RV There Yet? (17 page)

We wave and watch him leave. Lydia turns to us. “Well, we've already lost some time; should we just go ahead and have the radiator fixed while we're at it?”

“At this rate, we'll never get out of Indiana,” I say.

“I can think of worse things,” Millie answers, defending her Hoosier state.

We drive a little ways from the highway, following the directions of Locksmith Joe, and settle into the heart of an Amish community.

“Oh my goodness, look at that,” I say, pointing to a black covered buggy.

“It's an Amish buggy.” Anytime Millie can impart knowledge, she's in her element.

“Wow, it feels as though we've stepped back into the ninerv teenth century.” Lydia slides open her window so we can hear the clip-clop of the horses' hooves. Do we need a life or what?

“Or we stepped onto the set of
Little House on the Prairie
,” I add.

“They have a good-sized Amish community around this area,” Millie says.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“We're in Shipshewana right now. Depending on what happens with the RV, we might go into Middlebury and check out Das Dutchman Essenhaus for lunch.” Millie glances once more at her map.

“Okay, if you say so. The name sounds very German,” I say.

“That's because the Amish are of German descent.” I'm almost sure Millie will add, “If you would read more, you would know that,” but to my relief, she doesn't.

We pass quilting stores, restaurants advertising Amish cooking, Yoder Department Store, and furniture stores boasting the superior workmanship of the simple people. There's even a flea market.

After making our way through the tourist section of town, we find the shop Locksmith Joe told us about, and the man at the shop tells us he can fit the RV in, which is great news. He says he owns a motor home and his son owns a motor home, so they keep spare parts on hand. Check back around four o'clock.

Lydia turns to us and sighs. “I'm sorry for the inconvenience, girls. But at least we can get it fixed.”

“Don't worry about it. We can go shopping,” I say, excitement clearly in my voice.

“Guess we'll have to skip lunch at Das Dutchman Essenhaus. But they have nice restaurants here too. We can eat at the Blue Gate Restaurant. You'll certainly get a feel for the Amish community here,” Millie says.

I'm excited that Millie is looking at it this way. I lock arms with Millie on one side and Lydia on the other. “We're enjoying the journey, remember?”

Lydia's shoulders relax, and she smiles. “You're right. Now I know why you two are my best friends.”

“Excuse me? Are you saying you didn't know why before?” I ask.

“Let's just call it a memory lapse,” Lydia teases. A man from the shop drops us off in the middle of the hustle and bustle of town, right in front of the Blue Gate Restaurant. Okay, hustle and bustle here is not the same as in, say, New York City. Just so you know.

We amble down the main drag, waltzing from one store to another. And just for the record, three middle-aged women waltzing into a store look nothing like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers have led you to believe.

We admire the colorful quilts and sewing goods, the thick, sturdy oak furniture, grandfather clocks, and cuckoo clocks, then walk back to the Blue Gate Restaurant for lunch.

Once we step into the restaurant, scents of fried chicken and sweet pies mingle and stir overhead, tingling my taste buds. Servers are milling about clad in dark dresses and white aprons. Many have white caps covering their hair.

Muted sounds of silverware clanging against glassware and hushed conversations join the home-cooked smells that hover in the room. After eating a plate of thick chicken and noodles, I can see why these simple chefs have such a following. The noodles are melt-in-your-mouth tasty. The broth is rich and creamy, and the chicken makes me want to start a franchise. 'Course, they ladle these tasty noodles over creamy mashed potatoes. Not exactly diet cuisine, but we only live once, right? It doesn't help that they serve homemade bread with apple butter and Amish peanut butter spread. This stuff tastes as though it's mixed with marshmallow cream, but I'm not sure. I just know it's to die for.

We top it off with a trip to the bakery, where we pick up some peanut butter, and Lydia buys a shoofly pie. Rich with molasses and brown sugar, this pie could almost turn me from chocolate.

Almost.

“That's just about the best meal I've ever eaten,” Millie says, patting her stomach.

Lydia and I agree.

“You might have to crank me out of this chair,” I say, feeling way too stuffed but convinced I've never had better chicken and noodles in all my born days.

The server drops our bills off to us, and we grab our handbags.

We continue on with our shopping and finally call the repair shop to find out the RV is good to go. They send their driver to pick us up.

All in all, we've had a wonderful time shopping together. Still, I'm a little rattled by Lydia's quiet behavior. It's obvious she's had a good time today. No doubt memories of Greg and their years together have cropped up and pulled her into a place of reflection.

Hopefully she won't allow old memories to stop her from making new ones. Let's just hope I can do the same.

“Your motor home seems to be as good as new, doesn't it?” I say, hoping to get Lydia to open up. She simply nods. A sure sign she's lingering in memories. At those times, she always retreats within herself. Millie glances my way. We both know Lydia's hurting.

With Lydia so quiet and Millie reading her latest novel, I'm feeling bored. I rub my arms in an effort to keep warm. I want to turn on the oven and bake something so we'll have some heat in this contraption. Too bad the air-conditioning unit didn't break when we went under that railroad overpass. Oh, the unit mimics the cry of a sick bird, I'll give you that, but it's still working. I look over at Millie and Lydia. The air-conditioning vents are aimed straight at their faces, and their hair is blowing with the breeze.

They need some serious help.

With a sigh, I head for the bedroom. We've traveled a ways since the RV's repair, and I'm so restless the thought of watching an
Andy Griffith
episode sounds exciting to me. I consider hiding Millie's glasses but decide against it. No wonder she gets cranky—she puts up with enough from me. One would think at my age I would give up on pranks. Maybe I'll stop when I turn fifty. Then again, maybe not.

