Plain City Bridesmaids

by Dianne Christner

  Fletch removed his billfold from his pocket and nervously fumbled through his cards, which spilled onto the floorboards. He leaned forward.

  “Stop right there. Step out of the car.” The officer’s voice was curt, nonnegotiable.

  Fletch froze. The officer seemed suspicious that he might be going for a gun under the seat. “Sure.” Fletch opened his dented car door. “I was just going after the cards that I dropped on the floorboards.” Was the officer about to pat him down and throw him up against the car like he’d seen in the movies?

  Instead, the officer quietly studied him, securing the information Fletch had given him to his clipboard. “Did you know you were going 55 in a 45 mile-per-hour speed zone?”

  “No. I was a bit preoccupied. I was just involved in a minor accident.” He pointed toward his car door. “I guess I was still thinking about how my boss will react. The accident wasn’t my fault. A woman backed into me in the restaurant’s parking lot.” Too late, Fletch realized that admitting he’d just been in an accident probably hadn’t been the brightest thing to do.

  Eyeing the crease in the car door then looking back at Fletch, the officer’s expression softened. “You a resident?”

  “I’m attending OSU’s veterinary school. I graduate in the spring.”

  “Have you signed a rental lease?”

  “No.”

  “Own a car?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gainfully employed?”

  “No, sir.” He didn’t think there was anything gainful about the housing stipend Vic provided.

  “I’m giving you a warning.” He finished scribbling, tore off a sheet of paper, and handed it to Fletch.

  “Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.”

  The officer eyed him again, then smiled. “Figured you needed a break.”

  Fletch uttered another thanks. Of all the scenarios zipping through his mind—owing a hefty speeding ticket, having to register his car, applying for an Ohio license—he’d gotten off easy.

  “Drive safely,” the officer said, then strode back to his patrol car.

  With a sigh, Fletch got back in the car. Dare he get back on the road? he wondered, leaning and sweeping his hand along the floorboards to retrieve the fallen cards. The restaurant receipt slipped out of his grasp and floated farther beneath the seat. He abandoned it for the sake of getting back to the practice before Vic’s hunger added to his distress.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rose Landis had lost interest in life. Lil’s mom kept her bedroom’s heavy brocade drapes drawn and her antique German lamps snuffed. It took daily bouts of coaxing just to get her to rise and dress. And this morning, Lil had to get her inside the car, too.

  “But Mom, we have an appointment with that nice counselor today.”

  “Don’t be fooled. It’s his job to be nice. That’s all. He’ll just have to fill in my appointment slot with some other lunatic. I’m not up to it today. And I didn’t ask you to make that appointment, anyway.”

  Lil gazed at her mom. Until spewing out her objection, she had looked like a small lifeless lump in a big bed. Her long hair was plaited in one white-streaked brown braid. Her lips were pulled tight and thin. Lil softly reasoned, “You’re not crazy, Mom. Everyone has times when life becomes unmanageable. That’s why God made friends and family.”

  “To force their moms to go to counseling,” Mom huffed back.

  Lil knew that counseling was a bit out of the ordinary in their Conservative circles. In their church it carried a stigma of personal and spiritual failure because everybody knew that God was sufficient, and if a person couldn’t cope—and it wasn’t God’s fault—putting two and two together added up to a faulty faith. Even for Lil, who had no clue where Mom’s problem had begun, it was hard not to judge her in some way. But now she gave her a patient smile. “Just like you forced me to brush my teeth and learn my ABC’s. It’s not that you don’t know what you should be doing. You just need a little nudging.” Mom turned her unconvinced expression toward the wall.

  “I’m going to turn the shower on now. Nice and hot like you like it. I wish I had a new massage showerhead like the one Dad installed for you. He sure does love you, catering to you like he does.”

  Rolling toward the edge of the bed, Mom muttered, “Hmmph. Cater, my eye. And making me feel guilty doesn’t make it any better.” Then she murmured so low that Lil almost didn’t catch it, “It’s too late for that man.”

