Clayton grieved the loss as well, though he tried not to burden Miriam with his darker moments. Instead, he took those to God, who blessed him in return with much peace amid the pain. By the end of October, the autumn leaves were at their peak, a sight Clayton had always loved. Each time he noticed them now, he reminded himself of the constancy of the seasons, of how fall gave way to winter and then back around to spring.
Once or twice as he hobbled down the hill toward the shop, bundled in his dark coat against the rain, he thought about his unfinished gazebo on the far side of the building, about the concrete that had cured more than enough now to be built upon. A part of him wanted to keep going with the structure and get it finished, but a bigger part felt oddly reluctant. In the end, he decided he would wait and get back to it once Miriam was well again. The days were colder and shorter now anyway. It was a project best revisited in the spring.
Even Mamm seemed subdued and saddened these days, though Clayton suspected there was more than a little guilt wrapped up in her grief. She really had behaved poorly to Miriam before, but at least she seemed to be making up for it now.
Once word got around about what had happened, as they all knew it inevitably would, community members responded by reaching out to them as well. At first Miriam welcomed those who stopped by with food, accepted invitations to the occasional outing, and even returned to worship services. Clayton was relieved, glad to see that love and grace and fellowship were helping both of them get through the hard days.
Or so he thought.
About a month later, there was a change in Miriam. Suddenly, rather than finding comfort in her community, she began to withdraw from it instead. She canceled plans, refused to make new ones, and once even closed the door in a startled visitor’s face. Out of the blue, she wanted nothing to do with anyone anymore, not even her own parents. Not even him.
Though physically she seemed recovered, Clayton knew something was definitely wrong. Her emotions vacillated from snappy and churlish one minute to detached and carefree the next. Yet even her calm times were odd. A strange look would come into her eyes, and she was easily agitated and overwhelmed.
As Clayton’s concern for her grew, he knew he needed to do something, but he had no idea what. When he awoke on an unseasonably warm Tuesday in November, he made the impulsive decision to close the shop for the afternoon and take Miriam out for a buggy ride. Maybe it was the shorter days that were getting to her and all she needed was a little fresh air and sunshine.
Not surprisingly, she resisted his idea at first. No, she didn’t need to get out. No, she didn’t want to see any of their friends. No, she didn’t want to go shopping or hiking or on a picnic. She just wanted to be left alone.
Clayton finally managed to talk her into a brief ride for an ice-cream cone, but only if they went all the way down in Strasburg, she said, where they were less likely to run into anyone they knew. As he helped her on with her sweater, he glanced over at Mamm, who was at the stove stirring a big pot and had heard their exchange. He expected her to give him her familiar look, the one that said Miriam wasn’t being a proper wife. Instead, all he saw on his mother’s features was concern. She was as worried about Miriam as he was.
A few days later, Miriam chose not to get out of bed—and ended up staying there for more than a week.
“A woman needs time to recover from her child’s death,” Mamm told Clayton when they talked about it, a response he found condescending.
Of course he knew that, and he was prepared to give Miriam as much time as she needed. He just wanted to make sure she was okay.
As the days continued to grow progressively shorter, not only did Miriam sleep far too much, she nearly stopped eating and drinking. Fearing there was something more serious going on than just grief, Clayton finally insisted on contacting the doctor. The man made a house call that very night, but after a thorough examination, he announced that Miriam’s body was perfectly healthy.
Outside, at the car, he was more forthcoming with Clayton, explaining that this was not a physical issue, but that sometimes grief affected people in odd ways and she just needed a little more time.
Clayton thanked him for his help, and over the coming days he tried to keep the man’s words in mind. But it was hard to do so when his wife stopped eating almost entirely. When she refused to dress or bathe. When her face grew devoid of almost all expression and she would just stare blankly for hours.
One night she surprised him by having a full piece of toast and almost an entire bowl of chicken-and-rice soup. As he carried the empty dishes back down to the kitchen from the bedroom, he allowed himself to feel a small spark of hope. Perhaps she was finally getting better.
Mamm noticed the change in appetite as well, so each day following she tried to make the evening meals progressively heartier. On the night supper consisted of baked ham, pole beans, and corn bread, Clayton went upstairs to speak to Miriam, hoping to convince her to come down and eat with them at the table instead of in bed alone.
He stepped into the room, expecting her to be sitting up in bed as she had been for the past few nights. But his heart sank when he spotted Miriam, lying down with her head fully covered by the blankets. As he knelt next to her and pulled the covers aside, she turned toward his movement. Her eyes were open, but it was as if they weren’t really seeing.
Clayton was devastated.
“Miriam?” He placed a hand on her arm and gave it a gentle shake. “Please, Miriam. You were doing so well.”
When she didn’t respond, he simply laid his head on the pillow beside hers, tears welling in his eyes. “Please come back to me,” he whispered.
After a long moment, she finally responded, her voice soft but hoarse. “Clayton.”
His head jerked up. “Ya? Are you okay? What is it?”
She stared at him, and he could almost see her eyes slowly bringing him into focus. “I’m sorry.”
He frowned. “Sorry? For what? Don’t be sorry.”
She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I am, though. I’m so very sorry you married me,” she said dully.
Miriam’s words hit him in the chest like a hammer. Clayton struggled to stand, and she was saying something else as he hobbled from the room, but he couldn’t hear a sound beyond a roaring in his ears. He stumbled down the stairs and out the front door, the cold November wind blasting his face.
All this time he had been hoping that she was slowly learning to love him, and it turned out that Miriam was sorry they’d ever gotten married at all.
He lumbered across the yard away from the house without a coat, ignoring his mother’s calls from the doorway. When he reached the barn, he went inside, retrieved the horse, and hitched him to the buggy.
By the time Clayton got to Uriah’s house, his lips were blue and his body was trembling violently. Uriah took one look at him and pulled him inside, wrapping him with blankets and seating him next to the fire as he instructed his wife to heat up soup and coffee.
When she brought both, Clayton couldn’t taste a thing but he ate and drank as instructed, like an obedient child. At some point, the mug and the bowl were taken away. The children were ushered from the room. The bishop’s wife disappeared and the two men remained alone.
Uriah turned his kind eyes upon Clayton. “What troubles you, brother?”
Clayton wasn’t sure how to say what he’d come to ask. Finally, he summoned his nerve and blurted it out.
“I want to know where the church stands on annulment.”
Once the words were spoken, Clayton looked away, not wanting to see the shock in Uriah’s face.
The man didn’t respond at first. Instead, he stood to get more wood, set it on the fire, and poked it until the flames crackled with intensity. He sat again. When Clayton gained the nerve to look up, he saw that his bishop was neither angry nor horrified.
He was sad.
“Why would you want your marriage annulled?” Uriah’s tone wasn’t accusing. It was empathetic
.
Clayton ran his hand through his hair, fumbling for the words. “It’s not for me. It’s for Miriam. She… she’s sorry she married me. Sorry any of it ever happened.”
Uriah nodded but did not reply, so Clayton continued.
“I don’t know how to explain this, but it’s like she’s dying of grief. She hasn’t been the same since she lost the baby. Maybe if she can be freed from our commitment, she can finally begin to recover again. To find a new life. To be happy.” Tears burned Clayton’s eyes as he admitted the full extent of his shame. “The marriage has yet to be consummated, if that makes a difference.”
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.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Hours 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 ju
st 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.
The Amish Clockmaker Page 24