“Get away from me!”
“Everything okay?”
Clayton turned to see a familiar face, a manager of one of the stores along the strip, peering up at him. All Clayton wanted was get Miriam home and away from these people. They didn’t know her. They didn’t love her. “We’ll be fine, thanks,” he struggled to say. “My wife is… she’s not been well.”
The man looked uncertain, as if trying to assess the situation, but then Mamm returned with Norman in tow, so he stepped aside. Miriam’s daed was about to come up and join them when the bus driver decided to take matters into his own hands.
“Excuse me, sir!” he barked, and when Norman turned, the man pushed past him and climbed on to the bus.
A heavyset fellow with a starched blue uniform and bright red cheeks, the driver looked from Clayton to Miriam and then leaned forward to speak directly to her.
“Ma’am, this has gone on long enough. You don’t have a ticket to ride this coach.”
Miriam startled a bit and then looked down at the money in her hands. “I can buy a ticket.”
“This is a private tour. I’m afraid you’ll need to get off. Now.”
When she made no move at all, Clayton again tried to grasp her hand. “Let’s go, Miriam.”
Her chest began to heave with anger, frustration, and unshed tears that now rimmed her eyes.
The next instant she bolted from the seat and shoved her way past Clayton and the driver.
“Leave me alone!” she yelled, nearly knocking over her own father in her haste as she pushed through the doorway and seemed to move in the general direction of home.
Clayton struggled to get off the bus as quickly as he could. By the time he reached the pavement and broke free from the throng, he saw that his wife was just about to round the corner ahead of him.
“Miriam!”
She stopped, whirled around, and stared at Clayton for a long, tense moment. The snow that had been falling in a gentle flurry was starting to intensify, as though it wished to cover the ugly confrontation with grace and beauty. Miriam seemed to notice for the first time that the crowd included people she knew and who knew her. Her eyes went to Clayton’s mother and then to her own father, both of whom had moved forward and were now flanking Clayton on each side. Her eyes returned to her husband.
“I know what you’re thinking, Clayton!” she yelled. “You wish you had never married me! You hated my baby! You wanted her to die!”
There was a collective gasp, the loudest of all from Clayton himself.
As Miriam spun around and kept going, he needed to call after her, but the words seem to stick in his throat. The astonished people, with snow dotting their shoulders and heads, murmured to one another, and someone asked if perhaps the police should be summoned. Norman charged after his daughter, and by the time Clayton caught up with them, they were at the base of the driveway. Clayton cupped Miriam’s elbow with his hand and gave it a tug. “Let’s go home. Now.”
Miriam cried out as if he’d struck her. Jerking away, she moved backward, flailing her arms at her sides, as if to demand some room.
Torn between fury and heartbreak, Clayton watched as myriad emotions passed across her face. Then, finally, her shoulders slumped and she sank to her knees in the quickly accumulating snow. A cry of anguish erupted from her throat.
“What is it, Miriam?” His mother pushed past Clayton and Norman and knelt down. She spoke in a clipped tone, one that told Clayton she also, was struggling between anger and sorrow.
“What’s wrong, Miriam?” she repeated. “Why are you acting this way? How could you say such things to Clayton?”
But Miriam only rocked back and forth, clutching her empty abdomen as sobs racked her body.
“Let me take you home, daughter,” Norman offered, and Miriam only cried harder.
“Her home is with me,” Clayton growled.
“Clayton,” his mother said in warning. But he would hear none of it.
“She’s my wife! I am her husband. Her home is with me!”
Clayton knelt by Miriam and put his arm around her shoulders. To his surprise, she allowed him to pull her to her feet.
“I don’t want it to be like this,” she whispered.
“Like what?” Norman asked, leaning in, with a suspicious eye toward Clayton.
“I don’t know…” her voice trailed away.
“Come, Miriam,” Clayton said, attempting to take a step forward with her, but she didn’t budge.
“Stop it, Clayton. Just stop it!” She shook his arm off her shoulder. “Leave me be. All of you!”
Then she turned from the three of them and hurried up the drive, slipping twice in the gathering snow. When she reached the dividing point where one direction led toward the Beiler house and the other to the Rabers’, she hesitated.
A few seconds later she turned and went into the barn.
Clayton started to follow, but Mamm reached out and stopped him. He swung around angrily.
“What?” he roared.
For a moment the woman looked terrified, as though she thought he might strike her in his rage.
“What, Mamm?” he said again, not quite as loudly this time.
“Do what she asked. Just let her be for a bit,” his mother said, her eyes bright with alarm. He realized she was actually afraid of him, of what he might do. Of how angry he was in that moment.
Maybe because he’d never been as angry as he was in that moment.
He tried to calm himself, but it was impossible, especially when he looked at his father-in-law. The grief etched on Norman’s face made it obvious he wished he’d never asked Clayton to marry his daughter.
