All in Good Time, page 2
“Yeah.”
But he clearly did not want to be questioned or included in a conversation, so May’s eyes swept over him before she sighed and put Fronie on the grass with a spoon to play with, smoothed the pleats of her white apron, and turned to Andy, giving him a bright smile.
IT WAS ON a hot Sunday afternoon, the time of day when most folks are resting in a breezy spot outdoors, or finding the coolest spot in the house to stretch out on the couch, when the rattle of steel wheels on gravel awoke Andy from his semi-sleeping beneath the maple tree in the backyard. May was putting Fronie to bed, and Oba sat in his wheelchair on the lawn, reading a book he had no interest in but had picked up out of boredom.
The open, roofless courting buggy was occupied by a lone woman. Oba watched the horse. He didn’t know much about horses, but that looked like a good one. He thought May had promised him there would be no visitors.
Andy got to his feet, strode across the lawn, extended a hand, and shook the woman’s hand. Hard, from what Oba could tell. She turned to tie her horse, then dusted her hands by clapping them together, drawing up the corner of her brilliant lime green apron, and wiping them well.
The screen door was thrown open, and May appeared, both arms extended, rushing to greet an obviously dear friend. He could only hear snatches of their conversation and shrank back in his wheelchair wishing himself invisible.
“Oba!” May called out.
He looked up.
“Do you mind if Clara joins us for a while? I know we promised no visitors, but she’s practically family.”
Oba shrugged, leaving the air empty of an answer.
They walked toward him. The woman had the reddest hair he’d ever seen and a dress the color of pond slime. She had a figure like a stick and was ugly as all get-out.
She reached him, stood directly in front of him, and placed her hands on her barely existent hips.
“Can’t you talk?”
Oba waved a hand, as if to get rid of an annoying insect. He would not meet her eye.
“You know, you need to straighten up, fella. After all Andy and May have done for you, you’re still acting like a spoiled brat.”
Oba looked up, shocked. No one talked to him that way. No one. He would have slugged anyone who dared approach him in that fearless manner if he could have reached them. Andy cleared his throat uncomfortably. May looked devastated.
“My name is Clara Yoder. I’m the one your sister lived with before and after Eli was born. She talked about you.”
“Is that right?” Oba’s voice was hoarse.
“That’s right. What happened to your leg?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Yeah. May told me. I was trying to start a conversation is all.”
“You can stop now.”
“What if I don’t want to? What if I’m curious about a lot of things? I remember you. What were you, ten, twelve when you were taken to Arkansas?”
“None of your business.” His words were raw with contempt, the ever prevalent animosity with which he viewed the world.
“Why, sure it’s my business. I have no intention of staying away from May here just because you’re scared of people or whatever. So get used to me. Besides, looks like you need all the help you can get, and in case you haven’t noticed, May’s got her hands full with three kids.”
Oba’s mouth literally hung open in disbelief. He caught himself and closed it.
When there was no reply forthcoming, Clara lifted her chin in the direction of the amputated leg. “Can you walk?”
He turned his back and twisted his shoulders in his chair, purposely.
“Is that an acquired skill, ignoring people?” she asked.
In one lightning move, he turned, glared at her with eyes sparking dark scorn, and let loose a string of horrible language, punctuated by a fist pounded on the arm of the flimsy lawn chair.
May flinched and Andy shifted his weight uncomfortably, but both of them held their peace.
Clara laughed.
Oba kept his eyes on her, waited for the flinching, the shriveling embarrassment sure to follow, the signal that he would be left alone.
“Whew!” she said and laughed again. “That, my dear boy, is some salty language.”
Oba’s best weapon of defense was to withhold answers. People who tried to be friendly normally floundered pretty quickly if you left the air empty of normal conversation deemed necessary by folks who talked way too much. So he said nothing.
Ignoring the stiff silence, she sat down on the grass in front of him, arranging herself in the most unladylike manner he could possibly think of. No Amish woman wearing skirts sat cross-legged.
