“What are you doing here?” he said, shifting his books to the other arm.
“I wondered the same thing about you,” Ella said. “I saw you get in Lindy’s car after school the other day.”
He said nothing, instead starting to walk and peering down the road in hopes of an automobile’s arrival.
“Are you waiting for Lindy now?”
“No.”
“Is she helping you?”
He pressed his lips closed.
“David, this is not right.”
He raised his eyes to meet hers now. “I’m not giving up school.”
“But sneaking around—it’s defiance. It comes from pride.”
David shrugged. “I’m hardly sneaking anymore, am I? Everyone knows. My mamm pretends she doesn’t, but that’s only to make herself feel better.”
Ella blew out her breath.
“Besides,” David said, “as long as I show up at school, I keep Jed out of trouble. They won’t come after him for not enrolling me. I’m doing a good thing.”
“Disobeying his wishes is helping him?” In all the discussions about the new school laws, this was the most convoluted logic Ella had heard. “You can take my horse and go home before anyone realizes you’re gone.”
“I have a math test this morning. I can’t afford another zero in that class because of an absence.”
David waved his hand at an approaching automobile, which slowed. Ella didn’t recognize the driver. Of course, she knew only a few people in Seabury. David showed no hesitation about the process of finding a ride. He leaned in the open car window, exchanged a few sentences with the driver, and got in.
Gideon decided to see for himself. Ella had been the first to tell him about the school Chester Mast was intent on building, but it hadn’t been long before other parents wondered what he thought. At the last church gathering—in the spacious Byler home—Gideon could hardly eat his midday meal without an interruption every two bites from someone seeking his opinion. It was time to ride out and see what Chester was up to. If the construction seemed unrealistic, Gideon would escape forming any opinion at all. On the other hand, if it was progressing in a convincing manner, the existence of a new school building might signal to the school board that Amish families meant business about their children’s education.
Hammers clattered in ragged rhythm, ringing across open land and becoming louder as Gideon approached. He recognized the wagons and teams. Cristof. Isaiah. John. Chester Mast was guiding a boy a year or two older than Tobias to find the right angle before he hammered. Gideon remembered the boy had begun the school year riding the bus with his girls. Gideon would try to remember to ask Savilla later if he still attended school. Isaiah Borntrager was up on a ladder—a more secure one than he had dragged to the shambles of the old school, Gideon was relieved to see. John Hershberger was perched on a high beam making sure a joint aligned perfectly.
“You here to help?” Chester approached Gideon.
Was he? Gideon scanned the scene again and slid off his horse.
“Where do you need help?” Gideon said.
Chester’s curly brown beard shifted as his mouth shaped a grin. “Somebody has to make sure Isaiah doesn’t kill himself up there.”
Gideon nodded. Heights had never bothered him. He rolled up both sleeves as he strode toward the ladder. As he walked, he spied one more wagon he recognized, and its owner was unloading two buckets of nails from the back.
“James,” Gideon said.
James looked up. “You found us.” He set the buckets at his feet.
“I didn’t know you would be here,” Gideon said.
“Just trying to do my part,” James said.
“But building a school?”
“There’s no law says Chester can’t build on his own property,” James said. “We can be ready when the time comes.”
Gideon worked his lips out and in. The only reason his girls were still in the English school was that Ella had not yet decided to take on the challenge of teaching them. He could hardly blame the other fathers for making their own preparations.
“I thought you were going into town with some of those tables Joshua Glick builds,” Gideon said.
“They’re popular at the furniture store.” James nodded toward the load in his wagon. “I’ll be on my way soon.”
“I don’t see Joshua here.”
“Nope. He’s still quoting Romans. Says what we’re doing is rebelling against a God-ordained government.”
Gideon certainly did not feel rebellious. Why would God ask him to hand his innocent little girls over to the English world, where they learned to make graven images and sing frivolous songs? If the school would stick to a simple education, perhaps the brewing conflict could have lost its heat before now. Instead, Gideon saw no way to avoid contentiousness. Perhaps he was a rebel after all.
“Will you check on Lindy while you’re in town?” Gideon asked.
“I may stop in to see the deputy, too,” James said, nodding. “I’m not persuaded he’s even trying to find out what happened at her workshop.”
“Tell Lindy to come for supper one night,” Gideon said. “The children would love to see her.”
“I will.”
James reached into his wagon and extracted a hammer. “If you’re with us, you’re going to need this.”
Gideon grasped the sanded wooden handle. His goal had been to persuade the school district the Amish needed their own school with a teacher who understood their ways. Chester was right to forge ahead. It was an act of faith that God would bless their obedience.
“I’ve spoken with Mr. Brownley.”
Margaret stiffened against her will and met Mr. Tarkington’s eyes. He had come to her classroom door in the middle of the day and asked her to step into the corridor.
“I’m sure you are aware that the Amish problem has not resolved.”
Why did everyone insist on labeling the situation the Amish problem? The Amish were not the ones who changed the unspoken agreement by which everyone had lived side by side for decades.
