Meek and Mild Page 11

  Andrew felt his head shaking ever so slightly in dread of the dissension this sermon was sure to stir up.

  Bishop Yoder ministered in the Maryland district in those days. No one thought less of him when he decided he belonged among the Old Order. He had done the right thing to follow his conscience. But for two decades, since being ordained bishop, he had preached sermons meant to convict his new congregation of their participation in the sin of their Maryland families.

  He knows what he’s doing, Andrew thought. Only a fool would not see that he lacks support for this hard line. Andrew chastised himself for characterizing his spiritual leader as a fool, though he did not temper his opinion that the congregation would resist Yoder’s indictment of their own consciences on this matter.

  The sermon wound down. Stern faced, Bishop Yoder nodded toward his two sons, and one of them began a final grave hymn. Andrew drew in his breath and joined the singing, though he was certain that a hymn with twelve stanzas sung at a ponderous tempo would do nothing to quell the brewing disagreement.

  At the final intonation of the benediction, Andrew turned to catch Clara’s eye. Her head tilted nearly imperceptibly toward the door, and when Andrew freed himself from the entrapment he felt on the bench where he sat, he followed her outside. By the time he reached her, huddles of conversation had formed across the grass in the clearing.

  “Surely he is not serious,” Clara said. “Is he?”

  “I’m afraid he is,” Andrew said, “but he has closed his eyes to the fallout.”

  “But no one wants the sort of meidung he is preaching about.”

  Andrew wished he could take her hand. “Everything will sort itself out. Gottes wille.”

  Yonnie sidled toward Clara and Andrew. Clara’s face alternately paled and reddened, but her eyes never left Andrew’s face, and his were fixed on her.

  They were standing too close together. It was improper.

  With their gazes interlocked and strained, they wouldn’t notice Yonnie creeping closer one slow step at a time. He circled slightly so he would come up behind Clara. Andrew was less likely to object to Yonnie’s presence. If Clara saw him, her face would tighten as she clamped her mouth closed and stepped back. Yonnie could hear them now.

  “I think God must be very sad,” Clara said. “The bishop’s mind is hardened against anyone who does not think as he does.”

  “He speaks from conviction,” Andrew said. “He takes seriously his role as leader in the church.”

  “But all the families read the Bible in their homes,” Clara countered. “Any of the men could have had the lot fall to them to become a minister. Why should Bishop Yoder think that others cannot also discern God’s will?”

  “The lot fell to him,” Andrew said, “first to be a minister and then to be bishop. Don’t you believe God reveals His will in the lot?”

  Yonnie turned up one corner of his mouth. Perhaps Andrew was not as rebellious in spirit as he had judged him to be.

  Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  Yonnie stepped forward, and now Andrew lifted his eyes from Clara’s face.

  “If you don’t know what to believe,” Yonnie said, “then God has shown you that you need the bishop’s wisdom.”

  Clara spun around. Andrew’s failed attempt to catch her elbow did not escape Yonnie’s observation.

  “Yonnie,” Andrew said quickly, “Clara and I were speaking privately.”

  Yonnie swept a hand around the clearing. “This is a church gathering. Anyone might hear you.”

  Clara blanched. “Excuse me.” She turned and left them without looking back.

  “Yonnie,” Andrew said, “why do you treat Clara as you do?”

  “I don’t treat her any differently than I do anyone else.”

  “Yes,” Andrew murmured, “sadly, I think you are right. But if you could hear our words, then you know she is upset.”

  “She has no reason to be upset. The bishop’s authority protects all of us. He is our spiritual shepherd.”

  “You know Clara has close relatives in the Maryland congregation.” Andrew’s tone heated. “Her own mother came from one of the Maryland families. Try to look at the question from her perspective.”

  “And if her relatives were thieves or fornicators, would you excuse that as well?” Yonnie widened his eyes and met Andrew’s locked gaze.

  “How can you compare such matters to this?”

  “How can you draw a line between sin that should be confessed to the church and sin that should not be?”

