All in Good Time, page 9
The truth was, he was not complete. Who would ever want him as a husband? Who would lie in bed with a husband with one leg missing? And still, part of him wanted to keep the maelstrom of his feelings, knew his previous existence had been nearly dead, and this gut-wrenching discomfort of doubt and fear and excitement intertwined with a certain new longing. Perhaps it was an unreachable goal, but it was a goal, something to hold on to.
So he allowed May to call a driver. He bathed, dressed in clean clothes, took up his crutches, and asked May to bring the artificial limb to the car. Clara had no way of knowing he would be arriving, so if she wasn’t at home, he’d have to return to Andy’s house with all the guests.
But Clara was in the barn, her red scarf and wool coat covered in bits of hay, her hair in loose straggles, but a welcome on her face. Yes, of course, he could stay. Yes, come on into the barn till she was done. She retrieved the artificial limb, set it in its corner encased in the blanket, then put her hands on her hips and said, “Well.”
He said, “Yeah. Andy’s having a horde of relatives for a Christmas dinner, and I don’t do well in crowds.”
“Of course not. Okay. Let me finish up. Here.” She shoved an old stool in his direction. “Sit.”
“Thanks.”
She went to one of the many doors along a wide corridor, slid it back, and said, “Come on, Bud.”
She turned without waiting, and a magnificent brown horse followed her obediently, straight to the cast-iron watering trough where he lowered his gleaming neck to drink the cold clear water. She ran a hand along the length of his body, checked the shoes on his hooves, then untangled the long black hairs on his mane. She seemed to be as familiar with the horse as she was with anyone around her.
Complete confidence. Was that the reason she was a good horsewoman? The horses trusted her, and she trusted them. She stood back, clapped her hands, and pointed back to the gate.
“Okay, Bud.”
Another gate, another horse. Behind the third gate a scruffy-looking donkey appeared, all ears and long shaggy hair, a face to be remembered. When the donkey spied a stranger in his territory, he stopped, his eyes opened wide, and he opened his mouth to expose long yellow teeth like overripe corn, then emitted a jolting bellow unlike anything Oba had ever heard.
“Mercy days, Fred!” Clara shouted above the din.
And Oba laughed, an unexpected burst of sound that surprised Clara and shocked poor Fred, who shied away from the intruder and refused to drink.
After he was retuned to his stall, she brushed the hay off her coat, then told him to follow her. She retrieved the artificial limb and made her way to the house. He was so adept on crutches, he had no problem keeping up, thumping up the steps to the wide porch and into the house. The house felt smaller and cozier than he remembered from last time. A teakettle hummed on a miniature cook stove, pine flooring gleamed, bright rugs were scattered everywhere. The furniture was all good quality, the counters cleaned and shining.
“Here. Give me your coat.”
She held out a hand, and he laid his crutches across a chair before shrugging out of it. She returned from the washhouse, swiping at her hair, then gave up and began removing hairpins, talking all the while. Confident, unflappable, she regaled him with local gossip. She flipped the long, wavy strands into a coil on the back of her head while he tried not to watch, tried to be as casual and unfeeling as she was.
“It’s good to have you here, Oba,” she called over her shoulder as she washed her hands at the sink. “You know we’re going to work with that leg, don’t you? That’s why you brought it, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. So since nothing’s stopping us, we’ll get started. Sit down.”
There was no resistance to her prodding and pulling as she expertly applied the sheep’s wool, buckled and strapped everything in place, then stood back.
“Okay. Now. Since we don’t have May, you’re going to have only me to hang on to. Put your hand on my shoulder to get started. Here. Give me your hands. Both of them.”
He did as he was told. He gripped her thin hands, felt the hard-knotted strength, allowed her hands to guide him to an upright position. It was like a knife through the stump of his leg, the way it had been the first time.
He groaned, reeled drunkenly.
“Hurt?”
