Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (9 page)

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I’m midway to the van when I hear the driver’s-side door slam. A woman the size of a ten-year-old with curly gray hair, a red quilted coat, and a hunched back hustles around the front of the vehicle and meets me at the side. She gives me a quick once-over. “You Miller?”

“Yep.”

She wrenches open the sliding side door. “You can put the suitcase on the seat. I got a bad back, can’t lift nothing these days.”

I load both and climb in.

“Where you headed?”

“Swamp Creek Road.”

“I know it. You must be renting Bowman’s old trailer.”

“I’m supposed to meet her there.”

“We’d best get moving then.” She slams the door.

I’m no stranger to the dynamics of a small town. Still, it’s disconcerting that the first person I meet knows where I’ll be living before I do. She puts the van in gear and pulls onto the road. The interior smells of exhaust and cigarette smoke. She’s got the radio on, but the reception is bad and there’s more static than music. For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the rattle of something loose and the
thump
of wipers that need replacing.

On the outskirts of Roaring Springs, she glances at me in the rearview mirror. “I know most of the Amish in the area.” She pronounces the word “Amish” with a long
A
. “Ain’t seen you around before.”

“I just arrived from Ohio.”

“We don’t get too many new ones.” The brakes screech when she stops for a traffic light. “What brings you all the way up here?”

“Bishop Schrock.”

“The bishop, huh?” Her eyes go back to the mirror, narrow on mine. “You heard about him all the way from Ohio?”

“I hear he’s a good bishop. A strong leader.”

“I guess that’s one way to put it. You one of them Swartzenrubbers, or what?”

I don’t bother correcting her mispronunciation. “My family was, but over the years we’ve drifted from the old ways. My church district in Ohio … the bishop had become mild.”

“I reckon sometimes the old ways are the best,” she says.

“Do you know Bishop Schrock?” I ask.

“He don’t speak to us English folks. I seen him in town a time or two, though,” she replies. “Kind of stands out in a crowd. Always wears black. Never seen him smile. Or heard him say hello, for that matter. I mean, if you ain’t Amish, anyway. And he’s got that stare. Sorta scares people off, if you ask me. I hear he runs a tight ship out there.”

“My
datt
always told me that to be worldly is to be lost.” It’s the first truthful thing I’ve said so far.

When she looks at me in the mirror, her expression is perplexed. “If that’s the case, you should be happy here because Schrock is strict with all them rules.” She indicates my dress. “That gray dress you’re wearing’ll do fine, I suppose. A lot of the women wear black. That’s about all in the way of color. From what I hear, he likes the womenfolk to wear their skirts extra long.…”

I look out the window, but I feel her studying me in the mirror.

“You all alone?” she asks.

“My husband passed away,” I tell her. “Cancer.”

“Hate to hear that.” She clears her throat, motions to her left. “Grocery’s right there, by the way. They’re open till ten every day ’cept Sunday when they close at five.”

Through the driving snow, I see the facade of a Big M grocery set close to the highway.

She makes another turn, heading north. We pass a cemetery with grass left uncut, some of the headstones leaning. A farm where a dozen or so cattle stand beneath the overhang of a tumbling-down barn.

The driver makes a sound low in her throat when we approach the sign for Swamp Creek Road. “County don’t clear the gravel roads when it gets bad.” She hauls the wheel right, hits the gas with enough force to send the van into a fishtail. “Should be okay as long as I don’t stop.”

I’m holding on to the armrest, wondering how she plans to drop me off without stopping.

She cackles as she barrels through the snow and I realize she’s not kidding. “Mrs. Bowman meeting you out here?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Decent lady. Keeps a clean place and always fair to the Amish. Churchgoing, so she don’t put up with no hanky-panky if you know what I mean. Frankly, I think that’s why she likes to rent to the Amish. No teenage boys, though. ’Specially when they do that running around thing.”

“
Rumspringa
.”

“They’re as destructive as a herd of wild boars.” She breaks into laughter and I hear phlegm rattle in her chest. “Course she won’t have to worry about that with you being a woman, and a widow to boot.” She slows the van. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

My heart drops into my belly at the sight of the mobile home. It’s tiny, not much larger than a travel trailer, with pink siding striped with rust, and it doesn’t look quite level. There’s a bay window on the right end. From where I’m sitting I can see that one of the panes is cracked. The steel skirting is robin’s-egg blue and there’s at least one panel missing completely. I silently curse Betancourt and Suggs as the van rolls to a stop.

