Brightest and Best (24 page)

The music room was the only space in the school that would accommodate the assembled staff—other than the gymnasium, which would swallow speech in its cavernous hollow and throw back the echo of children playing. Margaret walked through the abandoned upstairs corridor, still chasing from her mind the voices of her own students. She’d had near perfect attendance that day. Only Gertie Wittmer was missing. Her desk still held her books and pencils and the oilcloth she used during art projects, but Margaret suspected Gertie would not be back. Hans Byler still attended—usually—but he looked lonely now when he turned his eyes to the empty desk beside his. Gideon had not formally withdrawn his daughters, but both girls were gone. That was no coincidence.

She should have done something. But what?

Allowing herself an indelicate audible sigh, Margaret shook off the thought. After Deputy Fremont slapped fines and hissed threats at the Amish fathers, Margaret considered herself relieved of responsibility to coax cooperation from them. She had never been one to play the fool, and if she had the opportunity, she would tell the school superintendent exactly what she thought of his tactics.

Mr. Tarkington cleared his throat to open the meeting. “It has come to my attention that some student grades are falling.”

Margaret raised one eyebrow. The principal called a special meeting for this? Every year some students struggled. Competent teachers knew what to do.

“I have four of them in my class.” Mr. Snyder taught the seventh grade. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Vaughn at the high school. The same thing is happening there.”

Miss Hunter gave voice to Margaret’s question. “What exactly is happening?”

Mr. Tarkington pushed his lips out. “Those of you teaching the younger grades may not have observed what is happening in the older grades.”

“If they would simply turn in their work,” Mr. Snyder said, “the grades would correct. As it is, I will have to give failing grades for the first quarter.”

“I understand,” Mr. Tarkington said, “that these students refuse to complete work, but only in certain subjects.”

“Let me guess,” Margaret said. “Assignments are missing in health and hygiene, literature, and world geography. At the high school, we might add higher mathematics, world history, art, and music.”

Mr. Tarkington checked notes jotted on a sheet of paper. “That is correct.”

“And the pupils you’re referencing are Amish students,” Margaret said.

“That is also correct.”

“The Amish are not accustomed to those subjects,” Margaret said. “I would go so far as to guess that the parents of these students would say that the subjects are not relevant to salvation or the practice of their religion.”

Mr. Tarkington shifted his weight. “I’m a churchgoing person. I would venture to say that every person in this room is. But we offer an education that prepares students for the modern century. While we certainly hope to impart proper moral values to our students, our direct aim is not the furtherance of religion.”

“I think you’ll find the Amish don’t make that distinction,” Margaret said.

“Nevertheless,” the principal said, “our task is to ensure the pupils conform to the standards we have established.”

Margaret’s mind withdrew from the discussion that ensued. The law said the children had to be in school, and many families complied. But just as the law did not say which grade they must enroll their children in, neither did it specify that the children must earn passing marks. Failing marks would ensure both that the students would not learn the objectionable material and also that they would not advance to higher grade levels. Margaret’s lips curved in slight admiration at the ingenuity of the Amish strategies.

“I’ll feel better if I see for myself that David is all right.”

Rachel’s determination greeted Ella as she pulled the buggy onto the Hilty farm after spending most of the day on lessons with Gertie and Savilla. Ella relaxed the reins in her hands but did not get out.

“Right now?” Ella asked. There was barely time to go into town and back before supper.

“The meal is in the oven,” Rachel said, “with enough wood for a slow heat. I don’t want to wait another day. I hope you’ll come with me.”

Ella offered a smile and a nod. Rachel climbed into the buggy, and Ella signaled the horse again. Tomorrow would make two weeks since David’s departure. Perhaps it would help Rachel’s recent temperament if she saw for herself that David was safe and cared for.

Rachel fidgeted all the way into town, and although Ella infused her words with optimism and cheerfulness, Rachel did not settle. Any mother would want to know her child was looked after, but at least half of Rachel’s nervousness might be in anticipation of what she would say to her old friend under circumstances neither of them would have imagined when they were girls—or even a few weeks ago.

After a while, Ella abandoned attempts at easy conversation and concentrated on coaxing better speed from the horse. Finally they turned onto Lindy’s street. Ella let her eyes linger for a moment on Margaret Simpson’s bungalow, wondering if Margaret missed Gertie as much as the little girl seemed to miss her. Ella tied the horse up in front of Lindy’s house, and she and Rachel paced to the back of the lot where Lindy’s workshop sat.

“What was that?” Rachel hurried her steps.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Ella said, trying to keep pace.

“There it is again,” Rachel said.

Scraping and scuffling. It could just be Lindy pushing a piece of furniture across the room.

Thud.

A splintering sound.

A yelp.

