Meek and Mild (11 page)

Rhoda did not raise her voice or express impatience. She simply was firm and consistent. So Clara, who had only the cash from two housecleaning jobs to call her own and did not carry it around, walked to town and moved between the shops. Her father had accounts at a few of them. If Clara had a true need, she could make a purchase, but she knew she wouldn’t. She only needed to be off the farm.

Clara stared at her reflection in the glass of the mercantile window. Down the street was an Amish furniture store, and farther down was a grocer who carried products from the Amish dairy. The bank in Springs held the mortgages on Amish farms. Clara could name many Amish families who rarely came off their farms and even more rarely transacted business with the
English
, but many others saw no harm.

The
English
and two Amish districts huddled around the border between Pennsylvania and Maryland. Most of the
English
could not tell the difference between the two types of Amish, though the Amish certainly recognized the subtle distinctions in clothing and hair coverings. Undoubtedly they knew who attended church in which meetinghouse on alternate Sundays.

When a clerk inside the mercantile looked out the window, Clara moved down the street. She had not brought even a few coins to buy a sandwich or a cup of coffee. She shuffled to the next shop window, an
English
dress shop. Realizing where she was, she didn’t linger. It was better to keep moving even if all she did was walk around the block looking purposeful.

Maybe she should have walked to Niverton instead. She could at least sit on the old log outside the meetinghouse and feel less conspicuous.

Clara hadn’t been to church with Fannie or any of the Hostetlers since she was a little girl, before her father married Rhoda and she used to spend long leisure weeks with her cousins. Then everything changed. Hiram became more firm that his daughter’s visits over the border should conclude in time to have Clara home with her own family on Sundays when the congregation gathered at Summit Mills or Flag Run. In the last dozen years, Hiram did not explain his decision, but neither did he soften.

Would he really now allow Rhoda to dispatch Clara to Maryland to worship with her mother’s family again? Or would he oppose Clara if she wanted to? Or would he insist Clara go if she did
not
want to?

Martha and Fannie and all the others would welcome Clara. They would welcome Andrew if she married him, and he would go.

And why wouldn’t he go? He was no more inclined toward Bishop Yoder’s sermons than Clara was. His own parents had moved to Lancaster County. His married siblings were scattered over several districts in Pennsylvania and Ohio. Nothing held him to the Old Order Amish, as they became known after the 1895 split.

Clara wished she remembered more about that year.

Perhaps it would not feel so odd to join the Conservative Amish Mennonites—or at least to visit them.

“Clara Kuhn!”

Clara turned toward the voice. Sarah Tice strode toward her with a towheaded child attached to each hand.

“It seems like we never get a chance to talk anymore,” Sarah said.

It was true. Clara had gone all the way through school with Sarah. After that they often found an excuse to visit one another. The distance between their farms had not been daunting. When Sarah married Jacob Tice, though, she moved farther out. Getting to her farm north of the Summit Mills Meetinghouse required more planning. Even at church, Sarah’s attention was occupied with her little ones, and it was difficult to have a satisfying conversation.

Clara realized one child was missing. “Where’s your little girl?”

“I insisted Jacob keep at least one of the children with him or I’d never get my shopping done.”

One of the little boys raised his arms to be lifted up.

“Will he let me hold him?” Clara asked on impulse.

Sarah nodded, and Clara bent to lift the boy. Sarah had always wanted a houseful of children. It was no surprise that she had three within five years. Clara liked children—the wonder of them, the tiny completeness of them. It was the process of carrying and birthing children that simmered reluctance. As girls, whenever Sarah gushed about children, Clara changed the subject.

“Are you still cleaning houses?” Sarah asked.

Clara nodded. “Just two right now, Widower Hershberger and an
English
family.”

“You might as well enjoy a bit of pocket money while you can. I heard Widower Hershberger is getting married. He’s been corresponding with his late wife’s cousin in Ohio. I imagine he won’t need you much longer.”

Clara determined that nothing should show on her face. Mr. Hershberger had said nothing to her. It was the sort of personal information Sarah always seemed to know before anyone else.

Clara stared into the dark eyes of Sarah’s little boy, waiting to ache for her own.

“We should go,” Sarah said. “But let’s plan a proper visit. Can you borrow a buggy from your
daed
and come to our place?”

“Maybe,” Clara said. She surrendered the boy to his mother.

“Please try. The children are down for naps right after lunch.”

Sarah rearranged her grip on her sons’ hands and resumed walking. Clara turned back to the mercantile window, though if anyone asked her later what she had seen, her answers would be vague.

A gleeful shriek behind Clara made her spin around to see a little
English
boy, older than Sarah’s littlest son but younger than Mari, galloping down the walkway. The joy on the child’s face evaporated in an instant when he stumbled. Clara reached out and caught him before his tender hands and face scraped the ground. Startled, the boy looked up at Clara with a trembling lower lip. Instinctively, Clara pulled the little one into her arms and whispered reassurance in his ear.

The child’s anxious mother arrived a few steps later. “Thank you! He got away from me so quickly.”

“He’s fine.” Clara released the boy into his mother’s arms and watched them continue down the street.

