Still Life in Shadows

by Alice J. Wisler

  Gideon thought of the phone call he’d received nights ago regarding the burial. “A friend from here called me,” he said. “Jeremiah heard about Moriah and called the auto shop. I wasn’t there, so Ormond took a message.”

  From the looks on both Mari’s and Kiki’s faces, Gideon could tell that he had yet to tell them about this incident. These days he had a hard time being aware of what he said and what he thought he’d said.

  “How’d he get the number?” asked Kiki.

  “Oh, you know, it’s painted on every fencepost.”

  “I know why! You’re famous. You help people when they want to try another kind of life.”

  “What did Jeremiah say?” Mari asked, after telling Kiki she needed to sit up and stop slurping.

  “He said he and some others would be by to dig the grave. He said not to worry about that.” Sheepishly, Gideon said, “I hadn’t been worried. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  Their orders arrived shortly after that, the waitress carefully placing their meals in front of each of them.

  The apple butter was tasty. Gideon dipped his finger in the little dish that came with his plate of toast and was pleased. Then he spread it lavishly onto the three pieces of toast and took a bite.

  Kiki dug into her chicken, using both a knife and fork. “Watch me eat with my best manners,” she said.

  Mari simply sipped from her water glass.

  “You must be exhausted,” he said, realizing that she had driven most of the way.

  “A little. What time do we need to be up tomorrow?”

  Gideon hoped tomorrow never came. He knew he needed to call the pastor of Covenant Church in Harrisburg just to make sure he was still able to come to Carlisle to perform the funeral. And if he’d forgotten? What would it matter?

  “I want to buy some flowers,” said Mari after taking a bite of food and chewing it. “Who sells them around here?”

  Gideon realized he’d never purchased flowers here. Growing up, Mother had a small garden where she grew daisies in the spring, roses in the summer, and chrysanthemums in the early autumn. Whenever his family wanted flowers, they just picked out of the garden. “I think there’s a florist a few miles from here.”

  Kiki wanted to order dessert, saying the apple pie looked good, but Mari told her that they needed to get back to the hotel.

  Gideon shot Mari a grateful smile, and with that, she asked the waitress for the check.

  Gideon took bills from his wallet and laid them on the table. Mari folded them and handed them back. He protested, but she said, “My treat tonight.” He read her eyes, certain they spoke the words: Let me help you because I want to do all I can under these circumstances.

  Gideon wanted to say that she already had helped immensely, that her presence during the trip up here was more than he could ask for, more than he deserved. But his mouth felt rubbery and so instead, he just said, “I appreciate it.”

  At the inn, Kiki and Mari headed toward the elevator. Gideon said he’d sit on the sofa in the lobby for a minute and make a phone call. But once they’d left, he couldn’t recall the pastor’s name. He searched his cell phone for recently made calls. Finding a Pennsylvania area code in front of a set of numbers, he decided that one must be it and hit dial.

  He had just disconnected when Mari pulled up a chair beside him. He smiled wearily at her. “Hey.”

  “How are you?” she asked.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, I guess. Is Kiki tucked in?”

  “Already asleep. And you? Aren’t you going to your room?” Her voice was laced with concern and for that, he was grateful. He wanted to thank her for all she’d done, but he felt so unworthy at the moment. Difficult. He knew he was not the easiest person to deal with even during normal circumstances. Moriah had told him more than once to chill and not be so worried about cleaning and working so hard all the time.

  Gideon put his phone into his shirt pocket. “Soon. I just can’t seem to turn off my mind.”

  “It seems surreal.”

  “It does.”

  “I’ve wanted to come to Amish country, but not like this.” He was aware of her hand reaching over to rest on his.

  “I never wanted to return,” he confessed.

  “Did you get to talk to Pastor Nate?” She removed her hand, but the warmth from it lingered.

  “Once I recalled that was his name.” He grinned and then leaned back into the fabric of the sofa. “He wants me to stop by his office first thing tomorrow. I hope it doesn’t rain.”

  “Rain? Is it predicted? I think it’s cold enough to snow.”

  “No, but it always rains during graveside services in movies. You know, they all stand with black umbrellas as the minister says something about ashes to ashes—”

  “Good night,” she said.

  He wondered why she interrupted him; it was not like her.

  Gently she whispered, “You need sleep, Gideon. I could talk all night, but I think it’s best we get some rest.”

  Gideon swallowed, noting the tightness in his chest had not decreased, but had, in fact, expanded into his shoulders. He wasn’t ready to rest quite yet. In addition to coming back to Pennsylvania, something else was troubling him. “Do you think that it would be okay if I opened the coffin and looked at him?” He didn’t tell her that he’d almost pushed the lid back when they first arrived at the inn. He didn’t admit that he had been contemplating this and trying to muster the courage. “Is that an acceptable thing to do?”

  “Of course, if you want.”

  “I might go do that then.”

  “You should sleep first. You can view his body in the morning.”

