Still Life in Shadows (3 page)

The principal was peering at her, his glasses back on his face.

His eyes matched the blue-gray of his shirt. She liked that color. It was neither bright nor dark, one of those in-between tones that made her think of the arrowheads she had in her collection.

“Are you happy here?”

Happy?
Happy.
She rolled the word around in her mind. Did anyone care about happiness? Had that stern woman from social services with the bad hair and teeth asked if she was happy to be leaving Mama’s house in Asheville? No, she had just said Mama was unfit to raise a child.

“The school year just started, and already you’ve been in here three times.”

Kiki recalled the last time. They’d called Mari. Then Mari, stressed from having to leave the tearoom, had to listen to Principal Peppers explain that Kiki had thrown her math textbook onto the floor and threatened to burn all the stupid math books.

She could not face Mari being mad at her today. “Please don’t call my sister. For the sake of Pete, please, please, please.”

The principal sighed. He shuffled the pages in a manila file the VP had handed him.

Kiki was not only good at holding her breath, but she could also read upside down pretty well. The name on the file was hers. She bet that if she looked inside, it would have in large, mean letters:
Retard.

But she was not a retard, she was autistic. That’s what Dr. Conner said. And it wasn’t bad to be autistic. That’s what he told her whenever she shouted how she hated being this way. Being autistic just meant she was unique. The key was learning how to make her uniqueness work in a complex world.
Complex.

Suddenly Kiki wanted to ask the principal if he knew what that word meant. She looked across the desk at him as he burrowed through her file.

Before she had a chance to speak, he asked, “Did you get into trouble at your school in Asheville?”

She wanted to say, “No way!” but that was a lie. In all her thirteen years, she couldn’t recall ever
not
being in trouble. But she wouldn’t tell him that. She opened her mouth to say something—she wasn’t sure what would come out. Then the door scraped open and in walked the man from the auto shop, wearing his work clothes and smelling of the
identical aftershave her social studies teacher wore.

“This is Mr. Miller.” The VP motioned the newcomer toward the chair by Kiki and then closed the door.

Without looking at Kiki, Mr. Miller sat down.

“Thank you for coming by,” the principal said. “I’m sorry to bring you down here, but I thank you for your time.”

Kiki lowered her eyes. With a sidelong glance, she focused on the man’s hands, soiled with grease and dirt under his nails. Her fingers got that way sometimes, especially in Asheville when she helped Ricky repair bicycles. Ricky had taught her how to use a wrench and a screwdriver.

“As we told you on the phone, Mr. Miller, Kiki, here …” He coughed, cleared his throat, and apologized.

Had it been a different day, a day she didn’t feel so shaky, Kiki would have offered to get him a glass of water. She liked to get Mari water whenever her sister got a tickle in her throat.

“Apparently,” the principal said, “Kiki rode her bicycle over your parking lot when the concrete was wet.”

Perhaps, Kiki thought, this man would be kind. Perhaps he wouldn’t yell or scold or—

“I want her to stay away from my shop.”

Kiki’s stomach morphed into a ball of jelly.

“Well.” The principal cleared his throat. “Well.” He coughed into his hand. “Kiki, what do you have to say to Mr. Miller?”

“I’m sorry. Sorry, really sorry.”

The principal nodded her way. Perhaps that meant she was supposed to say more. “I didn’t know it was wet.”

With heat in his voice, Mr. Miller said, “I spent all afternoon pouring the concrete, and then I had to do it all over again.”

Kiki felt the man’s anger seeping from his skin and coating her like a bad dream. Perhaps this was a dream, and she’d wake up. She held her breath and starting counting.

“Maybe Kiki could show you how sorry she is by coming to your shop to help out.”

The principal’s voice was soft. Kiki raised her head, stopped counting, and smiled into his face. He might have a funny name, but today she didn’t mind.

“I think that Kiki could work off her indebtedness to you,” the headmaster said.

Her heart bloomed like it did when Mama made mashed taters for dinner, even if they were the kind from a box. The warmth from the bloom was almost as sweet as when the soloist at church sang “Silent Night” during the Christmas pageant. “Yes! I can help you! I am a good worker.”

“Kiki, you may sit down.”

She hadn’t realized she’d jumped to her feet. Reluctantly, she sat.

Principal Peppers directed his next statement to Mr. Miller. “She could help you after school for a few days.”

“Oh, please! I can work at your shop!”

“No,” the man said. “That will not be necessary.” He turned to Kiki. “Just stay off my property.”

She winced.

He stood, one hand gripping the chair. With his jaw as firm as his voice, he added, “Please.” Then he shook the principal’s hand and left.

Kiki slumped into her chair. This was not good, not good.

“You may go,” Principal Peppers said, his eyes now focused on papers spread over his desk. His black pen moved across a page. He licked his index finger and rubbed it against another page.

“For Pete’s sake.” Something inside made her spring out of her chair. “I could help him at his shop.”

“He doesn’t want help.”

“I’m good with tools.”

He looked at her. “Kiki, he wants you to stay away. You need to abide by his wishes.”

Kiki felt like hitting the wall, felt like making the brown-and-gold-framed awards with
Dusty Peppers
written in bold letters, sway. If she did that, the school would call Mari. She stuffed her hands inside her jeans’
pockets and, with loud steps, left his office. If only Yoneko was here, she’d cuddle the animal’s soft fur and shut out this unfair world.

B
ack at the shop, Gideon busied himself with a 2002 Mustang the youngest Stuart son had brought in for a brake job. The Stuarts, like most of the mountain folks around Twin Branches, loved to hunt and fish and could use rifles and fishing lines almost before they could feed themselves with spoons. The Mustang’s body was in good shape, but Gideon didn’t think all the
Born to Hunt
and
I’d Rather be Fishing
stickers added anything to its value.

