“Can’t I stay with you?” He would surely go up to his parents’ apartment now, and she wanted to be with him.
“No, Libby. I need to do this myself.”
“Please? I promise I won’t say a word. I won’t interfere in any way, no matter what.” If she had to bite on her tongue and sit on her hands the whole time, she’d keep her promise. “After talking to Oscar . . . and hearing everything he said about your father . . .” She swallowed, fear making perspiration form across her back. Could she face this man she envisioned as an unfeeling monster? “I would feel better if I went up with you. I don’t think you should see him alone.”
“And what are you going to tell Alice-Marie? She won’t believe you took a two-hour bath.”
Libby hung her head. “It will probably end any hope of them forgiving me or trusting me again, but I’ll tell them the truth. That I sneaked over here to tell you about your brother.”
Petey cringed. “My brother . . . the convicted murderer.” Letting his head drop back, he released a heavy sigh. “Alice-Marie will probably tell everyone on campus about this—you know how she likes to talk. Everyone will find out about Oscar. What if that prevents me from becoming a minister?”
“That won’t happen!”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because . . . because . . .” Libby spluttered for a reason. Her conversation with Petey in the barn on Matt and Lorna’s wedding day flitted through her mind. Although he’d crushed her with his words then, she now said them back to him. “Because you’ve been called to it, and God will make sure it happens.”
His smile rewarded her. “Thank you, Libby.”
“You’re welcome. Now . . .” She clasped her hands and pressed her knuckles to her chin. “Are you going to let me go with you when you see your folks?”
To her surprise, he laughed. “I think it would be easier to give in to you than to keep arguing.” He took her hand and turned toward the building. “When we’re finished here, I’ll go with you to Alice-Marie’s and see if I can help smooth any ruffled feathers.”
Hand-in-hand, they made their way up a narrow, dark stairway littered with trash. Libby steeled herself against the mingled odors of sweat, overcooked cabbage, and sewer. How could people live this way? Although she’d often thought Mrs. Rowley too meticulous about housekeeping, she now appreciated the clean, fresh-smelling home the woman had provided. She vowed her own home—when she had one—would be a pleasant place for everyone who entered.
“This is it.” Petey gestured to a door to the right of the second-floor landing. Murmuring voices came from behind the door. One deep and gruff-sounding, and one high-pitched, almost whiny. Petey sucked in a big breath, lifted his hand, and banged his fist against the scarred wood three times.
“Who is it?” the deeper voice boomed.
Petey cleared his throat and leaned close to the door. The grip on her hand tightened. “It’s Pete, Pa. Your son.”
A long silence fell. Then someone barked, “I got no son named Pete. Go away.”
A woman’s voice wailed, a man’s voice ordered her to silence, and soft sobbing carried into the hallway.
Petey pressed his palm to the door. “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.” His voice sounded sure, strong, but his hand within hers trembled. Libby gave it a reassuring squeeze. He glanced at her briefly, thanking her with his eyes, and added, “I can stand out here all night if need be. You’ll have to walk past me in the morning, so you might as well open up.”
A child’s voice cried, “Let ’im in, Pa! He said he’d come back! He promised!”
“Shut up, boy.”
Both Pete and Libby cringed when the sound of flesh connecting with flesh filtered through the door and a child cried out in pain. The clomp of feet on the floor followed, and then the door was jerked open. Libby longed to throw herself in front of Petey when a large, scowling man in dirty long johns and faded brown trousers lurched into the hall. But she’d promised not to interfere, so she held tight to Petey’s hand and remained rooted in place.
The man’s graying hair hung in thin strands across his high forehead. Dark bags underlined his red-rimmed eyes, and deep furrows lined each side of his mouth. He braced one hand on the doorjamb and spent several seconds examining Petey from his head to his feet. He gave a barely discernible jerk when his gaze reached the floor and located Petey’s peg leg, but then his eyes took the same lingering journey upward until he looked into his son’s face. A sneering half smile curled his lips.
“Look at this! Quite the fancy man.” Mr. Leidig laughed—a growling, menacing sound. “Boy, you can’t be no son o’ mine. Not in duds like that an’ a piece o’ wood where a foot oughta be. Run, er, stump along now.”
