by Mateer, Anne
I could think of no reason not to trust this man. His every interaction with me, with Father, seemed the model of integrity. I’d probably have been smitten with those dark eyes and that laughing grin if I suspected him to be a man of faith. But I’d never heard him mention God—or even church.
I pondered as we drove. Fewer laps, more breaks. Our communication system with just the hand signals was working as planned. Mostly. When we left the track, I felt steadier on the turns, even if they weren’t the banked ones. But I still let him drive us back to the house.
We roared into the yard. Two figures in the gazebo leapt from their seats, peering up the drive.
I gasped.
“Mr. Little? Is that you?” Mother’s voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled back his goggles while I continued to study the dashboard and sink deeper into my seat.
“Who’s that with you?”
“Just a friend.” He climbed from the car and stood in front of me, blocking their view. “I needed some help with the race car today.”
“See that you don’t leave that horrid thing in the yard for long.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lowered his voice. “Walk behind me into the garage. Just like at the racetrack.”
I nodded, but between the hours of driving and the jangle of my nerves, would my legs hold me up? With a deep breath, I set my feet on the ground. Eyes glued to Webster’s back, I followed as if a rope attached between us pulled me forward. Just inside the doors, out of view of the garden, he stopped. Turned. Wrapped his arms around me, his face just inches above mine. My knees turned as soft as taffy on a warm night.
His quiet laugh filled my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “Hold on, Ally girl.”
I turned my head. His breath caught, arms dropped. He backed away. My knees stiffened. I reached for the wall.
“That was close,” I whispered.
He rested his hands on top of his head, a grin sliding up his face. “I guess you’re stuck with me for a while longer today.”
I leaned against the wall and ducked my head to hide my answering smile.
Mother’s guest finally left. I hobbled to the house, eager for a hot bath.
Just as I stepped inside, the telephone shrilled. I let Clarissa answer as I lowered myself to the bench just inside the kitchen door.
Clarissa’s head popped through the doorway. “For you, Miss Alyce. A Lucinda Bywater.”
Lucinda phoning? In spite of my stiffness, I hastened to the telephone but covered the mouthpiece and asked Clarissa to have Betsy draw a hot bath. “What’s wrong, Lucinda?”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong.”
My tense muscles eased a bit.
“I wondered if . . . well, I hope you don’t think it out of place, but I was hoping . . .”
I switched the earpiece to my other ear. “Whatever you need, Lucinda, I’d be happy to help.”
“Oh no, Miss—Alyce. I don’t need help. I was wondering if you’d come to supper. At my house. On Friday.” She blurted out the last words all at once, as if she feared she wouldn’t be able to say them otherwise.
“I’d be honored, Lucinda.” My tired brain worked to remember why this didn’t seem like a good idea.
Friday.
Cincinnati.
“However, I’ll be out of town on Friday. Would Thursday do? I can help with supper. I’m no gilded lily, you know. I can cook and clean up and, well, all sorts of things you probably can’t imagine me doing.”
Like speeding around a racetrack at nearly a hundred miles per hour.
She sat silent for a moment and then assented. I told her I’d pick her up from work and help her get the kids home from her aunt’s house, too. Then I hung up the telephone and trudged up the stairs. By the time I’d removed my clothes and wrapped myself in a kimono, one of the day maids knocked at my bedroom door and announced my bath was ready.
I locked the bathroom door and sank into the water, relishing the warmth on my aching bones. Was this how Grandmother felt on a daily basis? How did she manage without complaint? Too much more of this and I feared I wouldn’t be able to move well enough to drive at all.
I leaned my head over the back of the tub. No doubt Webster would make sure he didn’t overwork me. I closed my eyes. Dozed for a few minutes. Then awoke with a start.
Swirling my shriveled fingers through the cooling water, I wondered again what Webster wasn’t saying. Surely Father wouldn’t hire him without references. Could a man be upstanding one moment and sinister the next? Perhaps he deceived everyone. Except Lawrence.
