The Amish Clockmaker

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “I did not push her,” he said, enunciating each syllable. “I reached out for her as she tried to run past me, and she whirled away and fell. She was… I don’t know what she was. After she lost the child, she started acting strangely, like something was inside her head whispering lies to her. She was not herself that day, and she hadn’t been since she lost the baby. I knew something was wrong, but everyone else thought there was an issue with our marriage, that we both wanted out because there was no longer any need for it once the baby was gone. But that wasn’t it! I loved Miriam! I wanted to be married to her. I always had. I wanted the child too. I wanted a big family and a long and happy life together. Even if she had stayed sick that way, like she was, I would have taken care of her. I loved her, whether something was the matter with her mind or not.”

  I sat up straight, my heart pounding at the thought that I’d forgotten to tell him that part. Becky still had the brochure, but I remembered most of what it said.

  “Miriam was sick, Clayton. Have you ever heard of something called postpartum psychosis?”

  His sad eyes widened. “What did you say?”

  “It’s a medical condition. It’s very rare but it can happen to a woman who’s had a baby—or lost a baby, for that matter. Someone who has the condition will perceive things differently from the way they really are. A woman who has it will act out in ways that aren’t like her at all. She might get aggressive or hear things that aren’t there or even see things that don’t exist. I just learned about it the other day, but as soon as I did, I realized it was probably what was wrong with Miriam back then. That’s why she was acting the way she was. She probably developed postpartum psychosis after she lost the baby.”

  Clayton seemed to need a minute to process this.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t think that’s anything you can blame yourself for. People didn’t understand that sort of thing back then like they do now.”

  “She really was sick,” he said in a whisper, to himself. “I knew that. I knew it. I knew it all along.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Clayton was so rattled by all by all he’d learned that I offered to make him a cup of tea. He accepted gratefully, probably more because he wanted some time to himself than because he needed something hot to drink. That was fine with me. I could use a moment too.

  Poking around in the small kitchen, I started some water to boil and managed to find what I needed in the cabinets. Five minutes later, I carried the steaming cup of tea back into the living room and set it on the coffee table in front of my host. As I resumed my seat on the couch, I saw that he still looked somewhat dazed, but after a few sips, he seemed to focus back in on me. Obviously wishing to change the subject, he asked what I had in the bag, so I pulled out the clock and unwrapped it.

  “Oh my!” he murmured, almost as if he were seeing a ghost.

  “This is your handiwork, isn’t it?” I leaned forward and carefully placed the beautiful timepiece in his lap. “It has your initials on it, along with a reference to a Bible verse about time. I’ve seen these initials before, carved into the cover of the window seat in your old bedroom.”

  He nodded. “ ‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.’ Ecclesiastes 3:1,” he said. “I put that verse on all my clocks.”

  Clayton ran his hand along the inlaid wood design on the front panel, an incredulous expression on his face.

  “I remember making this,” he said in wonderment, his eyes taking in the gleaming reddish-brown wood of the case. “It took something like eleven or twelve different woods to create this design. The woman who ordered it couldn’t make up her mind about anything. Took her three days just to pick which chimes she wanted.”

  His eyes were closed, and he was smiling as if he were listening to the music of the chimes now. In that moment, it wasn’t hard at all to picture the man in his element, building stunning creations like this one and selling them to folks who would treasure them for generations to come.

  “This was one of Miriam’s very favorite clocks I ever made,” he said when he opened his eyes again. “She would sit and watch me work on it for hours. That made me feel kind of self-conscious at first, but after a while I’d get so caught up in what I was doing that I’d forget she was there. Then some movement or noise would remind me, and I’d come back to the moment. And then I’d glance her way, and for just an instant I might see a look on her face, one that almost felt like love to me.” Clayton’s smile faded. “That’s what I told myself anyway.”

  When he spoke again, his voice held such melancholy and his old eyes glistened with emotion. “She was fond of me, quite fond, but she really didn’t love me, you know,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “That much of what people said about us was true. I believe she respected my work, and she enjoyed being with me, and my opinions mattered to her. She treasured our friendship, and I always felt like she would learn to love me over time. But if not, that was okay. I figured I loved her enough for the both of us.”

  I was surprised by his admission—not just that it might be true, but that he was still willing to admit it all these years later. How painful it must have been to love a woman so much and know your love was not returned.

  He dabbed at his eyes, cleared his throat, and seemed to come back to the present. His gaze returned to the clock. “The lady who ordered this was from out of state. Somewhere down south—Georgia or Florida, I think. How in the world did you come by it?”

  Now I was the one completely taken aback. All along, I’d been thinking Clayton was the one who had hidden the clock in the coal bin. He’d made it, after all, and it was his clock shop. But I could see now by the look on his face that this was not the case.

  “I found it hidden in the back room of the clock shop.”

  “You what?”

  “It was buried in the old coal bin in the wall of the back room. I assumed you’d put it there yourself.”

  “That can’t be… ” he murmured.

  Was he doubting my word?

