The Amish Clockmaker (37 page)

Uriah turned again toward the fire, and Clayton prepared himself for whatever answer might come.

Finally, Uriah spoke. “You're familiar with the story of our Lord's birth.”

Clayton nodded, though it had been a statement, not a question.

“Then you'll remember this part,” the man continued. “Joseph was already betrothed to Mary when he learned that she was with child. He sought to divorce her, as was his right by Jewish law. He planned to do so in the way that was best for her, privately, so she would not be stoned. He thought it was the right thing to do. But then the Holy Spirit visited him in a dream and told him he was to do no such thing. He took Mary as his wife, and Jesus was born.”

Uriah grabbed the poker and stabbed at the fire from where he sat.

“Their betrothal was not consummated either,” he continued. “But God still saw it as a union, one pleasing to Him, one He commanded them to keep.”

Clayton leaned back in his chair, his heart doing an odd leap. “You're saying that annulment is against the
Ordnung
no matter the reason?”

“I'm saying that sometimes God calls us to stand firm in situations we don't fully comprehend.”

Clayton stared blankly ahead. His heart began to race. He hadn't wanted to come here, hadn't wanted to ask for a way out. He'd done it for Miriam's sake because he knew it was her desire.

But if annulment was as forbidden by the church as divorce, then maybe the two of them still had a chance. He didn't want her to feel trapped, but if she knew he had at least tried to release her from this marriage—from this
mistake
, as she saw it—then maybe she would begin to understand how very much he loved her and wanted her to be happy. He loved her enough to let her go.

Clayton said none of this to the man across from him. He simply dropped the blankets from around his shoulders and stood. Uriah looked up at him, seeming perplexed by the obvious relief on Clayton's face, but he rose without comment.

“You've helped me more than you can know,” Clayton said, shaking Uriah's hand.

“Well, I don't know how much help I'd be if I sent you home without a coat,” Uriah replied with a smile. Then he pulled one from the peg by the door and held it out to Clayton. “You can give it back to me at church on Sunday.”

Back at home, Clayton was relieved to see that his mother had gone on to bed. The house was dark, and he was quiet as he made his way up the stairs. In the bedroom, Miriam's sleeping form was snug under the covers in the dark, but he sat on the edge of the bed, placed a hand on her slender arm and gave it a gentle shake.

She opened her eyes, and when she realized Clayton was there beside her, she sat up.

“Where did you go?” she said, her voice accusatory and relieved at the same time.

He just looked at her for a long moment, the only sounds the wind rattling at the windows and a clock ticking steadily from the hall.

“I went to see Uriah. To ask him about an annulment.”

“You did
what
? Why?”

“For you, Miriam. You were sorry you married me, so I thought maybe if the
Ordnung
permitted the dissolution of our marriage, then I could give you that. You could be free. You could be happy again.”

Her expression went from shock to hurt. “Who said I was sorry I married you?” she demanded.

He gaped at her, blinking. “You did. Right here. Just a few hours ago. You said, ‘I'm sorry that you married me.'”

Now it was her turn to gape. “That's not what I meant, Clayton. I'm not sorry I married you. I'm sorry you married me. I'm sorry for your sake, not mine.”

“What?”

“I was apologizing to you for all I've put you through.”

Clayton couldn't believe what he was hearing. He pulled his wife into his arms and held her tight. And though she didn't exactly reciprocate, neither did she push him away.

Finally, he let her go, telling her they could talk more in the morning.

But sleep did not come easily for either of them. Lying in the dark, Clayton waited for her steady, even breathing to begin beside him, but it did not. Instead, after a while, she spoke.

“Your mother told me something tonight I never realized. She said you were the one who arranged for the baby's burial. Is that true?”

“
Ya
,” Clayton replied, though he didn't understand the question. Burials for stillborn children weren't common in their district, but they were allowed.

“Why did you do that?”

“You asked me where they took her. When you were still in the hospital. So I found out for you and then made all the arrangements from there. Was I wrong?”

Miriam's eyes filled with tears. He was about to apologize, but then she turned his way and curled herself against him.

“You weren't wrong,” she whispered.

And then she drifted off and slept in his arms for the first time since coming home from the hospital.

T
WENTY
-E
IGHT

H
ours after Clayton returned from Uriah's house and he and Miriam had at last fallen asleep, he was suddenly jarred awake. She was no longer in his arms but was instead thrashing about in the bed next to him.

