Still Life in Shadows

by Alice J. Wisler

  He’d always thought that seeing Father again would make him succumb to a crime, one where he’d beat the tar out of him. But he had no desire to lift a hand to him now. His anger toward the man he’d known as his father somehow, today, only made him want to beg him to soften his heart and show some compassion.

  35

  When Pastor Nate Mitchell arrived in a thick overcoat, woolen cap, and leather gloves, the sky was a mass of shifting clouds. Kiki and Mari wrapped woolen scarves around their necks and huddled, shivering together.

  “What about your family?” Nate motioned toward Gideon’s sisters, father, and mother. “Shall we invite them over?”

  “They don’t need to be asked,” said Gideon, the words harsh like sharpened arrows.

  “Perhaps they do.” The pastor waved at them, beckoning them to come over the orchard to this side by the willow.

  Gideon muttered, “They won’t come. Just start the service. Please.” From the corner of his eye, he could see that no one across the rows of trees was making any attempt to traipse over to the grave. “Let’s just start.”

  Nate acknowledged Gideon’s request, drawing Kiki, Mari, Gideon, Jeremiah, and Lowell around him. “Dearly beloved,” he said. “We have come together to remember a man we loved. He was a brother, a son, a friend, and a child of God. He was loved and cherished, and his death has broken our hearts.”

  Upon hearing those words, Gideon fell to his knees. He waited for the sobs to form, for wailing to rush out from his chest like a waterfall along a mountainous trail, but nothing came forth. It’s okay, he said to himself, cry right here, right before Father. Show him it is all right to cry. Inching forward on his knees toward the opened grave, he felt the dirt rub into his pant legs. Are we formed from dirt, only to return to dirt? What is life, but a passing shadow, at times only brief enough to say hello. What was the purpose? Was it to serve God? Why couldn’t Moriah have made more of his years?

  With his head between his hands, Gideon felt anguish and agony lodge themselves on each of his shoulders as the limbs of the willow nearby swayed back and forth, rocking like a mother cradling her child to sleep. “Moriah,” he moaned. “Moriah, I’m so sorry.”

  Mari knelt to his left, and Kiki followed, bending beside him.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Kiki cried. Although tears moistened the girl’s cheeks, Gideon’s eyes were dry.

  He’s broken me, he thought. He’s made me believe that I can’t cry in front of him. Gideon wanted to lift his head and glare across the orchard at his father, but he wouldn’t. He would let this be a ceremony for Moriah, not a clash against a man he had come to despise.

  Before ending the service, Nate asked for all to join hands. As a shadow fell across the orchard, he offered a prayer. “Dear Lord, we commit Moriah’s spirit into Your care. Amen.”

  “And please take care of Gideon here,” Kiki said, her voice rising above the sound of sniffing back tears. “He needs a whole lot of help.”

  Gideon looked up at the heavy, dark sky. Just like in the movies at graveside services, it looked like rain.

  When it was time to lower the coffin into the ground, Lowell studied the particle board box for a moment and then looking at Gideon asked, “Are you sure Moriah’s body is inside?”

  Was he joking?

  “I heard this story once where the family was burying a body and when they opened the casket, it was empty.”

  With that, Kiki tugged at the hinges. “He’s in here,” she said. “I know it.”

  “Kiki,” said Mari, “that’s not how to go about opening it.” She walked over to the right side and, within seconds had the coffin lid raised.

  And there, resting against a cotton lining was Moriah, dressed in jeans and a periwinkle shirt. His eyes were closed, his mouth serene. Gideon forced himself to look, made himself see Moriah’s arms, crossed over his chest, his broad hands, his fingers, his blond hair combed into a ponytail. Beige makeup covered his facial bruises. It seemed every effort had been made to make Moriah look like Moriah. Even his feet were encased in a pair of leather boots.

