Plain Jayne (2 page)

“You might think about some tai chi while you're out.”

“What about…Miami?”

Sol sighed. “I'm sending Laura.”

The words hit like a blow to my stomach. I could barely breathe. “She can't write a lead.”

“Right now, neither can you.”

My trip to Miami. My shot at an above-fold feature, all gone because I'd probably slipped too many passive verbs into first lines of my articles.

“It's for the best,” he said. “There will be other big stories, Jayne.”

I agreed with him out loud, but in my head I was shouting like mad.

I finished up my last projects and left work early. No sense in sticking around if anything I turned in was going to be thrown right back at me.

I wrestled into my motorcycle gear and hopped on my bike, thinking I might calm my nerves with a ride.

I didn't get past Powell's Books. I guess that's the curse of being bookish. I got lost inside every time I visited, but there are worse places to be lost. Each of the rooms is color coded, but I always got the red room and the rose room mixed up. Not that it mattered—I was still surrounded by hundreds of volumes.

Even as I fingered through shelves of books promising to teach me about fine paper folding, I couldn't get the scene with Sol out of my mind. Ever since I'd started work at the paper, I'd continued to work at ninety miles an hour. I couldn't slow down. I didn't know how to slow down. At this particular moment, I felt as though my insides were tearing me in forty different directions.

What would I do if I had to take a vacation? I didn't want to see my family. My sister would show me which wall she had just painted and what item she had ordered from the Pottery Barn catalogue.

Maybe I'd be okay with that life at some later date, but at twenty-six I wasn't there yet. I didn't know how I'd fit a car seat onto my motorcycle.

Probably couldn't.

One magazine cover caught my eye. A long line of laundry fluttered in the breeze, and a little girl in a dark dress was either hanging it up or taking it down. She faced away from the camera.

I flipped through the pages until I found the article. The journalist—who wasn't half bad—wrote a portrait of a people apart. They forgave when faced with searing hatred. They often provided for other members of the community. They called themselves Amish after Jacob Amman, a man who set his group of followers into motion before fading into obscurity.

My mind starting ticking, even as my insides seemed to quiet down. I couldn't take my eyes off the picture of the girl hanging laundry. What would cause people to live like that, when there are electric dryers with de-wrinkle cycles?

I bought the magazine and started home.

A little internet research revealed an Amish community just outside of Albany. Yet more research reminded me of Harrison Ford's role in
Witness
, Jodi Picoult's
Plain Truth
, and a small army of other books about the Amish. They certainly didn't lack media representation.

I wondered how they felt about that representation. Nothing I'd read made this group seem as if they particularly enjoyed the limelight. I wondered how accurate that representation really was. The idea of a utopian society, working off the land and truly caring for each other—frankly, I had a hard time buying into it. Even if it did work, what was their secret?

I read a little more and learned that the Amish were similar to the Mennonites in their pursuit of a simpler lifestyle. Both were pacifists and against infant baptism, but the Mennonites connected to city electricity and drove cars. The Amish who left the community often became Mennonite.

My mind started whirring again. A column the paper occasionally picked up was written by a Mennonite woman—could she have connections to the Amish? Probably. I chewed my lip as I considered the possibilities.

A story was in here, and I had three weeks all to myself.

Shane frowned at me. “You're going to do what?”

I suddenly regretted my need to share the plan with my boyfriend. “I've got it all worked out,” I said, a little defensive. “I'm off work for three weeks. There's an Amish community outside Albany. I'll stay in Albany for the first week or so. I'm hoping I can board at one of the farms after that.”

Shane leveled his serious brown eyes on me. “You're going to knock on doors and ask if anyone has room in the hayloft?”

I straightened my shoulders. “We occasionally print the column of a Mennonite woman—”

“What?”

“Don't interrupt. Ethel Beiler's the name of the columnist. I already talked
to her. She knows a couple families in that area, and she's going to talk to them about me staying with them.”

“That's crazy.”

“That's journalism.”

“Jayne.” Shane released a frustrated breath. “Your dad just died.”

“We weren't close. I told you that.”

“But he was your dad. It doesn't matter if you were close or not.”

We weren't getting anywhere. “Do you have anything interesting in your fridge? And when I say interesting, I don't mean, ‘it's changed color since last month.'”

“There's some Mongolian chicken. Tell me again how long you're planning on being gone.”

“About three weeks.”

“Are you…” he hesitated. “Are you still serious about us?”

My eyes widened. “Of course I am! Are you?”

“We've been together six months. You've met my parents, my brothers, everybody.”

I sat down beside him. “And I think they're great, really.”

“But you don't want me to meet your family.”

