Kansas Troubles (7 page)

“Who did she end up with?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

Tyler gave a self-mocking smile. “Her horse. Who else?”

I turned back to the quilt. “I guess you probably expend your creative energy in your music now. It’s a shame to lose you as a quilter, though. Your stitching is incredible.”

She fiddled with one of her earrings. It made a soft, tinkly sound in the quiet living room. “Most people look at quilts and see beauty and order. I see that, but I also see a prison.”

She seemed open enough about her past, so, remembering what the man on the porch had called her, I said, “Tyler doesn’t sound like an Amish name.”

“It isn’t. I decided new life, new name. My . . .” She paused and raised her chin a fraction of an inch. “A good friend helped me choose it. Someone who used to come by the cafe where I worked in Miller.”

“Oh.” Her story fascinated me. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to completely discard one kind of life for another. “How long ago did you leave the community ?” I asked.

“A year ago last January. I lived in Wichita and got a job as a waitress at a Shoney’s Restaurant. I started going to little clubs, singing in their talent contests and bugging the different owners to give me a try. It was really hard at first.” Her delicate cheeks flushed. “Then I hooked up with T.K., and it got a little easier.”

“T.K.?”

“I met him at one of the clubs I sang at. He plays lead guitar in Snake Poison Posse. He was going to come tonight, but a friend of his asked him to fill in on a gig up in Kansas City. T.K.’s been a good friend to me. He’s the one who brought Snake Poison Posse together and asked me to sing lead. We’ve been at Lawrence’s club for about two months now. I’m getting a lot of good experience, but really, the only place to be is Nashville. I’ve got the money to go, but T.K. needs this gig, and I really owe him, so I promised I’d stay through the end of July. Then I’m heading south to Music Row to join all the other hopefuls. I’m hoping to get some studio work so I don’t have to waste time waiting tables.” She smiled thinly. “At least for a while, anyway.”

“How did you meet Becky?” I asked.

“I answered an ad she placed in the Wichita newspaper about buying authentic Amish quilts. She was a real lifesaver. I was desperate for money at that point, and she bought all the quilts I owned. Then I told her about my sister, Hannah, and she’s helped Hannah make some extra money by consigning her quilts in some stores in Kansas.” Tyler pulled absently at a strand of hair next to her cheek. “It was just coincidence that she knew Lawrence. But that’s how it is around here; someone you know eventually knows someone else you know. Sometimes that can get a little stifling.”

“I know,” I said. “The town in California where I’m from is like that. But sometimes it’s nice.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I suppose. If you never do anything that people disapprove of.”

“Do you ever see your family?” I was curious, knowing enough about Amish customs to assume her choice had caused her to be shunned, that no communication, no relationship, was allowed between her and the Amish community, including her family, for the rest of her life.

“No.” Her tone told me that it was not a subject open for discussion.

I moved to a more comfortable topic and picked up the edge of the Shoofly quilt. “I’ve never seen this stitching pattern before.”

“I took the design from the patterns that are blind-tooled around the
Ausbund
, our hymn book, but added my own touch. Believe me, my father is a minister, and he just about pulled his beard off when some well-meaning lady in our church pointed it out to him.” Behind her smile was an unmistakable resolve and a hint of steel.

I glanced back at the tiny, perfect stitches. You had to peer at them very closely and adjust your eyesight, the way you do when you look at an optical illusion, but once you did, inside the simple leaves, in elaborate stitching, the words seized your heart with their passionate plea—NONONONO . . .

I was stunned silent for a moment. Then I asked, “Why country-western music?”

She thought for a moment. “The first time I heard it, it struck something in me. It seemed so free and happy, even the sad songs. Have you ever heard the songs in an Amish church service?”

I shook my head no.