“So, if you can’t talk or walk, life must be pretty dull, huh?”
“Why don’t you get lost?” Oba growled.
He reached down to release the brake on his wheelchair, put both hands on the wheels, and pushed himself backward.
Andy sprang forward to help him, May bustling along by his side.
“Where you going?” Clara called.
“Away from you.”
“Really? Looks like that’s pretty rough going there. You know what you need? A motor, a gas engine, mounted on that thing. Either that, or an artificial leg. What are they called?”
She hadn’t planned on an answer, so when none was forthcoming, she took it in stride, turning to watch the anxious Andy and May flutter and hover like mother hens. She shook her head.
Eli walked up to her and sat down, cross-legged, imitating her perfectly.
“Now you made Uncle Oba mad,” he said soberly.
“Uncle Oba needs to grow up, Eli,” she said, ruffling the dark curls on his head.
“You like my hair, don’t you?”
“I love your hair. It looks so stiff, but it’s so soft.”
“My hair is different from all the other children’s.”
“Right. Same here. No one I know has hair this color, or a thousand freckles like me.”
Eli nodded solemnly. “My skin is darker.”
“I love your skin color. It’s like maple syrup. Or honey.”
“That’s what Mam says.” He gazed up at Clara wistfully. “Did anyone make fun of your freckles in school?”
“Of course they did. Children can be mean, sometimes. Although, I don’t believe they are cruel on purpose. They often say what they think without realizing they’re being hurtful. Why? Do the children make fun of you?”
“No. Hardly ever. Just sometimes they’ll say I look toasted. I don’t look like burnt toast, right?”
“Certainly not. They used to call me Sour Milk. Or Speckles.”
Eli lifted his face and howled with genuine laughter, his white teeth lined up perfectly, like corn kernels.
Clara looked down at him and winked. “So we’re buddies, right? We don’t let anyone push us around.”
“Uncle Oba will.”
“I’m not afraid of Uncle Oba. Your parents need to stop babying him. He could easily walk and live a normal life, and I’m not going to stop until he does.”
Eli shook his head. “Boy, oh boy.”
“Yep, that’s right. Boy, oh boy.”
She got to her feet to help May with the tray of mint tea she was carrying, smiled into her friend’s eyes, surprised to see the spark of disapproval. Boy, oh boy.
CHAPTER 2
IT WAS SO HOT THE FOLLOWING WEEK, NO ONE FELT COMFORTABLE from the early morning hours to late at night, tossing and turning on sweat-soaked sheets till exhaustion finally sent them into a restless slumber. Every morning the sun rose, a fierce, orange orb of pulsing heat, the atmosphere brassy with shimmering heat waves, the limp leaves barely stirred by a merciful breeze. Andy searched the sky for signs of rain. His blue eyes squinted as he searched the horizon, licked a forefinger, and held it aloft to find the direction of a breeze, searching hopefully for an eastern air. He watched the chest-high cornstalks turn into parched, curled leaves, the deep green color turning olive-hued in the heat of the day. The wide steel-wheeled wagons created a thick cloud of dust, the horses’ wide hooves stirring up little puffs of it as well. The grass by the fencerows turned brown with a thick coating of it; the window screens in the windows turned gray as the dirt clung to every available surface.
May carried the galvanized watering can from the rinse tubs to the garden, patiently saving the cucumber stalks, the heavy growth of lima bean bushes that would not produce beans without moisture.
Eli walked beside her, carrying a small bucket, the water spilling against his patched denim trousers, one arm extended to balance the weight. He watched his mother carefully, then imitated her exactly, bending his back so the water would soak around the plants without being wasted.
May glanced wearily at the thermometer tacked to the clothesline pole and sighed audibly to find the mercury creeping toward ninety degrees, so early in the forenoon. The heat and lack of rain was wearing on everyone’s good humor, especially Oba, who refused any form of work or entertainment. He sat and brooded without sufficient activity to keep his mind or body occupied, pushing May to her wit’s end.
