Voices Carry

by Mariah Stewart

  She padded on bare feet into the living area and found Patsy gazing out the back window.

  “Morning, Pats.”

  “Morning, Gen.” Patsy turned from the window, grinning, and added, “I do believe you just set a new record.”

  “For. . . ?”

  “Most hours slept under this roof.”

  “What time is it?” Genna frowned.

  “Almost nine.”

  “Nine o’clock? I slept until nine o’clock?”

  “Imagine that! Why, what is this world coming to?” Patsy laughed, and patted Genna on the back. “You must have needed the sleep, honey.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I slept until nine.” Genna scratched at a mosquito bite on her upper arm. “And I was dead to the world, too. The last thing I remember is listening to the crickets and every once in a while, a splash from the lake.”

  Genna stretched her arms over her head and yawned.

  “You go on and get your shower,” Patsy told her, “and I’ll fix you something good for breakfast.”

  “Oh, yum,” Genna grinned. “Surprise me?”

  “Sure thing.” Patsy folded her arms over her chest and watched Genna amble off to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

  “She’s too thin,” Patsy mumbled as she went into the kitchen and took out the last of the eggs and a carton of milk. “She’s not eating right, I just know it. No time to cook, no time to eat, no time to sleep.”

  Patsy searched a cupboard for a frying pan.

  “Well, not while she’s under my roof,” Patsy continued her dialogue. “When my girl is home, she’ll be well fed and well rested. Sunshine and good food and sleep. We’ll fix her right up, won’t we, Kermit?”

  Patsy addressed the cat that had appeared at the back door and announced himself with a practiced yowl.

  “You come on in, now.” Patsy opened the door and the large orange cat sauntered in. “I suppose you’re hungry, too.”

  Patsy leaned down and rubbed the cat under the chin, and he thanked her by batting at her hand with a large, flat paw. She batted back at him playfully with a spatula, and he reached for it with both of his front paws.

  “Ah, no time to play right now,” Patsy told him. “You go see what I left in your bowl. I have breakfast to make for Genna.”

  Kermit sniffed at his bowl, then walked imperiously into the living room.

  “Might I suppose you already ate?” Patsy called after him. “I hope it wasn’t one of the birds, though. I hate it when you do that. And besides, if you don’t eat your kitty food, how am I to know if you’ve eaten at all? I can’t give you your insulin unless you have something in that old stomach of yours. . .”

  “Who are you talking to?” Genna, wrapped in a large white towel, stepped out of the bathroom and into the short hallway that led into the kitchen.

  “That diabetic old tom of yours,” Patsy waved the spatula. “He’s been out catting around and I don’t know if he’s found something to snack on or not. He hasn’t had his insulin since last night, and you know what happens when he doesn’t get his shots on a regular basis.”

  Patsy shivered, recalling the last time that Kermie had had a seizure. They’d almost lost him that time.

  Genna walked into the living room and spied the cat who’d found a spot of sunlight and was now curled in its warmth.

  “There you are.” Genna knelt down next to the cat she had named after the famous frog, because even as a kitten, Kermit’s back feet had been enormous. “Thought you’d sneak in and try to make me think you’d been here all night, did you?”

  Genna heard the sound of a camera’s shutter behind her.

  “Patsy, would you put that damned thing away?”

  “No.” Patsy replied. “It’s a nice shot, you there on the floor with Kermie.”

  “Wearing nothing but a towel and some extraneous body hair that I was planning on shaving off,” Genna stretched one leg out in front of her and inspected it.

  “Not to worry, I didn’t have it on zoom.”

  Genna laughed.

  “Now, get dressed and come sit down and eat some of this delicious French toast I’m about to make.”

  “I’ll gain ten pounds here,” Genna pretended to complain. “I always do.”

  “You could stand to gain a little.” Patsy told her as she returned to the kitchen. “And you haven’t stayed here long enough to gain ten pounds since you were in high school.”

  “Touché.” Genna stood up. “Give me five minutes. I’ll take a cup of coffee now, though.”

