by Mateer, Anne
I reached a finger toward the crying baby. She gripped it and pulled it toward her mouth, forgetting for a moment to wail.
“Lucinda, how do you know if a man is . . . interested?”
A rare smile transformed Lucinda’s haggard face. Her eyes sparkled with glee as she leaned forward in conspiracy. “Who, Alyce?”
I glanced back at the girls. Lucinda nodded and pulled me into the small parlor with only Teresa for company.
“Now, tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell, really. I mean, nothing’s been said. I’m just starting to get this feeling that there’s . . . more. Does that make sense?”
Lucinda nodded and then glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I don’t have much time before the children go back to my aunt’s.” She sighed. “But I can tell you this: Love is about more than how he makes you feel. It comes across in his actions, in his words. The Bible says a man should love his wife as Christ loved the church.”
Her eyes turned misty. She shut her mouth, smoothed the feathery hair on Teresa’s head. “That’s how my Billy loved me. And I knew it not because my heart jumped when I saw him. I knew it because he—” she stared at the floor and blew out a long breath—“he paid my father’s debts so I didn’t have to worry about leaving my mother without my income.” Her head lifted, eyes fierce. “Don’t accept anything less.”
Did Lawrence love me like that? I didn’t know. Unbidden, Webster’s face sprang to mind, his love for the car he’d built with his own hands, his willingness to set me behind its wheel. I jumped to my feet.
“Thank you, Lucinda. I’d better be on my way home.” I noted the lines creasing her face, and my heart twisted. Could I ease her burden in some fashion? My fingers pressed the edges of my handbag firmly closed. I couldn’t give her any more money if I hoped to present the full three thousand dollars to the McConnells. And without money, all I had to offer was myself.
I tossed my purse on the sofa. “Why don’t you go back to the office? I’ll make sure the girls get back to school and the little ones back to your aunt’s.”
Hope dawned in her tired eyes. “You would do that?”
“Of course. Go on, now.” I lifted Teresa.
Lucinda gnawed at her bottom lip. “If you’re sure . . . We’re having company for supper and, well, I appreciate the help. Thank you.”
“Company?”
Teresa shrieked, reached for her mother.
“Mr. Little, actually.”
I bounced Teresa in my arms. “Oh? I’m sure he’ll appreciate a home-cooked meal.”
“That was my thought, as well. He spends so much time taking care of others and no one takes care of him.”
No one. Including me. In spite of all his kindnesses on my behalf.
Teresa’s fingers clung to my hair and pulled. I forced a tight smile. “Hurry or you’ll be late A few minutes of peace and quiet, that’s what you need.”
With a faint smile, Lucinda picked up her hat and darted out the door. The baby howled. The older girls stopped washing the dishes to stare at me. Their brother was playing with something on the floor, seeming not to notice anything amiss.
I kissed the baby’s tiny palm—such soft skin—and ran my hand over the fuzz on top of her head. “Nothing’s as bad as all that,” I crooned. “Let’s see if we can surprise your mama when she comes back. We’ll give her a straightened house. What do you think?”
I jiggled Teresa up and down, finally luring a fleeting smile before she raised another fuss. Holding her on my hip, I picked up strewn clothing and then set her on the floor to scream while I made the bed. When the girls finished in the kitchen, they swept the floors and dusted the furniture before dashing back to school. By the time I dropped off the little ones at their aunt’s house, the baby had drifted to sleep in my arms.
Maybe God did intend to use my meager housekeeping skills for something good. And yet as I shut the door behind me, the thought of Webster spending a pleasant evening in the tidy house with my friend skewered my heart.
I wished the Lord would just let me give her money instead.
Ignoring the questions about Webster and Lawrence that twirled my stomach into knots, I motored down Main Street and out onto the country roads. Wind whipped through my curls as I drove. Not at breakneck race-car speeds, but as fast as my little Runabout would go over moist roads. I felt free—much as I imagined Lucinda felt on her short walk alone, away from the responsibilities of her home.
