Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

Although, theoretically, you can land a helicopter almost anywhere, Brad was concerned about setting his craft down.

“Nobody’s expecting us,” he pointed out. “So if we land on their land, we’re trespassing. If we land in the road, we block traffic.”

Ultimately, our pilot selected a spot on a dirt lane about a quarter-mile from the goat paddock. And, yes, we verified that they were goats before we landed although we couldn’t get close enough to be sure they had long hair. I was reasonably certain that none of them was Abra, not because I could see the critters clearly but because I could see the fence. No way that thing could contain my bitch. Unless she liked the goats well enough to hang with them.

Stirring up dust may have been preferable to spewing gravel. However, it was hard to see anything until a few seconds after the blades had stopped. Brad would stay with the craft, of course. Chester and I needed to get our bearings. Now that we were back on planet Earth, everything was jumbled. The pilot helpfully pointed us toward the goat paddock. It was up a low hill and down the other side.

“If we’re not back in, say, an hour, call the cops,” I told him. “Better yet, call my cop.”

I wrote down Jenx’s name and number.

Brad seemed amused. “Do you expect to be attacked by Amish?”

“I expect to have to chase my dog.”

Since neither Chester nor I was dressed for a cross-country hike, I hoped we wouldn’t encounter anything truly rural, like mice or ticks. Or cow patties. After a short walk down the dirt lane, we faced our first field. From the air, it had seemed innocent enough. Close up, it proved to be a cornfield. We both knew what had just happened to the Two L’s. Without exchanging a word, Chester placed his small hand in mine. We steeled ourselves for adventure, and passed through the first wall of corn.

“If we follow this row, we should be all right,” Chester reassured me. “It runs right up the hill and over to the pasture.”

There was only one problem. Make that two problems. First, the Amish didn’t plow and plant with powerful automated equipment. Second, their land wasn’t flat as a dance floor. As a result, we soon discovered that our chosen row wiggled and weaved like that drunken teen driving the family wagon.

“Which direction are we going now?” I asked Chester after what seemed like an eternity but proved to be eight minutes.

He squinted at the sky. I assumed he was calculating angle of the sun or whatever it is cub scouts learn to do in case they forget their compass.

“I don’t know which way we’re headed, but I think it’s going to rain.”

Perfect. If that happened, we’d not only be stranded in the corn, we’d also be soaked to the skin. To comfort myself, I checked my cell phone battery. I still had two bars. If only I’d remembered to ask the pilot for his number. Chester hadn’t gotten it, either.

“I’m sorry, Whiskey,” he said. “But I thought you’d handle something.”

Fair enough. At least I had Jeb’s number. And MacArthur’s. One of them could probably reach Brad. The best I could do was stay calm and trust Chester.

“You still think we’re going toward the goats, don’t you?” I asked him.

“I think by now we may have made a cumulative right-angle turn,” he said. “But we can’t see far in front of us, so for all I know, this path may self-correct.”

I might have whimpered a little because Chester added, “Cheer up, Whiskey. If our row doesn’t end at the pasture, it will end at a road. We can’t be stuck in the corn forever.”

I swore to never, ever pay a dime to enter a corn maze, one of those autumn tourist attractions contrived to make city people think they’re lost. This field was terrifying enough, exactly as man and plow had made it. It was more terrifying than a maze because there was no promise from the farmer that he’d get you out before sundown.

Suddenly I was thirsty. Very thirsty. And my feet hurt. So did my head.

“Think about something else!” Chester commanded when I complained.

His pale hair and navy blue blazer were flecked with dried corn leaves. That meant I was disheveled, too. More disheveled than usual. I tried to flick a bug or something from my eye. But it wouldn’t go away, so I rubbed it. That only made it worse.

“Ouch! Now I can’t see.”

We stopped walking. I bent over so that Doctor Chester could check my right eye.

“Hmmm,” he said. His tone suggested that I needed surgery. Or at least a second opinion.

“What?” I demanded.

“You rubbed it too hard. I think you’ve given yourself a corneal abrasion.”

“Great, just great!” I cried hysterically. “A corneal abrasion in the corn! What next?!”

“By now you should know better than to ask that question,” he said.

As if cued, the sky-denim blue until just moments ago-opened up, pelting us with raindrops the size of my sore eye.

I think I may have screamed. Patiently Chester reminded me that if we stopped where we stood we would get wet, and we would get nowhere. Placing one hand in his hand and my other hand on his shoulder, I let him lead me through that Hell of rain and corn.

Damn Amish Country, I thought.

Until a sweet little voice said, “How come you’re playing in our field?”

Parting the dried stalks like curtains were two children from another century.

They weren’t time travelers, of course. They were Amish. And they were adorable. A boy and girl not much taller than Chester. The boy even looked like Chester, without his glasses and fifty-dollar haircut.

The girl wore a black bonnet and a dark blue Little House on the Prairie-type dress. The boy wore a straw hat, green shirt, and overalls.

“It’s raining,” the little girl said as if city slickers like us couldn’t tell. “What’s wrong with your eye?”

Before I could answer, Chester explained that I had got something in it and then rubbed it.

“She should know better,” the girl said.

Chester agreed. Then he made the introductions. The children were alarmed when they heard my name.

“It’s just a nickname,” I explained.

“Why?” The girl was suspicious.

“Because my real name is Whitney, and I don’t seem like a Whitney.”

“Because you like whiskey,” the boy concluded.

“No! As a matter of fact, I don’t like whiskey.”

“And whiskey doesn’t like her,” Chester chuckled.

The joke bombed. But Rachel and Jacob shook his hand, anyway. When I extended mine, they tucked theirs in their pockets. I’m quite sure they would have backed away if there had been room in our corn row.

At least the rain was letting up. And the natives knew the lay of the land.

“This is our farm,” Rachel said. “Our house is that way.”

She pointed in the direction from which they’d come.

“Great,” I said. “Where are your goats?”

Jacob said, “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m looking for my lost doggie, and I think she ran away with your goats.”

“Our goats didn’t run away,” Jacob said. “We have new goats.”

“Yes! And if you look real close, you might see that one of your new goats is a doggie.”

I smiled as warmly as I knew how. Maybe I showed too many teeth. Or too much gum. Or maybe I was just too tall. Something about my approach wasn’t working. Jacob and Rachel shrank back like I was everything English they’d ever been warned against.

“It happened like this,” Chester interjected and proceeded to tell the tale of Abra jumping on the wagon with the goats, omitting only the part about the teenage driver being drunk.

Jacob and Rachel conferred quietly. After a moment, Jacob said, “Our cousin Nathaniel was driving that wagon. He’s in a lot of trouble.”