The Amish Clockmaker

by Mindy Starns Clark

  We parted in the driveway, and as I headed off toward the cottage, it struck me suddenly how supportive Daed was being through all of this. The thought surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. He always stood by his word. What he had said this morning about not burying the talents really had indicated the end of his doubting. He’d made up his mind to be on board, and now on board he was. With a rush of gratitude, I thought how very blessed and humbled I was to have such a good and decent man as my father.

  Amanda was at the cottage when I got there, so I brought her up to speed on the visit with the lawyer as I grabbed some things I needed from the bookshelf in the living room. Then I spent the next hours down at the shop in the emptiness and quiet, sitting at the counter and poring over my resources, making phone calls, and leaving messages.

  Thanks to Daed’s advice, I started my search for Clayton Raber with the Amish directory for Lancaster County, a huge, heavy book that included names, addresses, histories, and more of all the Old Order Amish families in the region. As one who had broken away from the church, Clayton himself wouldn’t be in there, but the book should have the names and contact information for many of his family members.

  Because my family and I lived in Clayton’s house—and, therefore, Clayton’s old district—I had always assumed we attended church with the same families he had, or at least with later generations of the same families. But now I realized that wasn’t the case, thanks to the Amish policy on the uniformity of districts.

  Within an affiliation, Amish churches were organized geographically, with each individual congregation, or district, limited by size. Once a district had more than thirty or forty families, it had to split into two separate districts. That way, families could continue to meet in homes, maintain an intimate sense of worship, and prevent any one group from growing larger or more powerful than any other.

  The system worked well, but it sure was making more trouble for me now. Since 1955, the Rabers’ district had split several times—which meant I had to trace things out through every single split, just to be sure I had the right branches of the family. Making my task even more complicated was the fact that Clayton had six sisters—Katrina, Pauline, Dorothy, Libby, Joan, and Maisie—but no brothers, so a lot of different surnames were also involved.

  It took hours to sort it all out, but by tracing the line of the Rabers’ church with the family names and genealogies, I was able to narrow things down to the crucial people who were apparently still around, the ones I wanted to contact first. I jotted the names down line by line until I’d written on almost three sheets of paper—an end result that was both encouraging and daunting.

  I briefly considered going back and repeating the entire process for the family of Clayton’s late wife as well, tracing it out to find any remaining family members. But my understanding was they had moved away from the area decades ago, and I doubted any of them would have kept tabs on the man anyway. I decided not to go that route for now. Besides, even if I did find someone, I couldn’t imagine them wanting to hear from me about such a dark part of their family’s history.

  Instead, I returned my attention to the information I already had. Flipping to a fresh sheet, I calculated what the current ages of Clayton and his sisters would be. If Clayton had been in his late twenties when he moved away from here, he would now be in his late eighties. That meant the youngest of his sisters would be in her early nineties—and they only got older from there.

  The lawyer had said there was just one surviving sibling left. By cross-referencing several of my sources, I tried to figure out which one it might be, but I wasn’t sure. My best guess was Joan. One listing showed her date of birth, so I did the math and saw that she was ninety-four now. At that age, she would be living with one of her children.

  But how to know which one? I was trying to think of some way to figure that out when one of our neighbors came to mind, an old Amish man named Ben Sauder. Ben knew everyone and everything that happened around here. Chances were, he’d know which sister was still alive and where she lived now.

  I decided I’d start my search with him first thing tomorrow. I’d walk over to his home, which was only a few blocks away, and pick the man’s brain.

  Whichever sister it was, with her in her nineties, I could only hope her memory was still intact—and that she would be willing to tell more to me than she had to the Englisch investigators.

  I closed the pad and looked around the empty shop, and a pang of regret and sadness shot through me. Maybe this was God’s way of answering my prayer for doors to be closed where He didn’t want me to go. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the desk.

  Is that what this is, God? A closed door? Or just a bump in the road that means nothing beyond what it seems?

  I opened my eyes again, distracted from my prayer by another pressing issue. Should we keep the store closed or reopen it until this issue was solved one way or the other? I locked up and headed for home, my mind burdened by questions.

  I began carefully considering the reality of our situation. Because of the expansion, we’d already been planning for the shop to be closed, but now that we knew what we were in for, I had to admit that this whole thing might take longer than expected—if it was ever going to happen at all. We couldn’t afford to keep the store closed for too long and should probably go ahead and open back up right away—at least until the matter was settled one way or the other. Then again, I needed my time free so that I could spend it searching for Clayton Raber, not working in the store.

  I decided to give myself one day, tomorrow, to gather information. If after that things weren’t looking promising, I would open back up for business on Friday.

  I entered the cottage and saw that it was empty, which meant Amanda was at the main house helping with dinner. I put my notes away, washed my face and hands, and walked over to my parents’ place across the drive. When I came through the door, the scents of baking bread and sugared ham greeted me.

  “You’re just in time, Matthew,” I heard my wife call from the kitchen. “Supper’s almost ready.”