I imagined passing Mrs. Tillman as I zipped along. Her eyebrows would rise, her lips purse in disapproval. I’d already invited her scrutiny for having my own car and driving it myself. I was sure she’d deem my speed unfeminine. And driving on a racetrack, competing against men? Unforgivable.
My parents’ reaction wouldn’t be much different. Mother would be mortified, embarrassed to show her face among her society ladies in Chicago. And although I suspected Father would be secretly pleased with my success, his aspirations for his daughter didn’t involve much more than marrying well. A trophy of sorts. Well dressed. Well matched. Well thought of.
Grandmother and Webster both implied that God had given me this unusual gift as a means of raising money for His kingdom work. Was I wrong to embrace that idea? Even if it were true, I feared I’d overstepped the bounds of God’s law by lying and then enticing Lawrence to lie so I could continue. If Grandmother discovered that part of the story, would she reverse her approval?
I feared I’d locked myself in a cage I couldn’t escape. I pushed the gas pedal closer to the floor. The Runabout jumped forward as curls danced about my face. A Model T chugged up the other side of the narrow road. With a quick jerk of the wheel, my tires crushed grass, leaving the road to the slower vehicle. I waved as I passed, remembering after I whizzed away that Pastor Swan drove an automobile just like that one.
I reached home, parked my car, and strutted deeper into the coolness of the carriage house.
“I got it!” The money flapped as I raised it over my head.
Webster tossed his rag onto the workbench. “I guess you want it stashed with the rest.”
I hesitated, wanting to take back possession of all my money but knowing the flimsiness of my resolve in the face of need. Lawrence insisted I should at least see my money. Perhaps that was all I needed. Assurance.
“I want it with the rest, yes. But I’d really like to see it. You know, just to remember it’s real.”
He slipped the cash into his pocket, eyes laughing at me as a grin stretched across his round face. His finger wagged in my direction. “You want a glimpse of the hiding place.”
I sidled closer, covered my eyes. “I won’t peek. I promise.”
His laughter filled the cavernous building. “You won’t be able to resist.”
“But I just want to hold it all in my hands. Remind myself that we’re almost there.”
He turned serious. Something in his eyes held me still yet made me dizzy. “I want you to succeed, Ally. I want you to drive well, yes, but I also want you to earn your money. I know it’s important to you.”
“It is important. And you’ve worked so hard to help.” I laid my hand on his arm. “Thank you, Webster. You’re a true friend.”
He raked a hand through his hair as he plopped down on the muddy running board of my Packard. I sat beside him, our shoulders touching. He turned to me. The anguish framing his eyes squeezed my heart and made me want to guide his head to my shoulder, tell him everything would be all right.
“I would never do anything to hurt you, Ally. You know that, don’t you?”
I nodded, suddenly confused.
He held my gaze for a few moments, as if deciding whether or not to say more. Then he jumped up and started wiping the mud from my tires. With stuttered steps, I headed into the sunshine, wishing he felt comfortable talking with me. He obviously needed someone to confide in.
Maybe he preferred someone like Lucinda.
30
Through t
he long evening, I stayed at Grandmother’s bedside, reading her favorite passages of Scripture, regaling her with tales of the racetrack, all while I wrestled with my feelings. Did I care for Lawrence? Did he care for me? What about Webster? Did I dare think of him as more than a friend?
“Alyce? Are you still here?” Grandmother’s warble lifted me into the moment again.
“I’m here. Just . . . thinking.” About the dinner happening at Lucinda’s house. About my money stowed in a red box in a dark corner of the garage.
Her white head bobbed. “So much to consider. Have you made any decisions?”
I blew a breath upward, sending the sprigs of hair at my forehead wiggling. “I decided to let Webster continue to hold on to the money.”
“I think that’s wise.”
“Do you? Because Lawrence—Mr. Trotter, who works for Father—doesn’t trust him. Says men like him are often drifters and tend to take things that don’t belong to them.”
