“I’d . . . I’d love to see a sample of a Purse Suede.”
Lauren’s eyes widened. “You would?”
“Do you have a selection, or . . . ?”
“Well, not yet. Some sketches. Do we have a sewing machine that will handle suede?”
Great plan, Lauren. If you charge a thousand dollars per purse, you may be able to “persuade” a landlord to rent an apartment to you, and you can buy groceries and diapers and get a car and pay taxes and buy insurance and pay for a website on which to sell your thousand-dollar purses that you will ship in boxes you can’t afford with postage you can’t afford to customers who’ve never heard of you and oh, Lord God!
“How can I help, Lauren?” That’s not what she intended to say. It slipped out like a preemie.
“You really want to help?” The look on Lauren’s face was softer than it had been in months. Becky saw remnants of the little girl Lauren had been moments before a bad decision made her a mother. Likely a series of bad decisions. None of the mistakes Becky had made over the years could be attributed to one single wrong move. They’d usually compounded to the point of awful, like a litter box—not bad the first day, but disgusting if left to build up.
“I want to see you succeed, Lauren. But graduating is not optional. We’ll start there.”
Lauren slumped. “But what if . . . ?”
No. No. You’re not pregnant again. You can’t be. You won’t fight morning sickness during midterms. You won’t deliver before you graduate. No.
“Mom, did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry. Spaced out for a minute.”
“What if my grades don’t cut it?”
The baby food jar of morning glory seeds sat on the kitchen counter on their way to basement storage. Becky picked it up and rotated it, watching the tiny brown nubbins move at her will, lifeless now but with the potential for next year’s blossoms. She’d heard hope—a seed of hope—in Lauren’s concern for her grades. “I’ll help there, too. We’ll get through this together.”
10
Ivy—1951
We’ll get through this together.” The words tasted unfamiliar to her as she said them, and sounded at least as unfamiliar to her ears.
Your mom’s gone, Ivy. We’ll get through this together.
Oh, Ivy. No! Well, we’ll get through this together.
Things aren’t turning out as we’d hoped. But we’ll get through this together.
What if she’d heard words like that from anyone who cared about her? Drew might have been the one person to say them, if she’d given him a chance. She hadn’t because of the burden she was and the burden she carried.
“What’s that, dear?” Anna scooted herself higher in the bed. Ivy hoped the action wasn’t as painful as it appeared.
“We’ll . . . we’ll get through this together.”
“My being evicted isn’t your concern, Miss Ivy.”
“You’re not being evicted. Discharged is different.”
Those pewter-gray eyes turned to slits. “How?”
Ivy straightened the blanket at the foot of Anna’s bed. “You’re right. Not much difference.”
Anna’s crooked smile hinted at a less-than-fully-satisfying victory.
“I assume your home was sold to pay for your time here?” How far did Ivy dare nose her way into Anna’s private life? But who else did she have to talk to about it?
“Long ago. Not to pay for my rent in these deluxe accommodations.” She winked. “But, yes. The house is gone.” Pewter turned to glass. “The morning glories. Gone. Except for those in my treasure box.” She turned to face out the window, as if suddenly mesmerized by the view.
Treasure box? Oh. Her mind. “Let’s not give up hope.” Another unfamiliar line bubbled up Ivy’s throat and escaped through her open mouth. Where were these things coming from? Not give up hope? What had hope done for her lately?
Ivy drew her chair closer. “How much time do we have?”
Anna’s silver head turned back to the scene at hand. She eyed Ivy’s middle. “I’d guess four months. Am I right?”
The growth Ivy fought all workday to ignore fought all day to be noticed. So far, Anna’s powers of observation proved stronger than Ivy’s coworkers’ and supervisor’s. How long would that last? Her dad’s two-month deadline crept closer every day. Ignoring postponed the inevitable but increased the cramp around Ivy’s heart. The day was coming. Her sin, unlike others’, had a visible component.