  Lil wondered about the meaning of that snide remark. Were her mom and dad having marriage problems? She remembered telling Katy a while back that she was positive her mom’s depression had nothing to do with their marriage. But love was a mighty force, and just by watching Katy and Jake’s tumultuous relationship and how it had affected her friends, she could attest to its strange powers. Did she dare question her mom on the topic? Mom and Dad never talked about their relationship. It had always been a private thing without much public demonstration. Or should Lil encourage Mom to bring the topic up to the counselor?

  Meanwhile Mom had placed her bare feet on the oval, braided rug beside the bed. Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know why I don’t have any energy. I hate getting old. Don’t know what your dad even sees in me. And I never asked for a new showerhead, even if the old one dripped for two-and-a-half years.”

  “Dad sees the same things we all do,” Lil went on, without acknowledging her mom’s complaint about the house’s old and faulty plumbing. “You’re a wonderful person. Of course your cooking has nothing to do with it,” she teased, hoping to stir up some of her mom’s old confidence. Mom’s laughter used to fill the home, and her sense of humor had kept everyone on their toes. She had passed that gene along to Lil’s brother Matt.

  “I do miss baking. If only I had the gumption, I’d make us some cinnamon rolls with brown-sugar icing. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’ll help if you like,” Lil replied, staring at the starched head covering on her mom’s nightstand, though she knew from experience that when tomorrow rolled around Mom wouldn’t feel like baking. Something terrible was wrong, but nobody could pinpoint the problem. This was only their third session with the counselor, and Lil hoped he would get to the bottom of it soon. Mom had lost weight, too—judging by the way her waistband hung, probably at least twenty-five or thirty pounds.

  Later that morning after the appointment concluded with the kind, but noncommittal counselor, Lil brought her mom home and settled her in the new rocker Dad had purchased for Mom’s fiftieth birthday. Dad’s tenderness toward Mom, of late, baffled Lil, too, because as her mom had earlier insinuated, Will Landis had never been the thoughtful, caring type. He’d always just been sturdy, hardworking, and dependable—the practical type.

  Leaving her mom by the living room window so she could watch it rain, Lil hoped to get to town and back before the actual downpour hit. She used her purse for a makeshift umbrella and made a dash for Jezebel. On the road, her windshield wipers did little to clear her vision as she drove to the Plain City pharmacy to get the pills the therapist had prescribed for her mom. She wasn’t sure if she could get her to take any, but maybe if Mom knew they were already purchased, she would comply with the psychiatrist’s wishes.

  The canopy in front of the pharmacy beckoned with its dry patch of sidewalk but traitorously startled Lil with a gush of water down the back of her neck. Inside, she agreed with the pharmacist that the farmers would be glad for the rain and paid the bill with her own money, not wanting to burden her dad after learning the farm was about to go bankrupt. Assuming pharmacists took oaths of privacy, she was glad that she didn’t see anybody else she knew while she purchased a prescription of bottled happiness.

  Outside, the awning baptized her again, and clutching her small white bag of hope, she made a run for Jezebel. Drenched, she finagled the warped door and tossed her purse and bag on the plastic slipcover. A shiver tingled up and down her spine as she stuck her key in the ignition. Jezebel wouldn’t start.

  On the same
side of the cow as Vic, Fletch leaned his shoulder against the heifer and tightened his grip on the animal’s green-and-black-striped lead rope. Water dripped off his red ball cap, and with one hand he flipped the hood of his slicker back up over it. Impatient, for it seemed to be taking the vet examining the cow far too long, he called, “Can you see anything?”

  “The leg wound is infected. We’re lucky she’s still on her feet. But we’re going to have to get her back to the barn before I can treat it, or the bandage will just get soaked.”

  Thinking of the truck’s cab with desire, Fletch remarked, “Would have been nice if Johnson would have already had her confined.”

  “He probably wasn’t expecting the rain. It’s all part of the job. You might as well get used to bad weather and contrary animals. Believe me, if it’s not the animals, it’s their owners.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Or are you going to take one of those cushy jobs taking care of pets?”