  I followed her voice to the warmth of the next room, where she stood with her mitted hands in the oven, her plump tummy bulging out from beneath her apron.

  “Let me get that,” I said, moving quickly to her side.

  “I have it.” From the oven’s depths she pulled out a juicy, steaming ham and placed it on the top of the stove.

  Mamm was setting the table, her back to us, so I seized the opportunity to wrap my arms around Amanda’s ever-growing waist.

  “Not in front of your mother,” she whispered with a giggle, “and not while I’m trying to cook!”

  She let me give her a peck on the cheek before shooing me away. Smiling, I walked back to the door and hung up my hat. Daed came inside at that moment, hung up his hat as well, and then headed to the sink to wash his hands. I made my way to the table and sat.

  I couldn’t help but smile even more as I took in the spread of food in front of me: mashed potatoes topped with melting squares of butter, fresh green beans from the garden, fried okra cut into crispy circles, and a bowl of chopped strawberries, blackberries, and peaches drenched with cream.

  Noah showed up at the last minute and tried to slip into his seat unnoticed, but Mamm made him wash his hands. He returned just as Daed sat and then led us all in a silent grace.

  After a hearty “amen,” my father asked me if I’d made any progress with the directories. I sighed and told him it had taken the rest of the afternoon, but at least I had a list of names to start with first thing in the morning. I spooned some beans onto my plate and passed the dish along.

  “I still can’t believe that land really doesn’t belong to us,” Amanda said, shaking her head from side to side.

  I cut a piece of ham with my knife. “I know. According to the lawyer, it was never ours to buy in the first place.”

  “What?” Noah asked, looking up from the decimated pile of mashed potatoes he’d been
focused on. Judging by his incredulous expression, I realized no one had updated him since our visit with the lawyer.

  I looked at Daed again, but he was studying his plate, so I answered Noah’s question, giving him the details in a nutshell and explaining that our only option now was to hunt down Clayton as soon as possible and convince him to sign the lot over to us.

  “What happens if you can’t find him in time?” Noah asked, his eyes wide.

  I just shrugged and looked away, unable to say the truth aloud. If we couldn’t find him in time, we might as well say goodbye to our business for good.

  Later, before we left for the night, I brought Amanda up to my old childhood bedroom and showed her the strip of molding near the window seat where Clayton Raber’s height had been charted over the years as he was growing up here.

  Like me, she seemed most drawn to the last few markings at the top, where Clayton had carved into the wood with delicate and artistic lettering. She reached out and ran a finger over some of the initials, and after a moment I began to do the same. In a way, they were as familiar to me as the lines on my hand or the hills outside the window.

  I realized she had withdrawn her hand, and when I looked over at her, it was to see that she was watching me. With a gentle smile, she thanked me for showing this to her. Gazing into her eyes, I had a feeling my wife understood what I was wanting her to know, that this had been my introduction to Clayton Raber, to the man everyone else thought was a murderer. I didn’t understand it, but somehow I just knew that the person who had carved his initials here all those years ago could not have grown up to become the monster most folks thought he was.

  Later, back at home, I tried to sleep but couldn’t. My mind was racing. What if I wasn’t able to find Clayton? And even if I did, who was to say he would be receptive to what I had to tell him? The uncertainties gnawed at my stomach. I looked over at Amanda, whose chest rose and fell with her steady breathing. We were going to be parents soon. How would I ever be able to provide for the two of them if I couldn’t keep the shop open? The Amish community would be there to support us financially in a time of crisis, of course, but that was no solution for the long term. I still had to make a living.

  More than anything, I wished Grossdaadi were here. Would he have known what to do, how to handle this situation? Or would even he, with all his business intelligence and experience, have been as stumped as I was now?

  SIX

  The next morning, I sat down with a map of Lancaster County and the list of people I wanted to contact and began geographically organizing, from closest to farthest, the ones I’d decided to see in person. When I was finished, I added one more name at the top of the list, Ben Sauder, the neighbor down the street who always knew the goings-on of everyone around here.

  I headed out just before nine and was at his house in minutes. He and his wife lived just a few blocks away on a small homestead that had been in his family for a century. Their setup was similar to ours in terms of size and layout, with a store and a small parking lot at the bottom of the hill, out front, and their house and barn at the top of the hill, out back. In their case, the family store was a woodworking shop, where Ben had labored for decades building custom cabinets.

  Nowadays, that shop was in the capable hands of his children and grandchildren, and he spent most of his time puttering around the homestead or helping with the grandkids or shooting the breeze with the other old guys at the coffee shop down the street. I parked my buggy near the house, and as I climbed down I spotted Ben in his vegetable garden, trimming back some aggressive watermelon vines. Even in his seventies, he was still very much involved with the upkeep of his home. The yard and gardens were immaculate and beautifully trimmed and cared for.

  “Matthew Zook!” he said, when he saw me walking toward him. “What brings you here? Could you smell my wife’s homemade biscuits from all the way over at your place?”

