The Amish Clockmaker (13 page)

Daed
laid the wall clock carefully in Clayton's hands. Though it functioned just fine now, the pendulum was still. Its owners would set the clock and wind it after getting it home.

“Careful,”
Daed
said as Clayton turned and took a tenuous step.

“I got it.” Clayton knew his father's eyes were on him as he limped toward the back room with someone else's heirloom in his hands.

Before he reached the curtain and the shelves that lay beyond, he heard the sound of a car pulling into their tiny gravel parking lot outside. He paused and turned to look through the front windows.

“
Englischers
,”
Daed
said.

A few seconds of silence passed as they watched a man, two women, and three children climb out of the big red automobile.

“Want me to handle them and put this back later?” Clayton started to set the clock down on the worktable.

“No, I can do it. Take that on back. I'll be fine.”

Clayton nodded with relief. He hated the thought of
Daed
having to move around to help these people, but he hated even more dealing with folks he didn't know and therefore weren't used to the scar on his face and his pronounced limp.

Clayton pulled open the doorway's quilted curtain. The brass rings grated merrily across the metal rod as if happy to be of use, even as he closed the curtain again behind him. In four steps he was at the shelf for finished repairs, where he gently set down the clock. From the other side of the fabric barrier he heard the front door open, the little bells on the handle clanging against the frame.
Daed
greeted the people as they came inside, and they responded warmly, their voices carrying a hint of a Maryland accent, probably Baltimore. Giggling children were immediately admonished by what sounded like the older woman—their grandmother, perhaps?—not to touch anything.

Daed
asked if he could help them and the man said they were looking for a clock to hang on a bedroom wall. Clayton tuned them out when the younger woman jumped in to describe the size of the space and type of decor. He hoped they wouldn't stay long, as he wanted to get back to the task he'd been doing at the worktable before the interruption.

As the minutes dragged on, however, he realized this wasn't just a quick tourist stop, which meant he had a decision to make. He didn't want his father's energy to be taxed—though so far, it sounded as though he was handling things just fine from his chair at the worktable. And Clayton knew the man would call out to him if anything physical was required.

But Clayton also really wanted to finish sanding all of the gearwheels before having to call it a day and go on his chores. But that, too, would mean shuffling out there in front of an audience, something he'd rather avoid. He decided to stay behind the curtain and tend to a few things there until either
Daed
called for him or the
Englischers
were gone, perhaps using this opportunity to make sure all was fully stocked and supplied.

Clayton looked toward the desk, where they kept their records and parts catalogs, glanced at their covers, and then he turned to the back wall where
long strips of wood—stored in bins and stacked in planks—waited to be made into gearwheels and cases and clock cabinets. Clayton noted the plentiful supplies before turning to the wall opposite the desk to the parts section. From one of the middle shelves he pulled out a box of wood screws, gazed at its contents, and pushed it back.

This was pointless. He had already inventoried their parts supply just last week. Nothing was needed from any of the catalogs. He turned again to the will-call area, where clocks that had been repaired waited for their owners to return for them. Beyond the curtain he could hear his father still talking with the
Englisch
family, and one of the children was whining about how long it was taking. Clayton couldn't agree more.

He pulled opened the front of a mahogany wall clock that was lying on the shelf, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and began rubbing at the glass, even though he had already cleaned it the day before when he'd repaired the thing and put it there. One of the other children was now asking
Daed
what made an Amish clock different from a “regular” clock. Clayton imagined himself telling the child that the Amish were given three extra hours a day, so naturally their clocks had more numbers on them. He smiled at his own private joke—until he caught his reflection in the glass. Taking in his mirror image, the smile faded away, and the unspoken joke with it.

Clayton didn't need a reflection to tell him what he already knew, that his face was hideously marred by the scar he'd acquired in the same accident that had ruined his leg as a boy. Running nearly the width of his face just below his eyebrows, the injury had not affected his eyesight, for which he would always be thankful. But it had damaged some of the muscles in his forehead, and though the lines of it had faded somewhat over time, its effect on Clayton's appearance remained unchanged. Faded or not, something about the scar made him look as if he wore a perpetual scowl. Even when he smiled or laughed, the brows stayed tilted downward at the center, making him seem angry—an effect reinforced by his gruff exterior and occasional flare of temper.

His family had always insisted his facial scarring wasn't that big of a deal, that he was a fine-looking man regardless. He didn't believe them. That scar was all he could see when he glanced in a mirror, and he knew it was what others saw as well. As far as he was concerned, it made him seem like a monster—especially in combination with the bum leg.

Trying not to think about all of that now, Clayton closed the clock, stuffed
the handkerchief back in his pocket, and stepped away from the shelves. As he did, he noticed faint movement outside the small window nearby. The neighbors' daughter, Miriam Beiler, was strolling slowly along the pasture fence that separated their two properties. She was unaccompanied, but even from a distance Clayton could see that her mouth was moving. That meant she was singing again, probably an
Englisch
tune from the radio her parents had made no secret that they wished she wouldn't listen to so much.

The reason for hiding out in the back office faded from his mind as Clayton stared at the figure in the white
kapp
and lilac-hued dress. Norman and Abigail Beiler's youngest daughter, newly twenty-one, often walked around humming songs from the world beyond Lancaster County. There was much about the auburn-haired Miriam that fascinated Clayton, not the least of which was her odd way of entertaining herself when she was alone. She was also known for being headstrong and opinionated, for unabashedly letting her beautiful singing voice carry across the fields, for resisting various other constraints of Amish life.

