by Kelly Irvin
“I’m not a tattletale. I’m a cheerleader. I spend a lot of time with these guys.” Her face filled with grim determination. “You can’t tell. He doesn’t want anything interfering with their concentration.”
“I won’t tell, but I think you should. Regardless, I won’t allow them to treat my servers like that. I let them know it. I’ll take out the desserts.”
“No, please don’t do that. I promise not to break any more plates.”
“I’m not worried about the plates.” He exchanged glances with Esther, another new hire who now served as one of his early shift cooks. She shrugged and shook her head before going back to a basket of chicken crackling in the deep fryers. “I’m worried about a server being mistreated by my customers.”
“It has nothing to do with you or the restaurant. They’re just mad because I refused to do something they asked me to do.” Her voice trailed away. She flinched and her lips formed a silent O. She rubbed her forehead. “Forget I said that.”
The last words were stuttered.
Ezekiel’s mouth went dry. His armpits began to sweat. He was not the person to have this conversation. Esther had the freezer door open and she was rummaging inside. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Gott, are You really calling on me to have this conversation with an Englisch girl?
He looked around. He was the only person available. “You shouldn’t ever feel obligated or pressured . . . I’m sure your mother would tell you that you did the right thing. You know that, don’t you?”
She backed away from the counter, the tray in front of her like a shield between them. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant at all.” She grabbed the saucers and plopped them one by one on the tray. “I can’t believe I, that you, I mean, that you think that they, that I . . . Never mind. Gross.”
With a look on her face that Ezekiel had seen on deer fleeing hunters, she rushed through the swinging doors.
“You get her straightened out?” Esther slapped the freezer door shut, a bag of frozen home fries in one hand. “Poor thing is unhappier than a cat having a bath.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed a pitcher of iced tea and went to fill some glasses. After Nicole delivered the pie without incident, he made his way through the tables, dispensing tea as he went, until he reached the row one over from the athletes’ table. They devoured the pie and ice cream while staring at phone screens. He turned his back and offered tea to Jon Peterson, an elderly patron who never turned down a refill—if only because it didn’t cost him anything.
Ezekiel poured and listened, careful to keep his smile in place.
“She’s gonna tell.”
Mark Meade’s voice.
“Is not. Nicole’s not like that.”
That was Bobby.
“We shouldn’t have asked her. She’s Coach’s daughter.”
One of the other boys. Ezekiel couldn’t be sure which one without looking.
“Coach is the one who said we needed to have traditions.” Bobby sounded less sure of himself. “We’re just having fun.”
“I don’t think he was talking about this kind of tradition.” Mark again, his tone full of sarcasm.
“How do you know? Remember the stories he told us on the bus?” Bobby’s voice dropped and it became more difficult for Ezekiel to hear. He used his apron to wipe spilled water off a newly vacated table and moved closer. “He spent the night in jail for stealing the principal’s car when he was in high school.”
“He didn’t tell us. He told Coach Reeves. He thought we were all asleep.” One of the other boys.
“Naw. He knew. It’s not like we stole a car. Not even close.” Bobby again.
What had they stolen? Ezekiel moved to the next table, but the customer, an Englisch lady with a cranky toddler, waved him away and went back to the cell phone in her hand. Sports rivalries in the Englisch schools often led to mascots—including live animals—being stolen on the night before big games, but nothing had been in the local weekly this fall about such shenanigans.
He rounded the end of the row and moved back toward the boys. Bobby met his gaze. He leaned into Mark and his voice dropped to a whisper.
Ezekiel kept walking. “You boys want some more tea?”
“No, thanks. We’re headed out.” Bobby stood so quickly he knocked his chair back. He dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill. He threw it on the table. “Tell Nicole we were just giving her a hard time. We’ll see her at the game tonight.”
He sounded sorry. He looked sorry. Still, Ezekiel wasn’t buying it. “I think she’s aware of the hard time. Tell her yourself. You could do it now.”
“I have to go home and get ready for the game.” Bobby shrugged on his leather letter jacket and shoved blond bangs from his face. “I need to feed my dog too.”
The other boys guffawed. A look of disbelief on his face, Mark elbowed Bobby. “Let’s go. Coach’ll be POed if we’re late.”
Ezekiel trained his gaze on the other boys. “Don’t forget to tip your server.”
The identical process of digging and producing crumpled bills followed. At least Nicole would get a semi-decent tip out of it.
They paraded from the restaurant in that typical muscle-bound gait employed by athletes who worked out seven days a week. Burke bustled in before the door could shut completely. He rubbed his hands together. “It’s cold today.”
“Come back in the kitchen. Hurry up.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming. What’s your hurry?” He glanced at the beat-up watch with a leather strap on his wrist. “It’s two. I’m not late.”
“No, you’re not late. Wash up while I talk.”
Nicole was in the kitchen. She’d removed her apron and had her time card in her hand. Ezekiel held out his hand for the apron. “Would you mind clearing the team’s table before you head out? They’re gone.”
“Sure, Mr. Miller.” Her smile wasn’t convincing. “I just have to get moving. The cheerleaders are meeting before the game.”
