Plain Jayne (11 page)

There's something about sleeping in an Amish house. Aside from the sound of teenagers skulking in the night, it's silent. I couldn't even hear the traffic from the highway. And the stars? Impossibly bright. I'd forgotten how bright stars could be.

When I was a teen, I'd hike to Cascade Head at night just to look at the stars. They reminded me how little I was, and how big the rest of the world was. Sometimes I would pray, back when I did such things. I thought I could hear God better when I was under the stars.

Is that why the Amish lived so far from the city lights? Could they hear God better?

After the demise of my arm, I found myself in strictly observation mode. When the children were home, I followed them around with my notepad in hand.

I had avoided children in my old life. But the children I had interacted with, including my niece, were nothing like the youngest Burkholder children.

There were moments when they laughed like normal children. When Levi appeared, you'd think they were promised a trip to the circus.

Were children still into the circus? Or did they prefer to stay home with their Wii? I wouldn't know.

Either way, these children spent the bulk of their time in a state of soberness I'd never observed in any other American children. They attended to their chores without Martha harping on them.

And yet they still had very individual personalities. Samuel had a penchant for practical jokes; I'd actually heard some of the family members refer to him as “Joker Sam.” Permanent nickname? I hoped not for his sake. But when he wasn't tending to the cows or doing his homework, he seemed to enjoy removing key items and putting them somewhere else. Martha found half of her kitchen pots on the seat of the tractor once. Elizabeth's faceless doll was in the pantry, next to the flour.

Samuel at least had sense enough to leave Gideon's things alone, though I wondered if in the past he had tried something and paid the consequences.

Leah, by contrast, was shy and reserved. She probably paid the most attention to her schoolwork, and she seemed to be constantly cataloging information.

Elizabeth was the dreamer. If I was sitting in the living room with my notepad, she would occasionally curl up next to me with her doll, telling me what “Mary” had done that day while she was away at school.

The older boys remained a mystery to me. I knew Amos helped his father with the heavy manual labor around the farm. I asked Sara once if he were planning on marrying soon; she answered that marrying season wasn't till November. Whether there would be a family wedding in the autumn or not remained anyone's guess.

Elam worked in town, often coming home covered in concrete dust. At least, I guessed it was concrete. He resembled Levi in face but not expression. Whereas Levi's face was usually open and friendly, Elam's was wary and often creased in a frown.

Then there was Sara.

Sara tired of my brace within days. “You're going to have to learn to sew a button sometime,” she said. “Your left hand doesn't do
that
much. Don't you think you could try?”

So I did.

If I held my injured left arm just right, I could manage to hang onto the fabric while my uninjured right arm maneuvered the needle. Sara helped with the threading for humanitarian reasons. A needle through my finger didn't help anyone.

“You insert the needle here,” she said, pointing at a spot in the fabric scrap.

“Why there?”

“Because that's where the button's going.”

“What if I wanted to put the button somewhere else?”

“You don't.”

“I don't?”

“No.”

“Okay.” I followed her directions. “Like that?”

“Yes.”

“Shouldn't I have a thimble or something?”

“For just sewing a button, you'll do.”

Five minutes and two thread knots later, I held up my button-laden fabric scrap with pride. “There!”

Sara nodded. “That will do.”

“Are you ever proud of your work?” I asked.

“No. It is not Amish to be proud. To be prideful, arrogant—
hochmut
—is a sin.”

“You're not rubbing your work in other people's noses, though. It's pride of a job well done.”

“It can become arrogance.”

“But what if it doesn't?”

Sara opened her mouth to answer when Gideon stomped in the door, fresh from the fields.

And I do mean fresh. I could smell him eight feet away.

“The Colblentzes' barn caught fire,” he announced with a wheeze.

Martha left the kitchen. “Is anyone hurt? Did the fire spread?”

“None's hurt. Jacob's Billy got the animals out. Titus said bad wiring's to blame.”

“And the Colblentzes' house?”

“Fit and fine.”

By this time Samuel, Leah, and Elizabeth were down the stairs and full of questions.

“Billy's barn? Did he get burned?” Samuel asked.

Leah tugged on Gideon's shirt. “Is Susie okay?”

Martha held a hand to her chest. “Was there damage to the house or fields?”

Gideon shook his head. “They said it was the wires, so it burned from the inside. The fields are fine, the house is fine. We'll have the barn raisin' on Friday.”

I stifled an excited gasp. A real, live Amish barn raising? How lucky could I get!

I
couldn't have planned for a barn raising better myself, unless I'd personally set fire to the Colblentzes' barn.

Which, of course, I didn't. I'm afraid of matches. And it's unethical journalism.

The day before, Martha's baking and cooking kicked into a gear I'd never seen. With impossible speed she produced three pies, a baked custard, a side of roasted pork, and four loaves of bread.

The woman's a machine.

I worked in the garden that day, as best I could. Without using my left arm, I sat on the ground in the dirt, pulling weeds and neatening rows of beans and vegetables that the family would can for the next year. Leah kept me company, commenting on the state of the plants and the likelihood of rain.