The narrow white belt on her uniform was notched in the hole closest to its tip. The fine-gauge sweaters she wore to hide her swollen breasts and swelling stomach seemed ridiculous in this weather, even to her. What was she expecting? That some magical solution would waltz in and make everything all better? That society would overlook her unmarried-but-bloated state? That the church people who tsked and gossiped about other girls “in trouble” or “in a family way” would suddenly develop a sense of charity toward her alone? She’d given them no reason to be sympathetic.
Somewhere in town, at this very moment, a couple bent over a booth to slurp a chocolate malt from matching straws without losing eye contact. Somewhere, a couple held hands in a car at a drive-in movie, spacing bites of popcorn with quick kisses. Somewhere, a married couple lay side by side on a davenport, watching Truth or Consequences, his hands gently resting on her tummy, waiting for the flutter that said, “Hi, Daddy.”
Truth or consequences.
Ivy sat on a folding chair in an old folks’ home, taking dictation from a woman old enough to be her great-grandmother, in a 10 × 10 room only temporarily hers, plotting how she could save the woman from homelessness when she herself had no place to call home.
Anna—1890s
It was inevitable I would face “the scoffers,” a name the townspeople earned for themselves. Had I been the banker, I too would have most likely laughed at the cockeyed scheme of a woman such as me. Imagine the gall of walking right up to the man with the money and asking him to share some of it. For a good cause, mind you. A cause, though, he neither understood nor applauded.
The cause was similarly of little interest to the shopkeeper and his wife—Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon. I will forever repent of the urge to call them the Witheredprunes. Oh! There it is again! God, forgive me.
Denied the courtesy, I stood inches away from customers who were granted credit for the goods they carried smugly to their homes. Aunt Phoebe had been one of them, a member of their own community. I was a newcomer, an outsider. A stranger with a suspect idea.
The rejection that cut deepest came from the church. Would the reaction have been different if I could have had a chance to ease my way into the people’s favor? Could I have gained their support if Pastor Kinney hadn’t invited me to stand and introduce myself to the congregation that first Sunday, if he hadn’t asked me, “And what do you plan to do here in our fair community, Miss Morgan?”
If it had been a courtroom rather than a sanctuary, Pastor Kinney might have held them all in contempt for the murmuring that followed my answer. How he managed to carry on with his sermon, I don’t recall. I spent the remainder of the hour wrestling with God.
Lord, what have You asked of me? I can’t find even a whisper of encouragement among Your own people! Am I all alone? Have I misunderstood Your leading? Is there no one who will stand beside me?
As I prayed, before me rose a vision of a balding, ebony-skinned man with scars on his hands. There were two of us.
I squirmed through the service like a five-year-old with an impatient bladder. I removed my gloves, then pulled them on again, feeling too exposed. Even with my line of sight locked on the pulpit and the man behind it, or on the hymnal I was forced to share with the person next to me, I felt the searing heat of the stares and glares of those who refused to understand.
To escape as quickly as I wanted would have meant pushing rudely through the crowd. Resigned to being swept along with the current, I kept my eyes focused on the hem of my flannel skirt
.
A soft hand rested on my shoulder. “Anna?”
Propriety forced me to reply. “Yes?”
“I’m Lydia Kinney. Pastor Kinney is my husband.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Kinney.”
“We would love to hear more about your plans.”
“You would?”
She and I both heard it. Someone or several someones near us clicked their tongues in disapproval. Lydia Kinney grasped my hand in her two. “Please consider joining us for Sunday dinner. There’s always an extra chair and a spare plate.”
The temptation to refuse was great. But the root of my refusal could not be excused. I was afraid. Of what? Of being laughed at, ridiculed, persecuted? Jesus had walked that road before me to take the sting out of it.
Like a beloved aunt, Lydia Kinney raised my chin—I’d dropped my gaze again—with one silken finger. I caught the gentlest whiff of lavender.
“I see in you, child, great pain and great love.”
She called me child, as if I were not a grown woman not that much younger than herself.
