“Ruth. It’s so good to see you.”
She turned and her eyes gleamed, the wholeness and depth of character exuding from her gaze. “I’m happy you came.”
Mike sat back and held her hand. Never know what to say.
“What are you doing in Middlebury?”
“I’m an electrician. Doing a job at the RV factory on 37.”
“So you install… electricity? I mean, you make electrical…?”
“I install wiring and switches so the electrical components work.”
“We don’t use any electricity.”
“Right.” Now what do I say? “Tell me about your family.”
“I have four sisters. Two older and two younger. I’m the middle one.”
He rubbed her arm. “Are you the family with the quilt store? The one on 37…”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Five daughters and a wife, your family doesn’t run a hardware store. I see it when I drive by. So… do you quilt?”
“Yes. I work at the Dutchman, but quilt a lot, too.”
He turned her hand, ran his finger along her palm and gently slid it up her fingers. “That explains your hands.”
“What?”
“Slender and delicate, yet strong.”
She blushed. “Thank you.”
He placed his hand on her cheek and kissed her. She kissed him back this time and when they pulled apart, her eyes glowed.
God bless Alice.
~
They met at Alice’s every evening for two weeks, for a mere forty-five minutes, a twinkling of an eye. As the job wound down, Mike felt the clock ticking. They sat on Alice’s couch and he kissed her. He leaned back on the couch.
“What are you thinking?”
“That my job’s about done, and I want to see you. A lot.”
“I’ve been thinking about that… about you. We can’t go on, Mike.”
“Why not?” He knelt in front of her and held her hands. “I love you, Ruth.”
“I love you, too.”
“So? Then?”
“I’m Amish.”
“So?”
She stood and crossed her arms. “We Amish stick together. I mean, we will—I will marry an Amish man.”
Mike stood and came behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “But we could be together. You know, like Romeo and Juliet, but not with families that hate each other.”
“It doesn’t work like that. If I were to date you, or marry you, the entire family shuns me. They cut me off. There’s too much at stake.”
“No. No. Let them meet me—”
She turned to face him and held his face in her hands. “It’s not you. It’s being English.”
“English?”
She nodded. “Non-Amish people in America are English, and no matter how wonderful you are—and you are a wonderful man—it won’t work.”
“What if you…”
“Mike.” She held his cheeks. “You’re fighting hundreds of years of tradition and family. The Amish are fiercely loyal to each other as a community and as families, and while you love me and I love you, it simply cannot be. No one in my family would see me, even speak to me. Ever. For the rest of my life.” Tears streaked down both her cheeks. He wiped them away and hugged her. Her tears wet his shoulder. He sighed. “So. If I love you, truly love you in a perfect way, I let you go. For your most, best good.”
She nodded into his shoulder.
“Okay then.” He kissed her, deeply and passionately, Ruth returning the depth of their love. She peered at him. “Now you’re crying.”
“This hurts.” He wiped his face.
“I should have never let you get this far.”
He hugged her. “Nonsense. I didn’t exactly take no for an answer. And even though it hurts so bad, it was so good.”
“It really was.” She intertwined their fingers, put her forehead to his, and gazed into his eyes.
Most people look at someone for a second or less. A quick glance, then away. Not Ruth. She looked deeply into his eyes and he returned her gaze, seeing her very soul, connecting with her spirit like never before. They held each other’s lives in their eyes for perhaps a minute.
At last they hugged, Mike wrapping his arms around her and running his fingers through her hair.
The time marched away, a cruelty, and they drifted to the door, the inevitable breaking of the relationship for good. On the porch, Ruth kissed him. “I love you, Mike. I will miss you.”
“Me, too.”
“And I’ll never forget you.”
“I won’t forget you either.”
~
Mike shut the door of his truck and pulled out of the driveway. Ruth stood on Alice’s porch, hugging herself. He waved and she waved back. I finally find a woman of excellence and I can’t have her.
He pulled out of the driveway, turned left, and headed to Indianapolis.
