JUBILEE’S JOURNEY
The Wyattsville Series – Book Two
Bette Lee Crosby
Cover Design:
Valentine-Design.com
Copyright 2013 by Bette Lee Crosby
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages for a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on life experiences and conclusions drawn from research, all names, characters, places and specific instances are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. No actual reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or inferred.
ISBN #978-0-9891289-3-3
BENT PINE PUBLISHING
Port Saint Lucie, FL
Table of Contents
Note From Author
Dedication
As It Was
Cruel Winter
And Thus It Happened
Many Miles Away
Paul
Looking For Anita
Angry Faces
Olivia Doyle
Girl On A Bench
Ethan Allen
Late News
The Hospital
The Next Day
Olivia
Thinking It Through
Jubilee Jones
The Bad Place
Two To Go
Olivia
In The Wee Hours
Reaching Out
Jack Mahoney
The Long Weekend
Olivia
Following A Trail Of Breadcrumbs
Miami Beach
Turner’s Turn
Olivia Doyle
Verdict Before Trial
Hector Gomez
Jubilee’s Choice
Ethan Allen
According To Bertha
The Road To Remembering
Jack Mahoney
The Sign
Jubilee
Front Page
The Bread Basket Café
The Alcove
Olivia
When Monday Comes
Ethan’s Gift
The Awakening
The Final Shot
Visiting Anita
Olivia
Jubilee’s Journey
Plea For Help
The Telling Story
The Carmella Encounter
The Homecoming
Olivia
Future Plans
Clara
No Children Allowed
Dinner Guests
The Meeting
Finding Family
And It Came To Pass…
Additional Novels by Bette Lee Crosby
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
For I know the plans I have for you declares The Lord…
Plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future…
Jeremiah 29-11
Writing a novel is never easy; writing a novel that explores the truth of people offers an even greater challenge and I could not have done it alone. Every day I thank Our Heavenly Father for blessing me with the talent to do this and providing the daily inspiration that motivates me to write stories about the good and bad of life. I hope you’ll forgive me when my characters use profanity; it’s part of who they are. Without exposure to the darker aspects of humankind, there is no barometer by which to measure the goodness, generosity and love we have all been gifted with.
I want to thank the people who have contributed to this book. I am extremely grateful to Naomi Blackburn for her guidance on storyline and manuscript evaluation. She is an amazing talent with a sharp eye for quickly identifying the flaws in a character or storyline. I also want to thank my Editor Ekta Garg, a genius in her own right. Ekta rights my wrongs without ever losing sight of the Character’s Southern voice. A special thank you goes to Coral Russell for the million and one things she does to keep the promotion schedule running smoothly. Coral is not only my Literary Assistant, she is my right arm and I would be lost without her.
I would be extremely remiss were I not to thank Kathleen Valentine of Valentine-Design.com for the beauty of this cover and for creating a unique brand that I shall carry forward. She is a most talented designer with a uncanny ability to capture the essence of both story and author. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Daniel Blanchard for formatting this book and making it user friendly in all e-book venues.
A very special thank you goes to all the Gals at my BFF Clubhouse, a fan club that is more about friendship than you might think possible. I have been extremely blessed in knowing each of these gals. They are avid readers, astute listeners, caring friends and an unending source of inspiration. The ladies in this group are so supportive and special that I find myself sprinkling their names throughout many of my books.
Lastly, I thank Dick, who simply hates when I refer to him as Richard. He is my husband, my life partner, my business partner and my reason for living. He listens when I need someone to listen, and offers sage advice when I tend toward irrational. I am truly blessed in working with, living with and loving such a husband.
For The Pence Family
Who showed me the joy that comes
with believing.
As It Was…
On an icy cold November morning in 1956, Bartholomew Jones died in the Poynter Coal Mine. His death came as no surprise to anyone. He was only one of the countless men forever lost to the mine. They were men loved and mourned by their families, but to the world they were faceless, nameless people, not worthy of mention in the Charleston Times.
Morning after morning those men descended into the belly of the mountain, into a world of black dust that clung to their skin with a fierceness that no amount of scrubbing could wash away. In the winter the sky was still black when they climbed into the trolley cart that carried them into the mountain. And when they returned twelve hours later, daylight had already come and gone.
None of the men complained. They were the lucky ones, they told one another. They were the ones who slept easy. Their family had food on the table and coal for the stove when winter blasted its way across the ridge of the mountain.
