Plain Jayne (8 page)

Martha secured a bolt of purple cloth beneath her arm. “Quilting.”

I almost froze in place. “Quilting? You mean, like actually making quilts?”

The women gave me twin blank looks.

“Yes,” Sara said. “Don't some English women quilt?”

“They do, some of them. Just not any of the women I know.”

I dropped my cell phone into my apron pocket, on the off chance that Shane got through. Reception had been spotty during the day.

Martha hitched the horse to the buggy, and then we set off bumpily down the road. People waved at us as we drove by; Martha nodded, Sara waved back. I probably looked as though I had missed my calling as home-coming queen.

Along the way, Sara told me about the quilts. Friends and family members often gave quilts as wedding gifts, but the market for Amish-made quilts in the last ten years had skyrocketed to the point where the women felt no qualms about meeting during planting season and working on quilts to supplement the family income.

I fingered the bolts of cloth as I listened. There was the purple cloth Martha had carried, which reminded me of a Sunday school lesson about Lydia. I couldn't remember who Lydia was or what she did, only that she dealt in purple textiles. She was probably a believer—most of the women in the Bible were.

A second bolt shimmered yellow in the pale afternoon sun. “You don't wear yellow, do you?” I asked Sara.

She shrugged. “Sometimes the younger children do. Why?”

I pointed to the fabric.

“Oh,” she said. “English women like light colors in their quilts. The lighter quilts sell faster than the darker ones.”

“Makes sense.” That also accounted for the pale blue fabric that reminded me of the last robin's egg I'd found as a child. “How far is it to Ida's?”

“She lives on the outside of town, on the other side.”

“So…we have to drive through town?”

Sara nodded.

Martha remained stoic.

As we neared town, the other drivers' stress levels rose. Some passed us in a swoosh of metal and air, honking as though they were auditioning to be New York cabbies. The buggy shuddered each time.

Others just sat behind us as if we were leading a procession. I suppressed the urge to repeat my homecoming wave.

Once we got into town, people stared. Some stared openly, others used techniques usually reserved for checking out members of the opposite sex. A few people whipped out their cell phones to take pictures. Sara ducked her head. Martha's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead of her.

Suddenly it occurred to me that people were also taking
my
picture. A giggle started deep inside and grew to a laugh. Sara turned around. “What?”

“They're taking pictures of us,” I said, another peal of laughter threatening to break loose.

Sara's expressions darkened. “It's hard to stop them.”

“But they're taking pictures of me too! Me! And I'm not even Amish!” Another cackle escaped. “The joke's on them!”

She smiled. “I suppose so. But you're giving them something to photograph: a laughing Amish woman.”

“Sorry.” I sobered. “I'm just not used to dealing with the paparazzi.”

Except for the cars in the driveway, Ida's house and the Burkholder home could have been one and the same. A couple other buggies were parked in an adjoining field, attended by bored-looking horses. Martha pulled up next to them.

I saw that hitching posts were actually in the field and watched as Martha tied up the horse.

It answered my question about how one parked a buggy without an emergency brake.

The sound of women's voices met us on the porch before we even made it into the house. Once we were inside, I paused.

How did so many women fit in here? It was like the circus Volkswagen with the clowns. And not only were the women packed in like sardines, they had quilts pulled taut in giant frames.

Crazy. I assumed the fire marshall had no idea what went on in normally quiet Mennonite homes.

I watched from a safe spot near the wall as Martha and Sara moved into the crowd. They greeted, they hugged, they commented on fabric. After a few moments, Sara stopped, her eyes searching. When she found me, she wove through the masses toward me and grabbed my hand. “Come and sit with us! You can cut squares.”

“You don't want me cutting squares,” I said, shaking my head and trying to free myself.

But Sara had a farm girl's grip. “Anyone can cut squares.”

“I tried making a nine-patch in fourth grade. I was the only kid whose project looked less like a quilt and more like Jackson Pollock. And I really mean Jackson Pollock—not one of his paintings.”

“You're not in fourth grade anymore,” Sara retorted, all but shoving me into a chair. I received a few calm smiles, as if reporters got harnessed into sweatshop labor all the time. “Here are your scissors,” she said, giving them to me handles first, “a template, and fabric.” She set the purple bolt in my lap. “Make sure the corners are nice and crisp.”

And with that she left.

I struggled through the first few squares. I couldn't get the fabric to cut without it folding oddly on the scissors, resulting in a less-than-straight edge of the square.

Or rectangle. I began to think that maybe Sara needed to be more open minded when it came to the desired shape of the quilt pieces. What was the template but a constraint against creativity? She might think she wanted squares, but had she really considered rectangles? Rectangles opened up so many possibilities. They were easier on the eyes, visually.

At least, that's what the guy at Video Only said when he wanted me to spend the money on a widescreen TV.

“You need to use the edges of the scissors,” a voice said to my right.

I jumped and turned. With the complete commotion all around me, I hadn't noticed Ida taking a seat next to me. “Sorry…”

She waved a hand. “Didn't mean to startle you. You might try moving the fabric down so it's closer to the tip of the scissors. I think that pair has a dull spot in the middle.”

I obeyed, moving the fabric down the blade before making the snip. A clean-cut piece dropped into my lap. “Thank you!” I said, picking up the fabric and eyeing its perfection. “That's much better.”

