Still Life in Shadows

by Alice J. Wisler

  Angie leaned against Kiki’s arm. “Wanna watch True Stories of Rescue Animals?”

  “Yes,” said Kiki as she dried her eyes with the edge of her jacket sleeve. She sniffed and cleared her throat. “Yeah, I’d like to do that.” Mari wouldn’t be home for another hour; she’d called earlier to say that she needed to make three pies because the tearoom was low on blackberry. Kiki knew she was making them for Gideon.

  “We can make hot chocolate,” suggested Angie. “Do you have any? If not, I know my grandma has a new box of Swiss Miss.”

  “We have some in our kitchen,” said Kiki. “With marshmallows.”

  The porch was nearly dark now, shadows casting their images against the front lawn.

  Kiki could make out her shadow and Angie’s. She moved her arm as her shadow, a thin line, moved.

  Angie, realizing what she was doing, lifted her hand, too, and waved.

  Kiki giggled, waving her hand. “We are waving shadows,” she said.

  When they stood to enter Kiki’s house, their lean shadows meshed together so that Kiki could not tell where she ended and Angie began. It was as though she and Angie were one big shadow, merging together, taking on a new shape. And although her hands were cold, her heart felt warm, like it often does when one is with a friend.

  38

  The apartment had never felt so lonely. Not even on that first day when he’d cosigned the lease at age sixteen, with Ormond as his guardian, did it seem this hollow and drenched with silence. The first night alone in this place had been a mixture of relief and uncertainty. He’d been under Ormond’s roof for almost a year after leaving Carlisle and was glad to be out on his own where he could buy his own groceries and stock his own refrigerator. Yet the apartment held no familiar sounds. At least Ormond’s had the purr of his two calico cats and the tick-tock of an antique grandfather clock he’d inherited from his father.

  On this late afternoon, Gideon moved from room to room, hoping to hear something. Comfort, he thought. I just need comfort. Strange, he hadn’t asked for comfort ever and now he wished that a voice—maybe even an audible one from God—would soothe his heart and give it the capability to relax. If only God would reassure him that he was not to blame. He waited. He entered the living room, sat on the couch, and strained his ears. Hearing nothing, eventually he gave in to his hunger and made himself a snack.

  Spreading apple butter on two slices of toasted multigrain bread, he thought of how different life would have been if he would have stayed on the farm. He would not have disappointed his parents. Moriah would still be alive.

  Perhaps.

  But how could he have stayed under his father’s rule? How could he have respected a man who whipped children and locked neighbor boys inside sheds, and later lying about it? He remembered how he’d told the whole story to Mari, Kiki, and Angie that afternoon in November, and how he had known then that he still harbored hatred. And he knew it now. It gripped his heart like barbed wire.

  After the burial, that night as they left his parents’ home, relief had filled him. He had entered their home once more, and it hadn’t been as complex as he’d expected. There had been no harsh words with his father, no accusatory remarks. “I feel like he has no control over me anymore,” Gideon said, referring to Father on the ride back to Twin Branches. Kiki, Mari, and the new boy, Lowell, had listened to him go on for miles about how he felt stronger and no longer a victim of his past.

  He’d been the liar.

  The sky darkened outside, and the first snowflakes began to fall. The image of his father standing far from his own son’s grave haunted and embittered him even more. What kind of father shows no remorse at the death of his child? What kind of beast stands off in the distance, refusing to participate in a funeral service?

  “I will not!” Gideon’s voice bounced off the walls of his kitchen. “I will not be like him!” He swallowed his anger and resentment, but he was afraid that if he didn’t let these emotions go, he just might wind up like his father.

  Gideon watched the snow from his kitchen window as it fell across the lawn. The large flakes fluttered carelessly onto the patches of brown grass. White as snow. The phrase entered his mind, gently, like the snow. White as snow. Jesus has washed our sins, so we can be white as snow.

  Pulling on his coat, he rushed outside. Without bothering to zip up, he made his way to the lawn. He noted the quiet chill in the air. A cardinal flitted past him and perched on a holly bush, its feathers matching those of the miniature red berries on the bush. “It’s snowing!” he cried and expected the echo of his voice to scare the bird off, but the cardinal only cocked his head and watched Gideon open his mouth.

  As the flakes landed in Gideon’s mouth, he stuck out his tongue and let a flake melt on the tip of it.

  Flakes spilled onto his head, his coat, the tops of his boots. He breathed in the crisp scent and as he took a few steps toward the road, he smelled the distinct aroma of a burning fire. He thought back to the fires his mother had built in the hearth at the farmhouse. He saw the bright flames, flames that made the living room warm even on the coldest day. Next, he saw Moriah playing with a wooden toy wagon, Moriah coming over to the table where Gideon sat nailing cedar blocks together. “He’s making me a keepsake. Gideon is the best brother!” Yes, Moriah had said those words. And he’d hugged his older brother when Gideon presented him with the finished product. “I’ll put my special toys in here,” the little boy had said, his eyes filled with gratitude.

