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.
“All three of us were thrown from the wagon when it crashed. My parents landed on grass and just ended up with some cuts and bruises. But the wagon fell on me so I didn’t fare as well. Oh, and the poor horse had to be put down.”
“Your parents got you to a hospital?” Miriam whispered in a shaky voice.
“Some cars came along pretty soon after, so there were people around to help. They managed to get me to the emergency room, where the doctors sewed up my face and did what they could with my leg—though for a while there, it looked like I might lose it. I ended up staying for two weeks, and then they sent me home.”
Clayton looked down at the useless limb, once so normal and now just a painful souvenir of his journey on a faulty wagon with a bad axle.
“And that’s the story,” he said. “Sorry you asked?”
Miriam shook her head, dabbing at glistening tears at the corner of her eyes. “Thank you for telling me.”
He nodded, unable to resist turning his face to meet her eyes. When he did, he saw that she was gazing right back at him, taking in the scar at his brow and then reaching up once more to touch it softly with her delicate fingers.
“It looks like it still hurts,” she said. “Does it?”
He took in a breath, unsure how to answer. Yes, the injury did still hurt, but not so much in the physical sense. It hurt inside. It hurt to know that his life had been so inextricably altered in the snap of a single axle. It hurt that no woman could ever love a broken man like him—not even Miriam. She mi
ght be different from the other girls in the district, but she was beautiful, far too beautiful for the likes of him. No question, someday she would end up winning the affection of a handsome, able-bodied Amish suitor, one who could offer her everything that Clayton could not.
Even now, five years after that particular conversation, he could still feel the pain of that realization. Standing at the window in the back room, gazing out at her as he continued to wait for the customers to leave, he had to admit that she’d only grown more beautiful with time. And though no one had snatched her up for marriage just yet, it would no doubt happen soon.
Suddenly, almost as if she could sense Clayton staring at her through the glass of the clock shop, Miriam looked up from her odd reverie. Startled, he backed clumsily away from the window, hoping to duck out of sight—and ended up nearly toppling over a small boy who was standing right behind him.
Clayton grabbed for the shelving unit to keep from toppling onto the child, nearly knocking over an antique anniversary clock and its glass dome. As he struggled to steady himself, the gasping, wide-eyed boy took a step backward, tripped over a trash can, and fell onto his bottom.
A quick mix of embarrassment and anger roiled up from within Clayton as the child gaped at him from the floor, taking in his scarred brow and comically awkward movements. It was a look Clayton had seen plenty of times, whenever he was out in town among strangers or in the shop with new customers. He had once heard an Englisch teen joke to another that he shuffled around like Frankenstein’s monster—and from the look in this kid’s eyes, he was thinking the very same thing.
After a momentary pause, Clayton extended his hand to help the boy to his feet. “You’re not supposed to be back here,” he said, nervousness making him sound perturbed.
The child reached for the curtain behind him as he got to his feet but grabbed only at air.
“You need to go back to your parents.” Clayton took a few lurching steps forward and reached for the curtain to pull it aside for him.
The boy apparently assumed Clayton was instead grasping for him, and he let out a wail as he lunged for the curtain and nearly pulled it off its rungs. He swept past it and emerged on the other side, out of Clayton’s view.
“Theodore!” From the other side of the swaying fabric, Clayton heard one of the women call out the boy’s name. “What’s wrong with you? What were you doing back there?”
“There’s a weird man in that room! He tried to grab me!”
Clayton felt a blade of shame slice through him, a familiar cut.
“What on earth are you talking about?” the male voice demanded.
“There’s a weird man back there!” the boy said again, less fearful, more insistent this time.
“He’s my son,” Daed said. “He’s not weird; but he was just injured as a child. That’s all. Clayton, come on out.”
That’s all. Instead of doing as his father asked, Clayton backed up against the wall, away from the curtain, and tipped his head back on the window glass.
“Oh,” the woman replied, pity replacing her earlier concern. “That’s too bad.”
“He tried to grab me!” the boy said again.
One of the other children, a girl, whined that she wanted to go back to the hotel.
“I’m sure he did not try to grab you, son,” Daed replied. “Clayton!”
Seconds of silence.
Clayton finally limped toward the curtain, pulled it aside, and stood in the doorway facing six sets of Englisch eyes. “The child startled me,” he said. “He fell. I was only trying to help him to his feet. He shouldn’t have been back here.”
“Clayton,” Daed said, frowning slightly.
More seconds of awkward silence.
“No. He’s right. Theodore shouldn’t have been back there,” the younger woman finally said, gentle and sincere but with finality in her tone. They would be leaving without buying anything, Clayton was sure of that. “Well, then,” she continued. “Thanks for showing us your clocks. They’re very lovely.”
