She sighed heavily.
“Anyway, that’s why I came by, to thank you for the postpartum psychosis information.” She took the reins in her hands, and then she paused and looked at me again. “But I also needed to ask you something. No offense, Matthew, but please stop coming over. You have to quit upsetting my mother. We can’t help you find her brother. I hope you’ll respect that.”
“I do respect your wishes,” I began cautiously, “but before you set that in stone, there’s something I need to tell you too. I have huge news. Really significant information I wanted to share with your mother. I think everything will change once the two of you hear this.”
Becky continued to watch me, the reins tightening in her hands. I removed my hat from my head and held it in my hands.
“Clayton is innocent.”
She looked as if she were about to protest, to tell me once and for all to stay away from her family, to stop mocking their tragedy with my haphazard guesses, but I pushed forward before she could cut me off.
“I tracked down the detective today who was in charge of Clayton’s case. That man is still alive. Do you know why they dropped the charges against your uncle?”
“Insufficient evidence.”
“No. They dropped the charges because there was a witness. A man came forward who saw the whole thing as it happened.”
Becky’s eyes narrowed skeptically, but she didn’t interrupt so I kept going.
“The thing is, the witness was willing to talk to the police, but otherwise he insisted on remaining anonymous. That’s why nobody else knows it, but it’s true. The guy saw everything. Clayton did not push Miriam. She fell.” I locked eyes with Becky. “Clayton is innocent.”
She didn’t speak for a long moment. She just stared straight ahead, stunned, the reins she had been holding laying limp in her lap. “The family always hoped that it was so, but no one could say absolutely for sure whether he’d done it or not. When he left town, everybody figured that confirmed his guilt, at least for those in the community.”
“The community excommunicated the guy. No wonder he left town.”
She considered this for a moment. “My family has never stopped praying for him, though. Praying for repentance and reconciliation. Now you tell me there is proof that he was innocent after all.” She paused to soak in that thought. “My onkel really was innocent? Then you’re right. My mother definitely needs to know.”
After a pause, she turned to me again, a flash of something like guilt in her eyes.
“Matthew, there’s something I have to show you. It’s at the house. Maybe you should come over.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ll leave as soon as I lock up here.”
“Can you give us an hour? I need to break this news to my mother.” Her voice grew faint, almost weary. “I just don’t know how she’s going to take it. She’ll be thrilled, of course, but also… ”
She didn’t have to finish that thought. I understood. But a part of me feared that if Joan reacted poorly to the news about Clayton, then Becky might change her mind and once again send me away empty handed. I couldn’t risk that this time, not if there was something she needed to show me, something that would help me find Clayton at last.
“What is it you want me to see? I just want to know before I come.”
She hesitated, that flash of guilt returning now in full. “My mother actually has heard from Clayton over the years. Just a few times, mind you, and not in a long while. But now and then he would send her a letter. She saved them all.”
“The envelopes too?”
She smiled slightly. “Ya. The envelopes too.”
“And they have a return address on them?” I asked, hope surging in my chest.
“Sort of. There’s a post office box, not a street address. A town up in the Poconos.”
“That’s better than nothing,” I said, thankful for any bit of information at all. Even just knowing the town made me that much closer to finding him.
Becky turned from me, her eyes searching the distance. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just… I didn’t… ”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
She looked at me again. “You can read those letters when you come. They might help you narrow things down better.”
“That would be an honor. I’ll be over in an hour.”
She gave a somber nod in reply, and then she was gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
Becky was bringing in clothes off the line as I once again drove my buggy into her farmyard. Chickens scattered at my approach, and a pair of golden-haired little girls walking a baby goat on a lead rope laughed as the goat tried to chase them. Probably two more of Joan’s great-grandchildren. As I tied up my horse to the hitching rail, Becky walked toward me.
“Mamm’s out on the back porch,” she said, as she brushed a few wisps away from her brow. “Come on. I’ll take you.”
I followed her around the side of the house to the ample porch that looked out over the Helmuth acreage and hundreds of grazing and bleating goats. Joan sat dozing in a rocker with a lap blanket over her knees. An embroidery hoop with a half-finished project rested on the table beside her, along with a small stack of yellowed envelopes poking out from underneath.
Becky laid a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Matthew Zook is here, Mamm.”
The older woman lifted her head and slowly opened her eyes.
“What?”
“Matthew Zook. He’s here.”
Joan looked over at me in obvious consternation. Whoever I was, I had disturbed her nap. But then she seemed to remember who I was and why I had been invited out.
“You’ve come about Clayton,” she said, still frowning at me, but with less you’ve-interrupted-my-nap rancor.
“Ya.”
“He’s come about the letters, Mamm. Remember? We have those old letters of Clayton’s?”
Joan turned to face her daughter, looking as cross at her own flesh and blood as she had at me. “Letters?”
Becky pointed to the little pile of envelopes on the table beside her mother. “Those letters. Remember?”
The old woman swiveled her head to look. “Oh. Those.” Her features softened as she stared at the envelopes.
