Still Life in Shadows

by Alice J. Wisler

  “Didn’t come to be pestered about working,” said Moriah.

  Pestered! Gideon felt his blood steam. Hotly, he said, “What do you want, then? Everyone around here works!”

  “I’m moving out,” Moriah said. “I’m gonna live on my own.”

  “Fine!” Gideon knew the word came out the same way his father used to say it when he was angry.

  “So I won’t be coming by this stinkin’ place no more. I’m outta here for good!” Moriah’s voice was like a thunderbolt, hitting every nerve in Gideon’s body.

  It was Kiki’s piercing look that made Gideon catch his breath and stop yelling. Gritting his teeth, he said, “Suit yourself.”

  Moriah flung his jacket over his shoulder and stalked out of the shop. A powerful trail of sweat and overly fried food odors lingered where he’d stood.

  They all heard Moriah shout his last line across the parking lot. “Goodbye, bro! I’ll see you in hell.”

  The words didn’t make Gideon cringe as much as the tone. Moriah sounded like their father. Gideon let his mind spin back to that day when the police said non-Amish neighbors were complaining that the Miller outhouse was not in compliance with the town’s building code regulations. Gideon’s father said the law did not apply to him and cited some statement that said the Amish were entitled to build what they wanted, how they wanted.

  “Not true,” the cop said. “You are still under some laws.”

  Their father had lashed out, his temper causing him to spout words neither Gideon nor Moriah had ever heard from his lips. He was handcuffed and taken to the local jail where he’d spent a night. He promised he would not cause a ruckus again. His next act would never be punished, but it was the one that made Gideon vow to leave as soon as he turned fifteen. Forget rumspringa. He would leave before the Amish rules said he could venture out and run around freely.

  As Gideon looked out at the parking lot, he only saw a few parked cars, the metal Dumpster, and the fence that ran around the perimeter of the auto shop. A catbird cried from a nearby tree, but Gideon barely heard its cry because Moriah’s words were still screeching in his ears.

  Kiki had just adjusted the brakes on a shiny blue bike, brought in by the caller from yesterday. Proudly, she spun the wheels and then, releasing the kickstand, pushed the Road Runner around the inside of the shop. “It’s fixed! Look, I fixed it, Gideon!”

  Gideon smiled, pleased that Kiki was happy about her work. He really needed to pay her for her work; he must discuss that with Ormond. However, right now Kiki seemed more interested in working than getting paid. Gideon found that both refreshing and unusual. He wondered when humans started to care more about how much they got paid instead of how well they performed a job. Had he once been more zealous than he was now? Or was he more determined to prove that Ormond had not made a mistake in entrusting Russell Brothers to him completely when Ormond eventually retired? He remembered that day the older man had set a cup of iced tea in front of Gideon and ordered, “Drink up! Hurry, before I change my mind. Or before Elma talks me out of it.”

  Gideon knew that Elma was Ormond’s ninety-eight-year-old mother, a tiny woman who still drove a 1976 Cadillac, much to everyone in Twin Branches’ dismay. Elma Russell had been known to call a blue dress, gray, and a pair of black shoes, brown. If she could no longer recognize colors, the residents wondered, then how would that help her when she came to a traffic light? The locals had all encountered at one time or another the Cadillac with the license tag that read ELMA #1. She wove in and out of the streets, made U-turns from the right lane, and stopped in the middle of the road to search for her glasses that she claimed fell off her face whenever she slammed on the brakes.

  Ormond had noted Gideon’s perplexed expression, so he clarified his original statement. “Congratulations! The shop is yours! When I go, it will belong to you. Elma will have to deal with it.”

  Gideon knew Elma had strong opinions and imagined that she had tried to talk her son out of leaving the auto shop to an outsider and non-family member. Yet, as he looked at both the cup of tea and around the shop, he wondered if Ormond was making the best decision. Feeling unworthy, Gideon had gasped, “You’re leaving this place to me?”

  Ormond clapped Gideon on the back. “Yep, I’m leaving it all to you. Drink up!”

  Not sure what to say, Gideon had blinked. He took a sip of the tea. It was a little too sweet for his tastes. “Are you … sure?”

  “I have rarely been more certain of anything. You just need to come with me to my attorney’s and we’re set in stone.”

  “Attorney’s?”

  “Don’t you have those in Amish country?”

  Gideon knew lawyers were everywhere, and never far, not even in Amish country.

  “This is your entire headache when I go,” said Ormond as he motioned a hand above his head and let it move across the office. “I’ve decided you would be the best owner when the time comes. You are conscientious, dedicated, and you know cars.” Then he sailed out of the shop to order lunch, tossing over his shoulder as he went, “You are welcome.”

  Slowly realizing the impact of what Ormond had just told him, Gideon felt a smile spread over his own face. Conscientious, dedicated, and I know cars. Well, all of that is true. This time when he took a sip of tea, it was not too sweet at all. It was just right.

