Emily plopped next to her mother even though she normally sat with the other teenagers. She glanced back at Dodd, and Pamela spoke to her in a loud whisper. “What a sweet girl to sit with your mother.”
A gentle slap on his back caused Dodd to look up. It was Neil. Dodd stood and shook hands as the elder leaned in to speak softly. “Did Charlie answer your questions about the Turners, son?”
“Yes …” Talking to Charlie had helped matters, but Dodd still had unanswered questions. “Can we sit down and discuss it sometime? I’d appreciate your perspective as well.”
Neil nodded briskly. “Yes, let’s do that. One day next week.” He took his seat next to his wife as Lee Roy Goodnight puttered to the front of the room to lead the opening prayer.
Neil’s reassurance brought additional peace to Dodd’s troubled nerves, but he still needed time to think. He studied the people in the pews around him. Every woman on the church roster had phone-called, visited, and casseroled him and his family, and he was beginning to feel like he knew their families—most of which were intermarried to the extent of confusion. As he surveyed the church, Dodd couldn’t see how the faithful Christians aligned with what JohnScott had told him.
Fawn sat a few rows up, alone tonight, since Tyler only came to Trapp on weekends. But Grady sat with her. Dodd had questioned Grady about the attention he gave Fawn, but his brother insisted his interest only went so far as friendship.
Dodd took a deep breath, exhaling as they rose to sing “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” The tension in his neck radiated down his spine until his lower back cramped from the stress. He needed a release. Maybe he would go for a jog later. A long one. So he could think about the Turners. And the congregation. And how to handle all of it. And frankly, he could use some advice regarding personal matters, which were woven through it all.
He hadn’t planned on getting attached to this tiny town, and he certainly hadn’t planned on getting attached to a woman, but the more he got to know Ruthie Turner, the more he was drawn to her. Granted, she had rough edges—How did Grady put it? Prickly—but she’d been through a lot with her parents, and from the sound of it, she’d been through a lot with the church.
Emily glanced back at him again with her usual bashful smile, but when she looked past him, her eyes widened. She jerked to the front with a tiny hiccup of a gasp. Curiosity tickled Dodd, but he didn’t look behind him. Instead, he kept an eye on Emily, waiting to see what she would do when she turned around again.
She never did. The song ended, and she perched on the pew as stiff as one of the towels his mother dried on the clothesline. But after a few verses of the next song, Emily’s shoulders relaxed, and she whispered to her mother. Pamela Sanders spun around and gaped toward the back of the room.
What in the world could be happening back there? Corky Ledbetter typically occupied the back row with her three little kids. Maybe one of them was causing mischief. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Neil must’ve been curious too, because he stretched his arm along the back of the pew and casually swiveled his head. He gave no reaction except to stop singing, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.
That did it. Dodd didn’t feel comfortable turning around after so many others, so he feigned a restroom break. Standing, he took one step up the aisle and almost shouted for joy.
Clyde Felton sat on the back pew, singing from a hymnal.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I told you to stay away from those people, Ruth Ann.”
Irritation spiraled in my rib cage as my paper plate rotated in the microwave. Most years, Momma and I spent Thanksgiving at Ansel and Velma’s crowded ranch house with my cousins and all their kids, but this year the Picketts had traveled to Tucumcari, New Mexico, to visit Ansel’s kinfolk instead. That left Momma and me home alone, reheating leftovers from the diner. We had done this before with no complaints, but on that Thursday, we spent most of the day arguing.
Her constant insistence that I stay away from those people now sounded like screeching babble in my ears, and I wanted to scream. Because I kept picturing Milla Cunningham in the parking lot of the United with tears on her cheeks.
“You don’t even know them, Momma.”
“I don’t have to. They come in the diner with all the other goody-goodies, and I sure as heck know them.”
I spooned gravy over my turkey and mashed potatoes. “What if the Cunninghams are different?”
