Disappearances (17 page)

She wondered what a person had to do to acquire some food. She blushed when the portly gentleman caught her eye and smiled. Surely he couldn’t read her thoughts? Had she appeared as beggarly as she felt?

The ring of white hair around his red face reminded Sadie of a white bottle brush bent in a V-shape and Super-glued to his bald head. She wondered if his hair was like Mam’s, each new white hair having a will of its own, in her words. He was just as round as a bowling pin, his shirt front gleaming with buttons, his little round knees protruding not too far away from his rotund stomach. To her embarrassment, he caught her eye again, chuckling out loud now. Quickly, she turned her head, desperately hoping he hadn’t seen her close observation.

“You know, if looks alone could get one of these cupcakes, they’d be flying across the aisle,” he chortled, reaching below the seat with a grimace and a grunt, producing a plastic container.

“Will you do me the honor of sharing my dessert? Compliments of Sir Walter Bartlett.”

His little blue eyes were diamonds of merriment, topped by a shelf of bristling white eyebrows, small bottle brushes to match the one around his head. His nose was so small and red it almost eluded the observer, his mouth wide, hid by his sagging bulbous cheeks, filled to capacity with his dessert.

“If you want, I’ll allow you one!”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t. They’re yours.” Sadie said demurely.

“Of course not. I bring these on the train to share. Last time it was cherry croissants, which, I believe, are the lesser dessert, according to my way of judgment. But you know, never take a treat for granted, and the bakery on Second Street has a vast array. A vast array of yet untried possibilities.”

He laughed so happily at the thought, a gurgle of laughter welled up in Sadie’s own throat. Leaning across the aisle, he offered the box of cupcakes with a flourish and a sweeping motion that reminded Sadie of an orchestra conductor.

“Please accept my humble gift,” he chortled.

Sadie chose one, then thanked him politely. “You shouldn’t have offered them,” she concluded.

“And why not? It only increases my pleasure of a fabulous dessert to be able to share it with such beauty as yours. Are you Hutterite? Or perhaps Mennonite?” he asked as quickly.

Sadie shook her head. “Neither. We’re Amish.”

Completely flummoxed, he shook his head in confusion. “Never heard of ’em.”

Sadie barely heard his reply as she bit into the sweetness of the richly textured cupcake. She had never tasted better. She closed her eyes in appreciation to find Mr. Walter Bartlett leaning eagerly across the aisle in anticipation of her evaluation of his gift.

“Simply the best carrot cake I’ve ever tasted,” she told him honestly.

Waving a short, puffy finger delightedly, he bent forward at the waist, then sat back, still waving his finger. “Aren’t they? Aren’t they, though? If I compare them to the pumpkin, however, I do remain a bit indecisive for the reason of the frosting. I believe the maple-flavored icing on the pumpkin cupcakes complements the pumpkin better than the cream cheese does justice to the carrot, pineapple, and coconut. Then there’s always the question of the lack of raisins. I have yet to find a single raisin that I feel would elevate the essence of the carrot and pineapple so splendidly.”

Suddenly a genuine sadness, almost grief, pulled down his happy features until he appeared unusually morose. “But, oh, the day they pulled the German chocolate! That was a hard day, indeed. I walked home that day, opened my umbrella to the pouring rain, so fitting to my loss, and I thought, Where? Where in all the world will they bake those little Dutch chocolate cakes topped with the brown sugar, coconut, and pecan topping? Since, however, I have come to grips with the lack of my favorite cake, substituting the coconut-covered devil’s-food ones. In a way, they are a sad replacement, but it’s all right. I’m no longer grieving.”

He took a deep breath and sat up straight, squaring his shoulders in a brave and manly fashion, then turned to her with martyred eyes. “So hard, sometimes,” he said quietly then.

Sadie nodded her sympathy, which brought a sniff of resignation. Mark stirred beside her, and Sadie turned instinctively, but he resumed breathing deeply, lost in his slumber.

“Husband?” Walter asked politely.

