Amos had just finished his shift waiting on tables, and he seemed happy to be employed here. Before leaving the eatery, he told Gideon that Mari had encouraged him to further his education and that he was seriously considering going to tutoring sessions in the evenings so that he could eventually get his GED. With a clap on his back, Gideon affirmed the young man’s decision.
“I owe so much to you,” Amos said, and with that, took off into the rain, an umbrella over his head.
Yet, instead of feeling contented over Amos’s happiness, Gideon’s thoughts swirled around Moriah. His brother was more interested in drinking a six-pack each night and smoking cigarette after cigarette than talking about what he planned to do with his days. Gideon had been proud to have his baby brother nearby at first, but now he wasn’t so sure. Moriah seemed aloof at times; there was an eerie presence about him, yet other days, he was affectionate and elated.
Removing himself from his thoughts, Gideon glanced around, noticing that he was now the only customer inside. The shop was still except for the music of the raindrops on the roof.
Mari appeared from the kitchen with a thermos and refilled his cup of green tea. “Feels cold in here,” she said, and poured a cup for herself. “My dad always said tea warms the spirit more quickly than kerosene.” As an afterthought, she added, “We had a kerosene heater growing up.”
Gideon wanted to lighten the mood with a joke or two, but his mind was blank. Looking at the paper, he considered bringing up an article he’d read about paving the roads in Twin Branches, but that really wasn’t much fodder for a conversation. Finally, he asked, “Do you see your parents often? Are they still around?” He’d learned that one should never assume anyone’s parents were living.
“I haven’t seen my dad in years. He left us.” She started to say more, but bit her lower lip and stopped. With her hands folded around her teacup, she gazed into the beverage. “My mother’s a hoarder.”
“Hoarder?” The word sounded strange to him, and the minute he said it, thunder cracked.
“Big-time. I’ve tried to think back to how it started. I go crazy wanting to come up with a reason.”
“What does she hoard?”
Mari looked away, as though thinking about it pained her to the point of not being able to respond.
He stirred his tea, although by this time it was lukewarm.
“Puppets.”
“Puppets?” Immediately, as though a prop for their conversation, he saw that mangy orange cloth cat Kiki carried with her. Wasn’t that a hand puppet?
“She has tons of puppets. Literally, tons. She buys them at Goodwill and secondhand shops.” She searched his eyes, as though waiting for some reaction to guide her to continue.
“Is she like those people on the reality shows?”
“Yes.” Sucking in air, she again said, “Unfortunately, yes.”
As the rain rushed over the roof of the tearoom, she moved from behind the counter to sit beside him on a wobbly stool.
He watched her take delicate swallows from her cup, and then seized the opportunity to lean in a little closer to her. She smelled of something sweet and floral. “So,” he said, trying to concentrate on the topic, “is she in bad shape?” Those on the shows certainly were.
“My dad left her years ago. He was tired of living with puppets all over the furniture in the living room and bedroom. At first, he planned to help her toss them out. But she wasn’t going to have anything to do with getting rid of them. He begged her. I remember so many times when I’d be lying awake late into the night and overhear my parents talking. ‘Please, Yukiko,’ my dad would say. ‘Let’s clean this place up. There’s no room to walk in the hallways because they’re crammed, stuffed to the ceiling, with puppets. Please, dear.’” Suddenly Mari stopped. A shocked look spread across her face, an expression that asked, Have I told you too much?
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Well, because I’m sorry that you have to go through this. It must be awful.”
She squeezed his hand, stood, and smoothed out her apron. “I need to go.” Glancing at the clock on the wall she said, “Kiki will be home soon from school, and with this rain, she’ll want a ride to your shop for her shift.”
He stood as well, picked up his cup and plate, and made his way through the double doors into the deserted kitchen after her. “Has your staff already left for the day?”
“We close earlier now.” She took the dishes from him and placed them in the sink. “You know how business is slow around here during Thanksgiving and Christmas. So I decided to cut back our hours.”
He helped her turn off the lights in the room and plug in the fluorescent Closed sign to the right of the entryway. It flashed on once and then burned red through the windowpane.
In the dimness she asked, “Do you go to church?”
“Church?”
“Do you attend anywhere?”
His mind flashed back to services in Carlisle. Sunday mornings, where chairs arranged in a meagerly furnished home filled by neighbors in dark colors, gathered to worship a God he had felt was too strict, too High German, and too harsh for his tastes. “It’s not easy growing up Amish.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” He wondered if she got it, if she knew the impact of his confession.
“Don’t they have good family values, wholesome lives, and all that? Amos told me that they take really good care of each other within their communities.”
He sighed. Amos was right, but Amos had also left because of the confinement he felt within his own community in Lancaster. “What else did Amos tell you?”