Michigan
We rode along the shores of Lake Michigan, the sun leaving dappled shadows on the pavement like a Dalmatian. Harbor Springs looked like an idyllic town, with tourism and boating the dominant features. Huge mansions graced the area. Still, what if parts of it weren’t as charming as it seemed? And what about the wealthy Kellogg influence?
SAILOR
Doug Newman smiled as he mixed the drink for his wife. Tonight was the night. He’d checked on the sailboat, the weatherman predicted a nice cloud cover, and he’d confirmed the dinghy remained in place. He carried the wine glass on a tray to her office, where Kimberly sat at a computer.
“At your service, ma’am.”
She turned, surprised. Smiled and took the glass by the stem. “Why, thank you. To what do I owe this honor?”
“Just being a wonderful husband.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “To health.” He held up his glass and tried not to laugh.
She lifted hers. “To a wonderful husband.”
“Drink up.”
She sipped, then grimaced. “Tastes a little bitter.”
“Would you like some crackers or something to go with it?”
“That would be nice.”
Fifteen minutes later Doug checked to see Kim sleeping on her keyboard. Hope I didn’t kill her. He checked her pulse. Still breathing, good. He took her drink to the kitchen, scrubbed it with bleach, soap and scalding hot water, then set the glass in the dishwasher. Grabbed the duct tape from below the sink and taped her hands, feet and oh yes, her mouth. Tonight Doug would do the talking.
He carried her across the back yard to the garage, invisible to the street, and tossed her in the trunk of his new Maserati Granturismo with a thump. He fired up the car and eased through Harbor Springs, staying off the main streets. He headed North on Lakeshore Drive and after a few miles, turned a couple times and stopped near the shore of Lake Michigan at a small park.
Doug found the dinghy in the bushes to the north of the park, rowed it to the park and beached it. He tossed Kim in the boat, her head banging on the seat.
“Oh, dear. That might leave a mark.” The king of sarcasm. Just as planned, he rowed south for a quarter mile, then out a half mile and approached the sailboat from behind it in case the owners, a hundred yards away in their house, had been awake. But Doug did his homework; they always turned the lights out by ten. He tied up to the sailboat and dragged Kim over the side.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he said, “You could lose a few pounds, dear.” He dragged her down to the galley. He got his bag of goodies from the rowboat and tossed them on the seat.
He feared this part the most. He broke the locks, got the boat prepared, tied the dinghy to the back, and set sail. If anyone in that house looked out the window, they would see their boat in full sail and he would have a lot of explaining to do. As the sails gathered the wind and he held the wheel, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the house. But nothing.
Soon he heard banging below. He set the wheel and went down. Kim lay on the floor, squirming like a freshly
caught walleye.
“Hello, darling.” He grabbed her under her arms and sat her at the table. She fought and twisted, and attempted to head butt him.
“Oh dear. You’re going to be difficult. I guess I’ll have to restrain you even more.” With much fighting and wrestling, Doug got Kim’s feet and hands taped to the metal leg under the kitchen table.
“There. All better. Comfy now?” Of course not, trussed up like that, she sat bent, almost face down at the table. Her eyes blazed.
“I would love to have a conversation with you now, but I’m sure you won’t shut up, so I’ll leave the tape on. Let me check our position first.”
He trotted up to the deck, saw lights from Beaver Island to the North. Resetting the sails and direction, he turned the boat in a southerly direction. He heard thumping below, Kim banging her head on the table.
Doug got a pillow and placed it on the table. “There, there. Easy girl. We wouldn’t want to mess up that made up, waxed, botoxed, tanning bed beautiful skin now, would we?”
She glared at him.
“Here’s what’s going on.” He reached in his bag and pulled out a cordless drill with a long auger bit. He pulled the trigger. It buzzed and Kim’s eyes morphed from anger to fear. He looked at her, then back at the drill.
“Oh, no. I’m not going to torture you. That would be mean. I just want to talk to you.” He placed the drill on the table.
“We’ve been married ten years now, and I’m tired of being the lap dog. Since you have all the Kellogg money—oh yes, I married you for your money. But you keep a pretty tight grip on those purse strings, don’t you?” He rubbed her cheek and she turned her head away. He put his finger by her chin and tried to turn her face back, but she resisted. He slapped her.
