Neighbor

The Amish are having many more babies than our mainstream culture. Eventually they'll be the only ones left.

Photo by Randy Fath on Unsplash

Hugh grimaced as the doorbell rang. He walked to the front door. Walked, not shuffled. He was picking his feet up and putting them down, not sliding them over the carpet like one of those really old people afraid they’d trip on the carpet and break their necks.

Opening the door revealed two Amish men. Hugh would say they were dressed for a funeral, but he knew they always dressed like that. Black suit, white shirt, black hat, black tie. Michael had a long black beard with streaks of grey. Alois’ beard was light brown, and only a couple of inches long.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Hugh. He knew the reason for their visit was already accomplished. Hugh was alive. They’d have to wait longer for his house to be plowed under.

“Good day, Neighbor Hugh,” said Michael. “My wife made you some bread and butter.”

Alois held out a basket with a cloth over it. The bread must still be warm from the oven. He could smell it from here.

Hugh reached out to take the basket. “Thank you, that’s very kind of her and you. I hope she’s doing well.”

“She’s very well, thank you for asking after her.” They went through the ritual of the conversation. Hugh learned he could accelerate it by doing his part. He asked after each of Michael’s children (there were five older than Alois and three younger).

The conversation derailed when he asked after Joseph, next youngest after Alois.

His voice breaking, the younger man said, “He’s—he’s gone Rumspringa.”

Hugh remember hearing about that a century ago, when he was Alois’ age. The idea of Amish kids getting to sow their wild oats for a few years before settling down and marrying amused him. But now there wasn’t much of a society left for them to go play in. These days ‘Rumspringa’ referred to the boys who joined the bands fighting the bandits who preyed on the Amish. Once they had blood on their hands they could never rejoin the pacifist community.

Small wonder Alois sounded like his brother had died.

“That must be hard,” he offered as sympathy. “I know you’ll miss him.”

“He is dedicating himself to fighting evil,” said Michael, his voice as firm as if he was quoting the Bible.

Hugh was familiar with the tone. The Bible came up a lot in these weekly visits.

Alois nodded. They went through the rest of the family without any conversational bombs.

The tough part was when they asked how he was doing. Listing the old TV shows he was rewatching made their eyes glaze over the way the Bible quotes did his. He finished up by shifting the topic to the crops and landbreaking.

Alois always burbled excitedly about that part. When this area was ready to be plowed, it would be part of the farmstead he’d set up with his future wife.

Including the land under Hugh’s house, once he died and stopped blocking their plows. Alois was a nice enough kid, but Hugh was just fine with letting him wait another hundred years for this chunk of land.

Not that Amish lived more than a hundred. They didn’t take the high tech meds and they worked too hard.

Finally the conversation wrapped up, he said a polite goodbye, Michael and Alois called down God’s blessings on Hugh, and he could close the door.

First priority was eating the loaf of bread while it was still at its tastiest. And the butter, oh God, it was amazing. He always thought he should portion it out over two or three days but he never did. It was just too delicious. He kept eating until it was gone. Then it would be a week until the next gift basket.

The drone-delivered rations he received were less flavorful every year. He’d thought that was because his taste buds were fading with age until the Amish moved into the area and began visiting. The first gift basket had bread and honey. The taste had blown his mind with the intensity. The only thing he could compare it to was sex, which was something else whose memory had been fading for years.

The medical bot hopped onto the kitchen table to chirp at him about eating an unbalanced meal, excessive portions, and not taking his vitamin supplements. Hugh took the vitamins and ignored the rest of the rant.

Once the feast was settled, Hugh decided to go upstairs and see what was happening in the neighborhood. He sneered at the chairlift sitting at the bottom. He went up the stairs on his own power. Exercise, right? It was good for him.

Three quarters of the way up his muscles were holding up. He was pulling on the banister with one arm, but the legs were doing most of the work. Then blinding pain shot through one knee.

Hugh froze, standing on the other leg. The knee kept hurting. This was happening more often. “Medbot, check my left knee. It’s in pain.”

The gadget had followed him up the stairs. It extended metal tentacles which rubbed against the knee. “No conclusive diagnosis. Possible deterioration of cartilage. You should see a physician.”

He snorted. The nearest doctor was four hundred miles away, working overtime handling people in much worse shape than Hugh. He’d have to break a femur to get an appointment. “Thanks, bot. Lift, come here.”

The seat slid up its rail until it was right beside Hugh. He sat and accepted a ride up the remaining four steps. There was a cane hooked on the railing at the top of the stairs. He was learning. He hobbled over to a seat by the west-facing window.

