Brightest and Best (40 page)

“David would let us know if she took a turn for the worse,” Gideon said. Even without using a telephone number to call, a boy savvy enough to find a way to school in town right under his parents’ noses would find a way to send a message to Lindy’s family.

James scrutinized Lindy’s movements on Monday. She hardly limped at all. The forced bed rest necessitated by the flu had probably been good for her injured ankle. And five days after Ella found her stricken with sudden illness, Lindy seemed determined—and able—to return to her routine. She poured coffee for both of them while she told the story of Margaret Simpson catching Braden Truesdale red-handed with a bag of wooden toys from Lindy’s workshop.

“It’s as if he thought he was invincible,” Lindy said, “parading around the neighborhood like that a whole day after we discovered the items were missing.”

“And the note?” James said.

“It was handwritten,” Lindy said, “so it was easy enough to match up to Braden’s handwriting. Even Deputy Fremont managed to get a confession.”

“But why?” James wanted to know.

“Braden doesn’t like the Amish, and I’m the closest person he knows to the Amish.” Lindy added milk to her coffee.

“Lindy,” James said. “I’m you’re
onkel.
I know when you’re not telling me everything.”

Lindy stirred white milk into black coffee, her eyes set on the resulting caramel color.

James waited.

“I could have married, you know.”

James would wait, no matter how slowly Lindy wanted to unfold the truth.

“When Peter Kaufman was courting Rachel, I used to go riding with a young man named Ezekiel. His father had all sons and Ezekiel was the youngest. He had no land left to give Ezekiel, so Ezekiel looked for other work so he could save up a down payment on his own. He hired himself out to the Truesdale farm.”

“Truesdale? A farm?”

Lindy nodded. “Ezekiel worked there for years. Gray moved into town, and his parents died within months of each other. The truth is, Braden wasn’t much of a farmer. He just liked living out in the middle of nowhere all by himself. It was Ezekiel who kept the farm running.”

“So what happened?”

Lindy looked down into her coffee. “He wanted to marry me. I said no. He moved to Kansas. I moved into town.”

“And the farm?”

Lindy shrugged. “Braden lived out there on his own, I guess. But he never found another man who would put up with his eccentric ways. Last year I heard that the farm sold to a young Amish couple from Illinois.”

James folded his arms across his chest. “Braden must have known who you were.”

“I don’t know why he would.”

“I’m sure Ezekiel talked about you,” James theorized. “Braden knew your name. He blames you for losing his farm.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Of course it is. That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“But
Onkel
James, I never even met Braden Truesdale. I would not have known him if I met him on the street.”

“That’s what he was counting on. When he moved into town, he discovered you were here. Everyone in town knows you and your crafts. It can’t have been hard to find out where you live, especially after David moved in. He still dresses Amish. Anyone could have followed him.”

“I would never do anything to endanger David.” Lindy’s voice cracked. “He’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a son of my own.”

“I know.”

“Even if you’re right, it’s over.” Lindy pushed her coffee away, untouched. “He’s not out there skulking anymore. I won’t need to look over my shoulder every time I leave the house.”

“Where is Braden now?”

“He spent a night in the jail in Seabury before being transferred to Chardon to see a judge. I suppose that will happen today or tomorrow. He already confessed, so it’s only a matter of what his sentence will be.”

Braden deserved to be in jail for a long time. “Perhaps he will leave town when he gets out,” James said.

“Margaret will certainly be watching out for him.”

“She’s done so much for us,” James said.

“It has cost her dearly. I don’t expect to see Gray around the neighborhood anymore. He may not be the unstable brother, but he’s no friend of the Amish, either.”

James sipped coffee and then set the cup down carefully. “What have we done to offend them so?”

Lindy shrugged. “Sometimes all it takes is being different.”

James sat silently, looking over Lindy’s shoulder to the view outside her window.

“One day we will forgive them for all they have done,” Lindy said softly. “Braden, Brownley, Fremont—all of them.”

“You have a big heart,” James said.

“I’m not so un-Amish that I don’t understand the power of forgiveness.”

James pushed his cup away. “The important thing is that you are on your feet again. I promised to make deliveries.”

“I have a few things that Braden didn’t find,” Lindy said. “But before you go, tell me how
Aunti
Miriam is.”

“Good days and bad.” James stood and adjusted his hat. “I don’t like to leave her for too long. I’ll make the deliveries and then head back to the farm.”

“There’s a meeting with the school board this afternoon.” Lindy set her coffee cup in the sink. “Will you be there?”

“I’ll have to see.” James doubted he would leave Miriam on her own again that day.

M
argaret had not been invited to the late-afternoon meeting of the school board and representatives of the Amish families, but that was the least of her concerns. She closed up her classroom—still five pupils absent—and marched down to Main Street to the building where Mr. Brownley conducted such meetings. In the hall, she paused to compose herself before slipping into the room where the meeting was already in session.

“This is a closed meeting,” a young man said.