  “No, you won’t. It’ll slow you down. You can have your coffee with your breakfast.”

  “Tyrant,” Genna muttered just loud enough for Patsy to hear, smiling as she did so, and went to her room to dress.

  “Think we can get in a sail today?” Genna asked when she arrived in the kitchen and sat down at the small counter where plates had been set for two.

  “Maybe. The clouds look a little iffy, but they could pass over.” Patsy handed her a plate upon which she’d piled fat slices of French toast, golden from the frying pan and wearing a sprinkling of white powdered sugar.

  “Heaven. Sheer heaven.” Genna smiled. “And worth every blessed calorie, and every bit of cholesterol, fat. . .”

  Patsy smiled and poured orange juice and coffee for them both, then sat down next to Genna.

  “I used the last of the eggs for the French toast,” she commented. “I don’t usually go through a dozen so quickly, but between the cake I made for last night and the toast this morning, I went through that carton in less than a week.”

  “If I’d known, I could have picked some up yesterday.”

  “No matter. I can make a quick run this morning.” Patsy shrugged. “I was thinking about making a lemon soufflé for dessert, so I will need the extra eggs.”

  “How is Mrs. Frick doing?”

  “Well, she’s old as the hills, as you know. Must be in her nineties. Spry little devil, though. Still raises her hens and sells her eggs and works on those quilts of hers, though she doesn’t make as many as she used to, and they seem to take her longer these days.”

  “Maybe I’ll go with you,” Genna said, pleased that she wouldn’t have to wait too long for an opportunity to visit the farm. “It’s been years since I’ve seen her.”

  “Oh, most days I don’t go up to the house anymore.” Patsy sipped at her juice. “I just buy from the stand. Unless I’m having something made—a baby quilt or something—that I have to talk to her about.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about just that. A baby quilt, that is.” Genna hadn’t been, but she was now that the opportunity presented itself.

  “Oh? Who’s having a baby?”

  “John Mancini’s sister. Angela. And she already had it.” Genna concentrated on cutting off a piece of toast with her fork, not wanting to look at Patsy’s face and having to see that spark of hope she knew she’d find there. Patsy had adored John and had been very vocal about where she hoped that relationship would eventually lead.

  “She had a boy, by the way,” Genna added. “Carmen Anthony DelVecchio the second.”

  “Oh. How nice. And nice of you to think of having a quilt made for her son. You’ll be seeing her, then?”

  “The baby will be christened next Sunday, so I doubt there’s much time to have a quilt made. With luck, Mrs. Frick will have a few already made up for me to choose from. And yes, I’ve been invited to attend the christening.” Genna’s mouth twitched at Patsy’s attempt at craftiness.

  “By Angela or by John?”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re very nosy?” Genna fought a grin. “And not very subtle?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Patsy sniffed with mock indignation. “I’m always interested in everything you do.”

  “Especially when it concerns what might loosely be referred to as my love life. Or lack of it.”

  “Didn’t Angela just get married last summer?” Patsy ch
ose to ignore Genna’s comment and forged ahead. “Have you seen her since the wedding?”

  “June before last. And it’s been a while since I’ve seen her. Now, what time would you like to go to the farm?” Genna changed the subject.

  “We can go after breakfast, if you like.”

  “Great. And when we get back, maybe we can take a swim, if the clouds lift.”

  “I should make a list,” Patsy muttered to herself and took a small notepad out of a nearby drawer. With the attached pencil, she began to jot down several items she wished to purchase at the farm, humming “She’s Got You,” being in the mood for a little Patsy Cline at the moment.

  An hour later, Genna was slowly driving up the long lane that led from Tolliver Road to the Frick farmhouse and trying to remember just how long it had been since she’d made that drive. Years, she thought as she slowed even more, anticipating the appearance of the rambling old house with its many additions that lay just beyond the walnut trees, and tried to recall the layout of the farm. With the windows rolled down and the air conditioning turned off, the interior of Genna’s car was beginning to fill with dust kicked up from the dry road.