I climbed from the tub and wrapped myself in a towel. I couldn’t worry about Webster’s past. Grandmother needed my attention. And I had to concentrate on the race. For now, I’d trust that I—and my mission funds—would be safe in God’s hands, if not in Webster’s.
I slipped into my kimono and padded back to my bedroom. Halfway down the hall, I stopped. Lucinda. Likely she heard lots of things about people in Mr. Morgan’s law office. Maybe she could reveal a bit of Webster’s mystery.
At least it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
Lucinda and her children piled into my Packard on Thursday, and we motored to her home. Part of a home, actually. An old house divided into two dwellings. It sat on the opposite side of Langston from Mr. Morgan’s office, close to Father’s factory.
We climbed a rickety wooden staircase to reach a door on the second floor. Lucinda put her key in the lock. “It isn’t much to look at, but it’s warm in the winter. Mostly.” She pushed the door open. Her little boy rushed past us but the girls stood back for me to go first.
“It’s lovely,” I remarked as I removed my small hat and hung it on a hook I spied behind the door. “So cozy.”
Lucinda answered with a weak smile as she placed baby Teresa in her older girl’s arms. “You go on into the parlor and sit while I get things ready.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” I tucked the corners of a towel into the bibbed front of my dress. “I told you I’d help. I took several courses on cooking in Chicago.”
Lucinda’s mouth opened, but I stilled it with a stern look. Her timid directions led me to plates and utensils. Soon the rich aroma of stew bubbled from the pot on the stove. She seemed more comfortable now, more willing to let me be a friend. Together we filled the children’s plates, poured their milk, and mopped up their messes, spelling each other to take a few bites of food between times. How in the world did she accomplish it all when she was on her own?
After supper, she instructed her girls to wash the dishes and put them away. The girls didn’t protest. She hooked her arm around mine and led me to the parlor before excusing herself to put Teresa and her little boy to bed.
I wandered the room, studying the photograph of her family, husband included. They looked content in spite of their grim expressions.
“That was taken just two months before he died.” Lucinda’s voice startled me. She sat on the edge of a chair and motioned me to the old-fashioned divan. “I’m glad we spent the money. I didn’t want to, but he insisted we should.”
Grief-laden silence engulfed the room. Neither of us seemed to be able to find the words to start again. Then I remembered our encounter after the Women’s Mission Auxiliary meeting the week before.
“I want to apologize for Mr. Trotter’s behavior on Sunday evening, after the meeting. He didn’t realize that I didn’t feel the need to hurry home.”
“Pish.” Lucinda waved her hand and scowled. “I don’t worry about what that man thinks of me.”
My eyebrows drew together as I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “What do you mean?”
She sniffed and straightened her skirt. “He thinks he’s better than most around here, but he isn’t.”
I stiffened. “Maybe he’s just shy and it comes across wrong.”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Trotter lurks in dark alleyways more often than’s good for a man, I say.”
“What do you mean?” Her words stirred a flurry of fo
reboding.
“I mean, people like him are often up to no good.”
Why did my friends harbor such suspicions of each other? Webster with Lawrence. Lawrence with Webster. And now Lucinda. Perhaps I’d lived a more sheltered life than I realized. But I knew them, each one. And all of them seemed kind.
“Oh, Lucinda, I really think you’ve misunderstood. He’s a fine, upstanding man. He works for my father. He attends our church.”
Her gaze dropped to the floor. Almost as if she pitied me. I wanted to take offense. Then I remembered the hard road Lucinda walked. Would it be surprising to learn some envy fluttered in her breast toward those whose way seemed easy? Could I forgive her that?
I reached across the space and laid my hand on hers. “But I didn’t come here to talk about Mr. Trotter. Really. Though I did wonder if you could tell me anything of . . . another person.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who?”
Would she think as unkindly of Webster as she did of Lawrence? Maybe her grief had tainted her view of all men.