  The snow was coming down harder now, building layers over the parking lot and the tops of the parked vehicles. He felt the solid crunch under his shoes as he walked toward the sidewalk that circled the complex. This time when he opened his mouth, a breeze blew and he got a face full of cold, wet snow in his lashes and nose. It was then that he heard laughter. Within seconds, he realized that it was his own.

  Still laughing as the snow swirled around him like a stream of confetti, Gideon stumbled over a thick root of a nearby oak. His left foot twisted and he prepared to fall onto the ground. Instinctively, both of his hands shot out in front of his chest to brace his body. To his surprise, he landed against the trunk of the oak, his chin scraping the hard surface. Allowing his arms to stretch as far as they could around the bark, he hugged the trunk. It was as though God had put that tree there to catch him and to remind him that the Almighty’s arms were wide and merciful enough to forgive even the most guilty of creatures.

  Back in the house, he looked for the newspaper article Mari had told him to read. Ashlyn had written it and it was on the second page of the February first edition of the Twin Star. He expected something similar to a police report, listing times and dates and perhaps even a murder suspect, although he doubted she would have clearly accused Reginald Smithfield at this point. Not publicly, not until the trial which was set for sometime in March. But what he read was not at all what he expected. This was not a piece filled with cold facts, but a thoughtfully written column that brought back that lump inside his chest. The title was printed in bold letters, halfway down the page:

  Who Was Moriah Miller?

  Moriah Miller died on January seventeenth this year, the victim of homicide. He was only twenty-one. A newcomer to Twin Branches, most were not aware of who he was, not having had time to get to know him at the auto shop where he spent many days.

  So just who was Moriah? He was thoughtful, funny, and generous. Moriah was the kind of person who brought donuts to the Russell Brothers Auto Shop one afternoon just because he felt it was an occasion to enjoy eating Krispy Kremes in the company of friends. Moriah was the kind of person who laughed at the brown bread I steam in a can, but although reluctant, tried a slice. And he liked it! “She makes the best bread!” he told customers at Another Cup one afternoon. “And it’s steamed in a can. It’s the perfect combination of healthy and sweet. You have to try it.” Customers smiled at him, and a few laughed out loud. Moriah was the type of person who could make you laugh.

  My f
iancé and I spent a number of evenings together talking and laughing with him. Moriah loved a good conversation, always ready to comment and pose thought-provoking questions. I was glad that Moriah made the choice to move from his Amish home in Pennsylvania to join us here in Twin Branches, even if his upbringing on the farm in the small community of Carlisle caused issues and concerns he was unable to fully resolve. His decision to live in our town meant I gained a new friend.

  Unfortunately, Moriah made some bad choices, too. He allowed methamphetamine to become part of his life. Pretty soon it was a daily companion. This highly addictive stimulant wreaks havoc with the mind and body. It clouds your ability to make good decisions. People die every day from meth.

  The use of meth is not what killed Moriah, but it didn’t help that he was under its addictive rule. Meth changed Moriah from a fun-loving, easygoing man into a ball of uncontrollable emotions and destructive actions.

  Moriah was only in Twin Branches for a short while, but hopefully what he taught us through his life and death will be a reminder that—regardless of where we were born, our religious beliefs, or what we look like—we all are capable of reaching out a hand and heart to help those in our midst.

  Some might think that a life like Moriah’s was not as valuable as another’s. They might feel that since he was an addict, he is better off dead. But I like to believe that every life has hope and that even Moriah, with all the wrong choices he made, was still entitled to have those he loved hope with him. I know I hold on to hope. Moriah was one of God’s creations and with his death, God wept. And a mother’s heart is broken forever.

  Gideon carefully cut the article from the rest of the paper. He folded the newsprint into a business envelope and addressed it to his parents. They need this realistic, yet heartfelt piece written by a reporter, he thought. Even if she was English, Ashlyn’s words could convey to them what he could not.

  39

  The new guy, as Kiki called him, was serious about applying at a grocery store. Gideon took him to the local Piggly Wiggly to get an application. A manager happened to walk by, his name tag covering the pocket on his starched white shirt. Jeffery Madison it read, but Gideon already knew the portly man. He owned a 2009 Mustang and had brought it to the shop for new tires two months ago. Gideon introduced Lowell to him. “He wants to run a cash register,” Gideon said, “but I told him that he probably has to start out as a stock boy for the first few months.”

  Jeffery increased the width of one of his perpetual smiles. “That’s right. You work hard and you’ll move up to that cash register. Did you get an application?” He told the men to pick one up at customer service.

  Lowell liked the sound of moving up to the cash register. He grinned, thanked the man, and followed Gideon to get an application.

  Gideon observed how mesmerized he was by the electronic registers.

  Even though his awe for the machines was a bit geeky, overall, Gideon was impressed. Lowell seemed to know how to handle himself, even among the English. “How about we work on that application at the tearoom?” he suggested. His longing for a hot cup of green tea was still there, and for that he was grateful.

  Amos was the first to greet the two when they entered Another Cup. Immediately, he wrapped his arms around Gideon, offering sympathy. “So sorry,” he mumbled. “I am so sorry.”