  I smiled, pausing to inhale. “Nope, but you’re right. Something sure does smell good.” I came to a stop at the fence. “Actually, I’m here because I need help with something and I thought you might be a good place to start.”

  His interest was immediately piqued. “Oh?”

  “Guess you could say I need to talk to the guy who knows everything about everyone.”

  Beaming, he set his hoe against a fence pole. “Well, then. Come on up to the porch and let’s have a chat.”

  With a nod I turned and continued along the walk as he made his way through the garden. We met at the house and ascended the three stairs to the wide porch together. As we did, Ben’s wife, Sue Ann, appeared on the other side of the screen door, greeted me warmly, and offered me a cup of coffee.

  “You might bring the boy a biscuit as well,” Ben told her. “That’s the real reason he’s here, you know.”

  She chuckled. “Of course. Cream and sugar in your coffee, Matthew?” she asked as she started to walk away.

  “Just black, please. Thanks.”

  Ben settled into the first in a row of rocking chairs that lined the porch. I chose the one next to his and sat as well.

  “So I hear you’ve big plans for the tack store,” he said, his tone clearly indicating he’d not only heard about those plans but had discussed them at length with his friends at the coffee shop. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It had to be big news around here when something that hadn’t changed in sixty years was about to undergo a metamorphosis, even it if it was just an old tack shop getting a much-needed expansion and facelift.

  Before I could reply, he added, “I also hear you’ve run into a bit of a problem.”

  Of course he knew all about that too. He’d probably been pumping people for information since he’d first gotten wind of the scene that had taken place yesterday morning, outside, amid the construction.

  “Well, seeing as how you already know everything, maybe you can answer my biggest question, which is how to find Clayton Raber.”

  Ben let out a low whistle. “Clayton Raber? The clockmaker? Why on earth would you need to know that?”

  How to quickly explain?

  “There was a small problem with the deed back when his mother sold their homestead to my grandfather, and I need Clayton’s signature on a legal document now in order to straighten it out.”

  “His signature? I can’t imagine he’s still…”

  “Alive?”

  He nodded.

  “Actually, from what I’ve been told, there’s a good chance that he is. I just don’t know where.”

  Ben considered that for a moment. “Well, wherever he’s living now, he must be pushing ninety, at least. My, my. You have your work cut out for you, son, finding a man no one’s heard from in more than half a century. Folks said your big ruckus over there had something to do with a property dispute, but I didn’t realize—”

  Sue Ann emerged from the door at that moment, carrying a tray. I jumped up and retrieved a nearby side table, inhaling the scents of coffee and fresh-baked biscuits as I retook my seat and she placed the tray in front of us.

  The biscuits she had made were warm, fluffy, and golden brown. I chose one and gently pulled it open, releasing the steam from inside.

  “May I ask how well you knew the Rabers back then?” I asked, using a knife to slather on some butter. “I assume pretty well, since they were in your same church district.”

  He shrugged, blowing at his hot coffee before taking a sip. “Fairly well. They were a part of the community, but Clayton was an odd sort. He kept to himself more than most.”

  “I understand he was handicapped as a result of a childhood accident?”

  “Had a bad leg and a hot temper to go with it. He married a woman who didn’t love him and ended up killing her and getting away with it.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he must have realized how they sounded, because he quickly added, “Or so people have always said.”

  Surprised at his words, I let them sit between us for a long moment, focusing my attention on adding j
elly to my biscuit, setting down the knife, and taking a bite. I wasn’t here for gossip. I needed facts. And even though Ben was a busybody, he didn’t usually go around repeating rumors.

  “Sorry,” he said finally, looking appropriately sheepish. “I was just twelve when she died. Guess I gobbled up what everybody said back then and took it all as truth.”

  I nodded, appreciating his admission. “Do you remember that time at all?”

  “Ya, I remember a lot of it. Her death. His arrest. His release from jail. His break with the church. It was all very dramatic and the only thing anyone talked about for weeks and weeks.”

  “How sad for everyone involved. Any idea where he might have gone once he left here?”

  “Not a clue. I don’t think anyone ever knew. It was like he disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “What do you recall about his break from the church?” I took another bite of biscuit and followed it with a sip of coffee.

  “He was excommunicated, I remember that.” Ben squinted, as if trying to peer back through time. “Seems like the excommunication came first, and then he left town. As far as I know, he never tried to come back.”

  “What were the grounds for the discipline?”

  Ben set his mug on the tray. “To be honest, Matthew, I’m not sure. At the time I assumed he was renounced from the fellowship because he wouldn’t confess to having murdered his wife. But looking back now, I realize that sounds kind of bizarre. There was no proof that he killed her, just speculation—albeit lots of speculation.”

  “So you say.”

  “Now that I think about it, the discipline was probably because he stopped coming to church, stopped being a part of the fellowship completely. He attended one Sunday service soon after he got out of jail, but just that once—and then never again.”