At least he hadn’t jumped at the chance. Jesse patted his arm. “Tell you what. You’ve only been here a month. That’s not much time to settle into a new place. Let’s give it…three months altogether. Until Christmas. You promise not to run off again, and I promise I’ll take you to an orphanage after Christmas if you still aren’t happy here.” He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”
Charley sucked in a big breath, staring at Jesse’s hand. Then his breath whooshed out, and he grabbed hold with a strength greater than Jesse would have expected from such a young boy. “Deal.”
Relief nearly collapsed Jesse. “Good.” The bell rang, beckoning the school kids to return to their classrooms. “Pop that door open and get going. Behave yourselves.” He watched the pair run toward the schoolhouse, hand in hand. When the door closed behind them, he put his truck in gear and pulled away. He’d unload these goods for Mrs. Shilling, and then the two of them would have a serious chat.
Neva
The rumble of a truck’s engine alerted Neva to Mr. Caudel’s return. She darted to the front door and propped it open with a painted brick, then stepped onto the sidewalk. Over the morning the temperature had cooled, and she crisscrossed her arms to block the breeze.
The truck rattled into silence, and Mr. Caudel slid out of the cab. He rounded the bed and reached for the closest crate. “Run next door and see if Randall will lend a hand.”
An odd greeting, different from his customary genial smile. But perhaps he’d encountered some difficulty on the road that had resulted in a sour mood. If he was anything like Warren, it would wear off in time.
She scurried up the sidewalk toward the emporium. Although she preferred not to ask favors of Mr. Randall, his nearness made him a likely choice. And he’d be willing. He’d been more than ingratiating over the past month, despite her attempts to keep him at a distance.
The man’s face lit brighter than a full moon on a black night when she stepped through the emporium doors. He came at her, hands extended. “Mrs. Shilling! How good to see you. What can I do for you today?”
She slipped her hands into her apron pockets. “Would you assist Mr. Caudel in carrying my orders into the mercantile?”
His smile didn’t dim. “Well, of course I will. Of course.” He gripped her elbow and guided her out the door and along the sidewalk. “I’m more than pleased to assist you.” He stepped to the end of the bed, rolled up his sleeves, and snatched up a large crate.
Neva stood out of the way and watched the men cart everything into the store. Such an incongruous combination they were—Mr. Randall in his crisp white shirt, wool trousers, and matching vest, and Mr. Caudel in tan dungarees and his customary chambray shirt with a tin star pinned over his left breast pocket. But they coordinated their movements as well as if they’d worked together a dozen times before, never blocking the other’s passage. Within fifteen minutes the bed was empty, and a stack of crates and boxes climbed one side of the back hallway.
When they finished, Mr. Randall pushed his sleeves into place and aimed a cheerful smile in her direction. “There you are, Mrs. Shilling. Another month’s goods ready to disperse to eager customers. If you need anything else, remember I am ever at your disposal.” He strode out the door.
Neva turned to Mr. Caudel, who remained next to the stack of boxes, fanning himself with his hat. He seemed even more stern when juxtaposed against Mr. Randall’s zealous jollity. She stayed beside the counter and offered him a smile she hoped might take the edge off his bad humor. “Thank you for bringing my orders from the train station. Did you already retrieve your jar of licorice whips? If not, I’ll begin opening crates and find it for you.”
He assumed a negligent pose—elbow on a crate, leg bent, and toe planted on the floor, hat held against his thigh. “Don’t worry about the licorice just yet. Let me tell you what I retrieved for you.”
She didn’t care for the bite in his tone. “What’s that?”
“Charley and Cassie.”
She pursed her lips. “That’s old news.”
“Not as old as you think.” He stepped away from the crates and moved to the end of the counter. He plopped his hat on top of the cast-iron cash register and stacked his arms on the counter’s edge. “I retrieved them this morning. From the train yard in Beloit.”
“What?” Neva shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. I sent them out the back door with Bud, Belle, and Adeline at eight o’clock just as I always do. How could they be in Beloit?”
