Sunshine and Shadow

by Sharon

  As though I'd received a personal invitation to show up and be scrutinized. "I don't think so. Your young face is amassing dismay like a thunderhead."

  "Not because you're here. It's just that you're not what I'd hoped."

  "No?"

  "I had hopes you might be…" The dark eyes transferred their gaze to the sky, seeming to hunt for the correct adjective, before they returned to Wilde. "That you'd be tawdry. She'd see through that."

  "All right. Having given you the opportunity to assess my facade, is there anything else I can do for you?"

  The young man thrust his hands into his pockets and took two steps backward, rocking fractionally, studying Alan with eyes that were hard. "I doubt it would do much good to ask you to let Susan be."

  Anger kept on, pricking like cold needles. Who was this kid? His conscience, arriving fully fleshed. "Susan is an adult, with free will. If anyone's attempted to erode that, it's you and yours, not me. No, it won't do much good to tell me to let Susan be. You can live like a Trappist if that's what you want, but don't try to strut into my life sowing dogma."

  "You know, Mr. Wilde, I have a choice thing or two I'd like to say to you, too, but I don't know that this is the place."

  "I don't give a damn what you want to tell me or where you say it. Do you understand?"

  The pause simmered with crowd noise and with Wilde's awareness that the face before him seemed suddenly youthful and anxious. He loves her. He wants to keep her safe. He and Susan are like children and I'm hurting them. The needles turned hot from cold as they changed from anger to those of conscience and confusion. He tried to let them exist, to be integrated and speak, but they became virulent. He could feel with despair the denial flooding him, numbing him just as it had his whole adult life. The meticulous defenses that had once been his immunity to feeling were now his enemy.

  Joan, who knew very well when not to speak and as well when to do so, came politely into the moment, her voice light and refreshing. "Is your family here today, Daniel?"

  "Yes. Haven't you seen Susan? She's back around by the fence watching the bidding. The others are here and there in the crowd, watching us."

  "They don't know Susan's working with us?"

  Daniel shook his head. "They won't understand what it means when they find out. Not at first."

  "I imagine when they find out it will raise some eyebrows?"

  Daniel's hands disappeared into his side pockets. He looked directly down at the earth at his feet, up into the opaque blueness of the sky, back at Joan. He seemed to be torn between distress and the strong desire to laugh. "It'll raise some eyebrows, all right." His tone was kinder when he said, "Have you been enjoying our simple pleasures?"

  "As a matter of fact, it's been interesting," Alan replied.

  "See a movie in it?"

  "Several. Amos Yoder, for instance."

  The shadowed laughter vanished. "You don't have rejection in your culture?"

  "Not as an institution."

  "Then perhaps it would be interesting for you to discover more about what it is that we're trying so hard to preserve." Then Daniel smiled, really smiled, and Alan found out why Joan had told him this man had eyes like Jesus.

  Wilde's worst nightmares had never included meeting Susan's mother, her rather, her blind grandmother, several aunts, her uncle, and the flower garden of her brothers and sisters, in bonnets and straw hats that wreathed their faces like pansy petals. But then, no one had claimed that the rehabilitation of one's soul was painless. The Dickensian quality of it was strangely appealing to him. Wilde as Scrooge… presented with haunting phantoms conjuring days past and days yet to come. Here we learn to keep the fires of Christmas burning all through the year, he thought.

  Susan's grandmother, the aged-lady who had taught Susan to find pathways in the stars, was the hardest spirit for him to understand. Her face carried beautiful seams of age, wonderful and soft and engaging, like a lovingly carved apple-head doll She had a warmth that he found almost frightening, asking him with charm how he found Wisconsin, the weather here, if he lived near, the ocean in California, and what the sea looked like in a storm.

  It was during these moments that the auctioneer changed location to auction a miscellany of farm goods on a hay wagon, and as the crowd shifted, Alan saw Susan.

