Meek and Mild Page 6

  “Those are all good points,” Clara said. “I spent most of a day driving across the county to tell John Stutzman my father was ill and would not be able to help him with his roof after all.”

  The buggy creaked and settled. The horse snorted and stilled. Around them, a chorus of insects sprang up with sounds they had not heard above horse hooves falling rhythmically and the squeaking sway of the buggy.

  Andrew stared into the jeweled darkness. “ ‘O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! who hast set thy glory above the heavens,’ ” he murmured.

  “‘When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,’ ” Clara said, “ ‘ the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?’ ”

  “I suppose I have told you that Psalm 8 is my favorite psalm,” Andrew said.

  “About as many times as there are stars in the sky.” Clara’s voice carried the smile Andrew could not see on her lips. “Whether in sunlight or moonlight, the sky is deep and mysterious. I can’t help but think God made it that way so we would know how deep and mysterious He is.”

  “Do you think it grieves God when we try to make Him too simple?”

  “He knows how frail we are,” Clara said. “Perhaps our people should all stare at the stars together before we decide that any one of us knows better than another about the will of God.”

  Andrew twisted on the bench to face Clara. Moonlight threw its sheen over her blue eyes. “You are wise. I would go to your father tonight and ask his blessing on our union if only you would agree.”

  “I’m sure he would welcome you—though perhaps at a time when you would not be waking him.”

  “Ah, yes. More wisdom. I would not want to give him any reason to turn me down.” He reached for her hand. “Tell me I should go to your father. Just say the word.”

  “Andrew.” Clara withdrew her hand.

  “Clara, what are we waiting for? We’re ready, aren’t we?”

  Clara looked down at the hands in her lap. “You may think me wise, but you will not find me courageous.”

  “Why should it take courage to marry me?”

  “No, not to marry you. It’s…what comes next.”

  He was sure she was blushing. “We’ll figure that out together, won’t we?”

  “But a child…”

  “Don’t you want to have a child—many children, if the Lord blesses?”

  “Andrew, my mother died trying to birth a child. Rhoda lost three babes. Mrs. Wickey. Mrs. Eicher.” She paused, and he heard her suck in breath. “The bleeding and the fever—childbirth terrifies me.”

  Andrew slid along the bench and put an arm around her shoulders. “I won’t say it’s not frightening. After all, I am not the one who would have to endure it.”

  She leaned her head against him. “I know. Women have babies all the time. The Beachys have fourteen children and nothing has ever gone wrong. Children are a blessing.”

  “But you’re still frightened.”

  Andrew felt the reluctant nod of her head against his chest.

  “Look up again,” he said, and she did. “Can anything be more unknown than what lies beyond the planets? Yet you know God is there.”

  He listened to her breath, out and in, out and in.

  “I promise to think more about it.” Clara raised her face to him.

  Andrew ducked his head down to meet her lips. She didn’t pull away. He knew she wouldn’t. The yielding welcome made him heady.

  The clatter of a moving buggy pulled Andrew out of the kiss. With Clara still in his arms, he leaned back into the shadow of his own buggy. When the buggy passed, they let out their breath together. Clara leaned away.

  Clara woke the next morning, as she always did, to the sounds of Rhoda moving through the house and into the kitchen to prepare the family’s breakfast. She rose to wash and dress with the efficiency of lifelong habit and reached the kitchen in time to see Rhoda whisking eggs in a bowl. The oven was heating.

  “Good morning,” Clara said. “Shall I make biscuits?”

  “Good morning,” Rhoda said. “Thank you, but no. We have corn bread left from yesterday.”

  Clara looked around the kitchen for something else she could do and settled on straightening the dish towel that hung from a hook. Surely Rhoda would allow that.

  “Did you have a nice time at the Singing?” Rhoda poured the eggs into an oblong earthenware baking dish layered with cheese.

  “Very nice.”

  “Who brought you home?”

  “Andrew Raber.”