The door of the workshop opened, and a man darted out and across a patch of grass before disappearing behind the neighbor’s thick hedge. Ella caught a glimpse only of a blue shirt. She didn’t recognize the man.

Rachel and Ella burst into the workshop. Splintered against the far wall were the remains of several birdhouses. A bookcase lay on its back, the bottom shelf kicked out of place.

“Lindy?” Rachel called.

A moan. A foot.

Rachel cleared the debris and found her friend, taking Lindy’s face in her hands. “Open your eyes! Talk to me!”

With a sigh, Lindy complied. “Did you see him?”

“Who was that?” Rachel asked.

“I don’t know.” Lindy raised a hand to her head. “I’ve already got an egg on my scalp.”

“Who would want to do this?” Ella scanned the shambles.

Lindy pushed herself upright, leaning on one arm and delicately exploring her ankle with the other. “He came in and went crazy before I could ask what I could do for him. I tried to stop him, but he pushed me, and I tripped.”

Ella righted the bookcase. Rachel knelt beside Lindy and pushed up the woolen trousers to examine the injured ankle.

“I’ll never get used to seeing you in men’s trousers,” Rachel said.

“I only wear them when I work.” Lindy winced under Rachel’s touch.

“It’s already swelling,” Rachel said. “Do you have ice in that
English
kitchen of yours?”

“The ice man was here just yesterday.” Lindy exhaled.

Ella stepped around Rachel to the other side of Lindy. “We’ll help you up and into the house.”

Gingerly, they got Lindy to her feet. Immediately it was clear she guarded the ankle against her own slight weight as she leaned on Rachel and Ella.

“We’ll go slowly.” Ella glanced toward the open workshop door. A flash of blue, on the sidewalk in front of the house, made her blink twice. The man moved out of view.

Why would he come back?

“What is it?” Rachel said, following Ella’s gaze.

“Nothing,” Ella said. Lindy was hopping at a painstaking but tenacious pace, and Ella would not suggest they should now follow a distraction from her care.

Ella was sure it was the same man. She didn’t recognize him, but she would know him if she saw him again.

Gideon regretted the action as soon as he put it in motion, but it was too late to stop the hay from tipping off the end of his pitchfork in the loft onto the man standing below him in the barn the following day.

Deputy Fremont sputtered. “Are you looking to give me a reason to issue an additional violation? I will write up as many fines as you’d like to pay.”

“I doubt it’s a crime against the state for a man to move alfalfa hay into his own stalls,” Gideon said. He may have regretted the action, but he had not yet repented of the sentiment.

“I’ll ask you again to come down,” Deputy Fremont said.

“As you can see, I’m busy.” Gideon stuck the pitchfork into a broken bale but restrained himself this time.

“You’re going to want to look at this closely.” Fremont picked hay out of his uniform.

Gideon doubted that.

Fremont waved a paper. “Apparently our last communication two weeks ago was not sufficiently clear. Rather than put your boy in school, you took your girls out.”

Gideon wiped perspiration from his forehead with one sleeve. “It was clear enough.”

“Then it was not sufficiently persuasive.”

“There’s a bench along the tack wall,” Gideon said. “You can leave it there.”

“Whether you look at it now or later, it’s not going to change.”

“I didn’t expect it would.”

The deputy stomped across the barn, found the bench, laid the paper down, and dropped a worn rein on top of it. Gideon threw down a generous shower of hay.

Fremont left the barn door wide open. Gideon waited for the sounds of the automobile engine coming to life and tires spitting gravel before he climbed down the ladder.

The fine was much stiffer this time—no slap on the hands. He was penalized for each child separately, and now he had three truant children rather than one. He scratched the top of his head while making mental calculations. He did not yet know the market price he would receive for the portion of his harvest that he did not need to keep for his own family and animals. Some of the repairs he planned to make over the winter might have to wait. His children were worth the price.

For others, though, the choice might be more difficult. The Hershbergers already were heavily mortgaged. Fines for four children would be beyond John’s means. And Isaiah? Chester? Gideon was not sure.

The lessons were finished for the day, and the girls had gone to the
dawdihaus
to cheer up Miriam, promising to heed Ella’s warning not to be rambunctious. They could offer to read to Miriam, Ella had suggested, or ask her to tell a story about when she was their age, but they were not to ask for cookies or a game. Stew was on the stove, and corn bread cooled on the counter.

Ella debated looking in on Miriam. She seemed more rested than she was a week ago and unlikely to accept coddling for much longer.

The back door opened, and Gideon came in.

He glanced around. “Where is everybody?”

“Tobias is in the barn with James, and the girls are with Miriam,” Ella said.

A silly grin crossed Gideon’s face. “Good.” He leaned in to kiss her on the mouth, something he never did when the children were within sight.

She would never tire of the taste of him.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he said.

Ella tossed the dish towel in her hands onto the table and reached for her shawl.