  Gideon felt tears sting his eyes, but he lifted his head so they couldn’t flow down his cheeks. What had he expected? That he could experience this embalmed body that belonged to his brother and not feel excruciating pain and remorse? Unable to suppress the sudden urge, Gideon lifted his brother’s shirt, pulling the hem from where it was tucked inside his jeans. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to view this portion of Moriah now, perhaps it was to make sure that it was really him. Or perhaps it was because he knew he’d never again be able to observe this work of art that Moriah had been so proud of. And as he expected, the tattoo was there—a pirate ship on a stormy sea, seeking treasures—a metaphor of Moriah’s short life. With a clenched jaw, Gideon demanded, “Close it. Please.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” said Kiki as she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, one of her hands on Gideon’s back. “That’s not him, that’s just his body.” Looking into the sky, she cried out as though delivering her own sermon, “Moriah is on a beautiful heavenly ocean right now. He’s God’s very special treasure.”

  Jeremiah blew his nose into a handkerchief as Pastor Nate repeated, “Amen.”

  When the casket was firmly in the grave, Gideon picked up the shovel and flung some dirt onto the smooth top.

  Kiki asked if she could help and when Mari affirmed that she could, Kiki took handfuls of dirt and dropped them against the casket. “It’s too sad,” she said, watching the dirt land and scatter. “I miss him so much.” With that, she rushed over to the hearse.

  “What’s she doing?” asked Gideon, watching her run and fumble with the door to the vehicle.

  In a minute he knew. Kiki returned with a bouquet of flowers. This morning they’d found a florist and purchased an assortment of flowers because none of them knew which were Moriah’s favorites.

  The arrangement had white daisies, three red roses, a dozen sprigs of baby’s breath and six pale yellow carnations. Gideon remembered how his brother had once picked weeds and put them in a dish of water. Upon hearing that story, Kiki grabbed a cluster of dried brown grass from under the tree. She sprinkled the pieces onto the bouquet and said, “There, now we have everything Moriah could have liked and did like.”

  Gideon shoveled dirt into the hole until he’d rubbed a large blister on the palm of his hand. Lowell took the shovel from him and continued filling the massive hole.

  When Gideon looked up, what he saw surprised him. Esther, his oldest sister, was making the trek around the perimeter of the orchard toward him. She opened the gate and entered.

  Approaching her brother, she nodded, the black bonnet on her head bobbing with her movements. As she stood beside him she said, “Mother wants to invite you to the house.”

  Gideon ignored her, bending over to grab soil with his hands, joining Kiki and Lowell in covering the casket.

  “Gideon.”

  He looked at her then. Her plain face looked like so many others. He wanted to tell her that a light pink shade of lipstick and some mascara would enhance her looks, bring out the sparkle in her hazel eyes. But he kept scooping the dirt into the grave.

  “Mother invites you to come to the house.”

  Perhaps she’d go away. Maybe she’d get the hint and leave him alone. He was an outcast; he’d left the community. A shunned son should not enter his parents’ home.

  “Gideon. Did you hear me?”

  Something made him freeze inside. For a moment he wasn’t sure what he would do. He was aware that Kiki was about to speak, and he didn’t want her to. Because knowing Kiki, she’d probably say something like, “Yes, Gideon, let’s go inside. I’m cold.” If Kiki said that, how could he deny her a warm place to sit? Quickly, before Kiki could utter a word, Gideon faced his sister. “Why? Why should I go to her house?”

  “She has some food.”

  Gideon knew it was customary to have food after a funeral. But why did his mothe
r want him to come over now? Why hadn’t she joined him at the graveside? “No, we have to get back to North Carolina.” He and Mari had discussed that they needed to leave once the service was over. They would drive all night, taking turns.

  “Please, Gideon.” She pulled her dark shawl around her thin shoulders. Gideon wondered why Esther didn’t don a cloak as her other sisters had, as Mother had. Then he recalled how warm-natured she was. Esther was the one who never seemed to feel the cold. Once, while Father was still asleep, she’d even walked outside barefoot after a light snow. “Please, come to the house.”

