CHAPTER THREE

 

Roy Bender was tired of rude kids, so he decided to speak his mind.  “Ma’am, your little girl just grabbed this quiet lady’s peppermint stick.  Could you buy her another one?  He pointed to the shy, reserved lady who rested her orange fabric-covered umbrella against her right shoulder.  Her orange calico dress was beautiful just like her shy ivory face, framed by thick, auburn hair.

“Why my child has manners.  She must have been standing in my daughter’s way.  Besides, she’s a farm girl.”  The mean lady jerked her eyes to the lady, her mouth drawn in horror and her gripping hand unbearable for her daughter.

“Mommy!  Let go!”  The little girl kicked her mother’s legs, and then turned and grabbed two peppermint sticks from the candy box that hung around the salesman’s neck.  “We are rich and can afford anything that we want; can’t we mommy?” 

“Yes, sweetheart, that is correct!”  The mean lady remarked before winking at the salesman.  “My husband owns the lumber mill.  I am from New York.”  She opened her black leather handbag and asked, “How much do I owe you?”

“You owe me nothing.  Your husband is a good man.  He’s sent me many good customers.” He smiled and cheerfully added, “I am also from New York.”  The salesman stated and gave a nod, and she politely nodded back before grabbing her daughter and walking away.

He turned to the quiet lady.  “I handed you the peppermint stick but did not charge you for it yet.  She had an escort.”  He pointed to the tall nicely dressed man that walked to her left.  “I hadn’t noticed the escort until she’d remarked that her husband owned the lumber yard.  Immediately, I saw the escort walk closer to me, so I knew that she had to be the wife of someone important.”  He took the cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow.  “I didn’t want a confrontation today, and I thought you didn’t need one either.”

“We’re all important, Sir.  I’m a child of God, and my husband is very important.”

“Really, which business is his?”  He continued to blot the navy cloth across his handsome but businesslike face while glancing at her for an answer. 

“He is the Minister.  Here is a quarter.  Buy a stick of candy for a couple of needy people today.”  She smiled and turned to walk away.

“That’s mighty kind of you! I had a needy woman here earlier who couldn’t even afford proper weather protection.”

His words pierced her ears as she quickly turned and walked back to him.  “She had no umbrella; is that what you said, Sir?”

“Yes, Ma’am, she had no protection from the sun and her beautiful face was red as a lobster,” he told, and he really did find the poor lady gorgeous, and he knew that he would have asked her out for a cup of coffee and some pie if she hadn’t been so lied about her social class; integrity was important to him and the Walnut Creek Amish community that he was a member of back home. “She acted a bit upper class, but I could tell deceit. I’ve been at this for years.”  He explained.

“That’s that mental girl that’s been locked up all of her life in a little shack. She’s the only one that has no umbrellas.  She must love the sun.  Her parents were Amish, but her siblings are either deceased or have moved away. They have left it up to the city to see if she can fend for herself.  She’s got one more week before they are to ship her off to an institution for the rest of her life.”

“The Amish don’t do that,” the man explained, and she disagreed, drawing a sudden frown.

“The Amish doesn’t own her.  The city does, and they appointed a man to take care of her, but he’s a bit shady.”

“Is he Amish?”  He asked before handing her a little box of imported pastel-colored licorice.  “That’s on the house today. I’m sorry that you had to wait.”

“The city man drinks a lot, and he just returned back from Ohio.  I think that they may have an institution up there for her.  Rumor has it that the owner of the institution is already down here to check her out.”

“That’s probably best for her.”  He smiled, and she smiled before walking away.

His mind returned to his carefree summers spent at his Old Order Amish grandma’s sprawling farm in Walnut Creek.  Although he was little, he missed helping Ben Troyer make cheese and baked snacks for tourists and Holmes County residents. 

Truth be told, he loved his Plain heritage, but he also enjoyed being a traveling salesman, so he’d never really fit back into such a restricted environment if he had to live there seven days a week.  Ever since his grandfather’s sudden death and the secret journal that his grandma had found, of which contents she would not disclose, he’d gotten restless and a bit snappy at people, and as far as he could tell, these negative traits had gotten worse.

