Meek and Mild (39 page)

“The Model T is up on the road,” Andrew said, when what he really wanted to say was,
May I kiss you right here?

Clara did not even glance back toward the house as they walked side by side up the lane. This wasn’t like Clara. What was Clara doing in the hayloft in the middle of the morning? Something had been amiss in the Kuhn household for months.

But he asked none of his questions. When Clara got in the car, her blue eyes brimmed with trust. She would go with him, wherever he drove, by whatever method of transportation.

“Is John all right?” Clara asked once they were well away from Kuhn land.

Andrew shrugged one shoulder. “I feel a particular kinship with him these days. I’d just like to see him.”

Clara pressed her shoulders into the upholstered bench. The top was up on the automobile now, enclosing the rectangle in which they sat. Without it, the November chill would have bitten at their faces in the wind.

They found John easily enough in one of his fields, walking with a toolbox and inspecting fence posts.

“Any more word from the bishop?” John asked as he set down his toolbox and brushed dirt off his knees.

Andrew chuckled. “Which one?”

“The only one who matters now,” John said.

“No, nothing,” Andrew said. “I may try to have a word with him, to hear more what is in his mind.”

“Mose Beachy is a good man.”

“The auction is next week,” Clara said. “Will your wife be showing a quilt again?”

John cleared his throat. “Under the circumstances, we think it would be better if we did not attend this year.”

“What circumstances?” Clara said.

John used a hammer to nudge a split rail into its slot more securely, testing it with one hand. His hat brim blocked any view of his face.

“John,” Andrew said. “Please speak your heart with us.”

John straightened and looked at their faces again. “We’ve decided to join the Marylanders immediately. Mose will have our letter withdrawing our Old Order membership by tomorrow.”

“But John!” Clara said.

Unselfconscious in John’s presence, Andrew put an arm around Clara’s shoulders. “I thought you might. You asked a lot of questions when we visited Maryland last week.”

“I will not shun people who have done nothing more than find another way to worship the same God,” John said. “When Mose asked us not to visit the Schrocks, I knew the time had come for my family to leave as well.”

“But Mose just wants time,” Clara said. “In his heart he doesn’t agree with the
meidung
.”

“For twenty years most of the church has not agreed with the
meidung
,” John said. “Yet it exists. If I cannot peacefully submit, then it is better for the congregation that I go.”

Andrew tilted his head at the sentiment that echoed his own parents’ choice.

“But your family is dear to all of us,” Clara said.

“And you are dear to us,” John said. “When Mose finally sorts things out, whether in one year or ten, we will see each other again.”

“We’ll still see you,” Andrew said.

“No.” John shook his head. “It is better if you respect Mose’s wishes. We are not moving to Maryland, as the Schrocks did, but Mose will view us the same way he sees them—trouble to stir the pot.”

Clara’s shoulder trembled under Andrew’s arm. His own tremble was inward.

They drove halfway home in silence.

“The Pennsylvania district will never change if our strongest families leave us,” Clara said finally.

Andrew took a long pause. “I think that’s the point. People should feel free to worship elsewhere if God leads.”

“But what about the shunning? Freedom to leave is one thing, but we are pushing people we care about into a corner. They have to choose between worship or being part of the way we take care of each other.”

“The Yoders, and those who agree with them, think shunning will bring people back.”

“That might work in other places where there is only one Amish church,” Clara said, slapping her hands on her thighs, “but around here it’s easy to go to another building on Sunday morning and find another community waiting for you.”

Andrew let another long pause hang before he spoke again. “We could do that, too. Either the Schrocks or the Stutzmans would be at whichever congregation we joined.”

“And how many other friends would we leave behind?” Clara’s words fell in a halting cadence. “And what about my brother and sisters? My
daed
?”

Andrew drove without speaking. Leaving the Old Order district would cost Clara too much—and he would not go without her.

“The rope on the well frays more every day,” Fannie told Elam.

“I know. You’ve told me half a dozen times.”

The edge in his tone startled Fannie.

“Will you have time to replace it soon?” Fannie chose to ignore his mood and carried the last of the lunch dishes to the counter.

“I have to go to Grantsville for the rope.”

“I’ll go with you. Sadie would love it.”

“No need.”

Perhaps her own withdrawal colored her perception, but it seemed to Fannie that Elam’s responses to ordinary conversation were growing terse. He remained playful with Sadie, and he’d had no trouble being hospitable and conversational when Clara and the others visited the previous weekend.

It’s only me
, Fannie thought.

Had he no idea of the enormous effort it took for her to remain upright? Of course he didn’t. Fannie didn’t tell him. She had his meals on the table at the appointed hours—for the most part—and the house remained tidy. It was the weeds in the vegetable garden that ran rampant all fall, and the mending pile that doubled every time she looked at it, and the eggs left in the henhouse until it was too late, and the fruit that went soft before canning—all details Elam would pay no attention to in the face of a triumphant harvest and caring for the animals. She would have to do better and have something to show for her efforts, something Elam could see and appreciate.

“I know you’re pleased with the harvest,” she said, her spirit not nearly as bright as her voice. “Next year will be even better, I’m sure.”