“Yes,” Sadie nodded.

“May I ask your destination?”

“Barre, Oregon?”

“So far?”

Sadie nodded. “We’re going to find my husband’s brother, or siblings, we don’t know how many will be there. His family was broken when the children were small, so he’s trying to reunite.”

Walter nodded happily. “Very good. Very good. Genealogy is such a wonderful thing. With computers now, you just Google everything. So easy.” He nodded companionably.

Sadie could have told him about her lack of computer knowledge, but decided not to, the Amish and their ways being such a complete mystery. Besides, he had plenty of hardship in life with the baker pulling the German chocolate cakes from the shelves, therefore exposing poor Walter to such deprivation. Dear little round man. Sadie wanted to go home and find a good recipe and bake him two dozen cupcakes and present them to him warm from the oven.

God made such a wonderful variety of people, all so different and all so special. God must love people like Walter very much, their friendliness, their guilelessness. Likely that’s what one of the disciples looked like when Jesus saw him beneath the olive tree, “and there was no guile in him.” There was no deceit. No cunning. No sly behavior. That was the sort of person Jesus needed to follow him. The honest, the loving, the ones you could just hug and hug, like Dorothy. She was so full of fussing, spitting, complaining, but she was as guileless as this man. This rotund little Walter whose worst vice in life was the sweet desserts on a baker’s shelf, who handed out compliments, wished everyone well minutes after he met them, and seemed unaware of life’s darker side. He was much too busy being Walter Bartlett. Sir Walter Bartlett.

Sadie was sorry to see him weave his way down the aisle, clutching his plastic box of cupcakes, waving his fat little hand in her direction. She’d never see him again. But that was okay. He had touched her life with one wonderful carrot cupcake, a fat little fairy that touched her with his magical wand, filling her train ride with happiness.

Leaning over, she kissed Mark’s cheek, waking him in the process.

“You smell like … ?” he said softly. “What were you eating?”

Sadie giggled and kissed her husband. She loved him when he woke up with that sleepy “little boy” crease on his forehead.

“Oh, a fairy gave me a carrot cupcake with cream cheese icing.”

They reached their destination with surprising swiftness, the hours on the train clicking by as quickly as the clicking of the rails. When they emerged with the flow of passengers, standing inside the station, awed at the city lights, the height of the skyscrapers, the smallness of two people alone in a foreign (or so it seemed) place, Sadie clutched Mark’s hand as he called a taxi, then relaxed when the taxi arrived only a moment later.

Mark had a conversation with the driver, and they were whisked through rain-slick, light-filled streets, a kaleidoscope of brilliance and energy, honking horns, strains of music, shouting pedestrians, and people just moving, moving, moving. Into a hotel lobby, their steps muted on deep, plush carpeting. A few words to the man at the desk, while Sadie looked around at the gigantic green plants growing up toward the windowed ceiling. Was it just a glass ceiling?

The lights were low and people spoke softly. The women wore high heels, and she felt like the country mouse in the city, which she knew she was, though she sort of enjoyed the privilege, smiling back at inquisitive faces, holding Mark’s hand, glad she was the wife of this tall, dark man who received his share of appreciative glances.

Sadie felt the hotel room was too costly. Was it really right to spend so much money on one night’s sleep? This seriously bothered her conscience until Mark put it to rest, saying they could sleep in a motel for half the price, but, for safety’s sake, he was not about to go looking for the seedy section of town with the cheap motels.

“We are Amish and look just different enough to attract attention, so I feel safer right here where folks don’t need my wallet.”

After that, Sadie relaxed and enjoyed her stay at the beautiful opulent hotel. The fixtures in the bathroom were gold, so she touched them tentatively, carefully, and wiped them clean after her shower just because she felt guilty leaving them water-stained. They weren’t real gold, were they? She asked Mark, and he laughed for a long time, saying no, they didn’t live in King Pharaoh’s time. Sadie felt like a country mouse all over again and told him so. He laughed again and said that was a part of his attraction to her: her childish honesty, the way she spoke her mind.