Her eyebrows pinched toward her nose. “Have you any reason to suspect such a thing?”
“No. But why would Lawrence cast suspicion for no reason?”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Could he be jealous?”
“Of Webster? He’s Father’s mechanic.”
She laid her gnarled fingers over mine. “But he’s your friend. Has this . . . Lawrence intimated he desires more than friendship from you?”
I pulled my hand away from her touch but didn’t answer.
Her unseeing eyes stared at me, her head leaning a bit to one side. “Have I ever told you the story of how I met your grandfather?”
“Yes, ma’am. Many times.”
“Oh, I know I told you the when and where, but did I ever explain how I knew he was the man God meant for me?”
I thought back to the old stories. “No, I guess not. But you weren’t a Christian then. How could you know he was God’s choice for you?”
She smiled. “I didn’t understand it then, of course. Do you think the Lord takes note of us only after we turn to Him? No, He woos us through our whole lives.”
Woos us. Like a suitor. The perfect suitor. I’d never considered that before. I leaned forward, chin in my hand, elbow on my knee.
She must have sensed my listening posture. “We met a few weeks before the Fourth of July picnic.”
“I remember.”
“At the end of our celebration of America’s birthday, his horse raced against my father’s.”
“And his horse won.”
“Yes, but that’s not the point. The point is, after getting to know him, even in that short time, I wanted his horse to win.”
“That makes sense.”
She shook her head. “Not when you know that my father had promised to give me his horse if it won that race. And all I’d ever wanted was a horse of my own.”
I straightened. “So you wanted Grandfather to win even though it meant denying yourself something you’d always wanted?”
“Yes. That’s when I knew I loved him.”
Lucinda’s words about love and sacrifice screamed in my ears. I batted back the noise, eager to hear what Grandmother had to say. “What did your father do with the horse when it lost?”
She shrugged. “Sold him. Spent most of the money on drink in town that night.”
“Oh.”
Grandmother tried to hold a smile on her lips but didn’t succeed. “I tell you this for two reasons, dear. First, so you’ll appreciate who your father is, even if he is not who you want him to be. And second, so you will be watchful.” Now a real smile appeared. “One day a man will inspire you to care nothing for yourself and everything for him. But of course you’ll have the Lord to guide you, as I did not. Wait for him, Alyce. Whomever he may be.”
I tried to imagine my grandmother as she said she’d been before she knew the saving grace of the Lord Jesus. But I couldn’t.
“I’ll be praying for you, dear.”
I stood, my fingers curling around hers. “I know you will.”
I couldn’t settle after the talk with Grandmother. Not even with my tattered copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, which usually quieted my agitation. Images of Webster with Lucinda’s children, of her shy smile as she served him, haunted my imagination. I tried to make myself think of Lawrence instead. But the new look in his eye, his possessive manner, didn’t draw those visions close.
Father and Mother went to bed. The house turned quiet. Starlight beckoned me into the garden, and I heeded the call. Roses sent their sweet perfume into the cool night air. I closed my eyes, drank it in. Hands behind my back, I drifted down one path and up another, until I stood staring at the front of the garage, the doors shut tight. But light seeped through between boards and ground.
My heart danced in my chest. Had Webster come back after supper with Lucinda? I told myself I wanted to know if he’d enjoyed the evening. But as the thought of seeing him pulled me toward the old carriage house, I wasn’t sure I could find the courage to ask.
But I could ask about the race on Saturday. The potential prize money. The large door swung on its hinges as I pulled.
“Webster?”
I stepped inside, blinded by the glaring light overhead. “Webster?”
All the cars sat in their usual spots. If he wasn’t there, why the light? I reached for the string to turn off the single overhead bulb, but it swung away as a breeze wafted in through the open door. Stepping into the void between the cars, the toe of my shoe collided with a solid object. I looked down. Nothing. Had I kicked it beneath the car?
On hands and knees, I peered under Father’s car, then my own. Spying a bulky shadow near my rear tire, I reached for it, pulled it into the light.