“They’re not.”
“JohnScott thinks so. He even got baptized in the water.” Instantly I regretted my words.
Momma’s movements stilled, and she paused, holding a two-liter drink. “Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea, but the Cunninghams talk to him about the Bible all the time.”
“You can’t be serious.” She opened the drink, which protested with a belch of foam. “Does Velma know?”
“I suppose.” I scooped cranberry sauce out of a miniature paper cup and waited for her reaction.
“JohnScott’s a fool.”
“Momma …”
She carried her food to the living room, pulled up a TV tray, and settled on the couch to watch a football game, curtailing the discussion so she could simmer alone.
I poured myself a Dr Pepper and spent the rest of Thanksgiving Day in my bedroom, counting the days until I could leave for school. My temper flared, intense and invasive, like the streak of sunshine slicing through my curtains. Momma had no right to talk about JohnScott that way, and her words increased my determination to leave home. But whenever I thought of my cousin, my heart drifted to the bottom of a deep, dark well, and I wished God—or somebody—would pull me out.
Why did I tell her about JohnScott? He may have been driving me crazy, but he didn’t deserve Momma’s wrath. Nobody did.
By Saturday morning, my irritation had calmed to a manageable numbness. Momma left for work, but I stayed under the covers listening to rain patter on the roof. When I pulled myself out of bed, I saw the fog hovering outside my window. How appropriate.
I dressed in old jeans and a sweatshirt before eating the last of the Rice Krispies. As I stood in the kitchen holding my crackling cereal bowl, I noted our bare cabinets. I’d have to make a trip to the United, on foot, to pick up my paycheck … just to spend half of it on groceries. At least the rain had slacked off.
I twisted my hair in a bun and slipped into Momma’s old letter jacket, hoping it would keep me dry as well as warm. Then I set off down the street through the fog’s eerie quiet. By the time I got to the store, visibility had improved enough so I could make out Grady and Milla loading groceries into her SUV. That woman was always at the store. I thrust my hands under my armpits and quickened my pace in a feeble attempt to avoid the Cunninghams along with the sense of obligation gnawing at my conscience.
“Hey, Ruthie-the-checker-girl. Where you headed?”
I paused, hoping they wouldn’t mention Momma or the church. “Picking up a few things. I’ve got the day off.”
“Big plans?”
“Not hardly.”
Milla pulled her raincoat tighter. “We have a quiet day planned too. I’m making a pot of beef stew for lunch, and then we’ll rent a movie.”
I reached for the door. “Sounds fun.”
“We’d love for you to join us.”
I didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. How did I get myself into these situations? If I so much as entered the Cunninghams’ house, Momma would never speak to me again. I shook my head. “Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to invade.”
“It would be a welcome invasion.” Grady grinned. “You should come.”
Good gracious.
Milla opened her car door and smiled over her shoulder. “Just think about it. If you decide to invade, come on over to the house around noon.”
“Better yet,” Grady said,
“give us a call, and I’ll come pick you up. This weather’s nasty.”
“You’re not on foot, are you?” Milla said. “Goodness, Ruthie. Let us give you a ride home. We’ll wait here while you pick up your groceries.”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks, though.” I escaped into the grocery store, not giving them a chance to press the issue. Beef stew was the last thing I needed.
As I wheeled a shopping cart through the aisles, I wondered if Dodd had told them about Momma’s reaction when he gave me a ride to work. And her reaction when she caught us in the parking lot. Probably.
Guilt crept through my heart like the low-lying fog. Milla Cunningham had always been kind to me—polite, smiling, thoughtful—and she even hugged me sometimes. Momma, on the other hand, was habitually the opposite.
As I pondered each grocery item, careful not to buy more than I could carry home, Momma’s whiny voice echoed through my mind, and I grew more and more upset with her.