But what fascinated Clayton most about Miriam was that she hadn't stared at his leg nor been repelled by his face the first time they met, when she and her parents moved into the house next door five years before. She was the only person in his entire life, in fact, who had treated him as though his disability made him intriguing rather than troubling.

Not only had she not shown one bit of surprise or dismay upon seeing him for the first time, she'd actually told him, just a few weeks later, how she thought the leg and the scar made him seem “mysterious and interesting.” He still blushed whenever he thought of that day. If he closed his eyes, he could see her taking in the sight of his scar up close, could still feel her fingertips gently touching his brow.

It happened on a sunny summer evening, when Clayton was twenty-two and Miriam just sixteen—though he hadn't realized her age at the time because she looked and acted so much older. Clayton's family kept chickens out behind the house, and he'd been standing in the chicken yard, sprinkling out feed for the hens when she came over from next door, stood at the fence, and watched him work. She announced that she was bored with “ordinary life,” as she called it, something he would come to learn was not an uncommon state for her.

She offered to keep him company as he tended the chickens, and they chatted easily until he'd finished and put the bucket and rake away. Once he
let himself out of the gate, latched it shut, and turned toward her to bid her goodbye, he was startled to see that she was staring at his leg—with not a hint of embarrassment on her face at having been caught doing so.

“How did you get all that, anyway?” she asked, gesturing toward his leg and then his face. She hadn't asked what had happened to him or what had he done, but rather how did he
get
it, as if it was something one might choose to acquire.

“A buggy accident a very long time ago,” Clayton answered, which was his usual eight-word reply to those who did not know why he wore a permanent scowl or limped so badly.

He expected her to change the subject, or say she had to go, or fumble for comforting words like “sorry” or “that's too bad,” as most people did. Instead, she simply waved for him to come closer. He didn't know what she wanted, but he felt certain she was teasing him somehow—and that made him angry.

“Come here,” she said, motioning more insistently this time.

Confused, he allowed himself to look into her eyes—and that's when he realized she was sincere, her expression merely curious. She seemed in no way repelled or disgusted or disturbed. Tentatively, he limped toward her. To his astonishment, when he came to a stop in front of her, she raised up one hand and began running her fingers lightly along his scar.

Clayton swallowed hard, his heart pounding. There was nothing indecent or inappropriate about such an action, yet her touch felt more intimate to him than anything he had ever experienced in his life. His face burning with heat, he told himself to step away, that this wasn't right, that someone could be watching them at this very moment and misunderstand. But he was unable to move. It was as if his feet had taken root in the ground.

Finally, she lowered her hand to her side. “Tell me more,” she said.

Clayton let out a breath that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. “You really want me to?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “But wait.”

Miriam looked around, spotted a row of hay bales near the barn, and went over to them. She sat and then patted the bale next to hers, motioning for Clayton to join her. She pulled her legs up under her and tucked her dress around her shins.

When he hesitated, she said, “Stories are best told sitting down.”

Stories.
As if the events that had led to Clayton's crippling were meaningful, a plot point in an overarching adventure story, one in which he was the hero.

“All right.” Almost oblivious to the pain that was his constant companion, Clayton limped the distance between them, breathing heavily as he lowered himself onto the hay bale beside hers. Then he was quiet for a moment. It had been so long since he'd told this story to anyone that he wasn't even sure where to start.

“I was five,” he said at last, clearing his throat. “It was a Saturday afternoon, and my parents and I were on our way home from the farm supply store in New Holland.”

He glanced at her. She gave him an encouraging nod, so he continued, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. “We always took the family buggy wherever we went, but that day my
daed
was planning to buy a new water tank, so we'd had to go in our rickety old market wagon instead.”

Clayton hesitated, not sure how to proceed. Never before had anyone shown such compassionate interest in his story. He fumbled through his memories, trying to think of the best way to explain.

“He'd bought the wagon on the cheap from a neighbor who was moving away,” he said, backtracking just a bit. “He got it just to use around here, solely as a farm vehicle.” Clayton smiled. “I mean, you wouldn't exactly call this a farm—even if we do have some chickens and a milk cow—but this place is big enough to need a wagon now and then.”

Miriam nodded, thoroughly engrossed in his tale as he continued.

“At the store, we loaded the big tank onto the wagon and headed for home. My parents sat up front, side by side, on the driving bench, and I sat in back.” He felt his cheeks warm as he added, “I was supposed to stay in the seat, but after a while I climbed up on top of the tank and straddled it, pretending it was a horse and I was riding it home.”

Miriam chuckled. “I can just picture it. Then what happened?”

Clayton rubbed his neck. It was strange recollecting the events of the accident in such detail. It all felt so far away, like it was a different lifetime. And yet he could still remember quite clearly the woodsy smell of the air, the cold hardness of the metal tank beneath him, the
clip-clop
sound of the horse as it struggled to cart the heavy load home.

“We'd just reached the upward slope of the bridge when the wagon's front right axle gave out—I remember the loud
thwack!
as it snapped—releasing the wheel and sending it careening off into the ravine.”

Clayton closed his eyes, remembering his sudden shock at the buggy crashing down to one side, ripping loose some of the straps from the horse
and causing her to twist and tumble. He remembered the sensation of flying through the air, followed by the strike of hard ground and then something heavy on top of him, crushing his leg, something liquid in his eyes, making it hard for him to see.