Plain Jayne (14 page)

T
he buggy may be gone,” Gideon said, with a nearly undetectable tightening of the jaw, “but we will still get to church. We will walk.”

“How far away are the Lapps?” I asked.

“Two miles from here.”

“I have my car now. I could drive you.”

The entire family perked up like daisies in fresh water.

“I mean, I'd have to take two trips. You wouldn't all fit…”

Two minutes later Gideon, Amos, Elam, and Samuel were buckled in. I'd pulled an old University of Oregon sweatshirt from the trunk of my car over my Amish ensemble so I looked less like a driving Amish woman and more Mennonite, perhaps. It was just too much work to take off the organza kapp. The ride over was silent, and when I unloaded my passengers outside the Lapp residence, I turned around to pick up Martha and the girls.

“There is something I must show you in your room,” Martha announced when I returned. Without pause, she marched me back to my bedroom and closed the door. “Take off your sweatshirt and kapp,” she said.

I stopped myself from frowning, shrugged out of the warm garment, and dutifully began the kapp removal process.

From her pocket she retrieved a handful of hairpins. With quick movements, she pinned my short strands of hair up and fastened the kapp on top.

“Keep your eyes down. Stay in the back. Move your mouth during the songs. Don't let anyone notice you.”

Before I could say a word of protest or thanks, Martha whirled out of the room and gathered the girls like chicks. “We're late,” she said. “Thank Jayne for driving us.”

Sara, Leah, and Elizabeth chorused their gratitude.

Martha instructed me to park a bit behind the buggies. I didn't know how it looked, an Amish woman behind the wheel, but then who was I to care how things looked?

For the first time in a long time, I realized I did care. I didn't care what people thought of me, but I did care what they thought of the Burkholders.

“Martha,” I said just before she climbed out of the car. “I don't want people to talk. You've been very kind to me. I don't want you to have any trouble on my account.”

“Keep your eyes down. You look Amish,” she replied.

And with that she walked away.

I knew she was trying to give me a gift. A gift I didn't know if I could, or should, receive.

From what I remembered in my research, the men sat on one side of the room and the women on the other. So if Gideon sat on the men's side, and I sat in the back and didn't say a word…

If he sat toward the front, this could work. People slipped in and out of church unnoticed all the time, didn't they?

Come to think of it, “people” was me. I recalled slipping in less and slipping out more…at least when my dad wasn't looking.

So if I could sneak out of church without my dad knowing, chances were I could do it without Levi's dad noticing, either.

I followed the path to the door Martha had taken earlier. The sound of singing voices filled the air. When I cracked the door open, I could see that even the minister—pastor? preacher?—was facing away from the congregation. I slid into the back with the stealth of a cold war operative, minus the cyanide pill.

Benches served as the seating of choice. Old men, young women, small boys—every member of the community sat in this room, singing their hearts out. In German.

Even the children sat still and sang. I couldn't remember ever sitting that still in church, although I did remember singing.

The sermon began after the singing, not that I understood a word. It too was in the same dialect.

I remembered having a hard time as a teen staying awake and involved in the service. Here, everyone was bright eyed. I didn't see a single yawn, even though this minister didn't appear to be telling any family stories or
funny moral anecdotes. He spoke firmly and directly, and everyone paid attention.

At least I thought he spoke seriously. He was stoic enough that he could be doing stand-up comedy and I wouldn't be able to tell.

I stayed through the service, hands folded, eyes cast down every time the minister looked in my direction. There was a recited prayer and another song, during which I stepped out and cut a trail for my car and the warmth of my sweatshirt.

My sweatshirt was firmly in place when Gideon returned. I searched his face for evidence of suspicion and found none.

Martha nodded at me. “Thank you for waiting, Jayne. We hope we haven't kept you from your work.”

Tricky, this one. I denied inconvenience and watched as the men loaded up for the return home.

I sought Gideon out when we returned to the Burkholder farm. “What do you think happened to your buggy?”

“Probably stolen,” he said with a shrug. “We will buy another.”

“Shouldn't you contact the police?”

“It's Sunday.”

“Okay. Tomorrow, then?”

“We can afford to buy another buggy. We don't got a need to seek revenge.”

I shook my head. “I'm not talking about revenge, I'm talking about justice. Either way, eighty percent of stolen vehicles are found and returned. I don't know why a buggy would be different.”

“Jayne—”

“By filing it with the police, you're at least doing what you can to protect your neighbors from the same thing happening to them.”

I watched Gideon hear my words, watched his mind process while varying emotions crossed his face.

“Ja,”
he said. “I think you are right.”

“I have a cell phone. You're welcome to call the police with it.”