“Miriam? What is it?” He blinked, unable to see her in the darkness.

She whimpered in reply.

He sat up and lit the small lantern on the bedside table before turning to see his wife sitting up in the bed, eyes wide with terror, hands frantically swatting at the coverlet.

“Miriam,” he said, louder now. “What's wrong?”

“Look! Don't you see them?”

Clayton held the lantern closer, but all he could see was her slapping at the rumpled bed linens. “See what?”

“The bugs! Hundreds of bugs!”

“Bugs?” Clayton saw nothing, but he set the lamp back on the table and got to his feet, ready to protect his wife from whatever creatures had invaded their bedroom. He grabbed the coverlet and tore it from the bed. He was about to carry it downstairs when she cried out.

“Now they're on me!”

He threw the coverlet down and lit the lantern on Miriam's side of the bed. But even with both lights shining, he still couldn't see any bugs.

“Where?” he said, watching as she frantically ran her hands down her arms. “I see nothing.”

“They're everywhere!” Wriggling free from the sheets, she jumped to the ground and began swatting at her torso, her legs. Except that there was nothing there.

“What kinds of bugs?” Clayton asked. Maybe the insects were too small to see without brighter lighting—like chiggers or bedbugs.

“Giant ants!” she cried. “Beetles. Locusts. Look!”

She thrust out both arms, as if the proof was crawling all over them.

He saw nothing but the sleeves of her nightgown.

“Miriam,” he said in the calmest, most even tone he could muster, “there aren't any bugs.”

She was about to argue the point, but then she hesitated, looked down, and slowly crossed her arms over her chest. Her expression hardened.

“There were bugs. They may be gone now, but they were here.”

“I think maybe you were having a nightmare.”

She shook her head, her lips a thin, tight line. “It wasn't a nightmare. I was—I still am—wide awake.”

Clayton wasn't sure what to do or think. What had just happened? He offered to change the bedding and put the offending linens outside, where any bugs would die overnight in the cold. Her nightgown too. When she didn't respond, he walked over to her bureau, opened a drawer, and pulled out a clean nightgown.

She took it from him without a word and walked behind the screen to change. As Clayton stripped the bed and replaced it with clean sheets and blankets, he felt as if he were moving in a fog. He kept his eyes open for bugs, but somehow he knew he wasn't going to find any.

“Done,” he said, smoothing the sheet at the corner. “Whatever was there before isn't here now.”

She came from around the screen in her fresh gown, handing him the one she'd just taken off. He grabbed the other linens as well, and lugged the whole pile down the stairs and outside, just in case. He half expected
Mamm
's head to be peering over the banister as he came back inside, but fortunately all the activity had not awakened her.

When he returned to their bedroom, Miriam was still standing where he'd left her, but now her stubborn expression was gone. In its place was a look of fear and sadness. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She moved toward him, and then her body slumped, as if she could barely hold up her own weight.

Stepping forward, Clayton pulled her close and held her as she began to sob. She buried her face against his chest, her fragile shoulders shaking with each ragged breath. For a long while they stayed like that, clutched together in the semidarkness, she continuing to cry, and he comforting her even as his mind raced to make sense of what had just happened.

“It was a nightmare,” he told her—and himself—again, stroking her silken hair. “Just a bad dream.”

For the next few days life hinted at a return to normal. Shaken by the incident with the bugs, Miriam finally stopped taking to her bed during the days. She managed to get cleaned and dressed each morning, and she started eating at the table again with Clayton and his mother. Weak from inactivity and the weight she had lost, she didn't come back to work yet at the clock shop, but Clayton convinced her to walk with him each day after lunch, just for the fresh air and the sunshine.

As heartened as he was by these simple changes, he was still worried, especially as Thanksgiving neared. Miriam's moods were still so unpredictable, and the family was to gather at Joan and Solomon's home for the big meal. He didn't want his wife making a scene and embarrassing them both or saying something she would regret and berate herself for later.

On the morning the holiday arrived, Clayton could see that Miriam was having one of her strange days when she was angry one moment and teary the next. He silently prayed all the way to Joan and Solomon's that God would intervene and settle his wife's anxious heart. To his relief, she didn't scream that there were bugs crawling all over Joan's kitchen while all the women were getting the food ready, but she seemed on the verge of bursting into a rage the entire day. Everyone else seemed to notice it too, though courtesy kept anyone from asking outright if one of them had done something to offend her.