Libby gasped at the man’s callousness, but Petey didn’t even flinch. When Mr. Leidig stepped backward and gave the door a shove to close it, Petey darted forward and stopped it with his good foot. The door bounced against his shoe and flew open again. The man, halfway across the floor, spun around and gaped at Petey in surprise.
Petey stepped over the threshold into the small, dingy room, bringing Libby with him. “I came to see you, Pa, and I’m going to have my say.”
Mr. Leidig balled his fists. “You get out o’ here.”
“I will not.”
To the left, a door cracked open and two little boys peeked out. Mr. Leidig waved his fist at them. “Get back in there!” The door closed quickly. He turned to Petey. “I told you, you ain’t my son, so—”
“He is our son.” From the shadows in the corner, a woman scuttled forward. Thin, round-shouldered, and with the same haunted eyes Libby had seen on Oscar, the woman sidestepped the glowering man and stopped a mere twelve inches in front of Petey.
“You get away from him, Berta,” Gunter ordered, but she acted as though she hadn’t heard. Her frail hands hovered in front of Petey’s chest as if she longed to touch him but feared she’d be slapped. She tipped her head to the side and peered directly into Petey’s eyes, tears pooling in her own eyes. “Look at him. He is our Petey, Gunter.” Amazement lit her tired voice.
The muscles in Petey’s jaw quivered as he looked into his mother’s face. “Hello, Ma.”
Her hands shot out and cupped Petey’s cheeks. The sight of those red, chapped hands with their broken nails against Petey’s tanned, healthy, clean-shaven cheeks made Libby’s chest ache. She had to turn away when the woman began to croon, “Petey, my boy . . . My firstborn . . . All grown up an’ lookin’ like such a fine, fine man . . .”
Petey stood straight and unmoving until the woman leaned forward, as if to embrace him. Then he jerked free of her touch. Hurt flickered in his mother’s sunken eyes, but she stepped back with an expression of sad acceptance on her face. She seemed to expect rejection.
Gunter stomped forward, stood beside his cowering wife, and glared at Pete. “Why’re you here? What do you want from us, boy?”
“I don’t want anything except to be heard.”
Gunter and Berta glanced at each other. After a moment of surprised silence, Gunter barked out another laugh. He swung his hand in a gesture of welcome. “Talk’s cheap an’ listenin’ is free. So go ahead, boy—speak.” He plopped into a sagging chair and smirked at Petey. Berta seemed to have taken root in the middle of the worn rug. Neither invited Petey to sit.
Libby peered into Petey’s face, holding her breath as she waited to hear what he would say to these two broken, bitter, beaten-down people. They deserved his wrath, but looking into his eyes, she believed she saw compassion lurking beneath the pain and anger. Her heart skipped a beat. She had prayed for compassion to reign. Had her prayer found its way to God and returned to touch Petey’s heart?
Petey licked his lips. “I confess I’ve been wanting to come here for years. Ever since . . .” He glanced briefly downward, tapping the tip of his peg leg against the faded cabbage-rose carpet covering the wood floor. His gaze sought his parents again. “I’ve wanted to tell you,
face-to-face, that if you hadn’t sent me away, I’d still be whole. That trolley would’ve never rolled over my foot if I hadn’t been out on my own.”
Berta seemed to shrink into herself, but Gunter sat unmoving, a sullen expression on his face.
“I’ve practiced the words so many times; I’ve got a memorized speech in my head. And I’ve imagined your faces as I recited it. I wanted to see sorrow and shame bring tears to your eyes.” Petey paused and swallowed twice, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He still held to Libby’s hand, and she suddenly realized the tremble was gone. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t need it anymore.”
Petey squared his shoulders. He seemed to blossom with peace and strength. “I recognize now that my life wasn’t dictated by you. You were only pawns in God’s hands. He allowed you to send me away so I could find people who would love and nurture me. People who would teach me to love God and to serve Him. Who knows what kind of occupation I’d have sought if I’d had two good legs to carry me into the future. Maybe something self-serving instead of God-serving.” His head bobbed in a nod, as if he were coming to an agreement about something. “So thank you, Gunter and Berta, for pushing me out that door. I’ve lived a better life than the one you could have given me.”