  “I assure you, Mr. Raber, that’s where I found it. The day we began the expansion, we were taking down a wall and uncovered the old coal bin. I didn’t think anything of it, but a few days later my wife noticed it and was curious, and when she opened the door of the bin to look inside, this clock was down in there.”

  His already frowning brows shifted even lower. “I just don’t see how that can be possible.”

  “You weren’t the one who put it there?”

  “Why would I put such a finely crafted timepiece inside a filthy metal bin full of coal dust?”

  “Actually, someone had cleaned out all of the coal dust. The clock was wrapped up in a blanket and put down in there.”

  Clayton shook his head. “This doesn’t make any sense at all. The woman who bought this clock was staying at a nearby hotel, and she would slip over to the clock shop while her husband was playing golf.” His voice grew almost defensive, as if he wanted to make sure I knew he wasn’t crazy. “I spent quite a lot of time with her, designing it. Look, she even wanted this drawer with a recessed latch for hiding away her husband’s tobacco.”

  Lifting the piece with his gnarled old hands, Clayton ran a finger along the side, where the design featured a series of rectangles within rectangles, all inlaid with various colors of wood. But when he got to one rectangle, he pushed it with his thumb and it slid out sideways, revealing a small latch underneath. One push of the latch, and with a gentle sound of a tiny spring, the entire lower front panel popped forward, opening like a drawer. I gasped at the cleverness of the design and the fact that neither Amanda nor I had spotted it ourselves. I was about to say just that when I realized that something was inside the drawer. Clayton saw it too.

  “What on earth?” he mumbled as he pulled out what looked like a letter. After studying the envelope for a moment, he thrust it toward me, saying his eyes weren’t so good anymore and would I please take a loo
k and tell him what it said.

  “I can see enough to know that the letter is addressed to me,” he told me. “But what’s the name in the return address?”

  “Mrs. Homer Upton, Two River Road, Coral Gables, Florida.”

  “Upton! That’s it! That’s the name of the woman who ordered the clock! Pull it out, son. Is it a letter? What does it say?”

  I reached inside the envelope and pulled out a single folded sheet of paper. Opening it up, I saw that it was dated October 9, 1955, and had been written out in a tight, feminine script. Holding it toward the light, I squinted my eyes and tried to make out the words.

  Dear Mr. Raber,

  I regret to inform you that my beloved husband, Homer, passed away five days ago, just three weeks before our fortieth anniversary. Because of this, I am sure you will understand that I am canceling the order for the clock. I have no doubt it is quite beautiful, but I fear it would only bring me great pain to see it now, especially as he is no longer here for me to give it to.

  I realize you have already gone to a lot of trouble to make it, so I am not expecting a full refund. Please return to me by check whatever amount you think is fair. I will not think poorly of you if you decide you are unable to offer even a partial refund. I know you are an honest businessman and will handle the matter as you see fit. Thank you for all of your help, and again, I apologize.

  Sincerely yours,

  Florence Upton

  I looked over at Clayton, but he seemed as confused as I was. Why would a letter canceling an order for a clock be inside that very clock? It just didn’t make sense.

  We were both quiet for a minute, our minds racing, but then he spoke, and I realized he may have figured something out.

  “Of course. Miriam. She was the one who processed the mail. She was the one who adored this clock. She was the one who drove into town the day after it was finished and had it shipped off to the Uptons.” His eyes met mine, but I could not read the emotions there. “Miriam had… she had a fascination for fancy things. She struggled greatly with her desire to own stuff an Amish woman should not have. She had hidden items from me in the past so I wouldn’t take them away from her. Not long after we were married, I caught her with trinkets her Englisch employer had given her. She’d been hiding them away in a trunk up in the… in the hayloft. I insisted she get rid of them—and she did. But I’m thinking that all those months later, when this letter came in from Mrs. Upton, the temptation was simply too great. Miriam never said a word to me about the order being canceled, probably because she realized she could keep the clock for herself if she said nothing. She was probably waiting until I was finished with it and then just pretended to send it off. In truth, she must have hidden it away in the coal bin instead.”

  “But it’s a mantel clock. It belongs displayed on a shelf or mantel. How could she enjoy having it if was shoved in the bottom of an old, unused coal bin?”

  Clayton shook his head sadly from side to side. “You would have to have known her to understand. She couldn’t resist beautiful things. She needed to possess them. And though it was a great spiritual struggle for her, I have to admit… ” He shook his head again, only this time I realized that he was smiling. “Shame on me for saying it, but I have to admit that it almost feels good, knowing that the fancy item she chose to hang on to that way was something that had been made by me.”

  His words made perfect sense. Glad that he had figured it out, I returned the letter to its envelope and handed it back over to him. It wasn’t until he was about to place it back inside the little hidden drawer that he realized something else was there. Clayton set aside Mrs. Upton’s note and carefully removed a second envelope from the drawer.

  It was a pale lavender color and seemed to have no address or postmark or stamp on the front. Instead, only one word was written there in a flowing script: Clayton.

  The old clockmaker looked so shocked that I feared he might drop the clock. I jumped up from my seat to set it on the coffee table. Then I sat back down and watched as with shaking hands, Clayton opened the envelope and pulled out three matching lavender pages from inside.