We'd counted our third water droplet when my phone rang in my apron pocket. “I'll be right back,” I told Leah.

She watched as I walked back toward the house. It occurred to me that she didn't watch people answer cell phones very often.

Shane's name flashed on the caller ID. “The rain must help the reception. How are you?”

He exhaled hard into the phone. “Feeling pretty stupid.”

“Why?”

“I went to pick up your mail like you asked. Who was the guy at your apartment with your bike?”

Uh-oh. “I sprained my wrist pretty bad. Levi's a friend of mine, and he offered to take my bike back and get my car.”

“He did.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you call me? I would have taken care of everything.”

I sighed. “Shane, you're up to your eyebrows in work, and it's not like your office is anywhere near the repair place or my apartment. You would have been driving all day.”

“I wish you'd asked.”

“Service cut out. Aside from smoke signals, there was nothing I could do. And you don't really have any south-facing windows.”

“Glad this is all a joke to you. Is your wrist okay?”

“It's fine, and I'm joking because you're overreacting. There's nothing for you to worry about.”

“Sorry. You're a beautiful woman—”

“Yeah, well, so is Kim, and she sounded single and motivated when I talked to her.”

“The guy looked like a real rube.”

I bristled. “That was uncalled for.”

“He does!”

“He worked hard to catch up with his peers and is the first member of his family to attend, much less graduate from, college. He left a corporate job to be near his family. I think you can cut him some slack.”

I guessed it was a corporate job. Ida had said “big company.” Either way, Levi had achieved more in his lifetime than most of us, Shane included.

“I just don't like him,” Shane said, his voice weighted with resentment.

“Couldn't tell.”

“Look, if you say it was nothing, I'll believe you.”

“Nothing,” I said, hoping the slight shake to my voice didn't travel over the cellular frequency.

“Sorry I got upset. You said your arm's fine?”

“It is.”

“Tell me if you break a leg?”

“If I have cell service, you'll be the first to know.”

When Leah and I finished in the garden, I took my notepad and sat in the kitchen while Martha toiled away. I didn't think that many pies existed outside of a Shari's.

She worked uninterrupted until Elizabeth ran in squealing that the pig was in the garden.

“Jayne?” she said.

I looked up from my notes.

“Could you remove the pie from the oven if I'm not back in five minutes?”

“Of course,” I heard myself agree.

Maybe she'd be back in five minutes and be able to remove the pie herself. I mean, how hard is it to chase a pig?

Five minutes rolled by. No Martha.

I set my notes down and approached the oven. The familiar coil of discomfort tightened in my stomach. I hated ovens. Always had.

Martha had left a hot pad by the stove. I used it to open the heavy door. I peered in—a lemon meringue number sat inside, looking lightly browned, innocuous, and yet menacing at the same time. It
knew
I had to deal with it. And it might be lightly browned now, but if I just left it there, that nice golden color would be a thing of the past.

Gingerly, I reached in, greeted by waves of oppressive heat. Were there any other hot pads? I backed away, looked around, and eventually located a few more in a drawer.

Two per hand. Except that my left arm ached. Armed with two pads in my right hand I reached in again toward the lemon meringue with its caramel-tinted peaks. I grasped each side of the pie and lifted it from the rack. The contents swished; I froze.

Seriously, it was a pig in the garden, not a yeti. What was taking so long? It seemed safer to leave the pie in the oven than risk coating the floor with it, but I heard no sound of approaching footsteps.

Breathe
, I told myself.
You're an adult. Adults remove things from ovens. They seldom die from the experience.

My hands were growing warm, even through the double layer of protection. Now or never. With careful movements, I raised the pie in my grasp and placed it on the stovetop. Finally. I closed the oven door and backed away with a jump.

Done. I had survived. No burns. The pie looked beautiful, and a part of me felt proud that I had had a hand in it. Maybe I could try baking.

Then I smelled it. The tiniest whiff of smoke. I looked at the pie—not a burnt or charred spot on the thing. Where else could it be coming from?

The scent grew stronger. “Sara!” I called, hopeful. Nothing.

Logically, it had to be coming from the oven. Now that I thought about it, it should probably be turned off, right?

I turned the knob all the way to the left. Maybe the smell came from something that fell to the bottom of the oven. Martha
had
been cooking all day, so I supposed that something dropping or dripping wasn't a stretch of the imagination.

I opened the door to the oven; at the sight of flames, I jumped back. But even as I saw the flames, I saw the source.

Hot pad one of two.

Probably should have counted when I was done.

With the new influx of air, the flames experienced a growth spurt. I yelped and made a mad grab for the water faucet in the kitchen sink.

Martha had to have tongs somewhere… When I found them (located oddly near the canned goods), I snatched the blazing hot pad from the oven and flicked it to the sink.

It landed with a satisfying hiss. I poured more water over the smoldering ruins before closing the now flameless oven. As I closed it I saw a figure in the kitchen entryway.