He nodded, his lower lip caught in his teeth. She watched his face steadily, kept her grip on his hands, neither pushing him nor allowing him to back down.
“You okay?
“No.”
When she had no comment, he put more weight on his whole leg, relieving the intense pressure where the amputation was thrust cruelly into the prosthesis. There was no sound in the house except the frenzied ticking of an old clock on the bureau, the kettle’s humming, and an occasional creak of wooden siding where the cold contracted it.
“Got your balance?”
He nodded, concentrated.
“Alright, then. Try to lift the artificial leg. One step. Just one.”
She held his grip, matched its power, took a step back, tugging gently. He drew forward with his hip, but nothing happened. He tried harder. The heavy wooden leg stayed on the same spot. Clara did not speak, kept her grip on his hands. The third attempt he tried so hard his entire body twisted, and the wooden leg stayed still.
“Hmm.”
Clara let go of his hands. She watched as he grabbed at the air, clawed for anything to hang on to, before toppling back on the couch, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark with fury.
“I was thinking. You’re trying to move your foot with your hip. I think you will have to think differently. Think of your prosthesis as a real foot. Move it with your brain, not your hip.”
“Don’t let go of my hands.”
“I won’t.”
Again, he tried, and this time, the foot moved a few inches. Over and over, until he was exhausted mentally and physically, he moved the foot, inch by inch. She released his hands, and he placed only one on her shoulder. They developed a sort of dance, and were definitely making progress.
When he took an actual step, his face lit up, and he grinned down at her. “I bent that hinged knee,” he said in awe.
“You did!” she exulted.
“It’s the hip. The strap I hate so much.”
“It works!”
It was a small victory, but Clara knew it was gigantic in Oba’s mind. Her green eyes glowed her congratulations, and he kept his hand on her shoulder as they moved by mere inches across the living room. The pain was blinding, excruciating, but a necessary part of the development.
When he collapsed into a kitchen chair, he felt the exultation rise in his chest. He raised a fist in the air silently. Clara caught his eye and laughed outright.
“You came, you conquered!” she shouted. “Now, Mister Oba, I will have you introduced to every young girl in Wayne County. You will be the community’s most sought-after bachelor. You are on your own two feet, a whole man. You’re young, handsome, with a whole life of happiness in front of you.”
Oba hung his head, his expression visibly darkened. For a long time, he said nothing. She took the chair opposite him, looked at his downturned face, and asked if she’d said anything wrong.
“Sorry, Oba. I’m always a step ahead, galloping on without common sense.”
He knew what his goal actually was, now more than ever. He felt as if he had come to a crossroad, blinded with a thick blindfold, unsure of anything except the fact of his life being in ruins, debris scattered about in the form of anger, bitterness, depression, and self-pity. This Clara, this unlikely woman he had hated, had literally removed the blindfold. He wanted to tell her, no, she was not galloping ahead, but was so far behind she couldn’t see him at all.
But what he did say was easier for both of them.
“I just don’t want to be pushed into meeting young girls.”
“Oh. Sorry. You mean not so soon.”
“Not ever.”
The look she gave him was quizzical, clueless. She shrugged her thin shoulders, said, “Okay, whatever you want.”
He gripped the tabletop, held out his hand. “Try again?”
“Of course.”
On his own accord, he put both hands on her shoulders, and she moved backward. They did not speak, with Oba concentrating on his efforts. They shuffled together, slowly, but steadily making small steps.
“If I knew how to dance, I’d ask you to dance with me,” he said suddenly.
Startled, she looked into his pain-filled eyes, the eyebrows lowered to contain the immensity of it, and realized the courage and determination he was using.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“It does. But you help.”
There was nothing to say to this, so she remained silent, her eyes lowered. He began to hum, a tune she did not recognize. She looked up at him, and he looked down at her. He went right on humming, then took his hands off her shoulders, balanced himself for a short time as he held her gaze. Slowly, he placed his hands on her narrow waist, gently. He felt the thin fabric of her dress.