Yesterday Gideon had replaced the master cylinder, and today he was replacing the rear rotors and pads. As he worked on the car, he fumed. Did that girl who’d ruined his parking lot really believe he’d want her getting under his feet at the shop? He didn’t need her help. He sighed and wondered why it bothered him that he was so peeved.
She’s a kid. And she’s not right in the head. You can tell by looking at her.

Ormond interrupted his thoughts by handing him the cordless phone. The call was for him. Gideon wiped his hands on a shop rag. How would he ever get anything done today?

“Can you pick me up?” the caller asked.

“Who is this?” The accent was familiar, but there was nothing wrong in making sure.

“It’s Amos. I called you the other day.”

“Hello, Amos.” The kid sounded more desperate. Had being in the
real world
already thrown him for a loop?

“Can you pick me up?”

“Where are you?” He stuffed the rag into his back pocket.

“Gatlinburg. I got a ride here this morning from Charleston.”

The kid had made good time. Gideon paused to determine if today was the day his contact in Gatlinburg made the trek to Twin Branches. He opened the bottom drawer in his tool cabinet and took out a crinkled paper with Bruce’s delivery schedule. If Amos could get to Bruce’s depot by one o’clock tomorrow, he would be willing to drive the kid to Twin Branches. He’d driven many teens here from communities in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana—kids wanting to escape bonnets, buggies, and the Old Order.

Gideon gave Amos directions. “You want to go to Lyle’s Produce at 676 Fairmont Place.” As many times as he’d given this address, he knew it by memory.

“6176?”

“Do you have a pencil? Paper? Write it down. I’ll wait.”

Gideon heard some muffled voices, then Amos said, “I got the paper and pen. What was that again?”

Slowly, Gideon repeated the address of the trucking company that carried fresh produce over the mountains each Wednesday. “When you get there, ask for Bruce. He’ll drive you here.”

“What if he wants money? I’m out.”

Of course, these kids were always out. “I’ll cover it when Bruce gets here.”

The driver would take him to 102 Azalea Avenue, the apartments where Luke lived. Hiber Summers, the landlord, offered inexpensive furnished places for Gideon’s “brethren,” as he called them, because he was a kind man. He also enjoyed having his 1988 Volvo serviced for free
and detailed at least three times a year—a little arrangement he and Gideon had.

“I’ll be at the apartment tomorrow afternoon when Amos arrives,” Gideon told Ormond. Bruce usually got into town around three. He’d greet Amos and get the lad situated in an apartment.
Lad.
Even after all these years, he called young boys lads, just as his parents had.

“Where is this one coming from?”

“Lancaster. He sounds really young.”

As he continued with the Mustang, Gideon recalled that day when a lad had come to his father’s farm. Gideon had seen the gate to the orchard wide open, the goat wandering around outside of it. But the scene his mind played over and over was the one after his father had noticed someone had been in his orchard.

The evening air was cool, the shed door cold and hard. Gideon placed his ear against it and thought he heard a whimper, like a calf when it was hungry. “Are you all right?” he asked. There was no reply so he tried again, this time his voice a little louder. “Are you all right?” The autumn wind circled his head, ruffling his brown curls. He was about to ask if the lad would like a bowl of soup when footsteps rounded the corner. His hands shook and his legs froze, though he knew he must run before his father caught him.

No more!
Gideon nearly said it aloud as he lowered the car to the ground. He gave the lug nuts a few more tweaks with the ratchet. Then he opened the door and climbed in. He revved the engine and backed the Mustang out of the bay. He usually had Luke take the cars for runs to make sure they were operating smoothly. But he felt the need to drive. Just a few spins around the town, stopping every so often to test the brakes. Though he rarely drove his own 2006 F-150, there were times he needed to get behind the wheel and go.

Therapy, Ormond called it. “Driving clears your mind,” he insisted. The old man, who had taught him years ago about repairing cars, knew a thing or two about the human condition, too. “Some days you just gotta let her rip, feel the wind in your face, and know that God gave us
motorized vehicles for a reason. Driving sure beats going home and kicking the cat.”

W
hen Gideon got back to the garage from a late lunch—complete with a slice of blackberry pie, two cups of green tea, and a fairly nice conversation sprinkled with a few smiles from Mari—he saw her.

What is she doing here?

She was dressed in billowy blue sweatpants that engulfed her small frame and an equally baggy T-shirt. Gone were her jeans from earlier today. With her arms folded across her chest, she stood talking to Ormond.

“You!” He felt his veins grow hot.

The girl glanced at him timidly. “I rode my bike here.”

“I told you no at school today. The answer is still no.”

“But I’m a hard worker.”

“That doesn’t matter. I can’t use you.” Had someone advised her to use that hard-worker line on him? He’d heard those words from so many he’d helped to leave their Amish communities. What did they value about their upbringing? They’d ask each other this. Most said they appreciated that they’d been taught how to work hard.

But Gideon, when he felt like playing devil’s advocate, would tell these young escapees, “Even a workhorse cannot survive on labor and whippings.” Wide-eyed, they’d stare at him. “I still have a scar,” he’d tell them. “Trust me. No child should be punished like that.” Then he’d shut his mouth as the room grew silent, faces uncomfortable, some wanting to ask about this scar but uneasy to do so.

To the young girl today, Gideon repeated, “I can’t use you.”

Ormond looked up from his newspaper. “Kiki tells me that a friend taught her to use tools. She says she can fix bikes.”

Gideon shook his head and stalked out to the bays. Luke was checking the oil under the hood of a white Mercedes.