The women had been chatting with enthusiasm as we ate, but suddenly the group fell silent. I looked up from my forkful of crust and juice and saw a man approach through the willow branches. He was roughly my age, but unlike most of the men I’d seen around the Schrock farm, he was beardless. This was fortunate because it allowed a perfect view of a movie-star smile.
I saw Katie’s posture straighten and her jaw set.
“Who is that?” I whispered to Elizabeth, who held her glass of lemonade midair beside me.
“John Yoder,” she said. “He will marry Katie this fall.”
I spoke around a large bite of pie. “What?”
He parted the willow branches with one hand. “Guten Owed,” he said, nodding at Granny Mary and Sarah. “Good evening,” he said to Elizabeth and me.
“This is Nellie,” Elizabeth blurted. “She is English, and she made the piecrust.”
“I see,” John said. He turned his full-wattage smile on me. “Hello, Nellie the English.” Then his eyes searched Katie’s. “Guten Owed, Kate.”
She nodded. “Hello, John. How are you today?”
“I am well, thank you. You look to be well.”
Elizabeth sighed softly beside me.
Sarah rose. “Would you like a piece of pie, John? Lemonade?”
He watched Katie, who exhibited a sudden interest in her fork. After a moment, he answered, a bit loudly. “Thank you, Mrs. Schrock. I am grateful for your kindness, but I must head back to my father’s fields. I stopped to see your husband, and he allowed me to borrow a tool we need.” He stepped toward Katie and placed one hand on hers. She lifted her eyes to his. “It is good to see you all,” he said, and the other women murmured the same back to him. I said nothing because he sure-as-shooting wasn’t talking to me.
When he’d walked out of earshot, Sarah and Elizabeth began a giddy discussion of what a lovely couple they made. They decided Katie would have eight children, that their engagement and wedding would be the first announced at church at the end of the summer, and that Katie would make a beautiful bride in deep indigo. Mary sat with a shrewd eye trained on Katie but said nothing.
I lingered with Katie as we cleared our dishes to go back inside. She fell into step behind the others, and I joined her.
“John seems like a nice man,” I ventured. Actually, he’d seemed like the perfect front man for a boy band, but I didn’t think Katie would grab onto that reference.
“Yes, he is,” she said slowly. “He is a nice man, and he will be a good husband.”
I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was giving a book report instead of a summary of her fiancé’s best traits. We climbed the wooden stairs to the porch and I couldn’t take it. “Do you love him?” I mean, honestly. Who was I? Mr. Sandman? But there it was and she turned to me with a quick answer.
“No. I do not.” She lifted her chin slightly, her eyes searching mine. “But my mother did not love my father either at the beginning. Sometimes love comes with years instead of minutes.” She opened the screen door but let it shut without going inside. Handing me her plate, she said, “Nellie, will you tell the Schrocks I needed to go home? A headache. I have a headache.”
I nodded, knowing a liar when I saw one but familiar with the headache ruse myself. I’d gotten out of an entire quarter of gym class because of a recurrent “headache.”
“Thank you,” Katie said, her smile warm and forgiving of my P.E. lies, even though she couldn’t have known. “You are a good friend. And,” she drew out the word, “you are a good cook. Very good crust.”
I held out my hand for her to slap five. “Thanks.”
She slapped hard. “I will see you next week.”
I watched her walk down the driveway at a clip, looking up every few paces but for the most part focusing only on the little bit of road in front of her.
19
Keep It Together
The thing about standing on your head is that it’s an immediate jump start to perspective. Some people like going for a run. Matt was into that. He said the open road combined with the sounds of his breath and his ASICS hitting the pavement cleared his head of all the extras. I, on the other hand, preferred not to sweat. It was one thing if the sun was super hot and you were at the state fair. That was sweating with purpose. Pork-chop-on-a-stick purpose. But making myself sweat? Intentionally? That seemed like trying to fall out of a tree or asking to be frisked by airport security. No, thanks.
