At Every Turn (4 page)

 4 

M
y shoes clicked across the stone path leading through the back garden and around the small gazebo in its center. The varied blooms didn’t catch my eye, though their scents trailed after me. Questions zipped through my head like cars racing around a track, demanding my attention. But I couldn’t think. Not here. I needed the wind knotting my curls, fields and trees whizzing past in a blur. Then my mind could relax. Then I’d hear the voice of the Lord explaining where I’d gone wrong.

The trunks of waving green-leafed tulip poplar trees stood guard around the end of the red carriage house—Father’s long-ago concession to Mother’s insistence that the building’s presence, however necessary, ruined the ambiance of her garden. Leaving the path, I traipsed across the grass, dew wetting the ankles of my stockings.

One of the large double doors angled open. I slipped into the dim interior, shivering in air still tinged with cool from the darkness of night. In my girlhood, the pungent smell of horseflesh hovered over this place. Now the perfume of gasoline and oil filled my nose. Instead of a pony, my Packard Runabout sat in the shadows. A kitten of a car. This morning I needed a tiger.

“Webster?” My eyes searched the shadows. An empty spot told me Father had left for work. And there, huddled next to the far wall, sat an unpainted auto body covering a powerful engine. I drew in a deep breath. Father’s racing car. He’d hired Webster to build it and to maintain our other autos, as well as to repair broken machinery at the plant.

I ran my hand over one of the leather straps holding the engine’s cover secure, stroking it like the back of a well-loved cat.

“A beauty, ain’t she?” Webster Little wiped the grease from his fingers before shoving the dirty rag into the back pocket of his overalls. He pushed up the flat brim of his cloth driving cap. A lock of dark hair escaped, sweeping across his broad forehead, above his dusky eyes. His wide mouth split into a grin, coaxing one from me, as well.

I wondered how many hearts that grin had broken. Not intentionally, of course. Webster didn’t seem to be that type. But for a man I suspected to be near my age and unmarried, it wasn’t hard to fathom.

My fingers curled around the steering wheel and then slid onto the crude seat. “You got the body on her.”

“I did. Once we hit a hundred miles an hour up that hill, I knew it was time.”

I frowned. “I wish you’d have let me drive it that day.”

“With just the engine on a frame and a crate wired to it for a seat? I don’t think so. Your father would have killed me with his bare hands if he’d found out.”

I ran a hand around the circle that would steer the powerful car. When I looked up, he stared down at me, his visage open and honest. Would he be willing to risk Father’s ire now? “I could drive her today.”

Webster’s head swayed like a disapproving schoolteacher’s. “Ally, I told you. Your father’s not—”

“I need to drive her. Please?” I clasped my hands in front of my chest, knuckles whitening. “Father needn’t know.”

One of his eyebrows rose. “Because no one will notice a half-built racing car tearing up the roads. Or a woman behind its wheel.”

“Not if we take her out to the track.” I plucked an old duster from a nail on the wall, thankful I’d traded my Sunday corset for a newfangled brassiere. I buttoned the duster over my simple dress before settling a pair of goggles on top of my head. “You coming or not?”

“Ally, you can’t—” His nostrils flared, but his eyes twinkled. He grabbed another pair of goggles. “I’m certainly not letting you take it out alone.” He jogged to the doors, pushed them open wide, and met me behind the car. We rolled her into the open before he cranked the engine to life. The roar reverberated through my head. And with every rumble, my excitement climbed.

Webster shut the doors of the carriage-house-turned-garage and hopped in beside me. I eased the auto into gear and puttered down the brick drive. We moved slowly at first, past the house and onto the hard dirt road out front. I turned left, away from town.

“Hold on.” I eased off the clutch and let the gas out a bit.

“Don’t let ’er go till we hit the track,” Webster called out over the engine’s noise.

I nodded, both hands on the wheel.

“So what happened?” Webster laced his hands behind his head and slouched lazily in the seat beside me.

I raised my voice above the din. “I asked Father for some money.”

“Money for what?” he shouted over the motor and the wind.

A small gap appeared in the tall grass of a fallow field. My foot jammed down on the brake pedal as I jerked left, into the wheel ruts. The uneven path threatened to jolt me from the car. I gripped the wheel more tightly, focused all my effort on maintaining control of the car as the path carried us toward the back of Father’s property.

A clump of trees to my left drew nearer. Waving grass obscured the half-mile dirt oval from any but those who knew of it. Father. Me. And Webster.

No errant stones or holes marred the surface of the track. Webster must have been here recently. I motored onto the more level surface. Spark plugs firing fast, gas flowing without restraint, we surged forward.

The first turn came quickly. I eased off my speed and held us steady, eyes locked on the straightaway. Then we gained speed again.

Three laps around the oval. I shifted gears once more. We flew forward, the speedometer inching up toward fifty miles per hour as Webster squeezed the bulb of the pump beside him to send more oil to the engine.

The sun rose higher, transforming the moist coolness of morning into sultry summer air that slammed against my cheeks and tangled curls about my face.

“Sixty-seven,” I yelled, glancing at Webster and pointing to the speedometer. A grin stretched across his face, shoving his round cheeks closer to his goggled eyes. I hunched over the steering wheel, head low, eyes on the path slipping beneath my tires.

“Watch the curve.” Webster’s voice sounded far away. I eased back just a bit on the gas and pressed the brake as I rounded the far end of the track.