There were no houses left in that direction. He could see clear to the forest. The forest had been a shopping mall when he moved in, and the space in between had been filled with block after block of near-identical two story houses.

Now there was just farmland and meadows flecked with weeds.

A team was working on one of the remaining roads. All the houses it connected to were gone, so it was just blocking the farmers from the fertile soil beneath it. A tripod held a pulley thirty feet in the air. The dozen men pulled on a rope feeding through the pulley. It lifted a concrete block with a steel spike embedded in its bottom.

When the spike block was the top, the men chanted a countdown and released it. The spike slammed into the pavement A piece more than three feet long spalled off the edge. They’d have to shift the tripod now.

No horses today. They must be busy plowing. Or resting. The Amish made sure their horses were properly rested. They’d work themselves to death before they strained the horses.

While half the team moved the legs of the tripod, the rest carried the broken chunk of concrete to a pile. The conical piles dotted the fields which had been a subdivision. Hugh once heard New Englanders built walls of the stones from their fields. The Amish made pillars.

At the rate they were going, they’d remove everything up to the road to Hugh’s house in another month or two. Then they’d stop. If a road was in use, the Amish left it alone. A weekly delivery drone counted as ‘in use’ to them.

When they started lifting the spike block again, Hugh moved to his hobby room. It faced south. He could see the other house. It was about a quarter mile away. According to his Amish visitors, it held an old woman named Saunders. He’d never met her. The Amish couldn’t comprehend that. They updated him whenever she had a health crisis anyway.

The open field between the houses still bore the rectangular scars of where house foundations and roads had been pulled up. Those spots were filled with weeds, not grass. The once-robot-maintained lawns now held sheep and cattle. They’d be moved on to new fields once the plowing started.

Saunders must still be alive. Her house hadn’t been pulled down. Hugh went into the bedroom and resumed watching M*A*S*H. It was his favorite series. With the extra episodes from the reboot, it would fill a whole month.

The next visit interrupted an episode. Hugh didn’t mind. It was one of the eps where the writers repeated a plot from a previous season. People likely didn’t notice that when the duplicates were three years apart.

The basket contained sausages this time. The raw meat smelled odd to Hugh. He was used to his food coming out of CookBot, or the baked goods the Amish usually gave him. “We just finished with that pig,” said Michael. “Thought you might enjoy a bit of it.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh. He decided that present should be given to CookBot. He started doing the social ritual.

After updating him on everyone’s health—no change from last week—Alois asked, “Why are you letting the grass grow long?”

It was a good point. Normally the YardBot went over the lawn daily. Three weeks ago it had frozen up. The other household bots had worked together to disassemble it and diagnose the problem. The part they needed was listed as ‘Availability Unknown. Requests will be filled in order received.’ That usually meant the factory making it had broken down.

“It’s growing wild now. My bot for cutting it broke.”

“Oh.” The two Amish exchanged glances. Alois offered, “I could come cut it with my sickle, if you like.”

“Eh.” Hugh looked over his front yard. It was still smooth green grass. The bot had ruthlessly eliminated every weed which sprouted. There’d probably be some springing up soon. He’d never cared about the lawn, it was just one of the rules of the home owners’ association that you kept it short. “Nah, that’d be a waste of time. I don’t go outside anyway. You can plow it or use it for grazing if you want.”

Michael gave him a solemn nod. “This would be good for the sheep. Thank you for your gift, neighbor.”

After they left, Hugh took the basket into the kitchen and set it next to Cookbot. “Can you make dinner with this?”

The bot waved a scanner-tipped tentacle over it. “Yes. These are excellent ingredients. I will prepare them with side dishes.”

Medbot hopped onto the counter. Indicator lights flashed on both robots. They were having some kind of discussion. Cookbot said, “Please confirm your instruction.”

“Cook the sausages.”

“Thank you. I will do so.”

Medbot spoke up. “This meat product was not prepared at a certified processing center. It is a possible disease vector. Also, the amount of salt and other spices is unhealthy.”

Hugh shook his head. “Stuff it, Medbot. I’m not going to die from the occasional bad meal. I’m going to die when the factory which makes my medicine stops working.”

Neither robot replied to that.

The sausages were delicious. Cookbot managed an approximation of mustard. The sides were just vegetable matter from the standard rations, but with the fried sausages adding their aroma even that was tasty.

It turned out Medbot had convinced Cookbot to limit the portions, so he’d have the rest of the sausages tomorrow. That was something to look forward to.

The sheep were noisier than he expected, but after a couple weeks he was used to the ‘baaaas.’

