grasp on Clara’s arm.
Clara winced at the effort required for her sister to speak at all. She would gladly sit all day and night with the girl, but Hannah was Rhoda’s child, and Rhoda wanted to care for her. Rhoda kissed Hannah’s forehead and stroked her cheek. Hannah’s fingers opened and her hand slid off Clara’s wrist.
“We’ll make ice cream,” Rhoda said. “You’ll like that on your throat, won’t you?”
Hannah nodded.
Clara stepped away.
“Don’t go,” Hannah said.
“I’m here,” Rhoda said, looking at Clara more than at her daughter. “Clara can go now.”
After twelve days, the Model T looked at home in the rickety Johnson outbuilding. And Andrew felt at home with it. A few days of neglect required him to tend to the chores on his own farm—Yonnie was right about that. Andrew did need to take care of his crop. But now he left most of his lamps and lanterns with the automobile so that whenever he had a few hours to work on it, he could see clearly what he was doing. At home, alone in the big house where he grew up, Andrew could move one or two lights around as he needed them, but he spent most of his evenings with the Model T. Jurgen Hansen was generous with suggestions—and even spare parts. Though he spoke English, Andrew was not a fluid reader in the language. Still, he took home the papers Jurgen gave him to study, painstakingly sounding out words his German mind did not immediately recognize.
The moon was waning now. Andrew left the Johnson land, but rather than turning toward his own farm, he let the horse amble in the other direction—toward the Kuhn farm and a path running through Hiram Kuhn’s fields. Experience in the last two years reinforced this inclination often enough that Andrew waited in the dark more frequently than anyone knew—even Clara. He waited for her. She would sometimes come out for a night walk, and he would “happen” to be staring at the stars when she did.
Andrew could hardly use that excuse tonight, though. The sky had clouded over while he adjusted the carburetor on the Model T. Dense humidity clung to the air, a portent of something more than an ordinary night in the middle of June.
Leaving the buggy, Andrew began to pace. The weight of the air deterred any real speed. Already the night’s clamminess stuck his shirt to his skin. He would not wander more than an eighth of a mile in either direction. It would be foolish for Clara to come out tonight into the hovering storm, but if she did, she would come to this spot.
He paced a hundred yards before pausing to consider the sky. Lightning flashed in the distance, but no thunder answered—yet. Clouds obscured any starlight. Even the moon, though visible, seemed dim.
The rain started then, at first an uncertain drizzle and then finding a rhythm. The next lightning strike seemed closer. Andrew turned back to his buggy.
If Clara would marry him, he would not have to wait for her under heavy, damp sky.
The way she giggled when they rode in the automobile, and waited patiently while he got it running again, made him more resolute than ever. Many of the church members might think Bishop Yoder was going too far in his preaching about shunning, but few would consider an automobile as easily as Clara had.
The blackness brightened again, and in that split second Clara saw the shape of Andrew’s buggy. She could turn around now, and he would never know she had been there. He would never have to see the stricken lines she felt in her own face.
But why else had she come if not with the hope that Andrew would be here?
“Andrew!” she called into the dark. Clara hastened her pace in a direct path to where the lightning had revealed the buggy to be.
“Clara!”
Though she could not see his form, his voice answered with an eager ring, and Clara moved faster. The rain was steady now, a falling river that drenched and chilled.
The afternoon had stretched endlessly, with Hannah whimpering in illness
Clara winced at the effort required for her sister to speak at all. She would gladly sit all day and night with the girl, but Hannah was Rhoda’s child, and Rhoda wanted to care for her. Rhoda kissed Hannah’s forehead and stroked her cheek. Hannah’s fingers opened and her hand slid off Clara’s wrist.
“We’ll make ice cream,” Rhoda said. “You’ll like that on your throat, won’t you?”
Hannah nodded.
Clara stepped away.
“Don’t go,” Hannah said.
“I’m here,” Rhoda said, looking at Clara more than at her daughter. “Clara can go now.”
After twelve days, the Model T looked at home in the rickety Johnson outbuilding. And Andrew felt at home with it. A few days of neglect required him to tend to the chores on his own farm—Yonnie was right about that. Andrew did need to take care of his crop. But now he left most of his lamps and lanterns with the automobile so that whenever he had a few hours to work on it, he could see clearly what he was doing. At home, alone in the big house where he grew up, Andrew could move one or two lights around as he needed them, but he spent most of his evenings with the Model T. Jurgen Hansen was generous with suggestions—and even spare parts. Though he spoke English, Andrew was not a fluid reader in the language. Still, he took home the papers Jurgen gave him to study, painstakingly sounding out words his German mind did not immediately recognize.
The moon was waning now. Andrew left the Johnson land, but rather than turning toward his own farm, he let the horse amble in the other direction—toward the Kuhn farm and a path running through Hiram Kuhn’s fields. Experience in the last two years reinforced this inclination often enough that Andrew waited in the dark more frequently than anyone knew—even Clara. He waited for her. She would sometimes come out for a night walk, and he would “happen” to be staring at the stars when she did.
Andrew could hardly use that excuse tonight, though. The sky had clouded over while he adjusted the carburetor on the Model T. Dense humidity clung to the air, a portent of something more than an ordinary night in the middle of June.
Leaving the buggy, Andrew began to pace. The weight of the air deterred any real speed. Already the night’s clamminess stuck his shirt to his skin. He would not wander more than an eighth of a mile in either direction. It would be foolish for Clara to come out tonight into the hovering storm, but if she did, she would come to this spot.
He paced a hundred yards before pausing to consider the sky. Lightning flashed in the distance, but no thunder answered—yet. Clouds obscured any starlight. Even the moon, though visible, seemed dim.
The rain started then, at first an uncertain drizzle and then finding a rhythm. The next lightning strike seemed closer. Andrew turned back to his buggy.
If Clara would marry him, he would not have to wait for her under heavy, damp sky.
The way she giggled when they rode in the automobile, and waited patiently while he got it running again, made him more resolute than ever. Many of the church members might think Bishop Yoder was going too far in his preaching about shunning, but few would consider an automobile as easily as Clara had.
The blackness brightened again, and in that split second Clara saw the shape of Andrew’s buggy. She could turn around now, and he would never know she had been there. He would never have to see the stricken lines she felt in her own face.
But why else had she come if not with the hope that Andrew would be here?
“Andrew!” she called into the dark. Clara hastened her pace in a direct path to where the lightning had revealed the buggy to be.
“Clara!”
Though she could not see his form, his voice answered with an eager ring, and Clara moved faster. The rain was steady now, a falling river that drenched and chilled.
The afternoon had stretched endlessly, with Hannah whimpering in illness
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