  “I always forget how quiet it is back here,” Genna noted.

  “Even though there’s so much activity going on right now, there’s always that element of deep quietude. The men are working in the fields and tending to the animals and the women are either doing laundry or putting up some of the crops, but you hardly hear any of it. No machines, that’s why.”

  “It’s so hard to believe that people still live like this.” Genna stopped the car under a tree and sat with the engine at idle for a moment. “No real modern conveniences. I guess that’s why they hold such a fascination for so many of us ‘English.’”

  The front door opened, and a small girl poked her head out and disappeared. Seconds later, the door opened again and this time an elderly woman, who actually looked years younger than she really was, stepped out and waved.

  “Miss Wheeler, you’re welcome, as always!” The woman was drying her hands on a once-white apron as she walked toward her two visitors. “And who is this you’ve brought with you?”

  “Now, Mrs. Frick.” Patsy smiled broadly. “You know my Genna.”

  “Genna?” The woman crossed her arms over her chest and appeared to inspect Genna carefully. “So old you look.”

  “So old, I am,” Genna laughed. “How are you, Mrs. Frick?”

  “Good,” the old woman nodded pleasantly. “I’d be doing good.”

  “We’re glad for that,” Patsy told her. “And we’ll be gladder still if you have some eggs left today.”

  “Well, now, the boys left for the market in Erie early, but there may be a few eggs still in the henhouse.” Mrs. Frick turned toward the house and called, “Rebecca, take a basket down to the henhouse and see if there are any eggs that were missed this morning.”

  A young girl of about seven appeared in the doorway.

  “Get a basket, girl, and go along.”

  The girl closed the door behind her, presumably to return once the basket was located.

  “What else might I do for you this morning?” Mrs. Frick asked.

  “Well, one of Genna’s friends recently had a baby, and she thought perhaps one of your quilts might do nicely for a gift,” Patsy told her.

  “A boy or a girl, is it?”

  “A boy,” Genna told her, wishing she could think of some pretext that would give her access to another part of the farm so she could take a look around.

  “I do have some made, you’d be welcome to look. I’ll bring them out for you to see. The light’s better out here, if you can wait.”

  Genna nodded.

  “We’re in no hurry.”

  The child—Rebecca—emerged from the house with a small basket over her arm.

  “Rebecca, could I give you a hand?” Genna asked on impulse.

  Rebecca looked from Genna to Granny Frick—most likely the girl’s great-grandmother—as if she did not understand the question.

  “I mean, could I go with you to the henhouse?” Genna turned and asked, “If that would be all right, Mrs. Frick?”

  “I don’t see harm.”

  “Come on, then, Rebecca, and show me how you get eggs from the chickens.” Genna fell into step with the girl.

  Making idle chatter with the girl, who without doubt thought Genna strange for thinking a trip to the henhouse was one worth taking, Genna missed nothing on their way to the large fenced in pen where the chickens were kept. There appeared nothing out of order on this late summer morning, nothing to indicate that anything might be amiss.

  What did you expect to find, anyway? Genna chided herself. Boys in black, dusty from the fields, clustered behind the barn, drawing straws to see who gets to smoke the last of the crack?

  “You have to be smart opening the gate,” Rebecca told Genna shyly as she slid back the wooden latch, “so the hens don’t get out.”

  The hens ignored the intrusion into their enclave, even when Rebecca lifted the nesting birds to take their brown eggs and place them carefully in her basket. When she had gathered twelve eggs, she looked up at Genna and said, “And that’s what you do.”

  “Thank you for showing me.” Genna smiled from the doorway.

  While Rebecca had been gathering eggs, Genna had been scoping out the lay of the land. The old barn stood to their right, a silo attached to the far end. Beyond the barn were separate fenced areas for the cows, pigs, and goats. The horses were kept in a smaller stable, to the rear of the property, and another outbuilding housed farm equipment and the family’s several buggies. Off to the left was a pond surrounded by endless fields of corn that had another month or so of growth to go. Plowed areas closer to the house provided gardens for the vegetables they grew to sell in their stands and to the markets, and for the use of the large extended family that called the farm home. Several long, straight rows dazzled the eye with their variety of summer flowers.