Elizabeth, the brave little soul, was doing her best to talk to him in the shade of the front porch, prattling nervously as she pushed the porch swing with one foot, barely able to cling to the seat as she did so.
“Did you have breakfast?” she asked in her lisping voice.
“No.”
“Do you want some? Mam let us have corn flakes because it’s so hot. Do you want corn flakes?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Corn flakes are better than oatmeal.”
“Are they?”
“Yes, they are.” She considered Oba’s face, the way his blond hair hung into his eyes, hiding the deep brown or any expression that might have formed there. “You need a haircut,” she observed.
Oba said nothing but shook the bangs out of his eyes as he watched Andy walking across the field from the farm. His shirt seemed to be dark with perspiration already, his step measured and slower than his normal energetic stride. He let himself through the gate, then walked up to the porch, lifted his straw hat, and threw it down before running a hand through his hair.
“Good morning, Oba,” he said, flopping on the porch swing as he lifted Lizzie on his lap. He looked down at her upturned face, kissed the top of her head, and smiled at her, the smile lingering till it included Oba. There was no response, but Andy was used to that.
“You want to ride along to town? I broke the shaft on the mower engine.”
“You know I won’t ride in a buggy.”
“I’ll get a driver.”
“Nah.”
“Why not? You can’t sit on this porch all day.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Well, I guess you can. As long as you’re contented that way.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“According to Clara, you do.”
“Who’s Clara? Oh, her. I can’t stand that woman. If she ever comes around here again, I am out of here. I mean it.”
“She’s alright, Oba. Really.” Andy squinted his eyes, laughed his good-natured laugh, and went to find May, seeing if she needed anything in town.
Oba watched the bluebirds in the pear tree, twittering and hopping around each other. He knew they’d already raised a pair of babies, knew when they’d flown and where they came to look for mealworms. He also knew which barn cat had robbed the robin’s nest, devoured the poor pink baby robins, leaving the anxious parents fluttering over the empty nest, their children murdered by the evil prowling cat. It didn’t seem fair, the way the mother robin had spared nothing, sitting in the cold spring rain and wind, hatching her babies, just so the cat could climb the small pine tree and devour them.
He felt no pity for the robins, just a burning desire to get revenge on the cat. He didn’t know if he was capable of pity but knew the anger that welled up in him quite easily. If he had a shotgun, he’d lie in wait for that cat. He didn’t care that it was Andy’s best mouser.
It was so hot. So humid. His leg ached. What they called phantom pain. As if the rest of the leg were still there, and the air around it still held the pain of being crushed. Why was he still here? Why hadn’t he died with Alpheus and Jonas?
His previous life in the wilderness seemed like an alien world now. It was so distant. And yet that world still contained the girl he could not have. Sam. Well, it was for the best. She could never have accepted his moods; Lord knew May could barely put up with him.
He hated Ohio, resented the horse hitched to those stupid surreys. Why would anyone drive a horse and buggy? He had no plans of attempting any such tomfoolery. Although he’d never be able to drive a car with only one foot. That red-haired thing could keep on talking about a prosthesis all she wanted; he was having no part of it. It was bad enough, being cross-hatched with vicious scars across his back, and now being only half a man with one leg. And so his thoughts rambled on, mostly based on himself, the cruelty of life, of fate, the unending blackness of a life without hope.
He was so immersed in his thoughts, he did not hear the crunch of metal wheels on gravel until he looked up and saw the dreaded courting buggy flashing in the sun, some half-crazed horse lunging into the collar at an alarming speed.
It was her alright, hauling back on the reins like an idiot, trying to stop the headlong dash with very little room to spare. Besides having that abominable red hair, she was as crazy as a bat. He turned his chair, ready to push into the house and out of sight. The last thing he needed was another conversation with her.