At one time Bartholomew thought he could beat the odds, break the chain of events that carried itself through generation after generation. His daddy had grown up in the mines, starting when he was barely big enough to carry a bucket of scrap coal from the chute to the hopper. His granddaddy had done the same. It was the way of life, a dirty, lung-polluting job handed down from grandfather to father and ultimately to son.
But Bartholomew had different plans.
In 1932 he left home to join the navy. “Go,” his daddy said happily. “Go and don’t ever look back.” A life built on a hunched back and blackened skin was not something any man wished for his son, and even though it meant he might never see the boy again he was glad.
After two months of basic training Bartholomew was assigned to the Norfolk Navy Yard and for the next six years he loaded and unloaded machine parts on the ships that sailed in and out of the port.
Norfolk was where he met and married Ruth.
It was love at first sight. Ruth was in town visiting her sister, and as fate would have it he happened to be standing in back of them while the girls waited to buy tickets to see “The Big Broadcast” with Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour. To Bartholomew’s eye Ruth was far prettier than Dorothy Lamour, and he said so ten minutes after they’d struck up a conversation.
“Aw,
go on,” she’d said with a smile.
As they eventually made their way down the aisle of the strand, Bartholomew followed the girls. Before they’d gone nine rows in Ruth pointed to a spot with three empty seats together. “Let’s sit here,” she said. She looked back at Bartholomew, an invitation in her smile.
After the movie Bartholomew took Ruth and her sister, Anita, for ice cream sodas. Before it came time to pay the check, he was in love. Forever, eternally, and deeply in love. With her soft brown eyes and lips that fairly begged to be kissed, Ruth was as warm as a wool coat on a blustery day.
Anita was the exact opposite. She frowned for the entire two hours they lingered over sodas, and on three different occasions tapped her finger against the face of her wristwatch indicating it was time to go. The glares she gave Bartholomew were so icy they froze in midair.
When Bartholomew asked Ruth if she’d like to go to dinner the next evening, Anita spoke up.
“I’ll not hear of it!” she snapped. “The Walker girls are not the type to date total strangers!”
“Oh, Anita,” Ruth said with a laugh. “Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy. Bartholomew’s not a stranger. Why, we’ve spent the entire day with him.” She turned to Bartholomew and told him she would be delighted to join him for dinner. From that day on they were inseparable. Two months later, on the day Bartholomew was discharged from the Navy, they were married. Anita, who was Ruth’s maid of honor, never once cracked a smile.
Bartholomew got a job making twenty-eight dollars a week at a warehouse where he and thirty-seven other fellows crated replacement parts for tractors. Confident that good times were here to stay, he and Ruth moved into a two-room walk-up and bought a used bedroom set and a brand new radio.
Nine months later the warehouse closed its doors without paying the men their final week’s wages.
“Don’t worry,” Bartholomew told Ruth. “I’ll get a job. A week, two at the most.”
But other than strength and a willing heart, he had no skills. A month passed, and he found nothing. First they sold the radio; then the bedroom set. After that they moved to a furnished room so small Ruth had to walk sideways to climb onto her side of the bed.
For three months Bartholomew looked for a job. He left the room early in the morning and returned long after dark. He went from door to door asking for work. “I’ll do anything,” he said, “wash dishes, mop the floor, scrub toilets.” But he always got the same answer. “Nothing right now, try again next week.” At night he’d drag himself home, ashamed of returning empty-handed but so weary he could barely manage to slide one foot in front of the other.
Ruth stretched what little money they had and made every penny count. She ate the tiniest scraps of food and used a single tea bag for a week, leaving it to soak in the hot water just seconds before pulling it out and setting it aside for the next day. There were no more movies, no dinners at restaurants, no ice cream sodas. Many nights they shared a half can of Campbell’s soup. Ruth would eat two or three spoonfuls, then suggest Bartholomew finish the bowl. By that time she had begun to look pale and hollow-eyed. Several mornings in a row she could not hold down even the weak tea she’d brewed. But when Bartholomew asked what was wrong, she simply smiled and shrugged it off.
When he finally insisted, Ruth told him she was carrying a child. That’s when Bartholomew made the fateful decision—the decision he swore he’d never make. It was the one place where he knew he could find work. The same work his daddy and granddaddy had done.
They packed one small bag and walked to the railroad station. Using their last three dollars, Bartholomew bought two tickets to Coal Fork, West Virginia.
That spring Ruth gave birth to a baby boy, and they named him Paul.
