Meek and Mild (13 page)

Jurgen pulled off his gloves. “I know this car. It has been in my shop many times.”

Andrew’s stomach soured. “Then it will never run the way yours does.”

“Of course it will.” Jurgen ran a hand along a front fender. “The owner often refused my advice. He didn’t give it the care it required. I suspect your attitude will be different.”

“I’ll take all the advice you’ll offer,” Andrew said. “I want to learn everything about it.”

“Once you get it running smoothly, it will be worth something,” Jurgen said. “Don’t give up.”

The milk wagon rumbled onto the dairy grounds at the end of Yonnie’s afternoon rounds. Twelve tall capped metal cans rattled in the wagon bed. Every day the temperatures crept up and Yonnie perspired more with the effort of lifting the cans from the springs where they cooled on Amish farms into the wagon to haul them to the dairy. Today Yonnie had worked in the dairy early in the morning, done a large unscheduled delivery, and then went directly into the afternoon loop to farms on both sides of the border. His muscles ached, and his lunch had long ago worn off.

Dale Borntrager stomped out of the main building, where workers bottled milk and churned butter.

“Yoder, where have you been?”

Yonnie gave the reins a final tug and jumped down from the bench. “On the rounds, of course.”

“You disappeared early and didn’t come back.”

“I made the special delivery.” Yonnie’s stomach tightened. “An
English
order.”

“On the wrong day!” Dale said.

Yonnie slumped against the wagon. “I saw the note in the office.”

“For tomorrow.” Dale glared.

“Tomorrow?”

“Nobody was expecting that delivery today.”

Yonnie reached into the wagon. “But I got a signature.”

“From a young woman who didn’t know she could do anything else. She’s not even out of
English
school yet and is just helping out for the summer. She closed up right after you left, thinking her boss must have known the milk was coming and would be there soon.”

Yonnie closed his eyes. “He didn’t come.”

“Not for hours. The milk sat outside all that time.”

“So it spoiled.”

“You know better, Yonnie. You rushed and misread the note, then you rushed and left the order with that young woman. Your distraction cost me good money.”

“I’m sorry. Take it out of my wages.”

“Of course I will. When you make a mistake, you must be prepared to face the consequences.”

C
lara wasn’t sleeping, or even dozing. By midmorning on Monday, she had exhausted a brief series of small chores that could just as well have gone undone—which likely was why Rhoda offered no objection to Clara’s efforts—and withdrew to her room and cleaned it unnecessarily. The floor was spotless, and her dresses and
kapps
hung neatly on their hooks. On the nightstand, her small collection of books was stacked according to size. Clara saw no reason not to stretch out on the quilt of red and brown diamonds and indulge in daydreaming about the next Bible story she would write for Sadie. Jesus’ parable of the servant who received mercy yet refused to offer mercy came to mind.

Rhoda’s steps clipped a firm rhythm on the bare wood of the upstairs hall. Clara sat up and snatched a book from the stack to look busy. Rhoda appeared in the doorway with Mari in her arms.

“When Hannah asked if she could stay the night with the Schrocks,” Rhoda said, “I promised Mrs. Schrock I would fetch her before lunch. I’m going now.”

Clara scooted to the edge of her bed. “Let me go. I haven’t had my walk today.”

“I can see you’re reading.”

Clara closed the book. “Just passing the time.”

“
Danki
, but I can manage.”

Mari put her open palms on her mother’s chest and straightened her arms, pushing back. Rhoda compensated for the disturbance in balance by adjusting her grip.

“Mari!”

Rhoda’s tone carried a warning Clara had first recognized years ago, but Mari ignored it. Instead, the little girl shifted her hips from side to side.

“I want down!” Mari said.

Rhoda gave the child a stern look, but she set her on her feet.

“It’s a long way for Mari to walk,” Clara said. “I would be happy to go.”

“I’m going to take the cart,” Rhoda said.

“I don’t like the cart.” Mari threw herself to the floor.

“Marianne Kuhn, you get up this minute.” Rhoda planted her hands on her hips.

Mari had been a tempestuous toddler, and even now at three years old and with a more than adequate vocabulary, she still pitched fits. Rhoda responded by striking an implacable pose. Clara was never sure who would be more stubborn, mother or child.

“Get up!” Her hands still on her hips, Rhoda now widened her stance.

“No!” Mari flung her arms over her head.

“We’re going to get Hannah.”

“I don’t like Hannah!”

“Hannah is your sister.”

“No, Clara is my sister.”

Clara averted her eyes, not wanting to witness the color that would flush through Rhoda’s face at her daughter’s declaration.

“Please,” Clara said, “let me go for Hannah.”

Rhoda huffed. “Under the circumstances, all right. But take the cart. Hannah will get halfway home and start complaining about having to walk.”

Clara couldn’t disagree with that assessment. Hannah was likely to stop in the middle of a field and insist that she couldn’t walk another step.