  Fletch figured every job had its drawbacks. “In school, they warned us that house cats are as deadly as a mountain lion.”

  Vic scoffed. “Pure exaggeration. Well you’ve got the lead rope and I’ve got the truck keys. So I guess I’ll see you and this heifer back at the barn in about an hour.”

  “More penance?” Fletch teased.

  “Just exposing you to a wider range of experience,” the thin, red-haired vet replied.

  “Exposure, all right,” Fletch muttered, stepping in front of the cow and gently pulling her forward. Ever since he’d returned to the veterinary practice with Vic’s dented car—correction, Vic’s wife’s dented car, for Fletch had discovered that the couple had exchanged vehicles that day—the veterinarian had mustered up every conceivable dirty job for him to perform. Fletch didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. After all, he was raised on the mission field and used to all kinds of adverse and unexpected conditions. But Vic was getting far too much pleasure out of watching him slosh around in manure and probe stool samples for parasites.

  He guessed the honeymoon had worn off between them. For all Fletch knew, maybe Vic’s ire stemmed from the fact that he was sleeping on the couch at home. Fletch hadn’t been around Britt enough to determine her personality type. He didn’t know if she was supportive or resentful of Vic’s practice. Part of their schooling had prepared them for the hazards of choosing a career that demanded long, irregular hours.

  Most of the students spent their summers involved in some sort of on-the-job experience, and Fletch had been fortunate to get on with the same veterinarian he was going to help once the fall term began. At least he had previously thought he was fortunate. Though they were barely getting started, he had to wonder what the next year would hold.

  Fletch hunched his shoulders against the rain and urged the heifer toward the dirt tire tracks that crisscrossed green pasture, where he and Vic had earlier driven to reach the field where the animal had been last seen. Fletch’s muckers sank deep in the muddy track, making his progress slower, and the animal must have felt the change of terrain, too, because it suddenly balked, practically jerking Fletch’s arm from its shoulder socket. With several tugs, he got the animal moving again, but Fletch still couldn’t see the barn. He spoke as softly as he could over the wind and rain to urge the animal forward, but a bolt of thunder changed the animal’s will.

  The cow reared back, and Fletch frantically strove to secure his grasp on the slippery lead. But the strong animal turned and dragged Fletch backward until the lead slid through his gloves. Moments after that, he found himself sprawled facedown in the muddy lane. He lay there, momentarily stunned, until a current of rain made its way onto his bare skin between the hem of his hiked-up slicker and his belt. Rising to his elbows, he sputtered between mud-caked teeth, “Stupid cow!”

  Staggering to his feet, he glared through the rain at the animal that had stopped only a short distance away. The heifer stared him down with a frightened curiosity. The animal’s injury had to be severe if she hadn’t bolted away, Fletch thought, yanking his slicker back in place and starting toward the frightened animal. Regardless if Vic was dry and sipping coffee with Johnson or not, he needed to get the animal back to the barn as quickly as possible.

  Later that week, Lil slid five pieces of pie onto her mom’s Autumn Leaf dessert plates and placed four of them in front of the men seated around the kitchen table. She glanced nervously down the hall, assured that her mom was in her room. Mostly, she was nervous for her brother Matt’s sake. Dad had called a family meeting to tell the brothers about the farm trouble. She just hoped he gave Matt a chance to express his ideas. Matt had recently started attending a more liberal-minded Mennonite church, and she knew there was still underlying friction between him and their dad.

  Hank, the darkest and oldest of the Landis siblings, looked up at her from his seat at the table. “Thanks, Lily Mae. This looks good.”

  “You deserve it for coming to my rescue the other day. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Anybody can replace spark plugs.”

  “Yes, but you got drenched doing it while I stayed dry in the car.”

  “That’s what brothers are for, but I worry about you driving that piece of junk.”

  “It’s my piece of junk, and usually it gets me around.” Lil’s face heated. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  “Mom still not cooking?” her youngest brother, Stephen, interrupted.