He pounded on the screen door, which brought Eli, his own personal doorkeeper, his deep brown eyes alight, a smile on his face as he opened the door and held it. Oba could have done this himself, but Eli seemed to thrive on helping him whenever he needed it.
He settled his chair at the kitchen table, his back turned to the door.
“Hey, are you here? May!”
“I’m here.” May turned from her sewing machine, a smile on her face as she greeted her friend.
Elizabeth and Veronica looked up from their play, and Clara bent to hug them both.
“S’Lizzie uns S’Fronie!” she chortled. “My two best girls. And how are you, Eli?”
“I’m making a sparrow trap, Clara. Dat said if I catch sparrows, he’ll give me one penny every time I get one.”
“Hey! That’s good.” She turned to Oba. “And how are you?”
He glared at her.
“You still don’t like me, huh? Well, get used to me, Mister Obadiah Miller, because I’m not done with you yet. I have a number for you to call. This is a doctor in Cleveland. He specializes in artificial limbs. Prosthesis. I want you to go there.”
“Those things cost a fortune,” he growled. “Who’s going to pay for it?”
“We’ll figure that out later.”
“I told you I won’t strap some clumsy thing to my leg.”
“Yes. I believe you told me.” She paused. “I am hoping we can come to an agreement. Before you think of making the trip to Cleveland, I want to see you on crutches. Leave this house. Come on down to my horse farm. You need to take an interest in something other than yourself.”
May poured glasses of cold mint tea, the set of her shoulders giving away the tension she felt. Oba was like a gun with the safety off; it simply was unsafe to meddle in his own world of loss and self pity. She knew Clara was fearless, but with Oba, she was afraid she would overstep her boundaries.
“Tea, anyone?” she chirped, trying to lighten the sizzling static emanating from Oba.
“Thanks, May. This weather is like a desert. I’m always thirsty.” She sat down, too close to Oba for his comfort, lifted the glass of tea, and drank thirstily, then set the glass down with a forthright Ahh. “You make the best tea, May.”
“It’s a mixture. Spearmint, peppermint, and apple.”
Oba narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Clara. Didn’t the woman have a self-conscious bone in her body? Her arms were tanned, but riddled with freckles in spite of it. He’d never seen skin like hers. You’d think she might want to cover up more than she did. Even the neckline of her dress was open, the straight pins placed down too far for all those freckles, plus the color of her dress was a screaming magenta, a pinkish red that did nothing to tone down her red hair.
He had never seen anyone like Clara. He wondered vaguely if she was normal, or if a little something was missing.
“So, what do you think, Oba?” She turned to face him and gave him the full benefit of her yellow-green eyes, alight with interest. Not a trace of shyness or self-consciousness, only a frank, forthright appraisal.
That nose, he thought. Caught off guard, he shrugged, before lowering his eyebrows and shaking his head.
“Oh, come on now,” she said.
She had no intention of backing down or giving up, and he had no intention of accompanying her anywhere, to any hospital or horse farm. He had no desire to let her blab on and on about how much she knew about horses, when he himself knew so little. He’d driven the hateful mules with mouths as tough as shoe leather from the bits being yanked around by the irate Uncle Melvin but had never been allowed to work with the driving horse who flattened his ears and turned his rump to release a well-aimed kick to protect himself from delivered blows.
He put his hands on the wheels, pushed away from the table. He felt suffocated, tamped down. He caught May’s anxious eye and wheeled sharply to the left before rolling himself to the screen door. He couldn’t believe it when Clara put her hands firmly on the handles of his wheelchair and yanked him backward without speaking, surprising him so much he couldn’t think fast enough to put the brakes into use.
“Don’t you know how rude it is to leave a question unanswered? To roll away from a person who’s trying to help you? You should be terribly ashamed of yourself, for what you are putting your sister and her husband through. You thrive on pity and isolation. Well, let me tell you, that is a one-way street to losing your mind, so if you find yourself in some room painted a sickly shade of green, between the brick walls of a mental hospital, you have no one to blame but yourself.”