  “Did they clean him up well?” He hoped the Smithfield Funeral Home had done a thorough job of making Moriah’s body look like the cleaned-up corpses in the movies.

  “They made him look attractive. Morticians are great at fixing people up. He’s not like when you saw him in the Dumpster. He’s handsome.”

  “Handsome.” Yes, Moriah had been the one with the good looks and now what did it matter? His good looks had not been able to save him from Reginald’s bullet. Perhaps he should just take Mari’s word for it and call it a night. He rubbed a throbbing neck with fingers that felt numb. Or should he actually go outside and open the hearse to take one last look at Moriah? Would he regret it if he never touched his brother’s face and said goodbye in that fashion?

  “Good night.” This time when Mari spoke the words, she stood and made her way to the elevator. When he did not move, she asked, “You coming?”

  He rose, made his way to her side.

  She pushed the button for the elevator. “I’m glad you got up. If not, I was going to ask the lady at the front desk to drag you to your room.”

  He looked over at the lady at the desk, a short, thin, frail-looking creature with a ponytail. “It’s good I stood up. I don’t think she’d be much help.”

  Mari snickered and covered her mouth. When the elevator door creaked open, she made sure Gideon entered first.

  As they rode up, he saw an image of Moriah. Moriah, as a child, climbing the apple tree, making his way up to branches that seemed to float into the sky. Where was he now? Heaven? Hell?

  The hotel room’s double bed was lumpy. The sheets smelled of bleach and scratched his skin. He turned to his left and then his right, pulling the blankets over his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he tried to black out this day, wanting again to pretend that he was on a trip somewhere fun. As he listened to the hiss of the central heat blowing through the air vent above his head, he relived the horrible afternoon when Tomlin had driven him up to the cabin near the cove on the Tennessee border. The rustic cabin was isolated in a dense forest, its frame cracking at the foundation. Inside, a table crammed with glass bottles, pans, pots, and burners sat in the middle of a room. Cartons of bleach, lye, and cough medication filled a tabletop. The cabin had a foul odor, and Gideon had covered his nose several times. Tomlin told him how law enf
orcement, borrowing police from a neighboring county, had burst into the lab shortly after Tamara confessed that she’d been there and witnessed Reginald shoot Moriah.

  The horror from that afternoon suffocated him. Gideon sat up and concentrated on breathing before lying down again. The digital clock showed 11:25. Why was it that every muscle ached, but his eyes would not close? He moved his pillow closer to the headboard and then back to the center of the bed. The pillow was the problem, he concluded, so to make it more voluminous, he stacked two on top of each other and tried again. Staring at the ceiling, he wondered why he let Kiki and Mari persuade him to make this trip. What if he’d put his foot down, as Father always had? Pushing his father’s voice out of his mind, he turned over. It was now 11:42. Was this how this night was going to be, each minute falling into the past, as he lay restless?

  If he could stop time, stop tomorrow from ever coming … Then he’d never have to bury Moriah. It would always be this day, the day before the funeral. He recalled the first movie he’d ever seen in a movie theater. Groundhog Day, starring Bill Murray, had played at the discount theater on Fifth Street. Gideon had entered the theater alone that evening, found a seat, and then left to buy a bucket of buttered popcorn. Something reminded him that a movie at a theater had to be enjoyed with popcorn. It was, after all, the American Way. Back in the theater with his popcorn, Gideon tried to relax. God was not going to zap him for going to see a movie.

  He thought of the movie now. Until Bill’s character got the day’s actions right, he kept having to repeat the same day over and over. Yet, though tedious, Bill continued to live over the same twenty-four hours until he changed into someone who was much more likeable to those around him.

  If only real life had second, third, and sixth chances. If only real life were a movie with scenes that could be cut and re-created.

  34

  The sun shone across the acres of fields like a beacon, illuminating the rustic barns with their matching silos, two-story homes, and white fences. The air was cool, yet refreshing, with only a light wind. If it weren’t the day of the funeral, Gideon would have called it great weather, a day for a picnic by the stream, a hike in the woods, a perfect day to climb trees like he had as a kid. But today was the day he was to bury his brother, and he wasn’t sure it was appropriate to comment on the unseasonably good weather when one was in mourning.

  The inn’s airy breakfast room was decorated in wicker baskets, prints of buggies, and quilts. A tempting buffet of cinnamon buns, chipped beef over toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, a variety of juices, and coffee and tea beckoned them in.

  Kiki was delighted, going back for seconds and thirds.

  “Look at it this way,” said Mari as Kiki downed a slice of bacon and then stood to refill her plate. “We won’t have to feed her again until much later today.” She stirred a Styrofoam cup of coffee and added some creamer from a white packet.

  Gideon wanted to smile but couldn’t. He even wanted to laugh because Kiki was stacking her plate with three cinnamon buns and balancing a cup of orange juice in the other hand.

  “I love this breakfast!” she cried after she made it safely to their table. “I’m sad about Moriah. Really, really sad.” Picking up a bun she asked, “But is it okay to want to eat, too?”

