At Every Turn

by Mateer, Anne

  For the kingdom of God.

  For Africa.

  Or for Lucinda?

  Giving to her was still giving to the Lord’s work, I felt sure.

  “Here.” I shoved the bills into the palm of her hand, closing her fingers around them.

  “But I can’t—”

  “Yes you can. Pay off your debts and put a bit aside for when one of the children gets sick. And make sure to get some good food into all of you.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I know I don’t. But I want to. Let me be the hand the Lord uses to provide for your family today. Please?”

  For a brief moment, tears stood in her eyes, on her lashes, but she blinked them back. “Bless you, Miss Benson.”

  I took both of her hands in mine. “We’re friends now, Lucinda. Call me Alyce.”

  She gave a tiny nod and a shy smile. My own grin stretched as far as my face would allow. Next Sunday I wouldn’t overlook her. I would even offer to help with the baby.

  Minutes later, I sat behind the wheel of my car and let out a satisfied sigh. “Thank you, Lord, for letting me be a part of Your work today.” I started the engine and chugged down the street, wishing my little Runabout would fly as fast as the race car—or at least Father’s Mercer.

  After rounding the corner, I eased to a stop in front of the pharmacy. The engine quieted, leaving me to sort out my thoughts. Mr. Morgan would likely frown on my giving his donation to his secretary. But that thought didn’t bother me as much as another: My Africa fund had gone from two hundred dollars to zero in less than five minutes.

  6

  Two hours later, with one hundred sixty-two dollars in my handbag, I rolled into the empty expanse between Father’s office and his factory. The Mercer wasn’t in its usual spot, but that didn’t matter. I preferred not to bump into Father anyway. It was Webster I hoped to see. Would he celebrate my success or scold my impulsive gift to Lucinda?

  I tiptoed around my car and in the direction of the factory. Bangs and clangs littered the air. I held my breath, listening. A tap on my shoulder. With a squeal, I spun around. “Mr. Trotter.” I breathed relief. “You frightened me.”

  His mustache lifted, fell, then lifted once more. “Did you come to see your father, Miss Benson?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did not. I came because I—” I glanced back at the factory. Did I need Webster when Mr. Trotter was here? I laid my hand on his arm and smiled up at him. “I tried to call, but you were out. I’m in need of assistance, Mr. Trotter. Could we speak in your office?”

  He grinned. “I’d be delighted.”

  Bare walls, a dingy window, and clutter on the desk defined his small space. He pulled out his handkerchief and swiped the dust from the seat of a straight-backed chair. I gathered up my skirt to keep the hem from brushing the floor as I sat.

  “I guess you know why I’ve come.”

  He blinked at me in obvious discomfort.

  “The Africans, Mr. Trotter. Mr. and Mrs. McConnell’s mission in the Gold Coast?” I pulled the photograph from my handbag, smoothing out a small crease on one corner.

  “Ah, yes. The money.” His hazel eyes seemed to take on a new sparkle.

  I nodded. “Father wouldn’t . . . that is . . .” I pulled back my shoulders, sat up straighter. “I’ve decided to raise the money on my own.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Three thousand dollars?”

  I nodded again, more quickly this time, my head bobbing like tires rolling over bricked streets. “I’ve already begun canvassing businessmen in town.” I slid the list across his desk.

  He glanced at it and then back up at me. “And?”

  “A few paid me to drive them from one place to another. Usually not far enough to collect more than the fifty-cent minimum. Some, like Mr. Morgan at the law office, gave an outright donation.” I took a deep breath. “I collected a total of three hundred sixty-two dollars today—and I made known my willingness to drive for pay at any time.” My chin lifted. Ten more days like today and I’d have all the money I needed.

  “Quite impressive.” His gaze strayed to my handbag. “So how may I be of assistance?”

  “I need—” Staring into my lap, I wondered what I did need. Support? Advice? Help keeping the money I’d received? My head jerked up. “I’d be obliged if you could suggest a way for me to—hold on to the money.”

  He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed, lips mashed together, fingertips forming a tent.

