The Amish Clockmaker (34 page)

He knew all too well how debilitating it could be to feel unattractive.

He also knew there was something he could do, a step he could take that might help her in this regard. And though he'd rather do anything than what he was about to do, he knew that it had to happen eventually anyway. He placed his toothbrush in its holder and opened the bathroom door.

When he walked into their room, Miriam was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She looked up at him as he stepped inside, and he could see the mix of sadness and resignation in her eyes. She was not happy about the way she felt, he could see that. But she couldn't pretend she was ready to be his wife in every sense of the word when she wasn't. When he moved toward her, she dropped her gaze back to her hands.

“Miriam, please don't worry,” he said, coming to her side and sitting down next to her. “I'm not… I don't expect anything to happen tonight just because you kissed me today. I told you from the beginning I would wait until you are ready.”

It seemed she had not heard him. He was on the verge of repeating what he'd said when she whispered two words.

“Thank you.”

For a few moments they just sat there, side by side, in silence.

“I don't feel pretty,” she continued, her gaze still on her lap and the bulging evidence that she was with child. “I don't feel like a new bride. I feel… ruined. I love this child, but I look down at where my waist used to be and all I see is the evidence of what I did. I can't… I'm not… ”

“Shhh,” he whispered, putting an arm around her. “It's okay. I understand. More than you might think.”

“Really?” She looked up at him.

He nodded. “Really.”

Clayton took her hand in his as he sent a quick prayer heavenward, asking the Lord to help Miriam see God's love for her through what he was about to do.

“Do you remember that time, years ago, when you came out to chat with me at the chicken coop and I told you all about my accident?”

She was quiet for a moment, thinking.
“Ya,
I do. It was right after we moved here. Your scar made you seem so mysterious and intriguing. I wanted to know where it came from.”

“Do you remember how difficult it was for me to share it with you?”

“Ya.
I had to keep pressing you. But you got it out eventually.”

He could hear the smile in her voice, but he couldn't look at her. Not yet. “It was hard for me because I hadn't told that story to very many people—not in that much detail. Sharing it with you should have been unpleasant or embarrassing, like it was with everyone else. But instead it was just… natural. I felt I could tell you anything.”

“You
can
tell me anything,” Miriam replied, and Clayton felt her eyes on him.

He swallowed hard.

“Can I
show
you anything?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“Of course.” Her tone was tentative but trusting.

With his heart pounding so hard in his chest he felt sure she could hear it, Clayton leaned down and began to roll up the pajama pant on his deformed leg. Even though they had been married for nearly a month, he'd managed to keep his bad leg out of view. Each night before bed, he'd changed his clothes in the bathroom, and despite the heat he'd worn his longest pajamas. Once in the bedroom, he would wait for Miriam to get settled and then he'd twist off the bedside lamp before removing his socks and quickly thrusting his feet under the quilts.

No one had seen his leg in years, not even his parents, as he always kept it covered, kept it hidden, kept it to himself. But now he was exposing the disfigurement to his wife.

He didn't look at her as he waited for her to respond. She was silent as her eyes took in the crooked bones, the folds of scar tissue, the mangled mess that was his left leg.

“Clayton,” she finally whispered, but he could tell from her tone that she
wasn't really speaking to him. She was speaking to Clayton the little boy, five years old, atop his pretend water tank horse. She whispered his name again and then he felt the warmth of her fingertips at his knees. He turned his head to look at her, and she was gazing at the deformed limb as if it were the most ordinary thing she'd ever seen.

Again, she touched a scar, one lower down this time, then again, gently, the same way she'd touched the scar at his brow so many years ago. She hadn't been there at the wreck or by his side in the hospital or on the playground at school where the other kids ran and jumped and played and he could only watch from the sidelines. Yet with each scar she touched now the memories, the pain, the losses of the years since ticked away. It was if the clock of his life was being rewound. Her touch was healing his very soul.

Clayton knew she needed the same kind of healing touch on her own life—and that it was not a thing to be rushed.

He lay awake for more than an hour after they finally turned out the light, savoring the remnants of Miriam's gentle hand on his body, unexpectedly the most intimate and loving encounter he'd ever known.

T
WENTY
-S
IX

T
he first day of October began cool and crisp, but thanks to September's lingering temperatures, by noon the clock shop was growing stuffy and Miriam was making her way to the side windows to open them.

On the worktable in front of Clayton was his favorite project of late, the nearly finished cherry mantel clock for the Uptons. But he looked up from the clock now and watched his wife slide open the window closest to him. A brisk breeze ruffled her dress and brought with it the scent of fresh-cut hay. Clayton was mesmerized by the sight of her pausing there at the window, one hand on her rounded middle. She was nearly six months into her pregnancy—there was no mistaking it now that she was with child. Miriam stood at the window with her eyes closed as she breathed in the sweet autumn day.

