Meek and Mild (20 page)

“Are we of one mind on this matter?” Dale said.

Yonnie swallowed and nodded.

Clara took to morning walks that began shortly after family devotions. Each day the radius of her path widened, keeping her occupied a few minutes longer before she wondered, out of eight years of habit, what the children were doing or whether Rhoda needed help in the kitchen with the day’s meals.

When Clara caught herself pacing back toward the front of the house on Monday morning, she halted. Her breath lodged in her throat, neither inhaling nor exhaling, as she wondered what might happen if she spoke her mind to Rhoda or picked up Mari and carried her out of a room over Rhoda’s protests. Pressure in her chest forced a gasp, and Clara’s shoulders rose and dropped three times. Stinging tears clouded her gaze, and Clara backed away, turning instead to circle around the perimeter of the yard around the house. Familiarity led her to the path to the vegetable garden. What harm could she do inspecting the burgeoning yield that would find its way to the family’s table through the summer and into canning jars that would see them through the winter? She had not seen the garden closely in weeks, knowing that Rhoda kept the girls near during her daily visits for weeding and thinning.

The sight of the new section of earth her father had turned a few weeks ago buckled Clara’s knees.

Celery. Rows and rows of celery.

Clara did a quick calculation and arrived at nearly four hundred plants. No one grew that much celery unless the family expected a wedding in the fall. The plants were fledgling, and not all of them would survive, but the bounty would be ample for the traditional decorations and dishes of a wedding. Any neighbor or church family who saw the rows would presume, and Clara would be the recipient of sly glances during church. Clara knelt in the dirt and raised her eyes to the clear sky, muttering halting thanks that the Kuhn garden was set back from the house, not in the front in view from the road.

Rhoda could not force Clara to marry.

Rhoda could not force her will. It was God’s will Clara awaited.

Clara marched toward the house, around the barn, past the henhouse, through the back door, and straight up the back stairs to her room. She pulled out her sheaf of papers, the result of one late night after another pouring her heart out before the Lord the way she knew best.

Page after page, she had copied marked-up stories onto fresh paper in tiny script to conserve space. With her heart’s ears and eyes open, she added what she saw and heard. She didn’t change the stories—she would never change a jot or tittle of God’s Word—but she sought what a child might see and hear in the story. Clara remembered the places where Sadie had tugged on her sleeve to pause and ask questions. She heard again Sadie’s pleas to hear her favorite stories again and again.

They weren’t perfect. God’s Word was the only perfect book. The stories weren’t even a book, just a stack of papers tied together with string to keep them from scattering in the wind as Clara walked. She doubted anyone noticed when she left the house after lunch and aimed toward the main road. A few months ago, she would have supposed Andrew was too busy on his farm to bother him—and she wouldn’t have been brazen enough to seek him out there. The Model T changed Andrew’s rhythms, though, and the dilapidated structure where he worked on the automobile was a more reasonable walking distance. Clara had been there several times in the last ten days, and with each visit the refuge of the old barn deepened and sharpened, whether or not Andrew was present.

Clara judged the sun carefully when she pushed open the barn door and discovered only the automobile and not its mechanic. She could wait several hours for Andrew and still be home for supper. She missed Josiah and Hannah and Mari. Hiram Kuhn discouraged chatter at the dinner table, and Rhoda hustled the children off after meals before Clara could do much more than catch their eyes and offer a smile instead of the words spoiling on her tongue. If she could not be useful with the chores or helpful with the children, what harm was there in finding refuge on the Johnson farm? Sagging and broken slats allowed nearly as much air inside the old barn as outside, and if she wanted more illumination than what filtered in jagged stripes, Clara could always light one of Andrew’s lanterns. Leaning into the stubborn barn door, she closed it far enough that its disturbed state would not cause a confirming glance to anyone who passed by on the road.

She walked around the Model T twice before reaching for the latch and opening the door to climb into the comfortable upholstered seat behind the steering wheel. Clara knew how to drive a buggy or an open cart, and for the first time she wondered if she might learn to drive a car as well. Closing her eyes, she felt again the wind tickling her cheeks the day Andrew took her for a ride, leaving her rosy and glowing.

Such an unabashed sensation, one that she had never known to crave before that day.

Andrew would take her out again if she asked.

Andrew stood for a moment in the reduced opening and wondered what Clara was thinking about. He was not unhappy to see her sitting in the automobile—quite the opposite. With her hands on the wheel, she was without reticence or guile, and he was grateful to see her in such a state. Clara had made no suggestion that he should have accepted Jurgen Hansen’s offer to buy the Model T. Her trust in his judgment had evoked a tenderness he had not thought possible.

