Still Life in Shadows

by Alice J. Wisler

  Gideon sat at his desk, pretending to be occupied with a memo pad and pen.

  “What if I had said no to you?”

  “Do we need to order any more brake fluid?” Gideon called to Luke, who was washing his hands in the small sink by the fridge.

  “Last time I checked, we had three quarts of the full synthetic left.”

  “Well?” Ormond persisted, standing in front of his desk. “What if I had told you no?”

  Gideon looked at his watch. “Seems like it’s nearly time to go home.” He turned to Luke. “Will you close up the shop today? The new kid is in 2F, upstairs from you. I’ve invited him over to dinner tonight, and you’re welcome to join us.” Gideon knew that Luke lived on ramen, Campbell’s soup, and TV dinners. He never turned down a home-cooked meal.

  “I’ll be there.” His eyes flashed with appreciation. “I’ll stop by and pick up the new guy.”

  “Well?” Ormond awaited his answer.

  Gideon slipped past Ormond, avoiding his eyes. “See you tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.

  He walked back to his apartment, admiring the persimmon-and-marigold-colored leaves as they floated to the pavement from a cluster of trees. He heard Ormond’s question every step of the way. He knew the value of giving people a chance—his people. This girl, this Kiki, was not one of his.

  But he had not been one of Ormond’s people. Ormond had never met an Amish brother before. He had only seen a buggy in a photograph, and he had never tasted apple butter or shoofly pie. Ormond had chuckled often as he patiently taught Gideon how to repair automobiles. He believed in what he saw in Gideon. Russell, Ormond’s father, had not been so sure. But Ormond never gave up.

  6

  She was racing, racing, riding like the wind. Here comes Kiki—Kiki the wonder girl! With each push of her bike’s pedals, her elation rose. Mr. Miller, the man at the shop, said she could come back tomorrow! She’d showed him how good she was. He was probably heading home now to tell his wife and children what a fast worker she was. Kiki felt like celebrating. She knew Mari would be home soon and expecting her to be there, but there would be nothing wrong with going by the Piggly Wiggly first for a Coke. She felt the quarters in her pocket, grateful that she hadn’t lost these like she’d lost the ones last week. That had been embarrassing, standing at the drink machine with no coins. In despair, she’d let out a moan, then she’d given the base of the machine a few swift kicks. In the movies, it worked—drinks popped out like a jack-in-the-box. But that day nothing happened. Kiki wanted to cry, until a hand touched her shoulder, and there stood her neighbor, Mrs. Luva Smithfield. Mrs. Luva told her not to worry, she had money. A Coke had never tasted so good to Kiki as it had that day, and Mrs. Luva had even given her more quarters for another day.

  Today was that day. Kiki put three quarters into the beverage machine, selected a regular Coke, and waited. Mari always told her not to be impatient. With a sputter, out came a can. “Cheers!” she said as she lifted the drink to her lips. “Cheers to me!”

  Two boys coming out of the store laughed at her antics, but she didn’t care. Let them laugh. She doubted that they knew how to fix a bike like she did.

  When she was sure that the can was empty, she tossed it into the recycle bin, jumped onto her bike and with a few spins around the park, took the long way home. She wished it was already the next day so she could be at the auto shop working on bicycles and getting the attention of the others. They liked her! They were going to let her work there!

  But as she coasted her bike into the driveway, her elation over her moment of glory faded. She heard voices she recognized coming from next door in the backyard of Angie’s grandmother. Kiki eased off her bicycle, listening to the laughter coming from beyond the wooden fence that separated her house from Mrs. Luva Smithfield’s large bungalow. Kiki secured her bicycle inside the garage, grabbed Yoneko, and scampered through the back door. Sailing into her bedroom, she pushed back the curtains and stared out her window.

  The early October day was giving way to night, but in the shadows she saw them by the swing set beside the apple tree. She squinted to see Angie and two other girls from school. From her lone window, she watched them tumble with headstands and cartwheels into the soft grass. Their jackets and hair were dotted with leaves. She knew they were practicing for gym class. Everyone was supposed to be able to do a cartwheel and headstand tomorrow.

  With one hand on the blue-green curtains and the other holding her cat puppet, she watched their moves. Her heart wanted, wanted so much, to be with them, to be able to sail out of the house as quickly as she’d entered and cry, “Hey, guys! What are you doing?”

  But she knew too well what they were doing. They were having fun—without her.

  Their laughter and squeals filled the evening air. Why didn’t they want her? She could laugh. She even knew how to flutter her eyelashes the way the women did on her favorite TV show, Gilligan’s Island. She had a tube of lipstick, one she’d taken from Mama. But no, none of that mattered. Angie called her a baby, right to her face.

  Even when she heard Mari call out that she was home, Kiki stayed by the window. In a moment, another figure came to the grassy backyard from inside the bungalow. Angie’s Uncle Reginald. He was over six feet tall and wore heavy boots and a leather jacket. Kiki heard he drove trucks for a living and hated anyone who was not fully white. She pulled the curtains tight, turned on her desk lamp, and put her hand into the puppet. She made the cat move—up and down like it was gliding. Mama would do that. Mama had named this cat that she bought for twenty-five cents at the Thrifty Mart. Mama had wanted to call it noraneko, which meant stray in Japanese. Kiki begged for another name, so Mama christened it Yoneko, which she said meant rice child. “Rice child?” That sounded strange, but Mama said all cats in Japan ate rice, just like all children did.