“First they refused to enroll some of their children,” Mr. Tarkington said. “Then they put some of them back in grade school when they clearly belong in the high school. Now too many of them are absent too often, claiming they are ill.”
“I read in the newspaper that influenza is spreading,” Margaret said. “The soldiers are bringing it home from Europe.”
“Now, Miss Simpson, your tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt is a charming trait,” Mr. Tarkington said, “but we both know that influenza is not ravaging the Amish farms.”
“It might be.”
“We’ve only had three cases in all of Seabury,” he said, “and those were in households where family members had visited Cleveland.”
“The paper says they may close the schools in Cleveland. We should not take it lightly.”
Mr. Tarkington cleared his throat. “Let’s not be distracted from our own matters. Mr. Brownley would appreciate it if you would once again do what you can to gather reliable information.”
“I rather thought I disappointed Mr. Brownley with my previous efforts.”
“Then you shall have a chance to redeem yourself,” the principal said.
“These things take time to sort out,” Margaret said. “We need to find common ground through understanding each other.”
“The sheriff’s office is losing patience.”
“I will see what I can do,” Margaret said, though she had little idea of what that might be. Her meeting with Gideon Wittmer over his daughter’s artwork made plain that the Amish notions about education were more entrenched than she had judged.
Margaret stepped back into her own classroom, where she had left the children reading silently. Her eyes went to Gertie Wittmer and the empty seat next to her. After perfect attendance since the beginning of the year, Hans Byler now had missed two days.
Gertie turned a page. If the girl knew anything abo
ut Hans, or about other students whose attendance was becoming erratic, she showed no sign. The other teachers would allow Margaret to look at their attendance records, which might tell her whether the principal and superintendent were reacting in a more extreme manner than the evidence suggested.
At the end of the school day, Margaret lined up her class and led them out the front door, where some met their parents, others scattered on the street to walk home, and others found their buses. Margaret scanned the flow of students out of the school, looking for patches of black and the rich hues of Amish dyes, and counted. It did seem as if there ought to be more Amish students.
Margaret crossed the pavement to the line of buses and caught the elbow of the oldest Amish student in the school.
“Yes, Miss Simpson?” he said.
“I hope things are well with your family,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And … your neighbors? Is there any sign of influenza?”
“None that I’ve heard of,” the boy said.
“Good.” Margaret glanced around. “I notice some of the children have not been in school. Perhaps some other illness?”
The student shrugged.
“And you?” she said. “Should we discuss with your father returning to the high school?”
“My daed has made his decision. It is not my place to challenge it.”
“I see. So the children who are missing school are simply doing what their fathers have decided?”
The bus engine howled. The boy looked over his shoulder at the idling vehicle.
“Go on,” Margaret said. “Don’t miss your bus on my account.”
CHAPTER 20
Margaret festered all weekend. Even Gray Truesdale’s invitation for a Saturday afternoon stroll did not banish from her mind the Amish dilemma, as she preferred to call it. Even that seemed a harsh word. Conundrum? Mystery?
By Monday, Margaret had resolved to do whatever was within her power.
On Tuesday, she decided to start with the deputy sheriff. If the county sheriff was as impatient as Mr. Tarkington led her to believe, then perhaps reasoning with Deputy Fremont would buy her more time. She gave her pupils one assignment after another to work independently while she scratched arguments and wording onto sheets of paper, crossed out, revised, and finally memorized. As soon as the children were safely dismissed after school, Margaret braced her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked to the local sheriff’s station. If Deputy Fremont would not listen, she would take her car to Chardon the next afternoon and deal with the county sheriff himself.
Deputy Fremont kept Margaret waiting so long she was ready to pound on his desk. By the time she had his attention, she remembered almost nothing of the reasoned arguments she had spent the day preparing and instead blurted out her frustration.
“I will deal with this matter,” she said. “I am here only to ask you to communicate to the sheriff in Chardon that he need only wait with more patience for a favorable outcome.”
Deputy Fremont chuckled as he stood and picked up his jacket from the back of his chair.
“You can’t seriously think we are going to overlook the exceptional level of truancy among the Amish children.”
“I will speak to the fathers and make clear that they must comply with the law,” she said. “The children can come to school while the families make their case within appropriate legal parameters.”
“I have my instructions,” he said.
“And what would those be?” Margaret saw no benefit from the deputy screeching his tires onto Amish farms again with blustering threats.
Deputy Fremont picked up a stack of papers from the corner of his desk. “These are official notices of fines that are the consequences of Amish flagrancy.”
“Amish flagrancy! Can you not see the hyperbole in such a term?”
“I suppose you are entitled to your opinion.” The deputy picked up the crank that would start his automobile. “But frankly, it has no bearing.”
Margaret stood and leaned over the desk. “Are you truly going to inflict fines over a matter that might yet be solved by conversation?”
“The time for conversation is past.”
“The time for conversation is never past.”
