The Amish Clockmaker (50 page)

“And then he said something I will never forget. He said, ‘I loved my wife. I didn't kill her. God is my witness. I didn't kill her.'

“I was still trying to figure out what was going on, but Mama had put two and two together too, and she and Papa were looking at each other, speaking without saying a word. And then my papa put his hand on Clay's shoulder and told him he believed him. He and Mama both did, and did he need a place to stay?”

Bonnie had been looking off toward a stack of books as she was telling me this, but now she turned her head to face me.

“And that's how Clay came to be here. First he was our houseguest, and then one of the elders let him use a little studio apartment above his garage. Then, when one of our older members passed away, she left her house to her son, who in turn offered to rent it to Clay for next to nothing, for as long as he needed it. The place is small—and it's become more than he can handle by himself these days—but that house was an answer to prayer, especially because it has a detached garage, where Clay was able to set up a workshop for making clocks and doing other odd repairs on the side.

“All along the way, my father and mother treated Clay like he was one of the family. He came to all our gatherings, every wedding, every funeral. And it didn't take very long for the others in the church to follow suit. No one ever pressed him about what happened back in Lancaster County. It was enough that he told my parents he loved his wife and that they believed him wholeheartedly.

“He was such a gentle soul. I had a hard time believing he once had a temper. That's what he told us anyway. Everyone grew to love him. He was like
a brother to me, and all fourteen of my grandchildren think of Clay as their great-uncle.”

“That's… that's wonderful,” I said, so grateful to know Clayton's life had been filled with measures of happiness. “I can't tell you how glad I am to hear this. All of this.”

“I think God wanted Clay to wind up on our doorstep sixty years ago. Not just for himself because he needed us, but for us too. He was more open with my family and me about what had happened to him, and I have always been in awe of his unwavering devotion to Miriam. Even when some of the young single women in the church were interested in him, he stayed loyal to his late wife in every way. He never stopped loving her. He loved her like God loves all of us—with every fiber of his being, even without having that love returned. Her death, followed by the rejection of the very community that was supposed to surround him at such a difficult time, nearly broke the man for good. Instead, God brought Clay here to us. And now, for some reason, God has brought you to him.”

I realized with sudden surprise that it was true. All the false leads, all the problems and frustrations, all the doors closed in my face—I'd learned lessons from all of it. And now here I was at last in a position to reconnect brother and sister in the final years of their lives in a meaningful way. Whether Clayton signed the deed or not, I realized, I had already accomplished my most important task of all.

“Shall I draw you a map to his house?” she asked. “Or do you need me to give you a lift out there myself?”

“A map would be great, ma'am. That and a phone, so I can call my driver.”

As I watched her sketch the series of roads that would take me to Clayton at last, it finally struck me full force what my problem had been this past week. I'd had trouble trusting my heavenly Father because I'd learned the hard way that I couldn't always trust my earthly father. But just as
Daed
always had our best interests at heart, God always knew what we really needed, even if sometimes it wasn't at all what we thought it would be.

T
HIRTY
-S
EVEN

T
he house where Clayton Raber lived stood a couple hundred yards off the road, nestled among a thick grove of oaks and poplars such that I couldn't see the front door from where I stood. A lawn ready for mowing wrapped around the front of the house, and a leaf-strewn brick walkway led to the small detached garage and the unfenced backyard, where I could see the tail end of a clothesline and two pairs of pants snapping in the breeze. It had been a while since either building had been painted, and cobwebs had gathered in the weathered window frames.

A walking path led to the porch, which needed sweeping and sported a single rocking chair. I stepped up to the door, the felt-wrapped clock still safely nestled in the canvas bag that was now slung over my shoulder. I had told the driver to drop me off and that I'd probably be about an hour. I wasn't sure if I'd need that much time—or if Clayton was even going to let me in at all—so I'd pointed out a little ice-cream stand on the main road less than a mile away and said he should check there first before coming back here, because that's where I'd go to meet up with him if I finished sooner than expected.

I was keenly aware, even in the midst of the peace and quiet of Clayton's simple home, that I was about to hugely alter his day—possibly even his life. On my side, this was a simple matter of needing his help to settle a property dispute. But on his side, my having tracked him down had the potential to
reconnect him with an entire world he'd left behind. I didn't know if that was something he wanted. Perhaps he'd said good riddance to all things Amish—including his own family—the day he shook the dust off his feet and walked away. Judging by the letters he'd written to Joan over the years, however, it sounded as if he was open to hearing from her. I hoped the fact she was finally ready to respond would get me in the door even if nothing else could.

I rapped four gentle knocks on the weathered wood and then waited. Birdsong filled the silence. I was about to raise my hand again when the doorknob gave a turn and the door began to open.

I stepped back a little as the form of a bearded, silver-haired man filled the open space in front of me. Clayton Raber, in the flesh, at last. His features held such a scowl that for a moment I feared he was about to yell at me or slam the door in my face. But then I realized he wasn't angry at all. As Ben Sauder had told me, a scar ran along Clayton's brow line, causing him to look angry even when he was not.