“They left you a nice tip.”
“Thanks to you.” This time the smile lit up her face. “You’re a good boss.”
“I try.”
She pushed through the swinging doors.
“What was that all about?” Burke plunged his hands into hot water and began to scrub up like a surgeon.
Ezekiel talked fast. Nicole would be back any second.
“You think they were talking about the break-ins?” He dried his hands on a clean towel. “Some tradition.”
“They looked really guilty when I came back with the tea.”
“I don’t know. I have more experience with the real world than you do.” Burke pulled off a sweater, revealing a Purple Martin T-shirt. He hung the sweater from a hook next to the servers’ jackets. “I hate to say it, but your first inclination with Nicole is more likely true. In this day and age, boys are looking to . . . I’m trying to think of the least offensive word—”
“I get the drift.” Ezekiel scratched his cheek and contemplated such a world. His girls chose baptism and good men as their husbands. Blessings. The Englisch world often seemed a sad place for young people. “You could be right, but that comment about feeding the dog is bugging me.”
“He wouldn’t take somebody else’s dog home. Wouldn’t his parents ask where it came from?”
Ezekiel started to answer. Nicole pushed through the doors with the boys’ dirty dessert dishes and tea glasses. He took the tray from her. “Go to your game. Enjoy it.”
The girls’ cheerleading outfits left little to the imagination. Another reason to be thankful his daughters freely and gladly chose the Plain way of life.
“I’ll try.” She pulled on her fleece-lined jean jacket and let down her ponytail. “Those guys aren’t so bad. Really.”
She slipped through the doors before he could respond.
“She was in tears a few minutes ago.”
“Don’t you remember the teenage years?”
“I do.” Wi
thout a wife to lead the way. God had blessed him with sisters to help his daughters navigate those years. “I’d like to take a drive tomorrow. Past where those boys live. Some are in town, but at least three live on farms or have grandparents who do. Mark Meade’s dad farms out west of town. So does Bobby Davidson’s granddad.”
“Do you plan to drive up to the house and ask them if their sons or grandsons are thieves? Or recently brought home a stray dog?”
“I’ll just ask them if they’ve heard anything about the break-ins or seen anything or had anything stolen themselves. That should stir the pot.”
Burke grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands. “Toward what end?”
“Maybe it’ll scare them into stopping. That’s all I really want.”
“You don’t want to tell Deputy Doolittle and let him handle it?”
“Tell him what? Some teenagers were giving a girl a hard time? They stole something from somewhere sometime? One had a dog to feed?”
Burke snatched the first order up on the wire and perused it. “I’m sure Carina would be happy to serve as taxi.”
“After church and lunch. You’re invited. Both of you. As always.”
“Carina’s going over to the Baptist church.”
“And you?”
“We’ll see.”
Which meant no. “For a religious man, you’re sure working hard to avoid the body of Christ.”
“For a Plain man, you’re sure working hard to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Freeman would probably agree. If Ezekiel wasn’t careful, he might get it chopped off.
THIRTY-ONE
No rest for the weary. Which was a good thing. It kept Mary Katherine’s mind off her troubles. Her small, insignificant troubles. She clucked at the horse and the buggy picked up its pace. She needed more thread and material from the Sweet Notions store. Her to-do list included more pot holders, dresser scarves, and tablecloths for the Combination Store. If she could get several of each done over the next week, she’d be caught up and she would stay out of trouble.
She sang “In the Garden” as she rounded the corner onto Grant Street, to drown out the naysayers and make room for God in the day. Movement in front of Bob Sampson’s vacant storefront caught her gaze. Two workers on ladders hoisted a sign between them, balancing it over the large windows that ran along the lower front wall to the double glass doors.
The sign read THE BOOK APOTHECARY. Underneath in smaller, fancy script letters: We have the prescription for your reading addiction.
Mary Katherine pulled on the reins. The buggy halted in the middle of the street. A strident horn bellowed. She moved to the curb, ignoring the NO HITCHING NO PARKING sign.
A handwritten sign hung in the window that read GRAND OPENING COMING SOON.
Dottie had pursued the dream without her.
The agonizing ache spread from the center of her chest in all directions. Her head ached. Her fingernails ached. Her toes ached. Drawing a single breath hurt.
The part of her that wanted to see this dream incarnate wrangled with the part that called it masochistic. Mary Katherine hopped from the buggy. She wasn’t such a small person that she couldn’t congratulate her friend and wish her well.
Her hand felt slick on the door handle. Sweat trickled down her temples despite the late October breeze. She heaved a breath and entered.
Her silver hair in a straggly bun on the top of her head, Dottie stood with her back to the door. As she painted the far wall a pale eggshell blue, she sang along to a country music song blaring from an old-fashioned boombox radio nestled on a shelf next to a plastic bottle of water covered with condensation. She wore a paint-stained, long-sleeved white T-shirt, faded jeans, and spattered tennis shoes that had once been white too. Her voice soared with the music, hitting every note of a song about giving the Tin Man a scarred heart. She had a beautiful voice.
“Dottie?”
She plopped the roller in the flat pan and moved over a pace.
