Still Life in Shadows (24 page)

As each carried their dishes into the kitchen—Moriah’s plate still half full with untouched turkey and potatoes—Gideon contemplated what to say. He knew that he couldn’t keep up the placid front any longer. Bravely, he asked what Moriah’s plans were. Moriah shrugged.

“Okay then, where have you been keeping yourself?”

Moriah looked him in the eye but said nothing.

Annoyed, Gideon said, “I asked you questions. I’d like some answers.”

“What does it matter? I’m living
la vida loca.
And it’s great!” He hummed a few lines of the song by Ricky Martin. “Sure beats plowing fields and being watched by old Beasty Eyes.”

“I know about this halfway house—”

“I don’t need any help! If only everyone would leave me alone!” As Moriah spit the words out, Gideon noted that his lisp was more pronounced than when he was calmer. Moriah muttered a few phrases and Gideon realized he didn’t comprehend them at all.

“Moriah,” he pleaded. “Why don’t you rest?”

Moriah’s arms flailed, jerking to the right and left. “I don’t need to be told what to do!”

Gideon struggled with what to say next. Perhaps letting his brother know that he was aware of his drug usage would break Moriah of his relentless mood. Gently, Gideon said, “Kiki told me about the guy who brought you packages to the shop. I know meth is inside. I found some under the sofa.” For emphasis, he pointed to the couch, the throw pillows still indented from where his brother had earlier laid his head.

“You’re snooping on me? You?! I thought you were my friend. I thought we were brothers.” Moriah’s arm closest to the Christmas tree twitched, knocking a silver angel off the branch and onto the hardwood floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the living room.

He left after that. In fact, he took Gideon’s truck when Gideon went into the kitchen to retrieve the broom and dustpan. The tires squealed over the pavement as Moriah backed it out of the apartment complex’s parking lot.

Gideon watched from his kitchen window. The proverbial red flags of danger were all around Moriah. As he made a hasty left turn and swerved to miss a gray Subaru, Gideon knew his truck and brother were not going to be together for long. The way Gideon saw it, Moriah
would either have an accident or, due to reckless driving, be stopped by the police and placed in jail once law enforcement realized he had no license. Gideon felt helplessness cover him like a cloak, darker than any his mother or father wore.

He cleaned up the broken ornament with his bare hands. Blood oozed as a jagged shard cut his index finger. There was something symbolic in the crushed angel, the blood, and his feelings of despair. Perhaps an angel like Gabriel would come to his aid now, assuring him that there was no need for fear.

H
e hated to interrupt anyone’s Christmas festivities; nevertheless, he was desperate. As night settled over his apartment, he mulled over the day with a glass of iced tea, a fresh Band-Aid wrapped around his finger. Where could Moriah be? Who would know what he was up to? At 8:30, he called Luke. “Have you seen Moriah?”

Luke said he hadn’t seen even his shadow in days.

“I thought he might have come over to your place,” Gideon explained. “He came here and we had a nice meal, and then he just walked out.” He wondered what else he should tell Luke. Should he let his coworker know that Moriah had taken his truck? That he, the Getaway Savior, was at the end of his rope, frustrated over what to do about a brother he couldn’t keep in line?

In a low voice, so low it was almost a whisper, Luke said, “I think he’s into drugs.”

Gideon sighed. So Luke knew. Here he’d been trying to hide, to cover up who Moriah had become, and Luke was already aware of Moriah’s illegal behavior. Letting his guard down, Gideon moaned, “What can we do? What can I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where does he go when he leaves my place? Where does he sleep? Or eat?” Gideon didn’t expect Luke to have the answers; he just wanted to voice his concerns.

“I’m not sure.”

“If you see him, give me a call, will you?”

Luke said he would be sure to do that. “Gideon, you know meth makes you paranoid and crazy.”

