At Every Turn (7 page)

 7 

W
ebster’s familiar whistle lit the air outside the corner of the garage, pulling me to it like steel to a magnet. The moment he spotted me, his feet stopped and his tune faded.

“I looked for you at the factory this afternoon.”

He wiped his hands on a rag. “I’ve been here.” He flicked a glance toward the house as he shoved the dirty cloth into his back pocket. Then he motioned for me to follow him inside. My Packard sat in its customary place. I perched on a backless stool, the crock of berries in my lap, while he checked the tires and gadgets and fluids.

“I went seeking Africa funds today.” I rested my hands on the lid, holding the berries inside, away from the temptation of my fingers and my mouth.

He cocked his head and rubbed at a place near his nose, leaving a streak of grease to decorate his face. “Any success?”

“Yes—and no.” I sighed. “You might as well work while I talk.”

He resumed his tasks. I told him of my idea to make money driving and my visit with Mr. Morgan and the others in town. Then I related my encounter with Lucinda. And Mr. Trotter. He didn’t look at me through the entire tale. Just kept working. Washing. Drying. Buffing. Scraping splatter from the windscreen. Wiping down the soft black top and the leather seats. At the back of the motorcar, he cleaned the last bit of dirt from my spare tire as I fell silent.

He stepped away, admired his work or my car, I wasn’t sure which.

I slid from the stool, suddenly afraid of his censure. “So what do you think?” I set the blackberries in the passenger’s seat of my car.

“About which part?” He buffed one spot on the headlamp.

“All of it.”

He pushed the bill of his flat driving cap a bit higher, revealing his dark eyes. “Why does it matter what I think?”

I clasped my hands behind my back and started a slow circle around my automobile. He was right. I acted for Jesus alone. What mattered was what He thought of me. I’d told Mr. Morgan the money would go to Africa. And it didn’t. On the other hand, I’d seen one in need and helped. Like the Good Samaritan.

Or Robin Hood.

Which mattered most—telling the truth or doing the right thing? I wasn’t completely sure. In spite of Webster’s lack of spiritual direction, he’d demonstrated good sense in the few years I’d known him. “I value your opinion, that’s all.”

He shrugged. “Why? I just tinker with engines and machinery.”

“You’re the one who encouraged me to raise the money.”

He snorted and turned away. “Did I?”

I blocked his path to the workbench. “It isn’t that I need your approval. I just want to know what you think. So few people tell me the truth. My father might have more money than most around here, but I still need real friends.”

His eyebrows rose. “More money than most?”

I cringed. “Okay, all. More money than
all
the people around here. Except maybe Mr. Morgan.”

Webster stared into my eyes for a long moment. I squirmed, feeling as if my very soul lay bare beneath his gaze. Then he stooped to gather his scattered tools. With his back to me, he organized the workbench nailed to the wall. “Lucinda had it hard even before Billy died.”

I held my breath, eager to hear every word over the clatter of his work. But the noise quieted. Webster turned, leaned against the workbench, arms folded. “Billy worked for your father, you know. Hard work. Small wage.”

His words fell like a weight on my chest. “I had no idea.”

“I know you didn’t.” His mouth settled into a hard line. “I guess you know you’ll have to replace that money.”

I stared at the ground. “I know.”

He pushed away from the workbench and rested a hand on my shoulder. I shuddered. His hand lifted. “Go on, now. Your father will be home soon.”

Heart heavy, I pulled open the door of my Packard.

“Ally?”

I stopped, turned back to him. “Yes?”

“You did a good thing for Lucinda today.” The intense sincerity in his voice turned my knees weak. Webster approved of my actions. And he was one of the most considerate men I knew.

Maybe I’d actually accomplished something worthwhile instead of just messing everything up.

When I returned from delivering the berries to a thankful Lucinda, I sought out Grandmother.

“You did exactly right, Alyce.” Grandmother sat in an upholstered chair in her bedroom instead of lying in bed. A good day. And I’d missed most of it.

I dropped to my knees beside her. “But now I have less than half of what I raised for the McConnells’ work in Africa.”