“Matthew’s the one who told me that Onkel Clayton was innocent. He said the police detective told him there was a witness who saw the whole thing. And that it was definitely an accident.”
Joan closed her eyes, and I could see she was overwhelmed with emotion, a mix of sadness and guilt and regret. Then she opened her eyes and tipped her head back to study my face. “I know you now. You live in my old house.”
I nodded. “I do. I grew up there.”
“And you know where Clayton is?” Her tone was so hopeful.
“I don’t yet. But I’m trying to find him.”
“That’s why he needs to read the letters, Mamm,” Becky said.
Joan turned her head toward the table again and reached out a bony, shaking hand that was mottled with age spots. She wrapped her fingers around the envelopes and lifted them. Then she swung her arm around. “Sit right here, young man. By me.”
Becky nodded to a wooden ladder-back chair that was just a few feet away. I pulled it close to the old woman and sat. Becky leaned comfortably against the porch post and folded her arms across her chest.
Joan thrust the five envelopes toward me. The return address was for a post office box in Mountain Gap, Pennsylvania. I had no idea where that was, but I was sure I could find out.
“Read them in order,” Joan instructed. “And speak up. I don’t hear so well anymore.”
“I read them to you yesterday, Mamm,” Becky interjected.
“Well, I don’t remember yesterday.”
I hadn’t expected that I would read them aloud, but it didn’t seem to matter one way or the other. “I don’t mind,” I said.
The letters were postmarked March 1956, April 1956, August 1960, January 1973, and November 2001. I sorted
them in order and then set down all but the oldest one. I opened its flap and gently removed the yellowed, fragile paper inside it. I began to read.
March 21, 1956
Dear Joanie,
I hope it is okay that I write. I thought someone should know where I ended up and that I am fine. Saw in the Budget that the home place was sold to a family that will do something good with it. The Zooks sound like nice people. There hasn’t been a local tack and feed shop in a while, and I’m glad they are opening one. Hope you and the others are well.
As for me, I am in a town up in the Poconos, not far from Palmerton, where I have been taken in by a pastor and his family. (You will be happy to know that.) The church is called Mountain Gap Fellowship. As it is a Plain church, we’ve much in common faith-wise. They aren’t Amish, of course, but I suppose I am not Amish anymore either, though I still feel like it most of the time. Pastor Gunderson, his family, and his church have been very kind to me. They know what the newspapers have said about me, but they believe me. I don’t write that to make you feel bad. I just want you to know I am welcome here. He is a very good man. He reminds me of Daed.
I’ve said this a hundred times, I know, but Miriam’s falling was an accident, Joanie. I didn’t push her. I saw that she was too close to the edge and reached out to catch her but I couldn’t. I did not push her.
I know this has been hard for Mamm. It’s been hard for all of you.
I hope you will not think me forsaken by God. He has been watching over me.
Give Mamm my love.
Clayton
April 30, 1956
Dear Joanie,
I got your letter and I understand. Whatever Maisie thinks is best for Mamm. The last thing I want to do is make this harder for her.
People in the church are bringing me their broken clocks to fix. And Pastor Gunderson wants me to make him a clock for his study. He helps me get the right tools at auctions and such. It feels good to work again. I just wanted you to know that. Maybe you could tell Mamm for me, if you think it would be all right. If not, then don’t.
I still think I did what was best, even though it means I’m away from you all. If I was wrong for leaving, I pray God will overlook my ignorance. In my heart I wanted to do right by the family.
Your brother,
Clayton
P.S. If you ever want to write me now and again, you can. Unless you tell me to, I won’t make trouble for you by writing you back. I don’t want to cause problems with the bishop or the church (or Maisie).
August 12, 1960
Dear Joanie,
God bless you for writing me to tell me of Mamm’s death.
I am sorry it has taken me two months to thank you for letting me know. It’s been hard. I hope and pray she did not suffer and that she was able to fully forgive me for all my wrongs.
We can be done now, you and I, if it will be easier for you to let me go.
You have been a true sister, Joanie.
Clayton
January 14, 1973
Dear Joanie,
I saw in the Budget about Maisie’s passing. Very sad news, but especially for you as the two of you were always very close. Hope you are doing well otherwise.
I’m still here in Mountain Gap and things are fine, though there have been some changes since I last wrote. I work for a local merchant, doing small mechanical repairs. We don’t get in many clocks, so I’ve had to expand into watches and music boxes and portable kitchen appliances and such. I’ll always love clockmaking—and I still do it on the side—but doing it full time made me miss Daed so much, and Miriam too, that it’s actually easier this way.
Money-wise, I’m getting by, not that I need much anyway. I still live Plain for the most part. God provided a home for me through a fellow church member, where I do have electricity. But I’ve found most other Englisch things unnecessary. Telephones, cars, new clothes, and the like.
My church community here is still very supportive. I’ve learned over the years that if you lose a family, somehow God finds a way to make you a new one if you let Him.
