Meek and Mild

by Newport, Olivia

  “When Bishop Yoder asked for the vote, he said he had consulted another bishop, Joseph Witmer. It’s possible he sincerely misunderstood what Bishop Witmer meant to communicate, but my parents—and a lot of others—were convinced he knew exactly what he was doing. The congregation voted unanimously to do just the opposite of what Bishop Witmer had advised.”

  Andrew’s soft words sank in.

  “Bishop Yoder deceived the congregation?” Clara was stunned. “All these years—the sermons about shunning the Maryland believers.”

  “Hardly anyone really wanted to do that.” Andrew picked up a pebble and tossed it into a field overgrown with weeds. “But the vote in 1895 was unanimous.”

  “And our people do not easily set aside such a vote.” Clara pressed on her temples. “That explains why hardly anyone whose name is not Yoder obeys the ban.”

  “Bishop Yoder is getting old,” Andrew said. “He won’t be bishop forever.”

  “But his sons,” Clara countered. “One of them could be the next bishop.”

  “Or it could be Mose Beachy.” Andrew paced back to the engine. “Let’s not borrow trouble.”

  Please!”

  Hannah tugged on Clara’s sleeve two days later.

  Clara dropped into the grass. She had wandered away from the house with a box of letter paper intending to finish a story to send to Sadie—and not knowing that Hannah followed. Clara glanced toward the house, wondering if Rhoda knew where her daughter was.

  Hannah plopped down next to Clara. “I only want you to tell me about Sadie. I already know you like to visit her and she’s your cousin.”

  “My cousin’s daughter.” Clara offered the gentle correction.

  “That’s still a cousin.” Hannah rolled onto her stomach, planted her elbows, and propped up her chin with her hands. “What is she like?”

  “Lively.” Clara chuckled. “She likes running and doing cartwheels, and her mamm has to remind her about chores.”

  “Just like my mamm has to remind me.”

  “She’s not old enough for school yet, but I think she’s going to like it when she goes.”

  “Just like me. I like school!”

  “And she loves cherry strudel,” Clara said.

  Hannah sat up. “I like apple strudel, but it’s still strudel.”

  Clara’s thumbs played with the corners of the box of letter paper. Intuition told her not to mention to Hannah the Bible stories that Clara sent to Sadie.

  “Do you think Sadie and I could be friends?” Hannah crossed her legs and straightened her skirt around them.

  “I’m sure you would like each other,” Clara said. Why shouldn’t they? Hannah and Sadie were two little Amish girls going to church and learning the ways their people had followed for more than two hundred years.

  “I want to visit Sadie with you,” Hannah said. “I want to very, very much.”

  Clara reached over and squeezed the girl’s hand. “I know.” The farm Sadie lived on was only five miles away, but it might as well have been the desolate settlement in Colorado that Clara read about in The Budget.

  “Ask Mamm if you can take me,” Hannah said. “I promise to be good and clean up after myself.”

  “We’ll see,” Clara said.

  “Priscilla’s dog is going to have puppies.”

  “Oh?” Clara was relieved at the change of subject.

  “In about two more weeks. I’m going to start asking Mamm if I can go play with Priscilla every day. I want to be there when the babies are born so I can watch.”

  Clara winced. Her father had delivered the young of cows and horses over the years. It happened on every farm. But Clara never wanted to watch.

  Their heads turned together toward the sound of Mari’s crying. Rhoda approached, one hand tight around her youngest daughter’s fingers.

  “Hannah, you have chores to do in the barn,” Rhoda said.

  “See,” Hannah said. “She reminds me, just like Sadie’s mamm reminds her.”

  Clara nodded but did not speak.

  “Ask her now,” Hannah said. She scampered toward the barn.

  “Ask me what?” Rhoda said.

  “It’s just something Hannah wants to do,” Clara said.

  “Why was she talking about Sadie?”

  Clara stood up. This conversation would be difficult enough without having Rhoda towering over her.

  “She wants to meet Sadie,” Clara said. “We could go and come back on the same day.”