So running was out, as was most exercise other than an occasional punching bag. I didn’t really get into talk therapy, though Matt had told me many times how much I needed it. Wiling away one’s life at Wellman’s Pub was certainly the most popular way of shifting perspective around Casper, but I didn’t see how being sloshed would help my thought processes, as they were pretty amazing already. Plus, that was so cliché: Town Luminary Caves to Mediocrity and Loneliness and Drinks Herself to Oblivion. Very chic-tragic, but not for me.
Headstands were the ticket. All that blood flowing in a weird direction, gravity pulling your body mass toward the ground, coming very close to seeing stars and then letting go and crashing to the floor. It was fantastic. And I had some mind clearing to do. A paradigm shift was in the works for this case, and I needed to figure out how to tackle it. Amos loved Katie. Katie loved Amos. John loved Katie and was months away from marrying her and starting work on that beard. It appeared Katie was on board but kind of like a fish being on board to try out a hook. What had she said? Sometimes love came from years? A good-buddy marriage! Just how all great romances began! I needed to help this girl, and a good long headstand was the first step.
I was nearing the seeing-stars part when a knock sounded at my door.
“Come in,” I said, though it sounded kind of warbled. My cheeks became a speech impediment when they hung upside down.
My parents entered en masse, which, for most of my life, had been a foreboding sign. They’d arrived on the late flight the night before, bronzed and smiley after two weeks in Banff.
“Pumpkin, eh, what’s with the headstands?” My dad’s boat shoes interrupted my line of sight. I glimpsed my mother’s open-toed heels picking their way through the clothes that littered the floor.
“You’d love it, Pop. I can show you how, if you want.” Because of the heavy cheek issue, my words sounded like I had been tipping a few back at Wellman’s. “You might want to move.”
“What’s that?” Pop crouched down and then tilted his head upside down. “What did you say?” He enunciated like he did every time we went to France and he thought the cab driver simply needed more consonants in order to appreciate English.
“You. Move. Now. Please.” The stars were obscuring a clear view of Pop’s face, so I knew time was of the essence. He’d just cleared my trajectory when I let my legs timber down hard onto the carpet. I lay there, watching the ceiling turn back to its normal color.
Mother gasped. “Oh, my heavenly days.”
I turned my head toward where she sat perched on my office chair. “Mother, people have been doing headstands—inversions, if you will—since the beginning of time. It’s all over ancient historical record.” This, I admit, was not something I’d verified with actual reading. It was more of a general feeling that I was probably correct.
“No, no, Nellie. I don’t care if you stand on your head or on your earlobes, for that matter. I gave up understanding everything you do years ago. I’m talking about your hair. Did you use a flatiron?”
I pulled my fingers through the smooth strands, feeling a mix of kink with smooth. My technique was still spotty. “I sure did, Mother. And I hope you appreciate it.” I sat up slowly. “I used to be able to get up and go. Stuff all that hair into a ponytail or under a ball cap and call it a day. Ironwork takes at least twenty minutes and that’s after the hair’s fully dried. Of course,
it does last a few days, averaging the time to about ten minutes a day, which is more palatable.”
She stared at me, wide-eyed. “Oh, honey, let’s go shopping!” She clapped her hands and looked at Pop. “We can talk about this later.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Annette. Shopping will wait.”
She frowned. “I’ve waited nearly twenty-one years. I should think that would count for long enough.”
“Nellie,” my dad said. He cleared his throat. “Nellie,” he said again.
“Oh, good gravy, Pop. If this is about the birds and the bees, I already know. Don’t you guys remember in junior high when you had to sign the permission slips to watch Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon?”
Pop looked ill. Mother swooped in to rescue. “Nellie, dear, we know you know about intercourse.”
“Please never say that word in my presence again.”
“All right,” Pop said. His face was all red and blotchy. “Pumpkin, we need to talk about Nona. She’s worse every time we see her.”