“You've never sewn before,” she observed.

“Never.”

“It's useful. Even in your world, there's wisdom in knowing how to sew a button back on.”

I couldn't tell her I usually chucked clothes once they began to shed their buttons or grow holes.

I cut another square. This time it actually looked like a square. “This is fun, though. And I enjoy learning new things.”

“How is my grandson doing?”

Okay, that was a serious change in subject, although I suspected this line of questioning to be her original intention. “Fine, I guess. I talked to him this morning.”

“He's a good boy, Levi. He had a lot of opportunities to do other things, but he chose to stay near the family that rejected him.”

I hid my surprise that she would discuss such a personal subject in such a crowded room. Although you could barely hear your own thoughts, much less another conversation. “Why did he leave the community?”

“I don't know how he stayed so long. He was so curious, so smart. He wanted to know how the world worked, and he couldn't understand why no one else did. The teacher at the school used corporal punishment, at the time, and Levi was strapped for asking too many questions. He read better than many adults, and he would read the family Bible. He asked the bishop once if King David got into heaven even though he led armies.”

“What happened?”

“The bishop told Gideon, and Gideon had to discipline Levi, or else the community would have looked down on him for being a lax father.”

“Is the community that involved?”

“Everyone has to keep up appearances. Watch the squares—you don't want them too small. There needs to be seam allowances.”

“Seam allowances?”

“About half an inch, since they'll be sewn together.”

“I get it.” No, I didn't.

“After Levi left he went to school and got himself a fancy education on scholarship money. Worked for a big company in California before he came back here and opened his shop. He's been here ever since.”

“Why do you think he came back?”

Ida arched an eyebrow. “To be close. To be available.”

“Available in case…” I followed Ida's gaze to where Sara stood, overseeing one of the frames and examining the seams.

Of course.

He wanted to be close to help his siblings get out, if they wanted.

I looked around at the Amish women filling the room. They weren't highly educated, but these women appeared happy. Industrious. Savvy in their craft. Aside from the overzealous watchdog community, why would anyone ever leave?

I asked Ida as much.

“I left because my husband left, and I didn't want to be apart from him. Not everyone is cut out to be Amish. Still…”

I waited.

“Well, I was a little surprised about Levi's leaving, at least concerning Rachel.”

Rachel?

Ida pointed to another woman.

This woman looked around my age, and resembled what the rest of the world would consider the ideal paragon of Amish beauty.

There wasn't a trace of makeup on her face, but she didn't need it. Her skin was clear, her cheeks, rosy. Her teeth were white and straight, her hair a rich chestnut. She looked like the sort of woman who followed the rules and always did the right thing.

“Were she and Levi…”

“They were never engaged, though everyone thought they would be.” Ida shook her head. “But I don't know that Rachel would have been able to leave.”

My chest tightened as I looked at Rachel and realized she was everything I wasn't.

T
he buzz of my phone interrupted my jealousy of Rachel. “Excuse me,” I said to Ida. I disentangled myself from the pile of squares before picking up the phone.

The caller ID read “Shane Colvin.”

About time. I snapped the phone open, even though I couldn't hear a thing. “Let me get outside,” I said, hoping he could at least hear me, even if I couldn't hear him.

Come to think of it, the last time we talked he couldn't hear me because he was in some kind of club. This time, I couldn't hear him because I was off quilting.

Oh, the irony.

“Hi,” I said, then stalled. “Um, how are you?” Why haven't you called me? What have you been doing?

“Fine,” he answered, as if he hadn't been putting off calling me at all. “How's the story?”

“Interesting, very interesting.”

“Did you find someone to stay with?”

“I did, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, the world's stupidest conversation.

“Who with?”

I sighed. “An Amish family outside of town. I found them through a contact.”

“The Mennonite lady?”

“You know, call me old-fashioned, but I always thought that ‘I'll call you back tonight' meant that the caller would call back that same night. Maybe
it's supposed to be a different night. Maybe that's what all the cool kids are doing now. Or is it code? Because I left my secret agent decoder ring back at my apartment, thank you.”

“I'm sorry I didn't call you back…”

“You're calling me back now, and it's not even sunset. Not at all nighttime, so now I'm really confused.”

“Jayne…”

“The cool kids must really hate you.”

“I'm sorry. I went to a talk at the university with my brother; you caught me just as it let out. Then Jordan wanted to go out for a drink, and I got distracted.”

“You got drunk?”

“I was the designated driver. Jordan was singing sea shanties by the time I took him back to his dorm.”

I winced. “He can't sing.”

“No, and his pitch gets worse after a couple brewskies. And he forgot words…I don't know why I'm telling you all this.”

“Is it true?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

I wrapped my nonphone arm around myself. “Sorry. I'm feeling very vulnerable right now. Must be the bonnet.”

“You're dressed like one of them?”

“Down to the kneesocks.”

“I bet you look cute.”

“Shut up,” I told him, but in truth a smile sneaked out. He always had that effect on me.

“You're doing okay?” he asked.

“I'm doing okay. What's going on in the world out there?”

“Oh, you know. Death, destruction, political upheaval. The usual.”

“There's something comforting about not getting a newspaper.” I paused. “Don't tell anyone I work with I said that.”

He chuckled. “Don't worry, I won't. I don't think Kim would ever talk to you again.”