Plain Jayne (3 page)

And I got my four.

“Have enough to eat there?” Kim asked, poking at my sushi with her fork.

“I think it'd be clever,” said Joely, “if you freeze-dried your leftovers.”

Gemma nodded. “Then you could reconstitute them at your leisure. You know…a little water, some sleight of hand with a camp stove…”

“I hope you're all enjoying this. Maybe I'll learn to cook while I'm there.”

“You're afraid of ovens,” Kim lifted an eyebrow. “Remember?”

“It's not a fear, per se. It's apprehension,” I shot back. “Over a heat source. Joely's afraid of clowns.”

Joely crossed her arms. “Lots of people hate clowns. Fear of ovens—that's odd.”

“You'll have to tell me what the food's like,” Gemma said before taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. “I've heard it's mainly German. A lot of carbs, a lot of meat…” Her voice turned thoughtful. “You know what I think? I think this trip will surprise you.”

“I wanted Miami to surprise me.”

“You hate flying,” Kim pointed out.

I shrugged. “You may have a point there.”

A
fter packing for five minutes that evening, I realized that maybe taking my bike wasn't the best idea. I had no idea what to bring with me.

Normally, I'm the girl who could travel the world with a shoulder bag. I wad, I roll, and when necessary I do without.

But this time I had no idea if I was dressing to fit in with a church service or a barn raising.

I'm not like most girls. I'm not given to fits of indecision over what to wear on a Saturday night. My sister, Beth, was always the pretty one—I never felt the need to dress up. Jeans and a T-shirt, slacks and a blouse—my wardrobe pretty much ended there. If it was cold, I'd throw on a hoodie or a blazer.

How did the Amish feel about pants, though? None of the women wore pants. Would they be off ended if I did? Would I be exempt?

I sighed and dug through my closet. Somewhere at the back I had a skirt my mom made me wear to band concerts in high school.

It was in the back, clipped on a skirt hanger to a cloth I used as a photography drape. I held it up and sighed again.

My hips had grown a bit since I was seventeen.

Defeated, I picked up my phone and called Gemma.

I skipped the preliminary greetings. “I need clothes,” I said in lieu of hello.

“Are you ill?”

“Really, I need at least one skirt or something if I have to—”

“You have to be running a fever if the word ‘skirt' came out of your mouth.”

“Do you want me to call Kim?”

“I'll be there in twenty-five minutes.”

Sure enough, she was, with a garment bag in tow. “You weren't specific,
so I brought a selection,” she said, giving me an awkward one-armed hug that ended with a hand on my forehead. “You don't feel warm.”

I rolled my eyes. “I wore a dress to my sister's wedding.”

“Right,” she said, heading down the hall. “But, see, I wasn't there to see it. And if I didn't see it—did it really happen?”

I didn't honor that with a comeback. Gemma's lips settled into a smile. “Okay, then. I know you've got a lot of black, and frankly, you can wear black slacks with a black blouse and a colored scarf. You'll be dressed like an average Frenchwoman.”

“Dressed like your mother, you mean.”

Gemma pointed a finger in the air. “And her friends!”

“I need something skirt-ish. I don't know how they feel about women in pants.”

She laid the bag on the bed and tugged on the zipper. “You didn't say what length you wanted, so I brought all of them. What size are you, anyway?”

“Larger than I was in high school.” “Helpful. Try this one,” she said, giving me a handful of black skirt. “We're about the same size.”

I didn't even have the skirt zipped when Gemma began shaking her head. “Nope, not that one. Here—”

“What's wrong with it?”

“It doesn't hit your hips right. Try this.” She handed me another.

“It looks just the same.”

“It's not.”

“But—”

“Kim's on speed dial.”

I yanked the second skirt out of her hands and then shimmied until the first fell to my ankles.

“Now…” Gemma's brow furrowed, “remind me why you're gong to investigate the Amish?”

“Look at them. They can't be that perfect.”

“I don't think anyone believes they're perfect. If I remember right, the kids are only educated to the eighth grade level.”

I shrugged. “It's an instinct thing. I always know when I'll find something.”

Gemma opened her mouth, closed it, and turned her attention to skirt number two. “That's the skirt.”

We studied my reflection in the mirror. Gemma tilted her head. “I think you're ready to be Amish.”

With Gemma's help, I managed to pack up the panniers and fit my electronic equipment into my laptop backpack. I didn't pack everything, figuring I could always go home if I wanted my extra memory card for my camera. Either way, I needed room for my copy of John Hostetler's
Amish Society
.

I left early the next morning.

The cold April air whispered around my collar as I rode south on I-5. The busyness of Portland disappeared, office buildings giving way to hills and trees.

I missed the buildings. A part of me never felt comfortable outside the city. I forced myself to brush off the feeling and ride on. I was a reporter. I had work to do.

After what felt like forever, I finally parked my bike outside Albany's Comfort Inn on the south end of town.

The room was nice enough, not that I was paying attention. I unloaded the panniers, stuck my digital recorder in my jacket pocket, and headed back out.

