All in good time, p.4
All in Good Time, page 4
Clara sat back on her heels, smiled up at him, and told him to get down and help. Being the kindhearted person he was, he obeyed, scrambling beneath the couch with his large hands to look for missing pieces. When the puzzle was all put back in the box, they got to their feet, except Oba, who had no idea how he’d get back on his chair without the benefit of one knee to support him as he pulled himself up with the other. May moved forward to help, but Clara pushed her back, made a face to warn her away. Before she could stop him, Andy moved forward, stood above, and asked if he needed help.
“I don’t know how I can get up,” Oba answered.
“Well, you can’t. Here. I’ll hook my arms beneath yours and lift.”
Clara stepped up, pushed the wheelchair closer. “Here. Grab hold of the arms. Put your weight on your knee, then pull.” She motioned Andy away.
To her surprise, Oba did what he was told. She put the brake on both wheels, then grasped the handles, putting all her weight against the pressure he applied as he struggled to pull himself up. He tried, much to his credit, but his arms were still weak, too weak to lift up his own weight.
Then Eli stepped up. He put one small, dark hand beneath Oba’s arm and said, “Come on, Uncle Oba. You can do this. Your arms are strong from using the crutches.”
Oba’s face was red from exertion, his legs shaking from the unusual position. He felt dizzy, disoriented, forgot Andy, May, or Clara, but was gripped by an overwhelming need to do this, to prove to himself the fact that he could accomplish the impossible. He gripped the handles again and squeezed his eyes shut as he strained to lift the weight of his own body.
Clara braced herself each time he made another attempt. May looked as if she would burst into tears, but Andy seemed to get the message and stood back, crossing his arms.
Finally, when he pulled himself halfway, with Eli shouting encouragement, he teetered on the brink of losing his balance, before righting himself.
“Take your time,” Clara said.
And he did. Perspiration beaded on his upper lip, he shook like a leaf, and he was on one foot, gripping the arm of the wheelchair in a viselike clench.
Andy stepped forward. Clara motioned him back.
And Oba turned, sat panting in the wheelchair, his head lowered as he regained his breathing.
“You did it, Uncle Oba! Yay!” Eli shouted, dancing on tiptoes.
And Oba smiled. He shook his head and smiled a rueful grin of embarrassment mixed with a sliver of pride. For the first time since the plane wreck, he felt a sense of purpose, even if it was a very small one.
He felt two hands on his shoulders, rubbing appreciatively.
“You did it, Oba. Imagine what you can accomplish from here on out.”
He dismissed the rising irritation at Clara taking the liberty to rub his shoulders the way she’d praise a dog or a horse and resisted shrugging off the touch of her hands. When had he last felt the touch of another adult? It was odd to be praised and, yes, touched. When she took her hands away, he almost wanted her to rub his shoulders again.
Almost.
The evening was a great success. The ice cream mix was put in the hopper, ice chipped off a block with an ice pick, salt added in layers to melt it efficiently. The end result was a creamy concoction with chunks of fresh peaches on the side, a bowl of buttered popcorn, and steaming cups of coffee.
Oba was quiet, for the most part. He watched the children interact with Clara, thought it a pity she would never be a mother. She tried drawing him into the conversation repeatedly, but the only reward for her effort was a mere shrug or a nod, sometimes a “yeah.”
“So, Oba, when are we going to Cleveland?” she asked, as she gathered dishes to take to the sink.
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“That is no answer. You need to see what a good, experienced doctor will say. Please? For Andy and May?”
He shook his head.
Then Clara did something totally unlike her. She knelt in front of him, took both his hands, and asked, “Promise me you’ll think about it?”
He looked down at the the long fingers without freckles, the thumbnail chipped and broken, wondered how much work this woman accomplished in a day. The touch of her fingers, her hands, were not repulsive. He could not have imagined this a few months ago—even a few hours ago—would have done anything to avoid her.
He nodded.
She pressed his fingers with gratefulness.