Clayton had never felt so alone in his life. A cry of utter frustration was boiling up inside him, and if he didn’t let it out, he would explode. Leaving the two of them there, he took off as fast as his deformed leg allowed and headed for the house. Because of the snow, he slipped and fell several times on the way but finally managed to make it. Once inside, he continued up the stairs to the bedroom, slammed the door shut, and lowered himself to his knees on the floor by the bed. Reaching for a pillow, he pressed it to his face to absorb the roar of his anguish.
THIRTY
When Clayton’s outburst was finally over, he stayed where he was, on the floor, for a long time. He was spent. Exhausted. Beyond himself.
But he was also in pain, he finally realized, not just in his bad leg but his good one too. He looked down and saw that he had scraped his knees on the gravel on the way up the hill. His pants were torn on both sides, and the skin he glimpsed underneath was bloody and raw.
He didn’t care. He hobbled over to the window seat, collapsed onto the bench, and leaned his head against the glass. What was he going to do?
Across the field, now nearly covered in a blanket of white, sat the Beilers’ house, and as he looked over at it, he saw that several buggies were in the driveway. Great. Gawkers and busybodies who had heard what happened and come to get the scoop from the in-laws, no doubt.
He shifted and closed his eyes against the image of supposedly well-meaning friends and neighbors gobbling up the details of this terrible day.
Clayton knew he needed to check on Miriam. He knew he shouldn’t leave her out there in the cold barn for too long. He knew she could very well run off again the longer he waited.
But for some reason he simply couldn’t move. If God was testing him, or teaching him, he didn’t get it. He had failed. The moment those horrible words had spewed from Miriam’s mouth, he knew he’d failed.
You wish you had never married me. You hated my baby. You wanted her to die.
He thought of that night not so long ago when he’d misunderstood an apology, taking it for regret and going off half-cocked to Uriah’s house, only to learn later what Miriam had really been trying to say. He had made a mistake that time, but there was no mistaking this. She couldn’t have been clearer.
You wish you had never married me.
You hated my baby.
You wanted her to die.
If Miriam honestly thought those things, then not only had he failed as a husband but as a future father. A fellow human being. A Christian. He had tried so hard for so long, but now he knew the truth. In all ways he had failed utterly as a man. For the first time since his father’s death, Clayton almost felt glad that he was gone so that he hadn’t had to witness the shameful scene.
He opened his eyes and shifted again, the cold from outside beginning to permeate through the window to his bones.
Clayton needed to understand. Yes, Miriam was grieving. Yes, her behavior had been alarming lately in numerous ways, but the things she’d said to him out there today went beyond any of that. They had come from her core, from her very soul. She lost a child, and now not only did she blame him for the loss, she had even managed to convince herself that it was what he’d wanted all along.
And now he needed to go to her and somehow get her to come back inside the house with him.
He could hear voices, and he wished he could climb out the window rather than walk down the stairs and run into whoever had come calling. But that wasn’t an option, so he slowly eased himself off the wooden seat and headed for the door.
Mamm was just reaching the top of the stairs as he swung it open, and her eyes widened at the sight of him.
“Are you okay, Clayton? What happened to your pants? Is that blood?”
He had forgotten about the state of his clothes, but what did that really matter now? He motioned for her to come in the room, and then he closed the door behind her so they could speak privately.
“It’s nothing,” he said dismissing her concern. “I need to check on Miriam. She’s probably still in the barn.”
“I think that’s a good idea. I imagine she’s had time to cool off by now.” After a beat she added, “Have you?”
Clayton took in a breath and looked away for a moment. Mamm really had no idea what he and Miriam were going through. No idea at all. “Who’s down there?” he asked, ignoring her question and gesturing in the general direction of the living room.
“Roger and Maisie. And a few friends.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“They’re here to help, Clayton. They care about us, about you.”
“That may be true for Maisie and Roger, but don’t kid yourself about the others.”
“Clayton!”
“I have to check on my wife,” he said gruffly. Then he moved around his mother, opened the bedroom door, and headed down the stairs. He crossed the main room, past the Amish gauntlet, ignoring all of the people gathered there. He yanked open the mudroom door. He shrugged on his coat and grabbed Miriam’s coat too.
He was surprised to see how much snow had already accumulated when he stepped outside. Taking a deep breath, he set off for the barn, careful this time to move more slowly and not lose his balance on the slippery ground.
As soon as he walked through the wide barn doors, he could hear Miriam’s voice. The room was dark and cavernous, so despite the cold outside, he propped one of the two doors partially open for the light, and then he stepped further in and came to a stop, listening. Just as he’d expected, she was up in the hayloft, at the moment singing softly to herself a tune so happy that it couldn’t have been less fitting for this day.
His heart heavier than it had ever been in his life, Clayton crossed over to the ladder and began to climb. Though he didn’t even bother trying to be quiet, she didn’t seem to notice his approaching presence. But then the singing came to a stop, and a voice floated down to him.
“Please go away.”
Miriam sounded less angry than before, though just as adamant.
He ignored her request and kept climbing.
“Go away, Clayton!”
He continued. Just as he topped the ladder he heard a solid thunk. Miriam was at the trunk, wrapped in one of the horse blankets. He realized the sound had been the closing of the lid.
