Elam did not speak. Fannie met his gaze for as long as she could bear it. Now she insisted that her feet find their place and support her weight. When she walked past him, he reached to catch her hand but she pulled it from him.
At the sound of the English motor roaring toward him from behind, Yonnie took his horse and open buggy as close to the edge of the road as he could without risking the ditch. Traffic on the farm roads was less threatening in the days before Henry Ford decided that every household in the country should have an automobile. Fewer and fewer of the English used horses to move around the county, and along with their former habit they had dispensed with a sense of the speed at which horse and buggies traversed safely.
Yonnie glanced over his shoulder at the approaching car, a green Model T with the roof down stirring up a cloud of dust. With an irritated groan, Yonnie pulled the horse into the middle of the road and slowed almost to a stop. If Andrew insisted on driving an English machine, then let him be the one to drive along the ditch.
Andrew honked his horn. Yonnie ignored it, refusing to turn his head again. The automobile crept along behind the buggy.
“Yonnie, move over!” Andrew shouted.
Yonnie hunched his shoulders but gave no command to the horse, instead maintaining his position in the center of the road at a near crawl for more than a mile. Andrew should not take lessons in impatience from the English.
At the widening of an intersection, Andrew accelerated past the buggy. What Yonnie had not expected was that Andrew would swing his car around to block the road, forcing Yonnie to stop. Andrew got out of the car and leaned against it.
“You can’t block the road,” Yonnie said.
“You did,” Andrew shot back over the idling engine.
Yonnie rearranged the reins in his hands. “You could use your knowledge of machinery in other ways to serve the community. You don’t have to be like the English.”
“I have not abandoned the community,” Andrew said. “It is you who presumes to know what is in my heart on the matter.”
“You have no family to keep you here. What is to stop you from one day driving away from the church?”
“Do you think an automobile has more power over my actions than my own conscience?”
“You put yourself at risk.”
“Do I? Or do you push me toward that edge by thinking you know what a man-made machine means to me?”
“You cannot serve both God and mammon, Andrew.”
Andrew glared at Yonnie. The horse nickered. Andrew got back behind the wheel and sped off, leave Yonnie to cough in the dust.
Clara pushed the wheelbarrow through the barn, pausing at each stall to throw in a layer of fresh straw and assess how soon mucking would be required. Rhoda thought of the barn as her husband’s purview and rarely entered. Helping in the barn now, with Josiah wrangling a wide broom behind her, transported Clara’s mind back to the days when she was the child trailing Hiram. Those years held their grief, but the framework of life had been simple and predictable. The line between Hiram and Clara had been straight and clear.
When had life in a family become so complicated?
Clara threw her brother a smile, and his grin soothed her.
“Are you going to help me muck when it’s time?” Josiah said.
“Of course.” Cleaning animal stalls was Clara’s least favorite chore, but if it meant she could spend time with Josiah without wondering when Rhoda would snatch him away, Clara would do it gladly.
She pushed the wheelbarrow out into the bright daylight. In a couple of weeks, summer’s furnace would cease its blasts. The harvest would swallow up every free moment for farmers and their families. Hiram had already struck his deals for selling the portion of the Kuhn crop that he did not need for feeding his family and animals through the winter.
A buggy turned off the main road and progressed down the lane toward the house. Clara released the wheelbarrow handles and pulled a sleeve across her forehead before brushing off her apron.
“Gut mariye, Mrs. Brennerman,” Clara said, surprised that the visitor who emerged was the woman who rejected her offering a week ago.
“I’ve brought Rhoda’s pots back,” Mrs. Brennerman said.
“I trust everyone is well.”
“Well enough. Is Rhoda home?”
“Yes,” Clara said. “Please come to the house.”
Clara took the dishes from Mrs. Brennerman, hoping that that food had nourished the family after all and had not been thrown straight to the pigs. She led the way across the yard, up the front steps, and into the house.
Inside, Rhoda offered coffee to Mrs. Brennerman—not to Clara—and the two of them withdrew to the kitchen. Clara took quiet steps across the wood floor and stopped outside the kitchen, to one side of the open door. This could be the moment Rhoda learned of the stories. Clara wanted to hear Mrs. Brennerman’s account for herself.
“Have you heard about the bishop?” Mrs. Brennerman said to Rhoda. “He’s fallen ill—quite ill, I believe.”
“We must remember to pray for him,” Rhoda said.
“His wife has him in seclusion. She believes he needs complete rest. No one is to try to speak to him.”
“We do have three other ministers,” Rhoda said. Clara heard the cups in her hand clink.
“There are some who would take advantage of Bishop Yoder’s illness.”
“He will recover.”
“He is quite ill,” Mrs. Brennerman repeated.
Clara stepped away. Of course she would pray for the bishop’s recovery to full strength.
But what if he did not recover?
Andrew had expected only to buy a box of nails while he was in town, not to hear that Bishop Yoder was too ill to see anyone. The news did not surprise him. He let pass the speculation that the illness was likely the same one that had infected other households. In a few days the bishop’s appetite would return. He would be back to preaching by Sunday.
Andrew was certain that was not true.