“I know what you’re thinking. It looks kind of trashy, and I reckon it is, but I been inside and it’s clean and warm. Trees are nice in the summer, keeps the place cool.” She jams the van into park. “Looks like Mrs. Bowman beat you here. She’s prompt, if anything.”

I glance through the windshield to see a big red Suburban parked adjacent to a silver propane tank.

“That’ll be fifteen bucks. Cash, if you got it.” She holds out her hand.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out a couple of bills. “Thank you.”

I reach for the handle and get out, relieved to be away from the stink of cigarette smoke and exhaust. Snow squeaks beneath my shoes as I pull out my suitcase and the box. I tuck the box under my arm and drag the suitcase through the snow toward the driver’s-side door.

The van window rolls down. She’s smoking. “You want me to wait for you?” she asks.

I look at the trailer and sigh. “No.”

“Take care.” With a wave, she backs up. The wheels spin as she pulls onto the road.

I direct my attention to the red Suburban. A forty-something woman, clad in a long, camel-colored coat and contrasting scarf, slides out and starts toward me. “You must be Kate Miller!”

“Hi.” I wade through the snow. “Mrs. Bowman?”

“Nice to meet you, honey.” She sticks out her hand without removing her leather driving glove, then motions toward the trailer. “Would you like to see the interior?”

“I would.”

She shivers and looks upward at the lowering clouds. “Dreadful weather. Don’t let the cold change your mind about moving here. This part of New York is gorgeous in the summertime.”

“The trees are nice.”

She tilts her head as if trying to decide if I’m being facetious, decides I’m not. “I keep a clean place here. Heat works good. Plumbing, too. I take care of it myself, and believe me, I’m careful about who I rent to.”

“I understand.”

“Let’s get out of this blasted cold. Bring your suitcase and box.” She’s wearing boots with two-inch heels and wobbles slightly as she toddles through the snow. We go up metal steps, and standing on the metal deck, she jabs a key into a flimsy-looking knob lock. “I require first and last month’s rent, and a one-hundred-dollar deposit. I pay all the utilities.” She glances over at me, her eyes taking in my dress. “You won’t be needing electricity, correct?”

“No.” But I’m silently praying I’ll have access to power to charge my phones.

The door swings open to a living room that smells of Pine-Sol and mothballs. Faux-wood paneling. Gold curtains. A mustard-brown sofa squats on newish beige carpeting. The air temperature hovers just above freezing.

“I had the carpet put in last year,” she tells me, our footsteps muted as we walk inside. “Had it professionally shampooed last week after the last tenant moved out, so probably best if you take your shoes off when you come in.” She sniffs, her brows lowering. “I swear the last tenant kept a cat in here. Never saw the litter box, but that smell…”

A bar-height counter separates the living room from a small kitchen to my right. An old-fashioned kerosene lamp sits atop the bar. The kitchen is comprised of cheap cabinets and circa 1970s wallpaper. Avocado-colored refrigerator and stove. A stainless-steel sink mottled with hard-water spots. A laminate table with two matching chairs is shoved against the bay window. A smaller kerosene lamp sits in the center and not for the first time I’m reminded that I’ll be spending my evenings in the dark.

“It’s a twelve-by-fifty-foot Liberty. I think it was built in the late 1970s. Built them solid back then.” Mrs. Bowman motions toward a narrow hall. “Two bedrooms and a bath back there. Got lamps in every room, but you’ll need to buy your own kerosene.”

I’m trying to think of a way to ask her about electricity without letting on that I’m planning to use it. “What about heat?”

“I pay everything, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t crank it up too high. Hot water heater and stove run off propane. Fridge is electric.” She raises her brows. “That’s not a problem, is it? I know you people don’t use electricity…”

“It’s fine.” I try to look pained, but I’m vastly relieved.

I follow her to the rear of the trailer. The floor creaks beneath my feet. The hall wears the same ugly paneling as the living room. We pass a closet-size bedroom, a twin-size bed taking up most of the space. Next is the bathroom. Someone has painted the paneling royal blue. There’s a fiberglass tub with a shower curtain covered with seahorses. Blue vanity with a dinner-plate-size sink and pitted chrome faucet. A medicine cabinet with a cracked mirror is mounted above the sink.

