by Terri Kraus
“He’s young. Well, younger than an old pastor. You know … all pastors used to be old and gray. At least they were all older than me. Pastor Blake is just a little older than me, but not by a lot. Easy to talk to. Smart.”
Jack drained his coffee.
“More?”
He answered without hesitation. “Please.”
She poured, and as she poured, she looked at Jack. She had seen him a hundred times before and found him very attractive, but seldom had she paused to really look at him, as she did now—his intense eyes, his cheekbones, his chin, his nose, the way he held his head. His sensitive eyes. Sensitive lips.
She looked at his hands. They were rough and calloused, but she saw sensitivity there as well.
A witch’s breeze of red flags snapped and rippled in the air of the kitchen, and Leslie ignored them all. She saw them, she knew why they were there, and she chose to completely disregard them.
“You should talk to him. The pastor. About Earl. He would have advice. Good advice. Nothing pie-in-the-sky, just solid stuff. I’m sure he’s had experience with that sort of thing.”
Jack didn’t add cream or sugar to this cup.
“The thing of it is,” Jack said, as if relating an often-told story, “is that Earl had been sober for a long time. And now he’s dying. Alone. And he said he didn’t think giving it up was worth it. He would have died alone back then—when he was still drinking. And now, he’s dying alone, sober and alone after all those years. He asked me what the difference would be in his life—with alcohol and without it. And I didn’t have a good answer for him.”
Leslie waited. She resisted the urge to talk, to offer a simple reply, an easy path to grace and forgiveness with hasty assurances that everything was going to be all right. Sometimes life wasn’t all right. Leslie was beginning to understand just how difficult life could be. She thought about her great-great-great grandmother’s diary. Life could be very difficult, indeed. It took work and courage and risks, but the payoff was worth it. It made your life full and satisfying, or at least, with God’s help, allowed the chance for it to be full and satisfying.
Too many people offered quick solutions to me—and I hated them for doing that.
“Have you always been a carpenter?” Leslie asked, not sure why that question came now.
Jack looked surprised. “Why?”
Leslie leaned toward him. “I don’t know. You don’t sound like a carpenter.”
“What’s a carpenter supposed to sound like?”
She put up her hands partway, as if in surrender. “I’m not sure. But they don’t sound like you. You sound … like more than a carpenter, that’s all.”
Jack slipped down in his chair just a bit. He appeared deflated, resigned, like he’d wanted to stop battling for a long time and this was a perfect time to stop, to lower his guard, to end the resisting, and simply be honest.
“No. My father was a carpenter. A great builder. He built beautiful houses. I learned from him. You know, growing up, in high school, working summers during college.”
“What did you study?”
“Law. I’m an attorney. Was. Corporate law. I was a corporate attorney.”
Leslie could see him in a three-piece suit, starched shirt, with a different haircut, polished shoes, carrying a briefcase, attending trials. She could see him doing that. It fit him perfectly.
“I was almost disbarred. Put on extended probation. It was a long time ago. It seems like it was a long time ago.”
She had not asked for more details. He looked up, as if to see if there was any shock or revulsion or pity in her eyes.
She tried to keep herself blank, open, just listening, not judgmental.
“I was drinking. Partying. I lost it all. The job. The big house. The expensive cars. The luxury vacations. My wife. My daughter … It seems like a lifetime ago. It seems like … a different person was in my life then.”
Leslie wanted to slide her chair closer and ask him to share more. She wanted to touch his hand and tell him that she wanted to hear everything, and that whatever he said, she would not be taken aback or scandalized. It wouldn’t change her feelings for him. After all, she had problems too. She knew what it was like—to lose just about everything.
She wanted to say all that, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even move her chair. So she just let the words stay out there, in the air, by themselves, without her response, and she let his statements just … be, for a moment.
Maybe then, after the silence, she would slide her chair closer and take his hand. She would let her emotions out.
And she would have—would have moved closer, would have taken his hand—except his cell phone, clipped to his belt, silent for all this time, picked that specific moment to chatter alive, crying out for his attention.
At that moment, Leslie decided that she hated all forms of new technology.
“Well, Mr. Kenyon,” Alice said, her voice chipper and vibrant, “are you sitting down? You don’t have to be sitting down, but if someone gave me this news, and I knew what the news was, I would want to be sitting. But I guess if I knew the news, then it wouldn’t be news and I wouldn’t have to be sitting after all.”
Alice often talked this way. Jack was becoming used to it, like getting used to a person who spoke with a thick French accent.
“Mrs. Adams, I am sitting. Feel free to share whatever news you have. It sounds like good news, from your tone.”
Jack could almost hear her twirling about whatever room she was in, filling that space with flowing dresses or scarves or boas. Alice was known to wear boas at times.
“Well, the news, Mr. Kenyon, is that the most popular television show on cable—at least the most popular cable show in western Pennsylvania—Three Rivers Restorations—has selected our humble project to be featured in an upcoming show.”
