“Some tattletale girl named Angie Smithfield.”
“The funeral home family?”
“That’s it.” With a sour expression, she muttered, “She also told on me.”
“Told on you?”
Kiki didn’t meet his questioning look. “About the parking lot.”
“Oh, I see. That’s how she got the tattletale name.”
Kiki let out an exasperated huff. “She’s too nosy. Nosy Angie Smithfield. Just because her family owns this town doesn’t mean she has to act like she’s the boss over me.”
Ormond sipped from a cup of iced tea. “I always say that those Smithfields wear their money like a nicely pressed suit.”
“Well, none of them will press me like a suit! Angie’s not the boss over Kiki Yanagi.” Kiki stood erect like a statute and saluted.
Gideon stifled a laugh and then suggested that they steer the bike into the empty bay so that he could fill the tire with air from his compressor.
Kiki had never seen a compressor in action before. Ricky always added air with a bike pump he had to maneuver with his own strength. She recalled how his powerful muscles flexed whenever he lifted a bike to the work area inside the gym at the after-school center. Then he’d pump air into each tire, his ability to swiftly fill them leaving Kiki in awe.
Kiki noted the tools scattered at her feet. “Mr. Miller?”
“Gideon,” he corrected.
“Okay. Gideon, then. I need something to put my tools in. Do you have anything?”
Gideon said he’d look around and minutes later handed her a wooden box about the size of a shoebox.
“This is a nice box,” she said, her attention suddenly far from Angie’s bike. Running her fingers over the wood, she felt the grooves where the nails were. She opened and closed the lid, opened it, and placed the three tools inside.
“Gideon made that box,” Ormond said with a look of nostalgia. His eyes met Gideon’s, then he smiled and turned to Kiki. “He used a piece of cedar. When he first came here, making things from wood was about all he knew how to do.”
Kiki rubbed the brass latch. “Really? He made this?” She couldn’t help but think of how beautiful it was, a real work of art. She looked up at Gideon. “You are talented!”
“Thank you.”
“In Amish-land, that was what he was good at,” explained Ormond. “Apparently, he made these and sold them at a local craft store, didn’t you, Gideon? He made a few here and gave them out as Christmas gifts his first Christmas here.”
Gideon reminded Kiki of a little boy who was too shy to admit that he had a skill. She wanted to hear him talk about the box so she said, “What’s it called?”
“It’s called a keepsake box.”
“Keepsake.” Kiki let the unfamiliar word fill her mouth and slip off her tongue. “Keepsake. A keepsake box.” She looked at Ormond and Gideon and suddenly let out a snicker. “For Pete’s sake, give me the keepsake.”
When Ormond laughed, she was encouraged to repeat her ditty. “For Pete’s sake, give me the keepsake.”
Now that she had repaired bicycles and had been given a keepsake box for tool storage, she’d better show others that she had a business. As she pedaled home, she saw a gray piece of paper on a telephone pole, asking about a missing dog. A flier! That’s what she needed to spread the word about her bicycle repair business.
As Mari made dinner, Kiki set out to design a flier on their computer. She wrote Bikes Fixed for You at the top of the page and then remembered that bikes could also mean motorcycles and she didn’t know how to fix them. She changed the words, typing in, Get Your Bisycle Repaired! But when she asked Mari to take a look, her sister told her she’d misspelled bicycle. How embarrassing is that!
As the aroma of fried potatoes, onions, and green peppers saturated the house, Kiki rubbed her temple and wondered what else she could say about her business. “Ahh,” she cried out in frustration. “This isn’t working!”
Mari told her to calm down. Then she soothed Kiki’s brow with a cool hand.
“Let’s eat dinner, Kiki.”
“Then I can finish it after that?”
“Don’t you have homework?”
She had loads of homework, way too much, as usual. When she was the queen of the world, she would never let homework be allowed. Seven hours doing work at school was enough, why did teachers expect more from you at home?
“Kiki, do you have any?”
“Some.”
“You better do it then. You can work on the flier this weekend.”
“Will you help me?” Kiki knew she needed help, and Mari was good at English with all its crazy nouns and verbs.
“Yes.” Mari turned off the stove and said dinner was ready.
After dinner, Kiki went to her room, tried to concentrate on her math homework, and then put it aside to put on her pirate hat. Observing herself in the full-length mirror on her closet door, she shook her head in different directions because she liked to watch the two feathers on the top of the hat bounce with her movements. Pretending she had a sword, she flicked her wrist and called, “Aye, you can’t win over me. I’m the best there is. Aye, aye.”
Ricky had helped her perfect her pirate talk. One day they’d watched the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie in the rec room. Although a few of the other kids joined them, none were as taken with the pirate’s life as Kiki had been. After seeing that movie, she’d asked for a poster from it, and Ricky bought her one for her birthday. She’d found a space big enough on her bedroom wall to hang it. She knew the actor Johnny Depp was Jack Sparrow in the movie, and she found him extremely handsome.