  “Meet Sadie? What on earth for?” Rhoda released Mari’s hand, and the little girl stretched out in the grass.

  “She’s curious. That’s all. I think they would get on well together.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Clara took in a breath. “They’re just little girls. I’m Hannah’s sister and related to Sadie. It’s not such a stretch, is it?”

  “The Hostetlers are your mother’s people. I have never suggested you should not see them if you wish. But Hannah is not related to them. I see no reason to confuse her about where she belongs.”

  Clara looked at Mari in the cool grass, her little fingers sliding up and down a single blade. Her eyes lifted to the barn in time to see Hannah disappear inside its cavernous door. Rhoda protected where Hannah belonged but plainly would feel no loss if Clara crossed the border. Clara was twenty-three and did not understand the false line represented by the state border. How would little children understand it? Hot disappointment seared through Clara.

  Andrew wondered how many times he would have to bring a horse and buggy to Hansen’s Automotive Repair. The Model T was safely back in the outlying barn on the Johnson land, but ever since he put it in high gear two days ago, it made a sound that unnerved Andrew.

  Jurgen Hansen looked up from where he sat at a desk strewn with papers. “How’s your Model T?”

  “You were right about the carburetor.” Andrew eyed the rack beside the door, hoping he would have another opportunity to hang his straw hat there. “The car is running now, but I don’t believe it is as reliable as it ought to be.”

  “Automobiles are sensitive machines,” Hansen said.

  “I’m learning that,” Andrew said. “I wonder if I might help you around the shop again today.”

  “I can’t pay you,” Hansen said.

  “I would pay you if I could,” Andrew said, “for teaching me.”

  “It’s only a matter of some basic science about the combustion engine, and a little trial and error about your engine in particular.”

  “I suppose it’s like getting to know the temperament of a horse,” Andrew said.

  Hansen laughed. “More like a small herd of horses.”

  Andrew licked his lips. “Will you help me tame my herd?”

  The shop owner looked around. “If you clean up the two end bays, I’ll let you watch while I work on the next two cars.”

  Andrew snatched his hat off his head and tossed it onto a hook. Outside the rear door was a water spigot, and he knew where the broom and mop were. While Andrew cleaned, Jurgen Hansen rummaged through tools and assorted small parts on three shelves. Inspecting the engine and undercarriage of his own automobile meant Andrew recognized some of the shapes, even if he did not know the names or functions for everything. Andrew attacked the clutter and dirt in a manner that would have made his mamm proud, determined to be ready to learn by the time Jurgen Hansen was ready to work. At one point, Andrew tilted his head back and followed with his eyes the path of the electric wiring that illumined the bays.

  They worked for four hours. Andrew watched Jurgen’s movements closely, asking as few questions as possible so he would not provoke impatience, but enough to undergird his growing understanding of the complex challenge of keeping an automobile running. The broom and a stack of clean rags were always within reach. Andrew kept the bays clean.

  The afternoon yawned ahead of them. Finally, Jurgen went outside to the water spigot to scrub his hands clean and returned to his desk, where he pulled fr
om a desk drawer a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.

  “Let’s have lunch,” Jurgen said, “and then I think I’d like to see your car.”

  Andrew accepted the half sandwich Jurgen offered. “I don’t want to take up your time.”

  “Nonsense. The car I drive can go forty miles an hour.” Jurgen winked. “Wouldn’t you like to do that?”

  Andrew glanced out the door at his horse. Despite being a large stallion, the animal had never been especially fast, even at a gallop—which Andrew rarely required of him. Forty miles an hour! And in a car that was not likely to cough and seize in the performance of its duties.

  They finished the sandwich, and Jurgen tossed Andrew an apple before shuffling papers around to reveal a crank on his desk.

  “Don’t ever leave the crank in the automobile,” Jurgen said. “That’s all someone would need to take the car.”