“Good. Just think about it.”
COUNCIL MEETING MEANT lengthy church services, which only the adults attended, which meant leaving the children with older children who were responsible at childcare, or someone from another district would keep them at their house.
The services were made up of stories in the Old Testament, the lessons of the fawa eldra (forefathers), the ones whose lives all led up to the coming of Jesus. These stories were an important part of Amish culture, kept in high esteem, as was the telling of the ordnung (rules) afterward.
To most of the congregation.
There would always be the stragglers, the rebels who found it difficult to be put into the same box as those who loved obedience . . . such as those who enjoyed bright colors and red scarves and kept a radio under their bed, who dealt in horses and scorned any smidgen of piousness or self-righteousness.
For council meeting, Clara dressed in a plain brown dress, combed the brilliant red hair into submission with a wet comb, put on an expression of hopeful acceptance, and went to church, driving the quiet, aged Standardbred she hoped would raise no eyebrows. Council meeting was serious stuff, although she didn’t really get it, the way it was so important to wear plain shoes or tie your covering just so, or why she couldn’t have a small tractor to haul manure. Plus, her conscience prickled uneasily, thinking of the radio under the bed. That, and the last horse she’d sold Enos Schlabach wasn’t quite the trotter she’d told him he was, the way he shied about trucks and flapping objects beside the road. She soothed herself by thinking he deserved to be spooked a couple of times, the way his eyebrows wiggled at her, plus those few suggestive remarks.
She knew she was not truly attractive or desirable, so he must be flirting out of pity, to make her feel better about herself. Well, she didn’t need some married hayseed to make her feel attractive. She was downright homely, an old maid without the blessing of any physical beauty, and this came from God, so why worry her head about it? When May and Andy married, of course she’d gone through her own shadowed valley of longing, who wouldn’t? But that was past now, and she’d gone back to living alone, working with the horses and listening to her new radio in the evening.
And now there was Oba. Her personal mission. She was going to fix that guy, no matter what. Whoever heard of a perfectly good man going to waste like that? She had a pretty good idea of what he’d gone through down in Arkansas, though she guessed even May probably didn’t know all of it. Well, no excuse. Water under the bridge, gone with the sands of time. Folks had to pick up the leftover pieces of their past and keep going, their faces to the sunny future.
And that May. Sorry, but she was part of the problem. She did way too much for him, like a jumping jack the minute he yelled for something. And he did yell. Sat there like a big lump and demanded a cup of tea, a glass of water, the paper, a spoon. Come on. And that habit of not talking. There was nothing about that whole deal she could stomach. She felt like reaching out and slapping him.
He was very handsome, so easy to look at. Just a gorgeous man, that was all there was to it, with that blond hair and brown eyes, just like May. Those perfect features, the chiseled chin with a dimple in the middle. She knew a handsome man when she saw one, and Oba was one of them. The reason she could freely talk to him, touch his shoulders, argue her point about the prosthesis was the fact she could never allow herself to be attracted to him. He was a good bit younger than she was—he was like a nephew, a cousin, perhaps a brother, in time.
Yes, the rehabilitation of Oba Miller was up to her, and her alone, so it was a good thing indeed, this not being blessed with physical attributes. She was older, homely, and free of any thoughts that would eventually lead to heartache or disappointment.
She didn’t enjoy council meeting much and spent most of the time thinking about Andy, May, and Oba. She knew the neighbor girl, Emma, had been asked to watch the children. Joe Troyer’s Emma, a young sober girl who had not yet become a member of the church. She was pretty enough, so Clara imagined Oba talking to her, perhaps striking up a friendship. Wouldn’t that be something? She wondered what a young girl would think of a boy with one leg, then dismissed the thought. One thing at a time. First, get him the leg; second, get him back to work; and third would be finding him a companion. Which led to the big question. Would he ever return to his Amish roots? He certainly had no intentions the way he sneered about it all, but who knew?
