Brightest and Best

by Newport, Olivia

  “I can’t imagine you only sneak off to school on Wednesdays,” James said.

  “I’m also getting very fast at running,” David said. “And the English are curious enough that they’ll almost always stop to pick me up if I put my hand out.”

  “I see,” James said. “You are defying your father.”

  “He’s not my father!”

  “He’s your mother’s husband, and you live in his house.”

  “I’m not seven years old.”

  “This is not our way, David.”

  “I’m late.” David pivoted and sprinted down the sidewalk.

  Margaret led her ragtag line of first graders down the rear stairs of the grade school with firm instructions that they hold the railing and watch the feet of the pupil ahead in the line. At the base of the stairs, she directed them to line up quietly outside the music room. As soon as the older students came out, the little ones would go in. And then she would have forty minutes to catch her breath while the music teacher had charge of her class.

  When the last of the first graders straggled into the music room and the teacher clapped her hands for the students’ attention, Margaret raised the hem of her skirt to take the stairs more swiftly. Before the time came to fetch her class again, she wanted the arithmetic lesson to follow to be fully organized, including a set of problems on the board.

  Voices in the upstairs hall startled her.

  “So it turned out high school was too hard for you.” A boy’s voice cracked mid-taunt. “Maybe if you took your hat off, you’d be able to think better.”

  Two other voices laughed. Margaret hustled her upward steps.

  “Look at the big lug,” the first boy said. “He can’t even think what to say.”

  More laughter.

  Margaret entered the upstairs corridor. Why these eighth graders were out of the classroom was unclear, though one of two Amish boys had his hands on a rolling wooden cart stacked with books.

  “I hear they don’t fight,” an English boy said.

  “Let’s find out.” A second boy pulled back his fist and swung at Elijah Mast, hitting him squarely on the jaw. Thrown off balance, Elijah stepped back but made no move to retaliate. Only a few months short of sixteen, he was taller and broader than any of the English boys. Margaret had no doubt he could have put them on their rumps with one swift movement.

  A boot slammed into Elijah’s shin, causing another step back.

  “Stop!” Margaret shouted. She closed the yards between herself and the boys. “This will stop immediately.”

  The English boys cowered at having been caught. Margaret turned to the only one she had not witnessed actively bullying.

  “You go get Mr. Tarkington immediately,” she said. “And be sure you come back with him.”

  Relief and shame mingling in his face, the boy darted down the hall toward the stairs.

  “Are you all right?” Margaret said to Elijah, who had his hand on his jaw now.

  He nodded. The boy with the cart, Luke Borntrager, shuffled his feet.

  “I’m sure Mr. Tarkington will want to speak with both of you,” Margaret said, “but for now why don’t you go back to your class?”

  The cart was in motion within seconds. Margaret was certain Elijah and Luke could ably defend themselves if they had chosen to. She glared at the bullies.

  “Let’s see, you’re taller than your friend. Does that make you better?”

  “No, ma’am,” they mumbled, eyes on their feet.

  “Or does your black hair make you better than his blond hair?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Margaret glared at the boys. “Different is just different. It’s not better or worse. The two of you are old enough to understand that.”

  Mr. Tarkington’s feet thundered up the stairs, followed by the more reluctant steps of the third boy.

  “Down to my office, all three of you,” the principal said. “This is inexcusable.”

  Margaret exhaled relief for the moment.

  “Miss Simpson,” the principal said, “I’ll speak to you later for a full accounting of the facts.”

  He left with the boys. Margaret leaned against the wall. How could the Amish children learn anything if they felt a constant dread of mistreatment? Perhaps their parents were right. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if they had their own school where they could practice their peaceful ways without threat. On the other hand, why should they be removed from sight in order to be safe?

  Margaret would tell Mr. Tarkington what she had seen, but she doubted the boys would face serious consequences. More likely, blame would be laid at the feet of the Amish parents who put their older children back in the eighth grade.

  None of this was fair.

  James took his rig down Lindy’s quiet street and drove to the back of her lot, where her workshop sat behind the small house. With another needless playful warning to the horse, he strode to the workshop door and knocked.

  No answer came. She might be in the house or on an errand of her own, or she simply might not have heard him. James turned the knob. The wide door opened.

  James stifled the impulse to call Lindy’s name. Something was off. Taking care where he stepped, he entered the workshop and softly closed the door behind him. Two drawers from a half-stained dresser lay splintered on the workshop floor. The contents of a tool shelf were clustered on one end. A bucket of blue paint lay on its side, the dense liquid settling into its own irregular shape on the sloping floor.

  James stood still, his ears attuned to a slight noise across the workshop. He saw no one and crept toward it.

  At the last minute his eyes flicked up to the board swinging down toward his head, and he raised an arm to block the stinging blow.

  Someone gasped.

  James turned toward his attacker.

  “Onkel James!”