She insisted I stay away from those people, yet she offered no words of encouragement about how to do so. She couldn’t even manage to pay the phone bill on time so I could discuss my problems with the only person who understood me—JohnScott. But, of course, JohnScott spent all his free time with the Cunninghams—whom Momma insisted I avoid. The screeching babble in my mind rose to a crescendo but muted when I approached the checkout. I slowed my steps.
Maybe I’d go to the Cunninghams after all. Homemade stew sounded good, and after lunch I could make an excuse to leave.
I smiled, feeling the cleansing breeze of self-assuredness that comes with a plan of action.
Momma would be upset if she found out.
But Momma needn’t know.
At noon, on the dot, I rapped on the Cunninghams’ door and crossed my fingers that Grady would answer. The boy would jabber nonstop, saving me from conversation, but Milla opened the door instead. After a chocolate-scented hug, she led me to the kitchen, where she resumed stirring a brownie mix.
“Dodd should be back any minute,” she said. “He’s working on tomorrow’s sermon down at the church. But Grady drove Emily out to the Blaylocks’ ranch. Fawn asked them to help her and Tyler hang Christmas lights.”
Super. “It’s a cold day for that.”
“Exactly what I said, but nobody listens.” She slid the brownie pan into the oven. “Let me show you around. I want you to feel right at home.”
The small, two-bedroom house barely accommodated two people, much less three, and I could see why Dodd and Grady dubbed it the shoebox. The church ought to have sold it years ago or added another bedroom. The living room held a couch and love seat with signs of family life peppering the crowded area. A deck of cards left under an end table, unfinished needlework in a basket, a folded newspaper on the couch.
We took a few steps down a short hallway and peeked into the first bedroom.
“This is mine.” Milla gestured into the room, which held a quilt-laden bed, a small dresser, and a rocking chair. Then she stepped across the hall. “And this is the boys’.”
The room had been designed to hold a twin-sized bed, but it now held two. One neat, one disheveled. On the nightstand between the two beds rested a lamp, two Bibles, and several Dr Pepper cans. I recognized Grady’s tennis shoes on the floor next to the unmade bed and suddenly felt as though I was stealing an intimate glimpse of their family life. Was this truly a welcome invasion?
We turned to go back to the kitchen, but the pictures hanging in the hallway caught my attention, and Milla began narrating them one by one. While inspecting portraits of Dodd and Grady at various ages, I found myself captivated by a baby picture of Dodd. Those blue eyes. They were like the eyes of his father, who smiled at me from another frame. After ten minutes, Milla and I still stood in the hallway while she told me stories, and somewhere on our trip down memory lane, my nervousness evaporated like steam from a cup of hot chocolate.
“The best story by far,” she said, “happened when Dodd was three years old. He and his dad sat on the back porch eating Popsicles. Dodd couldn’t pronounce all his sounds yet, especially the Rs and Ls.” She gazed at a picture of Dodd in a plastic, backyard pool. “My husband said the Popsicles tasted yummy, and Dodd replied that he wuved them.”
I smiled at the visual image.
“And when Russ asked him his favorite flavor, Dodd thought for a minute, then said, ‘Aw, Daddy, I wike wime … and wemon.’”
My remaining discomfort dissolved with a burst of laughter.
“Then they proceeded to discuss the positive attributes of wime and wemon.”
I was still giggling when the front door slammed, sending a jolt of apprehension up my spine as though I had been caught breaking and entering.
Dodd strolled around the corner, but when he saw me, he froze. His gaze met mine, and I got the impression he might be holding his breath. His smile quivered. “Now, Mom. Not the pictures.”
“I couldn’t help it.” She pointed at me. “Blame Ruthie.”
Dodd shook his head, then studied me, and his facial expression, his posture, even his silence asked an unspoken question that sent a hum of electricity through my fingertips, still touching the frame of his baby picture.
I dropped my hand, stifled by the lull in conversation, and in a split second, I asked myself three questions. What would happen if I stopped running away from the preacher? Would it send Momma over the edge? Was it worth the problems it might cause? My decision was instantaneous and impulsive.