Was this what her future held? Handing other people’s children back to them because she was frightened to have her own?

Suddenly she wanted to see Andrew.

The wrench slipped out of Andrew’s grip and knocked his kneecap before falling to the barn floor. With a short yelp, he hopped on one foot. This was the third time, and he hadn’t successfully adjusted his grasp.

“Are you all right?”

Andrew refrained from rubbing his knee and looked up. “Clara! What are you doing here?”

She stepped inside, put her hands behind her slender waist, and leaned against the door frame. “I was out for a walk.”

“On your way somewhere?” Andrew said. Clara was a fair distance from the Kuhn farm for a walk with no purpose.

She shook her head. “Just walking.”

“Is everything all right?”

Clara pushed herself away from the wall. “How’s the work on the car coming?”

“I can’t seem to hold on to a wrench.” He bent to pick up the tool. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Clara shrugged one shoulder. “I just needed some fresh air.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Nothing important.” She smiled, the gesture manufactured for Andrew’s benefit. “Have you figured out what you’re doing?”

Andrew tilted his head to consider her face and decided not to press. They hadn’t seen each other since Sunday night. Anything could have happened in two days. When she was ready, she would talk to him. He’d waited two years for her already and did not plan to give up. If they never married, it would not be his decision bringing that result.

“I had it running yesterday,” Andrew said.

She moved to stand beside him, her hands still behind her waist, and leaned over to peer at the engine. With another smile—genuine, this time—she looked at him out of the side of her eyes.

“You used the past tense,” she said.

“I admit to an unplanned incident. But there were no witnesses to the actual circumstances, so I won’t embarrass myself by divulging the details.”

Clara burst out laughing. Andrew grinned.

She stepped back and examined the car. “It doesn’t
look
broken.”

“It’s not broken. I fixed it.”

She raised one eyebrow. “So you’ve put the…er, incident…behind you?”

“Let me offer you an irresistible bargain.” Andrew closed the cover over the engine. “Come for a ride with me.”

“A ride! Now?”

He fixed on her eyes and nodded.

Clara put her hands on the car and looked inside.

“Do you even know what to do with those pedals and levers?”

“Mostly.”

She laughed again.

“You’re a long way from home,” he said. “Wouldn’t you like to get off your feet?”

She gestured toward a misshapen bale of hay in one corner. “I could sit there.”

“But it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.” Andrew opened the automobile’s door. “Here we have a tufted seat with a full back made of the finest leather.”

“Well,” she said, “it’s true that while I’ve done a great deal of thinking today, I’ve had very little fun.”

“We’ll stay on the back roads,” Andrew said. After the detour into the ditch, he had found a balance between enthusiasm and caution.

Clara stepped up into the Model T. Before she had time to change her mind, Andrew reached in to set the levers, snatched the crank from under the seat, and sprinted around to the front of the automobile to insert it.

This time he got it started on the first attempt.

Clara gripped the bench with both hands, but she giggled as Andrew steered the Model T out of the barn.

“How did you learn to do this?” She raised her voice above the motor.

“After my…incident…I spent a good part of yesterday practicing.” Andrew made a smooth turn onto a path barely wide enough for the Model T. After getting the Ford safely back to the barn, Yonnie had clucked his tongue in disapproval. Andrew, however, made a few adjustments that were surprisingly easy, considering his limited mechanical knowledge, and had the car running again before lunchtime. Then he gave himself some proper driving lessons around the abandoned farm.

“Today the back roads,” he said to Clara. “Tomorrow, Springs.”

Her eyes widened. “Would you really drive to Springs?”

“Why have an automobile if you don’t plan to use it?”

“Why indeed?”

He gave her a half grin. “Well, maybe not tomorrow, but just wait. The day will come.”

Gradually Clara relaxed her grip. She had imagined the sensation of riding in an automobile would feel faster, more like a constant gallop than a sedate trot. Before Sunday, when she saw the automobile for the first time, Clara had not been on the old Johnson farm. She was uncertain where the narrow road Andrew chose would take them.

“How fast can it go?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Andrew said. “I haven’t been in high gear yet.”

“Are we going to try high gear?” The hopefulness in her own voice surprised Clara.

“If that’s what you want.”

She made no effort to contain her mischievous spirit.

“Let me find the gear pedal.” Andrew let his knees fall open so he could see his feet, put his foot on a pedal, and moved the hand lever before opening the throttle. “Here we go!”

The car thrust forward. With the wind in her face, Clara noticed Andrew was not wearing his hat. She had never before seen the wave of brown hair in its entirety. Like all Amish men, Andrew was well trained to wear his hat, whether black felt in the winter or straw in the summer. Today it would not have mattered, because a hat would not have stayed on as the car picked up speed.

A clatter crumbled Clara’s thoughts.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Andrew’s hands were busy adjusting levers. Despite his efforts, the engine sputtered and seized, and the Model T came to an abrupt halt.

“What happened?” she said.

Bracing himself and swinging his legs over the door without pausing to open it, Andrew leaped out of the car. “I’m beginning to understand why the previous owner was so eager to be finished with this car.”

“But you’re not giving up, are you?”