With the hat fitted snugly on her head, Kiki quietly tiptoed down the hallway, entered the kitchen, and picked up the cordless phone that sat on the counter by the refrigerator.
Mari was in the living room; the sound of Frasier reruns softly came from the TV. From memory, Kiki punched in the familiar numbers, numbers she had often dialed when she lived with Mama in Asheville.
With sweaty palms, she waited as the phone rang.
A woman answered.
Using her most grown-up voice, Kiki said, “May I speak to Ricky, please?”
“Ricky?”
“Yes.”
“Ricky no longer works here.”
Kiki thought she hadn’t heard correctly. “Ricky,” she repeated. “Ricky Lopez?” For the sake of Pete, how could the woman not know who he was?
“I’m sorry. He no longer works here.”
“Why not?” She squeezed the phone closer to her ear.
“I don’t know.”
Like a flash across her mind, Kiki saw the gym where Ricky had taught her to shoot hoops, coaching her with patience, although she was not any good. Then there was that afternoon she found him tinkering with a bicycle on the outdoor court and when she asked him how he repaired a flat tire, he showed her. She’d observed with interest.
Now this person on the phone said she had no idea where Ricky was. “Well, when will he be back?” Kiki asked.
“I said he doesn’t work here anymore.”
“But, but why not?” Suddenly, her adult voice caved into that of a desperate child’s.
“I have no clue, honey. I just know he isn’t here.”
Kiki clung to the receiver, even after there was a beeping noise and she knew the woman she’d been talking to had hung up.
12
By Wednesday of the next week, Gideon wondered if he had imagined the phone conversation with Moriah. He played parts of it over in his head, but even so, today he was beginning to think he’d dreamed the whole thing. What if he was so homesick to hear another immediate family member’s voice that his mind was playing tricks on him? His brother had said he was on his way here from Florida. Gideon hadn’t even asked what kind of car Moriah drove.
On the same Wednesday, Gideon decided that perhaps it was time to end a habit. Before Mari had become the new manager at Another Cup, he’d eaten a lot of takeout for lun
ch. Maybe it was time to go back to doing that. Luke had made a comment that he was spending hours over at the tearoom, and if Luke noticed then that meant that either Ormond already did, too, or he would. Ormond was a big teaser.
Each afternoon Ormond picked up food from Ole Loner’s Barbeque, and although the pulled pork looked too greasy for Gideon’s taste, it would have to do today because that’s what he’d ordered.
Spreading a napkin across his desk, Gideon arranged his glass of sweet tea and Dixie plate of pork, coleslaw, and baked beans on top of it. As he sipped his tea, he tried not to ponder on a cute manager with thick black hair and eyes that lit his heart.
The next day he asked Ormond to get him a half-rack of ribs instead of the pulled pork. When he asked if there were other sides, Ormond handed him a coffee-stained menu he kept inside his desk. Gideon requested corn on the cob and green beans. He figured something a little less caloric might be what he needed. He wasn’t getting any thinner. Of course, a voice inside his head whispered, you could give up all that blackberry pie. But why would he want to do that? As far as vices went, blackberry pie was a harmless one.
That afternoon, he stood by his open bay looking out at the parking lot. A cloud of despondency loomed over him, like something was brewing in the air. Even the ribs from lunch seemed sour in his stomach.
The lone morning glory over by the fence behind the metal Dumpster had not bloomed in weeks. He’d have to wait until next summer to feel connected to its faint purple petals again. They were the same color as the teacups his mother had on a shelf in the living room back on the farm. His father had scolded that they were too fancy for a proper Amish wife to own, much less display. His mother merely said that purple was mentioned in the Bible as a color of royalty and displayed them anyway.
Still heavy in thought, Gideon did not recognize the man who walked briskly his way then stopped a few feet in front of him. Gideon noted the man’s long, sandy-colored hair, pulled back in a ponytail. He was dressed in a pair of jeans worn out at the knees and a gray T-shirt. A charcoal leather jacket swung over his shoulder.
The minute he pulled his sunglasses off his eyes, Gideon knew. Frozen, unable to move or find his voice, Gideon stood with his mouth open. This must be what it felt like to be paralyzed. The man laughed and threw his arms around Gideon’s shoulders, knocking Gideon’s cap off his head.
As Gideon welcomed his embrace, he felt all the years he’d missed of this kid’s youth. He smelled Irish Spring soap, cigarettes, and nostalgia—all gripping his heart in every tender crevice. When he found his voice, he said, “Moriah! It is you. You look good.”
His brother laughed again, stepped back, and smiled into Gideon’s face. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Gideon teased, “Still wearing suspenders and a straw hat, right?”
Moriah retrieved his older brother’s cap from the floor of the bay and placed it on his own head. Draping his jacket on a plastic chair by the tool chest, he said, “I’m glad I made it. This is a tiny town. The man I got a ride from said that if you sneeze, you’ll miss it.”