“I think she’s been really good the last few weeks. We debated nationalized health care a few days ago.” I split my legs in front of me and stretched one hamstring. You wouldn’t think it, but headstands can fatigue pretty much any muscle.
“She slept almost all of today, other than joining us for a very discombobulated lunch conversation.” Annette sighed. “Your father is right, Nellie. We need to talk about the next step.”
“You’re not putting her in Fair Meadows.” I shook my head once, hard. “I won’t let you do that to her.”
“Now, Nellie, we’ve known the Clausens for years, long before they owned Fair Meadows.” Pop took on a measured tone. “I spoke with Bob this morning. They’ve just completed construction of a new facility on the west side. Have you been by there? Out by the McIntyre acreage?”
I said nothing.
“It’s quite lovely from the outside,” Annette said. “Beautiful stone work, all limestone brought in from that place in Minnesota. What was it, Clive? St. Croix?”
“I believe you’re right,” Pop said, nodding. “Just off the river on Highway—”
“Oh, stop,” I said, hauling myself to my feet. “I will not be carting Nona off to the Shady Acres of Doom just so she can enjoy the indigenous limestone. Are you serious?” I stacked Amish research books on my desk. “Don’t you know what happens to people who go there?”
Pop spoke. “They die.”
“Clive, please,” Mother said, watching my horrified face.
“It’s true,” Pop said, shrugging. “I don’t mean to sound callous, but you two both know I’m right. Nona is going to die, and so are we.” He rubbed his forehead with a hand and paused. “I’m just trying to figure out how to do the best we can for her.”
Mother moved to sit by him on my bed. She put one skinny arm around his broad shoulders and looked at me. “Bob said that it’s easier to make the transition when a patient is doing well than when she is not. They don’t recommend waiting until it’s a … a fight.”
I shook my head and set my jaw. “No. My answer is no, and her answer will be no. She will hate it, and I will hate it more. I can take care of her here. Until the end.”
“Nellie, you know she doesn’t want that.” Mother’s voice was soft but strong.
“She’s said so from the beginning,” Pop said to the carpet, his head still in his hands. “Since the first and only doctor’s appointment when she refused an aggressive workup. ‘No lingering, no wrestling with the inevitable, and no way Nellie devotes her life to me like a nun.’ Remember that speech?” He let a wry laugh escape.
“Well, we’re not even close to the lingering part. And I’m not a nun.” My insides trembled, and I thought I might be sick. They sat in my room and on my bed, but I was the one to leave. “No,” I said one more time before hitting the hallway.
We were fine.
Amos met me at the mall. He’d said he wanted “the opinion of a female” as he was in the market for some new clothes. He didn’t seem to notice that I wasn’t exactly a good resource for this type of information; I had not yet parted with the denim purse. Still, I figured if I could broaden his palette outward from the fluorescent color grid, it was progress.
My feet felt heavy, the burden of my conversation with Mother and Pop reverberating hollow echoes in my gut. I rounded the corner on the upper level and glimpsed Amos before he saw me. Amos wasn’t particularly tall, but he did stand out. He waited in front of Slash, hands in his pockets, making inappropriately long eye contact with the people who passed him. He was smiling, but it was a fixed smile. Someone must have told him that was how it worked in casual social settings. I sighed.
“Hi, Amos,” I said when I approached. “Don’t stare. Just look and move on. Like this.” I did a quick eye-lock with a passing mother with young children. She smiled hopefully, and I looked away.
“You made her sad,” he said, smiling extra long as she passed him.
“No,” I said, all patience. “That’s just how women with young children look. They look sad. That’s no reason to creep them out.”
A bouncy blonde girl approached us. “Hi! Welcome to Slash! Can I help you find anything?”
I sniffed. “Um, we’re not even inside the store. Is that what your manager tells you to do, accost customers when they’re still outside?”