“Dottie.”
Still nothing. Mary Katherine flipped the radio switch. Dottie’s voice petered out after a few seconds. She turned and smiled. “You’re here.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was rubbing it in.” She scratched her nose and left a blob of paint on its tip. “After I got the insurance money, I had to move quickly before Bob sold to someone else.”
“I understand.”
“I know you do.” She turned and went back to painting. “I started ordering inventory yesterday. I missed you. You have such good taste. Your opinion means a lot to me.”
“I’m sure you did fine without me. I don’t know if ordering the books would be more fun or opening the boxes and putting them on the shelves.”
“I like feeling them in my hands.” Dottie laid the roller in the pan. She cocked her head from side to side to pop her neck and rubbed her right arm. “I ordered all the so-called Amish romances the tourists will love. You’d be amazed at how many there are.” She gestured toward the front windows. “I’ll have a whole section right by the door to catch their eye when they walk in.”
Her own blue eyes were brilliant, her smile as wide as any since Walt’s death. She was seeing it in her mind’s eye. She padded in her paint-spattered sneakers to a spot farther to the east. “Here I’ll have a section for herbal medicines, home health remedies, and gardening for my Plain friends.” She swept her arms in a half circle. “Then we’ll need a spot for story hour. You’ll do Noah’s Ark and Jonah in the Belly of the Whale. I’ll do Llama Llama Red Pajama and What the Dinosaurs Did Last Night.”
“I’ll do story hour?”
“Of course, my guest teller.”
“You’ll need a section for cookbooks.”
Dottie swept back wisps of hair and left a blob of paint on her forehead. “Cookbooks. Of course. Amish cookbooks will be a big seller with the tourists.”
“I was thinking of a cookbook for diabetics. Do you know if you have one at the library?”
“Why the sudden interest?”
“A friend.”
“We do, I’m sure. But I’ll order one for you.” Dottie grabbed the water bottle and took a long swig. She set it down and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Cookbooks are meant to be used over and over. Do you like the paint?”
“I do.”
“Good.” Dottie smiled. “It makes me think of you.”
“It does?”
“Your curiosity, your energy, everything about you is like sky. Endless and indefatigable. I never know what you’ll come up with.” Dottie pointed one finger at her and wiggled it. “What new project or idea or story. Being your friend makes my life fun and makes me better.”
Mary Katherine opened her mouth. No words came out. She sank into the only chair in the room. A lawn chair with frayed woven strips for a seat that groaned under her weight. “I want this so much. It makes me ashamed how much I want it.”
“There’s no shame in having a dream.”
“You see things differently than we do. We’re to put others ahead of ourselves. God, then community, then self.”
“I know. I hate it. Just kidding.” Her expression dark, Dottie squatted. She pried open a can of paint and stirred it with a stick. “Do what you have to do, but don’t kick yourself about it. You’re only human.”
“It’s not just that.” Mary Katherine studied her hands in her lap. “There’s someone.”
“Someone. A man. You didn’t tell me.” Cackling, Dottie dropped the stick and clapped. “Woo-hoo! Tell me. Tell all. Who is it?”
“Nothing to tell. He wants a fraa—a wife—who wants what he wants. Like all husbands do. He has something important in his life he needs help with. He thinks I want this more.”
“You’re not going to tell me who it is?”
“Nee.”
“Is he right?”
Mary Katherine rose and went to the empty shelves covered with paint drop cloths. She to
uched the dusty canvas. “I thought I wanted this more, but I miss him when I don’t see him every day. I miss everything about him. I think about him all the time. Like a lovesick girl. It’s embarrassing. Shameful.”
“I can’t imagine feeling that for anyone but my Walt.” Dottie’s eyes reddened. She wiped at her nose with her sleeve and sniffed. “But there’s nothing shameful about it. You’ve been alone a long time. I think Moses would approve.”
Moses did approve. “If Walt told you he didn’t want you to open a bookstore, would you set aside your dream?”
“He wouldn’t do that, but if I thought he disapproved, I would think long and hard about it. I valued his opinion.” Dottie leaned back and sat cross-legged, arms behind her. “If he had a dream that was really important to him, I’d support him all the way. Walt never liked being an accountant all that much. He wanted to be a teacher, but his dad was an accountant and he wanted Walt to join his business. So he did. He never complained, but numbers never lit him up like books do me. Life is short. You and I know that. We have to figure out what’s important to us and the people we love. Then we must do that thing.”
Dottie had come a long way in a short time. Much faster than Mary Katherine. The thought shamed her even more. “You’re such a wise woman.”
“I’m hanging by a thread. Every day I wonder if this will be the day the thread breaks and I fall.”
“Neither one of us is falling.” Mary Katherine knelt and hugged her. “We have the Lord and good friends.”
“You’ll get paint on you.” Laughing, Dottie returned the hug. “Do you like the name? The Book Apothecary.”
“I do.”
“It’s my prescription for healing me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if it’ll work, but at least I’m sleeping at night. I’m too exhausted not to.”
“It’s a start.”
“My kids think I’m crazy.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
They laughed together.
“It could be your prescription too.”