The little children’s faces burned in my mind as the thin skin of Grandmother’s hands touched my cheeks and lifted my face to look at her in spite of the fact that she couldn’t see me. “It isn’t just people in faraway places that need your compassion and your help. Sometimes it’s those right where you are.”

“But what am I going to do now?” I groaned as I laid my head in her lap once more. Grandmother’s hand rested lightly on my hair, then stroked it back from my face. She didn’t hurry her words. That was her way. She pondered, considered, prayed before she spoke.

A faint whistle drifted in through the open windows. I imagined Webster in the garage, that dirty rag hanging out of his back pocket, his cap pulled low on his forehead, fencing his unruly hair away from his eyes.

I’d driven a bit faster than normal on my way back from Lucinda’s, but it wasn’t like driving on the secret track in the field. I needed the wind to slap me in the face, steal all thoughts from my head—save those needed to keep the car on the road. I prayed best after those drives. Heard best, too. The voice of God seemed so clear in those moments.

“If the Lord desires you to help His work in Africa, He’ll provide the means. You can be sure of that.”

I lifted my head. “But what do I do about the money I’ve already given away?”

The growl of Father’s Mercer sounded from the front of the house, drowning out Webster’s whistle. “You’ll have to make it up somehow. You told Mr. Morgan the money would go to the Gold Coast, and you must honor that.”

A familiar refrain. Enough of my own troubles for the moment. I rose to my knees, kissed Grandmother’s cheek, and lifted the worn Bible from the small table. Opening to the spot marked by a silk ribbon, I settled in my usual chair. “I think we ended yesterday in Isaiah.”

One hundred sixty-two dollars. I spread the bills out before me and counted again. I tucked the money in a drawer in my desk and prayed God would multiply it overnight, like those loaves and fishes of old.

After washing my hands and face, I donned my nightdress and climbed into bed. The hum of insect life outside my open window seemed to sing
three thousand, three thousand, three thousand
. What had I been thinking to promise such an exorbitant amount?

I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling above my bed. I’d been thinking that Father would simply hand me the money, of course.

Maybe Father had been right not to give me the money. A good man had entrusted funds to me and I’d let them dribble out of my hands like creek water. I rubbed my forehead, trying to keep fingers of pain from compressing my scalp once more.

I considered again Mr. Trotter’s generous offer to safeguard what I’d collected. But that felt like the easy way out. I ought to be able to protect the funds myself. I was twenty-two years old, a college graduate.

Climbing from bed, I plodded back to my desk and transferred the bills to my purse. In spite of Mr. Trotter’s concerns, I’d march myself into Mr. White’s bank tomorrow morning and open an account. Mr. White would whisk my money to a place where I couldn’t touch it—at least not until the McConnells returned. And I’d earn a little interest in the process. Then I would transfer the entire sum into the hands of those worthy people for their noble cause and applaud my self-discipline in the process.

 8 

C
larissa?” I swept down the main staircase just before noon, again wearing my most businesslike attire. “I can take you to your sister’s now.”

A clap of thunder rattled the glass above the double front doors as raindrops slapped against the tall arched windows in the drawing room and the parlor. Clarissa bustled into the foyer, her wide-brimmed straw hat obscuring her face. But I still recognized the tight mouth, the pinched expression of fear.

I pulled my duster from the coatrack before pressing my hand to her arm. “We’ll arrive in one piece. I promise.”

With a curt nod, she whirled around and marched out the door. I bit back a grin. The last time I’d driven her to town, she’d spent the entire trip crossing herself and praying that the Lord would preserve her life and sanity. But today I intended to drive like any other lady, slow and sedate. All the way to the bank.

And after I settled the money in Mr. White’s keeping, maybe I could persuade Webster to let me take the racing car out for a celebration.

We motored into town, the spit of rain dissipating before we reached Main Street. But dark clouds remained overhead. Clarissa climbed down from the Runabout with a hint of a smile on her face. “Thank you kindly, Miss Alyce.”

I resisted the urge to laugh at her obvious relief. She darted down the street and around the corner to spend her Thursday half day at her sister’s house, surrounded by nieces and nephews and noise. I wondered if such noise would sound as lovely to me as the purr of an engine.

I puttered through town and spied an elderly couple on the sidewalk. I pulled near and lowered my window. The man startled. The woman looked wary. I put on my brightest smile. “I can drive you to wherever you are going, if you’d like.”