“Go away, Clayton!”
Ignoring her words, he heaved himself onto the loft floor and rose slowly to a standing position.
“I said no! Go away!”
Still ignoring her, he tossed Miriam’s coat to the side and walked across the hay-strewn floor in her direction.
“Don’t come any closer!” Her shouts reverberated against the slanted wooden walls.
“Miriam,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster. “I just want to help you.”
“No, you don’t!” she yelled, angrily. “You’re trying to trick me. You want to take away all my treasures and bury them with my baby!”
He stopped in his tracks, wincing at the mention of the baby in that way, but he could not ignore her comment about her treasures.
Her treasures.
The trunk.
Clayton hadn’t ever come up to the loft to check that those Englisch trinkets were really gone. He’d taken Miriam at her word that she’d gotten rid of them.
How foolish he had been.
He began hobbling forward again, his eyes on the trunk.
“Open it!” he said through clenched teeth.
She looked up at him. “No. Stay where you are!”
“Open it, Miriam!” he commanded, his voice booming in the cavernous room.
“No!”
“Miriam!” he bellowed, undone at the wound she was inflicting. The act of hiding some worthless baubles could not begin to compare with the accusations she’d made against him today. Yet somehow those baubles shone in his mind more brightly than anything else that had happened. They represented all that was wrong—all that had ever been wrong—between them.
After one final step, he lunged at the trunk and threw the lid open himself, his vision so clouded with rage that it took a moment for him to see what was inside.
Nothing.
He sank to his knees, stunned. There was nothing inside. The trunk was empty.
Clayton looked again at Miriam, and only then did it register that she was clutching something and had been since the moment he got there. With a quick glance at the trunk, he knew what it must be. She may have gotten rid of all the other things, but she had kept back one single, undiscarded treasure, something she had been unwilling to part with.
He thrust out his arm, palm upward. “Give it to me, Miriam.”
“No!” She clutched both hands to her chest.
He saw the crazed look in her eyes and in a flash realized he might be wrong. Perhaps she only thought she was holding something. Like the bugs, was this too just a figment of her imagination?
Clayton’s mind raced, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. He had to take a minute, had to consider his next move. What was he going to do? How were they ever going to survive this? How could they possibly move on from this day?
Lord, show me!
And then in an instant, clarity fell across him. Miriam was in desperate need of help. She was sick. Something was wrong, something inside her brain. He didn’t know what it was, but there had to be a doctor out there somewhere who could treat her, maybe someone from the new Mennonite mental hospital over in Mount Gretna. Whatever it took, he would get her the help she needed.
He had to. She was his wife. He would care for her, no matter what came their way, until the day she died, just as he had promised he would. And he would do so with all the love and tenderness and strength the Lord would provide.
That’s how they would move on from this day.
Clayton saw Miriam with fresh eyes as he took in her desperate state, and he knew he would never leave her side, not physically and not emotionally, no matter how dark the situation looked. And she needed to understand that.
“Miriam,” he began, trying to make his voice as calm and gentle and non-threatening as possible.
She shifted, the horse blanket falling from her shoulders, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he continued in the same even tone. “I know what our doctor said about
your condition, but I think he was wrong. I think we need to find you a new doctor, someone who can—”
Suddenly, she sprang to her feet, startling him as she made a mad dash toward the ladder.
Time suddenly stretched to an elongated pace. Clayton saw the next few seconds play out with such blinding accuracy, it was almost as if he was seeing them before they actually happened.
The wildness of her movements. The unknowing miscalculation of her steps. The mere inches of hayloft floor that separated her from the open air and the barn floor below.
She was running too close to the edge.
“Miriam!” he screamed, reaching forward to pull her to safety. But in her terror, she saw him grabbing for her and in response, she jerked away.
Her scream as she fell was one of complete surprise.
His scream as he watched her fall was one of utter horror.
Clayton yelled her name as he hobbled forward and looked over the edge.
His wife lay on the concrete floor below, her neck at an odd angle, her eyes open and unblinking.
“Miriam!” Clayton screamed again.
He continued to scream as he fumbled to descend the ladder, falling when he was nearly down and landing on his shoulder with a crash against the unforgiving ground. From outside the barn door he heard the sound of running feet and yelling. Harsh light fell over him as both doors were flung open wide. People in silhouette were coming inside. Stunned, he crawled to Miriam’s still form, screaming her name, and cutting his palms on the shards of a tiny, broken, porcelain bird that lay in pieces by her open hand.
THIRTY-ONE
Clayton would never be able to recall how he managed to make it through the horrible first days after Miriam’s death. That time would always be a numb blur of formless minutes and hours. He knew he would always remember being forcibly pulled away from her body when others came running and saw her there. He would remember the sound of an approaching siren. He would remember a policeman asking him what had happened prior to Miriam’s fall, if it was true that he and his wife had been fighting. But when a sheet was pulled over her lifeless form and it finally became clear to him that she was gone, Clayton felt as though he had fallen into a dark, cold cave where time did not exist.
The Amish Clockmaker Page 26