Praise for Still Life in Shadows
“Alice J. Wisler is a master artist with words. Her characters come alive from the first page, and draw you into their world, holding you a willing captive until you turn the last page. Still Life in Shadows is a unique and compelling story, which Novel Rocket and I highly recommend.”
—ANE MULLIGAN, senior editor at Novel Rocket
“Novelist Alice Wisler creates unforgettable characters in a plot that keeps turning up surprises. Read it and weep. Or laugh. Maybe even pray.”
—EUGENE H. PETERSON, professor emeritus of Spiritual Theology and translator of The Message
“As an Alice J. Wisler fan, I was expecting yet another great read; needless to say, I wasn’t disappointed. Still Life in the Shadows is a wonderfully crafted and compelling story. It held my heart captivate from the first page until the very last line. I highly recommend this book. You don’t want to miss this one!”
—DEBRA LYNN COLLINS, Christian fiction writer
“A touching novel about how an embittered man is forced to face the Amish community he ran away from years ago. Told by a thirty-year-old auto mechanic and an autistic teenage girl, Alice Wisler’s Still Life in Shadows speaks of the complexities of family, of belonging, and the tricky task of forgiving. Especially when it comes to yourself.”
—JULIE L. CANNON, author of Twang
“Alice Wisler’s characters come to life on the pages of Still Life in Shadows as they face real problems and find out that sometimes the hardest thing to do is go home again. While this book might not be your typical Amish story as it explores what happens when a man leaves the Amish fold, it is one you’ll be glad you read.”
—ANN H. GABHART, author of The Outsider and other Shaker and historical novels
“Complex and raw, Still Life In Shadows is a poignant story in which Alice Wisler has created characters who evolve from the stark, monochromatic lines of a newly begun painting into the richly brushed colors of a masterpiece. This was a beautiful novel filled with heart and truth.”
—JESSICA NELSON, author of Love On the Range
“Alice J. Wisler took me by surprise with this intriguing spin on the Amish genre. Still Life in Shadows is a beautiful story about the complexities of faith, friendship, family, and the daring lengths one man will go to save those he cares about. An excellent demonstration of God’s love, this story has the power to change hearts.”
—TINA ANN FORKNER, author of Rose House
“Alice Wisler’s Still Life in Shadows, captures a clearer glimpse into the Amish life. You will fall in love with the real-life characters and will be cheering them on the whole way. Their caring support of each other gives the real depiction of what a family looks like, even if it’s not what their society says. And with their eyes focused on God, they can’t help but to prosper in whatever community they choose to live in.”
—KATY LEE, author of Real Virtue
Still Life in Shadows
Alice J. Wisler
MOODY PUBLISHERS
CHICAGO
© 2012 by
ALICE J. WISLER
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
The author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.
Edited by Rachel F. Overton
Interior design: Ragont Design
Cover design: Dugan Design Group
Cover image: iStock RF from Alamy.com
Author photo: CK Photography
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wisler, Alice J.
Still life in shadows / Alice J. Wisler.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-8024-0626-2
I. Title.
PS3623.I846S75 2012
813’.6—dc23
2012016644
We hope you enjoy this book from River North Fiction by Moody Publishers. Our goal is to provide high-quality, thought-provoking books and products that connect truth to your real needs and challenges. For more information on other books and products written and produced from a biblical perspective, go to www.moodypublishers.com or write to:
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Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Recipes
Acknowledgments
For all yearning to belong
Still, my soul, be still; do not be moved by lesser lights and fleeting shadows.
Keith and Kristyn Getty and Stuart Townend
1
Kiki had to get out, get going, or she’d punch a hole in something. This two-bedroom house was as cramped as a coffin and nearly smelled like one, as the aroma of fried food saturated the walls. Mari had told her to stay close, dinner was almost ready. But who wanted to wait around inside as her sister stir-fried green peppers, onions, and potatoes—again?
In her room, Kiki laced her neon green tennis shoes as quickly as her fingers could maneuver the frayed strings. She grabbed Yoneko, her cotton tabby-cat puppet, and scrambled to her feet. Too quickly. The blood all rushed from her head. She steadied herself against her closet door and waited for the sensation to pass. Slow down, slow down, for Pete’s sake. Then with tiny steps, she ventured into the hallway.