He didn’t take his buggy home to his own farm. Instead, he unhitched his horse behind the old Johnson barn with the confidence that the animal would not wander far. John Stutzman was the man Andrew wanted to talk to, and he lived on the other side of the district. The Model T was running well these days, and Andrew had practiced enough to believe he was not a menace on the road. This would be a useful demonstration of the time the automobile would save. Andrew pushed open the barn door, cranked the engine to life, and drove onto the main road.
Andrew was relieved to find John in one of his fields with none of his sons in sight. He had been prepared to park the Model T out of sight and walk the last half mile to avoid the gawking eyes of John’s family. Instead, he had only to cross the road to speak privately.
“I saw for myself,” Andrew said after reporting the bishop’s illness. “I was there Tuesday. He was clearly unwell. Chicken soup will not heal his ailment.”
John glanced across the road at the automobile. “Thank you for coming all this way to tell me.”
“Even if he recovers physical strength,” Andrew said, “the question is not far off whether he is fit to continue as bishop.”
They ambled up the space between rows of grain ready for harvest.
“Until he steps aside, he is the bishop,” John said. “We should make sure his crop gets in.”
“I’m happy to help,” Andrew said. All the farmers would help each other with the harvest, moving from one farm to another during the critical weeks. “It’s the church I’m worried about.”
“Why should you worry?” John stopped walking and faced Andrew.
“Worry is the wrong word.” The Bible said, “Worry not,” and for the most part Andrew enjoyed the freedom that came with the command. “Surely, though, you can see there will be some commotion in the congregation if the bishop does step aside.”
John shook his head. “God’s will. We can do nothing to change that, nor should we try.”
“But perhaps we can
find a way to help each other live in peace, no matter what happens.”
“Each of us must follow our own conscience.”
Andrew examined his friend’s face. While John did not look away, his eyes carried a cloud Andrew was unaccustomed to seeing.
John gestured to the Model T at the side of the field. “So it’s running well?”
His words softly closed the door on conversation about the bishop.
Hours later, Andrew stood on the side of a road admiring the sky. Whether black against starlit brilliance or incomprehensible behind hanging low clouds, Andrew loved the night sky.
So much transcendent possibility. So much wonder beyond farm fields and milking schedules. So much assurance beyond the mysterious lots of God’s will.
Andrew wished he could simply knock on the Kuhn door and say he had come to call on Clara, the way the English courted. Instead he leaned against his buggy wondering if she would decide to take an evening stroll and come this way. If they should meet on any night, this was that night.
He stared into the deep, wondering what was beyond the beyond.
Andrew almost did not hear her arrive, turning at the crunch of a step to find her near and breathless.
“You’ve heard,” he said.
Clara nodded. “I can’t get it off my mind.”
“I saw him last week,” Andrew said. “He spoke gibberish as if it were chapter and verse from the Bible.”
“Everyone will pray for him.” Clara fiddled with the cuffs of her long sleeves.
“We should.”
“I’m afraid selfishness will be like an illness in my prayers.”
“Selfishness?”
She raised her eyes to his. “At least two mothers know about my Bible stories with the girls. As long as the bishop is ill, no one can tell him.”
“Someone might tell one of the other ministers.”
Clara shook her head. “Everyone knows Noah and Joseph Yoder don’t do anything without first talking to their father.”
“And they know Mose Beachy does not have much sympathy for tattletales.” Andrew slipped a palm under Clara’s fingers. “So you’re safe.”
“And safe is selfish. It’s hard to pray for the bishop to get well.”
“Don’t be ashamed, Clara. And don’t fear the gift God put in your heart.”
She sighed. “What about your car? Don’t you feel relief that at least for now, Yonnie can’t draw attention to it?”
Andrew patted the side of the buggy. “I still use this most of the time. But I am not afraid.”
“And if the ministers tell you that you must get rid of the automobile, what will you do?”
“One day at a time.” Andrew grazed her face with one hand, setting his fingers under her jaw. “I do not worry what will happen to me, and if you were my wife, I would not have to worry what will happen to you, either.”
She turned her head to his palm and laid her cheek in his hand. “Andrew, you know how much I care for you.”
“You don’t tell me what’s bothering you at home,” Andrew said, “but I know something is. I have a farm. We could make our own home together, and I would do my best not to fill it with anything that bothers you.”
Clara laughed softly. “Even you are not that perfect.”
“Tell me you’re thinking about it.”
“Every day.”
“Whatever frightens you, we’ll face it together.” Andrew leaned in to kiss Clara, tasting the tart lemon pie she must have eaten after supper.
“Ruth Kaufman asked me to be an attendant at her wedding,” Clara said after she broke the kiss with reluctance that pleased Andrew.
He laughed. “She is marrying Peter Troyer, ya?”
“Ya.”
“He asked me to be in the wedding party.”
Clara laughed softly. “If they knew we were—”
“I know,” Andrew said. “They are not supposed to ask two people who are thinking of marrying.”
“Should we tell them?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Have you decided?”
She ducked her head away from his gaze.