  James grimaced. First Isaiah Borntrager fell off a ladder and landed on top of James. Now his own niece took a swing at him with a two-by-four. How would he ever explain to Miriam the bruise certain to form on his arm?

  Lindy let the board clatter to the floor.

  “What happened?” James asked.

  Lindy blinked several times. “I went out for a few minutes. When I came back, the door was ajar. I’m sure I closed it when I left.”

  “Did you lock it?”

  She shook her head. “I have too much Amish in me to lock a door, I guess. When I heard someone outside again, I got scared.”

  “Well, it’s just me. I didn’t see anyone else outside.” James picked up the pieces of one of the dresser drawers.

  Lindy groaned. “I’ll have to make all new drawers.”

  “I can help you with that.” James looked around. “Other than the obvious damage, is anything missing?”

  Lindy’s eyes took slow inventory of her workshop, and she let out a cry. “My best carving tools were on that shelf.”

  James put an arm around her shoulder.

  “I had three carved birds ready to sell in the Amish crafts store.” She broke away from him and went to her workbench. “My birdhouse templates! They’re gone!”

  “All of them?”

  “Every single one. I had them out because I was going to cut some pieces today.”

  James righted the paint bucket. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  “The quilt rack!” Lindy said. “I was painting birds on the side pieces for Mrs. Tarkington.”

  “She’ll just have to understand,” James said.

  “I don’t even understand,” Lindy said. “I do just enough work to support myself. My prices are fair. I mind my own business. I’m a quiet neighbor. Why would anybody do this to me?”

  “We should get Deputy Fremont over here,” James said.

  “I have never liked him,” Lindy said.

  James understood. He did not much like Fremont, either, especially after his strong-handed approach to the Amish in recent weeks.

  “I know,” he said,
“but he is the law.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Gideon’s here,” Rachel said the next day, her gaze out the front window.

  Ella sprang to her feet. Gideon’s buggy swayed down the lane toward the house.

  “Tell him the celery is coming along nicely,” Rachel said. “We should have plenty for the wedding.”

  Ella smiled and picked up her shawl. She doubted Gideon cared about the details of the traditional wedding celery, but it was sweet that Rachel was monitoring its progress. Ella stepped out onto the front porch in time to watch Gideon wrap the reins around a fence post and amble in her direction. She would spend her life with this man, loving him, loving his children, loving the boppli they would have together. If God ever smiled, surely He smiled now. The day was golden.

  “Do you have time for a walk?” Gideon asked.

  “Of course.” Ella descended the steps. “Let’s go out to Daed’s fallow field.”

  Once they were away from the house, Gideon took Ella’s hand.

  “I want to ask you about an idea,” he said.

  Gideon might not care about celery, but they had other wedding details to work out. They still had to choose their attendants and finalize the date.

  “Shall we try to see the bishop?” Ella said.

  “I know you want to marry soon,” Gideon said.

  The pressure in Ella’s chest was immediate. “Don’t you?”

  “Maybe we should let others go first. After all, we’ll have our whole lives.”

  Ella said nothing but kept walking. Obviously she did not know Gideon’s mind as well as she thought.

  He squeezed her fingers. “We will find the right date. I am not having doubts.”

  “Then what?”

  “I would like to see the school question settled first—or at least take myself out of the crux of it.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “First I have to do what I think is best for my own children. I want you to teach my daughters at home.”

  “I heard about what happened to Elijah Mast,” Ella said. “But nothing like that is going to happen to Gertie and Savilla.”

  “I pray not,” Gideon said.

  “They like school and have made friends.”

  He nodded. “I am not going to give up with the school board. If other children hear their parents talking at home about the Amish ‘problem,’ as they like to call us, how can we know what might happen? It’s my duty as their father to keep them safe.”

  “I understand.” Questions flooded Ella’s mind. Would Gideon keep the girls home temporarily? Would he get their lessons from the teachers at the school? Did the girls want to study at home? Why did he think she knew the first thing about making lesson plans or what a first grader and a fourth grader ought to be learning?

  “Besides,” Gideon said, “I am not comfortable having them in the English school. They will be attracted to English ways.”

  “But you teach them our ways at home,” Ella said. “They will always know truth.” She banished the image of David’s rebellion rising in her mind.

  They walked a few yards in silence.

  “Do you have hesitations about teaching them?” Gideon asked.

  “I don’t know very much about teaching.” The intrigue of teaching collided with the reasons Gideon asked it of her.

  “But you understand a great deal about learning,” he countered. “You are more than capable of teaching them to read and do basic math and enough history to know where they come from.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “If you are going to be their mother—and I hope they will see you that way—then it is fitting that they learn from you.”

  “But what about the laws?” Ella said. “You’ve already been warned to put Tobias in school.”

  Gideon shrugged. “I didn’t do it, and nothing happened.”

  “You may be asking for trouble by taking the girls out.”

  “I made our case with the school board that the Amish can teach our own children. We need to show this is true. If they are watching me, that’s all the more reason I need your help.”

