Brightest and Best (20 page)

At the “Amen,” Seth popped out of his seat, kissed his mother’s cheek, grabbed the books bundled by a strap of leather, picked up his lunch bucket, and dashed out the door to catch the bus.

“We’ll do as we did yesterday,” Jed said to David, “but to the east in the field.”

David nodded. “There’s no need for both of us. I’ll go.”

“Thank you,” Jed said.

Ella took control of her jaw to keep it from going slack. Did her father really think David intended to go out to the field?

She watched David slip his arms into a lightweight jacket and arrange his hat on his head before going out the back door and disappearing behind the barn.

Ella took her shawl off its hook and straightened her prayer
kapp
. She would leave the cart behind this morning. The route was uncertain, but Ella was determined to follow David’s movements. As quietly as possible, she saddled a horse and led it out, going behind the stable. David was gone, as she expected he would be, but the grassless ground around the barn bore no evidence that David’s footsteps had turned toward the fields of crops. Rather, he had rounded the barn and angled off toward the main road. From the house, his movements would be unseen.

On her horse, and from a distance, Ella followed. Once David entered a plot of vegetation, footprints were harder to find, but Ella was certain David would emerge on the road. She could take her own path and find him. This time, since he was on foot and she was on horseback, she would have the advantage of speed.

Ella reached the road and stilled the horse, waiting and scanning in both directions.

One minute passed, and then two. Perhaps David had found the road ahead of her after all and was already out of sight.

Three minutes, then four and five. Ella nudged the horse forward slowly. Movement in the bushes drew her attention to one side.

At last.

David broke through and, startled, halted.

“What are you doing here?” he said, shifting his books to the other arm.

“I wondered the same thing about you,” Ella said. “I saw you get in Lindy’s car after school the other day.”

He said nothing, instead starting to walk and peering down the road in hopes of an automobile’s arrival.

“Are you waiting for Lindy now?”

“No.”

“Is she helping you?”

He pressed his lips closed.

“David, this is not right.”

He raised his eyes to meet hers now. “I’m not giving up school.”

“But sneaking around—it’s defiance. It comes from pride.”

David shrugged. “I’m hardly sneaking anymore, am I? Everyone knows. My
mamm
pretends she doesn’t, but that’s only to make herself feel better.”

Ella blew out her breath.

“Besides,” David said, “as long as I show up at school, I keep Jed out of trouble. They won’t come after him for not enrolling me. I’m doing a good thing.”

“Disobeying his wishes is
helping
him?” In all the discussions about the new school laws, this was the most convoluted logic Ella had heard. “You can take my horse and go home before anyone realizes you’re gone.”

“I have a math test this morning. I can’t afford another zero in that class because of an absence.”

David waved his hand at an approaching automobile, which slowed. Ella didn’t recognize the driver. Of course, she knew only a few people in Seabury. David showed no hesitation about the process of finding a ride. He leaned in the open car window, exchanged a few sentences with the driver, and got in.

Gideon decided to see for himself. Ella had been the first to tell him about the school Chester Mast was intent on building, but it hadn’t been long before other parents wondered what he thought. At the last church gathering—in the spacious Byler home—Gideon could hardly eat his midday meal without an interruption every two bites from someone seeking his opinion. It was time to ride out and see what Chester was up to. If the construction seemed unrealistic, Gideon would escape forming any opinion at all. On the other hand, if it was progressing in a convincing manner, the existence of a new school building might signal to the school board that Amish families meant business about their children’s education.

Hammers clattered in ragged rhythm, ringing across open land and becoming louder as Gideon approached. He recognized the wagons and teams. Cristof. Isaiah. John. Chester Mast was guiding a boy a year or two older than Tobias to find the right angle before he hammered. Gideon remembered the boy had begun the school year riding the bus with his girls. Gideon would try to remember to ask Savilla later if he still attended school. Isaiah Borntrager was up on a ladder—a more secure one than he had dragged to the shambles of the old school, Gideon was relieved to see. John Hershberger was perched on a high beam making sure a joint aligned perfectly.

“You here to help?” Chester approached Gideon.

Was he? Gideon scanned the scene again and slid off his horse.

“Where do you need help?” Gideon said.

Chester’s curly brown beard shifted as his mouth shaped a grin. “Somebody has to make sure Isaiah doesn’t kill himself up there.”

Gideon nodded. Heights had never bothered him. He rolled up both sleeves as he strode toward the ladder. As he walked, he spied one more wagon he recognized, and its owner was unloading two buckets of nails from the back.

“James,” Gideon said.

James looked up. “You found us.” He set the buckets at his feet.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Gideon said.

“Just trying to do my part,” James said.

“But building a school?”

“There’s no law says Chester can’t build on his own property,” James said. “We can be ready when the time comes.”

Gideon worked his lips out and in. The only reason his girls were still in the
English
school was that Ella had not yet decided to take on the challenge of teaching them. He could hardly blame the other fathers for making their own preparations.

“I thought you were going into town with some of those tables Joshua Glick builds,” Gideon said.