“Put your hands on my shoulders, and we’ll dance.”
Clara swallowed nervously, suddenly wordless. She lowered her eyes, unsure of what was expected of her.
A short moment of unexpected bliss for Oba, the beginning of turmoil for Clara. Her hands on his shoulders dispelled all doubt and cemented the idea of his goal, set his feet in the direction that was right and good and solid. He had the rest of his life to remove himself from the cocoon that held him in its grip, and if this was his purpose— this sweet, cozy house, the woman he would never have imagined ever being remotely interested in—well, then, so be it.
Some women would have caught on that day, but Clara was so completely unaware of any change in Oba, she played along as if to humor him, still not absorbing his comment about meeting a potential girlfriend. He just hadn’t met the right one was all.
The day was untainted by either one being ill at ease. Oba was filled with newfound purpose, Clara was as clueless as a newborn. Oh, she thought he was awfully handsome, sitting there at her kitchen table in the gray winter light. Handsome enough for Abe Weaver’s Marion, almost. Although, she might be a bit spoiled, the way her mother doted on her. And everyone knew her father owned more than one farm.
They talked easily, naturally. She whooped and hollered and laughed when he asked her if she remembered how much he used to dislike her, would leave the room when she arrived.
He watched her flip ponhaus and break eggs into sizzling butter with as much confidence as she did everything else, amazed by the fact of his discovery. She ate like a man, lowered her head and put food into her mouth for the sole purpose of filling her empty stomach. She asked him to pass the butter, please, or the sugar, then applied copious amounts of each one to toast and oatmeal.
He told her about Sam, the Northwest Territory, Eb the sled dog, Jonas Bell, the wreck from the sky, the feeling of advancing death.
And never once did she mention God.
Among the Amish, God is naturally there. Everyone assumes the other is a believer in Creation; the birth, life, and death of Jesus; and God is in His Heaven controlling the Earth with his Majesty. So of course Clara did not bring up the subject at all, knowing Oba was born and raised in an Amish home. He didn’t bring up his lack of faith, or his unwillingness to be Amish, or his years in Arkansas. He had no idea Clara knew of the full extent of Melvin’s beatings, so it seemed as if they covered a large area of his life, when in truth, they had barely cracked opened the door.
He swung along behind her on his crutches to do evening chores, envied the ease with which she moved along the corridor. He asked her to exercise one of the horses, but she declined, saying she wasn’t wearing trousers. He wondered exactly how she made any money, having to feed all these horses, and when he asked, she demurred, shook her head, and said she found money in the elderberry bushes down by the pond, then laughed at her own joke. He watched sparrows twittering in the rafters, and thought they wished them well, looking down from their perch. He was sorry to see the driver’s return, but gave no indication of this to Clara. He merely shrugged into this coat, turned, and thanked her for having him.
“I enjoyed the day, Oba. Oh, here, don’t forget the leg.”
He laughed, “That sounds different.” He became quite serious then. “Do you mind keeping it? It’s better to practice here. May hovers too much, and the children make me nervous, running around. Could I practice here?”
“Of course. If it works for you, I don’t mind helping you. I’m just surprised to see you’ve changed your mind. You put that thing away, stomped off, and quit.”
“Yeah, well, things change.”
FOR DAYS, CLARA tried to figure out why Oba was acting strangely, then came to the conclusion that he really did want to meet a young woman, but was embarrassed. It was the only reason he wanted to walk normally, but of course, he would not say this to her. So she went about her days planning her strategy, saying she needed a hired girl, a maud (maid), then she could introduce the two and get something going. Oba needed a goal, a motivation to go out and get a job. There wasn’t much he could do for her yet, but eventually he could muck stalls, mow hay, or whatever.