Gideon laughed and playfully snatched his John Deere cap from Moriah’s head and fitted it on his own. He watched Moriah take a pack of Marlboros from his T-shirt pocket. He offered his brother one, but Gideon declined. He wondered when Moriah had picked up the habit. Or maybe it wasn’t a habit yet—maybe it was just another way to denounce all that their father believed was right.
As Moriah lit up, Gideon said, “What took you to Orlando?”
“A girl.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“A girl? Where did you meet her?”
“On the beach. She was wearing a pink bikini.” He grinned, blew out a puff of smoke. “She taught me to surf.”
“You went straight to Florida from Carlisle?”
“No, I went to visit Uncle William in Missouri. Did you ever meet William Bender?”
Gideon thought the name sounded familiar. “One of Mom’s relatives?” With all the family tales she used to tell around the dinner table, it seemed she was related to everyone.
“That’s right.” Moriah inhaled one last time before extinguishing his cigarette. “I went to help him out on his dairy farm and then never went back home after that.”
Gideon thought of his own story of departure. That night of his cousin’s wedding, he’d snuck out of the house to meet an English friend down the road. The friend was headed to Virginia Beach for the summer but had been willing to first drive Gideon to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. In Staunton, Gideon had helped out on an uncle’s farm until he made his trek into North Carolina.
Moriah swung an arm around his brother. “The farm life there was okay. I did go out with this pretty girl who lived across the street. But …” He paused as though he was debating whether or not to tell more about his relationship with her. “I wanted to get away from farming. You know, like you did. And here I am now!”
Dismissing his brother’s enthusiasm, Gideon blurted, “How’s Mom?” Although he’d only written to her once since he’d left home—Ormond had insisted that she needed to hear he was safe—he thought of her often.
Moriah lit another cigarette. Between blowing smoke rings, he said, “She’s the same. She’ll always be the same.” Gideon wasn’t sure just what he meant by that, but decided not to ask.
“I don’t miss them at all. Good riddance is what I say, you know?”
Gideon felt the strain in his own jaw. Moriah made leaving a family seem easy, as though there was no room for remorse or regret. Clenching his teeth, he fought the urge to say something sarcastic.
The rest of the afternoon, Gideon tried to keep his questions to a minimum, especially after Moriah complained that he could be a drill sergeant. He introduced Moriah to Luke and Ormond. When Kiki came by after her doctor’s appointment, Gideon said, “This is my long-lost baby brother.”
“Your brother?” said Kiki. “I thought after you, your parents decided you were enough and not to have any more kids.” She grinned. Then with a careful look at Moriah, she smoothed out her hair with her hand and moistened her lips.
Moriah laughed. “Had they been normal, they would have. But they are Amish and believe that the more kids, the better your chances are at getting into Heaven.”
“Really?” Kiki looked at Gideon for his reaction.
“No,” interjected Gideon with force. “That’s not true.”
“I believe it is,” said Moriah, the smile gone from his young face. “Why else do they reproduce like rabbits?”
Gideon wished Moriah would be quiet. It bothered him that his brother could lash out criticisms without considering the effect his words had on others.
“Rabbits?” Kiki repeated. “Rabbits?”
“It’s an expression.” Gideon’s tone was strong, hoping it would make his brother realize that he needed to curb this conversation. Turning to Moriah he said, “Do you have dinner plans?”
Moriah said he had no plans, but he was hungry. “Haven’t eaten since this morning, and that was so long ago.”
Quickly, Gideon did a mental assessment of what was in his fridge and freezer at home. “You like grilled chicken?”
“Sure.”
“I like grilled chicken,” said Kiki. “And macaroni and cheese. And pie and milkshakes.” She smiled. “I like fowl roasted over a spit, too. That’s what pirates eat when they’re looking for treasure.” In a serious tone, she explained, “Fowl means bird.”
Moriah smiled wide, his teeth sparkling like an ad for toothpaste. “A girl after my own heart.” Then in a singsong voice, he belted out, “It’s a pirate’s life for me! Aye, aye! A pirate’s life for me!”
“I like pirates!” Kiki cried. “I was a pirate at Halloween.”
Moriah nodded. “I like them, too. They get to ride on cool ships and look for treasure. They never have to be home at a certain time. They just wander.”
Gideon wished it wasn’t so, but Kiki was looking at Moriah with a contented, d
reamy expression, like she thought he was the most handsome man around. The truth was, he was. Gideon sucked in his jealousy, slapped Moriah on the back, and offered a small smile. “Good, good,” he said, although he wasn’t sure why.
In his apartment kitchen, Gideon washed russet potatoes to roast, patting them dry and then covering them with dabs of butter and sprigs of fresh rosemary. He’d seen a chef on the Food Network make potatoes this way and ever since then had made his own. Finding a pack of frozen peas, he decided to add them to the menu. He’d spice them up a bit with some oregano and onions. “You still like peas?” he called out to Moriah, recalling a toddler in a high chair cramming peas into his miniature mouth.
Still Life in Shadows Page 8