Cobbler and I are bonding. Yes, I've forgiven her for hurting my hand. But if she even
thinks
about doing it again . . . Reaching into the drawer holding the videos, I think a moment. I'll have to stay in here to watch it. How cruel would it be to watch it where Cobbler couldn't see it?

I plop it into the machine. “Though we've had our differences in the past, I figure you'll appreciate this.” The tape rewinds as I make my way to Cobbler. She doesn't look right. Her feathers are all plumped out, and she has her head tucked in one wing. Wonder if that means anything.

“Hi, Cobbler, you doing okay?” I ask, leaning toward the cage. Wonder if that scares her. You know, this huge face just peering into her cage. I consider throwing in a “boo” for good measure but decide against it. She looks too fragile for it.

Her eyes turn to me, and she shivers a moment, then sticks her head back under her wing. A glance at her food bowl tells me she hasn't eaten much today. Maybe she was traumatized at the repair shop. Lydia's already so quiet, I hate to bring this up to her, but she'd probably want to know. Cobbler doesn't look quite right.

I edge my way back up to the front. “Um, Lydia, I don't know if this means anything, but Cobbler keeps tucking her head into her wing.”

“Oh, sometimes birds do that when they're upset. She probably got riled up at the repair shop with all the machine noises and such,” Millie pipes up.

“That's true,” Lydia says. “But I'll take a look at her when we get to Davenport. We're about an hour and a half away.”

Figuring it must be no big deal, I head back to the bedroom and put in the tape. The music starts, and I turn to Cobbler, expecting her to sing along, but she keeps her head tucked, not once looking up. Okay, I don't know anything but birds, but this behavior is just not normal for this parakeet.

I go back and explain it to Lydia. Millie gives me a dirty look, no doubt for worrying Lydia, but I think she has a right to know. Though I have no idea what we can do about it.

“Maybe I had better take a look at it her. I'm sure it's nothing, but I think I'll check just the same,” Lydia says, pulling off at the next exit and parking in the nearest McDonald's.

One glance at Cobbler and Lydia pales. “She's sick, all right. I'll go into McDonald's and see if anyone in there can suggest a reputable veterinarian.”

“Why did you have to tell her that?” Millie snaps once Lydia's out of the vehicle.

“She loves that bird. What if something happened because I didn't say anything?”

“She has enough on her mind right now.”

“Exactly. That's why we need to get Cobbler well,” I argue.

“Shh, here she comes.”

“I don't think anyone in this town owns a pet. Either that or they have the healthiest pets around,” Lydia says, climbing back inside.

“So what are we going to do?” Millie wants to know.

Lydia stares at the steering wheel. “I don't know.” She closes her eyes a moment, and her lips move. Millie and I exchange a glance, both realizing Lydia must be praying.

“Let's just drive into town; maybe someone can help us there,” she says, pulling out of the parking lot with tires squealing.

It could be just me, but I'm thinking this RV is in no shape to squeal tires.

“Lydia, um, you'd better slow down. The speed limit is thirty through here,” Millie warns.

“I can't slow down, Millie,” Lydia says, near panic. “It's close to five o'clock. Businesses will close soon.”

Before we can comment further, we hear the roar of a siren behind us.

Uh-oh, busted.

Lydia keeps going.

“Uh, Lydia, I think that siren is for us,” I say, thinking the officer speaking through the bullhorn and facing our way is a pretty good indication.

“What?” Lydia looks confused.

“Bullhorn. Policeman. Behind us,” Millie says.

“I guess the Lord misunderstood me,” Lydia mutters with a sigh, pulling to the side of the road.

“Here comes Barney Fife now,” I say. “I can't believe this man has nothing better to do than pull over three middle-aged women in a motor home for going five miles over the speed limit.”

“You be still, DeDe; you'll get us into more trouble,” Millie says.

Yeah, whatever. I'm feeling a little snappy myself right about now. But I'm still forty-nine, so life is good.

“Ma'am, do you know you were going about eight miles over the speed limit?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“You did?” He's probably never had anyone be that honest with him before.

“I'm sorry for breaking the law. It's just that—”

“I'm going to have to write you a ticket.”

Probably the first chance he's had all day to write one, and he's chomping at the bit, just like Barney.

“People come into this area after being on the highway, and they think they can just race through our streets. Well, we have citizens to protect around here. It's my duty to uphold the law, and that's what I aim to do.” He pulls out his ticket holder and starts to write.

Lydia starts crying. “I'm so sorry. I was just worried about Cobbler—”

“You were speeding because of a dessert?” He sounds agitated, to say the least.

“No, sir, Officer—”

He bends farther over to get a glimpse of who's talking.

“—her bird's name is Cobbler. She's sick. We were trying to find a veterinarian before they closed for the day,” I say.

His eyes brighten. “A vet? Well, why didn't you say so?” He puts his ticket away. “My sister is a vet. You follow me, and I'll get you there in time. He looks at his watch. I'll call her so she doesn't leave.”

We are all speechless as we watch him walk away. He gets in his car, turns on the colored lights, and gives us an escort. “See, you got your feathers all ruffled for nothing,” Millie says to me as though she knew all along the policeman was going to help us.

“Great way to put it, Millie,” I say dryly.

Millie turns to Lydia. “Guess the Lord heard you after all.”

Lydia's smile shows through the rearview mirror. “He always does. Just doesn't necessarily give me the answer I want.”

I think about what she says and glance out the window. Dusk has settled upon this small town where the glow from street lamps spills onto front lawns, spotlighting children at play. They pause a moment to wave at Barney Fife as he drives past. I half-expect him to throw candy. I'm thinking he's been in one too many parades.