He laughed again. “Miss Simpson, you were supposed to help the Amish consolidate. You failed. Now it’s time for me to do my job. I represent the sheriff’s office. My duty is to enforce the law, not to turn my head the other way.”
“I must protest!”
“If you like.” He gripped the papers in one hand. “I have work to do, starting with Mr. Wittmer. I think you were right when you pointed us to him as the most influential of the fathers. If we set an example with him, the others will come in line soon enough.”
Margaret swallowed and composed herself. “Deputy Fremont, perhaps if you and I work together, we could be more effective.”
He shook his head. “I have my orders from the sheriff.”
Deputy Fremont strode past Margaret and into the street, his papers in one hand and his crank in the other.
Margaret trailed after him, but once outside, she turned sharply toward home. She would take her own automobile out to the Amish farms.
She had not counted on finding Gray Truesdale standing on the corner where she needed to turn toward her bungalow. His back was to Margaret, and she halted her steps before he twisted around. If only she could ask for his help. If only she could ask anyone’s help. But right now Margaret could not afford further delay. This was no time for flirting or explanations or wondering if he was going to kiss her.
Gray’s head began to rotate, and then one shoulder dropped.
Margaret pivoted, retraced her steps for half a block, turned down the wrong street, and muttered sincere prayers that Gray would not decide to go to her house—at least not before she could arrive, get her own crank to start her car, and pull away in a direction that would allow her to avoid eye contact. It wasn’t that she meant to deceive him, but only that she had no time to be polite.
Moments later she cranked the engine and put the full weight of her foot on the pedal. There was a reason her uncle had given her this old car, though. It wasn’t fast enough for him, and at the moment, neither was it fast enough for Margaret.
By the time she arrived at the Wittmer farm, Deputy Fremont and Gideon were squared off in front of the barn. Margaret braked with a lurch and leaned against the door, willing it to open smoothly. She groaned when she saw the official yellow form already in Gideon’s hand.
“Deputy, please,” Margaret said, approaching the men.
“I’ve done my duty here,” Fremont said. “I have several other stops to make, and my wife would like to have me home for supper.”
“I refuse to believe we cannot have a reasonable conversation about this matter,” Margaret said.
“Miss Simpson,” Gideon said, creasing the paper, “your assistance is not necessary.”
Heat flushed through her face. “I represent the school in this matter.”
“It’s a matter for the law now,” Fremont said. He shuffled through the remaining papers. “I will move on. Mr. Hershberger’s children haven’t been to school at all. Mr. Borntrager, Mr. Mast, Mr. Byler. Yes, I think I’ve got everyone sorted out.”
Gideon seemed far calmer than Margaret felt.
“I think you’ll find the fine modest,” Fremont said. “I would hate for matters to escalate, so I’ll remind you to take note of the date specified on the form. We’ll need to see all the children properly enrolled and attending regularly by that date. And I stress regularly.”
The deputy marched to his car. Margaret fixed her eyes on Gideon, who disappeared into his barn.
Gideon murmured the “Amen” and closed the Bible. He had chosen to read, “Children, obey your parents” from Ephesians the next morning not to assume a disciplinary posture but as a gentle reminder to his three children that he had their best interests in mind.
“Gert
ie,” Gideon said, “please go check and see if we missed any eggs last night.”
“But I do that after school,” Gertie said, fumbling to tie her kapp under her chin.
“Today I want you to do it this morning.” Gideon looked into Gertie’s eyes, her mother’s eyes, and waited for the protest to pass through the muscles of her face.
Savilla slid off the davenport, her eyes focused on the clock on the mantel. “I’ll get the lunch buckets. Hurry up, Gertie.”
Gideon put the German Bible on the shelf. On most school days, the girls would be six minutes away from leaving for the bus stop. Savilla hated to be late for anything and knew well the consequence for missing the bus.
Tobias stood up. “I noticed the stalls need mucking. Shall I do that today?”
Gideon nodded. “This morning, please. After midday, Aaron King will come to help us get the last of the hay into the loft.”
Tobias nodded and left.
Savilla returned with two lunch buckets. “I forgot where I left my shawl.”
“What do I always tell you about that?” Gideon said.
“Hang it on the hook.” She set the lunch buckets on the floor next to the front door. “I think I left it on my bed.”
Four minutes.
Savilla’s steps on the stairs were light, rushing, scampering. She returned with the shawl over her shoulders and took custody once again of the lunch buckets.
Three minutes.
“Gertie’s taking too long,” Savilla said.
“We’re all right,” Gideon said.
“No, we’re not. We’ll be late.”
“It’s all right, Savilla.”
“If we miss the bus, you’ll have to take us to school, and I know you’re busy.” Savilla stuck her head out the door. “Gertie!”
“Savilla, please sit down.”
“I can’t, Daed. It’s time to go.”
“I asked you to sit down.”
She plopped into a chair, her eyes shifting between the waiting lunch buckets and the ticking clock.
Two minutes.
“We’re going to have to run,” Savilla said. “Gertie doesn’t like it when I tell her to run for the bus.”
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