  “Oh? He’s a nice man.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He’s brought you home before, hasn’t he?”

  “Several times.” Every time, Clara thought. For two years.

  Rhoda slid the casserole dish into the oven. “I don’t hear you speak of him.”

  Rhoda moved swiftly from the oven to the counter where the leftover corn bread was wrapped in a worn flour sack. She unwrapped it with one hand while reaching for a knife with the other and slicing the bread into thick chunks.

  “I could do that,” Clara said. “Are you planning to fry the bread?”

  “I can manage.” Rhoda wiped the knife clean, put it away, and arranged the bread on a platter. “Andrew Raber? Are the two of you…?”

  When Clara was younger, the time she spent with Rhoda in the kitchen before breakfast was an opportunity to talk about whatever might pass through her mind. It was one of the reasons Clara rose in the mornings as soon as she heard her stepmother’s movements. Watching Rhoda now, Clara could not be certain if Rhoda asked about Andrew as she might have in their old rhythms or because she wished for Clara to find another home.

  Words about Andrew would not form. Instead, Clara said, “I’ll get Mari up and dressed in time for breakfast.”

  “I can do that,” Rhoda said. She put the egg bowl in the sink, wiped her hands on her apron, and left the room.

  Clara decided she could at least set the table and took six plates from the shelf. She looked up when she heard footsteps with a distinct shuffle that identified them as belonging to Hannah.

  “Mamm told me to set the table for breakfast,” Hannah said.

  “I was just about to do it.”

  “Mamm said I was to do it.”

  “We’ll do it together, then.” Clara smiled.

  Insistence grew in Hannah’s tone. “But Mamm said I must do it.”

  Clara released her hold on the plates. The girl was simply trying to obey her mother. Whatever changes might come in Clara’s relationship with Rhoda should have nothing to do with a six-year-old child.

  After kissing the top of Hannah’s head, Clara wandered into the dining room. Staying out of the way for a few minutes seemed a somber way to begin the morning, yet it seemed the sensible thing.

  Breakfast was warm and hearty and pinched Clara’s heart. The scrubbed, earnest face of her brother, the tight, flawless braids of her sisters’ hair and their bright blue eyes, the plain familiar practicality of the kitchen she had known all her life, her father’s subdued, unflustered demeanor, the woman who had filled Clara’s ache for a mother. Clara’s appetite subsided, and for most of the meal she watched the others eat.

  What had she done to make Rhoda so eager that Clara should leave?

  Rhoda cleared the dishes and Hiram laid the family’s thick German Bible on the table. That Bible had come from her mother’s family, Clara knew. She had always supposed someday it would be hers. Now she wasn’t certain. Hiram read with expression, even if he had chosen to lead the family through the book of Leviticus.

  The family scattered to their chores after family devotions. Clara moved into the front room, wondering what might be a safe task to engage in. The mending basket sat at one end of the davenport. Clara remembered the green thread she brought home from the mercantile in Springs and decided to explore the basket. A dark green dress seemed to be t
he major item. Clara remembered that Hannah had worn it when she was smaller. Rhoda probably wanted to make it suitable for Mari. Lifting it with both hands and holding it out in front of her, Clara inspected the seams and hems and easily assessed what the garment required.

  She finished restitching the main seam along one side of the dress just as Rhoda entered the room with Mari on her hip.

  “I was planning to do that,” Rhoda said.

  “I know. I wanted to help.” Clara ran the seam between her thumb and forefinger, feeling for any irregularities she had missed.

  “Mari is an active child,” Rhoda said. “I had in mind to double stitch.”

  “Certainly. I’ll put in another row.”

  “Thank you, but I can do that later.” Rhoda took the dress from Clara’s lap, gave the seam a quick glance, and put the garment back in the basket.

  Clara stood up, her eyes stinging. “I’m sure the henhouse could use a cleaning.”

  “That’s Josiah’s chore now,” Rhoda said.

  “I’m happy to help. I’ll go find him.”