He stepped into the barn. “Would you like a driving lesson?”

Her head turned with a grace that stirred him.

“I would hate to cause a breakdown,” she said.

A half-dozen strides was all it took to take him to her side. She scooted over on the bench, and only then did Andrew see the papers in her lap.

“What have you brought?” He climbed in beside her.

Her nerves made her swallow with such force that Andrew heard the spongy thump.

“Stories,” she said. “Bible stories. I write them for Sadie.”

He raised both eyebrows. “I had no idea.”

“No one in our congregation does.” Clara lifted the stack of pages. “I want you to read them and tell me if they are a good that will honor God, or if they are a sinful, selfish pride that will undo me.”

He took the papers but did not move his gaze from her eyes. “You know the answer to that.”

She pulled a loose end of string and the knot came loose. “I know that I would be getting a man with an automobile. I want you to know what you would be getting.”

Andrew gave in to a half smile. “So you’re thinking about it.”

Clara blushed and glanced away. “Just read some.”

“Right now?”

“I’ll get one of the lamps if you need it.” She started to get out of the Model T, but he put a hand on her arm to stop her. He wanted her near.

Andrew dropped one shoulder to clear the shadow over the top page, adjusted his eyes to the light, and began to read silently. Beside him, Clara was unnaturally still. He hardly heard her breathe. One by one he slid the pages to the bottom of the pile.

“These are very good,” he said when he was halfway through.

“Keep reading,” she prodded.

Andrew smiled and chuckled and nodded and put his finger under favorite parts. When he came again to the page where he had begun, he was tempted to keep reading. Instead, he looked at her eager eyes.

“How long have you been working on these?”

“A few months. I’ve written a lot in the last few days.”

“You have a wonderful imagination.”

“Some of our people would caution me on that matter.”

“Not me,” Andrew said. “Never in our home.”

She blushed again, but this time she did not look away.

Behind them, the door creaked open. Andrew hoped for Jurgen but saw Yonnie.

“What are you doing?” Yonnie said.

Andrew stifled a sigh and did not answer. Even he was losing patience with the tone he heard in Yonnie’s voice the last few weeks, a cross between false authority and trepidation.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Yonnie said, “but I see this is not a convenient time for you.”

Andrew sensed Clara was going to rise and put out a hand to cover hers, away from Yonnie’s view. He didn’t want her to go. Clara could hear whatever was on Yonnie’s mind or Yonnie could find Andrew again later.

“What can I help you with?” Andrew said.

Yonnie pressed his lips together, not in sternness but in uncertainty. When they were boys, his chin would have been drooping in a moment like this one. As an adolescent, Yonnie had learned to clamp his jaw closed when he didn’t know what to say. Andrew waited.

“It’s about the bishop’s sermon,” Yonnie said.

Andrew tightened his grip on Clara’s hand. “Each man will have to seek his own conscience.”

“Yes. We can talk another time.” Yonnie’s eyes went from Andrew’s to Clara’s. “I also wanted to be sure you both knew about the barn raising on Thursday.”

“Mose Beachy reminded me,” Andrew said.

“Then I’ll see you there.”

Yonnie turned to go, and Andrew released Clara’s hand.

She tied the string around her pages again. “He has more on his mind than a barn raising.”

“You go,” Fannie said to Elam.

“What will I tell your mother?” Elam poured water into his hands and splashed his face over the kitchen sink, rinsing the day’s labor from his skin.

“The truth. I’m under the weather and need to rest.” Fannie ached to lie down. “That’s no reason for Sadie to be disappointed, and you’ll get a much better meal at my mother’s than I could offer you tonight.”

Elam rubbed a towel over his face. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“She’ll want to send some food home for you.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Fannie’s teeth grated through the next twenty minutes of getting Sadie into a clean dress and Elam out the door with their daughter. She forced herself to stand upright long enough to return her daughter’s farewell wave.

Then she went into the bedroom, climbed into the bed fully clothed, and put a pillow over her face to block the still-streaming summer sunlight.

All she wanted was to be alone in a dark, quiet space.

At church the day before, her mother’s condition had become the news of the day, followed by the announcements that two other women were also expecting new
boppli
. Fannie had choked back her own grief and mustered congratulations to two women only a few years older than she was. They were still in their childbearing years. As disappointment gave way to envy in the pit of her stomach, Fannie knew she could not avoid women in their twenties or thirties having more children. It was only natural that they would.

But her own mother? At forty-four? It was too hard. Fannie craved only release from that vision. She closed her eyes and relinquished her mind to the shadows.