“They’re popular at the furniture store.” James nodded toward the load in his wagon. “I’ll be on my way soon.”

“I don’t see Joshua here.”

“Nope. He’s still quoting Romans. Says what we’re doing is rebelling against a God-ordained government.”

Gideon certainly did not feel rebellious. Why would God ask him to hand his innocent little girls over to the
English
world, where they learned to make graven images and sing frivolous songs? If the school would stick to a simple education, perhaps the brewing conflict could have lost its heat before now. Instead, Gideon saw no way to avoid contentiousness. Perhaps he was a rebel after all.

“Will you check on Lindy while you’re in town?” Gideon asked.

“I may stop in to see the deputy, too,” James said, nodding. “I’m not persuaded he’s even trying to find out what happened at her workshop.”

“Tell Lindy to come for supper one night,” Gideon said. “The children would love to see her.”

“I will.”

James reached into his wagon and extracted a hammer. “If you’re with us, you’re going to need this.”

Gideon grasped the sanded wooden handle. His goal had been to persuade the school district the Amish needed their own school with a teacher who understood their ways. Chester was right to forge ahead. It was an act of faith that God would bless their obedience.

“I’ve spoken with Mr. Brownley.”

Margaret stiffened against her will and met Mr. Tarkington’s eyes. He had come to her classroom door in the middle of the day and asked her to step into the corridor.

“I’m sure you are aware that the Amish problem has not resolved.”

Why did everyone insist on labeling the situation the
Amish
problem? The Amish were not the ones who changed the unspoken agreement by which everyone had lived side by side for decades.

“First they refused to enroll some of their children,” Mr. Tarkington said. “Then they put some of them back in grade school when they clearly belong in the high school. Now too many of them are absent too often, claiming they are ill.”

“I read in the newspaper that influenza is spreading,” Margaret said. “The soldiers are bringing it home from Europe.”

“Now, Miss Simpson, your tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt is a charming trait,” Mr. Tarkington said, “but we both know that influenza is not ravaging the Amish farms.”

“It might be.”

“We’ve only had three cases in all of Seabury,” he said, “and those were in households where family members had visited Cleveland.”

“The paper says they may close the schools in Cleveland. We should not take it lightly.”

Mr. Tarkington cleared his throat. “Let’s not be distracted from our own matters. Mr. Brownley would appreciate it if you would once again do what you can to gather reliable information.”

“I rather thought I disappointed Mr. Brownley with my previous efforts.”

“Then you shall have a chance to redeem yourself,” the principal said.

“These things take time to sort out,” Margaret said. “We need to find common ground through understanding each other.”

“The sheriff’s office is losing patience.”

“I will see what I can do,” Margaret said, though she had little idea of what that might be. Her meeting with Gideon Wittmer over his daughter’s artwork made plain that the Amish notions about education were more entrenched than she had judged.

Margaret stepped back into her own classroom, where she had left the children reading silently. Her eyes went to Gertie Wittmer and the empty seat next to her. After perfect attendance since the beginning of the year, Hans Byler now had missed two days.

Gertie turned a page. If the girl knew anything about Hans, or about other students whose attendance was becoming erratic, she showed no sign. The other teachers would allow Margaret to look at their attendance records, which might tell her whether the principal and superintendent were reacting in a more extreme manner than the evidence suggested.

At the end of the school day, Margaret lined up her class and led them out the front door, where some met their parents, others scattered on the street to walk home, and others found their buses. Margaret scanned the flow of students out of the school, looking for patches of black and the rich hues of Amish dyes, and counted. It did seem as if there ought to be more Amish students.

Margaret crossed the pavement to the line of buses and caught the elbow of the oldest Amish student in the school.

“Yes, Miss Simpson?” he said.

“I hope things are well with your family,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And … your neighbors? Is there any sign of influenza?”

“None that I’ve heard of,” the boy said.

“Good.” Margaret glanced around. “I notice some of the children have not been in school. Perhaps some other illness?”

The student shrugged.

“And you?” she said. “Should we discuss with your father returning to the high school?”

“My
daed
has made his decision. It is not my place to challenge it.”

“I see. So the children who are missing school are simply doing what their fathers have decided?”

The bus engine howled. The boy looked over his shoulder at the idling vehicle.

“Go on,” Margaret said. “Don’t miss your bus on my account.”

M
argaret festered all weekend. Even Gray Truesdale’s invitation for a Saturday afternoon stroll did not banish from her mind the Amish
dilemma,
as she preferred to call it. Even that seemed a harsh word.
Conundrum? Mystery?

By Monday, Margaret had resolved to do whatever was within her power.

On Tuesday, she decided to start with the deputy sheriff. If the county sheriff was as impatient as Mr. Tarkington led her to believe, then perhaps reasoning with Deputy Fremont would buy her more time. She gave her pupils one assignment after another to work independently while she scratched arguments and wording onto sheets of paper, crossed out, revised, and finally memorized. As soon as the children were safely dismissed after school, Margaret braced her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked to the local sheriff’s station. If Deputy Fremont would not listen, she would take her car to Chardon the next afternoon and deal with the county sheriff himself.