“The pain needs healing, which I intend to help along. The love needs a little mothering, if I’m right. Someone to tend to it, like a seedling needs tending.”
In that epiphany moment, I was unaware of the rest of the congregation filing past us. They faded off, as if trapped on a blurred tintype. Lydia and I stood alone in a pool of sweet-smelling sunlight. Was its source the window, the sky, or something even higher?
“Do you have plans?”
Did she mean plans for the future or plans for dinner? “I’m not sure.” A watery answer, but fitting for both angles of the question.
“The table was set last evening with the thought that God would draw to it a special someone. I believe that’s you, Miss Morgan.”
Our circle of sunlight grew to hold another. Pastor Kinney joined us, draping his arm tenderly around Lydia’s shoulder.
“Has she agreed?” he asked his wife, smiling in my direction.
I wondered when they had spoken to each other about me, when they had communicated about the dinner invitation. To my knowledge, no words had passed between them since the service ended. It seemed as if they spoke a wide vocabulary with their eyes, and that their hearts pulsed as one. The thought was precious but created within me a longing just shy of physical pain.
Did they realize how dust-dry was my well of courage? Did they know what it would cost me to share a meal with them and relate the story of my heart’s journey? Judging by their innocent invitation and the simple warmth of their smiles, they did not.
It was all I could do not to attack the succulent roast beef like a hungry dog. The browned potatoes, the glazed carrots, the thick slices of dark bread, and the sugary pink applesauce Lydia served in pink glass sauce dishes—if I’d allowed myself the rein, I would have groaned with satisfaction after each mouthful. But I’d been taught better than that. Small bites, long savored. And oh, I did!
We took our coffee and lemon cake in the parlor, where the conversation deepened from the shallow pool where we’d waded during the meal.
“What resources do you have, Anna . . . other than the house?”
Setting my dessert fork on the white china plate in my lap, I dabbed at my mouth with a napkin, delaying my answer a few desperate moments.
“None. I have none.”
The look that passed between my hosts was unreadable. Pity? Concern? As shepherd of this local flock, was Pastor Kinney obliged to see that the authorities locked crazy people away, out of harm’s reach?
Lydia stood to her feet and exited the room. I listened for the creak or thump of a door, which would tell me she had been assigned to enlist the sheriff’s or doctor’s help in dealing with the deranged person nibbling on lemon cake in their parlor. But she returned and rejoined her husband on the sofa, smiling and clutching an envelope.
Pastor Kinney’s countenance and voice took on a light but rich quality—like good meringue. “Has this always been your dream?”
I almost laughed aloud. My dream? Far from it! If I had my way, I would be tidying a little cottage following a meal such as this one. I’d be telling my little ones not to run indoors and fixing a second cup of coffee for a devoted husband who adored me and wasn’t ashamed to say so. I’d spend my days tending the house and the garden and the children—five or six of them—and making quilts and chatting with friends over tea and staying in the shadows.
“What God is asking of me is a complete and utter surrender of my own ideas. I still find myself battling Him about it.”
Pastor and Mrs. Kinney produced mirror smiles.
The couple rose from their positions and knelt on either side of me on the floral carpet. Lydia took the plate from my lap and set it on the table near my chair. They each took one of my hands in theirs and began to pray—Pastor Kinney giving voice to the words, Mrs. Kinney agreeing with groans too deep for words.
I was being commissioned. Sent. Lydia’s tears dotted the fabric of my skirt as they prayed. Through my own tears, I viewed the dark, wet spots on the gray flannel as evidence of love, which I hoped would never evaporate.
Pastor Kinney’s grip on my hand was crushing; my fingers grew numb as his prayers grew more intense. I rose above the earth, above the obstacles, above the scoffers, above the lacks too numerous to mention, above the ridiculousness of the notion that a woman of my stature and limited education could carry off such a project.
