The Amish Clockmaker

by Mindy Starns Clark

  As heartened as he was by these simple changes, he was still worried, especially as Thanksgiving neared. Miriam’s moods were still so unpredictable, and the family was to gather at Joan and Solomon’s home for the big meal. He didn’t want his wife making a scene and embarrassing them both or saying something she would regret and berate herself for later.

  On the morning the holiday arrived, Clayton could see that Miriam was having one of her strange days when she was angry one moment and teary the next. He silently prayed all the way to Joan and Solomon’s that God would intervene and settle his wife’s anxious heart. To his relief, she didn’t scream that there were bugs crawling all over Joan’s kitchen while all the women were getting the food ready, but she seemed on the verge of bursting into a rage the entire day. Everyone else seemed to notice it too, though courtesy kept anyone from asking outright if one of them had done something to offend her.

  While they were slicing pimpkin pies and dabbing on whipped cream, Miriam, in front of nearly everyone, told Maisie that Clayton’s mother had the day before locked her out of the house in the cold without any shoes—on purpose—which Clayton’s mother then vehemently denied. Not five minutes later, Miriam announced she had a stomachache and she wanted to go back home. That very moment. The rest of the family said their goodbyes with pasted-on smiles and concerned gazes as Clayton helped Miriam into their buggy.

  As they clopped along, he asked her why she said what she did about Mamm, and she seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. When they got home, she went up to the bedroom, closed the door, and didn’t emerge for several hours. But when she did, she was smiling and pleasant, curious to know if it was too late to go back to Joan and Solomon’s for some pie.

  The following morning, after Clayton had done the morning chores, cleaned himself up, and eaten breakfast, he found that Miriam was still asleep. Before leaving for the shop, he asked his mother to keep an eye on her despite what Miriam had said about her at Joan and Solomon’s.

  “She’s still not her old self,” he said, defending her strange behavior.

  “You’re telling me,” Mamm said sarcastically.

  “Please, Mamm?”

  His mother sighed. “You know I will, Clayton. She’s my daughter-in-law. I have to leave for my quilting group at eleven, but I’ll make sure she eats something before I go.”

  It wasn’t Miriam’s breakfast that concerned him, it was her soundness. Clayton didn’t say that aloud. He just placed his hat on his head and added, “Come and get me if she seems any worse, okay?”

  His mother patted his arm and assured him that of course she would let him know if anything required his attention.

  Clayton passed a quiet morning at the shop, glad for the escape and sad for being glad about it. At least he could pray as he worked. He remained in prayer for most of the morning, in fact, and by lunchtime he was feeling a bit better. Whatever was wrong with Miriam, God was in charge. God would provide. God would see them through this, no matter the outcome.

  At noon, he locked up the shop and headed home under a white and oddly heavy sky. The paper had said there was a fifty percent chance of snow today, but looking up now, he changed that percentage to one hundred percent. No doubt they were in for their first snowfall of the season. Judging by the portent in the air, the flakes would begin falling soon, within a few hours at the most.

  When he arrived at the house, he found it empty. After a quick search of the rooms, he remembered that Mamm had her quilting group today. Miriam must have gone with her, a development he found encouraging. If she was willing to get out and interact with others, she must be at last on the road to recovery.

  He was a little surprised that neither woman had thought to leave a lunch for him, but after rooting around in the icebox, he managed to pull something together. He was on his way back to the shop when he spotted the buggy coming up the drive. He gave a smile and a wave, and though his mother did the same in return as she pulled past, he realized with a start that Miriam wasn’t with her.

  Unease gripping his stomach, Clayton reversed course, following on foot the path of the buggy all the way to the barn. By the time he got there, Mamm had already managed to unhitch the horse, one of several skills Daed had insisted on teaching her not long before he died, saying that if he couldn’t be around anymore to do these things for her, she’d better learn to do them for herself.

  “Clayton,” she said, surprised but pleased when she saw him come in the barn door.