  Ella moistened her lips. “Can I think about it?”

  As much as she loved learning, Ella had never seriously considered teaching. Why should she? The one-room school always had an English teacher—and not one who had been out of school for twelve years.

  “Prayerfully consider it,” Gideon said. “I won’t say anything to the girls until we’re sure.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Mmm?” Margaret lifted her eyes to Gray’s face across the table at the modest restaurant on Main Street.

  “I was saying what a fine September we’ve had,” Gray said. “I suppose October will bring a change in the weather.”

  “Yes.” Margaret turned up the corners of her mouth. “I believe October is my favorite month of the year.”

  “I’ll take note.”

  They were seated at a table near the window for an early supper, before darkness fell. Margaret could not quite see well enough from this distance to discern the two figures across the street.

  “Margaret.”

  Gray’s voice recaptured her gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say?”

  “You’ve barely looked at the menu. Shall I order for you?”

  Margaret dropped her eyes to the printed sheet in front of her. “Yes, please. I’m sure it’s all delicious.”

  “You seem quite distracted,” Gray said. “If you’re not feeling well, I’ll take you home.”

  “I feel fine,” she said, resolving to pay better attention. “Quite hungry, actually.”

  “Would you like to tell me what’s on your mind? It might help to talk about it.”

  She looked out the window again. “One of the pupils in Miss Hunter’s class has missed more than a week of school due to illness. In fact, she’s missed more school than she’s attended this year so far. We’re all starting to be concerned.”

  “I would think so. That’s a long time for a child to be ill.”

  “The odd thing is, I’m fairly certain that’s her across the street with her father.”

  Gray turned his head. “Where? I don’t see anybody but that Amish man and his buggy.”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “How can you be sure? They all look alike.”

  Objection rang in Margaret’s ears, but she said nothing. A girl in a dark gray dress began to skip, only to be reprimanded with one gesture from her father.

  “She doesn’t look sick to me,” Gray said.

  Nor to me.

  Gray laughed with abandon.

  “What’s so funny?” Margaret said.

  “That Amish man is lying to the school authorities.”

  “Let’s not jump to judgments,” Margaret said. Perhaps the girl had been sick and was now recovering. Her parents might be keeping her home as a precautionary measure. Across the street, the girl climbed into the buggy—without assistance—and disappeared into its dark interior.

  “You can see with your own eyes,” Gray said. “That child is fine. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be in school tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday. They may decide to let her finish out the week resting at home and start fresh on Monday.”

  “Or it may be a ruse.”

  The horse began to pull the buggy away from the curb.

  “Let’s not let the Amish problem come between us,” Gray said. “Let’s enjoy our baked fish and roasted red potatoes.”

  Amish problem. Margaret bristled at the phrase, although Gray was not the first person in town to use it. Still, it soured her stomach to think that he would adopt it. These were children. They were not a problem.

  “Of course,” she said. “That sounds delicious.”

  His features crinkled with his smile, his eyes dancing as he looked at her. Margaret wasn’t sure any man’s gaze had ever warmed her at the core the way Gray Truesdale’s
did. The disadvantage of not asking him to take her home right then was the interminable wait for his lips to find hers before the night was over.

  Monday was art day. As the fourth week of school opened, Margaret selected art supplies from the cupboard in the downstairs corridor, arranged them in a basket, and carried them up to her classroom. This would be the first real art project of the year, other than some simple coloring with Crayolas. Up until now, Margaret focused on introducing a solid curriculum of reading and arithmetic as she assessed each pupil’s ability. The children had been working hard for three weeks. They deserved to spend the last hour of the day exploring what they could do with charcoal pencils on thick paper. Art was required in the consolidated curriculum, and Margaret was determined to demonstrate its value to dubious parents.

  When the primers were stowed and the oil cloths draped over desktops, Margaret held up one of the hand mirrors she had brought from home.

  “Take turns with the mirrors,” she said. “You can hold them for one another. Draw what you see in the mirror. It’s called a ‘self-portrait of the artist.’”

  Margaret’s expectations were appropriately low for what the completed projects would look like. She was more interested in observing the process of the children’s efforts. They were only first graders, after all, and it was only the beginning of the school year. Most of them still struggled to control their thick pencils even to form the letters of their names.

  Around the classroom, giggles and groans, jubilation and frustration greeted Margaret. She walked up and down the aisles, complimenting the effort her pupils made and touching their shoulders in encouragement. Lopsided eyes, uneven ears, disproportionate noses, oddly shaped faces—whatever the result, Margaret buoyed her students in the process of looking carefully and moving the charcoal with control.

  She reached Gertie Wittmer’s desk beside Hans Byler. Hans’s project looked like most of the others around the room.

  “I can’t do this,” he said.

  “All I ask is that you try,” Margaret said.

  “But mine doesn’t look like Gertie’s.”

  “Why should it? You don’t look like Gertie.”