For the next couple of months, the Amish visits just brought baked goods. Hugh was happy. That was delicious.

The deliverybot came almost as often, dropping off rations and bottles of pills. Once it brought a new part for the water recycler. The cleanbot handled the repair. Hugh hadn’t even realized there was a problem until the bot told him there’d be no water for five minutes.

Then Michael and Alois looked grim-faced on their visit. “Is something the matter?” Hugh asked.

“Have you heard the news about Mrs. Saunders?”

“No, what happened?” Though he could guess what it must be.

“She died two days ago. Stroke. Nothing the medbot could do.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I hope she passed easily.”

“Yes. May God have mercy on her soul.” The two men bowed their heads as if praying. Hugh nodded in respect and kept silent until they were finished.

“Do you know what her wishes were for her remains?” asked Michael.

He’d never talked to the woman in his life. “No, I’m afraid I do not.”

“Then we will care for them according to our customs. Would you wish to attend the funeral?”

Hugh needed a moment to understand the question. He hadn’t been to a funeral in decades. He hadn’t left his house in . . . how long had it been? The last time was when he went to that restaurant right before it shut down. That was what, eight years ago?

“I’d be honored to attend, but I don’t think I can get there.”

Alois brightened up. “I’d be happy to pick you up in our gig.”

Of course they’d have a solution. These people were compulsive problem solvers. He should’ve said he didn’t want to go. But it would be rude to refuse the offer. Maybe he should get out of the house at least once a decade. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you at noon tomorrow, then.”

The conversation wrapped up with the usual formalities, a bit more emphasis on God’s blessings this time.

When the door closed, Hugh muttered, “Clothes. I should dress up for this. Do I still have a suit?”

A check of the closets revealed he had three. Bright yellow, sky blue, and flame red. Fashion had been wild in the 2120s. A quick try of the yellow one proved it still fit. Medbot deserved the credit for keeping his weight constant.

But he couldn’t see himself walking into an Amish church in any of those. It would feel like he was being deliberately rude. Maybe . . . “Laundrybot, can you darken one of the suits?”

It rolled up. “Darken, sir?”

“Make it more brown. Something that would fit in with people wearing black suits. I’m going to a funeral.”

“Yes, sir. Allow me to review the available materials.” It sat silently for a moment. “I could dye the red suit with coffee, which would have a dark brick effect. But that would use two week’s worth of coffee.”

“That’s fine.” He could make the sacrifice of not drinking coffee for a couple of weeks. He wouldn’t be suffering like poor Mrs. Saunders.

The suit was in perfect condition when it donned it the next morning. The color was sober enough for a funeral, even if he was still going to look like a bonfire next to all the Amish men.

It was close to noon when Alois arrived in a horse drawn vehicle. Or maybe it was when the sun was highest. The Amish weren’t much for digital clocks. The boy gave Hugh a boost into the seat, then ran around, leapt in, and told the horse to go.

The last vehicle Hugh had ridden in was the autocar which took him to the restaurant. It rode on an air cushion over smoothly paved roads. Alois was steering over the meadows reclaimed from torn down houses, which were not smooth. The plowed fields were even rougher. At last they reached a road, which is to say a dirt track, but it was smoother than what they’d been on.

There wasn’t much conversation. At one point Alois asked, “Did Mrs. Saunders have any children?”

Hugh answered, “No.” He didn’t need to have met her to know that. No one except Amish had children these days. If Saunders did have a child, she wouldn’t have died alone in the house.

Their track merged with another. A carriage drawn by two horses pulled up to avoid a collision. Alois thanked the driver and they exchanged pleasantries before going on in convoy.

Hugh had expected a church. Something with a spire, maybe even a bell. Instead the funeral was being held in a barn. Well, the Amish hadn’t been here long. Maybe they couldn’t afford a church yet.

There were no chairs. Everyone stood. There were no family groups. The women were all on one side and the men on the other. Alois led Hugh to join his father and brothers.

The coffin lay on sawhorses at the front of the crowd. The planks were fresh-sawed, still bright from the cuts. The lid was on. Hugh was fine with not having to see the dead body.

Hugh stayed silent through the prayers. He tried to join in on the hymns. The third time a chorus came around he’d do his best to repeat it. No one seemed to mind his attempts.

Bringing the cane proved to be a good idea. Standing so long was a strain. Nobody said anything about Mrs. Saunders. Maybe they didn’t know enough about her to do a eulogy.

When the funeral ended, he needed to lean on Alois’ arm to walk back out. His weight didn’t seem to be any burden for the farmboy. Hugh suspected Alois could have just picked him up and carried him. It would have been faster than his shambling walk. But the boy was too polite for that.