  “Could you open an account at the bank for me?” I withdrew the paper money from my handbag and thrust it in his direction. He cared for Father’s money every day. No reason not to trust him with mine.

  He took the money, counted it. His eyes widened. “But this is only one hundred and sixty-two dollars, Miss Benson.”

  “I know.” I shrank back in my chair and swiped my tongue over my dry lips. “I gave away part of it.”

  He popped up from his chair, hands behind his back, the bills flapping in his fingers. He began to pace.

  My heart pounded and my palms turned moist.

  He stopped, faced me. “To whom did you give it?”

  I intended to say “Lucinda Bywater,” but her name stuck in my throat. “Someone who needed it.”

  He shook his head. “That just won’t do.” His pacing resumed. “No, it just won’t do.”

  I gripped the handle of my purse. “So you’ll take it to the bank for me?”

  He stared out the cloudy window for what seemed like an eternity. “The bank would be one option. But perhaps, given the circumstances . . .” He whirled to face me. “I’d hate for there to be any hint of scandal, Miss Benson. And should it slip out that your numbers don’t match what you’ve been given . . .”

  I bit my lip. I didn’t want any taint on this money. Nor did I want to rouse Father’s ire any more than I already had. Perhaps Mr. Trotter had a point. “I guess I’ll keep it with me, then.”

  I reached for the money. He pulled it back. “Would you allow me to hold it for you?”

  Since I’d given away over half of what I’d collected less than two hours after receiving it, the idea had merit. I opened my mouth to accept his offer, to gush my gratitude for his help. But the words clogged in my throat. If the money went in the bank, I’d earn interest, some little part to make up for what I’d given away. I knew I had to replace that two hundred dollars. And every bit would help, no matter how small. Or perhaps I needed to be responsible for all the money on my own. Could I trust myself to guard it until the McConnells returned?

  Lord?

  No brilliant plan alighted. I stood, held out my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Trotter, but I’d like to consider my options.”

  His jaw seemed to tighten as his hand stretched to meet mine, to lay the bills in my open palm. Then he fell back into his normal ease. “I encourage you to make a decision quickly, Miss Benson. I’d grieve to find out your funds weren’t available for those dear African children.”

  “Of course.” I slipped the money and the photo back into my handbag, wondering at my indecision. Tonight I’d ask Grandmother for her advice. And maybe Webster, too. Above all else, I wanted to do the right thing.

  Puttering home, I remembered the look on Lucinda’s face when her fingers closed around the bills. In spite of the sinking feeling in my stomach, I couldn’t convince myself that I’d done wrong, even if it meant Mr. Morgan’s donation hadn’t gone exactly to the place he’d intended. I felt sure Ava McConnell would have done the same after hearing Lucinda’s plight.

  I skidded around the corner and onto the brick drive that led past the back garden, into the garage. Clarissa was standing at the kitchen door, screeching at the gardener. Betsy and the day maids were hanging Mother’s cleaned clothes from the clothesline on the opposite side of the lane, even though it wasn’t Monday.

  I jumped from my car and hurried inside.

  “Mother?” Hanging my linen duster on the rack in the hall, I listened.

 
Voices drifted down the stairs, punctuated by thumps and bumps. I climbed toward the noise. Mother’s bedroom door stood ajar. I pushed it wide. A trunk stood open in the corner. Mother was opening and shutting drawers in her desk, as if searching for something.

  “Is something wrong, Mother?”

  Her head turned in my direction. “Darling.” She swept me into the room, led me to the tufted velvet couch in the corner, and kissed my cheeks before returning to her task. “Nothing’s wrong. I simply need to run up to Chicago on club business. They can’t seem to organize the charity bazaar without my presence.”

  In that moment, I envied my mother. Someone needed her. Needed her expertise.

  “Here it is.” She pulled a sheaf of papers from the back of one of the drawers. “I knew I’d kept those notes from past years.”

  I watched her bustle around the room, packing for her trip to Chicago. I glanced down at my purse. Mother would never blithely give away money entrusted to her for a specific cause. An ache started at the base of my skull and worked its way toward the crown of my head.

