Brightest and Best (15 page)

“It’s never been like David to act like this,” Rachel said. “I don’t know where he could be going.”

Ellie busied her eyes searching for dry beanstalks to pull, but she could do little to divert her ears.

“I can’t watch him every minute of the day,” Jed said. “Nor should I have to. He’s fifteen and capable of doing a man’s work.”

“Perhaps you should talk to him again.”

“And say what? I’ve said it all before. Would he have defied his father this way?”

Ella held her breath. Rachel gave no answer.

“I have to see to the hay myself. The animals shouldn’t suffer because of David’s willfullness.” Jed grunted and tramped out of the garden.

Ella yanked another bare stalk and tossed it in the pile. Either Rachel refused to see the obvious or she was more naive than Ella thought. It could not be coincidence that David’s odd behavior began the same week school resumed session. He was not gone every day, nor all day, but his absences roughly coincided with the same hours Seth was legitimately off the farm to attend school. How David was getting to Seabury and back, Ella didn’t know. But she did not have be an
English
professor to know where he was spending his lapsed hours.

Looking over the waning vegetation, Ella gave her stepmother a flimsy smile, grateful in the moment that it was not her place to advise what Rachel should do with her recalcitrant son.

“I told Joanna Hershberger I’d bring some cotton cloth she could use for the baby,” Rachel said. “I don’t think I’m up to taking it. Will you go?”

“Of course. I’m almost finished here.”

Ella waited for Rachel, sniffling, to finish collecting squash and haul the basket toward the house before raking through the soil at the base of the spent bean plants and returning the rake to the tool shed. She went to the well to pump water over her hands, her mind muddled over whether the Hershbergers had made the right choice to keep their children home.

News of Isaiah Borntrager’s impulsiveness had spread through the farms in the last ten days. Jed had driven over to the abandoned school to see for himself the further damage Isaiah’s shenanigans had caused. On James’s behalf, Gideon had taken a horse and ridden out to speak privately with Isaiah before mounting freshly painted signs on the old school warning off additional disturbance. If the school district did not do something soon, Gideon told Ella, he would gather a crew to safely dismantle the structure before anyone else got hurt. Gideon’s report of the school board meeting two days ago—and Mr. Brownley’s hostility afterward—did not suggest the board members were concerned with the decrepit building.

Ella fetched the cotton from the house and hitched up the open buggy. She would use it for as many days as the weather remained fine. Winter would come soon enough and necessitate enclosed transportation.

The Hershberger infant seemed no closer to a routine than the last time Ella visited, and Ella saw no books or papers to indicate schooling was under way for the older children. In fact, the baby screamed over much of the brief conversation Ella had with the tiny girl’s exhausted mother, who gave one distracted instruction after another to her eldest daughter about the care of the younger ones. Ella’s presence only added to the chaos, and she did not stay long.

When Ella went past the school on her way home, she paused to gaze on the broken shell, still stunned to see what had become of the school she had loved. Most of the teachers came straight from the teachers college and only stayed two or three years before marrying or moving to a more progressive school. As a pupil, Ella was always curious about each new teacher who arrived with untarnished energy and dedication. Only one of them ever expressed exasperation with Ella’s barrage of questions about what they read or her perseverance to complete the work of a higher grade level.

Tobias and Savilla had experienced this school, where teachers found ways to feed the minds of the Amish pupils without crossing their parents. Gertie’s impressions of school were in the hands of Margaret Simpson, who was a kind individual but who believed in progressive education. The old school stirred warm memories. The new school reminded Ella more of a sleeping, unpredictable monster.

A black-capped chickadee settled on a haphazard pile of crumbling roofing, its orange-hued sides shimmering in the September sun as it dipped its head and pecked, searching for edible tidbits. Ella wondered if David had seen this bird.

Ella sighed.
David. This is not the way.

T
he wagon coming toward Ella could only be Aaron King’s.

His hitch had been unbalanced for years, causing the team to pull slightly to the right. Aaron insisted it was hardly any trouble to compensate with the reins and saw no reason to repair or replace the hitch. Trying not to laugh at the spectacle, Ella gave him wide berth in the road and returned his wave.

Aaron carried a full load of lumber, some of it hanging precariously off the open back end of his wagon. Ella scrunched her face.

Aaron’s barn was fairly new, raised at a frolic only three years ago. The last time the church met at his home, Ella hadn’t noticed it was in need of repairs—certainly not enough to explain the size of the load in his wagon. Besides, he was headed east, not south toward his farm. Curious, Ella turned her cart around in the road and urged her single horse into a canter to keep Aaron in view. With each turn he took, Ella became more persuaded of his destination.

The Mast farm.

Ella followed Aaron to the west end of the Mast farm, to a pasture Chester had left fallow the last two years. Her eyes widened at the view.

Two buggies, three wagons, and a total of nine men and older boys. They descended on Aaron’s wagon to unload. Chester had been the boss at the last two barn raisings. Now he glanced at each piece of lumber and pointed to where it should be laid.

Ella glanced across the Mast acres. The crew was a long way from the house or barn, and the shape taking place before her eyes was too large for an ordinary outbuilding.

A gasp caught her by surprise. Chester strode toward her.

“Keep your eyes in your head,” he said.

Slowly, she rotated her head to look him in the eye. “You’re putting up a school.” The layout was identical to the collapsed building.