Her sister Mari—a lanky figure still wearing the tea shop’s frilly apron—stood in front of the stove. With her back to Kiki, she turned vegetables over with a spatula and hummed some song—probably from the last century. Mari liked those old romantic songs by the Beatles and Bob Dylan because, as she put it, they had meaning for her heart.
Kiki held her breath; she was good at that. One, two, three. She’d held it for ninety-nine seconds once. No way could anyone, especially not that braggart, Angie Smithfield, compete with the record she’d set. Still holding and counting to herself, she made no sound as she slipped toward the screened back door. She opened it cautiously, making sure not to bang it against the frame.
Quiet as a mouse. If Mari knew what she was up to, the game was over. Mari would yell, then Kiki’d yell and do what Dr. Conner said she must not do—throw a clenched fist at her bedroom wall.
There, dimmed by the fading sun on the crooked driveway, stood her best friend�
�her maroon bicycle. She tossed Yoneko into the wire basket that wobbled by the handlebars, hopped on, and released the kickstand with a swift push. Just a little cruise before it was time to eat. Just down the street and around the corner. Exercise was good for her. Hadn’t Dr. Conner told her that?
She pedaled fast and then slow, pretending she was a cyclist on some reality TV show, going for the prize. With the evening breeze in her short-cropped black hair, she smiled. Riding was almost as beautiful as hearing the choir at church sing the benediction about God being close to us, like our very breath. When she rode, it didn’t matter that she was often a girl in the shadows watching others her age gather to talk about boys, leaving her out.
The dry mountain road curved around, and the climb was steep. But once she passed the Ridge Valley Apartments, the road sloped and she could coast down it with ease. To the left, right, suddenly she was in town pedaling past the hardware store, the tearoom, the Smithfield Funeral Home, and then a right curve by Russell Brothers Auto Repair Shop.
She’d watched these men, greasy with car fluids, jack up a Chevrolet or Ford in the two bays and use their tools to fix what they needed to. They had so many shiny tools. Her fingers itched to touch them, to use them on her bike. One of these days, she’d ask them—ask the man who always wore a beige shirt and John Deere ball cap—if she could borrow a tool or two. Her bike’s front wheel was squeaky, especially after she cruised in the rain. But now a sign on the shop’s glass door read “Closed.” That meant everyone had gone home. She edged her bike toward the parking lot, a wide section to the left of the shop. Today it was barricaded by four bright orange cones, cones standing tall in a line where the lot met the leaf-blown sidewalk.
Past those cones was a spacious place to ride, without a parked car or truck in sight. She bet she could go fast. The space called to her; she could hear it. She would just ride around it, the autumn air in her face. She wouldn’t hurt anything—those cones probably just meant they didn’t want people parking there when they were closed. She heard music in her head—not one of Mari’s ancient songs, but one of her own that sang, Kiki is the champion, Kiki rides faster than the wind.
She pedaled quickly into the lot. Immediately her bike slowed, grew sluggish. She pedaled harder. What was wrong? She looked at the pavement. For Pete’s sake, it was soft and gooey, like the oatmeal Mari made for breakfast on chilly mornings before school. She pumped her legs hard; that always made her bike sail. But today it was only getting the front tire stuck. She tried again, but the bike teetered to the left. To regain balance, she dropped her feet from the pedals onto the ground. Like the tires, her shoes made fresh imprints into the pavement.
She saw all the faces that could get mad, grow red with frustration. “Yoneko,” she said to her puppet, “we gotta get out of here.” Her tires were coated with a gray film, and as she rushed home, flecks flew from them and dripped off her tennis shoes.
A few neighbors called, but she just kept racing toward her one-story house with the peeling front porch. In the driveway, she slid off her bike and guided it against the side of the house, behind an overgrown azalea bush. She pulled Yoneko from the basket and looked at her sneakers. They were caked. She tried scraping their soles against the gravel driveway and then in the grass. Knowing that there wasn’t much time till dinner, she sat down in the yard and quickly tugged them off. Dropping them inside the basket, she hoped that no one would see the dirty bike or her shoes. No one will ever know, she thought as she mounted the steps to her back door.
Inside, she took a few breaths.
“Kiki!” Mari’s voice was loud from the kitchen.
“Yes?” Kiki made her way down the hall, her socks slipping along the hardwood.
