seen some of those episodes, too.”
“TV is awesome, isn’t it?” Moriah leaned back in his chair. He lifted his can of beer above his head. “Here’s to TV and music, movies, fast cars, and fast women. All the things a good Amish town will never have.” Lowering the can, he drank. When the beer was gone, he crushed the can and placed it on the table with a ceremonial flair. Lifting his shirt, he said, “Let me show you this beauty. This is my pride and joy.” And there, on his exposed belly, was a tattoo of an ornate ship with sails, a skull and crossbones on one of them. “This is what I got done in Orlando. What do you think?”
Gideon studied the colorful tattoo on his brother’s torso, just inches above his belt. He had no words to say how he felt about this body art. As a child, Moriah had loved anything to do with pirates. He would draw pictures of their ships, their treasure chests, and even their faces, complete with dreadlocks, eye patches, and beards. Once, Father saw one of the pictures, and as the veins popped in his neck, he ripped it up with two large hands. He demanded that Moriah never draw anything that vulgar again and then, certain that his boy was getting these horrible pirate infatuations from those
wretched English boys
, told Moriah he could never associate with anyone but the Amish. Now, free from his father’s rule, Moriah had chosen to have a drawing of a forbidden ship on his very skin. This was permanent, unable to be torn apart by an outraged man. “He would kill you,” Gideon said.
“He would. Too bad he can’t. He’ll never see me again.”
Gideon felt the air cool; the mention of their father brought a chill over the room.
“I’m so glad to be out of there. Free at last!” Looking around the dining area, Moriah said, “Do you ever think of buying your own house instead of renting?”
In fact, Gideon had. A two-story home with a wraparound porch just half a mile from the auto shop had interested him nine years ago. He’d contacted the Realtor, taken the tour, and liked what he saw. But when he got to thinking about the high mortgage rates, property taxes, and whether or not he wanted to invest in a house, he’d backed out. The Realtor called a couple of times, insisting she could get him a lower interest rate, but he declined, telling her that his apartment was fine—just the right size and location. The niggling voice inside his head knew that those sentiments were only the partial truth. He planned to get married someday. Wouldn’t it be better to wait till the right woman came along and then together they could purchase a home to their liking? But tonight he chose not to reveal any of that and simply said, “Owning a home is a lot of work.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Better to be free from the hassle.”
Thirty minutes later, the last beer consumed, Moriah let out a burp and said, “I’m tired.”
“You can sleep on the sofa. It makes into a bed.”
As Gideon helped his brother put a fitted beige cotton sheet on the mattress, he asked, “What are your plans?”
“What do you mean?”
“When do you have to get back to Orlando?” Gideon fitted a pillowcase on a fluffy pillow he found in his linen closet. He sniffed the pillow as he worked, grateful that the stale smell of being forgotten in a closet over time did not permeate.
Moriah stretched out on the sofa bed, the pillow under his head. “Ahh,” he moaned as he closed his eyes. “This is nice. I’ll probably be asleep in a minute.”
Gideon rephrased the question. “How long will you be here?”
“Here?”
“Yeah, how long?”
Moriah rolled over and tugged at the sheet until it covered his lean torso. “I have no plans to return to Florida.”
“You aren’t going back?”
“Uh-uh.”
“But what about a job? What about your friends in Florida?” What about that girl in the bikini he met on the
“TV is awesome, isn’t it?” Moriah leaned back in his chair. He lifted his can of beer above his head. “Here’s to TV and music, movies, fast cars, and fast women. All the things a good Amish town will never have.” Lowering the can, he drank. When the beer was gone, he crushed the can and placed it on the table with a ceremonial flair. Lifting his shirt, he said, “Let me show you this beauty. This is my pride and joy.” And there, on his exposed belly, was a tattoo of an ornate ship with sails, a skull and crossbones on one of them. “This is what I got done in Orlando. What do you think?”
Gideon studied the colorful tattoo on his brother’s torso, just inches above his belt. He had no words to say how he felt about this body art. As a child, Moriah had loved anything to do with pirates. He would draw pictures of their ships, their treasure chests, and even their faces, complete with dreadlocks, eye patches, and beards. Once, Father saw one of the pictures, and as the veins popped in his neck, he ripped it up with two large hands. He demanded that Moriah never draw anything that vulgar again and then, certain that his boy was getting these horrible pirate infatuations from those
wretched English boys
, told Moriah he could never associate with anyone but the Amish. Now, free from his father’s rule, Moriah had chosen to have a drawing of a forbidden ship on his very skin. This was permanent, unable to be torn apart by an outraged man. “He would kill you,” Gideon said.
“He would. Too bad he can’t. He’ll never see me again.”
Gideon felt the air cool; the mention of their father brought a chill over the room.
“I’m so glad to be out of there. Free at last!” Looking around the dining area, Moriah said, “Do you ever think of buying your own house instead of renting?”
In fact, Gideon had. A two-story home with a wraparound porch just half a mile from the auto shop had interested him nine years ago. He’d contacted the Realtor, taken the tour, and liked what he saw. But when he got to thinking about the high mortgage rates, property taxes, and whether or not he wanted to invest in a house, he’d backed out. The Realtor called a couple of times, insisting she could get him a lower interest rate, but he declined, telling her that his apartment was fine—just the right size and location. The niggling voice inside his head knew that those sentiments were only the partial truth. He planned to get married someday. Wouldn’t it be better to wait till the right woman came along and then together they could purchase a home to their liking? But tonight he chose not to reveal any of that and simply said, “Owning a home is a lot of work.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Better to be free from the hassle.”
Thirty minutes later, the last beer consumed, Moriah let out a burp and said, “I’m tired.”
“You can sleep on the sofa. It makes into a bed.”
As Gideon helped his brother put a fitted beige cotton sheet on the mattress, he asked, “What are your plans?”
“What do you mean?”
“When do you have to get back to Orlando?” Gideon fitted a pillowcase on a fluffy pillow he found in his linen closet. He sniffed the pillow as he worked, grateful that the stale smell of being forgotten in a closet over time did not permeate.
Moriah stretched out on the sofa bed, the pillow under his head. “Ahh,” he moaned as he closed his eyes. “This is nice. I’ll probably be asleep in a minute.”
Gideon rephrased the question. “How long will you be here?”
“Here?”
“Yeah, how long?”
Moriah rolled over and tugged at the sheet until it covered his lean torso. “I have no plans to return to Florida.”
“You aren’t going back?”
“Uh-uh.”
“But what about a job? What about your friends in Florida?” What about that girl in the bikini he met on the
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