  “Your father and I are working on teaching Josiah responsibility. I would rather you didn’t help him.”

  “Of course.” Clara had always thought Josiah one of the most responsible children she had ever known. “What else can I help you with, then?”

  “I can’t think of a thing,” Rhoda said.

  “I can’t think of a thing.” That was ridiculous. On an Amish farm, there were always a hundred things to do, inside and out. Clara swallowed her objection to Rhoda’s logic.

  “I’ll watch Mari for you,” Clara offered.

  “She’s fine with me. Why don’t you go for a walk?”

  Rhoda smiled and her tone was perfectly pleasant, but Clara heard meaning beyond her words.

  Rhoda did not need Clara’s help.

  Clara was too old to need Rhoda’s help.

  It was time for a change.

  Clara should look for another arrangement.

  Andrew stood outside the shop for thirteen minutes before he found the resolve to go in. His horse and buggy certainly looked out of place in front of this particular establishment on the road out of Springs, and Andrew himself would look equally out of place inside. This was not the same as going into an English hardware store or the mercantile, or even visiting the English blacksmith if the Amish blacksmith was too busy and the need was immediate.

  The sign over the door read HANSEN’S AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR.

  Inside, Andrew scanned a small, unadorned space with two chairs and a large wooden desk. Beyond that was the large work area, with four automobiles lined up. Andrew already had noted five more outside.

  A man was bent over an open engine.

  Andrew cleared his throat.

  The man looked up. “What can I do for you?”

  Andrew hesitated over the ridiculous statement he was about to make. “I want to learn to do what you do.”

  The man stood up straight and looked Andrew in the eye.

  “Are you Mr. Hansen?” Andrew asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I have a Model T,” Andrew said, “but it doesn’t run. I want to learn to fix it.”

  Hansen picked up a rag and rubbed grease from his hands. “I’m not in the business of teaching. People pay me to fix.”

  “Couldn’t I watch you for a while?”

  Hansen scoffed. “I can tow your car in and fix it for you.”

  In the far corner a young man bent over a trash can and retched. Hansen expelled breath and tossed a wrench on a shelf.

  “Sorry,” the young man said, wiping his mouth.

  “Go home,” Hansen said. “You’re no help to me in this condition. But clean up after yourself first.”

  Even across the large garage, the smell of the man’s illness wafted as he picked up the trash can and stumbled toward a rear door.

  “Let me help you today.” Andrew pounced on the moment. “I’ll scrub down anything the boy touched and hand you any tool you need. Just let me watch as you work.”

  Hansen rustled through a toolbox and came up with a tool Andrew had no name for.

  “One hour,” Hansen said. “If by then you’ve proven you’re not an idiot, then you can stay the day.”

  “Thank you!” Andrew stepped into the work area.

  “Hang up your hat,” Hansen said. “It will only get in the way.”

  Andrew put a hand to the straw brim. He was not in the habit of doing without his hat. The Amish always wore their hats when they were out of their own homes. But he took it off his head and looked for a hook.

  Six hours later, Andrew squinted into the daylight again. He and Jurgen Hansen had gotten along well, and Andrew now carried a small carton with several small parts and tools, along with a general idea that the problem with his Model T was that something was obstructing the fuel going into the engine.

  Yonnie drove the milk wagon to the abandoned Johnson farm the next morning and guardedly turned into the lane that would lead to the outlying shed. It was the only place he could think to look for Andrew.

  Living alone, Andrew had decided it was easier to buy milk, butter, and cheese from the dairy than to keep a cow. Yonnie checked a couple of times a week on what Andrew needed. When Andrew’s milk box had no empty bottles in it that Tuesday morning, Yonnie had gone inside the house. Dishes in the sink had dried egg on them at least a day old. In Andrew’s bedroom, the bed looked undisturbed. It took Yonnie a few minutes to sort out what else looked wrong, but finally it dawned on him.