Clara snatched a
kapp
off a hook and set it on her head before stepping around her youngest sister’s tantrum.

“I want to go with Clara.” Mari sat up.

“You most certainly will not.” Rhoda glared.

Mari put a finger in her mouth and glared back.

Clara took the stairs quickly, whistled for the mare in the pasture, and hitched up the cart. The horse trotted cooperatively down the lane. As Clara arrived at the Schrocks’ farmhouse, the front door opened and Mattie Schrock stood on the porch.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mattie said. “I was just thinking I might have to bring Hannah home myself.”

Clara got out of the cart. “I hope she hasn’t been any trouble. She loves to play with Priscilla.”

“They played together nicely,” Mattie said. “But ever since breakfast, Hannah hasn’t been feeling well.”

“Hannah is sick?” Clara glanced past Mattie and into the house.

“She’s up in the girls’ room. I made the other children leave her alone to rest.”

“May I go up?”

“Of course.”

Upstairs, Clara touched the sleeping girl’s forehead. Heat answered her inquiry. Hannah stirred.

“I’m here to take you home,” Clara said softly.

“My throat hurts.” Hannah’s raspy reply gave evidence of her claim.

Next to the bed, a full glass of water appeared untouched. Clara picked it up. “Will you drink some water, please?”

Hannah shook her head. “It hurts to swallow.”

“Just a sip?” Clara put the glass to Hannah’s lips.

Hannah took a drink, grimacing at the effort.

Clara set the glass back on the side table and slid her arms around her sister’s slight form, whispering a prayer of gratefulness for the cart.

At home on the Kuhn farm, Clara carried Hannah into the house and laid her on the davenport.

“What’s going on?” Rhoda came in from the kitchen, Mari trailing behind her in an improved mood.

“Hannah is sick.” Clara arranged a pillow under Hannah’s head.

“I’ll sit with her,” Rhoda said.

Clara started to move away, but Hannah grabbed her wrist.

“I want Clara,” Hannah whispered.

“Clara has taken good care of you to get you home,” Rhoda said, “but your
mamm
is here now.”

“I want Clara,” Hannah repeated, tightening her grasp on Clara’s arm.

Clara winced at the effort required for her sister to speak at all. She would gladly sit all day and night with the girl, but Hannah was Rhoda’s child, and Rhoda wanted to care for her. Rhoda kissed Hannah’s forehead and stroked her cheek. Hannah’s fingers opened and her hand slid off Clara’s wrist.

“We’ll make ice cream,” Rhoda said. “You’ll like that on your throat, won’t you?”

Hannah nodded.

Clara stepped away.

“Don’t go,” Hannah said.

“I’m here,” Rhoda said, looking at Clara more than at her daughter. “Clara can go now.”

After twelve days, the Model T looked at home in the rickety Johnson outbuilding. And Andrew felt at home with it. A few days of neglect required him to tend to the chores on his own farm—Yonnie was right about that. Andrew did need to take care of his crop. But now he left most of his lamps and lanterns with the automobile so that whenever he had a few hours to work on it, he could see clearly what he was doing. At home, alone in the big house where he grew up, Andrew could move one or two lights around as he needed them, but he spent most of his evenings with the Model T. Jurgen Hansen was generous with suggestions—and even spare parts. Though he spoke English, Andrew was not a fluid reader in the language. Still, he took home the papers Jurgen gave him to study, painstakingly sounding out words his German mind did not immediately recognize.

The moon was waning now. Andrew left the Johnson land, but rather than turning toward his own farm, he let the horse amble in the other direction—toward the Kuhn farm and a path running through Hiram Kuhn’s fields. Experience in the last two years reinforced this inclination often enough that Andrew waited in the dark more frequently than anyone knew—even Clara. He waited for her. She would sometimes come out for a night walk, and he would “happen” to be staring at the stars when she did.

Andrew could hardly use that excuse tonight, though. The sky had clouded over while he adjusted the carburetor on the Model T. Dense humidity clung to the air, a portent of something more than an ordinary night in the middle of June.

Leaving the buggy, Andrew began to pace. The weight of the air deterred any real speed. Already the night’s clamminess stuck his shirt to his skin. He would not wander more than an eighth of a mile in either direction. It would be foolish for Clara to come out tonight into the hovering storm, but if she did, she would come to this spot.

He paced a hundred yards before pausing to consider the sky. Lightning flashed in the distance, but no thunder answered—yet. Clouds obscured any starlight. Even the moon, though visible, seemed dim.

The rain started then, at first an uncertain drizzle and then finding a rhythm. The next lightning strike seemed closer. Andrew turned back to his buggy.

If Clara would marry him, he would not have to wait for her under heavy, damp sky.

The way she giggled when they rode in the automobile, and waited patiently while he got it running again, made him more resolute than ever. Many of the church members might think Bishop Yoder was going too far in his preaching about shunning, but few would consider an automobile as easily as Clara had.