“They sneaked into my truck and rode there with me.”
If it wasn’t for his serious expression, she’d think he was playing a prank in honor of Halloween. “You mean they—”
“Yep. Hid behind my seat. Then when I stopped, they got out and hightailed it for town.” He tipped his head at a cocky angle, peering at her through narrowed eyes. “You know why?”
“N-no.”
“They wanted to go back to their old house. Because Charley says you don’t like him.”
“Nonsense.” She tried to blast the word, but it came out on a quavering note instead.
“Is it?” He eased closer, his squint-eyed gaze holding her captive. “I’ve watched Bud torment that boy on the playground, and I’ve told Charley to tell you how he’s being treated. He said he’s told you, and you promise to take care of it, but it never changes. That little boy is as unhappy as any kid I’ve ever seen. The only time he smiles is when he’s delivering fliers for Mr. Randall. Probably because he’s away from the mercantile and Bud.”
Defensiveness rose from Neva’s chest and spilled out her mouth. “Bud has reason to resent Charley. He doesn’t understand why his father needed another boy. Now, with his father gone, he feels accountable for taking care of his sister and me. He sees Charley, Cassie, and Adeline as unnecessary intrusions.”
“Is that how you see them?”
“No!” Her voice was so shrill it pierced her ears. She winced.
“Are you sure?”
No, she wasn’t sure. But she wouldn’t confess it to Jesse Caudel. She sighed. “I’ll have another talk with Bud about the way he treats Charley.”
“And you’ll talk to Charley? You’ll tell him you don’t want him to leave?”
She focused on a bag of rice sitting off-kilter on the shelf. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Shilling?”
She glanced at him.
His lips formed a grim line, and a warning glimmered in his eyes. “When you talk to him, look him in the face so he’ll believe you. Because I made a deal with the boy. If he’s still this unhappy at Christmastime, I promised to take him and his sisters to an orphanage. If you’re serious about keeping them, you need to make some changes. Because I’ll keep my promise. I guess we could say you’re pretty much on borrowed time with those kids.”
She clamped her mouth tight and held back the protest rising in her throat.
“And something else…”
She whirled to face him and snapped, “What?”
His forehead pinched into a sharp V. “You have some really nice furniture in your apartment. Is any of it made by Rich & Baker?”
Neva
When the children returned from school, Neva quickly put a handwritten sign, Be Back Soon, in the window and sent the three youngest ones upstairs for a snack. Then she took Bud and Belle into the storage area under the stairs, where they would have privacy. With Mr. Caudel’s warning about taking Charley and the girls to an orphanage still ringing in her ears, she went directly to the point.
“Bud, you’re to start treating Charley with kindness and respect. No more tormenting him at school or in your room when the two of you are alone.”
Bud jerked a scowl at Belle. “Tattletale.”
Belle’s eyes flew wide. “I’m not a tattletale.”
Neva grabbed Bud’s arm. “Your sister hasn’t said a word. I hear the things you say to him when you think I’m not listening. And Sheriff Caudel told me he’s seen you mistreating Charley on the playground.”
Bud gawked at her. “Sheriff Caudel tattled on me?”
“That’s right. He also told me Charley and Cassie hid away in his truck, intending to sneak out when he reached Beloit so they wouldn’t have to live with us anymore.”
“Oh, Momma…” Belle covered her mouth with her hand. Tears pooled in her eyes. “Charley told me he wanted to walk Cassie to school by himself to prove he could do it. I didn’t know they were gonna run off.”
“It isn’t your fault, Belle. You’ve been nothing but kind to all three children.” Neva turned her stern frown on her son. “But if Bud doesn’t change his ways, Sheriff Caudel intends to take Charley, Cassie, and Adeline to an orphans’ home.”
“So let him take them. We can’t afford to keep them here.” Bud yanked free and waved his arm toward the closed door behind him. “I saw the crates in the hallway. There’s not enough to last a whole month. And you know November’s a busier month because of Thanksgiving. We need more stock, not less.”