“Yes,” said Gideon. “I’ve researched it on the Internet many times, each time hating what I read.” Remembering that it was still Christmas, Gideon said, “Sorry to bother you. I hope you’re having a Merry Christmas.” He assumed Luke would want to get back to spending time with Ashlyn, so he wrapped up the call. “Bye—”

“Wait!” Luke’s voice was sharp in his ear. “I did see him two weeks ago at Walmart. He was so hungover and out of his mind, he didn’t even recognize me.”

“He’s in a bad way,” agreed Gideon.

“Skinny and he smelled like …”

After a few seconds Gideon supplied the description. “Beer, sweat, and moldy onions.”

“That would be about right. That’s when he told me he was snorting meth.”

“He admitted that? Because today he said he’s fine.”

“Of course—he thinks he’s fine and that it’s others who have the problem.”

Gideon felt his stomach twist as the horror of Moriah’s condition became more real to him. When he hung up the phone, he sat on the sofa, staring at the Christmas tree with its blinking lights and dangling baubles. His Christmas cards, strung along his wall, announced their seasonal messages of joy and peace, but he felt none of those blessings.

At midnight he wanted to go out and search for Moriah, but he had no vehicle to drive and he was too tired to walk.

G
ideon wondered if he’d ever see Moriah again. Their last exchange of words on Christmas day still rang in his head like a resounding gong. He was sweeping the shop for the fifth time when Ormond said, “Are you looking for buried treasure?”

Gideon rested his hand on the broom handle. “Am I overdoing it?” Although temperatures had dropped this January day, sweat glistened on his brow and neck.

“This place has never been cleaner. Take a break,” Ormond advised.

His words reminded Gideon of his first year at the auto shop when Gideon was fresh from Amish country. Gideon pushed himself to work as hard as he could, dedicated to sweeping and dusting in addition to helping with carting quarts of oil from the storage room. Desperate to please, Gideon had hoped Ormond would praise his long hours of labor. But after careful observation, Ormond did not offer any compliments about the fifteen-year-old’s work ethic. Instead he said, “Take it easy, boy. You work too hard.”

“Really?” His father had never told him that; he’d always made
Gideon believe he had so far to go, he’d never achieve any accolades.

“Yes, you are making my head spin. A boy your age ought to be enjoying life. Go have fun.” At the time, Gideon wondered if he knew how.

Today Gideon’s mind was racing, wondering where Moriah was and calculating how long it had been since he’d seen him. Had it really been twenty-five days? There had been no call from Henry to say that Moriah had wrecked his truck or been caught without a proper driver’s license. In the restroom, Gideon studied the bags under his eyes. He felt a cold coming on; his throat was scratchy. He’d better buy some Day Quil. Silently, he prayed,
God, let me find him. Wherever he is.

When he walked to the Laundromat, he was sure his prayer was answered. A large black sedan raced past him and in the passenger’s seat was a man with long blond hair. Gideon’s steps halted; his heart quickened.
Could it be Moriah?
But before he could catch the license plate’s numbers, the sedan took a left at the corner and sped away. Gideon sprinted, hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother again. If he could just get his attention, he’d ask if he was okay and beg him to go to the Narcotics Anonymous group that met at the Episcopalian church on Third Street. He’d get him a sponsor, get him cleaned up, get him whatever it took. Then they’d go hunting together, play pool. But there was no sign of the car anywhere now.

Gideon stood motionless on the sidewalk. A woman pushed past him with a child bundled in her stroller. He apologized for not moving out of her way. He’d been caught up in some sort of trance, unaware of his surroundings. Recalling that he’d been on the way to the Laundromat, he turned and headed in that direction, eyeing the street as he walked. A car slowed, but it was a dark blue Ford, and inside sat an old man in a tweed hat. Gideon continued to watch the road. Suddenly, he stumbled into an electric pole; the pain of the impact seared his forehead. Feeling foolish, he concentrated on walking carefully, ignoring the street and its vehicles.

He’d seen Moriah. Wasn’t that enough for today?