  36

  Gideon stopped filling in the grave. He looked at his blistered hands and shook his head. “Why, Esther?”

  “Why?” Esther repeated. “Is that all you can say?”

  “Why can’t he come over here?”

  Esther shot a glance at their father and then quickly turned to face her brother. Gently, she said, “He can only handle Ordnung.”

  Trapped by Ordnung. Of course, thought Gideon. We must follow the Amish way of life, strict rules and regulations. Father was stubborn, not able to participate in anything unless it was according to the rules. Having a non-Amish give the service at his own son’s burial probably had Father wanting to claw at his skin. Well, if Father was sticking to his precious way that he felt things were to be done, he, Gideon, would be just as obstinate. “You tell him to come here or we’re going home.” With that, he grabbed the shovel back from Lowell and began tossing soil into the hole as though he wasn’t tired. Truth was, he suddenly had new strength and determination fueled by anger. “My home,” he reiterated. “We are going to my home in just a few minutes. Not his.”

  “He’s not well. Please.” When he didn’t respond, she fervently said, “Please. I’m begging.”

  Mari was at Gideon’s side, standing between him and his sister. “Gideon,” she said softly. “What if we stopped in for just a few minutes?”

  He would have declined even her suggestion, but she put her hand on his arm, just below where his biceps ached from the physical strain of shoveling. From her fingers, warmth spread over him, like a blanket, like a memory. This was not about him. He looked up at the weeping willow and could almost see a young boy on one of the lower limbs. A boy calling out, “Gideon, take it easy, bro. A stop in his house isn’t going to kill you.” Lowell reached over and took the shovel from him again.

  “Hey,” Kiki said, her hands clutching the bouquet for the grave. She pulled out a daisy and handed it to Mari, a rose to Gideon, and a stalk of baby’s breath to Esther. The adults took the flowers, holding onto their thin stems. “Let’s lay them on top of the grave one by one,” Kiki instructed. “One by one by one by one by—”

  “Okay, Kiki,” reprimanded her sister. “That’s enough.”

  “I just wanted to make sure that everyone got the rules right.”

  For a moment the group stood speechless, looking at one another as Lowell continued to shovel dirt into the hole. It was almost full; the dirt was beginning to form a mound now.

  At last, Kiki said, “Who is going first?” When no one said anything, she looked at Gideon. “Gideon, you go first.”

  Gideon gently tossed the red rose onto the dirt Lowell had begun to smooth over the top of the grave. Mari followed suit, and in a whisper said, “Moriah, you were fun to be around.”

  “Amen to that,” Kiki said. With a finger pointed at Esther, she said, “You are next.”

  Esther stepped closer to the grave and threw her sprig of baby’s breath next to Gideon’s rose. When Gideon saw her face, this time, two tears curved down her cheeks.

  Kiki plucked another daisy from the arrangement and waved it in front of Lowell’s face. “Your turn,” she said.

  He paused from his task, reached for the flower, and seeing the other flowers, laid his beside the baby’s breath. “Rest in peace, Moriah,” he said.

  Jeremiah, blubbering, refused the daisy Kiki handed him. With his back to the group, he tried to compose himself.

  Allowing him space, Kiki lifted the rest of the bouquet over her head. As she closed her eyes, she said, “These are for you, Moriah. You’re in God’s heavenly garden now and don’t care about measly flowers from earth, but hey, we got you some anyway.” With a light flick of her wrist, the rest of the flowers landed on the center of the grave like an offering.

  Gideon wondered how in the world Kiki was always able to make him smile even at the most sentimental times. Sometimes people looked at her and muttered that she wasn’t right. But they were incorrect because most of the time, Kiki was the only one who was right. Her honesty, her openness, her ability to forgive, and her freedom to be Kiki and no one else was what she offered to all she met. And to Gideon, that seemed like the right way to live.

