Still Life in Shadows (23 page)

“Every day…. In my mind, I heard his voice and saw his frightened face every day. I still hear it some nights.”

When no one spoke, he cleared his throat. “I found out later that the boy was visiting his cousins. I often wonder whether, if he had been a local boy, he would have eventually told someone what happened. I’d secretly hoped that my father would be found out, but he never was.”

Mari swallowed hard, her eyes red at the rims. She brushed away tears from her chin. Clearing her throat, she said, “That’s terrible, Gideon.”

I hate him,
he wanted to yell at the trees, at the sky, at the stream, and to anyone who would listen, but he bit his tongue and pressed his lips together instead.

“Why was he so mean?” asked Angie. “Did he have a bad father?”

Gideon shot her a surprised look.
How did she know?
“Yes,” he said. “My mother told me his father—my grandfather—was abused and abusive.”

“So the cycle continued,” Mari said reflectively.

“I can see now,” said Kiki, “why you had to get away from your family.” With a glance toward her sister, she added, “We know about how parents can be, don’t we, Mari?”

Mari said they certainly did. Angie said her parents fought too much. Sometimes that’s why she spent so much time at her grandma’s.

“We can be a family,” Kiki said as she motioned toward them with a broad movement of her hand. “We can belong together, can’t we?” Spontaneously, she grabbed Gideon’s hand and put an arm around her sister’s shoulders.

Gideon wondered if she’d belt out a verse or two of “Kumbaya,” but instead Kiki dropped her embrace just as abruptly as she’d initiated it and cried, “Angie! We have to go on an arrowhead hunt! Hurry, before Mari says we have to go home.” Her eyes begged permission from Mari.

Mari said, “A short hunt, Kiki. Okay?” With that the two girls darted from the picnic grounds toward a cluster of pines.

Mari started putting items into grocery bags, cleaning up from their lunch. “I hate what you went through,” she said.

“I suppose he’s made me the angry man I am and the one Moriah’s become, too.”

“Did Moriah get whipped?”

“He says he did. Told me that once he left his work boots out in the rain, and Father not only whipped him but made him milk the cows in his bare feet. It was winter about four years ago. After that, Moriah knew he had to leave home, too.”

Mari sighed. “I hope you’ll find some forgiveness somehow, Gideon. But who am I to talk? Look at me, I’m so aggravated with my own parents.”

“Both of them? Even your dad?” He knew she was disturbed by her mother’s hoarding and choosing a lifestyle that kept her from her own children.

“Yes,” she breathed, stuffing the leftover cookies into a bag. “I always felt he should have stepped in and helped. Instead he stepped out, and away from Kiki and me.”

“I guess you and I have something in common,” he said, not sure if the ability to share dysfunctional family stories was ever a good thing to have in common. “I always thought adults could forget their childhoods. You know, grow up and leave them behind. But childhoods are what we grapple with even as adults.”

When a wind picked up and the sun dropped in the sky, he helped her carry the paper grocery bags that contained the remains of their lunch to her car. He wished he had some magic words to say to alleviate her pain—and his, too.

As she summoned Kiki and Angie, he waited for words of hope, of promise. All he could come up with was from one of today’s congregational songs, “I Am with You Always.” The song spoke of how there is trial and turmoil in this life, but Jesus promises to be with you no matter what. Did he believe those words? As the tune played in his head, he thought,
I want to. I want to believe. I need to.

Although they hadn’t found any arrowheads, Kiki and Angie each had a bird’s feather when they rounded the bend and joined Mari and Gideon at the parking lot. Kiki waved hers like a flag. “I think it’s a hawk feather,” she said. “I’m going to add it to my pirate’s hat.”

All the way home, as Gideon followed Mari’s car out of the park, he let Kiki’s suggestion of being a family together push away the visions of his past. Belonging, that’s what he wanted. To be cared for, to belong, to be accepted.

At his apartment, he checked for any sign of Moriah. As he made a bologna sandwich for dinner, he thought he heard his cell phone ring, but when he checked, there were no missed calls or messages.

