Meek and Mild Read online

  “I won’t have Clara thinking that I need her help,” Rhoda said. “She must know that it’s time to grow up. She’s twenty-three.”

  “Hardly past the age of being marriageable,” Hiram said.

  “Very nearly. She could go to Maryland to stay with her mother’s people,” Rhoda said. “Perhaps she would meet someone to her liking in their church.”

  Clara visited her aunt Martha and her cousin Fannie often. Fannie had her own little girl now, and Clara adored Sadie. But Clara had never thought of joining their church. She certainly wouldn’t look for someone to marry in the Mennonite-leaning congregation.

  It was not for lack of possibilities that she had not yet married.

  Andrew Raber liked going to the English hardware store. Whenever he had reason to do so, he allowed himself three times as long as his errand might legitimately require. If he needed a wrench he couldn’t find in an Amish shop, he went to that aisle in the English store by way of the electric toasters. If he needed barbed-wire fence to keep horses in their pasture, he also marveled at the rolls of wire that could carry electricity. If he needed a new ax head, he first flipped through the brochures and catalogs of what could be sent for by special order. He could spend hours under the tin ceiling, walking the uneven wooden floor and investigating the overflowing shelves.

  It was not that Andrew intended to purchase any of these things. It was only that he could not stifle his curiosity.

  Today he was contemplating a new hoe and rake. Weeks of spring labor had made clear that handles on the cast-off overworked tools he received from his father years ago were ready for replacement. Andrew was fairly certain his grandfather had used those tools as well, and his faulty efforts to sand the long wooden handles back into service without risk of splinters in his hands had persuaded him new tools would not be an extravagance.

  He would get to the tools, but right now he was looking at electric table lamps. Some were spare and efficient. Others had ornate bases and decorative glass globes. Some were sold as matched pairs and others billed as unique. Andrew had no doubt, though, that they were all wired alike. When they were plugged into a wall socket, electricity would flow through all the lamps in the same manner.

  Andrew chose the lamp that appeared the least fragile and turned it upside down to see if the base might come off and give him a glimpse inside. If he had a screwdriver, he could pry it off, but the risk of damaging the lamp and then feeling obligated to purchase it was too much. He removed the shade and stared at the bare socket where a bulb would go, wishing he understood what he saw.

  “Why are you looking at that?”

  Andrew didn’t have to look up to know whose mouth the words came from. “Hello, Yonnie.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m only looking.” Andrew carefully replaced the shade and set the lamp back on the shelf. His eyes flicked to a white globe with painted flowers on it.

  “We have all the light we need to read by with our oil lamps,” Yonnie said.

  Andrew wondered if Yonnie Yoder even heard the perpetual stern streak that ran through nearly every sentence he ever uttered. Perhaps it was just the way he spoke, his own cadence of language. They’d been boys together, and Andrew learned to disregard Yonnie’s tone years ago. Lately, though, it had begun to irritate him. He had always supposed Yonnie would grow into a more graceful way of speaking, but Andrew no longer thought he would.

  “Why do you always fuss with the English things?” Yonnie said. “Our people do not use them.”

  “Maybe we will someday.”

  “You should not wish for something so worldly.”

  Andrew turned his back to the lamps. “I need a new rake.”

  Clara withdrew to the kitchen and then out the back door.

  She was in the way. How had she not seen this years ago? It was one thing to be an eleven-year-old child whose father at last remarried and another to be twenty-three and thought to be without options.

  Clara’s own mother died when Clara was not yet two. Although Clara’s birth was uneventful—at least that’s what her father always told her—the boy her mother carried had taken too long to come. By the time he arrived—stillborn—Catherine Kuhn was exhausted. The bleeding that followed the birth quickly became uncontrollable, and within minutes Catherine was gone as well. Clara cocked her head, listening to the faraway sounds of that day. As always, she was unsure whether she remembered the screams and the rushing and the clattering of pans as she lay in her crib resisting a nap, or whether imagining the events had seared into her mind in the manner of memories.