The girl looked like she might cry. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s my second day and—”
Amos cleared his throat. “Do not be apologizing. It is I that am sorry. This person”—he gestured to me like I smelled foul—“she is the cranky pants. Please forgive us.” The whole time, he stared without blinking at Bouncy. Never moved his gaze, kept the creep-o smile on his face. And Bouncy liked it.
“You’re very nice,” she said, awfully shy for a person who’d just evangelized for a clothing store. “My name’s Jordan.” She put out her hand to shake.
He took it carefully. “Jordan. Just like the river,” he said, awe in his voice.
She blushed, and I was certain she’d never heard of the Jordan River in her life.
He followed her into the bass-thumping music and bright lighting but threw a warning glance in my direction. “Do not be ill-tempered,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. Honestly. He was the one who’d been living in cultural seclusion for his whole life, and he thought I was the one who needed pointers?
“Are you looking for anything special today? We’re having a sale on all our graphic tees.” She pointed to a display of shirts. “And our denim is thirty percent off when you open a Slash card. Do you have a Slash card?” This entire speech was of utmost seriousness to Jordan, who may or may not have known what a river was.
“I do not have any card,” Amos said. He opened his billfold and produced a thick stack of bills. “I will pay with cash, thank you. I feel discomfort with creditors.”
She nodded and tucked the money back into his wallet, closing it and pushing it gently toward him. “You’re a smart guy,” she whispered. “Just don’t let anyone else see all that money, okay?” She smiled at Amos, and I frowned. It was uncomfortably difficult to be annoyed with someone who was nice to Amos. He was kind of like an animal rescue dog to me. I cut Bouncy some slack.
When she’d set Amos up in a dressing room with heaps of clothes, none of which looked like they’d walked off the set of Miami Vice, I thanked her.
“Oh, I’m happy to do it!” Her hair vibrated with sincerity. “You’re welcome to stay back here with him. The common area is totally gender-neutral.” She promised to check back on us in a few minutes then went to help a baffled-looking father and his teenaged daughter.
“This shirt has words on it.” Amos’s voice was muffled in the dressing room. “It says WORK IT LIKE YO MOMMA ISN’T WATCHING. What is the meaning of thi
s?” He opened the door to the dressing room, dressed in a kelly green T-shirt with white block lettering. The jeans looked to be about two sizes too small with cuffs that stopped at his anklebone. Bouncy hadn’t conquered the Slash fitting chart just yet.
Amos stood in front of the three-way mirror. He smiled. “I like this denim.”
I shook my head. “No, you don’t. Next.”
He looked confused. “Not the shirt either?”
“It means shake your tush in a way your mother wouldn’t like.”
He looked horrified and strode toward the dressing room, shutting the door with a bang. “Tell me,” he called, “how was your visit yesterday to the farm of the Schrock family?”
I looked at my reflection in the three-way. Here goes. “I met John Yoder.”
The door to the dressing room flew open, and Amos stood, one arm in a new T-shirt. He was painted into another pair of jeans, these pinstriped and, again, too short. “John Yoder. And is it true? Nellie?” He walked over to the bench where I sat and lowered himself next to me. I could see our reflection, half-dressed Amish Amos and me with my new hair and same old purse.
I turned and put both hands on his shoulders but then pulled back. “Um, can you put the shirt all the way on? It’s a little awkward, skin on skin.” I was sure the beauty parlor girls would be hyperventilating, but it just wasn’t working for me.
“Yes, of course.” He pulled his arm through the sleeve. The shirt was fire-engine red and had light blue lettering that read, I KNOW, I KNOW. IT’S HARD NOT TO STARE.
I sighed. “Amos, Katie and John are pretty much engaged. They’ll announce it after the harvest and are getting married in October.”
He looked at me so long, I feared he’d had some kind of medical incident, some sort of graphic-tee palsy. Finally, he blinked and said, “Thank you, Nellie. I will pay you now for your work.” He stood and mumbled something about his wallet.
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