Neva stood speechless. Bud had paid more attention to storekeeping than she’d realized.
Her son shoved Warren’s hat brim upward and glared at her as he continued, his voice changing from harsh to pleading. “Folks are gonna start going across town to the big grocer instead of coming to us if we don’t keep our shelves stocked. We can’t keep our shelves stocked unless we have money to buy goods. And the more children you have to feed and clothe, the less money you’ll have.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his lanky neck. “Let ’em go, Ma.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“B-because they—” A hand seemed to close around Neva’s throat, stealing her ability to breathe. If she told the twins the truth about the children, would Bud finally come to accept their presence? “Because they’re your…your brother and sisters.”
Both Bud and Belle stared at Neva in confusion. Belle asked, “How can that be?”
Neva’s dry throat resisted speech, but she forced the words out. “They were born to your father and a woman named Violet. When your father left in his wagon, he wasn’t selling goods to people in the county. He was driving to Beloit to spend a month with his other family. Charley, Cassie, and Adeline are your half brother and sisters.”
Belle stared in mute horror, her face white.
Bold red crept from Bud’s neck and filled his cheeks. “That’s not true. Pop didn’t—He wouldn’t—” He gritted his teeth and growled.
Would Neva’s heart survive witnessing her children’s distress? She wished she could have one hour with Warren to tell him how much harm he had brought to her. Her thoughts carried her backward in time. Every night of his months in Buffalo Creek as they slipped into bed, he’d kissed her and whispered how much he loved her. How could he have deceived her so callously? Warren’s idea of loving was certainly different than hers.
She reached for the twins, but both shied away. She blinked back tears. “I know it hurts to hear such a thing about your father. But please know it had nothing to do with the two of you. He loved you. He was proud of you. He just wanted…more.” More than she could give.
Her chest ached with a ferocity that defied description. She stretched out her arms, and this time they allowed her to cup their cheeks with her trembling hands. “We both wanted more children. I couldn’t give them to him, but Violet could. And did. In giving your father children, she gave you a brother and two sisters. She gave you a…a gift. Don’t you see?”
Bud slapped Neva’s hand away. “This is all a dirty lie. You’re the one who wanted more kids, not Pop. You’re making this up so you can keep those blasted kids. Well, fine.” He threw the hat onto the floor, then wrenched the door open and stumbled out of the storeroom, yanking the cobbler apron over his head as he went. “You want them? Keep them. But I’m not sticking around and listening to you tell lies about my father.” He wheeled around the counter and stumbled for the door.
“Bud!”
Belle’s frantic cry shattered Neva’s heart. She pulled her daughter into her arms and rocked her as she sobbed. “Shh, darlin’. Hush now. Remember what you told me the day of your father’s memorial?” She kissed Belle’s moist temple once and then again. “You said we’d be all right.”
Belle’s slender frame shuddered within Neva’s embrace. She rasped, “Pray, Momma. Please, pray.”
Neva automatically closed her eyes. “Dear Lord…” But no other words came. She didn’t know what to pray. She clutched Belle close and hoped God would understand the wordless groaning of her heart. She was empty.
Arthur
Arthur, throw rug in hand, opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He raised the rug to give it a good shake, and Bud Shilling careened directly into the rectangle of woven wool. The rug flew one way, and Bud bounced the opposite direction, his arms flailing.
“Here now.” Arthur grabbed Bud’s elbow and helped him catch his balance. When the boy stood on two feet without wobbling, Arthur chuckled. “What’s your hurry? Is the mercantile on fire?” He started to retrieve the rug, but something in the boy’s face made him pause mid-motion. “What’s wrong?”
Bud’s chin quivered. Tears winked in his eyes. His entire body trembled.
Arthur took hold of Bud’s arm again and, leaving the rug on the sidewalk, pulled the boy into the emporium. He guided him between displays of furniture, well away from the big plate-glass windows. Then he removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket and pushed it into Bud’s hand. “Blow.”
Bud stood there letting the white square of cloth dangle like a surrender flag.