Berta’s chin crumpled, and she pressed her fist to her mouth. Tears poured down her thin cheeks. But anger hardened Gunter’s face. He leapt from the chair and jabbed his index finger toward Petey. “You said your piece. We listened. Now you leave. An’ don’t come back here again.”
Petey didn’t move a muscle. “I want one more thing before I go. I want to see my brothers and sister.”
“No!”
“Then I’m not leaving.”
“You’ll leave if I throw you out,” Gunter growled through clenched teeth.
“And I’ll keep coming back. Again and again and again, until you finally let me see them. So if you want to get rid of me, call my brothers and sister out here.”
Libby was torn between admiration for her friend’s tenacity and fear that Gunter Leidig would shove him down the stairs. The two men faced each other, eye to eye, neither blinking. And finally Gunter whirled and flopped into his chair again.
He waved at his wife, who stared at him in silence. “Get them kids out here so he can look at ’em.”
Berta scuttled to the door from where the boys had peeked out earlier. She twisted the knob, and the door’s hinges squeaked eerily as the door opened. “Young’uns? C’mon out here an’ see your big brother Petey.” Pride wavered in the woman’s voice.
Barefooted children dressed in threadbare nightshirts spilled from the little room. They lined up from tallest to shortest. All had Petey’s blond hair and blue eyes, but none possessed his easy grin. Libby’s heart ached just looking into their empty, unsmiling faces.
Berta went down the line, touching each by turn. “This here’s Wendell, Petey. Look at him—a fine, big boy. Smart, too—his teachers all say so.” She moved to the next boy, half a head shorter than Wendell. “An’ this’s Orel. He’s twelve already. Then Elma . . . not very big, but ain’t she a purty girl? She was just a wee babe when you . . .” Berta’s lips quivered, and she pressed them tightly together for a moment until she gained control.
She stepped between the last two, pulling them both close. The littlest one rested his head on her ribs, but the other stood stiff and unresponsive within her embrace. “Then the least’uns are Dennis an’ Lorenzo—but you already met them. They come home with tales o’ how they seen you today, but we didn’t believe ’em.” She glanced at Gunter, and something akin to hostility flashed in her eyes. “Now we know it’s true.”
Petey stood looking at his siblings, appearing to memorize them one by one. Libby wished she could push him forward, encourage him to make friends with each of them, maybe even to give them each a hug, but the promise she’d made kept her still and silent. His gaze not leaving his brothers and sister, he asked, “Where are Marta and Oscar?”
“Marta got married less’n a year ago—lives down by the river with her man. We . . . we don’t see much o’ her anymore. An’ Oscar—” Berta’s face paled. She looked to Gunter for help, but he stared off to the side, his jaw clamped shut. “Oscar’s . . . lost.”
Knowing the truth, Libby had to force herself to stay silent. She bit down on the tip of her tongue and waited for Petey to tell his parents he knew full well where Oscar was and why. But he didn’t.
“You young’uns get on back to bed now.” Berta shooed the children into the bedroom and closed the door behind them. She leaned her back against the door, her pleading eyes aimed at Petey.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you for letting me see my brothers and sister. I’ll go now.” Tugging on Libby’s hand, he stumped to the door and took hold of the doorknob. “When I leave here, I intend to see a lawyer about changing my name. I won’t be a Leidig anymore, so you don’t need to worry about me pestering you again.”
One bright tear trailed down Berta’s pale cheek. Gunter didn’t even look at his son.
“Bye, Pa . . . Ma.”
Berta’s response was a quavering whisper. “G-good-bye, son.”
With one giant step, Petey lurched out the door and yanked it shut behind him. In the hallway, he slumped against the grimy wallpaper and blew out a huge breath. “That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Libby gently touched his arm. “Confronting your parents?”