  As rain splashed against the farms of Carlisle, inside the Miller home, a fire crackled in the stone fireplace. Father, who’d removed his cloak and hat, sat in a chair to the left of the hearth, adding logs to it from a stack of hardwood. Up close, his beard seem sparse, no longer the thick mass of whiskers that had prickled Gideon’s face when, as a boy, he’d tried to hug him. He even moved slowly; the agile body of yesteryear was no longer his companion.

  Straight-back wooden chairs were pulled across the bare floor, creating a circle. As the fire spurted with flames of red and violet, Mother and Gideon’s sisters laid food out on the dining room table. Mother claimed that once word had gotten around, neighbors had begun bringing over dishes this morning. There was an assortment of tasty looking platters and bowls with potato salad, red cabbage salad, beef soup with dumplings, schnitzel, apple butter and molasses bread, chess pie, apple pie, and even blackberry pie.

  Kiki and Mari sat like statues on sack-back chairs, the very chairs Gideon had built to go around the dining room table. He’d used an English neighbor’s workshop because the neighbor had a high-powered lathe, and Gideon wanted the legs of each of the Windsor chairs to be carved like he’d seen on the flier at the furniture store. He knew at the time that Father would disapprove of him using an electric tool and especially one borrowed from someone who was not Amish, but he didn’t care. His mother’s excitement over the set was matched by his sisters’, making Gideon’s chest swell with pride. His father had merely refused any comment.

  Kiki took in the sparsely decorated living room; Gideon knew by the way her eyes went from wall to ceiling to floor and back again that she was finding the room unusual.

  Esther joined them and the minute she sat, Kiki spouted, “Hey, why don’t you have any pictures of Moriah on the walls? I want to see what he looked like as a baby.”

  Father, Mother, Esther, Yolanda, and Irene all turned to look at Kiki as though she’d just uttered a string of obscenities. Mari muttered, “Kiki, behave.”

  Upon hearing her sister’s reprimand, Kiki said, “What’s wrong? Gideon said Moriah was a cute kid, and I want to know if it’s true. Just show me a picture.”

  Gideon moved from the dining table to Kiki. Standing behind her chair, he said, “Kiki, Amish don’t believe that photographs should be taken. You know how some people don’t believe it’s right to … to …” All eyes were on him, and Gideon felt discomfort surrounding him. “Um … Well, what I mean is …”

  “I know!” Kiki piped up. With sudden revelation, she said, “You didn’t have money for a camera! Sheesh! I know money doesn’t grow on trees.”

  And with that explanation, the others gave small smiles, nodded, and let that be that.

  Quickly, Yolanda asked Mari some questions about where she was born, and what she did in North Carolina. Mari answered with short, polite sentences. Gideon noted she was uncomfortable, and Esther must have picked up on this too, for she then encouraged everyone to eat. Irene handed both Mari and Kiki plates.

  Kiki stood, excited to partake in the feast she’d been eyeing. With her plate against her chest, she rounded the table and said, “This looks wonderful. Mari, you should see this.” To Gideon, Kiki said unde
r her breath, “No fried potatoes like Mari always makes. Not one fried anything. Yum!”

  With the focus on the women and the food, Mother rose from her chair by the fireplace. She cast a glance at her husband who was looking off into the distance, unaware of the conversation around him. Gideon wondered if what Esther had said was true—that Father was not well.

  Mother made her way toward the kitchen and motioned for Gideon to come with her. Gideon followed her into the kitchen and watched as she opened the heavy cellar door. He followed her down a set of concrete steps. As he remembered, the cool cellar was crammed with shelves of canned goods. Mother’s forte was pickling vegetables and canning jellies and fruit concoctions. The racks of shelves reached from floor to ceiling. As a child, Gideon had helped her with the summer squash when it was time to cook and can them. His job had also been to carefully bring the jars down the cellar stairs and place them gently on the shelves. He’d always been fearful that he’d trip coming down and that the broken jars would give his father a reason to beat him.