  “Your father hated it when I left him alone when you were away at school.” Her skirt swished as she deposited the found notes in a soft leather satchel Father had given her for her work. “But I know you’ll take good care of things now that you’re back, Alyce.”

  “Of course, Mother.” My head pounded in earnest now. I slipped from the room, wandered to the kitchen, and grabbed a handful of fresh blackberries from a bowl on the work table. Clarissa gave my hand a playful swat. I grinned and popped a berry into my mouth. As the sourness of the firm berry burst against my tongue, I thought again about Mother’s charitable work. Did she truly care about helping those in need, or did she work more for the accolades heaped upon her for her successful efforts?

  Pulsing pain tore through my head with every beat of my heart. If only I could go for one of my clandestine drives—sixty miles an hour with the wind slapping me in the face. That would cure the ache in my head—and maybe help me sort out the confusion in my heart, as well.

  One more berry found its way past my lips. As it did, I looked at the few resting in my hand. Lucinda and her children would probably greatly appreciate some fresh summer fruit.

  “Clarissa, could I take some of these to town? To a . . . friend?”

  “As you like, but it will mean less for the cobbler.”

  I waved off her concern as I transferred half the bowl’s contents to a small covered crock. “As long as you sweeten it enough, Father won’t know the difference.”

  Her lilting laugh chased me from the kitchen.

  7

  Webster’s familiar whistle lit the air outside the corner of the garage, pulling me to it like steel to a magnet. The moment he spotted me, his feet stopped and his tune faded.

  “I looked for you at the factory this afternoon.”

  He wiped his hands on a rag. “I’ve been here.” He flicked a glance toward the house as he shoved the dirty cloth into his back pocket. Then he motioned for me to follow him inside. My Packard sat in its customary place. I perched on a backless stool, the crock of berries in my lap, while he checked the tires and gadgets and fluids.

  “I went seeking Africa funds today.” I rested my hands on the lid, holding the berries inside, away from the temptation of my fingers and my mouth.

  He cocked his head and rubbed at a place near his nose, leaving a streak of grease to decorate his face. “Any success?”

  “Yes—and no.” I sighed. “You might as well work while I talk.”

  He resumed his tasks. I told him of my idea to make money driving and my visit with Mr. Morgan and the others in town. Then I related my encounter with Lucinda. And Mr. Trotter. He didn’t look at me through the entire tale. Just kept working. Washing. Drying. Buffing. Scraping splatter from the windscreen. Wiping down the soft black top and the leather seats. At the back of the motorcar, he cleaned the last bit of dirt from my spare tire as I fell silent.

  He stepped away, admired his work or my car, I wasn’t sure which.

  I slid from the stool, suddenly afraid of his censure. “So what do you think?” I set the blackberries in the passenger’s seat of my car.

  “About which part?” He buffed one spot on the headlamp.

  “All of it.”

  He pushed the bill of his flat driving cap a bit higher, revealing his dark eyes. “Why does it matter what I think?”

  I clasped my hands behind my back and started a slow circle around my automobile. He was right. I acted for Jesus alone. What mattered was what He thought of me. I’d told Mr. Morgan the money would go to Africa. And it didn’t. On the other hand, I’d seen one in need and helped. Like the Good Samaritan.

  Or Robin Hood.

  Which mattered most—telling the truth or doing the right thing? I wasn’t completely sure. In spite of Webster’s lack of spiritual direction, he’d demonstrated good sense in the few years I’d known him. “I value your opinion, that’s all.”

  He shrugged. “Why? I just tinker with engines and machinery.”

  “You’re the one who encouraged me to raise the money.”

  He snorted and turned away. “Did I?”

  I blocked his path to the workbench. “It isn’t that I need your approval. I just want to know what you think. So few people tell me the truth. My father might have more money than most around here, but I still need real friends.”

  His eyebrows rose. “More money than most?”

  I cringed. “Okay, all. More money than all the people around here. Except maybe Mr. Morgan.”