  Hiram was left with a small daughter and his grief. He was attentive and patient and sad.

  When Clara was ten, Hiram met Rhoda, and the little girl saw the light in her father’s eyes that she had longed for all her life.

  But grief did not abandon the family with the marriage of Hiram and Rhoda. While Rhoda quickly became with child, one after another, three babies were born three and four months too early. Clara remembered the pall that fell over the house with each loss and the nervousness that shrouded each succeeding pregnancy. Though daylight streamed through the home, weighty darkness pressed on Hiram and Rhoda. After each loss, Hiram withdrew into the shadows and Rhoda instigated a frenzy of “trying again.” At the time, Clara understood little of the biological process that ushered in repeated, cumulative grief, and no one thought to explain it to her, but clearly marriage brought with it great risk of sadness and disappointment.

  Finally Josiah safely arrived, and then Hannah, and then Mari. Rhoda was still young enough to have several more children, if God should choose to bless her.

  When Clara was a child, before Rhoda, she used to visit her aunt and uncle in Maryland and their rambunctious household. After Fannie, only a year and a half older than Clara, Martha and Atlee produced a string of boys. At twelve, the youngest was scarcely four years older than Josiah. In the summers, when she did not have school, Clara stayed for weeks at a time with the Hostetlers. Sometimes she stared at Martha when no one was watching, wondering if Martha resembled Catherine. Could she look at her aunt and see her own mother’s face? Clara couldn’t imagine loving Martha more if she had been her mother.

  But staying in Maryland now? Away from Andrew?

  Clara was not without options, as her stepmother supposed. She could have married two years ago. She could marry in the next season if she wanted to. If Clara confided in her now, Rhoda would plant extra rows of celery in preparation for a wedding as soon as Andrew had his fall harvest in.

  Clara did not want to leave Andrew. She did not want to go to a strange Singing and have a strange man ask if he might take her home in his strange buggy.

  But neither could she marry Andrew Raber.

  Clara glanced back at the house and decided it was time to go clean the English household. The banker’s wife maintained a busy social schedule, and three giggly daughters felt no compunction to pick up after themselves. A woman who came in to cook the family’s meals was adamant she would not clean beyond the kitchen, so the family depended on Clara to come twice a week and restore order. Later in the week she would go to the Widower Hershberger’s house for her regular afternoon of housekeeping.

  Rhoda’s words rang in Clara’s ears. Maybe it was time to find more housekeeping work.

  Andrew bought his rake. He had come into town in Yonnie’s buggy, and now they were headed back toward their farms—Andrew to the acreage where he grew up and now lived alone and Yonnie to his parents’ home, where he lived while trying to save enough money to purchase his own land.

  As the buggy jostled and Andrew’s eyes soaked up the scenery, he wondered how his parents could have left this place for Lancaster County. No matter what the season, beauty spilled from every vantage point. The mixed green hues of early summer or the rich rust palette of autumn, the brilliance of summer sunlight or the heavy laden clouds of winter moisture—Andrew savored it all.

  A glint of dark green caug
ht Andrew’s eyes. On its own, he might have thought it a believable June hue, but it bounced the sun’s light in a way that vegetation didn’t, and his eye quickly followed the shape to brassy lines.

  “Stop!” Andrew said.

  Yonnie glanced at Andrew but did not pull on the reins or reach to set the brake.

  “Stop,” Andrew repeated. He positioned himself to jump down off the buggy’s bench whether or not Yonnie halted the forward motion. They were not moving so fast that he would hurt himself—at least not seriously.

  The horse’s hooves slowed. Andrew glanced gratefully at Yonnie and saw the skeptical expression on his face. Ignoring it, he dropped down to the ground and strode toward the object that had caught his eye at the side of the road, its rear positioned under the lowest branches of a spreading red maple tree.

  “Andrew, no.”

  Andrew ignored the warning in Yonnie’s voice. The worst that could happen was Yonnie would drive off and leave Andrew here, which was a risk worth taking.