  Seated on a wooden fence in a gown the color of cherry syrup, she was surrounded by other Amish—friends, judging by the intimacy of their postures and smiles. Details sprinkled on him like a sunflower. Her head was slightly bent as she spoke to a tall girl in pale green standing beside the fence, and he marveled at how still Susan could be when she talked, the animation of a strong body diverted into the expressive features, the vivid eyes. Under a translucent bonnet, her hair glowed like moon shadows, the dark tone coming to life again in the arch of her eyebrows and lashes that made drama on her bisque skin. Her breasts pressed against the wear-softened fabric, which draped downward at her waist, defining her thighs where they parted slightly. Her smile was as charming as an old-fashioned ornament.

  Now he knew the taste of that mouth. On his tongue, it was a piquant sensual memory. He felt the percussion of his heartbeat in his throat. Prestissimo.

  Someone in the crowd bumped the fence and she wavered, keeping her balance. In that unsettled moment, she saw Alan. He had expected… He wasn't certain what he had expected. Not to have her smile at him as though he were a field of sunflowers. Dear God, she's so open. Anyone looking will know. Her arm extended straight upward and she gave him a wave that, from the summit of Everest, could have flagged down a Sherpa at its base. He lifted his own hand to wave back.

  "Sold!" The auctioneer's gavel clacked once, and sharp-pitched feedback crackled through the dusty sound system. "To the illustrious visitor from Hollywood, California."

  The many fascinated glances that had been focused on him began to multiply, and he realized that he'd just bought something, and for a disordered second he lived the fantasy that it was Susan. Getting himself together under the curiosity of the large crowd, he slipped into the plastic shell of celebrity and smiled like a publicist. He raised his voice so the auctioneer could hear him. "What am I the proud owner of?"

  Oliver hefted something that looked like a transistor radio. "Joltin' Johnny," he said, igniting laughter in the crowd. " 'Lectric prod. Sez on it, 'Make That Hog Move.'"

  "We're joshin' you, Mr. Wilde." The auctioneer was grinning widely. "We knew you were only wavin'. It's a big day for us having you here, and that's just our way of saying hello."

  There was more laughter, scattered friendly applause, and a certain amount of puzzlement among the Amish. He didn't know what the damn thing was, only that his priority was to remove himself from the stern glare of the spotlight in any way that was quick and unspectacular. "I'll take it anyway."

  Laughter. Cheers. So much appreciation for so small a gesture. He knew from experience that once he was singled out in public, the awareness of him became more overt and he seemed more approachable, which meant that he would be approached often and his sense of discomfort would become acute. The auction resumed, dragging only a portion of interest away from him, and through the broken weave of people he saw Susan coming toward him at a run, her skirts tossing gaily, her smile sending fresh adrenaline to his heart.

  "Alan, hello! Grandma, have you met my friend Alan?"

  Others had been standing on the edge of Susan's family group; three Amishmen of various ages, all with eyes only for Susan. Suitors, he realized by intuition. His competition.

  One in particular Wilde had noticed, a man somewhere in his twenties, clean-shaven, very blond, with angry, pale-lashed eyes that had observed with acid hostility Alan's acquaintance with Susan's family. Suddenly the blond man spoke.

  "Is he your friend, Susan? I thought he was Daniel's friend."

  Her color wavered. Even such a small deception was clearly beyond her. Her eyes became stricken as she came to the belated realization that she had said too much. Wil
de watched the blond man register and draw ineffable pleasure from her distress. He knew. What is this, little one? Have you an enemy?

  He would have rescued her himself, but Joan had already moved into check.

  "We met Susan a while ago when she had the bad luck to stumble into an area where we were filming. How are you, Susan? No bad dreams, I hope."

  "No. I—didn't think to see you here today."

  "It's a wonder we are. Alan's terrible in crowds. We can never get him near them. The frustration is too immense for him. He wants to direct them. Right now he's probably thinking, 'That group is walking too fast. Tell them to stroll. Where's a dog? The scene needs a dog. Get me a mongrel with a black spot on one eye. Put that toddler in the shot, the one who just dropped ice cream on her sundress. Have her do it again.'"