“We won’t get it up today,” Chester said. “We need a lot more lumber, and some glass for the windows, and a woodstove. But yes, a school.”

“But …” Ella did not know how to finish her sentence. She swallowed. Did Gideon know about this?

“Gideon did a fine job speaking to the school board,” Chester said, as if reading her thoughts, “but I know a stubborn face when I see one. That Mr. Brownley has no intention of altering an iota of his plan.”

“Surely he will not sit idle and let you build a school.”

“I don’t require his permission. It’s my land. I’ll build whatever I want on it. The building won’t belong to the
English.
It will belong to us, and we’ll use it as we see fit.”

Ella’s heart boomed. “You’re very bold.”

Chester swung his arm wide at the other fathers and sons. “We are bold together—bold in obedience.”

The men’s movements were fluid, cooperative, effective. Aaron’s load had not been the first to arrive. Already four trestles were laid out, ready to answer the call to hold up a roof.

“It’s a fine place for a school, wouldn’t you say?” Chester beamed. “A quiet corner with a view of God’s goodness, but close enough to the road that it will not be difficult for our families to reach.”

Ella nodded. Chester had chosen well. Pupils could come out of school and look toward an expansive sky with a band of deciduous trees fluttering against the horizon. Mast wheat would rise in golden rolls before their eyes to the east, and Borntrager cattle would dot the verdant pasture to the west. Amish children would know that the land was God’s generous gift and learn their role in caring for it.

“It will be lovely,” she said. “Truly. But Mr. Brownley will still consider our children truants. We won’t be authorized to hold classes.”

“We do not need the state’s approval to educate our children. We are perfectly capable.”

“But we don’t even have a qualified teacher.”

“We’ll find one. And when we do, we’ll be ready.”

James Lehman entered the Seabury Consolidated Grade School without fanfare. No bell. No knocker. He pushed open the oversized door and went in. The interior of the school resembled many
English
buildings constructed in the last decade or so and matched what James expected.

Standing in the main corridor, he sought his bearings. Tasteful signs in modern script announced the purposes of the rooms or gave cryptic instructions. A
RT
. M
USIC
. L
ADIES
. G
ENTLEMEN
. P
RINCIPAL’S
O
FFICE
T
HIS
W
AY
. C
LASSROOMS
A
BOVE
. P
LEASE
U
SE
S
TAIRS AT
R
EAR
.

James was not there to speak to the principal, and he was not curious about
English
art or music lessons, which would have no relevance for the Amish children. He wanted to see Gertie in the setting that seemed to make her happy, look in on Savilla because she seemed less happy, and take Gideon a report.

He passed the office—where he saw no one in attendance anyway—and followed instructions to use the broad rear stairs. On the second floor, another set of scripted signs gave pertinent information. It was not hard to find the one that said, G
RADE
1, M
ISS
S
IMPSON
. James turned the knob, and the door opened easily.

Chalkboards, desks, books, a globe, cheery letters and pictures of animals attached to the walls. It looked like any classroom ought to, but was brightened by a bank of electric lights.

The woman at the front of the room paused with her chalk in midair. “Can I help you?”

“Miss Simpson?” James said.

“That’s right.”

“Then I’m in the right place.” He stepped into the room.

“Sir—”

Gertie squealed, slid out of her seat, and hurtled toward him. “This is my
onkel
James.”

James warmed with the enthusiasm of the introduction and received Gertie’s hug, lifting her the way he would have after school in the
dawdihaus.

“Is Gertie needed at home?” Miss Simpson set down her chalk.

“All is well at home,” James said. “I only wanted to see for myself.”

“Class is in session,” Miss Simpson said. “If you’d like to come back after school, I will be happy to answer any questions you have.”

James surveyed the rows of desks and the pairs of eyes of their occupants. On one side of the room, a little boy squirmed. At the back, two little girls leaned their heads together and snickered.

Did they snicker at Gertie that way? Which one was Polly?

He set Gertie down and turned back to Miss Simpson. “I won’t disturb you. I’ll stand in the back.”

The teacher’s jawline tightened, but her voice retained its cordiality. “The principal did not mention to me that I should expect a classroom visit. I might have been better prepared.”

“I haven’t spoken to the principal,” James said. “I only wanted to observe the class.” The request seemed unremarkable to James. At the old school, he stopped in three or four times each year. Others did the same. The children were part of the church community. Why should adults not be interested in their surroundings?

“Gertie,” Miss Simpson said, “would you mind taking your seat, please?”

Gertie tilted her head back to look at James, who nodded. Smiling and waving over her shoulder, she returned to her seat next to Hans Byler.

Miss Simpson took several steps closer to James. “I’m afraid that without Mr. Tarkington’s knowledge—and approval—I cannot invite you to stay.”

Why did he need an invitation? He was already there.

“You see,” she said, “our policy is that visitors should make arrangements through the office.”

“I was in town on other matters,” James said. “It’s on my way home.”

“I understand, but I must ask you to leave. Make the proper arrangements, and you will be welcome to visit another time. It’s in the best interest of the children.”

“I don’t require any special attention,” James said. If she had simply let him go to the back of the room when he came in, the children would have forgotten he was there and her penmanship lesson would be well on its way to completion.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,” she said. “I have the principal to answer to on the matter.”

It was the most ridiculous thing James had heard in a long time. Why would the school discourage families from knowing what happened in the classroom? But Miss Simpson seemed like an earnest young woman trying to do the right thing, so he nodded in reluctance.