  Gideon finally managed a smile. “Yes,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  When Mari handed him a cup of hot tea, he thanked her, but only stared at the contents.

  “Drink,” she encouraged. “It’s okay to drink.”

  Kiki said, “Hey, Gideon, when you come to my school, don’t tell them how much I eat, okay? Kids already make fun of me enough.”

  “When am I coming to your school?” he asked, his eyes focusing on the framed picture on the wall. He thought of going over to straighten it; it was lopsided. In his apartment, he only had two framed pictures on the wall, but he was constantly making sure they hung straight.

  “For Role Model Day.” Kiki chewed on a generous strip of bacon.

  “What’s that?” asked Mari.

  “I told you. Sheesh!”

  Gideon looked at Kiki, the crooked picture no longer holding his attention. “Did you tell me?” he asked.

  “I gave you an invitation. I put it on your desk!” Kiki was getting agitated, and he wondered why.

  “An invitation to what?” Gideon’s eyes went back to the picture. The simple scene of a gray barn beneath an azure sky was pulling him in. He studied two bulky cows standing to the left of a barbed-wire fence. Now Gideon knew why the painting was riveting to him. The boy painted on a swing by the fence looked like Moriah as a child.

  Kiki took two more bites from her bacon, began to say something more, saw her sister’s disapproving look, and decided to chew a few more times. Finally, with her mouth free of food, she cried, “The invitation is to Role Model Day. I invited you, so you have to come. You have to … have to. I get to tell everyone why you are my role model.”

  Mari smiled. “Wow, Gideon. What an honor.”

  Gideon tried to shrug it off. “I don’t think you need me there,” he said. He certainly wasn’t anyone for a kid to look up to.

  “I do!” cried the girl. “Lots of people will be there. I picked you.”

  He saw her smile, happy, delighted even, that she had chosen him to come to her school for a function. He started to protest, but she interrupted.

  “And besides, I already told Mr. Lincoln you were coming. When you tell my teacher something, then you have to do it.” She downed a glass of orange juice, wiped her mouth. “At least he’s not as bad as Mrs. Bloodhound.”

  “Mrs. Bloodhound?” Gideon asked.

  Mari let a light laugh escape. “That’s the name Kiki’s given to the social worker who comes in to check on us every month. Kiki calls her Bloodhound because—”

  “She can sniff out anything.” Kiki grinned. “She’s like Santa Claus.”

  “Santa Claus?” Gideon let his puzzlement show.

  “She knows if you’ve been bad or good. ’Course, I’m always good, aren’t I? Aren’t I?” Kiki nudged her sister with a bony elbow.

  Before Mari could reply, a hotel guest turned the volume up on the TV that sat between two artificial peace lilies.

  Listening to the news commentator for a moment, Mari said, “Oh! Today’s Groundhog Day.”

  Groundhog Day, thought Gideon as he watched the screen where a man in a black top hat raised the infamous Punxsutawney Phil for all to see. Three other men in coats and hats stood by, each offering comments. Gideon wondered if there was any significance to having a funeral on a day when everyone was preoccupied with a furry creature who could predict whether winter would end in six weeks or if spring would come early. Moriah was dead, and grown men were acting giddy over a fat rodent. The severity of his own circumstances kept Gideon from hearing whether Phil saw his shadow or not. And to be honest, he really didn’t care.

  Gideon entered the Covenant Community Church located in the outskirts of Harrisburg. It was already quarter after nine, and he’d told Pastor Mitchell he’d be there by nine to go over the graveside funeral ceremony. Late, he hated being late. All these years of working at Russell Brothers, and he’d never been late. He wore his ability to be on time like a medal of honor, like a symbol of courtesy and respect. And now, he had broken his own cardinal rule.

  Pastor Nate Mitchell, a burly man with a head of thick red hair sprinkled with a little gray, didn’t mind what time it was. He hugged Gideon, recalling when he’d first met him. “You came to our youth group when you were about thirteen, didn’t you?”

  “Snuck out of the house to do it.” The memory, for some reason, made Gideon smile. There had been an attractive girl in the group who piqued his interest. He was ashamed to admit that studying the Bible had not been his first desire.

  Nate sat at his desk, an oversized mahogany piece of furniture that glistened under the overhead light. Taking out a memo pad, he searched for a pen. “Now Moriah was quite a bit youn
ger than you, correct?”

  “Ten years.” Gideon tried to decipher some of the titles of books the pastor had in the long bookshelves behind him. There must be ten editions of the Bible, he thought. There were books on marriage, on sin, on the power of the Holy Spirit, and one called How to Forgive. The title of the last one seemed to bore a hole into his soul: Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.

  Nate crossed his legs and balanced the pad on one knee. “I wanted to go over some characteristics about your brother to say in my sermon. I know he was comical and loving.” He poised his pen over the paper, ready to jot down more characteristics.

  Gideon sat in a leather chair across from the desk. His lower back pulsated with pain and somehow the chair alleviated some of the throbbing.