by Mateer, Anne
Climbing from bed, I plodded back to my desk and transferred the bills to my purse. In spite of Mr. Trotter’s concerns, I’d march myself into Mr. White’s bank tomorrow morning and open an account. Mr. White would whisk my money to a place where I couldn’t touch it—at least not until the McConnells returned. And I’d earn a little interest in the process. Then I would transfer the entire sum into the hands of those worthy people for their noble cause and applaud my self-discipline in the process.
8
Clarissa?” I swept down the main staircase just before noon, again wearing my most businesslike attire. “I can take you to your sister’s now.”
A clap of thunder rattled the glass above the double front doors as raindrops slapped against the tall arched windows in the drawing room and the parlor. Clarissa bustled into the foyer, her wide-brimmed straw hat obscuring her face. But I still recognized the tight mouth, the pinched expression of fear.
I pulled my duster from the coatrack before pressing my hand to her arm. “We’ll arrive in one piece. I promise.”
With a curt nod, she whirled around and marched out the door. I bit back a grin. The last time I’d driven her to town, she’d spent the entire trip crossing herself and praying that the Lord would preserve her life and sanity. But today I intended to drive like any other lady, slow and sedate. All the way to the bank.
And after I settled the money in Mr. White’s keeping, maybe I could persuade Webster to let me take the racing car out for a celebration.
We motored into town, the spit of rain dissipating before we reached Main Street. But dark clouds remained overhead. Clarissa climbed down from the Runabout with a hint of a smile on her face. “Thank you kindly, Miss Alyce.”
I resisted the urge to laugh at her obvious relief. She darted down the street and around the corner to spend her Thursday half day at her sister’s house, surrounded by nieces and nephews and noise. I wondered if such noise would sound as lovely to me as the purr of an engine.
I puttered through town and spied an elderly couple on the sidewalk. I pulled near and lowered my window. The man startled. The woman looked wary. I put on my brightest smile. “I can drive you to wherever you are going, if you’d like.”
The man looked at his wife.
“Is it safe, you think?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Best time to find out.” He led her to my Packard. They settled in the backseat.
I twisted around so I could see them. “I’m playing taxicab. Fifty cents a mile. All the money goes to a missionary couple returning to Africa.”
Their faces went slack. He reached for the door handle. My stomach tumbled. I wanted to bite my tongue in half. “No, wait. I’ll drive you wherever you need to go. No charge. Just a friend doing you a favor.”
The woman beamed at her husband. I faced forward, set the car in gear, and eased into the street. Keeping to a sedate speed, I followed their directions, finally dropping them off at a ramshackle house outside of town. Back toward the bank I went, asking for customers along the way. But once I mentioned money—even for Africa—few chose to ride. Thunder rumbled overhead. I parked the car near the brick bank building anchoring the strip of storefronts comprising the town of Langston.
Father chose this town long ago because he felt it would be a good location for his plant that manufactured farm machinery. As he found more and more success in his venture, Mother begged him to move to Chicago—or at least Indianapolis. But Father didn’t budge. He liked being an important man in a small town. So he built Mother an extravagant house and let her take trips whenever she liked.
Though I’d enjoyed my two years in Chicago, I, too, preferred a more rural life. The slower pace. The knowing and being known. All the things Mother disdained.
The scent of rain lingered in the air. I savored it before stepping into the stuffiness of the bank. The tinkle of a small bell announced me, but Mr. White’s familiar head, as smooth as one of Father’s billiards balls, was nowhere to be seen. A young man smelling of hair tonic greeted me instead.
“I need to speak with Mr. White, please.”
The young man’s eyes darted one way, then the other, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down his neck. “He ain’t here.”
“I can see that, Mr. . . .”
The man stood up straighter. “Mr. Hill.”
I stuck out my gloved hand. Pink crept into his face as he shook it. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hill. I’m Alyce Benson. Are you new to the bank?”
“N-new. Y-yes,” he stammered.