I studied my hands. “Webster Little.” My head jerked up. “Do you know him?”
Her face relaxed, eyes turning almost dreamy. The stew I’d savored turned sour in my stomach.
“I know him.” Soft words. Then silence.
The heel of my boot clattered against the floor. I stilled my bouncing knee with my hands. “Well? What about him?”
Tears filled her eyes. “He’s one of the kindest, most giving men I’ve ever met.”
“Why do you say that?” Joy warred with fear in the center of my being.
Her face twisted with emotion, then settled. “I’m not sure he’d care to have his actions bandied about. He acts on the sly.”
I cocked my head. “Lurking in alleys, like you say of Mr. Trotter?”
“Oh no. Not that kind. It’s just, he’ll leave a basket of food for a needy family, maybe some ready money tucked in beneath a loaf of bread or such.”
My tension deflated. Not what I’d expected to hear. “How do you know he does that?”
Her face flushed scarlet. “Because I’ve seen him. And not just at my doorstep, either.” She shook her head. “But I never told. Until now.”
Webster as the Good Samaritan. It fit what I knew of him, but it frightened me, as well. How did he come by the money for such acts? Was he plotting to rob Africa to feed Langston?
I forced a smile even as confusion spun inside me like a tire in mud. “Thank you, Lucinda. That helps. Now, tell me what the children have been up to.”
She stared at me for a moment before her eyes brightened, as if she suddenly remembered that we called ourselves friends.
23
By Friday, I’d packed my driving outfit in an old carpetbag and stowed it with the racing car under Webster’s care. At the train station, I flitted from waiting room to platform and back again.
“Sit down, darling. You’re making me nervous.” Mother patted the hard seat beside her.
I sat, knees bouncing. I popped up again. “I’ll check to see if the train’s here.”
“But you can see—” Mother’s voice trailed away as I escaped from the stuffy waiting room and back into the fresh air. My fingers pressed against one another. I straightened my hat. Walked to the end of the platform. Webster waved at me from farther down the line, his backside resting against the white number 7 painted on the hood of the blue car.
If only I could meet him down there. But we’d made a pact to stay clear of each other in public. No use drawing any attention that might ferret out our secret. Or rather, my secret. Webster apparently had different secrets. Ones he refused to reveal even to me.
The deep whistle of the train sent me flying back to the waiting room long before the locomotive chugged into sight. “The train’s here, Mother.” I grabbed her hand, pulled her up from her seat. But she didn’t move quickly enough for me, so I ran on ahead.
By the time the train lumbered to a stop, I was bouncing on my toes, eager to embark.
“If we get on now, we’ll just have to sit and wait,” Mother said from behind me.
“I know.”
Mother’s squinted eyes searched my face. “I’ve never seen you quite so eager to leave Langston.”
I licked my lips to get them moist again and forced my feet to remain completely rooted to the ground. Control yourself. Be careful. I brushed a curl aside and smiled. “I’m just happy we’re all going together.”
I linked my arm through hers with a quick stab of melancholy. If Grandmother were with us, it would be a perfect trip.
“Good morning, Miss Benson, Mrs. Benson.” Mrs. Swan stood next to us, another woman from my church by her side. Mrs. Swan turned her sweet face in my direction. “Are you leaving us again so soon, dear?”
“Just for a few days. You and Pastor Swan will visit Grandmother while we are gone, won’t you? You’ll let us know if there is any change?”
“Of course. We are so pleased she is getting stronger. We wouldn’t miss our visits with her. I think I draw more from our time together than she does.” Mrs. Swan’s expression turned wistful. “Laura Benson knows the goodness and faithfulness of our Lord in a way so few of us do. I would like to have her depth of understanding and conviction.”
Mother blinked. Sniffed. Turned away. I cringed. But in a strange way, her response brought new hope. She’d heard Mrs. Swan’s words. Really heard them. They’d made her feel uncomfortable, not defensive. Perhaps caring for Grandmother during her illness had softened the soil of her heart. Maybe seeds of truth would take root.