  Approaching the old Johnson barn, Yonnie knew he was right. Andrew’s horse was tethered with a long lead that allowed it to nibble the ground freely, swish its tail, and shake its mane. Yonnie left the milk wagon and pushed open the shed door.

  Andrew looked up. “Yonnie! How did you know where I was?”

  Yonnie stepped inside. “I stopped at your house. When I realized every lantern you own was missing, I could think of only one reason. You’ve been here all night fooling with that automobile.”

  Andrew grinned. “And I think I’ve figured it out.”

  “Are you hoping I will congratulate you?” Yonnie counted nine lanterns burning, set on shelves, barrels, the roof of the car, and flat surfaces beside the engine.

  “Think what you will,” Andrew said. “I’m pleased.”

  “If you knock over even one of these lanterns, you could burn the place down.”

  “I’m not going to knock anything over,” Andrew said. “Besides, I’m finished.”

  “You don’t deny that you were here all night?” Yonnie put out the lamp that made him most nervous because of its proximity to the only bale of hay left in the barn.

  “Since you’re here,” Andrew said, “it must be morning. So yes, I was here all night.”

  Yonnie watched the ruddy flush of pleasure in Andrew’s face. Not many things would make Andrew stay up all night. He liked his sleep. That was one reason he decided not to keep a cow, gladly reducing his early-morning responsibilities.

  “When was the last time you ate?” Yonnie asked.

  “Are you planning to report to my mother in Lancaster County?” Andrew used a rag to polish a small hand tool that Yonnie did not recognize.

  “Where did you get that?” Yonnie said. “And what is it?”

  “I could answer you,” Andrew said, “but somehow I doubt the sincerity of your inquiry.”

  “You are getting in over your head, aren’t you?”

  Andrew flashed another grin. “Have you already forgotten that I said I fixed it? It was choking for fuel, and now it’ll get what it needs for the engine to run.”

  “So now what?”

  “We take it for a test ride.”

  “We?”

  “Never mind. I know it would rattle your nerves to get in an automobile, so I won’t ask it of you.” Andrew bent down, found the opening, inserted the crank, and turned it. The Model T proposed no response.

  Yonnie took a
few steps closer, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Haven’t you ever seen one of the English in town start a car?”

  “Haven’t you ever noticed how often they can’t get them started?”

  “Those are the older models,” Andrew said. “This one is only a couple of years old.” He abandoned the crank to check the levers inside the car.

  “This is not wise,” Yonnie said. “This automobile will consume your thoughts. You will neglect your fields at an important time in the growing season.”

  Andrew cocked his head. “My corn is growing just fine. All it needs right now is sun, rain, and time. I can’t control any of those things.”

  “You’re a farmer, not an automobile…” Yonnie was uncertain what to call a person who knew how to repair a car.

  “Ah, yes,” Andrew said. “I forgot this lever has to be up. Now I should feel the compression.”

  Andrew jumped back to the crank. He pulled up swiftly and the engine caught, its roar consuming the small barn.

  “Are you sure that’s how it’s supposed to sound?” Yonnie shouted over the noise.

  “It’s running!” Andrew leaped onto the bench behind the steering wheel. “I’m going to take it out.”

  “Out where?”

  “To the road, of course. Stand clear.”

  Yonnie did not move. How could Andrew not see that he would make an incriminating situation more serious if he took the car out of this barn?

  “Out of the way,” Andrew said. He looked down at his feet and moved the hand lever rising straight up out of the floor to the left of the steering wheel. A sound like the kick of a rifle startled them both.

  Involuntarily, Yonnie jumped out of the way.

  Andrew gripped the steering wheel with both hands as the Model T rolled out of the barn. He might have had a more accurate expectation of the sensation had he ever ridden in a car before. His instinct to pull on reins to control speed was no help, and instead of the brake pedal, his foot found the gear pedal and the car lurched forward.

  Throttle, he reminded himself. What was it Mr. Hansen had said? Use the throttle lever to slow the engine and change gears smoothly.