Meek and Mild (18 page)

They talked for a few minutes about what Andrew had done to the Model T in the days since Jurgen last saw it. Andrew had watched Jurgen work on seven vehicles. He knew that the repairs on the Model T had been minor compared to what could go wrong—and might still go wrong. If Andrew hoped to maintain the vehicle beyond the next few weeks, he would have to work alongside Jurgen for many more hours. Only because he was an unmarried man could Andrew juggle the responsibilities of his farm and the recreation of working on the Model T.

“It looks good, Andrew,” Jurgen said. “You’re doing very well.”

“Thank you,” Andrew said. “I respect your opinion. I know you’re familiar with this automobile.”

“A Model T can last a long time if you take care of it,” Jurgen said. “Ford Motor Company may like to make new automobiles affordable for everyone, but many people will prefer to purchase a used vehicle at an even more agreeable price.”

“I know your services are valuable,” Andrew said. “You are generous to give me your time and advice.”

Jurgen sauntered around the far side of the car now. “I have an ulterior motive.”

Andrew raised his eyebrows.

“I’d like to buy this car,” Jurgen said. “I’ve always admired it. Every time it came into my shop, I thought of how nicely it would run if the owner would let me maintain it properly.”

“Why didn’t he sell it to you?”

“He didn’t know I wanted it. I thought if he wanted to sell it, he would come to me. The idea that he would abandon it on the side of the road never entered my mind.”

Andrew’s throat went dry.

“I would give you a fair price,” Jurgen said. “More than fair.”

“You want to buy my Model T?” Andrew was still getting used to using a possessive pronoun in the same sentence with the name of an automobile.

“I do.” Jurgen looked over the hood at Andrew. He named a price.

A response stalled in Andrew’s throat. Words failed to form in his mind.

“Let me sweeten the offer.” Jurgen named another figure.

Andrew licked his lips. “What about the original owner?” If he received money for the vehicle—especially the sum Jurgen suggested—shouldn’t the funds to go the man who left the car on the road?

Jurgen shrugged. “He signed it away. And I heard he took a new position in Indiana. Maybe it was Illinois. Or it could have been Ohio. The point is, we wouldn’t know how to find him anyway.”

Learning from the automobile was one matter. Profiting from it was another in Andrew’s mind. Enjoying the Model T fell somewhere in between.

“Will you think about it?” Jurgen tilted his head to one side to hold Andrew’s gaze. “Promise that if you decide to sell you’ll come to me first.”

Clara left the meetinghouse on Sunday without eating and didn’t notice until Monday that the Kuhn cupboard now contained two identical pie plates. This had happened before when Mattie Schrock and Rhoda both prepared pies to serve at the congregational meal. One or the other of them ended up with both plates. On Tuesday Clara rose early, before the house heated up with late June temperatures, and baked identical pies. Now she carried a still-warm pie down the lane to the Schrock farm.

Priscilla sat in the yard with her elbows on her knees and her face drooping between her hands. She jumped up, startled, when she saw Clara.

“I’m sorry,” Priscilla said.

Clara pushed her eyebrows together. “Sorry about what?”

“Never mind. I’m sorry.” Priscilla dug a bare toe into the dirt, her head hanging.

Clara balanced the pie in one hand and knelt to put herself at eye level with Priscilla. “Is everything all right?”

Tears clouded the girl’s clear green eyes. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“What are you afraid of?” Clara glanced around them.

“
Daed
says I must learn to slop the pigs by myself, but I don’t like pigs! They’re too big!”

Clara took one of Priscilla’s hands.

“The mud is slippery,” Priscilla said, her voice catching, “and the noises the pigs make frighten me. And I’m afraid I’m going to drop the slop bucket, or even just spill it, and all the pigs will attack me.”

The child’s hand trembled in Clara’s light grasp. “That reminds me of a story. Would you like to hear it?”

Priscilla nodded, her face scrunched with the effort of restraining tears.

“This is a story about Jesus,” Clara said, “so you don’t have to be frightened.”

Priscilla looked unconvinced.

“One day, Jesus was very tired,” Clara began. “He had been working very hard to tell people messages from God. When He got in a boat with His friends, He fell fast asleep.”

“Did Jesus have a pillow?”

Clara pictured the words of the story in the family Bible. “Yes, He did!”

Priscilla’s shoulders began to relax. Clara continued.

“A great big windstorm started blowing across the water, and the waves sloshed up over the sides of the boat. Jesus’ friends started to think the boat was going to sink!”

“And did it?”

Clara smiled and shook her head. “They woke up Jesus and said, ‘Don’t you care what happens to us?’ Jesus stood right up in the boat and He said to the wind, ‘Peace, be still!’ And the wind stopped. Everything was calm and peaceful again. And Jesus said to His friends, ‘Why are you so afraid?”’

Priscilla looked at Clara, wide eyed. “Does it make Jesus angry if I’m afraid of the pigs?”

Clara squeezed the girl’s hand. “We’re all afraid of something. The story reminds us that even when we are most afraid, Jesus is right there with us.”

Priscilla turned and looked toward the pigpen. “I’m still afraid.”

“I know. Sometimes it feels like we’re right in the middle of a terrible storm. But Jesus is there with us, and remembering that can help. Do you think you can remember that?”

Priscilla nodded.

The rattle of the approaching milk wagon pulled Clara’s gaze up. She intended only to glance, but the two forms on the bench beside Dale Borntrager made her suck in her breath. Meeting Priscilla’s eyes again, Clara smiled.