“Leaving my brothers and sister in there.” He shook his head; his eyes slid closed. “For years, I’ve harbored resentment toward my folks because I blamed them for the loss of my foot. In my mind, they stole it from me by sending me away from their home.” Opening his eyes, he met her gaze dead-on. “But when I look at my brothers and sister, I realize what I lost is insignificant to what’s been taken from them. My pa stole their souls, Libby.” Tears glimmered in his blue eyes, but steely determination stiffened his jaw. “I’m not leaving them here. If I have to fight my pa with my fists, I’ll do it, but I’m not leaving those children in this awful place.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
But what about your classes?” Bennett watched as Pete folded his good suit and placed it carefully in his suitcase.
“I’ll catch up with my studies when I get back from Shay’s Ford.” Pete buckled his suitcase and faced Bennett across the small hotel room.
Bennett shook his head and sat on the edge of his creaky bed. “What makes you think you can take care of five kids on your own?”
“Six.” The word barked out, harsh and insistent. “I haven’t given up on Oscar.” Pete’s shoulders sagged. He looked more tired—and worried—than Bennett had ever seen him. “Marta’s married. I’ll just have to pray her husband is a decent man and she’ll be all right. I can’t do anything for her now. But as for the others . . .”
Remembering the two boys who’d come to their hotel room that day, Bennett understood Pete’s concern. Those kids looked like they could use a helping hand. But Pete didn’t seem to realize his hands were already full.
Bennett flopped against the limp pillow and propped his ankle on his opposite knee. “I admire you for your starch, but how do you expect to go to school and play papa to a bunch of kids? How’re you going to provide for ’em? You don’t have the money to support five—”
Pete glared at him.
“Six kids. You take that on, you’ll have to forget about becoming a preacher. Did you suddenly decide that’s not so important after all?”
Pete flinched.
Bennett hated to throw cold water over his friend’s fire, but somebody had to be the voice of reason. No eighteen-year-old ought to be saddled with the responsibility of surrogate parenthood. He sat up, thumping the rough floorboards with his stocking feet. “Think about it, Pete. You can be either a student or a papa, but not both. Which’ll do the most good for the most people? Take over with those kids and you reach five . . . six lives; but if you become a preacher . . .”
>
Pete chewed on his lip, and Bennett knew he’d hit a nerve. Pete had wanted to become a preacher for so long; how could he give it up now? And what made him think he could raise five kids? Five, not six. That oldest one was a goner no matter what Pete wanted to believe.
“Your family’s been managing without you all these years. Let ’em go, Pete. They’re strangers to you. Strangers. That means they’re nothin’.”
Instead of nodding in agreement, Pete stuck out his chin. Resolve burned in his eyes. “You’re wrong. Those kids—they’re everything, Bennett. They’re my brothers and sister—my flesh and blood. How could I stand in a pulpit and preach about God’s love, knowing I’d left my own brothers and sister in a gutter, hurting and broken? I’d be the biggest kind of hypocrite. No”—he snatched up the suitcase and headed for the door—“I’m hopping the first train to Shay’s Ford. I need Jackson’s help if I’m going to get Oscar’s sentence overturned and gain custody of Wendell, Orel, Elma, Dennis, and Lorenzo.”
Bennett leapt up, grabbing his shoes as he walked toward Pete. “Then let me come with you.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “First Libby, now you. Why does everyone think I’m so helpless they need to come with me?”
Despite the situation, Bennett couldn’t help grinning. “Ol’ Lib wanted to come, too?”
“Insisted on it. Said she was the one who figured out Oscar was my brother and the one who went with me to see my folks and met my brothers and sister, so she should be with me when I talk to Jackson.” He shook his head, then sucked in a big breath and blew it out. “I told her no, and I’m telling you no. This is my fight, and I’ll fight it alone.”
Bennett wasn’t surprised Libby wanted to be in the thick of things. He chuckled as he remembered the way she’d charged into their hotel room like her tail was on fire earlier that evening, spouting that she had to find Petey and quick. Libby got herself in a dither on a regular basis, but he’d never seen so her so wound up.
Pete reached for the door handle, his expression softening. “Don’t think I’m not grateful, Bennett. You and Libby are true friends, standing by me when things are tough. I’ll always appreciate your willingness to help me.”
Kim Sawyer Page 21