  How things moved from there to being invited home to eat With Susan's family, he wasn't quite sure, except that the inspiration came from Daniel. Under the circumstances, it was appalling to accept their hospitality. But there was a gauntlet thrown from Daniel to pick up. Come and look closely at the life you're trying to pluck away. None of it could make him want her less, nor was one afternoon likely to alter the reflexes of a lifetime. But he'd go anyway and try to discover if the spirits could put Christmas in his heart instead of what had always been in there before— Halloween.

  Leaving the sale, clustered among the Amish, he saw Ben, the farmer, waving at him from the concession stand.

  "Hey, Mr. Wilde! What was it like, anyway, working with Harrison Ford?"

  Alan surrendered with a smile. "Great, Ben. Just great. He's a heck of a fella."

  Chapter 14

  Susan was different here in this house where she was born. Like a pearl in a perfect setting, she shone more brightly. Her gestures were broader, her smile stronger. Seated at a table behind her, Alan could see her sturdy shoulders, the ivory fragility of her neck, the lively motion of her head and arms as she talked. Here she was one of them, not a gypsy on his home ground.

  The house was so simple, so plain that it seemed elegant to Alan. The furniture was stark, the wide-planked oak floors uneven. The main room was full of light coming through the many wide windows on the barren walls. The homey scent was compounded of wax, cooking odors, flowers.

  Even their clothes smelted different. Hung on lines to blow dry in the sun and the wind, they caught and kept the breeze and the fragrance of green leaves and pollen. Hand scrubbing made them soft, utterly clean, and faintly battered. And each garment showed the flaws and strengths of the human hands that had cut and stitched and pressed it.

  Alan realized that Susan's father had caught him taking an inventory of the long rows of happy children. "Big family," he commented.

  The Amishman's eyes sparkled with droll understanding. "We can't seem to figure out what's causing it."

  The meal was a game. Susan's mother called it a mystery dinner, which meant that one's food and cutlery had to be ordered from a menu of disguised items. "Cow juice" meant milk, a "drip dryer" was a napkin. Before he and Joan learned that smoked squeal was ham, not a hybrid of squid and eel, and cooked ear was corn, they ended up with a collection of plates and silverware and no food.

  The adults were having as much fun as the children, and Alan participated with good nature, but it tired him quickly. Prepared for today by neither his experience nor his imagination, he found it jarring to be in a minority in this atmosphere of naive exuberance. The pleasures here were strange to a spiritual orphan. We lost beings don't take well to this. The level of simple happiness here is intolerable.

  Susan's mother was round and pretty, like a panda, and her father was lively and strong, with his massive beard, thick forearms, and fond, clever eyes. Both were warm to him, and yet there were barriers, nothing Alan could put his finger on, nothing as concrete as standoffishness. They could be friendly, but they were separate—different from him. That was understood. It struck him as dignified and unaffectedly honest: If there were sycophants in the world, they wouldn't be Amish.

  They asked him about his family and he answered politely, but evasively. They asked him about his movies and listened carefully to his reply, trying to keep it from becoming obvious that they couldn't understand why anyone would want to see a movie with monsters in it. And then, clearly wanting to return to familiar ground, they asked him about his family again.

  He never would have admitted he had no family if he'd known how it was going to affect them. Better a lie than the startling compassion in their gazes. He tried to correct their counterfeit impression, but it stuck like glue. Susan swung around with a grin, watching her aunt Mary ply him with food.

  "Well, mercy, no wonder you're so slim, with no one around to feed you. You've got no more meat on you than a darning needle. Anna, kumm mol haer. Make Mr. Wilde another plate. He don't eat enough to keep a hen alive."

  He'd never seen farmers eat before, huge amounts grown in their own gardens, different, better than what the caterers brought for the movie company. Supermarket vegetables. David called them legumes fatigues.

  Eating was always difficult for him. He didn't seem to have what other people called appetite, and he rarely ate much at one time or his body began to tense, resisting the process. Nice and neurotic. It was a favorite topic for the amateur psychoanalysts among his past lovers. He was preparing to be firm about the refilled plate when Susan's small sister Carolyn smote the half-organized thought to amused silence by asking him frankly, "Mr. Wilde, why haven't you any wife?"