Grandmother’s red box. Open. And empty.
I clawed the ground beneath the car. The money had to be there. It had to. Webster wouldn’t have left something so precious to me to be crushed beneath the wheels of one of the automobiles. But no matter where my arm reached, where my hand touched, only a few red beads mixed with earth.
I rocked back on my toes, knees still kissing the ground. Only Webster knew where the box was hidden. Only he could have emptied it.
All of my efforts, all of my desires, stolen in a moment. And by one who’d claimed he wanted to help.
Fury spurred me to my feet. I paced through the garage, beads biting into my hand as I squeezed the box between my fingers. I’d demand he come immediately and explain. I stopped, almost tipping forward from the sudden cease of movement.
I didn’t know if he owned a telephone. I wasn’t sure which boarding house he called home. I couldn’t ask Father how to contact him. He’d ask why. And then I’d have to lie. Again.
Dust tornadoed about my feet as I resumed my frantic motions. I tossed the box into the front seat of my car. I paced across the space and back again, across and back, across and back. Could someone besides Webster have done this? I didn’t think so. No one else knew of the money. Or its location.
Webster had said he needed money. And Lucinda had confirmed it by revealing his charitable acts. Clarissa had mentioned such a basket arriving at the doorstep of her sister’s temporary home. A basket filled with food and cash.
Fingernails bit into my palms. Lawrence had warned me the temptation would be too great. Why hadn’t I listened? And yet, couldn’t the Lord have protected my money? His money?
Faces from the photographs rose up before me, souls languishing without the Lord. Would the McConnells be able to return to the Gold Coast without the funds I’d promised? Had I consigned an entire people to eternal destruction?
My throat swelled as I blinked back tears, held in a keening wail. Admitting foolishness in front of Mrs. Tillman and the congregation would be even more painful than admitting failure.
“How could You let this happen, Lord? You knew what that money would do, who it would help. You gave me the desire to give it—even the means to raise it when no way seemed possible. So why this? Why now?” I sat hard on the running bo
ard of my Packard, between the car and the wall, hidden from the light, from the door. My own dark corner of mourning. Forehead resting on my knees, I let Lawrence’s words play in my ears like a much-loved gramophone record. “People aren’t always who they seem to be.”
The realization slashed across my heart like a knife. The only thing that staunched the wound was remembering that he’d stolen from the Lord, not from me, for my heart and my money belonged to Him.
Deep breaths reined in my emotions. I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and pulled a long draught of air into my lungs before laboring to my feet. Tightness in my arms and legs unkinked like a length of rope pulled taut.
A door creaked. I held my breath. Had Webster come to return the money?
Footsteps padded against the ground. I crouched behind the Packard, gathering my skirts and dropping to my knees to peer beneath the chassis. Shoes traversed the space just beyond. But not Webster’s shoes. Not dusty and worn. These shone with recent polish. And the pants cuffed above the shoes declared a suit, not overalls.
My pulse bellowed in my ears, drowning out the footfalls. Not heavy enough to be Father. I kept to the shadows on the back side of my car but inched toward the opposite end, in the direction of the intruder.
Legs in front of my eyes. I lifted my gaze, shot to my feet. “Lawrence!”
I rushed into his open arms, heard breath whoosh from his body as I pressed myself against him. “Thank heavens you’re here.”
Of all the people in my life, perhaps he alone had the strength of faith to see me through this. Never mind that he’d say I told you so. I pulled away, anxious to look into his face as I spilled the catastrophe. His lips curved upward, pulling his mustache with them. But it wasn’t a playful grin. Or a soulful smile. It seemed sinister. Leering. That hungry look from earlier today.
He grabbed ahold of my arms. “I always suspected there was something different about you, Alyce. Something hidden from the rest of the world. Who knew you had a passion for money? A passion for driving. What other passions does the innocent Miss Benson conceal?” His gaze wandered down my body. I shuddered as a boulder of fear settled in my stomach.