“Not only pictures,” I said, “but also the stories to go with them. Prepare to be blackmailed.”
Dodd lowered a disapproving gaze to Milla. “Mom, say you didn’t.”
She held up her hands in surrender, laughing as she slipped to the kitchen.
Alone with him, I crossed one arm over my stomach and pinched the loose skin behind my elbow while he stared at me as if I were an apparition.
What was I thinking? I just jumped feet first off the high dive and wasn’t even sure there was water beneath me. “Well, Dodd.” I might as well break the ice. “Tell me about your wine and women.”
His eyes widened as he joined me in front of the pictures. “I guess you could say I’ve come a long way since my youth.” He straightened the swimming-pool picture. “So … you’re … here.”
I tilted my head indifferently. “Is that such a shock?” Of course it was. Even I was surprised.
He released a long breath as though he’d been holding it since he moved to town. “Yes. It’s quite a shock actually.”
His laugh made me want to laugh too, but I felt the overwhelming burden of Momma and what might happen if she knew where I was. And when I considered how the church might treat Dodd and his family, the combination of worries made my stomach go queasy.
I glanced back at the preacher, whose expression had shifted to match my own.
“It’s good that you’re here, Ruthie.”
I nodded even though I wasn’t sure I agreed.
When Milla called us for lunch, Dodd moved aside to let me pass. Neither of us smiled.
The nervousness I felt earlier had been replaced with doubt, and the short prayer Dodd said before the meal made me uncomfortable, either from the praying or because Dodd and Milla each held one of my hands. But during the meal, they joked so much that I relaxed again, laughing more than I’d laughed in a long time. In fact, I had so much fun, I abandoned my plan to sneak away after lunch, and I stayed for the movie.
Milla sat on the love seat, and Dodd and I took opposite ends of the couch. When the movie began, his nearness paralyzed me, and he seemed to have the same reaction. But after thirty minutes he slouched, crossing his socked feet on the coffee table, and when my back began aching, I leaned an elbow on the armrest. By the end of the feature, I had my feet tucked beside me.
Grady came in as the closing credits rolled, and when he
spotted me curled on the couch, his mouth fell open dramatically. “Ruthie-the-checker-girl? At the shoebox?” He nodded knowingly. “I see how it is. You won’t go out with us if Dodd asks, but you will if Mom asks.”
Milla gasped. “Grady!”
I looked between the three of them as a breath of realization blew all the fog out of my muddled brain. No matter what Momma said, these people cared about me. I raised my eyebrows. “Duh, Grady, I like her better.”
Dodd snorted.
Grady scratched his chin. “You know … I do too.”
Milla rose from the love seat. “You boys are impossible. Ruthie, if you’d like to get away from them, you’re welcome to help me in the kitchen.”
I followed her for no other reason than to escape the scrutiny of Dodd and Grady, even though it meant another one-on-one conversation with Milla.
She took a small knife from a block in the corner to cut the brownies. “Sorry, Ruthie. Grady’s really missing his dad, and I think he talks more to make up for it.” She chuckled. “We never know what he’ll say next. You’d be surprised at some of the things he comes up with.”
“Yes, I help in his computer class, you know.”
She flinched. “Tell me.”
“Let’s see …” I picked up a stack of saucers and spread them on the counter. “One day he quoted an entire scene from Monty Python.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Something about the velocity of a swallow?”
Milla groaned. “He did.”
“And another time he took great pains to explain the difference between a buffalo and a bison—with a visual demonstration of the horns.” I raised my hands to my head, forming horns with my fingers.
“Ah yes.” Milla made finger horns on her own head. “Buffalo.” She repositioned her hands. “Bison.”
I nodded. “And of course, there’s the daily commentary on his emotional adjustment to small-town life.”
“He doesn’t hide much, does he?”
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