The man looked at his wife.

“Is it safe, you think?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Best time to find out.” He led her to my Packard. They settled in the backseat.

I twisted around so I could see them. “I’m playing taxicab. Fifty cents a mile. All the money goes to a missionary couple returning to Africa.”

Their faces went slack. He reached for the door handle. My stomach tumbled. I wanted to bite my tongue in half. “No, wait. I’ll drive you wherever you need to go. No charge. Just a friend doing you a favor.”

The woman beamed at her husband. I faced forward, set the car in gear, and eased into the street. Keeping to a sedate speed, I followed their directions, finally dropping them off at a ramshackle house outside of town. Back toward the bank I went, asking for customers along the way. But once I mentioned money—even for Africa—few chose to ride. Thunder rumbled overhead. I parked the car near the brick bank building anchoring the strip of storefronts comprising the town of Langston.

Father chose this town long ago because he felt it would be a good location for his plant that manufactured farm machinery. As he found more and more success in his venture, Mother begged him to move to Chicago—or at least Indianapolis. But Father didn’t budge. He liked being an important man in a small town. So he built Mother an extravagant house and let her take trips whenever she liked.

Though I’d enjoyed my two years in Chicago, I, too, preferred a more rural life. The slower pace. The knowing and being known. All the things Mother disdained.

The scent of rain lingered in the air. I savored it before stepping into the stuffiness of the bank. The tinkle of a small bell announced me, but Mr. White’s familiar head, as smooth as one of Father’s billiards balls, was nowhere to be seen. A young man smelling of hair tonic greeted me instead.

“I need to speak with Mr. White, please.”

The young man’s eyes darted one way, then the other, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down his neck. “He ain’t here.”

“I can see that, Mr. . . .”

The man stood up straighter. “Mr. Hill.”

I stuck out my gloved hand. Pink crept into his face as he shook it. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hill. I’m Alyce Benson. Are you new to the bank?”

“N-new. Y-yes,” he stammered.

Was I responsible for his discomfiture, or did he always respond to people this way? “And how do you find our fair town?”

“F-fine. Just fine, Miss Benson.”

“Good.” I exaggerated my look around the dim room. Thunder growled. A flash of lightning answered. “Now, when did you say Mr. White would return?”

Mr. Hill nodded toward the door. “There he is now, Miss Benson.”

Mr. White opened the door as another flash of lightning illuminated the bank. At the loud crack and bang, everyone froze. Then Mr. White wiped a handkerchief across his shiny skull, and we all returned to normal.

“Miss Benson. What a pleasure to see you.” He hung his hat on the rack and returned his handkerchief to his pocket, his jolly face relaying the truth of his words. “Come to wheedle money from me again?”

Mr. White had reluctantly parted with fifty dollars after seeing those precious faces from the other side of the world, though he refused to let me earn it by driving him. He and I laughed. Mr. Hill stared at us, mouth agape.

“Actually, Mr. White, I’ve come to ask a favor of a different sort.” I slipped my hand around his elbow. We started toward the back office as another peal of thunder drowned out our voices and our steps. Then we heard the clang of the fire bell.

Mr. White bolted out the front door. I followed close behind. The new motorized fire truck sped down the street, autos and horses crowding the far edges of the cobblestone path. Residents dashed out of storefronts and houses, heedless of the rain, following behind the truck like the wide tail of an unwieldy kite.

I joined the throng, my heart pounding with worry. Smoke billowed into the moist air, clouding my vision and sending spasms of coughs up my throat. I glanced at the clouds skittering across the heavens and prayed for a deluge instead of a drip. But the Lord didn’t oblige.

Shouting sounded in the distance. Making my way through the crowd, I pushed forward into the smoky air, heedless of the sting in my nose and eyes. Finally I stood near the fire truck. Three men directed a flow of water toward towering flames reducing a house to cinders. And there in the yard stood Clarissa, arms circled around her sobbing sister.

By the time the fire shrank to a smolder, the crowd had dispersed, as well. I stood by Clarissa, our faces smudged with soot, our clothing damp. She took charge, parceling out her nieces and nephews to hospitable neighbors, but her sister refused to abandon the charred remains.