  Kiki was enjoying the Baby Ruth morsels of chocolate that Gideon brought to her from his walk to the Laundromat. Flecks of chocolate smeared her mouth. Laughing, she said, “These are the best!” He’d take her some Tums later and hopefully, her stomach would be okay. Gideon had heard Mari warn the young girl not to eat too much chocolate because it did make her hyper. Kiki even claimed that chocolate gave her digestive system a bubbly feeling. “But,” she cooed, “it’s so delicious. No wonder they make Easter bunnies out of this stuff.” She ran her tongue over her lips in an effort to enjoy every morsel.

  Before Gideon could get a paper towel for her to wipe her mouth, in walked Moriah. His footsteps were heavy against the shop’s floor.

  Without acknowledging anyone, Moriah bellowed, “They’re going to get me!”

  “Get you? Who?” Moriah’s tone was frightening, but Gideon strove to remain calm.

  Ignoring his questions, Moriah stood inches from Gideon’s face and cried, “No matter what happens to me, bury me by the weeping willow. Okay?”

  Gideon wondered what his brother was up to. Why did he always feel he needed to have all the attention?

  As Moriah faced him, demanding an answer, Gideon looked at the ground, at the wall, at Kiki—anywhere but his brother’s bloodshot and crazed eyes. There were too many fears portrayed in them. Fears Gideon didn’t want to see.

  “Okay, bro?” Moriah repeated.

  “The one by the apple orchard?” Gideon asked as evenly as he could. He was not going to get in another argument, especially not here. Not at work, again.

  “That’s the one. Okay? Bury me there. Only there.”

  Gideon recalled how Moriah loved to climb that tree and pretend he was a pirate on a ship. His younger brother’s infatuation had not come from TV, videos, or books on pirates. It was a little boy who lived on York Road that had given Moriah a taste for hidden treasure and adventurous seas. This boy dressed in a black hat, brandished a toy sword, and wore a patch over one eye when he played. Moriah saw this boy when he’d ride into town with Gideon. As their horse and buggy passed the front lawn, Moriah would crane his neck to view the pirate scene. Amused by his antics, Moriah even repeated some of the boy’s phrases: “Aye, yes, a pirate’s life for me!” Gideon’s thoughts shifted from the past to this moment. Why was his brother suddenly focused on death? “Why all this talk about burial?”

  “I asked you—will you?” Moriah’s shrill voice made Gideon’s skin grow clammy. “That’s what I’m asking!”

  “Sure.”

  “Deal?” Moriah extended a shaky hand. Gideon took it, bothered by its lack of warmth and energy. But before he could co
me up with anything more to say, his brother raced out of the shop.

  “He’s in a big hurry,” said Kiki, getting up to watch Moriah’s retreat. “What did he mean about the tree?”

  Gideon explained about the tree at their home place in Carlisle. As he told Kiki about the wispy tree with swaying leaves, he could almost smell the aroma of the apples in the orchard standing next to it.

  “Is your home in the mountains, too?”

  “There are mountains nearby.”

  “I want to go there. I’ve never been outside of North Carolina, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Some place with good food and twenty-four-hour TV shows.”

  Laughter shot through him. This kid could always make him laugh and feel lighthearted. One minute he was frustrated with Moriah, ready to knock some sense into his brother, and the next, Kiki had him smiling.

  23

  Over the next few days, Gideon found himself waking from sleep and searching the apartment for his brother—hoping to find him, and yet relieved when he was not in sight. The mixture of emotions drove him crazy with fear. If Moriah wasn’t at home, where was he and what was he up to? If he did show up at home, what would he be up to and what kind of mood would he be in? The expression walking on eggshells crossed Gideon’s mind many times throughout the week.

  If it were only one ruckus, Gideon could put it behind him, but with Moriah it was clearly more. Something was causing Moriah to react in highly volatile ways—behavior that Gideon had never before experienced from anyone. Anxiety searing both his heart and mind, Gideon tried to clear his head on the next Saturday afternoon. He went for a long walk, but even after five miles, he was still anxious. He passed the Valley Ridge Apartments and wondered if he should demand that his brother move to an apartment there. Get a backbone, he reprimanded himself. Tell him he has to move out today. Or else.

  Finally back at his apartment, he sat on a chair in his living room, trying to relax. He noticed a cobweb in the corner, just above the floor, so he got his mop. He decided that cleaning would be a good way to alleviate some of his pent-up aggravation.

  As he dusted under the sofa with a dry Swiffer mop, he felt the edge of it hit against something. Gideon drew it out to find an aluminum-wrapped object measuring about five-by-five inches. Picking it up, he turned it over a few times and then sniffed it, wondering what it could be.

  Suspicion grabbed him and he knew he would have to open it. Carefully, he pulled back the foil. Inside were five white, handmade, cigarette-like items. He heard a noise at the door and quickly stuffed the packet into his jeans pocket. As he looked at the front door, he expected it to open and for Moriah to enter. Although his brother claimed he was moving out, he had yet to make good on his promise. The sound at the door continued as Gideon faced it.

  With labored breath, he waited. The noise at the entryway to his apartment ceased. Resuming normal breathing, he wondered why he felt guilty for finding whatever it was under the sofa. This was his apartment; he paid the rent. He didn’t need to feel wrong for finding something, even if Moriah had tried to hide it.