Like a paralyzed man borne on a straw mat, I was placed before the Healer, the Provider, by my hours-old friends. Their faith moved heaven. My own was swept along in the flood tide, unable to resist. Able only to release my fears and questions, I watched them float away as if stripped from my weak hands.
With the final amen offered, my hands were freed, the blood rushing back into my grateful fingers, accompanied by a startling new fearlessness that flooded into my soul.
Before Lydia allowed her husband to help her to her feet, she pressed the envelope into my hands. “Seed money,” she said.
They resettled on the sofa, brushing life back into their clothes . . . and knees. I fought my way through a jungle of unsuitable words, searching for something appropriate to say. Nothing surfaced.
“We will do all we can to help you, Anna.” Pastor Kinney’s words resounded as an echo of Puff’s. Though more polished, they were no less sincere or welcome.
With my left hand, I held the envelope. With the index finger of my right, I traced a circle around Lydia’s teardrops on my skirt, still searching for a fitting response. “I don’t know what to say.”
“We share your heart’s burden, Anna. In fact, we have long wondered if we should abandon the pulpit ministry to do such a work as yours.”
Such a work as mine?
Lydia picked up where her husband left off. “We couldn’t understand why we were hampered. Now we know. We were not to take on the project ourselves but to assist you. And we will, to the best of our ability.”
The money in the envelope smelled of sacrifice. I imagined its fragrance tickled God’s nostrils and made Him sigh with satisfaction. As hesitant as I might naturally have been to take money from them, I didn’t dare snuff the incense of their love.
“Seed money,” Lydia repeated, watching me fiddle with the envelope. “To help you get started.”
“It’s not much,” Pastor Kinney added, “but we will pray that it will grow like sourdough mix when it is stirred and fed, bursting out of the bowl until you have no choice but to give some away.”
Relaxing a little more into the joy of the moment, I wondered how often this learned, suited man had stirred down sourdough. And I wondered when and how the Kinneys had been told to set aside money for a stranger whom they would entertain in their home. They didn’t profess to read minds but asked questions and made comments that would have fed evidence, if I believed in such a thing.
We talked through another pot of coffee. The afternoon quickly advanced. When they
offered to take me home in their buggy, I reluctantly but appreciatively agreed. They both accompanied me on the four-mile journey. It felt only natural to invite them into the house and let them in on my dreams as we walked from room to room . . . as we prayed through each room.
When they finally left, pressed for time by the setting sun nipping at their heels, I noted that I was both drained and refreshed—an odd combination, but as real as the floorboards under my feet. I found myself wishing Puff lived on the “propity” so I wouldn’t have to wait to share the story with him.
And so another thought blossomed, a crocus of thought pushing its way through snow.
11
Anna—1890s
With the Pastor and Lydia Kinney’s blessing, the seed money was used to buy linens and other household goods and to stock the pantry. On Puff’s advice, I bought a milk cow and a sorry-looking but dependable horse to pull the wagon that had been sitting idle in a corner of the barn.
Also with Pastor and Lydia Kinney’s blessing, I invited Puff to live in the tack room in the barn. How could I offer him such crude accommodations? I would have been quite comfortable having him in one of the upstairs rooms in the house. But propriety wouldn’t allow such a thing. I was no doubt still inviting wagging tongues by having him on the premises at all. But it was obvious God had His hand on that man and had laid His plan on Puff’s heart. Who was I to argue, no matter what it cost me in gossip?
With a little fixing up, the tack room was “near close to cozy,” as Puff described it. He had a comfortable bed, a small table and two straight-backed chairs, a rocker for “resting his bones,” a bookcase of rough wood for his surprisingly large collection of books, and a woodstove small enough not to overwhelm the room with its size or its heat.
Puff cut a hole in the outside wall for a larger window, which we scavenged from a pile of discards in back of the barn. The additional light in the room, coupled with the rag rugs I made for the floor and the patchwork quilt Puff brought from his old home, warmed it up.
When the Morning Glory Blooms (9781426770777) Page 10
