Brightest and Best (14 page)

“What was I supposed to do?” James winced.

Miriam dipped a cotton cloth in a bowl of warm water and dabbed the scrapes on her husband’s cheek again. “Isaiah could have killed himself falling off that ancient ladder—and you.”

“I don’t think he’ll try that again.”

“Unless he gets a new ladder,” Miriam said. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

James took the cloth from Miriam’s hand and probed under his beard for a spot where he suspected the skin had split. Already his shoulders, hips, and knees ached from the sudden surprise of Isaiah’s weight dropped on him. James pushed out of his mind the image of what might have happened if Isaiah had been alone when he fell.

“No doctor,” he said. “I may be moving slowly for a few days, though.”

“Then we’ll move slowly together.”

James watched Miriam as she carried the bowl of water to the sink. The spry gait she’d had since girlhood was diminished. Miriam’s neck bent at a tired angle.

“Disagreeing with the
English
is no excuse for doing something foolish,” Miriam said. “But we can always count on Isaiah Borntrager to be rash.”

“Things were simpler when we were in school.”

“That was a long time ago, old man.” Miriam winked.

She started calling him
old man
on his twenty-fifth birthday, which came fifty-six days before hers. Now, James supposed, he more obviously fit the description.

The
dawdihaus
door opened, and Gertie tumbled in.

“I’m sorry, little one,” Miriam said. “I didn’t bake cookies today.”

“That’s okay. My friend Polly shared the cookie her
mamm
put in her lunch bucket.”

“That was generous,” James said.

Gertie climbed into James’s lap, as she did every day after school. “What happened to your face?”

“God gave me this face,” James said. “Maybe I got the leftovers because He was saving the best parts for you.”

Gertie giggled and leaned into James’s sore right shoulder.

“How was school?” James smothered his wince.

“I like school,” Gertie said. “I can read twelve words now. Pretty soon I’ll know enough to read a whole book to you.”

“That will be great fun.” James kissed the top of her head. “And the bus?”

“Polly’s teaching me songs to sing on the bus.”

“Oh?” Over Gertie’s head, James caught Miriam’s eye.

“They’re not like the songs we sing in church,” Gertie said.

“They go fast, and they rhyme, and we do hand motions.”

James changed the subject. “Did your teacher give you an assignment to do before you go back to school?”

“She said we should choose a book at home and see if we can find three words we know and read them to our families.”

James tried to picture Gideon’s small shelf of books. At least half of them were in German. Gertie might have to find her words in a seed catalog.

W
ith their black hats still on their heads, a row of Amish men sat straight-backed in the downtown Seabury building where the school board held its announced meetings. James was among them. Gideon planned to speak on behalf of the group, but he mustered the men to produce a presence that would let the board know they were earnest in their petition. He was not one man speaking on his own. Even the bishop had come in support. This was not one or two fathers disgruntled with the new regulations. It was an unsettled community that wanted to find peace again.

Gideon was warned he would have to wait until the call for new business was announced, and the board would not have a great deal of time to hear him out. James countered with advice that Gideon be prepared to hold the floor. His statement should be carefully thought through. While he might make notes, Gideon should be ready to look the board in the eye and speak convincingly.

The assembly opened with a dry reading of the minutes of the previous board meeting, followed by a motion to accept them. A spattering of
English
parents shifted in their seats, as if to get comfortable for the coming proceedings. Then the board resumed discussions of matters of old business: the budget, one unfilled teacher position, the refreshments committee for the fall harvest dance for the high school students, a new format for report cards, new tires for one of the buses, a delayed textbook order. Why the school board let the topics remain unresolved from week to week, or month to month, confounded James. The decisions did not strike him as complex—nothing approaching the significance of an unsafe rural building that technically belonged to the district or the consequences of its closure for the families it had served for more than three decades. Twice James turned his head slightly for a glance at Gideon. If Gideon was becoming as impatient as James, he did not show it. Well habituated by lengthy church services, the Amish men barely moved for two and a half hours.

“Do I hear a motion to adjourn?” the superintendent finally said.

“So moved,” said one of the board members.

Instantly, Gideon was on his feet. “I believe you have overlooked new business.”

Ulysses Brownley blinked at Gideon. “The hour is late. Perhaps at our next meeting.”

“With all due respect,” Gideon said, “we requested in advance to be heard at tonight’s meeting, and we have patiently waited for you to consider your weighty matters, although all of us will have to be up before dawn to tend our animals.”

Brownley cleared his throat. “Very well. We will now consider new business, but only briefly. What is the matter you wish to put before the board?”

“We wish to present our reasons for requesting an exception on religious grounds to the new educational regulations.”

“We do not make the state laws, Mr. Wittmer,” Brownley said. “We are only charged with enforcing them at the local level, in one small school district.”

“Nevertheless, I wish to make our case,” Gideon said, “in the hope that we might continue to work together for suitable education of our children as we always have.”

Good for you, Gideon.
James turned up one corner of his mouth.