  He opened the foil packet again, laying it out on the coffee table. This time he noticed a small clear plastic bag underneath the cigarettes. He pulled at the edge and lifted the bag. Inside were tiny crystals, resembling rocks. Gideon’s hands grew hot and he tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. Of course, he could ask Henry what these cigarette-looking items were. But as he studied the crystals, suspicion rose. He had to know now. At his computer, he typed descriptive keywords to search by until he stopped at a photo that matched what was on his table. Meth!

  “Methamphetamine has a high potential for addiction and abuse,” Gideon read from a website called Dangerous Drugs. “Made from household products such as lye, cold medicine, battery acid, paint thinner, and iodine, meth can be found in the form of tiny rock-like crystals, powder, or even made into cigarettes.” Skimming a few paragraphs, he continued to read, “Meth is highly addictive. Symptoms include sleeplessness, paranoia.” Moriah’s words from yesterday shot into Gideon’s memory. “They’re going to get me!” That certainly sounded like what someone afraid that people were out to capture him would say.

  Cautiously, Gideon unrolled one of the cigarettes and breathed in. The flaky greenish substance inside the thin paper looked like marijuana to him. Meth and marijuana, what was Moriah doing to himself? Who supplied him with this?

  Gideon went to the kitchen and got a glass. Filling it with water from the tap, he tried to decide what to do. He’d confront his brother. He drank slowly, the liquid cool against his parched throat. Taking another sip, he walked over to the coffee table. His findings from under the sofa were still there. Drugs—here in his own apartment. Drugs that belonged to Moriah. If Mother and Father could see him now.

  We’ve come a long way from Carlisle, he thought. But then he couldn’t help but recall what Luke’s sister had said to him one Christmas when she came to Twin Branches for vacation. “You can get drugs anywhere. I knew kids in Lancaster that smoked marijuana.”

  Could Moriah have started his habit then? Gideon tried to picture a younger Moriah in the loft of someone’s barn on a warm summer night, lighting up a joint. But meth was surely not produced in some abandoned shed or barn, was it? Where had his brother picked up this habit?

  When the door rattled, Gideon set his water glass down and quickly wrapped the drugs together again. He’d toss them all out, but first he needed to get them out of sight. Whoever was at the door might not believe that the substances were not his. He shoved the foil package deep under the sofa.

  “Hey!” Moriah’s voice boomed from the other side of the door.

  Gideon stood to unlock the door.

  Moriah breezed past him, a six-pack in his hand. Gideon breathed in a sour aroma.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Out.” Moriah’s ponytail hung like a knotted rope.

  “You’d better not be getting into trouble.”

  Moriah laughed, sounding like a hyena. “In this little town? How would I get into trouble? Am I going to be caught with too much apple cider?”

  “I’m warning you.”

  Moriah’s eyes were bloodshot, the rims puffy, like he had some sort of allergy. His cheeks, like wrinkled linens, were sunk into his face. The usual color from his lips was gone; now they resembled the color of titanium white on a paint chart. “Are you warning me?” He paced toward the bathroom. “No one gets in my way.”

  “You can’t do this to yourself.” Gideon stood between his brother and the bathroom door.

  “Why not?”

  Why not? Gideon tried to dismiss the nausea creeping into his stomach. “It’s not legal, for one thing.” The minute he said it, Gideon realized that he was letting his brother know that he was aware of his drug use, even though he had not admitted to what he’d found under the sofa. For a second he feared what Moriah’s reaction would be.

  “So?” was all that Moriah had to say. He repeated it five times, until Gideon wanted to pull his hair out.

  “I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do, so there!” Moriah sounded like a kid being told he couldn’t have candy before bedtime. Not even a Snickers or Twix bar.

  “It ruins your health.”

  “Have you ever tried it?” He opened a can of Coors.

  Where was this leading to? Tried it? Why would he poison his body? Why would he—“No.”

  “Then don’t judge. Don’t be so high and mighty.”

  Gideon felt his blood curdle. “High and mighty?!” He was not his father. He had not come all this distance to be likened to his father.

  “Just let me live my life.” Moriah downed his beer and reached for another.

  “Stop!” Gideon stood between him and the rest of the cans. “Stop doing this to yourself.” His instinct was to slap some sense into Moriah’s head, but he wouldn’t react as Father used to. With his hands at his side, he yelled, �
��Wake up!”

  Moriah laughed uncontrollably. “Just stay out of my hair.”

  Sunday morning a week later, Gideon found himself at the door of Mari’s church. He took a deep breath and crossed the threshold. Meeting Mari and Kiki at the foyer of Fifth Street Presbyterian, he greeted them and then followed the sisters to a pew lined with a long red cushion. In front of them was Angie, wearing a silky black shirt and too much makeup.

  Now what did Kiki call this girl? Oh, the tattletale, Gideon remembered. He would have to refrain from calling her that name to her face. After all, she was a Smithfield, and it was likely that her relatives had donated the very pew he sat on to the church.

  As Angie smiled at Kiki, Kiki smiled back, and Gideon decided that things must be okay between the girls now.