Was I responsible for his discomfiture, or did he always respond to people this way? “And how do you find our fair town?”
“F-fine. Just fine, Miss Benson.”
“Good.” I exaggerated my look around the dim room. Thunder growled. A flash of lightning answered. “Now, when did you say Mr. White would return?”
Mr. Hill nodded toward the door. “There he is now, Miss Benson.”
Mr. White opened the door as another flash of lightning illuminated the bank. At the loud crack and bang, everyone froze. Then Mr. White wiped a handkerchief across his shiny skull, and we all returned to normal.
“Miss Benson. What a pleasure to see you.” He hung his hat on the rack and returned his handkerchief to his pocket, his jolly face relaying the truth of his words. “Come to wheedle money from me again?”
Mr. White had reluctantly parted with fifty dollars after seeing those precious faces from the other side of the world, though he refused to let me earn it by driving him. He and I laughed. Mr. Hill stared at us, mouth agape.
“Actually, Mr. White, I’ve come to ask a favor of a different sort.” I slipped my hand around his elbow. We started toward the back office as another peal of thunder drowned out our voices and our steps. Then we heard the clang of the fire bell.
Mr. White bolted out the front door. I followed close behind. The new motorized fire truck sped down the street, autos and horses crowding the far edges of the cobblestone path. Residents dashed out of storefronts and houses, heedless of the rain, following behind the truck like the wide tail of an unwieldy kite.
I joined the throng, my heart pounding with worry. Smoke billowed into the moist air, clouding my vision and sending spasms of coughs up my throat. I glanced at the clouds skittering across the heavens and prayed for a deluge instead of a drip. But the Lord didn’t oblige.
Shouting sounded in the distance. Making my way through the crowd, I pushed forward into the smoky air, heedless of the sting in my nose and eyes. Finally I stood near the fire truck. Three men directed a flow of water toward towering flames reducing a house to cinders. And there in the yard stood Clarissa, arms circled around her sobbing sister.
By the time the fire shrank to a smolder, the crowd had dispersed, as well. I stood by Clarissa, our faces smudged with soot, our clothing damp. She took charge, parceling out her nieces and nephews to hospitable neighbors, but her sister refused to abandon the charred remains.
“All our savings went to buy that house. One wee roof of our own for shelter.”
Clarissa soothed her sister as she would a small child. “There now. All your lads and lasses are well. Wood and nails can be replaced.”
Flame-red hair framed the woman’s tear-streaked face as she shook her head. “Wood and nails cost money we don’t have. What will we do? What will we do?” She buried her face in the front of Clarissa’s dress. Only then did I spy tears snaking trails down Clarissa’s dirty cheeks.
I stared at the purse hanging from my wrist and gnawed on the edge of my lip. Then my eyes met Clarissa’s over the top of her weeping sister’s head. Before I could think, I pressed my money—one hundred sixty-two dollars—into Clarissa’s sister’s hand, telling her to use it to replace their things, to begin saving for a new house.
Before either of them could protest, I walked away. Without a look back, I climbed into my Runabout. Penniless. Again.
My knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as I bounced over the c
obblestones and out onto the dirt road toward home. In spite of myself, I couldn’t be sorry for helping Clarissa’s sister and her family in their time of need. And just as the Lord had provided for them, He’d provide for His work in Africa. Grandmother believed it. So did I.
But please, Lord, couldn’t You just provide it through me?
Not often did I shed my dress for a pair of knickers when I went for a drive. But this day I did. Late that afternoon, I pulled heavy driving gloves over my fingers as I strode into the cool, dark garage. My hands shook with the need to be behind the wheel. My foot itched to work the gas pedal attached to the floor of the race car.
An electric light flickered on the back wall of the garage, illuminating Webster’s legs sticking out from under the racing car.
I nudged his foot with the toe of my tall riding boot. He scooted out, a cloud of dust arriving with him.
“Are you busy?”
He sat up and rested his hands on his bent knees as he surveyed my unusual costume. “More trouble?”
