by Mateer, Anne
“But—” Her eyes grew round. I shuffled forward, careful not to jostle the arm bandaged to my side.
“You can take me there, or I can go on my own.”
“Harry?” Mother this time. Her expression both soft and chiding. “Help us.”
Just before I thought I’d slither to the floor, Father’s eyes cut toward the nurse. She frowned. “Sit down. I’ll go get a wheelchair.”
I sat. The nurse returned. Father helped me into the chair, pushed me on a brisk journey down the hall and around a corner. Mother held my hand the entire way.
We entered a darkened room. The chair stopped moving. Rhythmic breathing whispered into the blackness. Then a shaft of light illuminated a round face. Swollen and bruised. Deathly white around the edges. Chest barely rising and falling.
“I’ll be back shortly.” The nurse turned on her heel and hurried away.
“We’ll be outside, darling.” Mother pulled Father from the room.
I leaned as far forward as I could, my heart crying his name as I smoothed a lock of hair away from his forehead. “I’m sorry, Webster. For everything.” I watched his closed eyelids, anxious for a flutter of recognition or understanding.
Nothing.
A lump swam up my throat, lodging in the middle of my neck. I tried to swallow it down, but it refused to budge. “I should never have let Mr. Trotter bully me into silence. I should have shouted the truth to Father no matter what Mr. Trotter told him in return.” His face blurred. I leaned closer to his ear. “Please don’t leave me, Webster. I need you.”
If God took my only true friend, how would I survive?
I will never leave you or forsake you.
I closed my eyes. Yes, Lord. I know that. I wanted it to be enough.
Even if I couldn’t give the McConnells the money I’d pledged to their ministry.
Even without Grandmother’s presence to buoy me.
Even if I lived my whole life without a man who shared my faith and understood everything about me.
My eyes roamed back to Webster’s face. Maybe it was better to let him go. Lucinda had said his heart was already taken. And even if it were free, he’d betrayed my trust by taking my money. He’d never given any indication he shared my faith, though he’d never scorned God in my presence, either.
An ache pulsed up my arm, across my shoulder, and into my temple. Then it shot across my forehead and wrapped around my skull like a turban of steel.
“I think you should rest now, Alyce.” Mother pressed her cheek against mine. I assented with a slight nod. But until sleep claimed my mind, I prayed the Lord would have mercy on my friend.
Mother found me in Webster’s room early the next morning.
“How is he?” she asked before she kissed my forehead.
“The same.”
She pulled up a chair and sat beside me, both of us staring at his unresponsive face.
“You know who he reminds me of?”
My head jerked in Mother’s direction. Instantly, I regretted the motion, biting my lip, waiting for the pain to subside. “Who?”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Your father when he was younger. Full of big ideas. Big dreams.” She glanced at me and then back at him. “Not handsome to everyone else, mind you. But his face fluttered my heart.”
I held my breath. Could this possibly mean she approved of Webster? Or at least that if he was my choice she wouldn’t oppose it? Of course she had no idea of his thievery. Or that I’d allowed Father to think him guilty of forcing himself on me. Or that he didn’t share my faith.
For a long while Mother and I sat in silence, nurses and doctors bustling around us. This new territory of sharing my heart with her didn’t come easily.
“Where’s Father?”
“He had some business to tend to. He said he’d be here later today.”
I nodded, strangely relieved.
The hours ticked by. My stomach rumbled. Then Father appeared in Webster’s doorway, face ashen, eyes blank. Hat clenched between his hands.
“What’s wrong?” My heart leapt into top speed.
Fiery eyes glared past me as he slowly crushed his hat into a ball. He growled out one word. “Trotter.”
I couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe. I staggered to my feet, fell back into my chair again.
His shoulders hunched. Red anger faded to a bloodless complexion.
“Darling.” Mother reached his side. “What is it?”
His mangled hat fell to the floor as he knelt in front of my wheelchair. “He’s a liar and a thief.”
