home place. His father insisted that his children never have a taste of carbonated drinks or candy bars. They were not to fill their appetites with English junk food. Now the gold and red Twix packaging reminded him of long ago, another time, when he was just discovering the rest of America.

  Amos studied the document. He rubbed his chin as he turned over the two pages, then looked at Gideon. “I’m kinda tired. What does it say?”

  “It says I pay your first month’s rent of $340—and during that time, you work at the auto shop. After that you are free.”

  “Free?”

  “Free to keep staying here, paying your own rent, or free to live elsewhere. If you don’t work for me during the thirty-day period, I can terminate your contract with the apartment’s landlord, and you’ll be evicted.”

  Amos’s mouth opened. “Evicted?”

  “Thrown out.”

  Gideon patted the boy’s back. “Welcome to the real world, Amos. I hope you like it.” He handed Amos a pen and showed him where to sign. Then he folded the pages and fit them into his back pocket. When he reached the front door, Amos called after him, “Do most?”

  “Do you mean, do most escapees stay or go back to their communities?”

  “Yes, that’s what I meant.” Amos stood at his elbow now.

  Gideon thought for a moment. “I know of only one kid I helped who ended up returning to his family in Goshen.”

  “What happened?”

  “Let’s just say he sowed his wild oats and then ran out of money.”

  “Couldn’t he get a job to support himself? That’s what I plan to do.” Amos’s chest seemed to expand, pride filtering through his squared shoulders.

  Gideon shrugged. “I think he missed his family.” He felt a large sigh here would add weight to his statement, but no sigh formed in his lungs. “The real world is not an easy place for everyone, Amos. Even for the English born into it.” Amos wouldn’t fully understand his words. It would take time to grasp them in the fibers of his being and feel their value.

  “Come on over for dinner,” Gideon said. “D’you like chitlin stew?”

  Amos’s face showed he had yet to experience the food culture of the South.

  Gideon retrieved a dog-eared business card from his pocket and scribbled his address on the back. “I live in another set of apartments about a mile from here.”

  Amos took the card and glanced at himself in the mirror on the stark wall. “Do I look like I could fit in?”

  “Depends on what you want to fit into.”

  The boy studied his features. “I’ll never grow a beard. I won’t look Amish.”

  “It’s not just about looks. The heart has a way of coming into play.” Gideon could have said more, could have explained how it took some time away from a religion so entrenched in a culture and a lifestyle before you could recognize what you wanted to keep and what you wanted to toss. The tossing held its own set of demons. But as the boy yawned twice, Gideon decided to let him get some rest. He’d save his sermons for their dinner conversation.

  The truth was, Gideon thought as he made his way back to the shop, the one kid who went back to life in Goshen—Ezra Wagner, a wide-eyed boy with a frothy laugh—was not around to tell the story. Although his family had welcomed him back, and he’d joined the church, married a Yoder girl, grown a long brown beard, and worn the customary black attire each Sunday, he wasn’t happy. One night he’d packed a small bag and left again. Months passed; he didn’t come back to Twin Branches or to Goshen. To this day, Gideon had no idea where he was.

  But there were rumors. There would always be rumors, and rumor had it that Ezra had moved to California and married a local girl he met at a bookstore. Ezra never told her he was already married to Annie Yoder because to the day he died, she was to be his wife. Mr. Yoder had made that clear. Divorce was not an option in the Old Order Amish community of Goshen, Indiana.

  Ezra was still on Gideon’s mind when he entered the shop, but what he saw in his bay jolted him quickly from his thoughts. There she was—that girl—seated on the floor, with her bike leaning beside her on its kickstand. He stifled the urge to tell her to get out.

  Ormond and Luke hovered around her as she removed the front wheel.

  She smiled at them and then, without any sign of strain, put the wheel back on.

  Gideon had watched his own mother swiftly and effortlessly use a treadle-powered sewing machine to create clothes for his family. He was still in awe of her expertise, and since that time he’d not experienced that sense of wonder. Yet here was this girl, this troublemaker. What was her name? With the help of a pair of open-end wrenches, she’d taken off the wheel and replaced it. Just like that.

  Seeing Gideon, Kiki announced she was going to adjust the brake pads. She spun the front wheel and the back, working the brakes as they made a shrill noise. Then, using an Allen wrench, she turned the spring adjusters for the front brake. With the handle of a screwdriver, she tapped the wheel and then tried the brake. “No more squeaking!” Delight filled her face.

  As though on cue, Ormond and Luke clapped.

  She approached Gideon. “Did you see me? Did you see me? Can I have a job here?”

  Gideon sucked in air. Amos would need work to pay off his rent, and the shop already had Luke, Ormond, and him on payroll. The shop did not get enough business for another employee.

  Her dark eyes were pleading.

  He looked away. Walking to the tools scattered around her, he picked them up. “There is a place for everything, and everything has a place.”

  “I know that!”

  “You have to pick up the tools after every job.”

  She took the wrenches and the Phillips head from him, raced them back to his rolling tool chest, opened the top drawer, and placed them inside. With a flourish, she pushed the drawer, watching it shut tightly. “All done!”

  Luke applauded.

  “She does good work,” Ormond said.

  A silence followed. Gideon realized all eyes were on him, waiting. “Come back tomorrow,” he heard a voice say, then realized he’d just spoken.

  “Really, Mr. Miller?” Kiki’s face glowed like a harvest moon over the farmlands of Carlisle. “Are you being serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seriously?” Her voice had a funny singsong quality. “Cross your heart and all that stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  She threw herself against him, wrapping her thin arms around his waist, burying her face into his chest. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Then she came up for air and hopped on her bike, steering it carefully out of the
garage.

  Gideon shook his head. “Strange kid.”

  “Ain’t she something? I do like her persistence.” Ormond stretched his arms high above his head and grinned. “Do you recall when you first stepped foot in here fifteen years ago?”

  “No.” Gideon did not care to hear Ormond repeat that anecdote.

  “You were so green, still breathing Amish air,” Ormond said. “But you begged me to teach you how to fix automobiles.” He let out a long laugh. “Automobiles, you said, as though you hardly knew how to pronounce the word. I never told you this in all these years, but I believe a part of you might have died that day if I had sent you away.”