“Okay, here’s the deal. You’re going to look at me, listen to me, and give me some respect. For a change. Oh, look. A tear.” He wiped it with his finger. “You’re crying. How sensitive.
“For ten years I’ve gotten no respect. You’re the Kellogg girl, you’re the smart one, you’re the decision maker and you control the money. Well, that’s over tonight. You’re going to disappear. We’re sailing this boat out to the middle of Lake Michigan and it’s going to sink. Kimberly Kellogg Newman will disappear without a trace.” He picked up the drill and buzzed it. “And you’re going to sit here and think about what a jerk you’ve been while the water fills up around your pretty little face. And I am the heiress’s heir. How about that?”
She glowered at him.
“Sure would be fun to take that tape off and talk, but I’ve tried. For ten years I’ve tried, so no more. Need to go see Laura.” He saw her eyes widen at the name. “Oh, yeah. We been having a good time for a couple of years now. And you didn’t suspect a thing.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And believe me, you’re not in her league, sweetie.” He patted her shoulder.
Doug went up and checked the sails and wheel, confirming the course. Then he went back below, shut off the bilge pump, and disconnected the batteries. He carried them past Kim. “You won’t be needing these.” He threw them overboard and returned to check her restraints. Making sure it drilled below water level, he bored a hole in the side opposite Kim so she could see the water shooting into the area.
“Okay, darling, the clock’s ticking. I need to go.” He kissed her cheek and she recoiled. “Hey, let’s not get so angry. It wrecks your skin tone. Good bye, darling.”
Doug threw the drill in the lake, got in the dinghy and untied it. He rowed away. The sailboat got smaller as they separated from each other. He watched it from over the stern. Too bad he couldn’t hang around and watch it sink. Gotta get home and be the grieving husband.
~
Kim screamed into the tape, but quickly stopped. That wouldn’t help anything. She pulled and twisted at the duct tape with her hands and feet, but it seemed to provide no progress. The carpet beneath her feet turned dark as it became wet. For now, the water ran below. Got to think. She wiggled and twisted, but the tape held firm. Three feet away, sharp knives lay in one of the drawers. They might as well be in Singapore. Nothing to do but push, pull, and twist.
After fifteen minutes she stopped, the sweat dripping in her eyes. Looking at the silver tape, she sighed. No success. The more she twisted and pulled, the more the tape seemed to compress and hold tighter.
At what she guessed was around three hours later, she wet her pants. When she tried to lift herself off the moisture to ease the discomfort, she saw the table lift on one side, just a sliver. The table was attached to the wall with hooks that could be removed to make into a bed. She lifted her arms and legs. The chrome table leg wiggled. Hope coursed through her. She attempted it again and the leg slid up, just a fraction, but gave her a mile of hope. Do it again and again. Each attempt seemed to make a fraction of headway. She lifted her hands and feet together but couldn’t get much purchase from a sitting position. Perhaps she made no progress. Did she imagine it?
Come on you can do it. Her eyes stung from the sweat. Once more. She jerked her arms and feet together, and the leg popped out of the floor. It swung from side to side, but a hinge held it fast to the tabletop. Swinging her feet did nothing. She wiggled to the outside of the seat and fell to the floor. Pain shot up her legs as her feet stayed put, twisted sideways from her body. She lay on the floor, the cold water soaking into her buttocks and back. Come on. She wiggled her feet from side to side. Forget the table, work that leg off the table. Every turn shot pain up her legs. The agony drove her to hurry, to finish this. That, and the water shooting into the cabin. The boat would sink, no doubt about it, but she was determined it wouldn’t go down with her trussed up like a pig inside it.
She rocked back and forth and the top showed signs of release. The screw threads, six of them, appeared to be loose. Come on! A half dozen more times and the screws let go. Kim fell backward, the pipe still locked onto her hands and feet.