She let the news sink in. “Isn’t that the most delicious news you have heard recently? Cameron Dane Willis just got off the phone with me and she was so excited by our project. She is absolutely smitten with what we plan on doing. She and her entire crew will be down at Alice and Frank’s next weekend. Isn’t that so wonderfully … wonderful? She wants to spend time documenting what the place looks like now. The ‘before,’ you know? Show the viewers how an ugly duckling will be transformed into an elegant swan. I am simply beside myself with anticipation.”
It sounded to Jack like he was listening to the first stages of Alice hyperventilating.
“Maybe you should sit down, Mrs. Adams,” Jack said, pretty much in all seriousness.
“Don’t be a silly,” she replied. “Now the question is, can you be at the store next Saturday? That’s when they would like to do the filming. It won’t take more than a few hours of your time, she said. Of course, this will be on the clock for you … even though it will be a tremendous boost for your construction firm. Lots of publicity. People will hear your name and tell themselves that if Alice and Frank are using you, then you must be good.”
“No, Mrs. Adams, no payment required,” Jack said firmly. “Cameron is an old friend. It would be like me asking to get paid for a social call. I would be honored to be there with you and help out any way I could.”
“Well, that’s so nice of you. And Cameron did say that the two of you knew each other in Franklin. How perfectly serendipitous all of this is, don’t you agree?”
Jack became more aware that Leslie was hearing only one side of this curious conversation. It was apparent that she was trying to avoid looking like she was eavesdropping but couldn’t be totally unaware that something was going on.
“Mrs. Adams, rest assured that I’ll be there on Saturday, although I don’t think Ms. Dane … Mrs. Willis, that is … really thinks I will be the star of the show. You’re going to be the star.” Jack could almost see Alice Adams waving off her wel
l-deserved compliment. Then he added, “Have you cleared this with the owner of the building? Don’t you think that she’ll need to know what’s happening? I mean, would you like to wake up with a truckload of cameras and lights on your doorstep?”
There was a painful silence on the other end. “Why … why, Mr. Kenyon, I never considered I might need to … or even think I would … but you’re absolutely right. I will have to talk to her. She’s a reasonable woman, isn’t she? She would have no reason to refuse this … don’t you think?”
Jack could note the tint of panic in Alice’s voice.
“We’ve rented the space. We have a lease. But could she refuse this?”
Jack let her go on long enough, then stepped in. “I’m sure she’ll be fine with this,” he said, fairly certain Leslie would welcome the chance to make her property a little famous. “Would you like to talk to her, right now?”
“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Kenyon?”
“I’m sitting with Mrs. Ruskin at the moment, having a cup of coffee. Would you like me to hand her the phone?”
Jack could hear Alice start to smile—a wry smile, he imagined.
“Why, Mr. Kenyon, you are simply filled with surprises, are you not? A man filled with surprises.”
And with that, Jack handed the phone to Leslie.
Amelia Westland
Lyndora, Butler County, Penna.
August 13, 1884
All life is complicated. My life is perhaps more complicated than most.
Two days prior to this posting, I received two callers on a Saturday morning. I was occupied with the cleaning and tidying of the classroom, when Dr. Barry tapped at the window, grinning, and holding a bouquet of fine flowers. Despite my rather disheveled appearance, how delightful it was to see him. We chatted for just a moment, when I observed a second gentleman there in the Dr.’s buggy.
Dr. Barry introduced me to a Mr. Samuel Middelstadt. Mr. Middelstadt is a recent widower—within the last twelve months—and has two small daughters that need care. Mr. Middelstadt is a businessman, though I am not sure what sort of business he might be in. But he is a well-bred man, prepossessing in appearance, whose clothing was most smart and clean, and his shoes were of a high polish. He became most amiable, and we repaired to the teacherage for a slight refreshment.
Before leaving, Mr. Middelstadt stated that he would have sent to me in a few days a correspondence, indicating when perhaps he might escort me to dinner at the Willard Hotel, which is quite possibly the most elegant establishment in all of Butler County. I am told dinners there cost as much as three dollars per person.
After pondering this, I can only assume that the good doctor wished Mr. Middelstadt to meet me in hopes of promoting our affiliation.
My head spins. Mr. Middelstadt is a most agreeable man. Would I ever have imagined that such a predicament could happen to me? And whatever does one consider proper attire for an evening at the Willard Hotel?
Shew me thy ways, O LORD; teach me thy paths. Lead me in thy truth, and teach me: for thou art the God of my salvation;
on thee do I wait all the day.
—Psalm 25:4–5
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MRS. DIGIULIO STOOD ON THE playground, clutching her thick sweater around her throat, and waved to Leslie, like she called to her students, a wide swooping arm movement, like a mama duck using her wing to cluster her recent hatchlings to her side.
Leslie hurried over to the teacher.
“Just a moment of your time, Mrs. Ruskin,” she said as she shepherded her inside. “I don’t know why this chill doesn’t seem to affect my students. If I didn’t insist, they would all go out to recess without coats on. I don’t see how they do it.”
Leslie bustled in, her own coat zipped tight to her throat.
As if forgetting something, Mrs. DiGiulio pushed the door open, again used her whistle, and called loudly to Ava, telling her that her mother was inside with her.