  “Yonnie, we’ve been friends for a long time. I hope that means as much to you as it does to me.”

  Andrew stepped back, pivoted, and strode through the clearing—not back toward the meetinghouse, but along the path Clara had taken.

  Fannie walked beside her husband and watched their daughter run ahead and then turn around and grin at her parents. Elam lifted a hand and waved a response to Sadie. This was not a church Sunday in the Maryland district. Instead of a shared meal at the meetinghouse, families and neighbors would form their own groups. The Eshes, as usual, would gather at the Hostetler table for the midday meal.

  Fannie was not anxious to go. She suspected Elam also would have preferred to stay home. But what excuse would they give that would satisfy Sadie, and how would they send a message to Fannie’s parents not to expect them? Logically, it seemed easier to go. The closer they got to the Hostetler farm, though, the slower Fannie’s steps became until she finally called to Sadie not to get too far ahead.

  Martha was halfway through her months of being with child. Perhaps if Fannie had learned earlier that the babe was coming, she might have accepted the news by now. But she had only learned her mother was expecting a couple of weeks ago. The wound was still fresh.

  The wound.

  Her mind told her no child was a wound, but her spirit sliced open afresh every time she thought of her mother receiving this blessing rather than Fannie. It was a wound that seemed to come straight from God and fester with disappointment, the puss of infected distrust multiplying every month.

  Every week now. Every day.

  Every day she felt the frailty of a body that could not—or would not—conceive a child because God had willed it so.

  The wound oozed with the truth that Fannie did not want to see her mother right now. It was too hard. It was too hard to see Martha’s thickening waistline and yet trust God that her own might also grow wider.

  Sadie was becoming impatient, but Fannie would not make her feet move faster on the road toward her parents’ farm. Even if she had willed it—which she did not—her feet would not have answered.

  Did you hear?”

  Fannie looked up from the mending in her lap at Elam, who poured himself a midmorning cup of coffee.

  “Hear what?” she said. Who would she hear news from on a Tuesday morning when she hadn’t left the farm?

  “Dale Borntrager was doing his own milk run this morning. He said Bishop Yoder came down hard on Sunday about the shunning.”

  “He’s been doing that for twenty years.” Fannie moistened the frayed end of a spool of black thread and pushed it through the eye of a needle.

  “He means it this time.” Elam stirred sugar into his cup.

  “What’s different about this time?”

  “Dale said it sounded like an edict. The Old Order families are supposed to shun us without exception.”

  Fannie dropped her needle. “But Clara—”

  “I know.”

  Fannie pushed the mending basket out of her lap. “I must go see Clara.”

  “I need the horses,” Elam said.

  “All of them?”

  “The gelding needs to be shoed, so that only leaves me two. I’ve decided it’s not too late to plow and seed another field, but I can’t waste even a day.”

  Fannie sucked in her lips. “All right. I’ll find my own way and be home to cook your supper.”

  If she
left now and hurried across the back field, she could still catch Dale at the end of his route and ride to Clara’s with him. Fannie bustled to the back door and called for her daughter.

  “Sadie!”

  A couple of chickens clucked in reply.

  Fannie glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall and realized it had stopped. She didn’t know how much time she had. If Dale skipped a stop or gained time, she would never catch him.

  “Sadie!” Fannie began to march across the space between the house and the barn.

  The girl appeared with a black streak across one cheek. Fannie grabbed her hand. She would deal with the grime later. Right now she had to persuade Sadie to move steadily across the back field.

  “Are we really going to see Clara?” Sadie asked when Fannie explained the hurry.

  “Yes. We must catch Mr. Borntrager or we’ll have to walk the whole way.”

  “Have I ever been to Clara’s house? I don’t remember it.”

  Fannie startled briefly at the truth that her daughter had never seen where Clara lived. Fannie herself had met Rhoda only once at one of the English shops in Springs, but that was years ago. Clara was in her first summer out of the eighth grade and Fannie a year older. Rhoda was vacantly pleasant when Clara introduced Fannie to her. That was before Josiah was born, before Rhoda began drawing distinctions between Clara and the Kuhn children who followed.