“He said he likes the freedom that comes with thinking for himself. He also likes being able to wear T-shirts and jeans. And, oh, he wants to get a tattoo.” Studying his face, she said, “Something tells me you aren’t interested in getting a tattoo.”
“No.” He laughed. “I guess I’m still old-fashioned about some things.” Moriah had told Gideon that he was old-fashioned about everything, but Gideon didn’t feel the need to disclose his brother’s opinion now.
“So … church,” she said, bringing the conversation back to her original question. “I haven’t seen a First Amish Church around, so I’m figuring that you haven’t been in years.”
He wanted to tell her that he was doomed to hell since he’d left his community, so what good would it do to attend church, but she seemed ready to leave for home; this was not the time for a discussion of God. He merely said, “It’s a little complicated.”
She smiled and nodded as though she got it, but he doubted she did. How could any English woman understand his roots, his resentment, the disorder within his heart from a lifestyle that represented order and peace?
“Would you want a ride back to the shop?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Kiki tells me you have a truck, but you prefer to walk everywhere.”
He patted his stomach. “Gotta keep in shape, you know.”
Together they left the tearoom, and once outside, he waited, watching her get into her car. The rain had eased. Now it was only like soft lyrical notes dripping off tree limbs onto a saturated ground.
As she backed her Toyota out of the parking lot, he stood under the ruffled awning that was anchored over the tearoom’s door. Nearing him, she slowed her vehicle and lowered her window. “Don’t say anything about Mama,” she pleaded. “Don’t let Kiki know that you know.”
He guessed she meant about her mother’s hoarding. “I won’t.”
Then he watched her car drive off—a right onto Main at the edge of the parking lot, heading toward home. Her brakes squeaked, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to the rain or if they really needed repair. Perhaps he could propose that she bring her car in for a checkup. She might go for that.
His walk back to the shop was damp and filled with thoughts of her—thoughts that caused him not to mind the moisture against his face and hands.
>
15
When Kiki arrived at the repair shop the next Monday afternoon, she pushed her bike in through the front door. Only one of the garage doors to the bay was opened, and a car stuck halfway inside and halfway out into the parking lot. She thought she recognized the vehicle; something about it gave her stomach one of those floppy feelings like she got just before being summoned to Principal Peppers’ office.
Inside, Gideon greeted her and said that Ormond was at the eye doctor’s, and Luke was having a late lunch with Ashlyn. Then, when his phone rang, he went back to his desk. Kiki hoped it was people calling about her and her wonderful capabilities to fix bikes. She tried to eavesdrop, but another conversation rallied for her attention.
As she perched her bicycle by the storage room, she heard Moriah’s distinct voice. Today it sounded like a sugarcoated donut. Quiet as a mouse, she walked over to the glass door to the garage. There, in the garage, stood Moriah talking to a young woman in a pencil-slim skirt and pair of knee-high black boots.
The woman dangled the keys to her Dodge Intrepid, letting them jingle in front of his nose. She laughed, whispered something, and he laughed, too. Kiki stepped closer to the door of the bay so that she could get a better view and hear what was being said.
The woman removed the lit Marlboro from Gideon’s hand and inhaled. As smoke puffs rose to the garage’s ceiling, she smiled at Moriah. “Welcome to Twin Branches,” she cooed, and Kiki knew that this was not right. The sensation in her stomach told her that this woman shouldn’t be batting her eyes at Moriah because she belonged to someone else. Kiki closed her eyes and tried to remember just who the man was that she had seen this woman with.
“Well, the day was just okay, but now that you are here, it has improved considerably.” Moriah leaned closer to her. “It’s not often that I get to hang out with someone as pretty as you.”
Kiki thought that some of his words came out funny. But the woman didn’t seem to notice.
“So where are you from?” Her lips were scarlet and her nails matched. She held the cigarette out to him—red on white.
“Orlando.” Moriah accepted the cigarette from her and let his lungs absorb the smoke as he took a drag.
“Orlando? How long are you here?”
“As long as the scenery is good.” He winked.
It was then that Kiki realized who she was—she was Angie’s uncle’s girlfriend. She’d seen them together having a meal at the Cloudy Glass Diner on Fifth Street when Mari drove her to her appointment with Dr. Conner a month ago.
“I’m Tamara.” The woman smiled at Moriah. “What’s your name?”
“Moriah.”
“That sounds like a big strong name.”
He smiled as Kiki thought, I can bat my eyelashes, too, and I’m pretty. What does Moriah see in this woman? Kiki doubted she knew anything about pirates.
Tamara left as soon as Luke came back from lunch. He asked Moriah if he’d filled out an order sheet describing what the customer wanted repaired with her car. Moriah simply said, “She asked for a tune-up.” Running a hand over his chest, he added, “I think.”
