Chapter 15
“Did you know we could move to Amish Country?” said Ronnie.
I traveled silently, lost in thickets of thoughts on the Washington National’s farm system, the difference between having nice things versus having a nice life, the similarities between Artificial Intelligence and the temptations Satan presented Jesus, Buddha’s four noble truths, the softening of minds in America and presumably around the globe, why my joints felt stiffer now than they did ten years ago and would jogging in the morning help that, that I could probably paint like Bob Ross if I tried, and I dwelled on Manny’s claim that I needed testosterone supplements.
“Earth to Mackenzie,” said Ronnie.
“I don’t want to move to Amish Country.”
We motored through a little town where the young boys wore pants with suspenders and the girls wore dresses, which indicated we’d arrived at the outskirts. Ohio suffered through no drought like Virginia, and the leaves were aflame with bright orange and red. We passed a horse and buggy.
“Real estate is high because there’s only so much land and only so many houses in Amish Country but anyone can buy,” she said. “Mackenzie. Let’s. You would do great in Amish Country.”
“I would be their king,” I said. “But I couldn’t bring you.”
“Don’t be rude. They would adore me.”
“You wouldn’t follow the rules,” I said.
“I would try.”
“No one would ever see your legs or your boobs or your hair,” I told her.
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose at the bucolic farmsteads we passed. “But they should. I work hard at them.”
“In Amish Country, one works hard at peeling potatoes.”
“I wonder if the women here wish they could show off their great legs,” she said, fogging the window. “Do they shave?”
“We will ask.”
We passed another horse and buggy, though it was more of a closed carriage, likely for colder days. The driver wore a black wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat. The woman next to him wore a white bonnet. I wondered if they resented the sound of car engines.
Ronnie continued reading on her phone. “Did you know you can differentiate between the Amish groups by their buggy? The construction and the reflectors indicate whether they are conservative or not.”
“Maybe you could be liberal Amish.”
“The conservative groups resist anything flashy, like bright safety reflectors. Good grief.” She rolled her eyes. “The women do not shave. The poor men.”
We passed through Killbuck and its arable fields and dead corn stalks.
Outside Millersburg, we turned down a lane toward a collection of farmhouses in the verdant distance.
I was reminded of Little House on the Prairie, a show I disliked as a kid because life was always a struggle.
The lane wasn’t paved, but horse hooves had flattened the ground and buggy wheels had carved out rutted grooves only slightly narrower than my Honda’s tires.
“Why are all the barns white?” I said.
“I saw a red one.”
“Why are none yellow? Or violet?”
“Are you kidding, Mackenzie? Too flashy. What are you, a philistine?” she said.
I grinned.
“You liked that insult,” she said.
“I did.”
“You like me,” she said.
“I do.”
We neared the houses and her mood turned grim.
“If they don’t like reflective safety badges,” she said, “they really won’t like that I shot Emile.”
“We are redacting that part.”
“Imagine going from this quiet lifestyle to the palace in Naples,” said Ronnie.
“I bet Emile insisted on shaving her legs.”
Children watched us from a porch.
No driveway, no cars, no natural place to park.
A cluster of three houses, each white and two-stories, well-tended and orderly, each with a storm cellar.
The three houses appeared to share two long clothes lines, and a fenced garden that took up an acre, and a pasture that extended to the forested horizon, and four tin-roofed barns, from which could be heard chickens and lowing cows and a hammer striking something hard.
One of the barns had what looked like a diesel generator, likely for power tools.
Beyond the barn were rows of apple trees, their leaves beginning to fall, and a pasture for dairy cows to graze.
Smoke uncoiled from one of the house’s chimneys.
I realized no power lines ran to the house, though I’d seen some along the main road.
This wasn’t poverty, but it wasn’t living out of a great surplus either.
My car felt like a spaceship. Still inside it, Ronnie asked, “Madeleine Cardot lives at this homestead? Could you have made a mistake?”
“No but the internet could have. Nothing to do but verify it.”
“This is what you do. You chase down facts,” she said. “It’s a little scary.”
“These aren’t scary people.”
“You didn’t shoot one of them.”
“Trust me, Ron,” I said. “Emile was not one of them.”
Two women emerged from a doorway to stand guard near the children but they didn’t approach. One of the women kept snapping through her handful of beans.
We exited the car. A cool breeze reached us from the barns and brought the scent of animal.
