Meek and Mild (23 page)

F
annie drowsed on her bed with the door ajar. If the rhythm of Sadie’s play in the other room rumbled or heightened, Fannie would hear it and judge the need for intervention. On Tuesday afternoon her efforts to stay awake and interested in her daughter’s chatter had succumbed to the weight stifling her spirit as much as to the heat and humidity that tortured her relentlessly more than any summer she could remember. It was past time to start supper. Elam would come in from his work in the far field both deserving and expecting a nourishing meal, and Sadie should eat. Behind her closed eyes, Fannie thought how unfair it seemed that the person least interested in meals should be responsible for the nourishment of the small household. She mentally inventoried the cupboards and icebox, trying to come up with a meal that would not leave Elam wondering what she had done all afternoon.

“
Mamm
,” Sadie called.

Fannie meant to answer, but after a few seconds realized she lacked the energy to speak aloud.

“
Mamm!
” Sadie’s tone grew insistent.

Fannie forced open her eyes to see Sadie standing in the doorway—with Clara beside her.

Clara stepped into the room. “Are you all right?”

What did
all right
mean? Fannie was not certain she would ever be all right again.

“Fannie,” Clara said.

Fannie heaved herself upright. “Clara, what are you doing here?” Clara usually came in the morning. It wasn’t morning, was it? Fannie glanced out the window and saw that the light had shifted toward its evening arc. Panic subsided.

“Are you all right?” Clara repeated, approaching the bed.

Fannie waved her off. “I only meant to rest a few minutes. The heat.” Her eyes focused on the patches of perspiration dampening Clara’s clothes. Had she walked five miles while Fannie did not even sit up in bed? Fannie regretted blaming the heat.

“Sadie,” Clara said, “I think your
mamm
could use a glass of cold water. Can you fetch it?”

Sadie scampered out of the room. Fannie let her bare feet touch the floor, wishing to find it cool as in winter but encountering a layer of humidity even there.

“It’s not just the heat, is it?” Clara picked up a cloth from the washstand and dipped it in water to put against Fannie’s face.

Fannie knew it would be tepid, not refreshing, but she let Clara wipe the cloth across her face. “No,” she said. “I’m trying, but the week has been difficult. My mother is getting big so fast that you’d think she’s expecting triplets.”

“I felt the heaviness of your spirit all the way in Somerset County.” Clara sat on the bed beside Fannie.

“Did you walk? It’s so hot.”

“I’m all right.”

“Sadie should get you a glass of water, too.”

“I’ll get one in a few minutes. I’m worried about you.”

Fannie plumped the pillow her head had just vacated. “I should be grateful. I have a husband, a child, a home, a farm. There is so much to do, but all I want is to lie on my bed.”

Clara put an arm around Fannie’s shoulder, and Fannie laid her head against her, her own chest exploding with ache.

“Let’s go sit under your oak tree,” Clara said. “It will have good shade at this time of day. Then I’ll make supper.”

“I can make supper,” Fannie said.

“I know. But I’d like to.”

“Doesn’t Rhoda need you?” Even in Fannie’s foggy state, she did not miss Clara’s hesitation.

Sadie arrived with a glass brimming with water. “I didn’t spill a single drop!”

Fannie smiled and sipped. “Sadie, Clara’s been walking a long way.”

The girl brightened. “I should get her some water, too!”

Fannie turned to Clara again. “It’s not too late to catch the milk wagon back to Somerset to help Rhoda.”

Clara shrugged. “There’s no hurry.”

Fannie fished around her mind for what Clara wasn’t telling her but could not frame the thought. She tried to recall the last time Clara said anything to her about Rhoda or any of the Kuhn children. Something was wrong. Fannie ought to care, ought to probe. She took a long gulp of water, unconvinced it would help but determined to try.

The back screen door creaked open and slammed closed. Elam’s heavy footsteps crossed the kitchen linoleum. He said something to Sadie that Fannie couldn’t make out, and the girl’s voice lilted in laughter.

“Good,” Clara said. “You can sit with Elam in the shade while I prepare the meal. You’ll have some extra time together with Sadie.”

Time with Elam would not heal what pierced Fannie, but at least the diversion might prevent Sadie from innocently telling her father where her mother had spent the afternoon.

Dale Borntrager would never say he was punishing Yonnie with an unscheduled delivery into Garrett County to one of the Marylander households. If Yonnie had challenged him, Dale would have said it was a last-minute order and he only got the message long after the regular afternoon run was finished. Other employees at the dairy made offhand remarks that suggested this was true. Four generations of two families that had married into each other several times were gathering to celebrate the birthday of a great-grandmother and the birth of the latest great-grandson. They wanted abundant provisions for their evening festivities. Extra milk to churn into ice cream, extra butter for favorite dishes, extra cheese, extra cream. Extra everything.

So Yonnie had put the order together and turned the wagon around. Was it not enough that he swallowed his indignity in serving the Marylander families at all? No matter how many people believed that
meidung
did not apply to business dealings, Yonnie was certain the bishop intended that his congregation should have nothing to do with the Marylanders. Yet here he was, submitting to his employer rather than to his bishop.