My shoulders hitched up and then fell again. “I guess you could say that.”
He hopped to his feet, brushed his hands against his legs. “Your father again?”
I shook my head, noticing car parts strewn across the ground. “What’s all this?” I poked a metal shaft with the toe of my boot.
“Tinkering a bit.” He patted the hood of the racing car in much the same way Father patted my cheek.
“You can make it go faster?”
“Maybe.” He looked me over once more. “You’re serious today, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“So I guess your father told you.”
“Told me?”
He blinked, a kind of fear hovering over his face. Running a hand through his dark hair, he disappeared deeper into the garage, his back to me, his attention glued to his scattered tools and spare parts. I followed, stopping within a hairsbreadth of his left shoulder.
I knew he felt me there. A minute passed. Then two. Finally he tossed a wrench to the ground. “He’s entering the car at the Chicago Speedway next weekend.”
For a moment, I couldn’t move. Father’s racing car. Competing. Then a squeal—my squeal—pealed through the garage. I flung my arms around Webster’s neck. “We’re finally going to race it!”
He pulled as taut as a clothesline, but he didn’t move away. And neither did I. I savored the earthy smell of his neck, felt the warmth of his body next to mine. I eased back just enough to see into his face, to glimpse a look of tender wonder before he covered it over again. Or had I misread it?
One tentative hand reached up, cupped my waist. Then he pushed my body away from his. The fire of his touch seared to my very core. I fought to pull air into my lungs, to force myself to let go of him rather than cling more tightly.
With great effort, my arms returned to my sides. His did the same. I prayed the dim light of the garage hid the heat that was crawling up my neck, over my face, all the way to the top of my head. I’d thrown myself into his embrace. What had I been thinking?
I shook my head to clear away the confusion. Clasping my hands in front of me, I concentrated on Webster’s shoes. The race at the speedway. That needed to be the focus of this conversation.
A deep breath, then I lifted my gaze to his face. He seemed to be laughing at me now, but I refused to acknowledge his mocking. Not when it appeared to be at my expense. “So, who’s driving our car in the race?”
He shrugged, turned away. “Your father has someone lined up.”
Jealousy flashed through me as quick and hot as lightning. To think of someone else behind the wheel of this car rendered her unfaithful somehow, though I knew that to be unreasonable. But if I couldn’t drive, I at least had to be there to watch her moment of glory. In Chicago.
“Anyway”—Webster pulled the rag from his back pocket and wiped it across his forehead—“I wasn’t supposed to mention it. And I have to get her ready.” He clamped his lips shut and returned to work.
I leaned against my Runabout as he fit pieces into the engine—tightening, oiling, tinkering. I grabbed a clean rag from a shelf over the workbench to wipe the door of my dusty auto and remembered my desperation. What would Webster say if I told him I’d given all the money away?
I couldn’t make myself chance his response. I had to find a way to replace the funds before anyone found out I no longer had them. My eyes caught on a simple gold bracelet circling my wrist. “Webster, do you think I could sell some pieces of my jewelry to raise the money I need?”
“What kind of jewelry?”
“Trinkets, really. Like this.” I held out my arm. He barely glanced my direction. “I doubt they’d bring much, but then every little bit would help.” I concentrated on a smudge of dirt that didn’t want to let go. I rubbed harder, until it flaked to the ground. “But I wouldn’t want to sell them around here. Too obvious. I don’t suppose you could help me, could you?”
Clank. Clang. Tap.
I drummed my fingers against the body of the car as he worked. With a grunt, he pointed at a large wrench. I picked it up and placed it in his hand before tossing my rag onto the workbench and perching on the back fender of my car.
“Of course, selling a few baubles will only repay what I already gave away.” My throat tightened, and my voice fell to a whisper. “Which would be three hundred and sixty-two dollars.”
Webster bolted upright, banging his knee on the race car. Growling through gritted teeth, he massaged the spot before pushing to his feet.