  As Kiki looked at her arrowhead collection, she wished she was a Japanese child in Japan so she’d get rice for dinner. But she could already smell the aromas from the kitchen, the usual scents—onions, green peppers, and potatoes.

  Her first arrowhead was a gift from her grandpa before he died. When he closed his eyes for the last time, a frail figure on the heirloom feather bed, she was given twenty-nine arrowheads he’d accumulated in the mountains of North Carolina. That winter afternoon, as her throat clogged with tears, she blew her nose on a tissue Mama handed her, thinking how it smelled of honeysuckle. “There now, my musume (daughter),” Mama had said. “You love arrowheads. And these are all yours.” She felt glad about getting the collection, but crushed that her grandfather would no longer polish them with the silky cloth as he sat by the stereo and listened to a gospel radio station.

  She loved rubbing her index finger over each arrowhead and feeling the pointed edges. Grandpa called these his prizes. He’d kept his collection in a cedar box, the kind that smelled like a forest with the sun shining over the treetops. But when Kiki was handed them, they were in a red bandana, tied at the ends. She once asked Mama where the cedar box went, but Mama shook her head and said sometimes it was best not to know too much.

  After dinner, Mari cleared the table and told Kiki to do her homework. Kiki frowned.

  “You have math homework, don’t you?”

  How could her sister tell? “I don’t wanna do it.”

  “Kiki, remember what Dr. Conner told you?” Mari looked deep into her eyes.

  Of course she remembered. But what was the point in learning math? “I’m never gonna use it, never gonna use that stupid math.”

  “Just go do it.”

  “I hate math.”

  “If you want to stay in mainstream school, you need to follow the rules.” Mari’s eyes were like bullets, and Kiki wanted to avoid looking at them.

  “Math is not a good rule. It’s a stupid subject.” She flicked a fried onion off the kitchen table and onto the floor.

  “Kiki, pick that up!”

  With a loud sigh, she did. Along with trying to do well in all
her subjects, Dr. Conner reminded Kiki not to make Mari mad.

  Again Mari told her to get into her room. There was no way she could escape doing her homework. As she slid her chair back, the phone rang.

  Mari answered, then said, “Sure, she’d like to speak with you, too.”

  Kiki drew her arms across her chest. “I don’t want to talk to her tonight.”

  With her hand over the mouthpiece, Mari pleaded.

  “I don’t want to. I have nothing to say to her.”

  Mari gave her a stern look, and Kiki knew there were times you just had to do what you were told to do. Even if your brain didn’t see the need. Like math homework. She took the phone and said as cheerily as she could, “Hi, how are you?”

  Mama’s voice was low and soft, just as she remembered it. “I am missing you.”

  “Really? Well, I’m doing just great!”

  “Good, good for you.” Mama paused, most likely trying to come up with something to ask. Mama often asked questions. “How’s school?”

  “Fantastic!” She didn’t usually use that word, but it sounded perfect for what she wanted to convey.

  Mari’s eyes widened.

  “That’s nice,” Mama said. “I hope to see you soon. I bet you’ve grown. How tall are you now?”

  “I’m not a giant yet.”

  “I hope Mari can drive you to see me one day.”

  Her voice was so clear, like Mama was seated right beside her. If she just moved her free hand out, surely Mama would take and grab it, blowing kisses against her fingers.

  “I want to see you soon. I love you, Kiki.”

  “Yeah, I hope so. Here’s Mari.” Kiki stood, thrust the phone into her sister’s hand and left the room. She pounded her feet all the way down the hallway to her bedroom.

  She thought she’d slam the door. Instead she collapsed onto her bed, turned toward the wall, and muffled a sob. She stroked Yoneko’s fur, the smooth patches that were not worn, running her finger along the foot Mama had sewed. She saw the cramped house in Asheville, every inch teeming with furry critters, puppets, Mama’s loves. If Mama really loved her, why did she choose them over her? Why couldn’t Mama clean those puppets out of her house and live like a normal person?

  She felt tears on her cheeks, then a hand on her back.

  “Thank you for talking to her. You made her happy.”

  “Those stupid puppets make her happy, not me!”

  Mari sat on the bed, and Kiki turned to face her. “Remember I told you that Mama isn’t well? She has a problem.”

  Kiki chewed on her clenched fist. She hoped Mari wouldn’t go into another lecture about how some people suffer from addictions.

  Mari just massaged her shoulder. “She does love you.”

  “Why can’t she throw away all those puppets and clean her house?”

  “I don’t know …” Mari’s voice trailed off. “Hey,” she said a minute later, “why don’t we have some cookies?”

  Kiki sat up. “What kind?”

  “What do you think?” Mari smiled into her eyes.

  Kiki brushed a tear from her cheek. “Oatmeal?”

  “You bet!”