As far as Sadie knew, they were headed to her grossmuder’s house. Fannie was not anxious to arrive. She had not actually agreed to a midmorning visit to her mother’s, only to go for an exploring walk with her daughter. It was Sadie who assumed a destination. Fannie examined the sun’s position, judging how long they had before it would rise to a height that ushered in a wilting heat. In a few more minutes, she would speak the words that would make her daughter pout and they would start the circle taking them to their own home, rather than to Martha’s.
For now, Fannie inhaled deeply the fragrance of the end of summer. Late-blooming lilacs, sweet apple trees, pungent cows—the humid air swirled it all together and trailed the result in unexpected wafts. Fannie ached to savor these bits of life as she had every other summer. She yearned for them to call her back from the precarious edge of her days.
The milk wagon rattled toward them in a medley of clanging milk cans, horse hooves, and creaking wheels. Fannie reached for Sadie’s hand and at the same time eyed the spot where they would turn away from her mother’s house.
Sadie waved, and from the bench of his wagon Dale Borntrager returned the morning greeting and slowed the rig.
“I suppose you’ve heard about Bishop Yoder,” Dale said.
“No,” Fannie said. “What news?”
“Very ill. Some say he won’t be well enough to lead again.”
Fannie’s pulse fluttered. “Will you have a new bishop, then?”
Dale chuckled. “We might at least have some more peaceful preaching. The lot to preach will have to fall to Mose Beachy more often.”
Fannie knew she ought to say she would pray for the bishop, but she prayed little these days. Why should she pray when God was stubbornly silent?
Sadie pulled against Fannie’s grip and spoke with patient politeness. “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Borntrager, but my grossmuder is waiting.”
“I’m headed there now,” he said. “Why don’t I give you a ride?”
“Danki!”
“No, thank you,” Fannie tightened her hold on Sadie.
Fannie ignored Sadie’s protests as the milk wagon pulled away. The bishop might get well, and everything would be as it had been for decades. Even if he stepped aside, one of his sons would likely become bishop. And if the lot fell to Mose Beachy, the Pennsylvania congregation would be unsettled. Clara had so much to gain if she simply came to the Maryland congregation, with or without Andrew. Fannie would write as many letters as it took to persuade her.
“Come on, Sadie. We have to get home.”
“What about Grossmuder?”
“Another day.”
“But I miss her!”
So do I. “We’re going home, Sadie. Don’t argue with me.”
Andrew followed John Stutzman, who followed Mose Beachy through Mose’s field of alfalfa mown and standing in windrows.
“Two more days of drying,” Mose said. “Then we’ll thresh.”
“With three teams, the work goes well,” Andrew said. Mose tried to cut hay three times a year. Andrew, John, and Mose had developed an efficient rhythm for cutting and later threshing.
“My older boys can handle the grapple fork and getting the hay into the loft,” Mose said. “One of the girls can lead the horse when it’s time to pull.”
They paced to the end of the field, across a path, and toward the Beachy barn.
“I need to put a new chain on the grapple fork,” Mose said, “but I’ll have that ready by the time you come back.”
“Saturday morning, then,” John said.
“Danki.” Mose paused in the middle of the barnyard and scratched under his beard. “I imagine you both would like to know how the bishop is.”
Andrew nodded but said nothing. Three days had passed with no further news about Bishop Yoder’s illness.
“Noah and Joseph were here yesterda
y,” Mose said. “They seem to think their father needs an extended rest.”
“He should take all the time he needs to heal,” John said. “And if I know Caroline, she’ll see to it.”
“She was a bishop’s daughter before she was a bishop’s wife,” Mose said. “She knows the demands.”
“And Lucy?” Andrew said. “Would Lucy know the demands if the lot fell to you to be the next bishop?”
“It’s too soon to say the lot will fall to anyone,” Mose said.
“Eventually we will have a new bishop,” Andrew said. “Do you not ever think about the question?”
“If I am called upon, I will serve as best as I am able, by God’s grace. If God does not choose me, I will continue as a minister. In the meantime, I gain nothing from wondering what might be. God will make clear His will.”
Andrew found sincere acceptance in his friend’s face.
Lucy Beachy appeared on the porch and called out her husband’s name.
“I must go,” Mose said. “I promised to fix the stair railing today before one of the children gets hurt. Thank you again for your help with the hay.”
Andrew and John watched Mose walk toward the house and then moved toward their own buggies.
“Do you think it may be God’s will to disturb His people?” Andrew said.
“With the new bishop?” John swung his gaze around to Andrew.
“Of course we all pray for Bishop Yoder’s recovery,” Andrew said. “But many in the congregation disagree with him. I find myself wondering how the church can thrive while he leads.”
“Most likely one of his sons will follow,” John said.
Andrew nodded. “Wouldn’t you say that many find that thought disturbing?”
“And if the lot falls to Mose Beachy? Won’t others be disturbed?”
“You see my point,” Andrew said, stroking his horse’s long brown nose. “No matter who is bishop, the church harbors unhappiness. If this is so, should we conclude that God wills for us to be unsettled?”
“God has His purposes. His ways are not our ways.”
John was giving the right answers, cautious words with which no one could find fault.
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