  “Mr. Raber, are you okay? What is it?” His face had gone completely white and his hands were trembling violently.

  Without a word, he held out the pages to me.

  “Miriam wrote this to me,” he whispered. “Read it to me.”

  “Are you sure you don’t—”

  “Read it!” he commanded in a voice so loud and hoarse that it almost made me jump. “I’m sorry,” he added a second later, his tone somewhat softer and his eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t see to read it. Please.”

  On his face I could see both fear and excitement, dread and anticipation. Who knew what these pages might hold? Part of me couldn’t wait to find out, though another part wished the man’s eyesight were better so that he could do this alone, without me having to be any part of it.

  My own hands were shaking a bit as I looked down at the pages that had been scribed on both sides with delicate handwriting. The weathered stationery felt soft to my fingers, as though the years in hiding had turned its fibers into flannel.

  I began to read.

  Dearest Clayton,

  I can’t seem to find the words to tell you to your face what I want you to know, so I am writing them in a letter. I’m not sure when I will show this to you, or even if I will. Sometimes it just helps to put my thoughts down on paper, and this is one of those times.

  For many weeks now I’ve been thinking that I should never have let my parents talk you into marrying me. You are sweet and kind and the best friend I have ever had, and you deserve better than me.

  Somehow, even if it takes me years to figure it out, I will find a way to be the wife you deserve.

  I don’t know how to tell you that in the past month or so, my mind had been working on a terrible plan. The plan was that I was going to wait until the baby was born—which is still a few months away as I write this—and then I was going to leave you, and in fact leave Lancaster County. If I weren’t so afraid of bringing this baby into the world all on my own, I would have already left before now. I have no idea where I thought I would go, only that I was taking my child in the hopes of the two of us starting life anew elsewhere.

  But then this morning I overheard you and your mamm arguing in the mudroom, when she told you to go to the bishop and tell him I was being unfaithful. To my shock, you defended not only my honor but my broken, wounded heart. I was on the stairs, and all I could do was run back to our room with my hand on my mouth to cover my sobs so neither one of you would hear. Your love for me, despite all I have done and all that I am, absolutely astonishes me. In that moment, I realized that the very last thing on earth I wanted to do was to leave you or to leave this marriage.

  I want so much to love you the way you love me, Clayton. And it’s the wanting to that has me struggling to find the words to tell you this to your face. For the first time in my life, I think I am beginning to understand what real love is. I see you choosing to love me, every day, even when no one else around us can fathom why. Your love for me is deeper, purer, and stronger than anything I have ever known, and you have lavished it on me when I’ve least deserved it. How can I not respond in love back to you? I am learning to love you like that, Clayton. I can already sense the change in my feelings toward you.

  I’ve been very sad about having to get rid of the Englisch treasures you saw in the hayloft, and I can’t promise such a thing won’t happen again. If other beautiful items come my way in the future, I know I’ll be tempted to hang on to them. But I also know that it’s wrong of me, especially because then I’m forced to hide them from you. I promise I am working to conquer this longing to have what is not mine to have. I pray for strength, and though God has not delivered me from my love of worldly possessions, He has blessed me in other ways tenfold.

  You are my biggest blessing.

  You are the best man I know.

  You always ha
ve been.

  It is because you are this good man that I must ask something very hard of you. If anything should happen to me during childbirth, would you please raise up the infant yourself to be the kind of person you are? If God takes me, my parents will think you will not want this baby, but I know that if I ask this of you, you will do it out of that love for me that has me speechless before you.

  Just a little while ago you caught me with this letter, and even though I have given you reasons not to trust me in the past, you have given me your trust anyway. Every time you do something such as that, my heart grows closer to yours and my soul understands more than ever before what true love really looks like.

  I am trying, Clayton. Someday, I will be the wife you deserve, I promise.

  Miriam

  When I was finished reading, I looked over at Clayton and saw that he was leaning forward, his eyes closed, his elbows on his knees. Gnarled hands cradled his ancient face. It seemed such a private moment that I was witnessing and yet I could not bring myself to step away and leave the old man alone.

  For the last sixty years, Clayton Raber had quietly maintained his integrity, his identity, and the love he had for his wife in the only way he thought he could. In near solitude. For the last sixty years, he had thought he alone had been the one to love. Now he knew the truth.

  Miriam had loved him in return.

  Clayton was quiet for most of the drive into town and back again, though he managed to put on a friendly enough face for the notary public. After a week of my running around like crazy, all it had taken in the end to settle the entire property dispute was the quick signing of a name followed by the notary’s signature and seal. As I paid the woman and she handed the now-official quitclaim deed back to me, I put my hand on Clayton’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. There were no adequate words to describe my gratitude for what he had just done.

  We didn’t say a lot on the ride back, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. He and I had already shared so much in this day that in a sense we’d gone from strangers to the closest of friends in the space of just a few hours. That thought shouldn’t have surprised me, I supposed, as I had felt a bond with him ever since I was a young boy.