“Even when I tell you cabinetmakers are good at their trade?” she asked eyeing him sharply.

A dark cloud passed over his face, covering his features, then left again when he took a deep breath. “Just forget it, Sadie,” he said gruffly.

So she did and went to the window, pulling the braided, gold cord to draw the heavy brown drapes aside. She stood, her hands on the wide windowsill, and leaned her forehead on the cold glass, peering down on the streets below, all glossy and golden with light. How did men build a skyscraper? Who ever had enough audacity to attempt it, even? It was amazing. But she guessed as long as there were human beings on the earth, God would impart the wisdom to enable civilization to do whatever was good and necessary.

“Look at the Egyptians,” she muttered softly without realizing she had said anything at all.

“What?” Mark asked from his pillows on the bed.

“Oh, I was just thinking about building skyscrapers. They always did. The Egyptians built those pyramids. A bunch of other things. How could they without equipment? It all seems so brave and … well, who thinks this stuff will even work? Who knows if the concrete and rods and bolts and stuff will hold? It’s the same way with bridges. How can they go ahead and do this awesome amount of work and know it will work?”

Mark smiled. “It’s called courage and faith. It’s what I need in great quantities for tomorrow. Think about it, Sadie. Our tomorrow is not so different. We planned this, we’re going through with it. We’re hoping what we’re doing will work. No going back now. With a bit of faith and well … let’s not be afraid. It’ll be a spiritual bridge or skyscraper or whatever we want it to be. Imagine, Sadie the possibilities are so … promising. And yet … I’m so terribly afraid. Come to bed. You’re my number one support in this bridge-building project.”

I
N THE MORNING, MARK
was quiet, his face taut with apprehension. He did not want a hearty breakfast so they had bagels and coffee brought to their room. Sadie noticed Mark’s untouched bagel and the tremor in his hand when he reached for his coffee mug.

She held her peace, however, knowing he did not like any display of weakness, especially for her to notice and bring it to his attention. This she had learned the hard way, having her feelings hurt repetitively by blurting out a few unmasked words. The silence was broken only by the soft sound of lifted coffee mugs, swallowing, or a clearing of the throat, a napkin dabbed.

Finally Sadie asked, “You have the address?”

Mark nodded.

“So all we need is a taxi, right?”

“Right. Ready?”

There was no smile, no affirmation of his love, only a rapid thrust of his arms into his coat sleeves, a shrugging of his shoulders, and a quick pull on the gold door handle, stepping back, his eyebrows raised with impatience as she shrugged into her own wool coat.

The taxi driver was skilled, talkative, and knew the streets well. Before they had a chance to wonder how far it was, the taxi pulled to a fluid halt, the driver assuring them this was the proper address.

They peered out the right window, taking in the old brownstone, the Georgian façade, the enormous front door, the huge windows flanked by heavy wooden shutters. The stone on the exterior was aged to perfection, three stories in perfect symmetry, an old, sturdily built home kept well with loving care, standing the test of time.

The boxwoods surrounding the low windows were trimmed to precision, the inlaid stone walkway and steps leading to the front door a tribute to skilled masons.

A copper-plated sign by the post beside the stone walkway read “Jackson Peight, MD.”

“He’s … he’s a doctor?” Sadie whispered.

Mark said nothing. Then, “Let’s just leave.”

Sadie shook her head. “Does he know you’re coming?”

“Of course.”

“Then we’re going.”

Sadie opened the door, stepped out of the cab, and breathed deeply. The smell of cold winter air mixed with city odors of traffic and asphalt, that indistinguishable no-name aroma that cloaked all cities. It was not offensive; it was a smell of energetic people and vehicles and food and grass and trees.

Mark followed and the taxi moved off, leaving them standing on the sidewalk looking up at the house as if it might swallow them alive. Sadie shivered, shaking off the foreboding that threatened to envelop her with its tentacles.