“Where were you?” Mari searched her eyes, then filled the room with a vast sigh. “Come on, time to eat.”
Kiki stared at the plate of fried food her sister had placed at her table setting. She dreamed of chicken baked in crushed onion rings, like she saw on a TV commercial, mashed taters, a side of macaroni and cheese, and a slice of creamy chocolate pie. But there would be none of that. Her sister only knew how to make one recipe, and this—this measly dish—was it.
2
At sunrise, Gideon Miller, dressed in a beige shirt and black pants, ambled into his kitchen. As he spread apple butter on wheat toast, he thought of the harvest in Carlisle. Something about autumn mornings made him nostalgic for the open fields and watery-blue skies of his hometown, the distant mountains framing the landscape like a postcard. He thought of his mother, in a gray apron and bonnet, hanging clothes on the line. He saw his father, heaving bales of hay into his barn nestled in the ninety acres of farmland, his face stern because he did not know how to smile. Even after all these years away, Gideon’s childhood crackled like dry leaves into the crevices of his memory. Why did he allow these thoughts? Seeing it was already seven, he placed his plate into the dishwasher and grabbed his John Deere ball cap from the hook on the living room wall.
Pushing aside anger from his youth, he set out to walk the mile to work. Walking was his fitness program. At thirty, he was not getting any younger. Or thinner. The brisk trek to the shop each morning, then back to his apartment after work, helped him feel no guilt when he went to the tearoom for a coveted piece of blackberry pie. Their pie was just like his aunt Grace made back in Harrisburg, the crust flaky and the filling not too sweet. Good blackberry pies weren’t easy to come by.
He saw the damage to the pavement as soon as he rounded the corner. The cones were still there, spaced like he’d left them yesterday at closing. The cones were supposed to keep everyone out, but hooligans were oblivious to those rules.
Ormond Russell sat at the desk he kept in the middle of the shop’s musty office, seven feet in front of the storage room. Ormond, too old to be much good now, had taught Gideon everything he knew—from diagnosing engines to changing spark plugs. The shop was his, named after his father, the late Edgar Russell.
“What happened to the driveway?” Gideon bellowed. His voice made the hair rise on the back of his own neck. Why was it that whenever he yelled, he sounded just like his father?
“Beats me.” Ormond looked up from the Twin Star and sipped from a chipped mug of coffee. He wiped a hand over his gray mustache. “I parked across the street by the hardware store. I listened when you told me yesterday the parking lot was out of commission from being newly poured.”
“There are tracks all over it.”
“Tracks? The train don’t run through here, now do it?” Ormond chuckled as he often did when he was amused by his own jokes.
Gideon usually laughed with Ormond, but not this morning. Not after he had spent half a day smoothing new concrete. “Someone will pay.” His father’s phrase—someone will pay. He’d used it that day, his neck pulsating with purple veins, when the gate to the orchard had been left open.
Gideon thought of calling Henry Kingston, Twin Branches’ sheriff, and filing a complaint, but the phone on his cluttered desk rang and delayed that concern.
“Hello, Russell Brothers Auto Repair.”
“Uh, hi.”
“Yes?” Gideon drew the receiver closer.
“Is this Gideon Miller?” The voice was strained.
“It is.”
“Gideon?”
“Yes.” Was this another prank call? Silence was heavy on the other end. “State your business, please.”
“I’m Amos.” There was a pause. “Amos Stoltzfus, son of Ruth and Amos in Lancaster.”
Gideon knew Lancaster County. They produced some of the best apple butter of any Amish community. “Well, Amos. What can I do for you?”
“I’m told you can help me.”
Gideon heard the accent then, there was no denying it. His gut told him this was not going to be a conversation about a car that needed new tires or to be towed from a desolate mountain road. As he watched Luke Sauder enter the shop and head to his bay to finish work on a Ford truck brought in yesterday, he
recalled six years ago. It had been autumn then, too, when Luke called him from a gas station in Huntington, West Virginia, asking if Gideon would help him and his thirteen-year-old sister Rebecca to escape. They’d managed to get rides—on public transportation and from an uncle who owned a furniture store in Cincinnati. Their uncle took them as far as Charleston, West Virginia, but they needed a way to get to him in Twin Branches, North Carolina. They were out of money.
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