I continue on, past a second exterior door on my right that leads to the backyard. The master bedroom takes up the entire rear of the trailer. It’s small by any standard and contains a twin bed draped with a threadbare comforter, a closet with a sliding door, and a built-in dresser with four drawers. An alarm clock ticks from atop a plant stand that’s being used as a night table. A fat candle on a plate sits on the floor next to the bed. A window unit air conditioner is jammed into the only window. I can feel the cold air pouring in from where I stand.

Mrs. Bowman comes down the hall to join me. “What do you think?” she asks.

“It’s perfect,” I tell her, trying not to be depressed. I lived in some dives in my early years, but nothing as dismal as this trailer.

“You’ll be living here alone?”

I nod. “I’m a widow.”

“My Harold has been gone nearly four years now and I still miss him every day.” She clucks her mouth. “Alzheimer’s. Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Well, I don’t allow pets.” She pats the suitcase-size purse at her side. “I have the lease here, if you’d like to sign. Since you have your things with you, I’m assuming you want to move in today?”

“Right now, if that’s all right,” I tell her.

“Gotta love a no-nonsense Amish woman,” she says. “Let’s sit.”

A few minutes later, we’re seated at the kitchen table. The simple rental agreement is two pages long with a place at the bottom for us to sign and date.

“You’re from Ohio?” she asks, looking down at the form.

“Holmes County.” I sign and date the second page and slide it over to her. “I’m looking for a job, too. Do you know of anyone hiring here in Roaring Springs?”

“The pancake house off the highway is always looking for waitresses.”

“What about Amish businesses?” I ask.

“Well, there aren’t many left. The Amish around here keep to themselves.” Slipping bejeweled bifocals onto her nose, she signs her name with a flourish. “There’s a quilt shop in town called The Calico Country Store. And a restaurant called The Dutch Kitchen. I think they’re still Amish owned. Last two left.”

“I’ll check them out.”

She picks up the lease, folds it, and slides it into her purse. “I think we’re all official now.” She offers me a card. “If the temps dip below zero, keep the water dripping in the kitchen. Keeps the pipes from freezing.” Another cluck of the tongue. “I need to get that skirting panel replaced.”

I nod, pondering all the different ways I could kill Suggs and Betancourt.

“Toilet paper only flushed down the toilet. No sanitary supplies.”

“Got it,” I tell her.

“There’s no garbage collection out here, so you’ll need to take it to the dump. Don’t leave it out for the critters. Coyotes will come right into the yard for scraps.” She walks to the front door and opens it, shivering a little when the breeze lifts her hair. “Cats have been disappearing all over the place out here.”

“No problem.”

She steps onto the steel decking, pulling her coat tighter about her. “There’s a snow shovel in the shed out back, if you want to make use of it. The closest phone is the Amish pay phone on the corner.” She cocks her head at me. “Do you have some form of transportation?”

“Not yet,” I tell her. “I may pick up a bicycle.”

“Don’t know how you people do it.” Shaking her head, she descends the steps. “Especially in winter with all this snow. Give me a call if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

Giving a final wave, she walks away without looking back.

CHAPTER 7

It’s not until I’m alone and the events of the day settle that the enormity of the undertaking hits home. So far everything has gone as planned. But I’m fully aware that, while this first day was productive, the real work has yet to begin.

Nightfall is fast approaching and the trailer is dark, so I take a few minutes to light the lanterns. I check the heat and find that Bowman had it turned down to fifty, so I crank it up to sixty-five. I didn’t bring much in the way of clothes—just the dresses and, for when I’m here alone, a heavy cardigan, sweatpants, and a couple of flannel shirts. It takes me ten minutes to unpack and stow everything either in the dresser or the closet. I’ve decided to keep my .22 and my personal phone with me at all times. I’ll need to hide the other phone and the .38 in a safe place.

The trailer rocks slightly when I walk to the kitchen. The flames from the lanterns throw shadows against the ceiling. I look through the cupboards. There’s a mismatched set of dishes, but not a scrap of food. I’ll need to make a trip to the grocery, and once again I’m reminded that the lack of transportation is going to be a pain in the ass. I find a small pad of paper in one of the drawers and start a list.