“Don’t want to make any child upset.”
A sprinkling of fall leaves were hung from the ceiling, twirling on thin strings, hanging down from the metal grid work that held the acoustical tiles in place. A student’s name was written on each leaf, in bold, dark letters—some handwriting clean and clear, other names scrawled and nearly illegible.
Leslie looked for her daughter’s leaf. Ava’s handwriting, for a girl, was terrible. Girls were supposed to be neat and precise, developing hand-eye skills early. Yet Ava was anything but that. She tended to be wildly dramatic with letters, or tight and miserly.
“I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with Ava’s writing technique,” Leslie said anxiously. “I keep on her about being neat, but none of it makes any difference to her.”
Mrs. DiGiulio, letting go of the collar of her sweater now that she was inside, dismissed Leslie’s fears with a little wave. “Kindergarten students can be neat. And they can be sloppy. Has nothing to do with intelligence or ability or common sense. Ava is a smart little girl. Don’t worry about it.”
Mrs. DiGiulio took Leslie’s right hand in her own. “That’s not why I asked you in. I wanted to know how you’re doing. Ava seems to be more … more secure right now. I don’t know what makes me say that specifically, but it’s the feeling I get. And that makes me want to ask: How have you been, Mrs. Ruskin? Did you talk to Pastor Blake?”
Leslie nodded enthusiastically. “I have. I am, I should say. He’s such a nice man. And … well, he’s helped me a great deal. We talk. He listens to me. He suggested a few books. He has given me some techniques to use. He prays for me. There is a group of women in the church that meets for prayer, and I’m always on their list.”
Mrs. DiGiulio could hear the waver in Leslie’s voice. She squeezed her hand, a squeeze of reassurance.
“It’s all little things, Mrs. DiGiulio. This is the first time I’ve talked about it with anyone. Maybe that helped too.”
Mrs. DiGiulio leaned very close to Leslie. “Prayer, my child, is not a little thing. I know you know that. It’s a quiet thing. It’s not a pill or a treatment, or some sort of expensive therapy. But I am telling you—prayer is the biggest and most powerful thing you can do. I know how effective it is.”
Leslie was that close to tears—not anxious tears, or fearful tears, but tears of gratitude. “I haven’t had an attack for weeks. I can still feel them threaten. I can still tell that they are close. But … maybe it is the prayers. I haven’t had one come to the surface. Even when my ex-husband came down last week to take Ava for the day. In the past, that sort of situation would induce an immediate attack. But not this time. I keep reading my great-great-great-grandmother’s diary and I see the struggles that she went through. They didn’t call them panic attacks back then, in the late 1800s, but she suffered from severe anxiety attacks. There was loss and separation in her life too. And, well, in the past, reading her words depressed me—seeing how hard life was for her. But now, I see all her little victories. She used Bible verses and prayer. And I think her example has helped me figure out a lot of things. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”
Mrs. DiGiulio put her arm around Leslie’s shoulder, just like Ava said the teacher did all the time in class with her students. “You know, Mrs. Ruskin, God provides us the grace and the knowledge to deal with things just when we need them the most. Maybe He sees that you needed that clarity now, and that’s what He has given you.”
“Maybe you’re right. I do feel clearer about a lot of things. Not everything. But many things.”
Mrs. DiGiulio began walking her back to the door. “We’ll never have it all figured out, Mrs. Ruskin. That much we can be assured of. Life is a journey, and we just keep walking, by faith, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. And trust God to guide our steps.”
Just like Gramma Mellie said …
�
��Now get back out to Ava before she thinks I’ve kidnapped you.”
“So—how do I look?”
Trevor peered at his father. Then he squinted and craned his head forward, then sideways, all without moving his feet. He twisted his mouth into a weird upside-down grimace. “I dunno. How are you supposed to look?”
Mike Reidmiller smiled, knowing his son was all but oblivious to apparel, regardless of the style. Mike had put on his best shirt—the one he bought at a factory outlet store in Hershey when he and Trevor went to Hersheypark last summer. The shirt was advertised at the original cost of $130. That was an extraordinary amount that Mike would never, ever spend on a shirt, but since it was only $40 at the outlet store, he thought it a fine, practical purchase. He liked the little contrasting horse embroidered on the shirt, where a pocket should be, and hoped that it wouldn’t look like he was showing off.
“I don’t know. Dressed up a little. I don’t wear this shirt very often.”
Trevor shrugged and would have said “Whatever” had his father not scolded him often for always saying the word.
Mike’s khaki pants claimed never to need ironing—but they still did.
“Your aunt will be here in a few minutes. You’ll be okay with Aunt Denise?”
Trevor looked at his dad with an odd stare. “Why? What’s she going to do with me?”
Mike sighed. Trevor had an oddly tilted view of reality, he thought. “Nothing. She’ll cook dinner. I’ll be home soon. So … I just couldn’t leave you by yourself, could I?”
Trevor shook his head. “Where you going?”
Mike hated to lie to his son, but if he had said he was going to drop by Mrs. Ruskin’s place, unannounced, Trevor would have pleaded to take him along.