  But it was the depression near the center of the tall stalks of the hollyhocks that caught and held Genna’s attention on their way back to the farmhouse.

  “Rebecca was a good teacher,” Genna announced as they approached the porch, the railing of which was draped with a half-dozen colorful quilts.

  “You found eggs for Miss Wheeler, then, Rebecca?” Granny Frick asked, and Rebecca handed her the basket. “This should do fine. Now take them into the house and put them in one of those cardboard egg holders.”

  “Yes, Granny.” Rebecca went into the house to complete her assigned task.

  “Mrs. Frick has several quilts completed,” Patsy stated the obvious.

  “So I see.”

  Genna smiled and stepped onto the porch to take a closer look at the array lined up for her inspection. Though all were lovely, the log cabin design in shades of blue with green and light yellow on a white background caught her eye. She held it up to take a closer look. It was just right for a baby boy.

  “They’re all lovely, but I do like this one. What do you think, Patsy?”

  “I like that one, too.”

  “That one it is, then.” Mrs. Frick nodded.

  “Mrs. Frick,” Genna asked as the elderly woman folded the quilt and set it aside, “do you still sell the cut flowers?”

  “You mean from the field there?” she asked as she neatly folded the remaining quilts.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you wanting a bunch?”

  “Well, those zinnias are tempting.” Genna smiled.

  “You go on out and pick yourself what you might like,” Granny Frick nodded, “while I get Miss Wheeler some of that strawberry-rhubarb jam she’s so partial to.”

  “Thank you. I’ll just be a minute, Patsy.” Genna searched her leather bag for the Swiss Army knife she usually carried, and tucked it into her pocket, and leaving Patsy and her old friend chatting on the back steps, headed off alone to the flower beds.

  “Pick some of those red zinnias
, Genna,” Patsy called to her, and Genna waved to indicate that she’d heard.

  With her small knife, Genna cut a few stems here, a few stems there, all the while working her way closer to the depression where something clearly had flattened out a good part of several rows of flowers. Finally close enough to peer through a stand of leafy cosmos, Genna was not at all surprised to see a boy passed out atop the blooms, the front of his dark blue shirt bearing a dusting of white. Leaving her cut flowers on the ground, she reached through the dense stems to check his pulse. That his heart rate had already returned to normal was evidence that it had been some time since he’d last fed his nose with cocaine. It was the same young man she’d seen the day before—the boy they’d called Eli—and judging by the fact that he was out cold today and had been using the day before gave her an indication of just how much of a habit he’d developed.

  The scene was a study in contrasts, Genna sighed with disgust. How totally incongruous that Eli Frick would be sleeping off his cocaine high in the middle of a field of summer flowers, with bees and butterflies drifting around him.

  How, she wondered, had he been lured? What had been the bait? Had none of his family members noticed anything unusual about his behavior? And if they had, could they even begin to imagine what was causing it?

  And what exactly was this young Amish boy doing in return for the temptation that took him from his simple farm background into the world of illegal drugs and who knew what else?

  It was time to call the locals and let them know that their suspicions were right on target. After she called Decker, of course.

  Patsy was still chatting away when Genna finally returned with an armful of zinnias in every shade and a few long, graceful stems of cosmos.

  “What do I owe you for the quilt and the flowers?” Genna asked.

  “The quilt is forty dollars,” Granny Frick told her, “the flowers are free. You and Miss Wheeler will enjoy them.”

  “We will, thank you.” Genna took two twenty-dollar bills out of her wallet and exchanged them for the baby quilt. “Where’s my friend Rebecca? I’d like to thank her for the quick lesson in egg-gathering.”

  “Oh, she went on down to the stand to help her brother.” Granny Frick pointed to the roadside stand at the end of the lane.