He shook his head. “It's Sunday. It can wait until tomorrow.”

I had a bicycle stolen once, when I was a student. Well, maybe not
stolen as much as swapped. I came out of History of Ancient Greek Art to find that my bike was gone and replaced with an older, less gently used one than my own.

Same lock. Different bike.

I even looped around the bike racks a few times to make sure I wasn't crazy.

I all but sprained my thumb, dialing the police. Or rather, 411 to get to the police. But either way, I wasn't letting moss grow under the worn tires of the bike in front of me.

I couldn't imagine not immediately reporting the theft of my primary mode of transportation. In an odd way, I kind of respected it.

The thief (or thieves) who removed the buggy from the yard may have complicated the Burkholders' morning, but Gideon refused to give him (or her) the power to disrupt their day.

Admirable. And oddly empowering.

Since my original bike was covered by my parents' insurance, I was able to replace it with ease.

I kept the swapped-out bike for two more years (with the police's permission before selling it to help fund a proper motorcycle jacket with Kevlar.

Maybe I hadn't needed to dial so fast.

The police, as I had suspected, treated the buggy theft pretty seriously. Although in monetary value the buggy was far less expensive than, say, a car, the theft carried the air of a religious hate crime. Officers came out and questioned Gideon and Martha, as well as the neighbors down the road.

Conversations were conducted outside, despite the light drizzle. I joined Sara, Leah, Elizabeth, and Samuel at the window, peeking from behind the curtain. When the cops finally drove away, Gideon and Martha returned to the house and behaved as though a valuable personal possession hadn't been snatched in the dark of night. They didn't seem at all bothered or stressed.

They may as well have had a PTA meeting.

Although the Amish probably didn't have PTA meetings.

Elam rode with his Mennonite buddy into town for work and didn't require my taxi services. Life returned to a fairly normal schedule, until Sara informed me that she was babysitting that afternoon and wanted me to come too.

“You've got to be kidding.”

Sara shook her head. “Why do you think I'm kidding?”

“Well, I, um…I mean…me? Babysit? I don't trust myself around Leah and Elizabeth as it is.”

Granted, I had no idea what to do with children. Whenever I saw Beth's daughter, I froze up. I mean, I was messed up enough. It wasn't as though I needed to share that with my little niece. Emilee was only five years old, and I wasn't the sort of person a five-year-old ought to be with.

When I was fifteen, the woman in charge of the church nursery called my mother and asked if I would volunteer. I showed up under protest with no idea what to do and no desire to find out. The other ladies, as far as I could tell, took one look at me, with my purple hair, Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt, and perpetual scowl…

Let's just say I was never invited back.

And that was fine with me. Baby poop was never my thing, anyway.

Not that I would show up for childcare duty looking like a roadie these days. I had grown up in the last ten years. But children remained a mystery to me, and I'd always assumed it was for their own good.

Now Sara wanted me to babysit. And she wasn't taking no for an answer. “They're good children,” she said. “Because of the baby, I could use an extra set of hands.”

“Baby?” My panic grew. “I don't do babies.”

“What's wrong with babies?”

“They're little. They're breakable. They don't use toilets.”

Sara just rolled her eyes.

We showed up at Naomi Zook's home shortly after lunch. She pulled Sara into a hug and introduced herself and the children to me.

Mary Ellen was the oldest at four years old, followed minutes later by her twin, Becky. The little boy, Doyle, had celebrated his third birthday a few weeks before. I shuddered at the thought of giving birth—again—a year after having twins. Not that I could imagine giving birth at all.

Baby Ruby was, naturally, the baby of the house, a scant three months old. Naomi placed Baby Ruby into Sara's arms the same way she might have
transferred a much-loved bag of flour. Transfer completed, Naomi waved goodbye and left for errands in town.

“Okay,” I said when she was gone. “What do we do now?”

“You should play with the kids.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “They're kids. They don't care much.”

“That's not going to work. You're going to have to give me something else.”

“What did you like to do when you were four?”

I stuck my hands on my hips. “Listen to rock and roll.”

Okay, maybe not rock and roll. But I bet Raffi sounds a lot like rock and roll to the Amish.

“You don't remember doing anything else?”

“I try not to think too hard about my childhood.”

“Why not?”

“Just because. Now that I'm remembering, though, I seem to recall a few games of follow the leader.” I turned to Mary Ellen, Becky, and Doyle. “Follow the leader?” I said, my voice loud and clear. “Does that sound like fun?”

“They're young, Jayne, not deaf. But they might be if you keep yelling.”

“Sorry.” I lowered my voice and gestured with my good arm. “Follow me!”