A man limped from behind the house and he set down a bucket and wiped his forehead with a sleeve.
He wore boots and blue work clothes and his beard looked like a bushy chin strap and he wore round glasses with no frame.
“Mariye,” he greeted us. “I’m Joseph Miller. Were you looking for someone?”
“Morning,” I said. “I’m Mackenzie and this is Ronnie. Sorry to bother. We’re looking for Madeleine Cardot.”
His expression didn’t change but I noticed the women stilled.
We’d come to the correct place. Three children broke free of the women, who called after them—Daniel, Margaret, Rachel, get back here—but they were loose and they ran to a bare patch in the yard, where they picked up baseball gloves that looked too big for their eight-year-old hands.
The kids didn’t care about who we were but it was important we saw their gloves.
Their faces were open and healthy and curious, the boy with sandy hair, a girl with freckles and a big toothless smile, the other girl so beautiful she hurt your eyes.
The man ignored the small rebellion, and he asked, “How do you know that name?”
“It’s a long story,” said Ronnie. “Madeleine can tell you the story after we leave, if she wishes.”
“I don’t understand that. Are you acquainted with her?”
“We’ve never met her,” said Ronnie.
“What sort of business is this?”
By Ronnie’s posture, I could tell she was tense. “I need to disclose private information to her. She may wish to provide me with some too. And then I’ll leave.”
“You’re with the state of Ohio? Or the federal government?”
“Neither. We’re here on our own. We do not work for any government,” she said.
“What is the nature of the information?” he asked.
Ronnie pursed her lips.
“I’d rather Madeleine give me permission to tell you, before I do,” she said. “Is it okay if we respect her wishes?”
“Everyone is welcome here, including you, as long as you start no fuss. If Madeleine doesn’t wish to speak with you, you’ll be on your way.”
Ronnie nodded. “I accept.”
“You have my word,” I offered. “We have good intentions.”
The man held out a hand behind him without looking and one of the women dropped her beans into a bucket and stepped off the porch and walked to us.
“How is Madeleine?”
The woman nodded. “It’s a good day.”
“Where is she?”
“The chickens.”
“Take them to her?” said the man.
The woman glanced at the children, back to the man, and she nodded. “I will.”
“Be kind to Madeleine,” the man told us, turning back to his bucket. “She’s under our care.”
The woman beckoned and we followed her to a barn and around it. At the corner, she stopped to face us. She was, I thought, thirty-five-ish and her bones were strong. I knew Ronnie was dying to pluck her eyebrows.
“My name is Elizabeth,” she told us. “I’ve known Madeleine most of my life. She joined our community when I was a teenager. We always wondered if strangers would come calling. We take in all sorts of strays but she seemed different.”
“We’ve never met Madeleine,” said Ronnie. “And we don’t know her story.”
“She wasn’t well when she arrived, and she’s not well today. More trouble than she was worth, the women agree, but the Lord had other plans. She was running from something and she arrived in a state of disrepair. That’s what we know. Her children were not healthy either.”
Ronnie flinched. “Emile and Theo?”
“You know them. They don’t live here anymore.
Even more trouble, they were. But Madeleine stayed.
She lives in that house, with the Yoder family.
My kin. The Yoders took her and kept her, else she might’ve died.
Whatever happened to her, she was too scared to leave.
She was beaten and broken like a skittish stray hound.
She came from across the ocean somewhere and she came from money, but she left it all to hide.
The physician looked at her. Two physicians, but they could only tell us she was out of her wits.
She’s still out of her wits today. She’s adapted, so to speak.
She works hard. She’s never taken a husband, and no decent man would ask.
No one’s ever come for her. Until today. ”
“What do you mean, out of her wits?” asked Ronnie.
“See for yourself.” Elizabeth led the way around the barn, to a chicken run.
Madeleine Cardot stood among the chickens.
In her left hand, she carried a pail of chicken feed, which she scattered with her right, while talking and clucking at the birds.
She wore a dress like Elizabeth’s—long and muted blue with an apron over it.
Her hair was undone, not up in a bonnet.
It was dark hair fading to grey and it reached the small of her back.
If she were cast in a movie, Diane Lane would get the nod.
“Madeleine,” called Elizabeth. “Folks to see you.”
“What about?” said Madeleine. She didn’t look up.
“I don’t know, you’ll have to ask them and use your manners.”