  Kiki laughed. Maybe this evening wasn’t going to be so bad. Maybe over cookies, she’d even tell Mari that she was going to fix bikes at Russell Brothers Auto Repair. As her mood rose, she grabbed her pirate hat off the closet floor and fit it over her head. Its broad brim curved like hands bent to cup a drink of mountain water from a stream. Two red and gold feathers sailed out of the back. Kiki had wanted a flamboyant Jack Sparrow pirate hat—or at least one with a shiny brass buckle that if polished enough, you could see your reflection in. Yet this hat was all Mama found when she went out to look for a Halloween costume for Kiki two years ago. Although it wasn’t exactly what she wanted, there were times you should just be happy with what you got.

  Over a glass of milk and two cookies, Kiki came close to telling Mari her good news. But she didn’t want to make Mari angry, so perhaps it was best to keep her news to herself. She’d just head over to the shop tomorrow after school and get home before Mari returned from work. Or she’d call Mari at the tearoom to say she was going to a friend’s house to do homework. That would be a lie, but it would make Mari happy. Sometimes little lies weren’t bad, were they? She’d have to ask Pastor Clayton.

  The next day at school, Angie said her friends were going to have a bike-riding contest next week—and Kiki was not invited. Kiki tried to ignore Angie. Today she wouldn’t let her ruin her good mood. In two hours and seventeen minutes she was going to run home, get on her bicycle, and ride to the auto shop. Tonight after dinner, for sure, she’d call Ricky to tell him how she amazed them at fixing her bike and so now she had a job. She saw Ricky’s tender eyes, his smile, and knew her friend would be happy for her. He’d say things like, “That’s awesome” and “Way to go, Kiki!” She’d smile into the phone and feel warm all over.

  7

  Amos arrived at the shop at eight o’clock, sleep still in his eyes. Gideon tossed him an old shirt and a wrinkled pair of work pants he’d found on one of the shelves in the storage room. A kid who had left Goshen, Indiana, had worn them—for all of two days. That boy hadn’t seen any beauty in changing oil or looking at engines. After a short stay in Twin Branches, he’d gone to High Point, where a relative got him a job as a salesclerk in a furniture store.

  As Amos changed in the restroom, Gideon dismissed the memory of the young Goshenite. He sat at his desk, staring at paperwork that needed to get done yesterday, then he took a walk to the bays, opening the garage doors since Luke hadn’t done that yet. He breathed in the clean, crisp, autumn air and, by habit, looked to the right. The lilac-colored morning glories that had flourished in August were now only memories, except for one single bloom that had yet to fade. In his last spring in Carlisle, his mother had planted morning glories. His brother, Moriah, had picked one for her when it flowered in July, then wondered why the bloom wilted and didn’t open again the next morning, even though Mother obliged and placed the flower in a vase of water.

  The delicate heart-shaped flower made him think of Mari. Like the vine that threaded through the chain-link fence between the auto shop and Benson’s Laundromat, she seemed to have found a way to creep into his heart. Back inside his office, he sat at his desk, picturing her face, the way she smiled, the tilt of her face when he ordered his lunch.

  “How do I look?” Amos was in the doorway, changed and hopefully ready to learn. The stained beige shirt swam around his narrow shoulders, and the black pants dragged on the ground. Gideon nodded his approval. If the boy stayed on and proved to be a good worker, he’d order work clothes to fit him. “Go find Luke,” Gideon said. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  As Amos trailed off, Gideon knew that if he was going to focus on training the new kid today, he needed to concentrate on engines and oil changes. That should keep him from spending so much time thinking of Mari.

  Using the 2007 Jeep Limited that had been dropped off the night before, Gideon explained to Amos the parts of the car under the hood. Then, since the Jeep was in for its annual inspection, Gideon explained how to test the headlights, parking lights, and taillights. He hooked up the car to the diagnostic machine to show Amos how to test emissions.

  As Amos stared at him blankly, Luke nudged Gideon. “I think he doesn’t know what fuel injectors are. You need to start slow, like you did with me.”

  Slow? He was instructing things in his slow voice. How much more elementary can I get? Then an idea came to him. “Luke, why don’t you take over?”

  Luke and Amos had gotten along well last night when Gideon invited them over for dinner. The two talked like old friends as they ate curried pork chops, scalloped potatoes with a cheddar cheese sauce, and baked apples. Luke asked about several relatives he had in Lancaster to see if Amos knew them. And when Luke took out his banjo, Amos hollered as though a pig had bitten him. “A banjo! I’ve read about those. Teach me how t
o play.”

  While Gideon cleared the dishes and made a pot of green tea, Luke strummed. Then he handed the instrument to Amos, who held it lovingly, as though it might break, and ran his fingers across the strings. Luke leaned over and showed him how to play three chords. Neither was interested in a cup of hot tea, so Gideon poured one for himself and drank it as he loaded the dishwasher.

  He could see the two young men were having fun. They connected. He wondered why he had trouble connecting to people. He scraped a dish with a fork and ran some water over it; the remains of parsley from the potatoes swirled down the drain. He thought about friendships. Ormond had taken him fishing a few times in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and at Fontana Lake. He never caught anything, but Ormond’s fetch of trout was always numerous.