At Every Turn (3 page)

Grandmother felt her way to the far edge of the bed. I sat beside her, feather pillows propping us upright, her head not quite reaching my shoulder.

“As I said, Mr. McConnell explained to us about his and his wife’s work in western Africa. Such splendid work. Then he passed around photographs of the people there, and my heart cracked like an old mirror. I knew I had to help.”

Grandmother sucked in a sharp breath. “Tell me you aren’t going to Africa, child.”

My heart leapt. Would the Lord see fit to bring me a missionary man some day? We might sail far across the ocean, to lands I knew only as a spot on the globe. Closing my eyes, I could almost feel the hot breeze of Africa, smell the loamy jungle.

I rested my cheek against the top of Grandmother’s head. “I wish God did have some exciting work for me to do. But no, I’m not going to Africa. Though it does sound . . .”

A lump in my throat halted the words. Tears stung my eyes as I felt her nod. We sat in silence, as we so often had, neither of us needing to speak. Grandmother read my heart like no one else. She’d understand what I’d done. I drew in as deep a breath as my clothing would allow. “Pastor Swan asked if our congregation would give to the McConnells’ African mission.”

Mr. Trotter’s face appeared in my mind, suddenly leaving me wary and desperate for air. Grandmother’s tiny hand lay near mine. I laced my fingers through hers. “I told them I’d give three thousand dollars.”

Grandmother bolted upright, head knocking my chin, hands groping until they held my cheeks between them. “Three thousand dollars?”

I nodded.

“Ally, honey. Where are you going to get that kind of money?”

I pulled away. “I’m going to ask Father, of course.”

“
Your
father?” Her hands released my face and kneaded into each other.

I tilted my head, fingers raking through the curls that bobbed above my shoulders. Grandmother had great faith. Always. For everything. Most of all, she had faith that her son and daughter-in-law would do the impossible—see their need of Christ before their days on earth ended. So why did she not have the faith that Father would give me the money?

I hiked up my skirt and folded my legs beneath me. “The Lord will soften Father’s heart. I know He will. After all, this is for His work.”

Her face didn’t change. Her hands didn’t stop. “I don’t know, Alyce. I’m not sure—” Her voice faded as I climbed from the bed. Touching the photograph now lying atop my Bible, I sighed. “I might as well tell you the rest.”

“There’s more?” Her voice trilled higher, like the treble keys on the piano in the drawing room downstairs.

“I asked the church members to match my contribution.”

Grandmother fell back into the pillows behind her, her unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling. “Three thousand dollars? Most of those people can barely provide for their own families, Ally.”

A smidgen of doubt wiggled in my belly. “Some will be able to do more than others. And I know the Women’s Mission Auxiliary will take this on as their special project. God will provide. I know He will.”

But even I recognized the lack of conviction in my voice. Three thousand dollars. Most of the families couldn’t afford the three hundred dollars that would buy them a Model T. What had I been thinking?

Trembling hands pressed against my souring stomach. I’d done what the Lord had desired me to do. I knew I had.

Or at least I believed I had.

Until now.

 3 

A
lly!” Father’s voice boomed up the stairs the next morning as I pulled on my shoes, silencing the chirping birds outside my windows. But in spite of the volume, his tone conveyed affection, not a flash of temper.

Good thing, too. For I’d opened my eyes at dawn and reached for the photograph of the African children. Sitting up in bed, I’d pulled my knees nearer to my chest as their young eyes pierced my very soul.

“Draw them to Yourself, O Lord. Bring light into their darkness. The fields are white unto harvest and Your workers are willing.” A tide of emotion shut my lips. I knew John and Ava McConnell would strive to meet these children’s physical and spiritual needs. But they needed money to aid their endeavors. And I could provide that. Had Father ever denied me anything I’d asked?

But the timing hadn’t seemed right yesterday, during our customary Sunday drive. So I rehearsed my speech as I dressed. I hurried downstairs, met Father in the foyer. His hand tapped the banister. The minute he saw me, a grin covered his entire face.

I kissed his cheek. “Good morning, Father. Ready for Clarissa’s good breakfast?”

His sniff of the air in the dining room as we entered told me all I needed to know.

“Where’s Mother?”

“I imagine she’ll be down soon.” He took his place at the head of the table while I filled a plate for him from the sideboard before filling my own.

He tucked a napkin beneath his chin and then sawed off a piece of steak, stabbed it with his fork, and raised it to his mouth. His eyes closed as he chewed and then swallowed.

“Clarissa!” His voice echoed through the room, shaking the crystal droplets on the wedding-cake chandelier above the table. Clarissa charged in from the butler’s pantry, her freckled face blazing as red as her hair.