“They are extremely slow and very structured. To an outsider, it would probably sound like chanting. On some songs it takes thirty seconds just to sing one line of one verse. To sing four verses can sometimes take twenty minutes or more. Sunday evening singing, when the young people get together, is a little better, but not much. For an Amish person singing is supposed to be a reminder of all that is worldly and sinful. From the first time I remember singing, I didn’t feel that way about it. Singing made me feel happy. I would ask my father, Doesn’t God want us to be happy? He would say sternly, ‘
Gott
wants us to serve Him.’ But can’t we serve Him
and
be happy? I would ask. He would get so angry with my questions that my sister would break in and ask me to fetch some eggs or go milk the cows.” Tyler gave a deep sigh. “I think I was about thirteen the first time I heard a country song. My cousin Levi had a transistor radio hidden in the barn. The song was ‘I Saw the Light’ by Hank Williams. Ironic, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“And the first time I sang in front of an audience . . .” Her face flushed with emotion. “I can’t really explain it. It’s like I’d never been born until I heard that applause. For a moment, when things are just right, it feels like . . . like love. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like you’re really
loved
.” She leaned toward me, her eyes bright and desperate. “I can’t let anything take that away from me. I just can’t.”

Before I could comment, we were interrupted by a commotion downstairs. Angry male voices echoed up the narrow basement stairway. Like teenagers to a schoolyard fight, we rushed toward the frenzied sounds.

At the bottom of the stairs we watched Lawrence and Rob wrestle with each other in that awkward fighting dance that never looks as polished and masculine in real life as it does in the movies. Gabe pushed his way into the skirmish and pulled Rob back. Dewey and another man grabbed Lawrence. A trickle of blood trailed down from Rob’s nose; Lawrence’s glasses were lost somewhere in the scuffle. Without them, he appeared younger, his eyes wide and white-rimmed, like an owl’s.

“I mean it,” Lawrence said, stabbing a finger at Rob. “Stay away from her. I mean it.” He shook off Dewey’s arm. “Let me go. I’m fine.”

“Apparently she likes it,” Rob said. “Let her live her own life.”

Lawrence lunged for Rob, but Dewey and the other man caught him. “Get him outta here,” Dewey yelled at Gabe. Gabe grasped Rob’s upper arm firmly and led him up the stairs. Tyler and I stepped aside to let them pass.

“Are you okay, Rob?” Tyler asked, reaching out to him. He irritably shoved her hand away. I widened my eyes at Gabe, who shrugged.

“Too much beer,” he said in a low voice.

“Too much testosterone,” I countered. He winked at me.

“Maybe I should go with them,” Tyler said.

“Let Gabe walk him around outside,” I said. “He’ll cool down, and they’ll forget all about it.”

Becky ran up the stairs past Tyler and me, her face white with anger.

“Looks like Becky’s upset,” I said. “I’ll go up and see if I can help.”

In the cherry-red and white kitchen, Becky stood frowning in front of the open refrigerator.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“No, thanks.” She took out a pitcher of iced tea. “I’m just trying to remove myself from the commotion before I lose
my
temper.”

I hopped up onto the white-tiled counter and took the glass of iced tea she offered me. “What was it all about?”

She poured herself a glass and leaned against the refrigerator. “Same old stuff those two have been squabbling about for six months now. Lawrence’s daughter, Megan, works for Rob.” She paused and took a sip. “Apparently there have been quite a few nights that she’s come home late. Working overtime, she says.”

“So?”

“So, apparently she’s not really working overtime. Or maybe she is in a way. Rumor is she and Rob are sleeping together, and Lawrence is mad as a hornet about it.”

“How old is Megan?”

“Twenty-two. Certainly old enough to make her own decisions, as stupid as they might be. Heaven knows, getting involved with Rob Harlow is about the stupidest thing I can imagine any woman doing, but to tell you the truth, I think that girl’s a spoiled brat and she’s messing with Rob just to cause her parents grief. I’m surprised she isn’t here so she could enjoy this little scene firsthand. I have no idea how two people as sweet as Lawrence and Janet could produce a daughter like that.” She shook her head and dug into an open box of Ritz Crackers sitting on the counter.

“I thought Rob and Tyler were together.”

She held out the box of crackers. I shook my head no. “
That
has never stopped Rob before. Not as long as I’ve known him, anyway,” she explained.

We sat silently for a moment, the only sounds the murmur of the wind outside and Becky eating crackers. She set the box down and leaned her head back against the refrigerator. “I’m sorry about all this, Benni. I wanted this party to be perfect for you and Gabe.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m having a wonderful time,” I said. “Anyway, what’s a party without a little prehistoric male head-banging?”