My eyes widened. “But he isn’t. I told you that already.”
He shook his head. “Not Little. Trotter. You were only part of his plan, Ally. Maybe an impulse, a trinket he couldn’t resist. I guess because you belonged to me.”
A low moan skittered across the silence. Or had I imagined it?
Father raked a hand through his already untidy hair as he paced the small space beside Webster’s bed. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“Harry, Harry.” Mother crooned his name as she placed her hands on his cheeks. The scowl on his face disappeared. “I’m sorry, Winifred. I should have been more careful.”
“But what happened?” I looked from Father to Mother and back again.
He grasped Mother’s hand as if all of a sudden he needed her strength. “After what you told me, I hired someone to investigate Mr. Trotter.” His mouth turned downward. “It wasn’t that I didn’t believe you, Ally girl, it’s just that I needed to know the truth for myself. And I discovered him a worse scoundrel than I imagined. He wanted to hurt me—for what reason I still don’t know. So he used you. Now he’s vanished. And so has my investment capital.”
Capital? “What do you mean, Father?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly resembling a small boy caught in mischief. “I’d culled the profits from the last year into a special fund. We didn’t need the money to live on anyway. I wanted a new challenge but wasn’t sure what. So I gathered a good bit of ready money, intending to invest.”
“Forget the money, Harry. We’ve survived on so much less.” Mother laid her head on Father’s shoulder while I marveled at her words. “At least we still have our girl.”
“I’m not concerned about the money as such. It’s what I’d intended the money to do.”
My mouth went dry. Had he meant to give it to me? For Africa? “What did you intend to do, Father?”
His look slid past me, to the still form on the bed. “I was going to tell Little after our success in the Harvest Classic, but then that scene in the garage . . .” He wiped his hand over his face, took a deep breath. “I wanted to invest in a new venture: manufacturing Mr. Little’s cars.”
I gasped.
“Why I didn’t see the truth that night, I don’t know. Little is a man with a vision, a man who’ll go far. I wanted to be a part of that. But I trusted Trotter, too. Or maybe I saw what I wanted to see. I don’t know. I guess when he claimed to be the driver of our car, I assumed he had a hidden talent. And I liked that. And if Webster trusted him with his car, well, that just boosted my consideration of him.”
Suddenly I recalled again the night Mr. Trotter came upon me in the garage, remembered he’d known about the cash money in my box, perhaps even spied on Webster as he’d hidden it. And now Father declared Trotter a thief and a liar. I bolted from my chair. The world spun. I reached out to steady myself. My hand landed on Webster’s broken leg.
A guttural groan accompanied the roll of his head to one side. Father scooped me up and deposited me back into my chair, and then leaned over Webster, obscuring him from view.
“What’s happening?” I pulled at the back of Father’s coat.
Another moan. Louder this time.
Father stalked to the door. “Nurse! Get in here!”
Within moments, nurses and doctors shoved past us. The fear in their eyes unnerved me. We moved away from Webster’s bed. I gulped in ai
r, praying this wasn’t the end—and if it was, praying I wouldn’t wither in the face of calamity. I’d always asked the Lord to allow me to show my parents His presence and power in my life. But I hadn’t meant like this.
A doctor approached. “We’ve given him more pain medication, Mr. Benson. He’ll go back to sleep again. We’ll decrease the dosage throughout the night. Perhaps by tomorrow he’ll wake more fully. Then we can assess the leg. We’ll need to take some X rays to determine if the break warrants surgical intervention.”
“Whatever needs to be done for him, Doctor, I’ll make it good.”
The doctor nodded. “Fine. I’ll keep you apprised of the situation.”
He left the room. One by one, the nurses returned to their other duties, as well.
I sat by the bed again, longing to stroke the hand that lay atop the white sheet, to tell him what I knew now, to ask him to forgive me for ever suspecting him. But I couldn’t. Not with my parents watching and listening.