Gideon stepped out of the row of men and centered himself before the members of the board arranged across the front of the room.

“True education,” he said, “cultivates humility, simple living, and submission to the will of God. We train for life both in this world and in the next. We do not see school and life as separate spheres. The highest form of religious life is our community life, and we guard carefully against any threat to our community.”

Brownley leaned back in a wide black leather chair and pulled out his pocket watch.

Gideon was undeterred.

“So long as schools were small and near our farms, we have gladly worked with teachers the district so generously provided to find a meeting of the minds. In this way, we have considered both what was needful for our children’s participation in our life together and what the state offered for their good.”

“Mr. Wittmer,” Brownley said, “perhaps you can get to the point.”

“I have four points,” Gideon said, calmly ignoring the scowl on Brownley’s face. “First, we believe that it is in our children’s best interest to attend school close to our homes, where they can easily help with the farmwork that is foundational to our way of life.

“Second, we would like our children to receive instruction from teachers committed to and respectful of our values. This will require special qualifications that may not coincide with those the state would measure.

“Third, our children need only basic skills in reading, writing, and arithmetic. All other training should be conducive to our religious life. These goals do not require that our children remain in school after the eighth grade.

“And last, our children need to be trained for our way of life, not the
English
way of life. Our hope is not that they achieve earthly success, but that they are prepared for eternity.”

James wanted to stand up and clap. Gideon’s late nights formulating his thoughts had yielded a polished presentation in which he did not look down at his notes even once.

“Since the form of education is an expression of our religious life,” Gideon continued, “we respectfully request that the board relent and allow our children to attend school close to home and in a manner that allows for parents to consult freely with the teacher for pupils up through eighth grade. After that, our children will withdraw from school.”

James watched the superintendent’s face as he made a show of consulting his pocket watch once again.

“We will take it under advisement,” Brownley said, “with the reminder once again that our duty is to execute state law, not formulate it. Now, I will once again entertain a motion to adjourn.”

Gideon allowed himself a sigh of relief.

He could have said far more, but Ulysses Brownley had heard enough for one evening. The seed was planted. By God’s grace, it would grow.

Aaron King clapped him on the back. Joshua Glick shook his hand. Grinning, John Hershberger dipped his head toward Gideon. Jed Hilty gave a satisfied nod. Cristof Byler looked red in the face from holding himself back, but he had held to the agreement that only Gideon would speak for the group. Even Isaiah Borntrager was pleasantly composed. Amid the unspoken congratulations, it was James’s eyes Gideon sought, and his reward was a smile that said James could not be more pleased.

At the front of the room, board members whispered in huddles before dispersing. Spectators trickled out of the meeting room.

“I’ll get the buggy,” James said.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Gideon said. His mind needed two minutes of quiet before the spirited ride home. The men would return together to Gideon’s home, where they had left their rigs.

No doubt the conversation would be animated. Isaiah and Cristof and John would unfurl all the words they guarded during the school board meeting.

Gideon slipped down the corridor and turned into a side hall where he hoped to lean against the cool brick wall and catch his breath.

His refuge dissipated before he could close his eyes and utter a prayer of thanks. Heavy footfalls made him stand up straight.

“Mr. Wittmer.” It was Brownley.

“Yes?” Gideon moistened his lips.

“The laws exist for a reason,” Brownley said, his words a snarl.

“We are peaceful, law-abiding people,” Gideon said. “But we take our faith seriously.”

“Education and religion do not mix.”

“I beg to differ.”

“I’m warning you,” Brownley said. “If you and your ragamuffin friends persist in this dissent, you must do things properly. Go through channels.”

“I believe that is what we were doing tonight,” Gideon said. His neck suddenly ached. “Is not the school board the right authority to meet with on the question of education? If we should go elsewhere with our concerns, we welcome your counsel.”

“Don’t placate me,” Brownley said. “I can manage my own school district. You’d be wasting your time pressing the question. The law is clear. I will provide you a printed copy in its entirety upon request.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gideon said.

“I notice that your son is on our truancy list.” Brownley shook a finger. “Send that boy to school starting tomorrow and I will instruct the teachers to go the extra mile to help him catch up. The same offer stands for your friends who are breaking the law.”

Gideon pressed his lips together and said nothing.

“I will be monitoring the attendance reports personally. If these children do not turn up in school soon, you will face the full consequences under the law.”

Gideon exhaled softly. “Perhaps we should arrange a meeting to discuss our concerns when the hour is not so late.”

“Discussions will not change the law, Mr. Wittmer. Put your children in school.”

“He’s gone again,” Jed muttered as he walked past Rachel, who rummaged through the vegetable garden looking for autumn squashes. Pulling overgrown bean plants from the fence two rows down, Ella stiffened at the irritation in his voice.

“Where?” Rachel said.

“He doesn’t leave me notes,” Jed snapped. “I asked him to throw down some hay in the barn, and he left the job half done. I haven’t seen him in hours.”