  “Have I, Mamm?” Sadie tugged her mother’s sleeve. “Have I been to Clara’s house?”

  “No,” Fannie said. It was probably unwise to take Sadie there now, but the thought of not hearing from Clara herself about the events in the Old Order church propelled Fannie past the risk that she would not be welcome on the Kuhn farm. If she had to, she would linger down the lane, hidden among early-summer leafing until she found an opportunity to see Clara alone.

  “You’re walking too fast,” Sadie whined.

  Fannie slowed long enough only to grasp her child’s hand and tug her forward. They crossed the field, emerged on the road, and followed its curve toward the Maple Glen Meetinghouse. When they reached it, Fannie stood still long enough to catch her breath before spitting on a corner of her apron and scrubbing the black streak from her daughter’s cheek. Sadie squirmed and scrunched her face.

  Dale Borntrager rumbled toward them in the milk wagon. Fannie raised a hand to flag him.

  “Your husband must have told you the news,” Dale said.

  Fannie nodded and lifted Sadie up to the bench before scrambling in herself.

  “What news, Mamm?” Sadie turned her face up.

  “Just something I need to talk to Clara about.” Fannie smoothed her daughter’s hair, glancing over Sadie’s head at Dale. Her mind burst with questions Dale would have answers for. What did Bishop Yoder preach? How were people in the congregation saying? Did he think people would defy or obey the ban? But Sadie sat between them on the bench. She was a five-year-old girl who did not deserve the fear that would strike her heart if she thought Clara would never come to see her again.

  Andrew cranked the engine. It caught without hesitation. He smiled.

  Every time Andrew worked on the Model T, he learned something. On some days, he learned that he should not have done what he did, and he spent tedious hours backtracking and trying another improvement. On other days, he successfully thought through where the sputter or rattle might originate and made small adjustments until he achieved the desired result. In his toolbox were multiple sheets of paper with small drawings of parts he observed as he lay on his back on the barn floor studying the undercarriage of the automobile. When he found corresponding drawings in the tattered publications Jurgen Hansen loaned him, he carefully labeled what he had identified with neat notes in Dutch about what the function of the part was. Where he had a question, he made a large X to remind him to ask Jurgen for further explanation.

  Few possessions had ever given Andrew the pleasure the Model T provided. The thrill came not only from the promise of a well-running automobile but also from the process of discovering how the complex parts worked together. Andrew had been a mediocre student in the classroom. Learning to farm from his father, he had paid closer attention. Yet nothing had made his mind feel this alive. He did not have to ask deep questions about what made the English invent one new machine after another. What the machine might be capable of doing was only a small part of the triumph. Andrew imagined that it was the same for the English inventors. Understanding how and why the machine would perform drenched him in satisfaction.

  He had so much to learn.

  And while Andrew worked on the car, he pushed Bishop Yoder’s words out of his mind. Yesterday’s sermon preoccupied enough people. Andrew would not be one of them. He had disciplined himself not to labor on the Model T on the Sabbath, but Monday morning found him on the forsaken Johnson property wearing his oldest clothes so he was not distracted by where grease might splatter.

  A form blocked a stripe of sunlight coming through the open barn door. Andrew looked up.

  “Hello, Mr. Hansen.”

  “I told you to call me Jurgen.” The garage owner had both hands in deep pockets as he sauntered into the barn. “It sounds marvelous! Smooth and steady. That’s what we want.”

  Grinning, Andrew reached inside the Model T and took the car out of gear. The engine silenced.

  “I didn’t know you were coming by,” Andrew said.

  “I can’t get this car out of my mind.” Jurgen walked around to the back of the car, stepped back, and examined the view. “Do you need more parts?”