“Father, why don’t you ask if I can go back to the hotel with you tonight? I’ve felt much better today.”
“I think that’s a good idea, Alyce.” Mother’s agreement warmed me. She and I seemed to have reached some new place of understanding.
“I’ll find someone right away.” Father charged toward the door.
“Wait.”
He turned.
“Go with him, Mother. I’ll wait here.”
She looked past me, to the man on the bed. When her eyes met mine, they softened. “Of course, darling. Take as long as you need.”
The door clicked shut.
We were alone, Webster and me. Well, as alone as we could be behind our partition of thin muslin. He in his drug-induced sleep. Me with a heart fully awake.
I hung my head and prayed for courage. Courage to stand up in front of my church without the money for the McConnells and their mission. Courage to let go of Grandmother when the Lord called her home. Courage to convey the love of Christ to my parents. Courage to accept the possibility that Webster might not care for me as I did for him.
By the time my parents returned, my heart had emptied of its cries. I studied Webster’s face one last time before we left, silently promising I wouldn’t ask more of him than he could give.
36
Father escorted me to the hospital the next morning and then left to meet with his attorney about Trotter. Mother stayed at the hotel, packing our things, though I’d refused to leave Indianapolis without Webster. Just before noon, a light step sounded on the floor behind me. I twisted in my chair and then hobbled to my feet. “Lucinda!”
She rushed forward, pressing her cheek to mine, careful not to jostle my arm. “You look much better today, Alyce.”
“What are you . . . You can’t afford a day off work.”
Pink stained her cheeks. “Mr. Morgan, well, he’s, um . . .” Her face turned scarlet as her gaze locked on mine. “I may not have to work much longer.” A shy smile transformed her face.
“You and Mr. Morgan?”
She nodded. “After you and I talked—about men—I realized I’d ignored those same signs myself. Afraid, I guess. I thought he was just being nice.” She giggled. “I guess working for Mr. Morgan was exactly where I needed to be.”
I squeezed her hand as tears pricked my eyes. Lucinda deserved every bit of happiness she could find. Mr. Morgan would treat her well, and she wouldn’t have to worry anymore about feeding and clothing her children.
“But I didn’t come to tell you about me. How’s Webster? I’ve been so anxious.”
“He woke a bit last night, and he’s stirred some this morning. But he hasn’t fully returned to us yet.” I eased back into my chair, suddenly tired again.
“Do you know what I learned about Webster this week?” Lucinda asked gently.
I shook my head.
“He’s a preacher.”
“A what?”
Webster moaned. I searched his face. Anxious. Eager. But he stilled again. I turned back to Lucinda, pondering her revelation. I couldn’t make sense of it. Webster had always supported my faith, but he’d never acknowledged his own. “I think someone must have told you wrong. Webster builds cars. Fixes machinery. He doesn’t preach anywhere. I’m not even sure if he believes in God.”
Lucinda shook her head. “I had Clarissa’s sister in the other day. To help with some cleaning. She and her family might rent my house after Mr. Morgan and I . . .” She cleared her throat as her cheeks once again blazed scarlet. “Anyway, her husband ran into a man who knew some of Webster’s history.”
I bit my lip, afraid to hear more. But I couldn’t stop listening.
“Remember how I told you I’d heard about him being linked with money missing from a church?”
My stomach clenched. I remembered all too well.
She took a deep breath. “Apparently he’d held the pulpit at that church and had just resigned. That’s why suspicion fell on him. Though as I told you before, I never believed he could do such a thing.”
But I had. Shame heated my face.
“He didn’t take up preaching as a living again. He came to Langston and went to work for your father. He lived in the midst of the factory workers and such. When someone hit a rough patch, he tried to help. He prayed with them. Studied the Scriptures with them. Told them about God’s love. And, of course, left those baskets of food and money when he heard of a dire need.”