“He’ll grow to be a man of wisdom,” Bartholomew said. “As soon as he’s old enough to speak I’ll teach him what he needs to know so that one day he’ll leave this mountain and never look back.”
Before the boy was three Bartholomew’s hands had become blackened and his soul weary, so it fell to Ruth to teach the boy and she did.
The second year Ruth planted a garden behind the house. She grew corn, tomatoes, string beans, and summer squash. When the bounty was harvested, she planted turnips and potatoes. She planted more than they could eat in a summer, and when there was plenty she cooked the extra and packed it in mason jars sealed with a layer of wax. She continued to do it year after year, so Paul grew healthy and strong. She nourished the child’s body with the food she’d grown and his mind with words and stories from the books she loved.
Then the summer Paul turned nine, Ruth again grew pale and queasy. Most mornings she’d turn away from the strong coffee sitting atop the stove and drink only a cup of weak tea. Even then, she’d start to gag moments after the second swallow.
“Do you think possibly…?” Bartholomew glanced at her stomach.
“After all these years, I doubt it,” Ruth answered laughingly. But by November she knew for certain. By then her breasts were swollen and tender. She could not stand the smell of tomatoes, and even the briefest glance of raw meat made her retch. In late December Ruth felt the baby move for the first time. It was different from the way Paul had moved. He’d shifted himself slowly from side to side in movements that were barely perceptible. This baby kicked at Ruth’s ribs as if it were anxious to be free.
“This one is certain to be another boy,” Ruth said, laughing, “and a feisty one at that.”
Pleased with such an idea, Bartholomew began thinking of what he would call the boy.
Bartholomew trusted that choosing a name from the Bible brought special blessings, so each night he sat in the rocking chair and turned page after page looking for the right name. With Paul he had wished for only wisdom, but that was before he spent nine long years hacking bits of coal from the hardened walls of the mine. Nine days later Bartholomew settled on the name Jeremiah. This boy would be named after a man who could look to the future and be wise in the ways of the world. Surely he would be a child not destined to spend his days in the mine as Bartholomew did.
“Such a big name for a little baby,” Ruth said, but since it was Bartholomew’s will she accepted it. That winter Ruth bought several yards of bunting at the company store and hemmed it into four soft baby blankets. In the center of each one, she embroidered a large “J”.
In February, two days after a blizzard passed through West Virginia and left the mountain covered in snow so deep the mine closed down, Ruth’s labor pains began. For almost forty hours she was wracked with pain, and by the time the baby passed through the birth canal her eyes had rolled to the back of her head.
“No!” Bartholomew screamed and lifted her into his arms. “Please, Ruth, please don’t leave me.” He held her for hours as little Paul wiped the baby clean, wrapped her in a warm blanket, and placed her in the same cradle they’d used for him.
Just before dawn, Ruth’s eyelids fluttered open and she asked, “Jeremiah—is he okay?”
For the first time in many hours Bartholomew smiled. “Your prediction was wrong. Jeremiah is a girl.” He placed the baby in Ruth’s arms and sat beside them. “I think maybe we’d best come up with a new name.”
Ruth looked up at her husband. He was so strong and yet so gentle. He was a man who asked for little and gave much. She thought back on how this baby had kicked, how she’d struggled to be free. Paul was like Bartholomew, strong but gentle. This child was stronger. She had a lust for life and a fierce determination to live it. She’d waved her tiny arms and legs and celebrated life even before the time had come. The words Ruth spoke were her gift to Bartholomew.
“We’ll name her Jubilee,” she said, “because this child is a celebration of our love.”
Bartholomew smiled and nodded his approval.
And so it was.
Cruel Winter
They called the child Jubie for short. Right from the start she was small, undersized even for a girl. Whereas Paul had been a content child who slept for hour
s after being nursed, Jubilee was a red-faced, squalling bundle of energy who cried through the night and slept during the day.
Before she was a year old, Ruth could see the girl was the spitting image of Anita.
In the winter of Jubilee’s first birthday, a plague of influenza came to Coal Fork. First folks stopped going to church; then children dropped out of school. The company store closed down for a full two weeks, and half the men who worked the mine stopped showing up. The men who did continue to work, the men like Bartholomew, carried heavier loads and worked longer hours.
The week before Christmas Ruth began coughing. “Just a cold,” she told herself and continued with her daily chores. After three days she could no longer hold food in her stomach and was weakened to the point where she had to sit and rest after walking across the room. Sitting in the straight-backed kitchen chair, she’d explain to Paul how to make the biscuits and stoke the stove.
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