  Webster stared into my eyes for a long moment. I squirmed, feeling as if my very soul lay bare beneath his gaze. Then he stooped to gather his scattered tools. With his back to me, he organized the workbench nailed to the wall. “Lucinda had it hard even before Billy died.”

  I held my breath, eager to hear every word over the clatter of his work. But the noise quieted. Webster turned, leaned against the workbench, arms folded. “Billy worked for your father, you know. Hard work. Small wage.”

  His words fell like a weight on my chest. “I had no idea.”

  “I know you didn’t.” His mouth settled into a hard line. “I guess you know you’ll have to replace that money.”

  I stared at the ground. “I know.”

  He pushed away from the workbench and rested a hand on my shoulder. I shuddered. His hand lifted. “Go on, now. Your father will be home soon.”

  Heart heavy, I pulled open the door of my Packard.

  “Ally?”

  I stopped, turned back to him. “Yes?”

  “You did a good thing for Lucinda today.” The intense sincerity in his voice turned my knees weak. Webster approved of my actions. And he was one of the most considerate men I knew.

  Maybe I’d actually accomplished something worthwhile instead of just messing everything up.

  When I returned from delivering the berries to a thankful Lucinda, I sought out Grandmother.

  “You did exactly right, Alyce.” Grandmother sat in an upholstered chair in her bedroom instead of lying in bed. A good day. And I’d missed most of it.

  I dropped to my knees beside her. “But now I have less than half of what I raised for the McConnells’ work in Africa.”

  The little children’s faces burned in my mind as the thin skin of Grandmother’s hands touched my cheeks and lifted my face to look at her in spite of the fact that she couldn’t see me. “It isn’t just people in faraway places that need your compassion and your help. Sometimes it’s those right where you are.”

  “But what am I going to do now?” I groaned as I laid my head in her lap once more. Grandmother’s hand rested lightly on my hair, then stroked it back from my face. She didn’t hurry her words. That was her way. She pondered, considered, prayed before she spoke.

  A faint whistle drifted in through the open windows. I imagined Webster in the garage, that dirty rag hanging out of his back pocket, his cap pulled low on his forehead, fencing hi
s unruly hair away from his eyes.

  I’d driven a bit faster than normal on my way back from Lucinda’s, but it wasn’t like driving on the secret track in the field. I needed the wind to slap me in the face, steal all thoughts from my head—save those needed to keep the car on the road. I prayed best after those drives. Heard best, too. The voice of God seemed so clear in those moments.

  “If the Lord desires you to help His work in Africa, He’ll provide the means. You can be sure of that.”

  I lifted my head. “But what do I do about the money I’ve already given away?”

  The growl of Father’s Mercer sounded from the front of the house, drowning out Webster’s whistle. “You’ll have to make it up somehow. You told Mr. Morgan the money would go to the Gold Coast, and you must honor that.”

  A familiar refrain. Enough of my own troubles for the moment. I rose to my knees, kissed Grandmother’s cheek, and lifted the worn Bible from the small table. Opening to the spot marked by a silk ribbon, I settled in my usual chair. “I think we ended yesterday in Isaiah.”

  One hundred sixty-two dollars. I spread the bills out before me and counted again. I tucked the money in a drawer in my desk and prayed God would multiply it overnight, like those loaves and fishes of old.

  After washing my hands and face, I donned my nightdress and climbed into bed. The hum of insect life outside my open window seemed to sing three thousand, three thousand, three thousand. What had I been thinking to promise such an exorbitant amount?

  I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling above my bed. I’d been thinking that Father would simply hand me the money, of course.

  Maybe Father had been right not to give me the money. A good man had entrusted funds to me and I’d let them dribble out of my hands like creek water. I rubbed my forehead, trying to keep fingers of pain from compressing my scalp once more.

  I considered again Mr. Trotter’s generous offer to safeguard what I’d collected. But that felt like the easy way out. I ought to be able to protect the funds myself. I was twenty-two years old, a college graduate.