  Gideon felt tears sting the backs of his eyes and hoped that a few sniffs would cause them to back off. He guided Lowell to the counter where Della was telling a customer about the deer her husband had shot last week and how she was sick of eating venison.

  “I just want chicken,” she said. “Just a nice piece of fried chicken with a hot homemade biscuit, mashed taters, and gravy on the side. It’s a good thing I work here where I can ask Alfred and Rex to cook me up what I like to eat.”

  From the kitchen, Alfred called out, “We live to make you happy, Sugar!”

  With that, Della let out an infectious laugh. Even the customer listening to her deer story joined in the laughter.

  As Gideon introduced Lowell to the group, Lowell held out his hand and shook Della’s and then the customer’s seated at the counter. “Call me Fresno,” he told each of them.

  “Fresno?” Amos ran the name over his tongue and then extended his hand. “Sure, Fresno.” His smile was wide and warm. “Welcome to Twin Branches.”

  Fresno grinned and shook Amos’s hand up and down, jiggling it like one would a water pump back on the farm.

  Gideon made a mental note to himself: Tell Fresno that a solid handshake is all that’s necessary. If he keeps up this pumping-style, folks will think he’s an overly aggressive used-car salesman.

  “What do you do, Fresno?” asked Della.

  “Well, Gideon got me a nice apartment to live in. That’s a big relief. Now I’m looking for employment.”

  Della winked at him. “We could use you here, Sugar.” It seemed Della never met a man she didn’t like. “Do you need a TV? I gave Amos my old one and then my husband went and bought a brand-new LED for Christmas, so I still have an extra.”

  “Sure.” Fresno thought for a moment and then added, “I’d like a TV, just don’t tell my parents.”

  “Ah,” said Della. “There’s nothing wrong with a TV, as long as you don’t let it rule you. Moderation is the key to so much of life.”

  Mari made her way over to the counter, bringing Gideon a cup of green tea. Her eyes met his and he saw empathy, gentleness, and a glimmer of something else he could not place. She stuffed her hands into her apron pockets and glanced out the window. “I hope it doesn’t snow again. I can’t wait for spring.”

  Gideon took a sip from his cup as Fresno asked, “What are you drinking?”

  When Gideon told him, he peered into the beverage. “Maybe I should try some. Is it any good? And is it really green?”

  Mari thought he should give green tea a try and poured him a cup.

  Fresno let his taste buds absorb the tea. “Hmm …” By the look in his eyes, it was clear he wasn’t going to be a fan of green tea after all.

  “Would you like pie today? Sandwich first?” Della was eager to wait on Gideon. Seemed all the venison she’d been consuming was giving her new vigor.

  Feeling no hunger, Gideon said, “Fresno might want something. The tea is fine for me now.”

  “We don’t want you wasting away,” Della said. “If you’re all weak and feathery, how can you work on my car?” She then said to the new customer, “What can I get you?”

  “Pepsi!” Fresno gave a boyish grin. “In a glass with a straw, please.”

  “You’re a real polite one,” said Della and then smiled. “I wish some of our youngsters around here would learn those manners you have.” Edging closer to Gideon, she looked intently into his eyes. “Sugar,” she said, her usual husky voice laced with tenderness, “you know I’m sorry about Moriah. I just don’t know what to say. I guess there will never be any good words to utter after a young man dies.” She shook her head. “I hate all those trite phrases people shower you with. Like, ‘well, it was meant to be’ or ‘you’ll move on.’ I just want to say how sorry I really am.” Then she turned to fill a glass with ice and Pepsi for Fresno. “Here you are, Sugar,” she said to the boy, and instead of spitting her gum into the trash can with a cough, she wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron.

  Gideon wanted to thank her for taking the time to show her sorrow. One day he’d let her know that her condolences were well received. He knew he needed to help Fresno now. Moriah would want him to, so he took a pen from his pocket and had Fresno spread the application out on the countertop. “We’ll get this taken care of” he said and began to read off the boxes for the young man to fill in.

  Pretty soon, Fresno was on his own. He didn’t have the typical hesitations that most of the escapees had upon seeing an application for the first time.

  Mari watched him for a moment, smiling as his brow furrowed and tongue stuck slightly out as he concentrated. “I’ll put in a
good word for you,” she said. “The manager at Piggly Wiggly comes in here every Tuesday at one for lunch.”

  Fresno thanked her, his eyes still intent on the application. “What’s my address?” he asked.

  Gideon told him, and Fresno filled in the appropriate lines.

  Mari refilled Gideon’s cup with hot tea, and he liked the way she was attentive to him today. He thought back to what a support she’d been for him ever since Moriah’s death. The first time he’d entered this tearoom under her management, he’d been captivated by her poise and beauty. But over the last month, she had become so much more to him than someone to enjoy looking at. Ever since the trip to and from Pennsylvania, he felt stronger and more capable to do and say what he wanted to.

  As she added more half and half to the pitcher on the counter, he decided to go for it. He’d been practicing in front of the mirror all morning. Perhaps now was as good a time as any. “Mari.” He produced a tight smile and tried to make it more relaxed.