Arthur nudged his hand, urging it upward. “Go ahead. Blow.”
Bud blew, then swiped his eyes. He wadded the handkerchief in his fist and stared outward, his mouth set in a scowling line.
“Feel better now?” Arthur already knew the answer—despondency was written all over the boy’s face—but he had to say something. They couldn’t stand there like a pair of statues.
Bud shook his head.
Arthur smoothed his mustache, examining Bud’s stiff posture. “If blowing your nose doesn’t help, maybe blowing your top will.”
Bud shot a startled look at Arthur.
He feigned surprise. “What’s the matter? Hasn’t anyone ever told you to go ahead and lose your temper?”
“No, sir. Ma’s always telling me not to lose it. Pop said the same thing.” Bud hung his head. His fingers convulsed on the rumpled handkerchief.
“Telling youngsters not to lose their tempers is something parents like to do. I tell my boys to keep a grip on their tempers, too. But can I be perfectly honest with you?” Arthur took hold of Bud’s shoulders and eased him onto the foam cushion of the floral Duncan Phyfe sofa. He hitched his pant legs, settled himself on the matching chair, so he was close but not too close, and went on as if Bud had answered in the affirmative. “I’ve discovered holding all that anger inside isn’t always the best idea. Gives me terrible indigestion. So sometimes I have to let it out. Especially when it’s been bubbling for a while.”
Something was bubbling in this boy. He kept a tight enough grip on the handkerchief to pop its seams. His jaw muscles bulged as if he were biting down on a strip of boot leather, and his cheeks were mottled with red. When he blew, it wouldn’t be pretty. Arthur would keep him here until he’d let it out so Mrs. Shilling wouldn’t have to witness it. Women never handled men’s outbursts very well.
Arthur bumped Bud’s knee with his fist. “Blow.”
Bud angled his head and peered at Arthur through his heavy bangs. “If I do, you gonna do like the sheriff and go snitch to my ma?”
“Nope.” Arthur held up his palm. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were a scout?”
He laughed. “No. I’m afraid I was already close to your age now when the Boy Scouts got started back in 1910. I thought it was for little kids.” And there were uniforms and dues, things that cost money his family didn’t have.
“You’re pretty ol
d, then.”
Arthur swallowed a chortle. “I suppose so. But old or not, I’ve always admired the organization. Admired their oath, too, especially the part about helping other people. That’s why I started this business—to help people make their homes inviting, comfortable places to live.”
Bud squinted slightly. “I thought it was because you could make lots of money.”
The boy was certainly candid. Arthur smiled. “That’s a happy result, too.”
“My pop said you were after our mercantile because you’re a moneygrubber.”
Maybe too candid. Arthur’s smile faltered. “Is there something wrong with wanting to make a decent living?”
The flame of fury that had started to flicker during their conversation flared again. “No. A man takes care of his own—that’s what Pop always said. But try telling that to my ma. She won’t listen to me. She’s gonna keep those kids even if it means we all end up in shantytown. And I don’t believe that they’re my brother and sisters. Pop wouldn’t—” He jerked to his feet and shoved the handkerchief at Arthur. “Here. I gotta go.” He started for the door.
Arthur followed. “Bud, I meant it when I said I admire the Boy Scout oath about helping people. If you ever need anything, you can—”
Bud stopped but he didn’t turn around. “Mr. Randall, just remember you said you wouldn’t snitch to my ma. Pretend like I was never here.” He whacked the door open and stormed out.
Arthur moved to the window. Bud paused at the edge of the sidewalk long enough to glance left and right and then took off across the street at a dead run. He kept going until Arthur lost sight of him. But Arthur remained there, staring blindly after the boy, with the sentence Bud hadn’t finished, “Pop wouldn’t—,” playing through his memory. Pop wouldn’t…what?
He finger combed his mustache, trying to make sense of the boy’s prattle. Just prior to the comment, he’d said his mother called the three children living at the mercantile his brother and sisters. Awareness descended. Surely Warren Shilling hadn’t—
Room for Hope Page 19