I wanted to shake Webster awake, to demand he tell me everything. He knew I would have embraced this. Even helped. Legs trembling, I rose from the chair. Lucinda caught me by my good arm. I couldn’t believe the fury inside me didn’t scorch her at the touch.
Then she gasped. Pointed.
I froze.
Webster stared up at me, blinked. Breath caught in my chest. My heart seemed to stop mid-beat.
“It’s you,” he said, his voice gentle.
Tingles chased over my arms, down my legs—until I realized that Lucinda was standing behind me. Whom did he mean to address?
My tingles turned to chills as Lucinda ran for the nurse. By the time the room emptied of her, he’d fallen back asleep.
Father insisted I go out to dinner with them, but in spite of my tangled feelings, I couldn’t abandon Webster. Not even for a few hours. My parents finally left me to my solitary vigil.
I scooted my chair closer to the edge of the bed, night creeping in around us. I ached for Langston. For home. For Grandmother. But I burned to hear Webster’s voice once more, to lose myself in his dark eyes.
“Come back to me,” I whispered. “Please come back to me.”
A cart rumbled through the room. Soft voices questioned and answered. Electric light chased shadows into dark corners.
Was my vigil a foolish one? The doctors claimed to be more hopeful now. But what if they were wrong? Could I sit by and watch him fade into eternity?
I walked to the window and looked down into the graying street. I stretched my right arm, shook feeling back into my left foot before returning to my chair. I closed my eyes, but no words of petition bled from my heart.
A clammy finger touched my wrist. My eyes flew open. He stared at me, chest rising and falling faster than usual. Was he in pain? Ought I go for help?
“Should I—”
“Don’t leave.”
Our words overlapped, but I heard his above my own. I laid my palm against his cheek. “I won’t leave you.”
“Good.” An unhurried grin traveled across his face, lighting his eyes. He reached up at the same leisurely pace and curled his fingers around mine. “Good.”
His eyelids fluttered shut, but he never let go of my hand.
I thanked the Lord for the interurban, which transported Mother and Father back and forth from Langston with greater regularity and less hassle than the train. Each evening one of my parents would come to stay with me. Each morning one would return to Langston after settling me beside Webster’s bed.
X-rays proved the necessity o
f surgery to set the bones in place to heal properly. Lucinda sat with me through the surgery, which Dr. Oliver assured us went well.
Webster’s smile came more frequently now, as did his lucid moments, though the pain in his head and his leg often tightened his jaw. By Sunday, just a week after the accident, he sat up in bed and ate under his own power.
“Why don’t you rest now, Webster.”
“I’ve slept too long. When can I get out of this bed?”
His grousing awakened my guilt.
“I’m so sorry. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t—”
His eyes softened. “It’s not your fault, Ally. It could just as easily have been me driving.” He stared at the ceiling now, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I knew what I was getting into the first time I let you take the wheel. But I didn’t mind. I knew you could do it. I knew you needed to do it.”
I shook my head, studying the open, empty hand in my lap. “No. My impulsiveness drove me into a situation I couldn’t handle.”
“I don’t agree.” He leaned forward. “Maybe you shouldn’t have so flippantly committed your father’s money, but maybe, just maybe, the Lord used this situation to show you something about yourself. Something important.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that you have the guts and the strength to drive farther and faster than most people would ever dream possible.”
My mouth turned down as I shook my head. “That isn’t important.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s . . . it’s . . .” I remembered again crushed steel, a concrete wall, the unforgiving brick of the track. Our very lives at stake. Did God really lead me to that place, or did I move forward with my own plan without seeking His blessing?
Webster closed his hand around mine. My stomach spun with fear and delight, reminding me of everything I still needed to talk about with him.
Can’t we just go on like this, Lord? Everything seems good. Almost like before.
I breathed in the aroma of ammonia and freshly laundered sheets. “Webster?”
“Hmm?” His head fell to the pillow propped up behind him. The look in his eyes threatened my resolve.