  “Where’s Miriam?” he demanded, his voice harsher than he’d intended.

  “I don’t know. When I left, she was in the kitchen and about to make your lunch. I know what you said earlier, but she seemed fine to me. More than fine. Her hair was neat, her dress ironed, her mood greatly improved. Almost like the Miriam we used to know.”

  Clayton hesitated, unsure what to think—or do, for that matter. On the one hand, she’d been acting so erratic these days that there was no telling what she might have gotten into now. On the other hand, she was a grown woman, one who had freely come and gone as desired from the day she moved into their house.

  He cast a glance up at the loft. He could see one corner of the old trunk, which was there as always, but otherwise the space seemed empty.

  “Miriam!” he called out, just in case, but there was no sound, no movement in response.

  “What’s wrong?” Mamm asked, her brow furrowed.

  “She’s not in the house, and she left no lunch waiting. I don’t know where she is.”

  Again, his eyes went to the loft. Just to be sure, he crossed to the ladder and began climbing, ignoring his mother’s protestations.

  “Clayton! Slow down! You’ll fall!”

  He made it three quarters of the way up without incident, high enough to see fully into the loft.

  It was empty save for numerous bales of hay and the old trunk.

  “Maybe she went over to her parents’ house,” his mother offered as he climbed slowly back down.

  “Would you go and see?” he asked, his heart leaden with worry. “I’m going to check the shop. Maybe she slipped into the back office and I didn’t notice.”

  “If she’s not at the Beilers’, I’ll come down and find you,” Mamm said as they parted ways outside the barn. “If she is there, I’ll send her down instead.”

  Clayton took off, moving as fast as he could along the sloping drive. As he went, the first flakes of snow began to fall.

  He reached the shop and unlocked and flung open the back door, but Miriam wasn’t there. He moved into the front room and peered out each window in succession, not even sure what he was looking for. She wasn’t out at the picnic table—not that she would be at this time of year. She wasn’t out on the street. She wasn’t in the parking lot.

  He wanted to hurry over to the Beilers’ himself and not wait for his mother or Miriam to come to him, but he knew that would be a mistake. If it was Mamm who came, she would return via the pasture and past the barn down their own driveway, and if it was Miriam, she would take the shortcut down the Beilers’ driveway. Either way, he would run the chance of missing them. Better he wait down here, so he closed up the shop and simply stood out back, where he could look in both directions.

  After several agonizing minutes, he saw his mother carefully making her way down the incline to the shop. He hobbled toward her.

  “Norman and Abigail haven’t seen her for days,” she said when they were within a few yards of each other. “But they understand our concern. They’re going to check around to see if she’s at a friend’s or… or the cemetery.”

  Even as she spoke, Clayton’s attention was drawn to his left, and he saw the Beilers’ buggy heading down their driveway toward the road, Miriam’s father at the reins. After a moment’s pause, Clayton continued hobbling toward the barn as his mother tagged along behind, insisting that Miriam probably just went off shopping or out for a stroll or something and that she would be back soon.

  “It�
�s thirty degrees out here with a big snow on the way, Mamm. Who goes for a stroll in weather like that?”

  He knew he was being harsh, not to mention disrespectful, but he couldn’t help himself. After weeks of keeping his temper in check, it sprang full force from his chest. He was angry.

  Angry at his mother, for leaving his wife home alone despite his concerns.

  Angry at his body, that he couldn’t run and find her.

  Angry at God, for allowing his beloved wife to turn into a madwoman.

  Angry at himself, for no longer believing that all would be well in the end.

  He opened his mouth to apologize for his tone, but as he looked back down the hill, he saw that a car was turning into the clock shop’s parking lot, a vehicle he recognized. The car of Miriam’s former employer. At the wheel was an attractive, elegantly dressed woman he assumed was Brenda Peterson.