“All our savings went to buy that house. One wee roof of our own for shelter.”

Clarissa soothed her sister as she would a small child. “There now. All your lads and lasses are well. Wood and nails can be replaced.”

Flame-red hair framed the woman’s tear-streaked face as she shook her head. “Wood and nails cost money we don’t have. What will we do? What will we do?” She buried her face in the front of Clarissa’s dress. Only then did I spy tears snaking trails down Clarissa’s dirty cheeks.

I stared at the purse hanging from my wrist and gnawed on the edge of my lip. Then my eyes met Clarissa’s over the top of her weeping sister’s head. Before I could think, I pressed my money—one hundred sixty-two dollars—into Clarissa’s sister’s hand, telling her to use it to replace their things, to begin saving for a new house.

Before either of them could protest, I walked away. Without a look back, I climbed into my Runabout. Penniless. Again.

My knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as I bounced over the cobblestones and out onto the dirt road toward home. In spite of myself, I couldn’t be sorry for helping Clarissa’s sister and her family in their time of need. And just as the Lord had provided for them, He’d provide for His work in Africa. Grandmother believed it. So did I.

But please, Lord, couldn’t You just provide it through me?

Not often did I shed my dress for a pair of knickers when I went for a drive. But this day I did. Late that afternoon, I pulled heavy driving gloves over my fingers as I strode into the cool, dark garage. My hands shook with the need to be behind the wheel. My foot itched to work the gas pedal attached to the floor of the race car.

An electric light flickered on the back wall of the garage, illuminating Webster’s legs sticking out from under the racing car.

I nudged his foot with the toe of my tall riding boot. He scooted out, a cloud of dust arriving with him.

“Are you busy?”

He sat up and rested his hands on his bent knees as he surveyed my unusual costume. “More trouble?”

My shoulders hitched up and then fell again. “I guess you could say that.”

He hopped to his feet, brushed his hands against his legs. “Your father again?”

I shook my head, noticing car parts strewn across the ground. “What’s all this?” I poked a metal shaft with the toe of my boot.

“Tinkering a bit.” He patted the hood of the racing car in much the same way Father patted my cheek.

“You can make it go faster?”

“Maybe.” He looked me over once more. “You’re serious today, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“So I guess your father told you.”

“Told me?”

He blinked, a kind of fear hovering over his face. Running a hand through his dark hair, he disappeared deeper into the garage, his back to me, his attention glued to his scattered tools and spare parts. I followed, stopping within a hairsbreadth of his left shoulder.

I knew he felt me there. A minute passed. Then two. Finally he tossed a wrench to the ground. “He’s entering the car at the Chicago Speedway next weekend.”

For a moment, I couldn’t move. Father’s racing car. Competing. Then a squeal—my squeal—pealed through the garage. I flung my arms around Webster’s neck. “We’re finally going to race it!”

He pulled as taut as a clothesline, but he didn’t move away. And neither did I. I savored the earthy smell of his neck, felt the warmth of his body next to mine. I eased back just enough to see into his face, to glimpse a look of tender wonder before he covered it over again. Or had I misread it?

One tentative hand reached up, cupped my waist. Then he pushed my body away from his. The fire of his touch seared to my very core. I fought to pull air into my lungs, to force myself to let go of him rather than cling more tightly.

With great effort, my arms returned to my sides. His did the same. I prayed the dim light of the garage hid the heat that was crawling up my neck, over my face, all the way to the top of my head. I’d thrown myself into his embrace. What had I been thinking?

I shook my head to clear away the confusion. Clasping my hands in front of me, I concentrated on Webster’s shoes. The race at the speedway. That needed to be the focus of this conversation.

A deep breath, then I lifted my gaze to his face. He seemed to be laughing at me now, but I refused to acknowledge his mocking. Not when it appeared to be at my expense. “So, who’s driving our car in the race?”

He shrugged, turned away. “Your father has someone lined up.”

Jealousy flashed through me as quick and hot as lightning. To think of someone else behind the wheel of this car rendered her unfaithful somehow, though I knew that to be unreasonable. But if I couldn’t drive, I at least had to be there to watch her moment of glory. In Chicago.