  Amos Hostetler's brow descended in his daughter's direction and he delivered a curt sentence to the child in dialectical German.

  "Why, I just thought how he must be so lonesome," the child persisted, tiny and maladroit and earnest in her kapp. "Did your mother and dad have no brothers and sisters for you?".

  "Nope. My parents took one look at me and said, 'Never again.'"

  The tyke returned a disbelieving smile, and Anna leaned over the table on her elbows to glare menacingly at the child. "I, for one, could do with fewer brothers and sisters sometimes."

  The unswerving, wide-eyed childish gaze never dropped from his face. "But there must have been no one to play with."

  "And no one to have to share toys with and fight with and tease 'til they cry." Susan stopped as she passed with a basket of bread to gently nip her sister's nose with her fingers.

  "You mean these angelic children fight? I can't believe it." Joan was smiling. Amos looked up and chuckled through his beard.

  "Not big fights so often," Chester said cheerfully, "but once in a while, look out."

  "The shingles come off the house," Daniel said.

  Susan's mother clapped her hands over her ears. "You can imagine all these kids, all screaming."

  "Daniel, I thought you said there were thirteen of you," Joan said. "With so many, do you lose count?"

  The room held an instant odd silence, like a film where the sound track has been magnetically erased. Even two of the children who had been assembling a puzzle in the corner stopped and looked up. The other children had gone still as well, listening fawns in an adult forest. The mother's gaze flew downward to her hands. Susan's aunt turned her face away. Hemmed in by the vigor of his full beard that concentrated each emotion, Amos Hostetler's features carried a deep, recessed chill. He broke the silence.

  "No longer are there thirteen children." The strongly formed hand came palm down, once, on the table, a jarring crash. "No more."

  Alan's gaze rested on Susan's grandmother. Staring toward the window as though the light there formed a bright spot in her world of darkness, tears came in a soft bloom to the sightless eyes and were slowly blinked away.

  Amos's chair scratched the floor as he thrust himself upright. "I've got to go down by the creek and make fence." His good-byes were brief it not unkind, and when the front door closed behind him Joan said, "Mrs. Hostetler, I apologize if I've said anything—"

  "No. No, of course not." She looked up.

&nb
sp; "I understand you've lost a child?" Joan's voice was gentle.

  "A daughter. Rachel." The words were produced with painful dignity.

  Susan's Rachel, then. The one who wanted to embroider bird nests with colored ribbon. So sad. So inexpressibly sad. Alan saw Susan standing motionless as glass beside the kitchen, her hand gripping the doorframe, her gaze following her father's retreating back. But there was no sorrow in her eyes. There was wrath.

  Banished outdoors while the table was being cleared, Alan was put in the charge of Susan's sixteen-year-old brother Luke after Mrs. Hostetler had made the hopeful suggestion, "Mr. Wilde might like to see the turkeys."

  Clean and dramatic, sunlight bounced off the white barn lofting above the outbuildings like a giant ark. Sounds had a midafternoon mute on them, the wind tickling the leaves, the lethargic stirrings of napping animals. Soft scents meandered from the downy sawdust scattered near the woodpile.

  Luke endeared himself to Alan immediately by slamming his finger in the yard sate and snapping out a distinct expletive. He glanced quickly at Alan and said, "Sony."

  "Don't be sorry."

  Luke cheered him up even more by saying firmly, "You don't want to see the turkeys."

  "You have something more exciting in mind?"

  "Well… I have to breed a pair of my rabbits. Want to watch?"

  Alan found himself starting to grin. "This is a spectator sport?"

  "Don't expect much. You put them in a hutch together and it's all over before you can get the latch fastened."

  This proved to be no exaggeration. If Alan had blinked he might have missed it, and then the little buck collapsed on his side into an exhausted heap of gasping bunny far.

  "Dear me. Is he all right?"

  "He's fine. They usually fall over like that. It means that he's—"

  "Right. Right. I get the picture." Wilde was increasingly amused by Luke's farm-boy cool. "You realize if we put this in a movie, you wouldn't be old enough to be allowed in to see it. Why are you taking him out of the cage?"