She awoke from her intense thinking and planning when the minister repeated the phrase used before prayer, then fell on her knees with the rest of the congregation, covering her face with her hands so everyone would think she was deep in prayer even though she was actually thinking about that horse she sold Enos and hoping he wouldn’t shy too much. Not enough to cause an accident. The radio under her bed weighed on her shoulders, but she shrugged it off and told God she’d get rid of it tomorrow.
She helped serve the meal after services, carrying trays of cheese and pickles, spoke to her friends, the married women, the elderly ones. Relieved to be free of another council meeting for six months, she felt quite buoyant and happily carried bowls of bean soup to the cloth-covered table. She was pleased to bump into May, giving her a huge smile.
“Come over this evening, Clara,” May said. “Do.”
“Oh, I don’t know, May. It’s late already. Who would do my chores?”
“You can do them late. I made meatloaf, your favorite.”
Clara’s eyes lit up. “You make the best.”
THEY SAT AROUND the kitchen table enjoying heaping plates of the fragrant meat loaf, mounds of mashed potatoes with browned butter, fried zucchini, applesauce, and slices of homemade bread with raspberry jam.
Clara leaned back when May appeared with a German chocolate layer cake, frosted with brown sugar, coconut, and pecan frosting, and a bowl of late peaches with whipped cream.
“You are the best cook in Ohio,” she observed.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” May said, color rising in her delicate cheeks. She never took a compliment easily, always blushed or denied anything and everything, which Clara found endearing. She was one of the few genuinely humble people she had ever found. Lots of people trained themselves to appear humble, strove to be quiet and sweet and everything a good Christian should be, but were not truly poor in spirit, meek, the way May was. She hoped their friendship would last as long as they both walked the earth together. Or until the end of the world, the way Jess Detweiler had spoken of Christ’s second coming being so soon, the way the world was headed for destruction by the evils of man.
She cut a slice of cake, leaned over to ask Eli if he wanted any, laughed outright when he wrinkled his nose and whispered, “I hate coconut. It gets in my teeth.”
Andy grinned. “What did you say, Eli?”
“I don’t want a piece of cake. Just peaches.” He looked apologetically at his mother, who nodded knowingly.
“It’s alright, Eli. I know you don’t like coconut. I made the cake for Clara.”
Oba looked up from his plate.
“Clara rates pretty high around here, I noticed,” he said, sarcasm biting uncomfortably.
With the ease of her self-confidence, Clara seamlessly assembled her weapon. “Why wouldn’t I? I saved your sister.”
“Yeah.” A rude mockery.
Clara put down her fork, gripped the edge of the table with both hands, and said slowly and quietly, “Well, unlike you, some people recognize kindness, then appreciate the fact they needed someone in their time of trouble. See how happy they are? This family? Yes, I was there for her. I was only a link in God’s plan, but I was there.”
Oba was silent.
An uncomfortable silence hovered over the table, the only sound the steady scraping of utensils on china, a glass lifted, the squirming of the children. Oba glanced at Clara, dressed in a decent color for once, saw the lack of embarrassment, saw how completely situated in her own sense of worth she really was. She spoke her mind, simply flung it out there, and calmly took the response without flinching. There was nothing hidden, no guile, nothing.
For the first time, he recognized a spark of something other than distaste. If she had really saved May, was that why Eli, and May for that matter, were accepted as a part of the Amish church? He could only imagine her headlong attempt at persuading those in charge.
His curiosity won over, and he opened his mouth, then closed it again when May said, “You were definitely a link, Clara.”
“I was. And I’ve been blessed by it.”
“Were you . . .?” He stopped
“Was I what?”
“Were you the one who persuaded the Amish it was okay to accept her?”
“Well, I talked to the ministers. The deacon and the bishop.”
Oba looked at her, found the yellow-green eyes looking back, open and as frank as a child’s. He couldn’t help comparing her to the poor girl who had come to keep the children. What was her name? Emma? Such a pitiful mess, completely undone by his appearance, scurrying around like a frightened mouse, keeping her distance as if he would growl and leap after her in his wheelchair.