  Andrew was so fixed on getting the Model T running that he had not thought how easily someone else might drive off with it. Mine surged through his mind, the intensity of possession surprising him. He offered his half-eaten apple to his horse, made certain the lead was secured to a tree, and then climbed into Jurgen Hansen’s sleek, shiny automobile. Already Andrew could tell this Model T was one of the newest versions.

  “Are those headlamps electric?” Andrew said in sudden realization. He had tested the lamps on his car and discovered they required oil to produce illumination.

  “Yes sir!” Jurgen said. “The horn, too.”

  When Jurgen cranked, the car responded with a smooth compliance rather than the clatter Andrew expected. He had further to go than he realized in achieving the best his Model T could give.

  Jurgen pulled on his driving gloves, adjusted his goggles, and put the car in gear. “Which way?”

  Andrew pointed, and Jurgen took the automobile out on the road. The top was down on this sunny day, and the wind against his face reminded Andrew he had left his hat behind on the hook.

  “Isn’t it unusual for your people to own an automobile,” Jurgen said, “even one that doesn’t work very well?”

  “Unusual, yes.”

  “It’s not against the rules?”

  Andrew paused before answering. “The automobile raises some questions that the church will consider with great thought.”

  Jurgen put the car into high gear, and Andrew felt the smile pushing against the corners of his lips as he judged the speed. Trot. Canter. Gallop. More than gallop. He could not see the speedometer, but surely they had reached forty miles an hour. Andrew squinted into the wind, understanding why the hardware store sold goggles among its automotive supplies.

  This was how an automobile was meant to run.

  Andrew gestured a couple of turns, and they arrived at the old Johnson barn. He pushed open the rickety door and Jurgen walked in.

  After only a glance at the car, Jurgen laughed in rich, deep amusement.

  “What is funny?” Andrew asked.

  Jurgen pulled off his gloves. “I know this car. It has been in my shop many times.”

  Andrew’s stomach soured. “Then it will never run the way yours does.”

  “Of course it will.” Jurgen ran a hand along a front fender. “The owner often refused my advice. He didn’t give it the care it required. I suspect your attitude will be different.”

  “I’ll take all the advice you’ll offer,” Andrew said. “I want to learn everything about it.”

  “Once you get it running smoothly, it will be worth something,” Jurgen said. “Don’t give up.”

  The milk wagon rumbled onto the dairy grounds at the end of Yonnie’s afternoon rounds. Twelve tall capped metal cans rattled in the wagon bed. Every day the temperatures crept up and Yonnie perspired more with the effort of lifting the cans from the springs where they cooled on Amish farms into the wagon to haul them to the dairy. Today Yonnie had worked in the dairy early in the morning, done a large unscheduled delivery, and then went directly into the afternoon loop to farms on both sides of the border. His muscles ached, and his lunch had long ago worn off.

  Dale Borntrager stomped out of the main building, where workers bottled milk and churned butter.

  “Yoder, where have you been?”

  Yonnie gave the reins a final tug and jumped down from the bench. “On the rounds, of course.”

  “You disappeared early and didn’t come back.”

  “I made the special delivery.” Yonnie’s stomach tightened. “An English order.”

  “On the wrong day!” Dale said.

  Yonnie slumped against the wagon. “I saw the note in the office.”

  “For tomorrow.” Dale glared.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Nobody was expecting that delivery today.”

  Yonnie reached into the wagon. “But I got a signature.”

  “From a young woman who didn’t know she could do anything else. She’s not even out of English school yet and is just helping out for the summer. She closed up right after you left, thinking her boss must have known the milk was coming and would be there soon.”

  Yonnie closed his eyes. “He didn’t come.”

  “Not for hours. The milk sat outside all that time.”

  “So it spoiled.”

  “You know better, Yonnie. You rushed and misread the note, then you rushed and left the order with that young woman. Your distraction cost me good money.”

  “I’m sorry. Take it out of my wages.”

  “Of course I will. When you make a mistake, you must be prepared to face the consequences.”