T
hanksgiving came like it did every year in the Smokies, a canopy of deep blue mountains framed by bare maple, beech, and pin cherry trees. Rotund firs, still green, dotted the mountainsides.

Gideon spent the holiday with the Kingstons at their house nestled in the forest away from the Parkway. He and Luke were their two guests, spoiled by Mebane as she made sure their dinner plates were abundant with turkey, gravy, and chestnut stuffing. Although they talked of hunting season and a recent forest fire, wedding planning took precedence. Luke and Ashlyn discussed what kind of cake to have at their reception. They’d be sending out invitations to their May wedding in March. Luke then asked if Gideon would be his best man.

“Me?” Gideon pushed back from the dining room table, admitted he was honored. In Amish country, friends were asked to be witnesses—similar, he guessed, to being bridesmaids or groomsmen. He’d been a witness for a cousin’s wedding when he’d just turned thirteen, but in all of his years away from the farm, he’d never been asked to be a groomsman or a best man. He’d have to ask Ormond was what expected of him.
From photos he’d seen, he knew he’d have to dress the part. “I guess that means I’ll have to put on a tux and take off my ball cap,” he said.

Both Luke and Ashlyn said they were grateful he agreed to be in their wedding party. “I’d like to ask Moriah, too,” Luke said later in the evening as Henry snored in his recliner and ESPN blared on the plasma TV. “But I don’t know if I should—”

Gideon motioned the suggestion away with the flick of his wrist. “He’s not reliable,” he said.

“But will he be offended if I don’t?” Luke’s eyes softened.

“No,” lied Gideon. He knew his brother could let his emotions get bent out of shape because Moriah was like that. He wanted to be the center of attention, he craved the limelight. But Moriah was not well, and expecting him to perform as part of the wedding party was neither a feasible nor wise expectation.

Nights later, Gideon brought his eight-foot artificial tree out of the cardboard box in his closet and, since none of the lights he’d bought last year still worked, found some lights on sale at the local Kmart. After decorating the tree with two strands, he strung a multicolored strand up around the doorway to his kitchen. He turned off the overhead lights and plugged in the Christmas lights. He added fifty ornaments Mebane had given him over the years. There were bells, baubles, a glass angel, a star made of porcelain, and a dozen reindeer with red bows. His favorite was the wooden manger scene with Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus. Perhaps he liked it because it was made of wood, or perhaps because it was simple without any commercial fanfare, the way he imagined the birth of God’s son had been so many years ago, aside from the angels singing glory to God and that star that led the magi across the country. Admiring the tree, he thought,
now, this is warm and cozy.
This was the kind of atmosphere that made him want to invite Mari over to watch
It’s a Wonderful Life.

He was determined to ask her, but the next day at the tearoom, Mari seemed preoccupied. He learned she was going to have to visit her mother for a few days during Kiki’s Christmas break. Pondering the visit made
her anxious. She didn’t mind the drive, as long as the weather wasn’t icy—she wasn’t good at driving in inclement weather—but she wasn’t sure what to do about the nights she’d stay in Asheville. “I don’t think I can sleep in Mama’s house,” she confessed. “It’s covered in puppets and hard to find the furniture. I think I’ll tell her that Kiki and I are staying in a hotel.”

Something about the way she said it, Gideon knew the choice to do this was not going to bring any favor with her mother. “Tell her you don’t want to put her out.”

“Put her out?”

“You know, have to clean and get the house ready for you.”

Mari sighed. “She doesn’t. I mean she doesn’t clean for anyone, so that line won’t work.”

Gideon wasn’t sure what to say next. In this one way he wished he was like Moriah, freely able to make conversation.

“I could say we have allergies. That might work,” Mari said. “I have been sneezing more lately.”

Gideon felt sorry for Mari and her obligations. He could see that the holidays were a chore, and he wanted to make them merrier for her. But his own heart felt loaded with uncertainty. He wondered why Christmas now couldn’t be as it was for him his first Christmas in his apartment. That first Christmas, he’d been eager to decorate a tree and invite his new friends over.