Luke shook his head. “You gotta stay focused, Moriah. Focus on what the customer wants done to her vehicle, not what she looks like.”
Moriah winked and laughed. “In Carlisle, I used to sneak out of my parents’ house and go to this girl’s house. She was gorgeous.” With that, he headed outside to smoke a cigarette.
Kiki knew that she could bat her eyes like the women did on TV, like Marianne and Ginger on Gilligan’s Island. Did Moriah think she was pretty, at least a little? She ambled over to where he stood, his bare arms round with muscles. She noted a tattoo of a snake on his left bicep.
“Hey,” she said tentatively.
“Hey there.” His smile was warm. “What have you been up to?”
“School, the usual.” She twisted a few strands of hair, like she’d seen Marianne do on TV.
“Do you like school?”
“Some classes are okay, but not math.”
“I never liked math either. Just doesn’t make sense to me.” He snuffed out his cigarette butt with the heel of his boot. Smiling at her again, he asked, “So you been fixing bicycles?”
“Yeah. I made fliers last weekend.”
“Fliers, huh? You’re a regular businesswoman.”
Businesswoman. She liked that, especially when he said it.
Looking at his watch, he said, “I have to be somewhere.”
“Where?”
As he studied her for a moment, she hoped he noticed that she’d used Herbal Essence’s Honeyed Pear conditioner on her hair this morning. She ran a hand over the ends.
“If a man delivers a package for me, will you keep it safe?”
“A package?”
“Yeah. Will you hold onto it, keep it in a safe place for me?”
Was Moriah asking her to help him? Kiki beamed. “Sure.”
“Great!” Moriah lit another cigarette. He gave her earlobe a light pull. “Thanks, Kiki. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“About what?”
“The package that comes for me. Just take it from the man and hide it, okay?”
She ran his instructions through her mind to make sure she understood. “I’ll take good care of it. I won’t tell.” A secret, she could keep a secret. Pirates kept their treasure maps hidden so as not to let others know where they planned to search. She was Kiki the Pirate of the Higher Seas; she wouldn’t tell.
“Kiki, you’re the best.”
She watched him stride across the parking lot. He turned to wave, the sun casting light on his hair and shoulders. She smiled back, feeling as warm as the afternoon sun.
Suddenly he stopped, bent over, and picked something up from the pavement. Sprinting back to her, he said, “I found a penny.” Pressing it into her hand, he said, “Could be a lucky one.” Grinning, he walked away again.
Holding the penny tightly, she kept her eyes on him until he was out of her sight. “Moriah.” Softly breathing his name made her heart pound. “Moriah,” she said again and, fingering the penny, slipped it in her pants pocket.
Inside the shop she heard a squeak, and there stood a small boy with a crop of frizzy hair. A slender woman was by his side. Kiki recognized them both from her neighborhood. She was pretty good with names, and this was John Dimetra and his mother.
“We heard that you repair bicycles,” the woman said. Her smile was light, friendly.
“Yes!” Kiki burst into energy, taking the bike from the boy and pushing it to the area where she worked. Her fliers were paying off! With Mari’s help, she’d printed twenty on her computer three nights ago and placed them by the flags of the mailboxes on her street and the next one over. Mari told her not to put them inside each mailbox because that was considering tampering and against the law.
“The tires need to be replaced,” said the mother, making her way over to Kiki, her hand resting on the handlebar. “This is an old bicycle we got from a neighbor, and the tires have dry-rotted.” She patted the seat as one would the head of a small child.
“Sure!” As soon as Kiki said it, she realized there were no tires or tubing in the auto shop. She’d have to go buy some somewhere, Walmart or something. “I’ll get this done. I can do this. It will probably cost fifteen dollars. Now that’s cheap and I do good work, too.”
She waited for them to leave before entering Gideon’s office. Why did they have to take so long, commenting on every poster for tire advertisements that Ormond had displayed on the walls? Hoping they’d take the hint, she told them goodbye a few times until at last, they nodded and went out the door. Gideon sat at his desk sucking on ice cubes from a plastic cup.
She was about to call him Mr. Miller, thought better of it, tried to say Gideon, but she just couldn’t—so she declined from using any names. “I need supplies,” she blurted.
Gideon shifted a cube to the left side of his mouth. “Supplies?”
“John Dimetra br
ought his bike here, and it looks like it will need new tires. All new. Dry rotten or dry something-or-other.”
“That’s fine.” Gideon had opened a notebook on his desk and appeared to be reading.
“No, it’s not! We need tires so I can repair it.”
“Tires?” He looked up.
“Yes! Quick!”
“How are they paying for this?”
“Didn’t you read the flier I made?” She saw the edge of it peeking out from his messy desk. She’d handed him one the other day, and he’d commented that she’d done a good job.
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