He wished the handicapped Amish girl the best; he’d add her to his Prayer Warrior List.  He knew that God would take care of her like he’d taken care of him when he’d traveled hundreds of miles from his New York apartment.  He thought for a moment about how beautifully smooth her sun-burnt face was and her sparkling baby blues.  Should a well-off man like himself buy her an umbrella?  I never give hand-outs! She was so beautiful yet so poor, but maybe it’s the Amish heart that I’m feeling, that connection, that warmth and courage that our women folk have back at Walnut Creek. He doubted that she’d ever be institutionalized if her heart and mind were as strong as he thought that they were, for she would stand against the tallest storm.

*****

 

“You have a letter from your Brother Johnny,” the Postal Clerk announced as she got up to get Charlotte’s mail from the sorted boxes.  “I know that you’ve been waiting for it.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte replied, and she took the letter and smiled at the clerk. 

Why had her brother decided to not be on the farm with her?  I need you Johnny, and I need you now; why have you deserted me? Previously, he’d needed a good, steady job, but now that her schwester Lola and mamm were dead, there were two man’s worth of work to be done on the farms.  He hadn’t even offered to help out for a week, and it hurt her feelings that he’d not asked.

Charlotte ducked and crossed the street in search of the saloon; she wanted to see if her uncle was there drinking.  Had he found anything else out about the secret ingredients that were in the hair tonic that she’s gotten in her mouth when she was an infant?  Any information would be sent right away to the town doctor, and then to the medical specialist in New York. 

Two men burst through the wooden swinging doors tumbling on the sidewalk, and fresh red blood oozed from their noses.

Charlotte got firing mad, her brow narrowing and her face heating up like a cast iron frying pan; one of the bloody men was her uncle Graham, and this hadn’t been the first time that he’d come rolling out while she casually doing her Saturday shopping. “You’re always in trouble, and it’s the alcohol.  I wish they’d ban alcohol!”

“They just might do that young lady!”  A slender, well-dressed gentleman, who was standing on the sidewalk next to Trump’s Confections, turned around and extended his hand.  “I am Doctor Likens, and it is a pleasure to talk with you about this subject, Ma’am.”  His tone was very professional and attentive; his dark mustache had a dark molasses thickness as did his gazing eyes, but she was more concerned with looking through Trump’s Confections to eye the potato candy in the glass dome that sat on the counter.  Her palate could just taste a chocolate soda.   

Her mouth watering and her mind returning to state a response, she turned her attention to him and smiled. “Nice to meet you Doctor Likens,” She extended her hand, and he loosely shook it, and she felt his warmness and sensed that he wasn’t a consumer of alcohol, which made her blush, for her uncle’s behavior was humiliating and embarrassing.  “Where are you from Doctor?”

“Columbus, Ohio.  I have one of the highest, cutting-edge assistance facilities, and I am the proud owner and bookkeeper.  We serve people like you.”

“Stay away from him, NOW!”  Uncle Graham wobbled over to her and wiped his bloody eyes and nose with his calloused hand, the gaze on his face like a mad man. 

Charlotte had never seen her uncle act like this, so she stepped back from the doctor.

“He’s no good.  I’ve been fighting the city over you for months, and I refuse to let the city win! Now, come in the saloon and have a tall, cool glass of lemonade. It will make that sun burnt face feel better.  Come on!”

“I’m not going into a saloon, and you know that Uncle Graham.”  She shook her head, and the scoop of wind that rolled down the sidewalk jiggled her locks of gold.   The wind blew again, picking up speed, as if it was taking up for her, showing off her dazzling beauty to the doctor that had come to have her locked up in an mental institution.

“I forgot that you are a lady now,” Uncle Graham winked, and she wiggled her mouth and arched his brow.  “I still have to protect you.”

“I do just fine on my own,” She said, and she drew a grin as she watched Uncle Graham walk back into the saloon.  She wondered how long it would take before he was slammed back out those wooden double doors. 

The neatly dressed gentleman that had greeted her before her uncle had interrupted their conversation got closer and eyed her up and down.  “You’ve been a good girl, haven’t you?”  His tone was of an odd demeaning character as he continued on, “The man that has been overseeing your affairs has been stricken with a terminal disease of the body, and I am sure that the news devastates you.  Doesn’t it, Ms. Miller?

Charlotte looked over the man’s tailored shoulder and saw three men, of whom the man had been conversing with when she’d walked up, smiling at her.  “

You’re giggling, Ma’am,” The gentleman smiled, as did the three men, and she blushed like a fresh rose in the sunlight’s glow. 