“Somethin’ the matter, Mr. Benson?” Her slight Irish lilt made her words seem polite, though I recognized her irritation.

“A fine breakfast.” He chuckled, his ample stomach shaking.

She pursed her lips, bobbed a curtsy, and returned to the kitchen.

Nothing more than their usual morning interaction. As a child I’d cried when he shouted her name. But over the years I noticed that in spite of the abruptness of his tone, not once did he criticize her cooking. In fact, several times he’d upped her pay on the spot.

I slipped into the chair on Father’s right. My mouth watered at the sight of the fluffy scrambled eggs and strips of crisp fried bacon on my plate. I bit into a biscuit and let my napkin catch the butter dripping down my chin.

“Alyce, did you learn nothing at that school?” Mother seemed to float into the chair at the opposite end of the table from Father with a grace I could never manage for myself. She sighed as I reached for the coffeepot and filled her cup. “And what in heaven’s name are you wearing?”

I shrugged. “I picked it up in Chicago.”

“Really, Alyce. Where on earth did you find a frock so drab?”

“It’s quite the fashion, Mother.” I smoothed my skirt over my legs. White crepe with sprigs of pink flowers, a pink sash at the waist, and pink shell buttons up the bibbed front. I liked this dress, liked how I felt . . . normal in it. At least as normal as the daughter of the wealthiest man in town could feel.

Mother’s manicured eyebrows seemed to rise as high as the ornate ceiling above our heads. “Fashionable with your church people, I suppose. I can’t imagine your classmates succumbing to such an ordinary costume.” She rested her elbows on the table, her chin alighting on her clasped hands. The Venetian lace at her wrists fluttered like butterfly wings before settling on the sleeves of her silk dress.

I fought the downward tug on my lips. What she’d paid for her dress might feed a Gold Coast village for a month. A dress she didn’t even deem worthy of a public wearing. And yet she constantly devoted her time to the charitable efforts of her ladies’ club, so I had to believe she cared about someone besides herself. She’d had nothing when she became Father’s wife. Couldn’t I excuse a bit of self-indulgence?

“Leave her be, Winifred.” Father spoke from behind Saturday’s edition of the
Indianapolis Star.
He reached for his coffee, took a long draught, and returned the cup to its place on the table. “We don’t want to run her off after we’ve just got her home again.”

Mother opened her mouth to reply.

“Anything interesting in the paper?” I jumped into the silence as I watched Mother from the corner of my eye. Then I popped a bite of scrambled eggs into my mouth.

“War in Europe. Presidential election. The usual.” He turned another page. “Oh—here’s something you’ll like. They held an automobile race in Tacoma, Washington, on Saturday.”

I ceased to notice the food I forked into my mouth. Instead, images of speeding motorcars and swirling smoke filled my head and quickened my pulse. “Who drove?”

“Rickenbacker. De Palma. A few others.”

“Board track or dirt?” I gulped down half of my tepid coffee in excitement.

“Board. Cracks filled with gravel instead of left open.”

“Wonder if that was to Rick’s disadvantage.”

Father snorted and turned another page. “Doubt it. Eddie Rickenbacker’s a natural. Guess the results will be in the paper today.”

Thanks to the interurban, the
Indianapolis Star
arrived in Langston just a few short hours after the ink dried.

“Alyce.” Mother sighed my name.

My stomach tumbled, regretting its desire for food. Why did her disapproval affect me so?

She turned her irritation on Father. “Really, Harry. Do you think it proper for a girl of her age and station to converse about such things? It’s bad enough that you allow her to drive. And then keep us in this backwater town with no eligible men to court her. Must you fill her head with auto racing, as well?”

I couldn’t quell my grin. I felt sure merriment twinkled in my eyes, too. So I kept my gaze pinned on Father.

He chuckled. “Say what you will, Winifred, but if her attention to racing keeps your Chicago dandies away from her, all the better.”

My silent mirth gave way to heated cheeks. I pressed my linen napkin to my mouth. Oh, to escape the conversation that replayed like a phonograph record in my head. It had started the day of my thirteenth birthday, Mother insisting I learn feminine accomplishments and leave off diving from haylofts and climbing trees—and driving my own motorcar and talking about auto races. Those things, she insisted, invited scandal, not suitors. Without Father’s indulgence all these years, I imagine I would have suffocated long ago.

Father folded the newspaper and set it aside. “I don’t intend to give my girl to just any young swell that comes along. And I won’t let you foist on her a man who’s only interested in her inheritance.”