I offered Mrs. Swan and her companion a crooked smile of apology.
“Alyce, darling?” Mother stepped up into the train.
“Good-bye.” I pressed my hand on Mrs. Swan’s before following Mother into the passenger car. Like Mrs. Swan, I, too, longed to be like my grandmother. Gracious and kind. Unflustered by those around her. Always faithful to the Lord.
As I settled into the seat beside Mother, I reminded myself this would be a good opportunity for practice.
I’d promised Saturday to Mother since the race wasn’t until Monday, Labor Day. She pulled on her gloves as she turned to me. “We’ll go to Mabley and Carew. We must get you some new dresses, though heaven knows they won’t be what we could find at Marshall Field’s store.” She mumbled the last words as we departed the hotel, as if she didn’t want the people of Cincinnati to hear her disparage one of their city’s shopping choices.
“But I like the clothes I have, Mother. There’s nothing wrong with them.”
She waved away my protest as the taxicab took us through town. When we entered the massive store, she approached a salesman and announced her name and her husband’s occupation, expecting the man to jump to her aid.
I hung back while he bowed over Mother’s hand and pressed his thin lips into a smile. “A pleasure to have you with us, Mrs. Benson.”
I rolled my eyes. A pleasure to see Father’s money, not her. Didn’t she recognize that?
“And this is your lovely daughter?” The man came toward me. I stuck out my hand. His fingertips touched my gloved ones for only a moment before he turned his attention back to Mother.
“Mother, I really don’t need—”
“Of course you do, darling.” She patted my shoulder and continued talking with the salesman, his smile growing wider with her every word. I gave up and wandered to the other side of the store. The money she’d spend today would fill my box for the McConnells almost to bursting. Instead, I would have new clothes to replace ones that didn’t even look worn.
I fingered a set of beaded hair combs. Why, Lord? Why give me this abundance of things I can’t even use for You?
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” A young woman near my age stood beside me, eyes shining with delight as her gaze caressed the ornaments in my hand.
“Yes, they are.” I set the hair combs down again.
“Aren’t you going to purchase them?” she asked.
I
shook my head. “I have no need of them.” Then I noticed the silky blond hair coiled beneath her shabby hat. “But they would look stunning on you.”
“Oh no.” She backed away, almost as if she feared I’d fix them on her right at that moment. “I could never afford such an extravagance.” She bit her lip as she scanned the room. “I’m here for a new chemise. That’s all.” Her cheeks tinged as pink as the lone flower on her hat.
I picked up two combs. “Wait here a minute.”
“But— I—” She clutched her handbag to her body, her eyes darting back and forth.
“Just wait. Please?”
“Well . . .” She glanced toward the door and then back to me. “All right.”
I hastened to Mother’s side. “Have the man put these on the list, too.” I held up the combs. The salesman scribbled on his paper before nodding at me.
“Pretty little things, darling, but I don’t see how—”
I kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mother.” I darted away before she could finish her thought. By the time I reached the blond woman again, she’d inched toward the exit. Grasping her hand, I placed the combs in her open palm.
Her mouth dropped open. She stared down at her hand, then up at me.
“I want you to have them.”
Her mouth closed as her eyes widened. “Why?” A whispered, fearful word.
“Because I want you to always remember how much you are loved.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Loved? You don’t even know me.”
“God loves you. He loves you so very, very much.”
She turned and fled the store without even purchasing a chemise. I prayed that one day she’d understand the extravagant love of the Lord. Then I thought of Lucinda, the look on her face changing from awe to excitement the day I’d brought her fresh berries.
Lucinda stood only a bit taller than I. A little thinner, perhaps, but not much. And then there was Clarissa’s sister. Shorter, but nothing her nimble fingers couldn’t remedy. If I gave them some of the dresses now hanging in my wardrobe, they could use their money for necessities other than clothes. A smile worked its way across my face. How had I never considered such a thing before?