Alois stopped short as a pretty young woman in a dark green dress walked by. Hugh stumbled before catching himself with the cane.

“Hello, Mary,” said Alois.

She turned and gave him a dazzling smile. “Good day, my dear.”

“Neighbor Hugh, I’d like you to meet Mary, my intended. Mary, this is Hugh, who’ll be our neighbor when we’re wed.”

“Pleased to meet you, Hugh.”

Pop quiz, interact politely with an Amish woman. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mary. Alois is a very lucky man.”

Both of the young people blushed. A matron snapped her fingers. Mary excused herself and scurried off.

By the time they reached the gig, Hugh had given up trying to figure out if he’d passed or failed the quiz. There didn’t seem to be a polite way to ask Alois without making it worse.

He fell asleep as the gig rolled down the dirt track.

Bumping across the fields woke him again. He noticed Alois was sticking to the ruts he’d made on earlier trip, weaving around the piles of concrete from house foundations and driveways. Maybe this would be another dirt track someday.

The Amish boy helped him down from the gig and walked him to the front door. “Good day, Neighbor Hugh.”

“Thank you,” Hugh mumbled. He made it to a recliner and fell back asleep.

When he woke Medbot insisted on a full exam, even though he wasn’t due for one for another three weeks. It didn’t find anything it could do something about, just made another useless recommendation to see a doctor.

Hugh finished his watch of M*A*S*H. He started Days of Our Lives. That would last him for years.

Michael and Alois’ visits returned to their normal pattern. Eating the bread was the high point of every week for Hugh.

After a couple of months went by, he broke the pattern with a new question. “I noticed Mrs. Saunders’ house is still standing. I thought you would tear it down.”

Michael frowned. “We’d like to. The land should be plowed, and there’s useful material we could salvage. But the ownership is still unsettled.”

“Isn’t it abandoned? I mean, she didn’t have any kids.”

“She didn’t have a will. The government is investigating if she had any cousins who might want the property. When that finishes, there will be an auction. That will be delayed until an official can come out here to hold it.”

That’d be a delay, all right. The few remaining bureaucrats were as overworked as the doctors.

“Oh. I hope it works out soon.”

“It will be as God wills.”

Several more visits went by before Hugh dared to ask another question. This time he asked how Mary was doing. Alois blushed and confessed that she was fine and a date had been set for their wedding. “Would you like to attend the wedding, Neighbor Hugh?”

To his surprise, Hugh honestly said, “Yes, I would. Thank you.”

When he’d finished the bread and honey they’d brought, Hugh contemplated the question of what he could give as a wedding present. He had plenty of useless pretty things he could give away, but that would just be burdening them with clutter they couldn’t throw away.

What could he come up with which would be useful for them?

Once he thought of it that way, the answer was obvious.

Medbot was always the closest bot, unless Cleanbot was helping him shower. He yelled, “Hey, bot!”

Turned out the Medbot had been sitting behind him, in case he fell over. It circled around to be in front. “Yes, sir?”

“I need to write a will. How do I get a lawyer?”

“I can connect with a legal program for you. Please stand by . . .”

After a couple of minutes the bot spoke in a different voice. “Legal helper here. I understand you wish to make a will?”

“Yeah.” They spent a few minutes discussing the proper templates. Once they settled on one the bot put it on the room’s screen so Hugh could read it aloud, filling in the blanks himself.

“I, Hugh Marple, being of sound mind and body, leave all of my worldly possessions to my neighbor Alois and his wife to be Mary.”

The bot interrupted. “I’m afraid that’s not sufficient identification. The full name is needed.”

“Um.” Hugh tried to remember Michael and Alois’ family name. They’d probably introduced themselves on their first visit, but he hadn’t been paying much attention. And he certainly hadn’t been told Mary’s full name. Or would she change it to Alois’? Probably would.

“You could print the will and have your heir write his name on it,” suggested the bot. “That would be legal.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.” He read out the rest of the text and declared himself done.

After a few moments the bot said, “The printout will arrive with your next ration delivery.”

“Good. Send a pen, too. I can send it back on the next delivery.”

“Done.”

Hugh debated whether to hold back the will for the wedding to make an event of them becoming his heirs. No, he could fall down the damn stairs while trying to climb them without the lift again. Better to have him sign it on the next visit.

Yeah. Sign it on the visit. Give him the will at the wedding. That would be good.

Hugh fell asleep again, glad he could do something for his neighbors.

More stories by Karl K. Gallagher are on Amazon and Audible.