Then, with another straight stretch before me, we shot forward, even faster than before. I peeked down. The needle quivered at seventy-two. My breath caught in my throat as a thrill shivered down my spine. Could I go faster? Heart pounding, I rested my thumb on the lever in the center of the steering wheel.

Webster’s hand appeared on top of mine. He wanted me to slow down. Rounding the track once more, I moderated the spark plugs, the gas, employed the brake, until finally, after another lap, we ambled off across the field and arrived at the real road once more. I turned the car opposite of home and tooled along at a respectable twenty miles per hour.

I looked at Webster. He raised his eyebrows in question as he slung his arm across the back of the seat. “What’d it register?”

“Over seventy. I had to look quick.”

He whistled. “Felt like it. Turn here.” He pointed to a small trail on the right.

I eased the auto onto another bumpy road. Little more than wagon tracks, really. The trees thinned, opening into a small clearing on the bank of a brook. I killed the engine, tore off my goggles, and unbuttoned my duster as the roar in my ears gave way to the soothing sound of water gurgling over rocks. As soon as my limbs quit trembling, I intended to make good use of the liquid on my dirty face and parched throat.

As if reading my mind, Webster climbed from the car and knelt at the edge of the stream. With a cupped hand, he drank from the clear water before splashing it over his face and hair and neck and shaking himself dry like a common mongrel. He slapped his cap against one leg. Dust flew up in a cloud before he settled himself at the base of a tree and leaned against the wide trunk. “You never did answer my question, you know.”

“Your question?” My muscles tensed. I stood at the edge of the creek and removed my duster. Relief flowed over me as a breeze cooled my skin and rustled the leaves that shaded me from the sun. I drank the clean air into my lungs and then leaned down to scoop cold water into my mouth.

“About the money.” A handkerchief dangled in front of my face.

I reached for it, but it fluttered away. Then it appeared again—along with Webster’s laugh. My fingers caught the edge, gave it a playful tug. He yanked back, but I held firm, both of us grinning. I rocked back on my heels, ready to push to my feet. His smile disappeared. He let go of the handkerchief and returned to his place on the ground.

Confusion twisted my face as I soaked the cloth and swiped it over my grimy skin. Had I done something wrong? I rinsed the cloth and wiped my face a second time, less to make myself presentable than to give me time to think, to compose myself, before facing my friend again.

A fish wiggled by, hurrying downstream, making me think of God and His creations. Above all that He had fashioned, He loved mankind most. White and black. American and African. I wrung water from the handkerchief, concentrated on the droplets returning to their source. Would Webster censure my impetuous donation as Mr. Trotter, Grandmother, and Father had?

I folded the saturated fabric and stood, staring down at the rushing current. “The money’s for a missionary.”

“A missionary? How much did he get you for?”

I whipped around, fury pursing my lips and filling my chest. “He didn’t ‘get me’ for anything. I offered it.”

Silent laughter danced behind his eyes. He seemed to be enjoying my discomfort. Thoroughly.

My frustration melted. Dropping down on a patch of grass near him, I pulled at a blade that stood higher than the rest. “You should have seen the pictures, Webster. Men and women and children—especially the children—looking at the camera with such sad eyes. You could see their need so clearly. Need for food, for clothing. But mostly their need of Jesus.” I bit my lip and looked up at him, wondering if my shattered heart showed plainly in my eyes.

His gaze held mine for only a moment. Then he looked away, cleared his throat, scratched the hard ground with a stick. “So how much?”

My hands fidgeted in my lap. His head rose and tipped to the left.

“Three thousand dollars.” I leapt up and headed for the automobile. Webster had probably never held together more than a few hundred dollars in his life. Maybe not that much. If he had, wouldn’t he have an automobile of his own by now?

He snorted. I glared in his direction.

“And your father wouldn’t give it to you?”

I shook my head.

“So that’s why you needed to drive.”

A long breath streamed out through my mouth as my chest grew tight. I nodded. He knew me well.

“Just tell them you made a mistake. The money wasn’t yours to give.”

“I can’t.” I shrugged into the filthy duster and scampered back into the driver’s seat.

“Why not?” He pushed up from the ground, swiping the dirt from his behind before positioning himself near the crank at the front of the car.

I studied the large driving gloves as I pulled them over my small fingers. “Because I told everyone I’d make the donation.”

“Everyone, as in—?”

My fingers curved around the steering wheel. “The whole church.” My voice fell to a whisper. “And I asked them to match my donation.”

He whistled long and low. “That’s some kind of predicament. Did you really think your father would give you that kind of money—for a missionary?”

“I hoped so. But obviously I was wrong.” I yanked the goggles in front of my eyes before he cranked the engine. But my vision fogged. I lifted them again, wiped the moisture from the lenses, and breathed another prayer.

Webster plopped into the seat beside me. His face had lost its laughter.

“Oh, Webster. What am I going to do?”

He pressed his full lips together, the edges of his mouth fighting a rare downward turn. “Either tell them you don’t have the money or find a way to get it.”

I groaned. “That’s what Father said, too.” I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. “I can’t get those kids out of my head. I see their little faces, and I know I have to help them.” I raised up and looked him straight in the eyes. “I have to do this. It’s more than just wanting to be part of God’s work in this world. It’s an aching hole in my heart. I don’t know any other way to fill it.”