She’d try Sally Troyer first. She sat down at her writing desk, asking if she was interested in some deep cleaning after the New Year, spring being such a busy time at the barn. She folded the letter, put it in an envelope, attached the stamp, and carried it to the mail box, imagining Oba’s surprise when the attractive Sally walked into the kitchen, where he would be seated having a cup of coffee.
Oh my, but he was certainly handsome. Older than some, but the years added an attraction, a maturity, which she was certain Sally would find appealing. This was not the first time she’d made a good match. She had been instrumental in getting Ivan Mast to ask the girl he had always wanted, and never had the nerve to ask. She had him help her with a rowdy two-year-old stallion, and afterward, had given him the pep talk of his life. She smiled to herself, a smirk of confidence. Yes, she was a good matchmaker.
THE BARN WAS a haven for Clara, a place she could bury herself in her work and her love of fine horses. The barn was a symbol of all she had accomplished, her dream come to life. As a skinny, red-haired child, she had ridden the chunky workhorses, their broad backs swaying, the harnesses jingling as she clutched a handful of thick, coarse hair from the mane. She felt a sense of loss every time her father lifted her off, wished she could stay on the horse’s back forever. The smell of horses, the way they moved, their expressive eyes and eager whinnying—everything about them fascinated her. Unlike other young girls who lost interest in horses or barn work after they became teenagers and began their years of rumschpringa, Clara’s interested increased. She was a regular sight at horse auctions, standing beside her father, a tall, thin man with a beaked visage and a keen eye for a good trotter.
She yearned to ride a horse in the ring with the young men. Slouching like that, they were an embarrassment to the crowd. She knew she would sit a horse much better, control the frightened animals with ease. Plus, she would have a talk with that guy standing in the ring, slapping that short whip against the side of his leg, snaking it out occasionally when he thought a horse could use a bit more snap.
Oh, she would become angry, her face reddening, her green eyes snapping. A horse was never at its best when it was frightened, the whites of its eyes showing, its ears rotating wildly as it shied away from the cracking of the little whip. She would watch appalled at how the horse’s haunches lowered to propel itself away from the man, as if in flight, then come up short against the boards at the end of the ring.
Once, when a skittish young horse had spooked and run headlong and out of control into the boards, dragging the man along as he desperately held to the lead rope, she had taken one look at the cut on the horse’s chest and got to her feet before her father could stop her. She slipped through the crowd, squeezed through the gate, and walked up to the man with the whip and grabbed the small black menace from his hand. Caught by surprise, he relinquished his hold on it, and Clara lifted her arm high before flinging it across the ring. Seething with outrage, she closed both hands into fists, stamped her left foot, and stuck her red face close to his.
“Keep that stupid whip away from these horses!” she shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Oh, it was a scandal. A genuine source of gossip among the Amish for years, that Clara Yoder, you know, Dan Yoder’s Clara, red-haired and a temper to match. She had no business in that sale barn, standing there with all those men, it just wasn’t a good thing for a young girl.
Clara didn’t care. She wouldn’t give two hoots for a good reputation. It just wasn’t right to handle animals like that. The treatment of the poor worn-out creatures headed for the killer was bad enough, let alone antagonizing the healthy ones in the ring. Sometimes, she would make her way over to the pens containing the “killer horses,” the ones slated to be turned into pet food, their hooves into glue. Her heart ached for those old, broken-down horses, their eyes soft with goodwill, accepting their fate. They had worked all their lives to please one master or another, and the only reward they would have asked for was a trough of grain and a pile of hay, maybe a green pasture with room to roam. Clara would slip into the pen, stroke their noses, slide her hand along the smooth part of their necks, below the scraggly manes, tell them they had done their job well, and that she loved them. She did love them but knew their work was done. She just wished they knew how much she appreciated them. Sometimes, she would look back to find an old horse eyeing her with an expression she could only describe as peaceful. Then she would bite her lower lip and squeeze her eyes tightly to keep from crying. Those times her father would look at her red eyes and know she’d been to the killer pen.