The whirring of saws and other limb-severing equipment could be heard from the street. I parked my bike and proceeded with caution.

More internet research had revealed an abundance of Amish carpentry businesses. And while I did not close my eyes and point to one in the phonebook, I did pick the one whose owner's name sounded the nicest.

Levi Burkholder. Good man name.

The scent of sawdust filled my nose. The door I'd chosen led directly into the shop. Men fed pieces of wood through huge saws; others sanded assembled pieces with electric sanders. Strains of the Blue Man Group melded with the din of the machinery.

One of the workers noticed me. “The customer area is through those doors,” he said, pointing.

“I'm looking for Levi Burkholder. I'm a reporter.”

“A what?”

“A reporter!” I yelled.

“Reporter. Right. I'll tell Levi. I'll have him meet you in the customer service area.”

“The what?”

“Customer service area!” he shouted before turning around. I hoped he was going to look for Levi, but shop culture wasn't my realm of expertise.

As instructed, I waited in the customer service area, where I found outdated copies of
American Woodworking, Modern Woodworking,
and a
Woodcraft
catalogue. I flipped through one and read about wood garage doors making a comeback.

Fascinating stuff.

The door opened and a man stepped in. He was about my height and broad shouldered, although younger than I'd pictured. I put the garage doors down. “Are you Levi?”

“Hmm,” he said, seeming to consider the idea. “What if I were to tell you that I was?”

Then I would ask to see ID. “Then I would have a couple questions for you.”

He leaned against the counter. “Really.”

“If you really were Levi.”

“What makes you think I'm not?” His expression turned injured.

I wasn't born yesterday. “We'll call it gut instinct.”

“Yes, let's.”

“Let's what?”

“Call it gut instinct. You have a very interesting gut, what with its instincts and all. I always thought guts were for digesting. Glad yours can multitask.”

I suddenly remembered why I hated small towns; weird people lived there. “It's a gift.”

“A very special gift,” he said, and probably would have continued if the door hadn't opened. “Hi, Levi. You're just in time. We were talking about her multitasking gut.”

The real Levi stood a head taller than the first guy, his wiry body and ruffled dark hair covered in sawdust. He rolled his eyes and looked to me. “Is he bothering you?”

“Not yet,” I answered. Close, though.

“I apologize, really. Spencer was just getting back to work.”

“I was?”

Levi didn't break his gaze. “He distracts easily. Spence? Go file something.”

“Right, boss,” Spence answered with a salute.

“Sorry about that.” Levi stuck out a callused hand. “Levi Burkholder.”

I shook it. “Jayne Tate.”

“You're a reporter?”

“Yes. I'm writing a piece on the Amish community, and I was wondering if I could interview you at some point.”

“Come on back to my office.” He gestured down the hallway, and I followed.

Levi opened the door; I could see Spencer beside the desk.

“Are you trying to be in the way?” Levi asked.

“You told me to file. I'm filing.”

“Go help Grady.”

“She looks nice. You should ask her out.”

“Spence!”

Spencer hustled out the door. “Finding Grady.”

Levi turned back to me. “Have a seat. Did I already apologize for him?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, I apologize again.” He tented his fingers. “Have you ever had your own business?”

“No, I haven't.”

“If you do, don't hire your friends.”

“Point taken.”

“They are very hard to fire. I've tried several times. It doesn't help that Spencer is one of the best carpenters in town. And his mother would skin me alive.” He shook his head. “What were we talking about?”

“The Amish.”

“Why did you want to talk to me?”

“You run an Amish furniture business.”

“What do you want to know?”

“How many Amish workers are in your employ? Do you come from an Amish background? How does the Amish lifestyle and work ethic affect your business, if at all?”

He nodded and glanced at his watch. “Those are a lot of questions. Unfortunately, I don't have much time today. I can tell you that I have eight Amish teenagers under my employ. Six of them are carpenters, the young men. Two young ladies come after hours to clean up the shop.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Not that they couldn't make a chair as well as their brothers,” he added. “Their families prefer for them to have more…domestic jobs.”

I held up a finger. “Do you mind if I record this?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

I retrieved my digital recorder from my bag, pressed the record button, and set it on his desk. “Thanks.”

“No problem. So that's eight Amish teens. I pay all of them what they're worth—a lot of businesses who hire them don't.”

“Why don't they?”

“These kids are raised to work hard and expect little in return. It doesn't occur to them to complain.”

“Why not?” When I was a teen, it had occurred to me all the time, to my parents' chagrin.

“Their group culture centers around a strong work ethic, and their personal identities center around that group culture.”

“What's your personal connection to the Amish?”

“Pardon?”

“You sound like you have more than a passing knowledge of them.”

He checked his watch. “An interesting question for another day. What's your schedule like tomorrow?”

I made the pretense of pulling my date book out of my bag.

Tomorrow's page was blank.

“I have time in the morning and later in the afternoon,” I said.

“Do you want to come back by in the morning, then?”