  Clara wasn’t sleeping, or even dozing. By midmorning on Monday, she had exhausted a brief series of small chores that could just as well have gone undone—which likely was why Rhoda offered no objection to Clara’s efforts—and withdrew to her room and cleaned it unnecessarily. The floor was spotless, and her dresses and kapps hung neatly on their hooks. On the nightstand, her small collection of books was stacked according to size. Clara saw no reason not to stretch out on the quilt of red and brown diamonds and indulge in daydreaming about the next Bible story she would write for Sadie. Jesus’ parable of the servant who received mercy yet refused to offer mercy came to mind.

  Rhoda’s steps clipped a firm rhythm on the bare wood of the upstairs hall. Clara sat up and snatched a book from the stack to look busy. Rhoda appeared in the doorway with Mari in her arms.

  “When Hannah asked if she could stay the night with the Schrocks,” Rhoda said, “I promised Mrs. Schrock I would fetch her before lunch. I’m going now.”

  Clara scooted to the edge of her bed. “Let me go. I haven’t had my walk today.”

  “I can see you’re reading.”

  Clara closed the book. “Just passing the time.”

  “Danki, but I can manage.”

  Mari put her open palms on her mother’s chest and straightened her arms, pushing back. Rhoda compensated for the disturbance in balance by adjusting her grip.

  “Mari!”

  Rhoda’s tone carried a warning Clara had first recognized years ago, but Mari ignored it. Instead, the little girl shifted her hips from side to side.

  “I want down!” Mari said.

  Rhoda gave the child a stern look, but she set her on her feet.

  “It’s a long way for Mari to walk,” Clara said. “I would be happy to go.”

  “I’m going to take the cart,” Rhoda said.

  “I don’t like the cart.” Mari threw herself to the floor.

  “Marianne Kuhn, you get up this minute.” Rhoda planted her hands on her hips.

  Mari had been a tempestuous toddler, and even now at three years old and with a more than adequate vocabulary, she still pitched fits. Rhoda responded by striking an implacable pose. Clara was never sure who would be more stubborn, mother or child.

  “Get up!” Her hands still on her hips, Rhoda now widened her stance.

  “No!” Mari flung her arms over her head.

  “We’re going to get Hannah.”

  �
�I don’t like Hannah!”

  “Hannah is your sister.”

  “No, Clara is my sister.”

  Clara averted her eyes, not wanting to witness the color that would flush through Rhoda’s face at her daughter’s declaration.

  “Please,” Clara said, “let me go for Hannah.”

  Rhoda huffed. “Under the circumstances, all right. But take the cart. Hannah will get halfway home and start complaining about having to walk.”

  Clara couldn’t disagree with that assessment. Hannah was likely to stop in the middle of a field and insist that she couldn’t walk another step.

  Clara snatched a kapp off a hook and set it on her head before stepping around her youngest sister’s tantrum.

  “I want to go with Clara.” Mari sat up.

  “You most certainly will not.” Rhoda glared.

  Mari put a finger in her mouth and glared back.

  Clara took the stairs quickly, whistled for the mare in the pasture, and hitched up the cart. The horse trotted cooperatively down the lane. As Clara arrived at the Schrocks’ farmhouse, the front door opened and Mattie Schrock stood on the porch.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Mattie said. “I was just thinking I might have to bring Hannah home myself.”

  Clara got out of the cart. “I hope she hasn’t been any trouble. She loves to play with Priscilla.”

  “They played together nicely,” Mattie said. “But ever since breakfast, Hannah hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “Hannah is sick?” Clara glanced past Mattie and into the house.

  “She’s up in the girls’ room. I made the other children leave her alone to rest.”

  “May I go up?”

  “Of course.”

  Upstairs, Clara touched the sleeping girl’s forehead. Heat answered her inquiry. Hannah stirred.

  “I’m here to take you home,” Clara said softly.

  “My throat hurts.” Hannah’s raspy reply gave evidence of her claim.

  Next to the bed, a full glass of water appeared untouched. Clara picked it up. “Will you drink some water, please?”

  Hannah shook her head. “It hurts to swallow.”

  “Just a sip?” Clara put the glass to Hannah’s lips.