Clara was a mature woman, sure of who she was, completely unattracted to him. He was, or had been, accustomed to giggles and batted eyelashes, open flirtatious smiles containing vain and empty egos. Well, except for Sam. She had been different.
She had been his first and only love. The stirrings of desire he had felt as a youth did not compare with his feelings for Sam. A shadow passed over his features, a sadness softened his eyes. A love lost was better than not having loved at all. Wasn’t that a true saying? He would forever cherish the image of Sam swinging the wonderful curtain of blue-black hair, gathering, twisting it into a ponytail. If they could have been together, the sight of her would have been sufficient, enough oxygen for his survival.
He could never go back. Even if he gave in to the thought of an artificial limb, the skills the Northwest required were far above anything he could hope to attain. To take Sam out of her natural environment would be nothing short of cruel. It was over, but he could cling to the images of her beauty for the rest of his life, which was something.
He looked up to find himself under scrutiny, Clara’s eyes boring into him without actually seeing him at all.
“You know, Oba. You need to go with me. I know you won’t make the phone call I want you to make, so I’m going to go ahead and do it. I’ll get a driver. Andy and May can accompany us, and we’ll make a day of it. Do some shopping. Andy’s mom could keep the children. Right, Eli? You love to go to Mommy’s house.”
He nodded. “Where would you go?” His little brow was puckered with confusion. In the insulated world in which the children lived, Cleveland, a doctor, an artificial leg—all these things were completely foreign, so he had reasons to be alarmed.
Patiently, Andy explained the hospital, the city, everything.
“Well, then, I want to go.” Eli was adamant; he wanted to see these building and all the cars and the people.
May looked at Andy and an agreement passed between them.
“We’ll talk about it, sonny,” Andy said kindly.
“Just a minute here,” Oba growled. “I’m not going. That’s it.”
“Oh, come on. You are, too. It doesn’t mean you have to get the limb immediately—it’s just so you can talk to a doctor and consider your options.”
Clara was buzzing with frustration. She rose from her chair to pour herself yet another cup of coffee, raised the pot, and asked if anyone else wanted more.
“I won’t sleep well if I drink another cup,” May said, laughing.
“Oba?”
He shook his head.
“Well, it’s settled then. I’ll do the calling on the telephone and be over sometime next week to let you know.”
“Wait a minute. I told you ‘no.’ I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are going. All expenses paid. It’s your only chance at a half-decent life. I’m simply not accepting a refusal. After you’ve talked to a doctor, you can make your own decision, but the first shove in the right direction comes from me.”
“But why?”
“Well, Andy and May will be moving to the farm soon, and Andy could use some help from a man. That farm has a lot of acres, well over a hundred. He can’t do all the work by himself.”
“I told Andy I’m not a farmer.”
“You can become one. What else would you do? You’d have an awful time making it in the world, and you know it. What kind of job is available for . . . for someone like you?”
“Say it. Say ‘handicapped,’” he sneered.
“You want me to use that word? Alright. You are handicapped, and will remain handicapped until you decide to do something about it.”
“A . . . a fake leg is no promise.”
“It’s a beginning.”
Andy agreed with Clara, voicing his opinion in his usual low-key manner, and when May saw Oba was not becoming pinned in, irate, lashing out the way he always did, she added her opinion of approval as well. Eli listened, absorbing the adult conversation the way he absorbed everything, with studied concentration and a mind seemingly older than his years.
“Do it, Uncle Oba. Do it for Dat and Mama and me and Lizzie and Fronie.”
He thought awhile, then added. “And for Clara.”
CHAPTER 4
IN THE FOLLOWING DAYS, OBA BECAME LOST IN INDECISION and feelings of frustration. He wished he’d never met Clara, although he no longer thought of her in the derisive terms he had previously. He kept to himself, putting up an invisible shield. May understood and didn’t interfere; she explained to Andy the silence was his way of shutting the world out.