He was in no hurry to get back to the dairy. The other employees would have gone home to their families long ago. If sending Yonnie with the extra delivery was not outright punishment for his convictions, Dale’s explanation likely would have been that Yonnie had no wife and children waiting for him to come home. His parents, sister, and brothers would eat supper without him, though his parents would scowl at the notion that Dale should keep anyone from the evening meal and family devotions. And they had a point. Dale could have sent word that it was too late in the day to fill an order in Garrett County. The Marylanders would have scooped out smaller portions of ice cream and consumed their coffee black. There was no need to intrude on anyone else’s family evening. But it was a large order, and Dale had made the sort of business decision an
English
would have made. The thought stirred further indignation in Yonnie.

Now the sky had grayed, descending deeper each moment toward the release of this day’s troubles. Burning Amish lamps would soon be put out as families set the last of the clean supper dishes in the cupboard, closed their German Bibles, finished reading the news from
The Sugarcreek Budget
, and inspected their children’s fingernails to see if the dirt had been scrubbed out. Daylight came early at this time of year; with most of their work outdoors, few Amish farmers stayed up more than an hour after darkness fell.

Yonnie let the horse set its own pace. His own gelding was grazing in Dale’s pasture beside the dairy. At this hour, what did it matter if he returned Dale’s horse and retrieved his own thirty minutes sooner or thirty minutes later?

In the beam of the lantern hanging from the front of the buggy, Yonnie saw a slender, dark-clad figure walking along the other side of the road. He peered more closely and saw it was an Amish woman.

What was an Amish woman doing out on this road by herself at this hour?

Clara Kuhn.

Yonnie pulled on the reins to slow the horse even further. Clara should not be out. If she had the audacity to visit her Marylander relatives in defiance of Bishop Yoder’s sermons, she ought to have the good sense to get herself home for supper. If he stayed behind her for a few more minutes, she would walk past the next turnoff, and he could divert his route and leave her to the consequences of her own foolishness.

She paused then and turned around, lifting one hand to flag his attention.

Clara could not have imagined she would feel such relief at the sight of Yonnie Yoder, of all people. Whatever his reason for still being out in the milk wagon did not matter. Clara was not so proud that she would fail to recognize God’s provision when it trotted toward her.

She did, however, think that it could trot more briskly. Yonnie was holding the horse back on purpose. Finally he pulled alongside her.

“I thank God you’re here,” she said. “I need a ride. Would you be able to take me all the way home?”

A flood of questions flushed through his face. No one ever had to wonder what Yonnie was thinking. Humiliation suffused her gratitude.

“Yes, I was at my cousin’s,” Clara said. “I felt God leading me to visit her today.”

She had said the same thing to Fannie, and it was true. Still, she hoped a spiritual response would have some influence on Yonnie’s sense of compassion.

“Why didn’t you ride the wagon home hours ago?” he said.

“That turned out not to be possible.” Clara awaited Yonnie’s permission to board the wagon.

“You do it all the time,” he said, disapproval ringing in his tone.

“Today’s circumstances were unusual.”

“Your cousin has a husband. Why would he send you into the night alone?”

“Conditions were complicated.” Clara was not going to tell Yonnie Fannie’s private business. He didn’t even know Fannie, other than picking up milk from the Esh farm. “My father expected me back hours ago, I’m sure.”

“Then you should have gone home hours ago.”

“Yonnie, please. It’s dark, and it’s still very warm to be walking so far.”

He stared at Clara in silence, as if to say she had not begged with enough sincerity. Fury roiled, tempting her to withdraw her request and march on. When she left Elam and Fannie, she was prepared to walk the full distance, refusing Elam’s offer of a ride out of conviction that Fannie should not be on her own tonight. She would have stayed the night, but she was due at the banker’s home right after breakfast. Clara met Yonnie’s unsympathetic expression with an unspoken threat to mention his refusal to the bishop. Yonnie would not want to risk the bishop’s judgment of his lack of Christian compassion. But Clara could not count on the bishop not to defend Yonnie’s choice to separate himself from church members who had been cavorting with the Marylanders.

“Yonnie, it’s late,” she said, trying to keep desperation out of her voice. “I ask only for a simple act of charity.”
Don’t make me beg
.

“I, too, am very late getting home.” His response was unyielding.

“Then you understand that circumstances arise that we cannot control.” If an appeal to compassion meant nothing to Yonnie, perhaps simple logic would.

Yonnie tilted his chin up and examined her beneath lowered eyelids.

Clara swept back the strand of hair that had escaped the pins in her coiled braids and adjusted her
kapp
.

“Yonnie, please,” she said, humiliation burning through her.

He lifted the reins, and the horse took a few steps forward.

“Yonnie!”

He paused again before finally nodding his head toward the empty space beside him on the bench.

Anger poured another layer of perspiration through her clothing while Clara sat as far away from Yonnie as she could.