“Would you like to do a big job for me?” Clara said.

Priscilla nodded, and Clara held out the pie.

“Take this to your
mamm
and tell her to enjoy the pie!”

“I’m not afraid to do that.” Priscilla arranged her hands around the rim of the pie plate with great deliberation.

“I know you’ll do a good job.” Clara watched as the child carefully measured her steps toward the house. She turned her own attention to the little girl leaning out of the clattering milk wagon and waving with vigor.

Fannie!

The wagon slowed. Fannie gripped Sadie’s shoulder to keep her from leaping out of the wagon at the sight of Clara.

“Jump in, Clara,” Dale said. “I’ll take you all to your house.”

“Yes!” Sadie clapped. “I can meet Hannah.”

Clara’s heart raced. How could she explain to Sadie that Rhoda’s welcome would be insincere?

“Thank you, Dale, but I think we’ll get out here.” Fannie dropped her feet to the ground and turned to lift her daughter out of the wagon.

“But I want to see Hannah,” Sadie protested.

“Not today.”

Clara was grateful for the firm tone she heard in her cousin’s voice. Sadie clamped her mouth closed. Dale waved and drove off.

“Do you see those rocks over there?” Fannie said. “Why don’t you see what kind of bugs live under them?”

Sadie wandered away.

“I can’t believe you came.” Clara’s embrace was tight.

“I only wish I could come to your house,” Fannie said. “But we heard about your bishop’s sermon. Rhoda has never invited us before. I don’t imagine she’d be glad to see us now.”

“No, not now,” Clara said. Not with tension already scattered around the Kuhn house like hidden tree roots waiting to trip her. It was God’s will for both pie plates to ride home with Rhoda and for Clara to carry a pie to the Schrocks only to discover Priscilla alone. If she had gone straight to Mattie’s kitchen, she would have missed Fannie.

“Is it true?” Fannie said. “You’re not supposed to see us?”

“You’re still my family.”

“Dale said there were no exceptions to the
meidung
.”

“It won’t hold,” Clara said.

“But if it does?”

“It won’t. You were never in our church. How can Bishop Yoder place you in a ban? That would be like saying the Baptists or the Lutherans are under a ban. He’s only talking about anyone who leaves the church now.” Clara took a deep breath, a whole body prayer that what she said was a right understanding. She would not accept the alternative.

“So we’ll still see you?”

“Of course. But I may have to be careful for a while.” Clara glanced at Sadie, refusing to imagine the absence of this wondrous child from her life.

“We should go,” Fannie said.

“Find some shade and wait. I’ll come back with a cart and drive you home.”

Fannie shook her head. “Sadie’s a good walker. You’re right to be careful.”

Clara kissed Fannie’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

W
ith her form hidden under the loose-fitting folds of her dress covered with a cape and apron, Clara doubted anyone could see that she did not fill out the dress as much as she had just a few weeks ago. She spent long hours away from the farm now, most of it walking in a manner others would perceive as recreational. Clara knew the truth. The tension at home was less severe if Clara spent most of her day away. She was present for breakfast and supper and the family devotion times that followed, but even Hannah had stopped asking why Clara often was not home for lunch anymore. Even in rising summer temperatures, Clara walked to her housekeeping jobs, to shops where she spent little money, to the homes of childhood friends too busy with their own children for a leisure conversation. Clara could hardly tell them she had too much time and too little to do.

After days of restlessness, on Saturday Clara wandered along the property line between the Kuhn farm and the adjoining Schrock farm. The crop promised an abundant yield—as long as summer rains followed the pattern all the farmers were accustomed to. Clara’s bare feet sank into pliant dark earth as she ambled through rows of corn rising above her knees. With the sun full in the sky, she was hopeful Andrew was finished with morning chores and might have time to talk to her. The first stop in her inquiry would be the weather-battered Johnson outbuilding. Even if Andrew was not there, Clara could take refuge from the midday heat in its shade.

When Clara heard giggling and rustling, she paused to judge the source. Three voices still thin in timbre exuded conspiracy.

“This can be our story place.”

Clara recognized that voice. It belonged to Priscilla Schrock and evidenced none of her fear of slopping the pigs. Clara crept forward with stealth until she saw three sets of little-girl bonnets nodding in a close circle.

“This story is about Jesus,” Priscilla said. “Whenever you’re afraid, this story will help. You might still feel afraid, but you won’t feel alone.”

Clara stilled her breath and gathered her skirts in both fists to keep them from brushing cornstalks. Priscilla’s rendition of Jesus stilling the storm on the Sea of Galilee was earnest and factual. What she added to Clara’s version were the sounds of the roaring wind. The other girls joined her in expelling loud breath and swaying precipitously as if they were in a sinking boat. Suddenly Priscilla popped up, spread her arms wide, and declared, “Peace! Be still!”

That was the moment Clara met the girl’s confident, clear, green eyes.

“It’s Hannah’s sister!”

At Priscilla’s announcement, Naomi Brennerman and Lillian Yutzy broke their concentration and jumped up as well. Clara soaked up three eager gazes.

“This is God’s will!” Priscilla pushed through the stalks.

“Careful,” Clara said, “don’t trample the corn.”

Her warning did not slow the girls.

“Did God send you to tell us another story from the Bible?” Priscilla’s eyes brimmed with expectation.

Clara glanced across the field, wondering where the girls’ mothers were and if they knew how far from the house their daughters had wandered.

“Please,” Priscilla said. “It doesn’t have to be a long one.”