Money. Africa. I folded my napkin and stared into my lap, preparing to make my request. Father had championed me once this morning—would he do so again? I shot a quick prayer heavenward before addressing him.

“Yes, my girl?” He hummed a bit of a tune as he finished his breakfast.

I took a deep breath. “I need some money.”

“Money?” He reached inside his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed a bill on the table. “Will that do you for a few pretties?”

President Grover Cleveland’s face stared up at me,
Twenty Dollars
inscribed beneath his name. “Actually, I need a bit more than that.”

He chuckled and wagged his index finger at me. “I knew you’d catch on to your mother’s schemes one of these days.”

Mother rolled her eyes and excused herself from the room as he picked up the money, slipped it back into his wallet, and returned the wallet to his pocket. “Just charge what you need. I’ll cover the bill.”

I jumped from my seat, my hand restraining Mother’s exit. “Wait, Mother. You should hear this, too.”

She stopped, returned to her chair, and pushed her half-empty plate toward the center of the table.

I clasped my hands behind me. “It isn’t clothes, Father. Or anything like that.”

His left eyebrow rose, giving his face a lopsided look. “Not tired of the Packard already, are you?”

I shook my head.

His eyebrows sank into a deep V. “Smashed it up, did you?”

“Alyce!” Mother bolted upright.

Father shook his head. “I always knew you would one day. Can’t drive as fast as you like to without losing control at some point.”

“My Packard is fine. It’s just that I need . . .” My throat constricted around the largeness of the number. “I need three thousand dollars.”

Mother gasped.

“Three thousand dollars?” Father pulled the square of linen from its place in his collar. “What in heaven’s name for?”

“Wait here. I’ll show you.” Before either could protest, I dashed up the stairs, grabbed the picture from my Bible, and scurried back to the dining room.

I slapped it to the table. “There.”

Both of my parents moved closer, peered down into the faces that lived vivid in my memory.

“Why, they’re children.” Concern etched itself around Mother’s painted lips.

“What does this mean, Ally?” Father’s grumble stirred the breakfast in my stomach once again.

“A man and his wife who work in Africa came to our church yesterday. They live among the people in a place called the Gold Coast. In Africa. People with little to wear, little to eat.” I held my tongue before mentioning their need for Jesus. “I want to give three thousand dollars to help advance their work.”

Silence.

Mother dropped back into her chair. Father paced in front of the tall windows.

“That charlatan Swan put you up to this.” Tight words, portending a storm of great force.

I flinched but didn’t retreat. “No, sir. This was my idea.”

He stopped pacing and faced me. “Well, it was a blame-fool one. I hear what you’re not saying, Ally. They’re over there touting religion to those unsuspecting people. I won’t be a party to it.” He stalked toward the door.

I hurried after him. “But, Father, everyone’s expecting it.”

He froze, then turned. “What do you mean everyone’s expecting it? Who thinks you have that kind of money?”

“Everyone at church.” I moistened my lips. “I told them I’d give three thousand dollars to help fund the work.”

“You did what?” His face turned the color of a ripe strawberry as his voice rose, the full fury of the storm lashing out. “Let me tell you, missy, not one cent of my hard-earned money is going toward this foolishness. Do you hear? If you’re so all-fired determined to participate in this scheme, you’ll have to scavenge for that money yourself. And don’t even think about wheedling it from your mother!”

My mouth dropped open as he charged out of the room. Not since the day when Grandmother told him of my walk down the aisle at church had I seen him so angry.

The front door slammed shut, tinkling the chandelier overhead. I sank back into my chair and groaned as Mother swished from the room after throwing me a disapproving look, but whether she resented my request or my making Father angry, I couldn’t tell.

The silence made my thoughts loud. Where in the world would I find three thousand dollars? And how would I ever face my church again if I didn’t?

The swinging door creaked open.

“You can come in now, Clarissa.” I slumped a bit toward the table, my chin resting in my upturned hands like Mother’s had not long ago.

Clarissa bustled into the room, shaking her head and
tsk
ing under her breath. “You barely ate a thing.” She whisked my plate from the table and set it atop my father’s empty one.

“I’ll work up an appetite for lunch. I promise. Maybe Grandmother will even feel up to coming to the table with me.”

Silverware clinked against china. “Don’t you worry, Miss Alyce. The Lord will provide, especially once your grandmother gets wind to pray.” A broad grin lit Clarissa’s freckled face as she pushed her backside against the door into the pantry, hands piled high with dirty dishes.

Grandmother’s prayers. Normally a comforting thought. But even Grandmother didn’t have the faith to believe the Lord would change my father’s heart this time.