Even last Christmas Eve, he’d hosted a small party, made a new recipe for lobster soufflé he saw in an issue of
Cooking Light.
The soufflé was rich in color and texture, reminding him of sunflowers back home. Also to the menu he’d added a hot cheese dip with artichokes and had sliced French bread to create bruschetta with mozzarella and a mild salsa topping. But the dish he was most proud of was his own creation. Using what he had in his pantry and fridge, he’d concocted a salad with avocados and Roma tomatoes. Preparing it had been easy; he created the recipe as he was inspired. First, he took out a box of acini di pepe pasta he’d purchased on sale months ago, and dumped half of the
contents into a pan of boiling water. Nine minutes later when the tiny gel-like pasta was ready, he drained it and then tossed it with sour cream, seasonings, chopped onions, tomatoes, and a ripe avocado. The red and green mixture looked festive, and after a taste, he added more salt and garlic powder and named it Gideon’s Southwestern Christmas Salad. Everyone who stopped by last Christmas Eve had enjoyed it.

Ormond, Luke, and Ashlyn had arrived at seven and stayed for hours. Ashlyn brought a key lime pie she’d made, and later, when her parents stopped by for a few moments, they added homemade sugar cookies and apple cider to the spread on the kitchen table.

Beside his festive tree, they’d sung Christmas carols together and between selections, Luke had played his banjo. When Bruce, in town visiting family, came over, they were on the sixth stanza of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Bruce encouraged Luke to play along as they sang the rest of the verses, and both instrument and vocals joined together harmoniously. They all agreed Luke sounded more like a true southern mountaineer than any northern Amish lad.

This year, with Moriah … Gideon was not at all certain what would happen.

H
is first Christmas card arrived two days later—a glittery card of heavy blues and reds with a church bell on the front. It was from Josiah, one of the first Amish kids he’d helped “cross over into civilization,” as the then sixteen-year-old had put it. Josiah left Indiana during his rumspringa, when he was allowed to venture out of his Amish community. He worked at Russell Brothers for three years and then went to Appalachian State University. At twenty-two, he graduated with a business degree and married a third-grade teacher who encouraged him to open his own computer business. The two moved to her coastal hometown of Beaufort, North Carolina, and raised their family of three boys. Five years ago, they’d stopped by for a visit, Josiah praising Gideon for all he’d done for him over the years. With fond memories, Gideon placed Josiah’s card on the shelf under the TV stand. As more cards arrived,
he’d do what he did each Christmas—string them along his living room wall, a display for him to view every day.

O
n Christmas Eve, Gideon returned home from a small party at Henry and Mebane’s to find Moriah waiting for him with a turkey and an armful of potatoes. Ignoring the fact he hadn’t even said hi in over a month, Moriah asked his brother if he could come in and if Gideon would cook a meal for them on Christmas. “You know, a nice dinner like they have in the movies.”

“I can do that,” said Gideon as he took the groceries from his brother.

“Great.” Moriah entered the room like he had never left. He sprawled out on the couch and within minutes, was asleep.

Gideon defrosted the turkey that night in a pan of warm water and at eight in the morning, as Moriah slept, he put it in the oven. While the turkey cooked, he planned what else to serve with it, continually keeping an eye on his brother as he quietly moved about the apartment.

At two in the afternoon, the brothers sat down to a meal of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy from the giblets, green beans, and Gideon’s Southwestern Christmas Salad. For dessert, Gideon had whipped up the traditional Amish shoofly pie. Cooking for his brother had been a delight; he was grateful for the opportunity to serve him a real Christmas dinner.

As the local radio station’s selection of Christmas carols filtered through the apartment, Gideon kept the conversation on a light note, talking about the weather, Christmas mornings in Carlisle, and sprinkled in a few mentions about the auto shop. He didn’t comment on what he saw—a skinny Moriah with circles under his eyes, enlarged pupils, sallow skin, and hair as dull as the hay from the bales on the farm.