  The sign painted on a large wooden square and propped against the front of the object said FREE.

  “Get back in the buggy,” Yonnie said. “That’s for the English. It’s not our business.”

  Andrew moved the sign out of the way and felt the smile well up inside him.

  “Andrew!” The sharpness of Yonnie’s tone escalated.

  “Relax,” Andrew said. “Look at this. It’s beautiful.” His eyes feasted. In town he always felt obliged to avert his eyes at such a sight, but out on a quiet road through an Amish district, his courage mounted.

  “It’s an automobile,” Yonnie said.

  Andrew grinned. It sure was. Shiny and clean and modern.

  And free.

  A Model T.

  Andrew pushed aside drooping branches and uncovered the upholstered seat with neat rows of tufted green diamonds. Hanging off the back of the seat were the neat, organized folds of the collapsed roof that left the seats open to the air. He felt the sun on his head and imagined wind in his face as the automobile rumbled at top speed. Andrew wasn’t sure what the maximum speed was for a Model T, but it would be fun to discover it.

  Behind him, Andrew felt Yonnie’s silent judgment, but he ignored his friend’s effort to bore into him with eyes of guilt. At the front of the car, brass-rimmed headlights were open eyes ready to stare fearlessly into the night. Andrew walked around the car, finding four perfectly round tires, two unbroken axles, and twin wide running boards—at least he thought that’s what they were called—which would make it far easier to step into the car than it was to get into a buggy. He opened the driver’s door and climbed in.

  “Andrew!”

  “There’s a note,” Andrew said, taking a card tied to the center of the steering wheel.

  “It can’t possibly be for you,” Yonnie said. “Get out of that English contraption before anyone sees you.”

  Andrew inhaled the alien smell of the vehicle as he unfolded the card and scanned the lines.

  Congratulations. It’s yours. I’ve come to the end of my wits with this thing. The ownership documents are in the box under the seat. Good luck getting it running.

  Andrew allowed one side of his mouth to rise in pleasure. “Actually, it is for me. I just found a free car.”

  A squirrel darted across the road, and the dark gelding nickered.

  “Let’s go,” Yonnie said. “I have chores to do and so do you.”

  Andrew glanced at the sky. Nothing on his farm mattered whether he did it today or tomorrow or next week. The horses had plenty of water and hay, and the two hens would lay eggs whether or not Andrew was there. He didn’t keep a cow because he’d never liked milking schedules. Andrew’s fingers fished for the handle again and he leaned into the weight of the door to open it, wondering how to open the cover over the engine. It could not be too complicated—a lever, a hook, a latch to displace. Andrew ran his hands lightly along the angled shape of the hood, feeling for possibilities. When he found the release latch, he paused before opening the motor’s covering.

  “Aren’t you even curious?” Andrew gently lifted a green rectangle off one side of the motor.

  “No, I am not.” Yonnie’s response was swift. “And you should not be, either.”

  “Curiosity is not a sin.”

  “If your curiosity takes you away from God’s people, you’ll have to reconsider that statement.”

  “Look at it, Yonnie. It’s beautiful. Someone kept it in perfect condition. All I have to do is get it running.”

  “And what do you know about the motor of an English automobile?”

  “Nothing. But I can learn.”

  Not everyone in the church spurned motor vehicles as instantly or vehemently as Yonnie did. Although Yonnie was a third cousin to Andrew—neither of them was sure of the exact connection—his family’s name was Yoder, and Yonnie never loosened his grip on the responsibility he felt in also being related to Bishop Yoder.

  Yonnie was still on the buggy’s bench.

  “Just come down and look at it.” Andrew poked a finger into a greasy connection in the motor and sniffed his blackened fingertip. Oil. He understood nothing about what he was looking at, but the thirst to learn compelled him. Wires. Cylinders. Rubber hoses. Parts he had no words to describe. Somehow all of this harnessed energy that could compete with the power of galloping horses.