“You don't want to.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, really, you don't. I'm trying to save you the mind games, the guilt trips—you don't need that.
We
don't need that.”

“Your sister? Your sister's like that?”

“My sister is brainwashed, and anything we say gets parroted back to the parents.”

“Parent. Your dad's dead.”

I cupped his face with my hands and planted a kiss on his unresponsive lips. “Trust me? Please?”

He sighed. “Three weeks?”

“Three tiny, little baby weeks. I'll be back before you know it. I do have a favor to ask…”

“Yeah?”

“Pick up my mail?”

“For you? Anything. Just make sure you come back.”

I knew I couldn't head out of town without clearing it with Joely, Kim, and Gemma, so I called them all and set up lunch for the following day.

Joely Davis, Kim Keiser, and Gemma DiGrassi were, for all intents and purposes, my best friends in the world. Kim and Gemma I knew through the paper. Kim was on city beat—and the only writer I knew who can make a highway construction piece read like an acetic social commentary.

Gemma worked in food, which meant she ate at fabulous restaurants and criticized the staff. Despite her job, she was one of the sweetest people I knew. And she made amazing
pots de crème
.

Joely and I met when I was on the crime beat—she was usually the only cop on scene with a sense of humor. I introduced her to Kim and Gemma, and we've all lived in each other's pockets ever since.

Joely shook her head as I approached the table. “Such a sweet bike. It's a Triumph, right?”

“We saw you through the window,” Kim added. “Sit. Order. I'm hungry.”

I glanced over the menu and picked everything I might not be able to eat while I was gone.

Kim lifted an eyebrow after the waitress left. “Giving up food for Lent and eating while you can?”

I shook my head. “I'm headed to Amish country for a couple weeks.”

“As punishment for what?” Joely asked.

Gemma swatted her arm. “Shut up. You'll have fun, Jayne. My aunt did that—went on a buggy ride and everything.”

“Where did your aunt go?”

“Ohio.”

“I'm actually heading to a community near Albany.”

“What about the Miami story?” Kim asked, swishing the ice around in her water glass.

“Laura got it. I'm actually on leave for a bit.”

Gemma nodded. “Because of your dad? That's probably a good idea.”

“Laura can't write a lead to save her life,” Kim said. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm using the time to get a story on my own.”

I received three blank looks.

“Freelance,” I clarified.

“Let me get this straight.” Kim leaned forward. “You're taking leave to get this story? Did Sol not want it?”

“Sol doesn't know anything about it. The break was his idea.”

“He wants you to take time off, and you're using it to get a story in Amish country?”

“Yes.” I looked down and unrolled my napkin, setting my utensils aside and placing the napkin in my lap.

I could feel the exchange of looks crisscrossing the table.

“Look,” I said, “I don't do vacations. I'm a reporter—so I'm reporting. It's what I do.”

Joely shrugged. “Hey, if you want to spend your time off writing about riding in a buggy, knock yourself out.”

“Wow. Three weeks,” Kim said with a chuckle. “You'll love that. The simple life, no BlackBerry—”

“Who said I had to give up my BlackBerry?”

“Are you positive you'll have reception?” Gemma asked.

“Then I'll drive to town.”

“Tell me how it all goes,” Joely said, leaning forward. “My cousin—the one in Pennsylvania—says he busts Amish kids all the time.”

Somehow, that didn't seem to jive with my mental image from what I'd read. “Busts? Use your civilian words, please.”

“Do you have any family members who aren't cops?” Kim asked.

“Just my grandmother—on my mom's side.”

I snorted. “So what do these kids do? Use unkind words when cow tipping?”

Joely shrugged. “The teen boys drive like they're not aware they're mortal, they throw huge parties with kids coming in from several other states… Tim says they hand out MIPs like candy canes at Christmas.”

“Minor in Possession,” Kim translated before anyone asked.

“Amish kids will do that?”

“With enthusiasm. Hey, it's the conservative kids who can rebel the hardest. Last month, my brother arrested two homeschool kids for dealing meth. It can happen anywhere.”

“So.” Kim grabbed my hand. “What are you doing with your bike while you're gone?”

“I've got to get there somehow.”

“You're going to drive a bike to an Amish community?” Kim laughed. “What about your car?”

“In the shop. If I leave a key with one of you guys, can you pick it up?”

They all nodded. “No problem,” Kim assured me. “So…what does Shane think about all this?”

“He thinks I'm crazy. Nothing new.”

“I still think it's weird that you guys have rhyming names,” Joely said.

The waitress came with a tray full of food. Joely, Kim, and Gemma received their respective plates…