“Can I help you?” he said, his tone doubtful but pleasant. The words were in
Englisch
, but I heard the slight inflection of Pennsylvania Dutch still lingering there.

“My name is Matthew Zook. I'm looking for Clayton Raber.”

“Guess you found him, then,” he said with a guarded half smile, one that contrasted strangely with the still-scowling eyebrows.

He wore a simple plaid shirt and navy blue work pants held up by suspenders, and on his nose perched a pair of wire-rim glasses that had to be decades old. And even though his clothing wasn't Amish, his beard still was, long and bushy and with no mustache. The grayness of the beard and the wrinkles on his face made Clayton look every bit of his eighty-seven years, and yet there was an odd, almost youthful hunger in his eyes. It was as if—even at his advanced age—he was still looking for something.

Surprise at seeing an Amish man on his doorstep may have had something to do with that. I had a feeling that not only had he not run across many Amish people around here over the years, he'd definitely not ever had one appear at his door.

“I'd like to speak with you if I may,” I added, suddenly feeling tongue-tied. “I've come from Lancaster County.”

“You're a ways from home,” he said with just a twinge of sadness. I couldn't help but wonder if he used to tell those words to himself, a long time ago.

“It's actually not that far,” I replied gently. When he said nothing in
response, I explained that I'd had a bit of trouble tracking him down, but I'd finally gotten as far as Mountain Gap, where the folks at his church had been kind enough to direct me from there. “If it isn't too much trouble, Mr. Raber, I'd really like to talk to you. I need your help with something.”

His eyes traveled down to the bundle in my arm. “Is that for me to fix? Because I'm retired, son. Have been for a decade. Didn't they tell you that at the church?”

“They did. I know you're retired now, and what I have in the bag isn't why I've come. It's just something I brought… ” I hesitated, not wanting to get ahead of myself. My goal was to cover all of the property stuff first, just so we didn't get sidetracked, and then go into everything else after that. “Really, if we could sit down and chat briefly, I'll explain everything.”

He stared at the bundle for a moment longer and then raised his gaze to meet mine. “But I don't fix things any more, my eyes aren't good enough. Sorry about that Mister… what did you say your name was?”

“Matthew. My name's Matthew Zook.”

“And what part of Lancaster County are you from?”

I hesitated only a second. “Your part, Mr. Raber.”

He cocked his head and his silver brows crinkled over questioning eyes.

“My grandfather was Isaac Zook. He bought your family homestead from your mother sixty years ago. I grew up in the same room in the same house as you.”

He seemed to falter for just a moment. He teetered slightly as if I had just thrown open a window and a gust of wind had hit him in the face.

“I'm not from there anymore, Matthew,” he said a second later. “I haven't been for a very long time. And I no longer fix things. Sorry I can't help you.” He started to back away so that he could close the door. I put my hand out to stop him.

“Please, Mr. Raber. Please. I need your help to solve a problem—a
big
problem—one that was caused unknowingly by your mother when she sold the place to my grandfather. Now I've run into a complication, and you're the only person on earth who can help me.”

He stared at me for a long moment. “Do you know who I am, young man?” he demanded, his tone an instant challenge.

“
Ya
, I know exactly who you are,” I replied confidently, trying to match his belligerence with equal—if more respectful—intensity. “You're the man who was blamed for his wife's death even though it was an accident.”

His eyes narrowed in anger. “What do you know about any of that?”

“I know you are innocent. I know you were declared guilty in the court of Amish opinion, excommunicated, and rejected even by your own family. I know you eventually left town and found a new place to start life over. And from what I've learned today, I know you have continued to love your late wife with fidelity and devotion all the years since.”

His eyes grew wide, though I couldn't read the variety of emotions that were surely pinging around inside his head. Surprise. Vindication. Suspicion. Confusion. For a moment it looked as if it was all too much for him and he might just end up shutting the door in my face anyway.

“How in the world would
you
know that I am innocent?” he said, every word out of his mouth sounding as if they weighed ten pounds each. “You're just a kid. You weren't even alive back then.”

“If you'll let me in, I'll tell you, I promise,” I said quickly. “But I'm actually here for three reasons. The first is what I said before. It's something I need you to do for me, a legal matter involving a property dispute. I can explain things fully, and all I need is your signature on a document to clear everything up.”

He seemed to consider that. “And the second?”

I looked down at the bag and then up again. “Well, sir, it has to do with something I found, something I think you'll want to see.”

His lips pursed for a long moment. “And the third?”

“Your sister Joan. I came here with a message from her, that she is so very sorry for not having believed you all those years ago.”

At the mention of his sister's name, the man at last moved aside and slowly swung the door open wide. Thanking him, I stepped into his living room, an unfussy but dusty space devoid of any fancy decorations or furnishings. The walls were a familiar Amish pastel green, and the couch—at least forty years old with threadbare arms—was upholstered in a darker version of the same color. The coffee table in front of it was of similar vintage and wear, as was a camel-colored armchair nearby. A Bible lay open on the table, along with a crossword puzzle magazine and a tattered Zane Grey Western. From the entry I could see his simple kitchen and eating area. A hallway to my right led to the back of the house.