She rolled and thrashed about, making glacial progress toward the knife drawer. Finally she lay below it on her back, still hogtied. How to get the drawer open? Wiggling around, she pointed the top of the pipe toward the knob of the drawer. Missed. The water sopped into her pants and shirt. It wasn’t any deeper yet. After a dozen attempts, the drawer slid out. She positioned the pipe under it and slid the drawer out to the stops. She struggled to breathe through her nose and stopped often to regain her breath. This time she lay back on the floor, the open drawer hanging above her; the lifesaving knives might as well be at home.
Home. That jerk. Drugging her and arranging this cruel death. With renewed energy, Kim rolled over, got up on all fours and head-butted the side of the drawer. The drawer rattled, but remained intact. She smashed it again and again until sweat ran down her face. Peering at her handiwork she saw red. Blood dripped off the glide. Great. Now I’ll bleed to death before drowning.
This was not working. They built these boats too well.
An idea hit her. She wiggled forward on her hands and feet until she knelt directly below the drawer. No more dozen attempts. She leaned down to the floor then burst upward, her head smashing through the bottom of the drawer. The pain caused her to see stars as various objects rained down on her, including broken parts of the drawer. She surveyed the possible items for her release and would have cried out, but for the duct tape.
Playing cards, potholders, wash rags, a lighter, sandwich bags, batteries, and a pair of Aqua Socks. She surveyed the other drawers in the galley. Knives must be near the sink or stove. She turned her attention to the drawer between them. With her experience at wrecking one drawer, she smashed the next one upward in a matter of minutes, with wood, glides, and silverware showering down around her and crashing to the floor.
Wriggling over, she pinched a large knife between her fingers. Too big. Rooting around, she procured a paring knife and set about sawing at the stubborn silver tape. After a fifteen minute marathon of cutting and sawing, the tape split apart and her hands became free. She rippe
d the tape from her mouth and cried out. Wow. It hurt just like in the movies.
She tried to peel the tape from her feet, but her hands cramped. Picking up a large knife, she sawed the tape free. For the first time since the abduction, Kim felt a ray of hope. She picked up a gob of duct tape and tried to cover the hole to stop the water from gushing in, but the water force overcame it. A knife handle, net handle, wadded-up paper towel, paperback book, everything failed.
Change of plans. Can’t stop the water, pump it out. She went to the wall and found the switch for the bilge pump. Nothing. Then she remembered Doug carrying the batteries past, so the boat had no electrical power.
Got to at least slow the water. She found the discarded tape again and pulled it apart. Estimating the size of the hole, she wadded up and rolled the tape for a plug. Stuffed it in the hole with water spraying around it. Two seconds later it fell out. She looked around and spotted the paring knife. Got another gob of tape and pulled it apart. Wrapped it around the knife blade, then plunged it into the hole.
It worked. Well, sort of. The water shot around it, but less than half as much. She removed it, added a bit of tape, and forced it in. Not good, but at least it would buy her some time.
She stumbled upstairs and looked at the wheel. Locked in position. The sails were full, a gentle breeze keeping the boat moving… where? No stars, no lights, no boats. Blackness.
If I can’t stop the boat from sinking, I better get it closer to land. But how could she find the nearest land? Blackness surrounded her, but for a few lights of distant freighters. The cloud cover prevented any stars from showing. She ran to the gauges, no good. All electric. Think! She reasoned that Doug got the boat out a few miles, then must have set a course parallel to land, so it would be sure to sink out in the lake and not veer toward shore. He wouldn’t have sent it out into the shipping lanes or someone might have rescued her. He must have set it to go south. She decided to turn it ninety degrees to port and hopefully sail to land. She set the sails and wheel to what she thought might be east. She captained boats on numerous occasions, but tonight this one felt sluggish and heavy. How much water would it take on before succumbing to it?
A bucket! She went below, rooted around, found a bucket and dipped it in the water. Carried it up and tossed it overboard. Repeat. Once again. After being cramped up from the hog-tying and bashing her head on the drawers, she felt weak. Probably groggy from the drugs, too. Keep going. Another trip. Another. After ten trips she found some crackers and ate them, but the sound of the water rushing in drove her to work again.
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 1, Great Lakes & N.E. Page 8