“I was only trying to help the boy to his feet,” Clayton repeated.
“Of course you were. Thanks.” The man moved toward the front door and the others followed him. The family stepped outside.
Clayton and his father watched through the glass as the car doors were opened and shut and the people drove away.
“He shouldn’t have been in the back room. I didn’t see that boy. I nearly fell over him and brought down a clock,” Clayton said defensively.
Daed took a minute to respond. “It’s all right. They weren’t going to buy anything, son. I think they were just looking. Why don’t you go on up to the barn and start on the chores.”
When Clayton hesitated, his father smiled gently at him. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep in mind what I’m always telling you. That even though something is true, you don’t need to say it. You were right that he shouldn’t have been back there, but you didn’t have to speak so harshly. You didn’t have to say it at all.”
From his position in the doorway, Clayton was half in the shop and half in the back room. He turned his head to view the pasture on the other side of the window. Miriam was no longer in sight.
His father was at the curtain now, standing right beside him. “Did you hear me?”
“Ya. I heard you.” Clayton made no move to leave the shop.
Daed was silent for several seconds. “Go on, then. Get the chores done so that you can get me back to the house before the sun goes down. Don’t forget that Joan and Maisie and their families are coming over for supper tonight.”
At the sound of his sisters’ names, Clayton turned to face his father. He knew what this was about, but he didn’t want any part of it.
“Why do you insist on talking about this stuff?” Clayton asked, his heart heavy.
“We have to plan for the inevitable. You’ll need some help around here when I’m gone, son.”
“I can handle things.”
His father shook his head. “The shop and the animals and the house are too much for one person.”
“I have Mamm.”
“You’ll need more than just her. And you know her asthma makes it hard for her to help with the barn chores.”
Clayton wanted to reply that he most certainly did not need more help than just Mamm. But he knew his daed had been thinking about this for a while, ever since his diagnosis of heart failure. Now it seemed he’d come up with a solution, one that involved the whole family. One that Clayton didn’t want to hear.
“Do we have to do this?” he murmured, already picturing the peaceful silence of the evening being shattered by the chaos and noise of Maisie’s and Joan’s combined brood of eleven children.
But Daed had started to walk away and hadn’t heard him.
Clayton limped to the back door of the shop, reached for his straw hat on the peg, and stepped outside into the chilly March afternoon.
ELEVEN
Clayton hobbled up the dirt path from shop to homestead with his hands in his pockets, pondering how to convince Daed he didn’t need Maisie or Joan at the shop once the man’s weak heart finally stopped beating. It wasn’t that Clayton didn’t get along with his older sisters—he got along fine with all six of them—but he just didn’t like the ceaseless chatter when they were around, the constant fixing and straightening, the hovering over him as though he were still a wounded child, and the endless interfering, no matter how well-intentioned.
He didn’t want that kind of attention once Daed was gone. It would be hard enough getting used to working alone in the shop without Maisie and Joan smothering him with far too much consideration. Clayton had been working in his father’s shop since he was a child. Daed had taught him everything he knew about making clocks, and while they didn’t say much to each other during the hours they were there, he had always felt a keen sense of camaraderie with his father no sister could replace. Nor could Mamm.
He was willing to concede he might need help with the barn
chores, but not in the shop—and especially not Maisie, with her overpowering ways and need to correct everything he did. That was not going to happen. Maisie was tolerable only in small doses.
As Clayton trudged up the hill, he decided he would calmly listen to whatever plan Daed had come up with. He would give the appearance of thoughtfully considering it. He’d thank his father for thinking ahead. He’d thank his sisters for coming out for supper. But when the day came when Daed was gone, the shop would be his to run. He would do so alone, and if it turned out to be too much for him, he would be the one to decide who could come in and share the workload with him.
There was only one problem with that plan, and the thought of it made him sigh. If he manned the shop by himself, he would have no choice but to take down the curtain. It had been his idea to begin with, placed there so that when out-of-towners came he could stay out of sight and save them the distress of having to look at him—not to mention save himself from having to put up with their questions and stares.
As he pictured yanking the old quilt off its rings, Clayton knew that if he chose to work alone, he could no longer hide from others. He’d just have to make more of an attempt to be pleasant and cordial when someone he didn’t know came into the shop or when little kids didn’t stay where they were supposed to or when curiosity got the best of people and they simply had to know why he shuffled around like that. And yes, maybe he would need some help in the shop on Saturdays, especially during the busier summer months. Perhaps one of his quieter nephews, one of the ones just out of eighth grade, such as Maisie’s Titus or Joan’s Obed, would like to learn the clockmaking trade, or at least to earn a few dollars helping to wait on customers.
The Amish Clockmaker Page 9