  Stephen’s waist size reflected his main interest in life was food—with a partiality toward his mom’s cooking. All the sisters-in-law had an inferiority complex when it came to their cooking. They were good cooks, just not as good as the Landis women.

  “No.” Lil lowered her voice. “But she went to the counselor again and even took some medication this week.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?” Hank frowned. Unless he shaved twice a day, her brother sported a dark shadow of a beard, which added to his formidable countenance. As the eldest, he was always looking out for everyone, appearing grumpy and overbearing at times.

  Dad came to her defense. “It’s more serious than you know. Lil’s doing her best with your mom.”

  Hank nodded. Dark, serious, and traditional, he was clad in his usual short-sleeved, button-down shirt and a pair of jeans, his only fashion vice his penchant for the John Deere label. He could always be found in the classic green J. D. hat. He splurged on the more expensive J. D. farm boots, too, and loved to buy his sons J. D. pedal tractors and push toys.

  Hank’s wife, Sara, claimed he spoiled their children, Scott and Sammy. His feisty wife came from Kansas, and Hank’s nickname for her was Sara Cyclone, taken from The Wizard of Oz book.

  Lil took a small wedge of the peach pie for herself. “You care if I join you?”

  Dad narrowed his eyes as if wanting to get the meeting going and dreading it at the same time.

  “Go ahead and start your meeting. I won’t interrupt,” Lil urged. She figured after picking all the peaches—which was an itchy job—freezing them, and baking the pies, she had a right to sit and eat at the table with them. Anyway, she really wanted to hear what was going on with the farm’s finances. She had to wonder if her mom knew about it and if it had anything to do with her depression.

  Dad tugged gently on the lobe of his large ear, considering her request. “I guess we can talk in front of Lil.” Then he thrust a warning finger at her. “But you have enough to worry about helping with your mom. Remember to leave the farm problems to us men.”

  Although his voice remained gentle and he meant his warning for her own good, she resented his male finger pointing and shutting her out just because she was a female. She had hoped he was changing his attitude when he’d confided in her the other morning. Now she realized he’d been sharing with her only because he didn’t have his wife to vent to any longer. Will Landis didn’t usually ask anyone for advice. He was the girder. He didn’t expect her to help him find a solution to his financial woes. Probably didn�
�t think she was capable of such things. She gave a small nod and dropped her gaze to her pie.

  She intended to linger and listen even if she had to set a record on how slow a body could eat one piece of pie—the same piece for which she would have to add extra sit-ups to her nightly regimen. After eating her dessert, she could refill coffee cups, if need be.

  “I missed my loan payment this month,” Dad announced.

  The brothers’ gazes swam in confusion. Lil remembered how painful it had been to receive the bad news. Her brothers understood that Dad referred to the farm loan, which had accumulated with various farm needs from equipment to seeds. On a row of good years, it was temporary, enough to get by until harvest. On a row of bad years, it provided the payroll and carried the farm. But the confusion came because the boys hadn’t known the farm was in trouble.

  “Do you need some money to tide you over?” Hank asked. “The cyclone and I can spare a few thousand temporarily.”

  Dad gripped his coffee cup. “It’s too late for tiding over.”

  Stephen pushed another heaping fork of pie into his mouth and chewed, his brows forming a frustrated V as if they might take wing and fly off his face.

  Hank’s forehead furrowed. “Let’s sell off some hogs.”

  “We can do that, but it will only delay the inevitable. The last couple of years should have been good ones; instead we’re steadily sinking.”

  “Can I have a look at the books?” Hank asked, as eldest son.

  Dad rose without comment and left the room.

  In his absence, Hank muttered, “I should have taken over the books years ago.” Lil knew he had taken accounting courses in college. Hank had gone to Hesston Mennonite College and returned one year later with his wife, Sara, but had never finished his bachelor’s degree. Instead, at Dad’s urging, he’d gone straight back to farming. But he had been a natural with numbers and spreadsheets.

  “Shh! Here he comes!” Matt warned.

  Dad pushed a ledger across the table. “Look all you want. It won’t change a thing. But at least I won’t have as much to explain.”