  They talked for a few minutes about what Andrew had done to the Model T in the days since Jurgen last saw it. Andrew had watched Jurgen work on seven vehicles. He knew that the repairs on the Model T had been minor compared to what could go wrong—and might still go wrong. If Andrew hoped to maintain the vehicle beyond the next few weeks, he would have to work alongside Jurgen for many more hours. Only because he was an unmarried man could Andrew juggle the responsibilities of his farm and the recreation of working on the Model T.

  “It looks good, Andrew,” Jurgen said. “You’re doing very well.”

  “Thank you,” Andrew said. “I respect your opinion. I know you’re familiar with this automobile.”

  “A Model T can last a long time if you take care of it,” Jurgen said. “Ford Motor Company may like to make new automobiles affordable for everyone, but many people will prefer to purchase a used vehicle at an even more agreeable price.”

  “I know your services are valuable,” Andrew said. “You are generous to give me your time and advice.”

  Jurgen sauntered around the far side of the car now. “I have an ulterior motive.”

  Andrew raised his eyebrows.

  “I’d like to buy this car,” Jurgen said. “I’ve always admired it. Every time it came into my shop, I thought of how nicely it would run if the owner would let me maintain it properly.”

  “Why didn’t he sell it to you?”

  “He didn’t know I wanted it. I thought if he wanted to sell it, he would come to me. The idea that he would abandon it on the side of the road never entered my mind.”

  Andrew’s throat went dry.

  “I would give you a fair price,” Jurgen said. “More than fair.”

  “You want to buy my Model T?” Andrew was still getting used to using a possessive pronoun in the same sentence with the name of an automobile.

  “I do.” Jurgen looked over the hood at Andrew. He named a price.

  A response stalled in Andrew’s throat. Words failed to form in his mind.

  “Let me sweeten the offer.” Jurgen named another figure.

  Andrew licked his lips. “What about the original owner?” If he received money for the vehicle—especially the sum Jurgen suggested—shouldn’t the funds to go the man who left the car on the road?

  Jurgen shrugged. “He signed it away. And I heard he took a new position in Indiana. Maybe it was Illinois. Or it could have been Ohio. The point is, we wo
uldn’t know how to find him anyway.”

  Learning from the automobile was one matter. Profiting from it was another in Andrew’s mind. Enjoying the Model T fell somewhere in between.

  “Will you think about it?” Jurgen tilted his head to one side to hold Andrew’s gaze. “Promise that if you decide to sell you’ll come to me first.”

  Clara left the meetinghouse on Sunday without eating and didn’t notice until Monday that the Kuhn cupboard now contained two identical pie plates. This had happened before when Mattie Schrock and Rhoda both prepared pies to serve at the congregational meal. One or the other of them ended up with both plates. On Tuesday Clara rose early, before the house heated up with late June temperatures, and baked identical pies. Now she carried a still-warm pie down the lane to the Schrock farm.

  Priscilla sat in the yard with her elbows on her knees and her face drooping between her hands. She jumped up, startled, when she saw Clara.

  “I’m sorry,” Priscilla said.

  Clara pushed her eyebrows together. “Sorry about what?”

  “Never mind. I’m sorry.” Priscilla dug a bare toe into the dirt, her head hanging.

  Clara balanced the pie in one hand and knelt to put herself at eye level with Priscilla. “Is everything all right?”

  Tears clouded the girl’s clear green eyes. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “What are you afraid of?” Clara glanced around them.

  “Daed says I must learn to slop the pigs by myself, but I don’t like pigs! They’re too big!”

  Clara took one of Priscilla’s hands.

  “The mud is slippery,” Priscilla said, her voice catching, “and the noises the pigs make frighten me. And I’m afraid I’m going to drop the slop bucket, or even just spill it, and all the pigs will attack me.”

  The child’s hand trembled in Clara’s light grasp. “That reminds me of a story. Would you like to hear it?”

  Priscilla nodded, her face scrunched with the effort of restraining tears.

  “This is a story about Jesus,” Clara said, “so you don’t have to be frightened.”