“I thought I would cut back next year.”

“Cut back?”

Year after year Elam talked about seeding more acres even as he let some fields lie fallow. They still had at least ten tillable acres he had never touched. Cutting back made no sense.

“We can live on less.”

“But I thought you wanted to expand the farm. You’ve always dreamed of buying more land someday.”

Elam ran a finger back and forth along the edge of the kitchen table. “That was when I was planning for sons.”

He might just as well have sliced through her with a harrow blade. Her throat instantly threatened to cut off her air.

“Have you given up, then?” she whispered.

“Haven’t you?” He did not seek her eyes.

The answer lodged in Fannie’s throat, unformed.

“Sadie will marry and move to another man’s farm,” Elam said. “Without sons it will be hard to work more acres than we have now.”

“We could hire someone. I could help.”

“There will be no need.”

Sons
.

Sadie burst into the room with slate and chalk. “
Daed
, will you help me with my letters?”

“Of course.” Elam scooted back his chair and took Sadie into his lap. “What are we going to spell?”

“How about
boppli
?”

“What sound do you hear when you say that word?” Elam asked.

Sadie sucked in her lips and then said, “Buh.”

“And what letter makes that sound?”

Sadie thought hard. “B.”

Elam nodded.

Next spring, during planting season, Sadie would turn six, and next fall she would go to school. Someone else would teach her to spell and read and make sums. Fannie had always imagined that by the time Sadie’s first day of school came, two more children would fill the days. Now she wondered what it would be like to be home alone, Sadie at school and Elam in the fields.

By then her mother’s new babe would be pulling up on the furniture, perhaps even beginning to toddle.

Elam patiently guided his daughter’s hand as she formed the letters of her selected word. He always had time for Sadie. He did not want her in the fields, where in a few seconds she might come to harm with the animals or blades while he turned his attention to some needful task, but he welcomed her in the barn and was already teaching her to milk.

They finished the word.

Elam lifted Sadie off his lap. “Your
mamm
wants me to go to town and buy rope.”

The words he chose stung.
Your
mamm
wants
. The rope needed to be replaced or they would have no water in the house. It had nothing to do with what Fannie wanted.

“I want to go with you!” Sadie abandoned her slate.

“We’ll have a delightful time.”

“Is
Mamm
coming?” Sadie looked at her mother.

Fannie caught the flicker of Elam’s eyes before he looked away.

“Your
mamm
has things to do,” he said.

Fannie began scrubbing plates in the sink. Perhaps Elam observed more than she realized. Mentally she listed the tasks she could accomplish while Elam took Sadie to Grantsville. She stood on the porch and cheerfully answered Sadie’s frantic good-bye waves with her own.

When the
clip-clop
of the horse’s rhythm faded and the buggy was out of sight, Fannie hugged the solitude, striving to welcome it with aspirations of productivity.

Sons
. Elam deserved a house full of sons to teach with patience and understanding. He had given up on sons, and with it the farm. On her.

A cow’s soft
moo
alerted Fannie that Elam had fetched it from the pasture and taken it into the barn. She followed its call and scratched behind its ears to assure herself the animal was well. Elam had said nothing about why he had brought the animal in at midday. How many other decisions did he say nothing about?

Fannie could not fault Elam. She, too, felt the weight of effort to say more than was necessary.

She had come to the barn with no cloak. The brisk November day rushed through the open barn door, chilling her. Fannie reached for a horse blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, keeping company with the cow for a few more minutes.

Then she opened the stall next to the cow, saw that Elam had freshened the straw, and sank down to her knees to pray.

She ached to pray.

She longed to pray.

But she could not pray.

She lay in the straw, wrapped in the blanket, and gave way to sleep.

B
y Thursday, the news had sifted its way through the district. John Stutzman had delivered his letter to Bishop Beachy on Tuesday morning. The Yoder brothers pronounced the Stutzmans under the ban. The bishop, in office a scant five weeks, reluctantly agreed. Two churchwomen stopped by to spend a morning sewing with Rhoda on Wednesday, and every time Clara overheard a snatch of conversation, it had to do with the Schrocks and Stutzmans, who were now subjects of somber prayer for repentance.

Clara dragged through the days, finding chores to do. She cleaned the henhouse, put quilts in the buggy for the winter, and yanked overgrowth from the flower beds across the front of the house. For three days she did not leave the farm. Clara wanted to speak to no one, not even Andrew, while the Stutzman tempest brewed and settled. When she did manage to escape her grief over John’s decision for a few minutes, trepidation mounted over Martha approaching labor. Incessant activity between waking and sleeping was her only path to release. On Thursday afternoon, the children arrived home from school just as Clara had readied the buggy to go to Niverton for a few items, an errand for which Rhoda gave lukewarm agreement to its merit.

Hannah’s eyes lit up. “Can I come with you?”

Clara’s stomach sank. Rhoda would not agree.

Rhoda stepped outside to welcome Josiah and Hannah. Josiah acknowledged her greeting before going directly inside. Hannah, though, stood beside the buggy.

“I want to go with Clara. Please,
Mamm
, may I go with Clara?”