  To Andrew’s surprise, Yonnie stood beside him now with his fists balled behind him. Andrew ran one hand along the sleek, polished rod that ran from behind the lights on the front of the car to a shield of glass in front of the steering wheel.

  “It’s a marvel,” Andrew whispered. He saw cars on the road nearly every time he ventured beyond the ring of Amish farms, but never before had he enjoyed the freedom to touch and feel and explore.

  “It’s for the English.” Yonnie stepped back several feet.

  “What are you afraid of, Yonnie?”

  “I am not afraid.” The edge in Yonnie’s voice sharpened. “I take my baptismal vows seriously. I will live in submission to the church.”

  Andrew made up his mind. “I’m going to keep this car.”

  Back from the English house, where the electric lights and glittering trinkets held no allure for Clara, she climbed the steps to her room. Clara had slept in the same bedroom all her life. It was neither large nor especially comfortable. She supposed that if her mother had lived and her parents had more children, eventually she would have shared the room with a sister, but living alone with her father for most of her childhood allowed Clara the privilege of privacy. She was fifteen before Josiah was born and eighteen before she had a sister. By that time, no one expected her to share a room with an infant.

  At twenty, Clara already had married friends with infants of their own the same ages as her little sisters Hannah and Mari. Her cousin Fannie, for instance, had a daughter barely a year younger than Hannah. Clara was certain Sadie and Hannah would like each other if they were ever allowed to meet.

  A dust mop stood propped in the corner of the room, reminding Clara she had intended to clean her own room before Rhoda’s words drove her from the house. She ran the mop over the bare wood floor under her bed. She did this often enough that she did not expect to encounter serious accumulation of dust, but she took satisfaction in knowing her bedroom was company clean at any moment. Her mop bumped up against the one item she routinely stored under the bed, and Clara pulled out the small leather bag that once belonged to her mother. With a rag, she cleared the hint of dust that had begun to gather around the handle.

  “I wish I had a bag like that.”

  Clara looked up to see Hannah enter the room and throw herself across Clara’s bed. She kissed her sister. “I didn’t realize you were home from school.”

  “Only two more days.”

  “You’ll miss seeing Priscilla every day when school lets out.”

  Hannah giggled. “We’ve promised each other we will nag our mothers all summer to let us play together.”


  “Bensel.” Silly child. Clara was certain both girls would fulfill this commitment. Whether their mothers would cooperate in their response was another question.

  “Can I use your bag?” Hannah rolled over and took the bag from Clara.

  “What will you use it for?”

  “Maybe I can go see Aunt Martha, like you do.”

  Clara had used this bag for overnight visits to Maryland since she was a little girl not much older than Hannah. As soon as her sister died, Martha insisted that Hiram Kuhn allow his daughter to know her mother’s family. Hiram never objected. Because Martha and Atlee had joined the Conservative Amish Mennonites before the bishop’s ban when Clara was a toddler, Clara broke no rules by seeing her aunt and cousins. The shunning was not strictly enforced anyway. Most of the families in the district traced to both churches at some point in the family trees, and those who were not related by blood were connected by friendships spanning generations. Amish business serving both congregations flourished on both sides of the border. Farms on both sides of the border supplied milk to an Amish dairy in Somerset County. Dairy drivers collected the milk on daily rounds, and the dairy sold milk, cream, butter, and cheese to the English as well as Amish families who wanted more than their own animals produced. No one stopped to ask what date a person had joined the Marylanders.

  “I could ask Mamm,” Hannah said, “and maybe the next time you visit Aunt Martha, I can go with you. It’s going to be summer. I won’t miss any school. I could play with Sadie.”

  “We’ll have to see.” Clara did not want to make promises. Rhoda would be the first to point out that her children were not related to the Hostetlers in any way.

  “That’s what Mamm says when she hopes I’ll forget about something.” Hannah’s lower lip trembled on the verge of a pout.

  “She’s your mamm and she loves you,” Clara said.

  “But you’re my sister and you’re a grown-up. You wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”