“My uncle seems glued to the bottle.  He’ll never stop guzzling alcohol.”  She bit her bottom lip and felt her burnt face sting.  Guilt of accusing family slapped her face with the cool breeze that fanned her hot forehead.  The earthy smell of rain followed it. She had to change course; she had to be a relative and not a stranger; she needed to confront her uncle. 

In the Amish community, they looked after their own; they corrected their own, and she was now in the footsteps of her father and her mother.  Can I do this, Lord?  I’m a weary lady who’s been locked up most of my life sitting at my upstairs bedroom window.  The wooden saloon doors hit her back.  The marching steps of a young lady silenced the men at the bar, their eyes in awe of her squared shoulders and firm face: she was there to claim her uncle’s soul and take him home.  There would be no more free afternoon shots of whiskey bought by Graham Miller; he’d become a saved family man, and even the bartender knew it, and they could feel it.  God had sent her there to rescue him before uncle Graham got his last call.

Four outlaws at a table looked up at her and snickered, but the man that was drawing his card from the heavy deck of cards reached over and slapped him across the face.  “Be quiet.  She’s got family to deal with, and she doesn’t need a cowboy’s opinion.”

“If she knew any better, she’d go right back out that door.  Graham’s got gambling debts.  With a madman chasing him from The Windy City, I’m sure that’s why he has to drink a lot.  We seem to be on the run a lot, and that’s why we drink,” the man said as he rubbed his burnt face.  “Smack me again and you’re going out that door.”

“Are you the one that throws people out the double doors?”  Charlotte got closer. 

“Enough Charlotte.  I’m still your uncle.  Leave now, before I have to take my belt off.”

“You’ve never spanked me.  You’ve always brought me candy.”

The card players smiled, as if they were parents who had seen an embarrassed, truly remorseful daughter get in trouble.  For a moment, if was as if the men were compassionate, hard-working family men. 

“Don’t let this be the first spanking young lady!”  Uncle Graham walked over and grabbed her arm, leading her out the door.  “Here’s a dime. Go get some candy.  I have already sold all of mine.  Dixie Hanover is having a party, and we’re invited.  Now go home and get your farm chores down so that you can go to the party.”

“Sure.  When is it?  We never had parties,” she said, and he shook his head. 

“It was because we were Amish.  I see that you’ve left too.”  He glanced down at his niece’s gala gown as if he hadn’t seen her in years, although he’d arrived back from Ohio the night before and slept upstairs.

“There’s a story behind the dresses,” she assured, and he smiled.  They were brought from the theater.”  He leaned down and pointed to the crowds of cheerful women and men socializing in their best clothes, their hair done perfectly for their weekly Saturday trip to town.  “Look at all of these people.  They live in a small world. It is a world that only people in Bloomington know, and that’s a good thing, Charlotte.”  He winked and then scanned the streets again, his eyes sparkling like firecrackers.  “They will spend their whole life wondering what beauty is all about; what lies east of the Indiana state border.  You, young lady, are from the east, and don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not.  You’re a Bloomington farm girl, but when you put those dresses on, you become part of the team: Broadway, the Big Apple, glamour, a world all in its own right.  Young lady, turn around and you’ll feel it.  You’ll taste the excitement in your dry mouth, the creation of life out of one dress, a dress that tells a story.”

“What story does this dress tell?’  Charlotte asked as she looked down at the flowing ruffles and realized that she was beautiful, not from her outer appearance, but from her fabulous desire to dream like New Yorkers.  “Do New Yorkers believe in miracles?”  She bit her bottom lip and wiggled her brow.  “Do you know if someone’s life can be full again when they’ve lost so much?  You know, when they feel like all they have left is God.”

“New Yorkers live miracles, and they keep on keeping on when the tough times come, and they go to the theater because there is healing for one’s soul in the world of imagination.  The Bible tells us that what we think about is what we become.  I’ve always believed that, and if it wasn’t for my recklessness with the hair tonic, I would be right there in New York to see a good show tonight, but God has me here.”  He sighed and then said, “It’s your story.  Create anything that you want, and pretend that it will happen, and it will, as long as the Lord is willing.”

“That’s mighty inspirational, Uncle Graham; I bet you’ve dreamed a lot of dreams in your life.”  She smiled, and he nodded before turning to walk back through the saloon doors.