I miss home. And you. These days my biggest heartache is to know that when I, too, pass on, I won’t be buried with family, at Miriam’s side, but off in another part of the state, in a cemetery that is not Amish.
Otherwise, I am happy enough. Hope you are too.
No need to write back.
Clayton
August 14, 2001
Dear Joanie,
It’s been a few years since I last wrote. I was thinking of you this week and wanted to say Happy 80th Birthday. I wonder if your family will be throwing you a party. Hope you are well.
Saw in the Budget a few years ago about Solomon’s passing. I’m so sorry. I know he was a good husband to you.
As always, no need to write back. Just wanted to send birthday wishes your way.
Your brother,
Clayton
When I finished reading the last letter, a heavy silence fell across the three of us. Joan was looking out onto the horizon, and Becky was staring at the ancient papers in my hands. When I placed the fifth letter back in its envelope, Joan filled the wordless void with a heavy sigh. Unsure of what to do with Clayton’s letters, I was grateful when Becky leaned forward and held out her hand for them. She set them back on the table as Joan watched.
“I only wrote twice, after his first letter,” Joan said, not looking at either one of us. “Other than that, our communications over the years were strictly one-way.” She had a distant look in her eyes. “I should have written to him. I thought about sending Clayton a note for his eightieth birthday, as he had done for mine, but with the church and everything, well, contact had to be limited, you know.”
I wanted to say the right words, to comfort her in her grief. But a tightness took hold of my chest. Despite the excommunication, the man was never shunned. Joan would likely have been allowed to write to her brother, especially if it were used as an opportunity to try to bring him back into the fold. Her words now were just an excuse, one she told herself to make her feel better about not writing. The truth was, she hadn’t kept in touch all those years because she thought he had killed his wife and gotten away with it.
I felt a surge of anger toward her, but as I watched her now, tears streaming from her eyes, shoulders stooped and hands gnarled and dotted with age, that anger began to melt away. This woman had been trapped for years by grief and prejudice, torn between condemning and believing her baby brother. It wasn’t right, what she had done. But if God could forgive her, I must do the same.
Still, I couldn’t help but think about all the wasted years, Clayton’s unanswered letters that could have been face-to-face encounters, and the family and the community that hadn’t believed him.
If only the clockmaker could turn back the clock.
Becky patted her mamm on the shoulder for comfort and then looked to me. “So, Matthew, what happens now? If you find him, I mean.”
The question wasn’t hard for me to answer. “I’m going to give him his clock, explain about the property issue, and ask him if he would be willing to sign the quitclaim deed. If necessary, I’ll pay him for the land. Of course, I’ll tell him the whole truth, about how the resort people are also looking for him and that they could offer him much more money than I can. But I’m hoping he’ll sign with me. It’s what his mother intended, you know?”
“When you see him, will you tell him I love him?” Joan asked in the most lucid tone I had yet to hear from her.
“Yes, ma’am. I’d be happy to.”
“And ask him if—” She paused, her eyes filling with fresh tears. “If he might find some way… to forgive me.” Her voice broke and she again turned away, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Leaning toward her, one hand on her bony arm, I assured her I would tell him that as well when I saw him. She gave no reply, and I knew there wasn’t much else I could do for her. I looked to Becky, and her eyes met mine. It was time for me to go.
We walked in silence a few paces.
“You thought Clayton was innocent all along, didn’t you?” she asked once we’d rounded the corner, her voice sounding sad and lost.
“I guess I did. Though I can’t say why. Just a feeling.”
“A feeling,” she echoed.
“Maybe it’s because I was on the outside looking in that I saw it the way I did,” I offered. “He’s not my blood relative, but he was once a member of this community that I love. He grew up in the bedroom that eventually became mine. He used to make clocks in the shop where I now run my business. I feel a strange affinity for him. I always have.”
Becky shot me a glance as we walked. “This has become more to you than just a property dispute.” It was a statement, not a question.
After a beat I nodded, trying to think of how to reply. “Especially now that the truth has been confirmed, I feel that it’s up to me to right this wrong. He really was innocent. People need to know that. And he needs to know that people know that.”
We were now at my buggy.
“You’re a good man, Matthew Zook,” Becky said as I climbed inside it. “Do what you can. And go with God’s blessings.”
THIRTY-SIX
Back at home, I pulled out a map of Pennsylvania and found the town of Mountain Gap. It was in the Poconos, as Clayton had said in his letter, but just barely. It was located at the very beginning of the mountain range, past Blue Mountain and right off of the Northeast Extension. I calculated the mileage and decided it was nearly eighty miles away. Not a cheap trip, by any means, at least not via hired car, especially if I ended up having to stay somewhere up there overnight, all the while racking up costs in food, gasoline, and a hotel. But no train went up that way, and the bus route was so roundabout it turned a two-hour drive into a fifteen-hour journey. I just couldn’t imagine that. Staring at the map, I wondered if I could afford to go there.
The Amish Clockmaker Page 31