Margaret recognized him. He worked in Mr. Brownley’s office. He had popped up from a seat in the rear of the room where he had been taking notes on a yellow pad.

She smiled pleasantly and said, “I believe I’ll stay.”

“The men in this room are quite capable of conducting themselves without your assistance,” he said.

Annoyance welled, but Margaret contained it.

“I am an appointed member of the consolidation committee,” she said. Her official resignation letter was folded in an envelope in her satchel, but she had never submitted it. “I’m quite sure you know who I am, and I assure you I will not bite if you simply permit me to sit beside you.”

Margaret lowered herself into a stiff-backed chair against the back wall. With a huff, the young man picked up his pad and began scribbling, no doubt documenting her unwelcome intrusion.

She was relieved to see that Percival Eggar had insisted on meeting around a table, rather than the usual arrangement for school board meetings, where the board members sat in elevated chairs behind a long wooden desk and townspeople were left to present their positions from behind a railing, as if in a courtroom.

Mr. Brownley spoke from the front of the room. Naturally he had taken the seat at the head of the table.

“We agreed to this meeting,” he said, “and we will keep our word. But I must warn you that I see few grounds—if any—for altering the arrangement the law demands.”

Margaret ground her teeth. He had gotten what he wanted. The Amish children were in school. Now he had the gall to persist in his unflinching position even after he agreed to hear out the Amish fathers.

Percival Eggar spoke from the other side of the table. Margaret was glad to see he had chosen his seat in a manner that balanced Brownley’s position.

“We will now begin presenting our case,” Percival said. “We understand this is not a courtroom, and we trust that you will honor your word to hear us out.”

“I don’t have all day,” Brownley muttered.

Percival was unperturbed. “We have a number of people who wish to speak, beginning with Bishop Leroy Garber.”

The bishop rose and stood behind his chair. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. We are peaceful people and have no wish to antagonize anyone. You have acted in what you believe to be the best interests of children for whom you are responsible—on one level. This motivation is one we can admire. However, we respectfully disagree with the belief that what is best for your children is also best for ours. We ask that you hear not only our words, but also our hearts. I have asked Gideon Wittmer, one of the fathers whose children are affected by this crucial decision, to present the substance of our religious views and how they bear on our views of public education.”

Margaret wanted to applaud. She had never met the Amish bishop before, and no doubt Percival Eggar had coached him carefully, but she found his speech stirring even if it was merely a preamble to what Gideon had to say.

The bishop seated himself, and Gideon stood. Margaret laid her satchel flat in her lap and settled her hands against the leather.

“We find joy in work,” Gideon said simply. “We find joy in working with our hands, in laboring along with animals created by God, in tilling the soil, in cultivating our gardens. And we find joy in caring for one another, worshipping together in our church district, building together, harvesting together. We find joy in living apart from the ways which seem more ‘normal’ to you so that we may seek with all our hearts to be closer to God.”

Margaret leaned forward, watching Gideon closely as his feet began to wander away from the table.

“Nature is a garden,” Gideon continued. “Man is caretaker. God is pleased when man works in harmony with nature, the soil, weather, cares for plants and animals. Christian life is best maintained away from cities.

“We are preparing our children for eternity. Your concern is to educate them for life in the twentieth century, but our concern is that they be prepared to serve God both in this world and the next. The education you propose to offer them—to demand for them—will teach our children to despise the work which we have thrived on for hundreds of years. Colossians 2:8 warns us, ‘Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ.’

“It is our firm conviction that education beyond the eighth grade, which will lead our children into philosophies of this world, will not prepare them for eternity. Instead, it will lead them away from the ways of the people who know them best and love them most. How will advancing in the ways of this world be in their best interests if it takes them away from their own people?

“Because of these convictions, we cannot separate what we wish our children to learn in school from what we also teach at home. We do not put our religion in one stall of the barn and our learning in another with a wall in between. All of life is in God’s hands, and it is there we wish for our children to abide.”

Gideon found his chair again. Margaret let out the breath she had been holding, lest even this slight sound distract from Gideon’s message. It was Percival Eggar’s turn to stand.

“Gentlemen, as you can see, the Amish religion is not about believing something on Sunday and setting it aside for the rest of the week. The Amish truly
believe.
The course that Mr. Wittmer has so ably described is their way of following God. It is their deeply felt faith. I ask you, how can the freedom to demonstrate their beliefs in their actions be denied them in a place like America, which was founded on such liberties?”

“You should have gone,” Miriam said to James. “It would have made the most sense for you to stay in town all day.”

James shook his head. “What would I have done all day?”

“You could have stayed at Lindy’s and you know it,” Miriam said. “You should be at that meeting. You only came home because you think you have to look after me.”

James lifted the lid on the soup pot, trying not to think about how much of the afternoon Miriam had spent chopping the vegetables and browning the meat. At least she had done most of the work in the small
dawdihaus
kitchen. If she needed to, she could go lie on the bed for a few minutes. But moments ago the bus had dropped the children off at the top of the lane, and now Gertie pressed up against him.