“I suppose so,” she said, still sounding miserable.

The door to the living room swung open, and four or five chattering women poured into the kitchen, each of them clasping something in her hand. Five seconds later, Gabe followed them.

“Here,” he said to Becky and me, reaching into his pocket. He handed each of us a white poker chip.

“You’ve got to be kidding! Whose idea was this?” Becky said.

“Your husband’s,” Gabe answered. “He thought it might help get everyone away from the bar and get a little exercise, burn off some of this tension. It was either this or croquet.”

“Please, not croquet,” she moaned. “Stan gets vicious when someone hits his ball.”

“What’s this for?” I held up the poker chip.

Gabe glanced at his watch. “I have to join the guys back down in the basement. We’re giving you ladies twenty minutes.” He turned to me. “Becky will explain it to you. I’ll catch you later.” He leaned over and gave me a swift kiss.

“What’s going on?” I asked. Angel and Cordie June rushed past us, laughing on their way out the back door.

“It’s poker chip tag,” Becky said, linking her arm in mine and pulling me out after them. “We used to play it when we were teenagers. The guys give us time to hide. The object of the game is to find people and get their chips. If you’re caught, you have two choices: give up your poker chip or, if you can, persuade the person to let you keep it.”

“And the one with the most chips at the end is the winner?” We stood in the open doorway and watched the giggling women spread out through the field behind the house.

Becky grinned. “Well, not exactly. The best-looking guys never seemed to get anyone’s chips.” She grabbed my arm and led me around to the front of the house. “Follow me. The Christmas tree farm is always a good place to hide. I just hope Stan called Otis. He knows we’re having this party and that we get a little crazy sometimes, but he also keeps a loaded shotgun under his bed.” We wove our way through the cars and ran down her driveway.

“Who’s Otis?” I asked, following Becky across the dirt road and up the long driveway bisecting the farm. We were surrounded by six- and seven-foot pine trees which, in the pale scattered light of the quarter moon, looked like huge men in dark overcoats. The sharp, wintry scent of pine seemed incongruous with the hot summer air and the electrical buzz of locusts. At the end of the driveway the old two-story farmhouse I’d seen at a distance earlier that afternoon loomed as dark and spooky as Dracula’s castle. A flickering yellow light illuminated a second-floor window.

“Otis Spears. He owns this place. My dad and he were best friends. They owned the garage together.” Her sentences came out in short gasps. “Heavens, I need to start aerobics again. I’m exhausted already. Anyway, he’s like a member of our family. In fact, my girls call him Grandpa Otis.”

A figure appeared in the lighted window. Becky waved, and the person waved back. “Good, he knows.” She pushed me gently between the shoulder blades. “Okay, you’re on your own now, sister-in-law. It’ll be harder to catch us if we split up.” She disappeared into the forest of pines. “Oh, shoot,” I heard her say, her voice growing fainter. “I should have sprayed my socks for chiggers.”

Chiggers? Memories from my childhood visits in Arkansas caused me to scratch at my thighs prematurely. This was a Midwesterner’s idea of a fun Saturday night? I started into the Christmas trees and had threaded my way to a thick bunch of overgrown, untrimmed pines when the sound of angry voices stopped me. I hid behind a wide pine, eavesdropping on yet another argument. This time both voices were vaguely familiar, but I’d met so many new people in such a short time and the gummy air and dense trees made their words almost indecipherable. The wind shifted, and I heard a low voice say, “How could you!” The other voice, frantic and high, said something I couldn’t make out. Then the low voice returned. “. . . heartless . . .”

In the distance, muffled by the trees, men’s voices, then rowdy laughter, moved up the driveway of the farm. I dashed through the trees and found a fence. Working my way by touch, I followed the fence until I reached the barn. I slid the door open. The scent of horse was strong and fresh, telling me it was a working barn. In the darkness a horse whinnied and pawed the ground. Not wanting to scare any animals, I decided against the barn. I came back out and edged my way around to the back of the building, trying to avoid the old cars and ancient farm implements only faintly illuminated by the silvery light. Something metal rang when I stepped on it. A cat screeched and darted in front of me, its yellow eyes glowing with fear. I jumped back and stumbled, then laughed at my overreaction.