“Say that again?”
I breathed deep. “I gave away the rest of the money.”
He groaned.
“Clarissa’s sister’s house got hit by lightning. They lost everything.”
His gaze burned into me, so intense it held me motionless. Then he piled tools in the toolbox and clamped the lid shut before securing the box to the back of the race car.
“I’ll sell your jewelry for you. But you have to give it to me before we leave for Chicago.”
“I’ll give it to you at the speedway next weekend. After the race. Or maybe before.”
He straightened. “You aren’t going, Ally. I thought you understood that. Your father made it very clear I wasn’t even supposed to mention it to you.”
I inched toward the open garage doors. “Thank you, Webster. I knew the Lord would provide.” With the flash of a grin, I tried to dispel the fear clouding his eyes. “And don’t worry. I won’t get you in any trouble about Chicago.”
No, there wouldn’t be trouble. For either of us. In fact, Mother would be in raptures when I offered to accompany her on another trip to the city.
9
All that night I tossed and turned, worrying about the little lives attached to those precious faces in my photograph. Each body housed a soul. A soul with an eternal future. How gladly I’d sacrifice my few semiprecious pieces of jewelry to give them the opportunity to hear the gospel, to experience the love of Christ through the McConnells. Mother didn’t even remember she’d given me those baubles. Besides, unlike my Packard, they were mine to do with as I pleased. And while they wouldn’t raise the entire amount, they might at least replace the funds I’d given away.
As the birds started their morning conversations, I forced my tired body out of bed, still cataloging in my head what I could sell without Mother or Father noticing. At my desk, I opened my diary, marking off the past few days. Just over six weeks remained until John and Ava McConnell returned. I pressed the blunt end of my pencil to my lips. There were still a few people in town I hadn’t called on to offer my services as a driver. But given the fact that not one person had yet to telephone regarding their need for transportation services, I doubted those conversations would yield anywhere near the entire amount.
A sliver of fear pricked my heart. Would I face the congregation alone and empty-handed? Would I fail John and Ava McConnell? Watch their joyful faces sink in disappointment? I refused to let trepidation take hold.
I would trust God’s provision. His faithfulness. I shut my diary and opened my Bible instead.
Father’s Mercer chugged out of the garage before I dressed for breakfast. Mother met me in the foyer.
“Come take breakfast in the garden with me, darling, before you motor me to the train station.” She hooked her arm through mine and led me out the door.
I inhaled the freshness of the morning, wishing I could linger in its embrace. But my feet had to move to keep up with Mother. And my mind whirled with every step. Mother’s clubs—both the small one in Langston and the larger one in Chicago—supported a number of causes. Even if she wouldn’t lend her name or her effort to raising funds for the Gold Coast mission, she might have some ideas as to how to garner the necessary funds.
Webster’s whistle cut across the clear morning, lifting my spirits. At least I had one ally. No, two. Mr. Trotter stood ready to help, as well. I ought to call on him again.
“Alyce?” Mother motioned me to the gazebo as Webster rounded the stand of birch trees, the tune dying on his lips.
The gardener placed a chair near me, and I sat. Clarissa bustled out of the house laden with a full tray, clucking like an agitated hen. A plate of eggs with a slice of cheese and some fresh fruit appeared in front of me. I let my fork wander through the eggs on my plate but didn’t bring a bite to my lips.
“Mother, I need your help with something.” Father had ordered me not to ask Mother for money for Africa, but he hadn’t said I couldn’t seek her help in raising the funds.
“Oh?” Her eyes widened and her face took on an excitement I rarely saw.
Clearly, she wanted to help me. And I so rarely obliged. Maybe my request would give us a common bond.
I lifted a forkful of eggs, ready to plunge them into my mouth as soon as the words left it empty. “It’s about those children. In Africa.”
Mother settled her napkin in her lap and added a dollop of milk to her steaming tea. “I have nothing to give you, Alyce, even if your father hadn’t forbidden it.”