  Next to Brenda, with no kapp and her hair hanging loose around her shoulders, was Miriam.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Relief flooded Clayton at the sight of his wife, safe and sound in the front seat of the Englischer’s car. But that momentary jolt of joy didn’t last long as his eyes focused on Miriam’s haggard appearance. Had she walked all the way to Brenda’s without a coat? Had someone come for her? Who? His heart was pounding with equal parts anger and worry as he started back down the hill.

  “Stay here,” Clayton said curtly to his mother. As he went, he saw Brenda emerge from the vehicle. He quickened his awkward pace as she seemed to spot him and began walking his way. The two of them met in the middle, Mamm behind them and Miriam in front of them, neither one close enough to hear what they might say.

  “Mr. Raber,” the woman said, extending a gloved hand. Clayton caught a whiff of expensive perfume and saw that her lips were painted a deep red.

  “It’s Clayton.” He briefly shook her hand, looking past her to see Miriam still sitting in the passenger side of the car thirty yards away.

  “I’m Brenda Peterson. Your wife worked for me this past spring.”

  “Ya. I know who you are. Thank you so much for bringing her home.” He started to step around her, but she reached out a hand to stop him.

  “Don’t you want to know how I’ve come to have Miriam in my car?”

  “I will ask her myself, danke,” Clayton replied as politely as he could. He had no desire to discuss his and Miriam’s troubles with an Englisch woman he didn’t even know.

  “She hitched a ride, Mr. Raber. From a total stranger. I don’t have to tell you how dangerous that can be.”

  Clayton swung back around to look at her as embarrassment, fear, and indignation swarmed inside him.

  The woman’s countenance softened. “Look. I know what happened with the baby and all. I know it’s been hard. But Miriam is wondering if she can stay with me for a little while.”

  “Stay with you?”

  “Actually, it was my idea. Maybe for a month or so. Maybe longer. I suggested it to her and she agreed.”

  A thousand angry responses swirled in Clayton’s head. When he couldn’t decide on one, Brenda went on.

  “She’s so unhappy right now, and I know you did a great thing by offering to marry her when she… well, you know. But with the loss of the child, I think it’s just been a bit too much.”

  How dare you come here and say such a thing to me? Clayton wanted to demand of her. But his mounting anger had rendered him speechless. He was aware that his mother was now standing a few inches behind him.

  Brenda continued. “I think she’s just a bit mixed up, is all. She’s certain Russell is in town again—”

  “Russell?”

  “The actor, the one she… saw for a time last spring.” At least the woman had the decency to blush. “Miriam thinks he’s come back into town to appear in the Christmas show. Today she was found banging on the stage door at the Fulton, demanding she be let in so that she could see him.”

  At these words a searing pain in his gut nearly sent Clayton to his knees. “Do not speak that man’s name,” he managed to utter through his clenched teeth.

  “I can understand how you feel about him, but that’s not the point.”

  “The point?” Clayton echoed, incredulous. Hurting. Livid.

  “Yes. The stage manager recognized Miriam as being my former housekeeper, and he called me rather than the police, which he could have, you know. She wouldn’t stop banging on the door. Whether Russell is actually in town or not, I doubt he would have wanted to see her.”

  Do NOT say his name! Clayton screamed inwardly.

  “Here’s what I think, Mr. Raber. I think she just needs a quiet place away from everything to come to terms with all that’s happened to her. She’s sad and lonely.”

  “She’s my wife!” Clayton roared, finally finding his voice.

  “Well, yes, you married her, but that doesn’t mean she’s not sad and lonely. She can’t help it if she still loves that other man. It doesn’t matter how much you don’t like hearing it. You can’t help who you love, Mr. Raber. That’s how love is.”

  Clayton took a step toward the woman, surprising himself with how strong he felt on his two legs, the normal one and the imperfect one. She cowered in front of him. “That is not how love is. Love doesn’t chase after a monster like that actor who treated Miriam as if she is worthless.”