At the Laundromat, he bought four Baby Ruth bars to take back to
the shop. He knew Kiki was fond of chocolate, even if it did make her stomach gurgle. She’d be coming to work in about an hour, and a chocolate bar would surely add to her spirits.

When he looked at his reflection again in the shop restroom mirror, he noted the swollen bump on his forehead. Seated at his desk, he placed a cold bottle of soda against it, hoping to alleviate the nagging pain.

Kiki breezed in, chattering about how she’d heard it was going to snow. She wanted to make sure that everyone had gloves. “Do you have a nice warm pair?” she asked Luke. “I got a red pair for Christmas.”

Luke, who was under the hood of Hiber Summers’s Volvo, said he had gloves, but from the way he said it, Gideon felt he was just trying to appease the girl.

“What color are they?” Kiki stood beside the car.

“What? Uh, um … orange.”

“You have orange gloves? Orange?” Kiki’s insistence made Gideon wonder if she denied that Luke actually owned a pair of that color.

“No, um … yeah, black.” It seemed Luke doubted the orange pair, too. Taking out the dipstick and wiping it with a tattered cloth, he said, “Yeah, my gloves are leather and black.”

“Black, now that’s more like it for a man. For a man. A man shouldn’t have orange gloves or pink ones. And never bright green gloves. Unless he’s an elf.”

“I wish they made gloves that wouldn’t bother my fingers,” said Ormond as he flexed the fingers on his right hand. “I have a couple of pairs somewhere in my house, but the truth is, I don’t like the feel of gloves against my fingers.”

“What’s wrong with your fingers?” asked Kiki.

“Arthritis.”

Kiki followed him to the coffeepot. “Angie said that her grandma rubs her fingers with IcyHot every night.”

“Really? Is that what Luva does?”

“Every night. She wears gloves to bed, too.”

“Gloves, now why would she do that?” He poured a mug of coffee.

“I think it keeps the IcyHot from getting all over her sheets. Angie said that her grandmother’s arthritis pain has gone away.”

Ormond looked doubtful. “Never did like the smell of IcyHot. I don’t think anything that foul smelling could bring any relief.”

As Ormond stirred sugar into his coffee, Kiki asked if he wanted her to cart the pile of accumulating cardboard boxes to the Dumpster. The stack was against the storage room door, some flattened and others still in their square forms.

“Gideon usually does that,” said Ormond. “But he’s in another world today.”

“I heard that,” said Gideon as he pressed the bottle onto his head, hopeful that the pain would eventually lessen.

Kiki chimed in, “If you put a cold compress on each temple and then massage your forehead, headaches disappear …”

“I heard that four ibuprofen taken with water would do the trick, too,” Gideon said as he stood to look for some medicine.

Kiki clutched at two of the flattened boxes with her gloved hands. Immediately, she dropped one. Sighing, she secured the cardboard pieces under her arm. “I’m going to take these boxes out of here for you, Gideon.” Slowly and awkwardly—looking like she was walking barefoot over a bed of pinecones—she made her way outside the bay doors toward the Dumpster.

Gideon was going over some paperwork at Ormond’s desk when Kiki rushed into the shop through the open bay, her steps hard against the floor. He heard her gasp and Luke cry, “Kiki, you okay?”

As she raced toward Gideon, something about her expression made him jump to his feet. “What’s the matter?”

“I—I saw—saw …”

He reached out for her, fearful that she might fall.

But she turned, making her way once again toward the bays.

He followed her, Ormond close behind him.

She only got to Luke’s bay, her face pale. She steadied herself at the trunk of the Volvo.

Seeing her wild eyes, Ormond took off for the fridge, bringing back a bottle of orange juice. “What is it?” he asked, approaching her with caution. He uncapped the bottle, handing it to her.

But Kiki wanted nothing to do with the orange juice, turning from Ormond to lean against Gideon, her breathing labored.

Gideon put an arm around her waist. If she fainted, at least he would catch her and keep her from falling to the floor. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What did you see?”