That was when the idea came to him. Ever since their big argument in the hayloft, he had been wondering how to provide her with a place of her own, something more personal than the back room of the clock shop. He hadn't understood what she'd meant the first time she'd said it, but over the past month he'd come to realize that what she really needed was a private place to go off to be by herself once in a while, away from the demands of daily life. He'd put an end to her visits to the hayloft, and though she still considered the desk area in the back room of the shop to be “hers,” that bit of space was hardly adequate for a personal retreat.

As she relished the gentle breeze wafting in from outside, it had come to him in a flash. A gazebo. He would build her a gazebo.

A place of her own.

It wouldn't be fancy like the one Brenda Peterson had. There would be no embellishments or curlicues or any other kinds of
Englisch
-type of adornments. But a small, simple structure with a wood frame and screened walls would allow her to enjoy the outdoors for all but the coldest of months while protected from rain and insects—not to mention people who might otherwise intrude. Best of all, he already owned the piece of land where it would go. Out under the shade tree where the picnic table sat now was the perfect spot to put it.

When his father died, his sisters' husbands had promised they would be there for Clayton whenever he needed them. While he hadn't availed himself of that offer to any great degree, this was one time he was going to take them up on it. With six able-bodied men, plus their teenage sons, he knew the project would come together quickly. One afternoon to pour concrete, and one day to build the structure.

He sketched out the plans that night by moonlight as Miriam slept.

Clayton and two of his brothers-in-law broke ground on the project a week later, on an unseasonably warm autumn afternoon when Miriam was off shopping in town. Working together, the men managed to dig the holes and pour the concrete in under two hours. By the time she returned, Clayton was back inside the shop, working away on the Uptons' clock and acting as if he'd been there the whole time.

Over the next few days he finished that clock, and it turned out beautifully. As was his custom, the final step was to carve his initials and the citation for his favorite Bible verse into the bottom, which he did now. After prepping the surface, he took out his favorite chisel and carefully etched into the wood his mark:

CR

Ecc 3:1

Pulling back to give it a look, he realized he was no longer alone. Miriam was standing nearby, watching him as he carved, mesmerized.

“You finished it,” she said, stepping forward to get a better look.

“
Ya
.” He traded the chisel for a jar of liquid and a fine-tipped brush, and then he carefully painted over the letters and numbers until they were covered fully in the sealant. “All done.”

“It's perfect. Shall I pack it up and ship it in the morning?”

“
Ya.
If you can get it over to the post office first thing, it should arrive well in time for the Uptons' anniversary.”

For a split-second, an odd expression crossed Miriam's face, one Clayton could not read. But before he could ask if something was wrong, the store's front door swung open, the bells chiming, and a small group of customers came inside.

Later that afternoon, Miriam slipped into a quiet mood that Clayton chalked up to exhaustion due to her condition. She looked pale and listless to him, and he realized she hadn't eaten much the last few days. He wondered if that was normal for a woman in her sixth month of pregnancy.

At closing time he grabbed her by the hand and told her he wanted to show her something. He hadn't been planning to reveal the gazebo to her until it was finished, but he needed something now, something big enough to snap her out of this somber, distracted mood. She came willingly but without much interest—until they rounded the corner and she saw the odd cement squares protruding from the ground.

“What's going on here?” she asked, sounding perturbed that someone had messed up her favorite little picnic spot.

Clayton couldn't suppress his grin. “It's a surprise, something I decided to build for you—with a little help from the guys. We got this done the other day while you were off with your
mamm
. Now all we have to do is wait a few weeks for the concrete to cure, and then we can start framing it out.”

“Framing what out?” she asked, shaking her head. “What is it?”

“It's a gazebo. I mean, it
will
be a gazebo when we're done with it. And it's yours, Miriam. It will be your special place. All yours.” He watched her face with equal parts anticipation and apprehension as she absorbed his announcement.

Miriam blinked. “A gazebo?” Her tone was impossible to gauge. Clayton had thoroughly surprised her, but he couldn't tell if it was a good surprise.

“I know how much you liked the one at Brenda's house. This one will be sort of like it. Not as fancy, of course, but sturdy and screened in, and perfect for sitting in and just being by yourself when you need to be.”

“By myself,” she said, not so much a question as an echo.

“
Ya
. Your special place won't just be an old desk in the back room or up in a dusty old hayloft. It will be here. And it will be yours.”