  Brenda’s eyes widened, and she took a step back, fearful. “Look, all I’m saying is that girl in my car is hurting. You can’t fix that kind of pain with a marriage of convenience. You can’t make her love you. Not like this. Give her some time, and maybe—”

  Clayton would hear no more. “You and I are done here.” He moved past the Englisch woman but had taken only one step toward the vehicle ahead of him when he saw that the passenger side of Brenda’s car was empty, the door ajar.

  “Miriam!” Clayton yelled as he looked from side to side. Where could she have gone in so short a time without him noticing?

  He stumbled toward the car and then to the parking lot of the shop and the main road. Brenda caught up with him in no time.

  A tour bus was parked at the curb on the other side of the clock shop parking lot and a little crowd was gathered at its open doors. The snow began to fall more heavily now, as if sprinkling the people in ticker tape. Clayton looked for his wife among them and didn’t see her.

  “Miriam!’ he called out again.

  A friend Clayton recognized, the Englischer who owned the insurance company across the street, was in the throng of people, and he turned now to Clayton.

  “Clayton! I was just about to come looking for you. It’s your wife. She’s sitting inside that bus and won’t get off. The tour company wants to get going.”

  “She’s what?” Clayton said, though he’d heard every word perfectly. He just couldn’t believe it.

  “She’s on the bus,” the man said, pointing to the coach.

  “Oh, my!” Clayton heard Brenda exclaim from behind him.

  He turned to her. “I meant what I said. You and I are done. I’ll take care of this.”

  Brenda’s eyes flashed with anger. “You mean like you have been taking care of it already? This is what you call taking care of something?”

  Clayton ignored her taunting questions and pushed through the crowd. The driver was standing on the first step, clearly at a loss as to how to get the unticketed passenger off his bus. He stepped aside so Clayton could move past him and up the rest of the stairs. Miriam was sitting in the front row just behind the driver’s seat. Her hair was tumbled about her shoulders in tangles and there was no sign of her kapp. She held a fistful of dollars in her hands and was clutching them and staring straight ahead. Her eyes were vacant and wild.

  “Miriam,” he said when he was fully inside. “Time to go home.”

  She would not look at him.

  He took another step forward and put his hand gently on her wrist. “Let’s go home.”

  Her skin felt clammy beneath his touch. She looked down at hi
s hand and then again at the empty driver’s seat in front of her.

  “I have no home.”

  The air stilled in his lungs. God, help me. “Yes, you do,” he insisted, calmly but firmly. “Your home is with me.”

  “I have no home,” she said again, her tone defiant.

  He reached out again, more firmly this time. “Miriam, please.”

  Miriam shrank in her seat. “Get away from me!”

  Helpless, Clayton looked back toward the open bus door. Mamm was there now, but Brenda was nowhere to be seen. Clayton figured she had finally realized that his and Miriam’s personal lives were none of her business—either that, or she’d finally gotten a glimpse of Miriam’s deranged mental state and realized this was all much more than she was willing to handle.

  In addition to the passengers milling around the bus, curious bystanders had begun to accumulate and were now standing around watching. It wasn’t often you saw an Amish woman with her hair askew, arguing with her husband inside an Englisch touring coach.

  “There’s Norman,” Mamm cried, glancing out toward the road. She whirled away, waving frantically at the buggy that was about to pass by.

  Clayton returned his attention to Miriam. Instead of reaching toward her, he offered his hand as if to ask for a dance. “Here, Miriam. I’ll take you home. Everything will be all right.”

  She turned her head toward his outstretched hand and then gazed up at him, her eyes shiny with anger. “Everything will not be all right,” she hissed.

  And then she fixed her gaze upon him and said words that left him dumbfounded.

  “You wanted my baby to die!”

  For a few moments he could only stare at this stranger who was Miriam, the woman he loved. His wife.

  When he found his voice, he sensed the same rage inside him that was building in her. Rage at the world, at the fragility of the human body, at God that He had taken not only the child from Miriam but also her ability to be reasoned with.

  “Come,” he said curtly, leaning toward her. “We’re going home.”