The Widow's Choice
Read The Widow's Choice Online
Authors: Gilbert Morris
© 2006 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7063-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover illustration by William Graf
Cover design by Josh Madison
I dedicate this book to Ginger Conlon,
my beloved daughter.
You are exactly what a woman of God should be!
CONTENTS
3. The End of Something Wonderful
13. A Different Kind of Marriage
14. “I’ll Have to Be More Careful”
20. “I Never Gave Death a Thought”
CHAPTER ONE
A Perfect Day
Alona Jennings stared at the calendar that hung on her kitchen wall, irritated by the cheap painting of an English fox hunt. Shaking her head, she muttered, “I ought to just tear that dumb picture out. Whoever painted it sure couldn’t paint worth a flip.” She often wondered why she didn’t throw the whole thing away and get a calendar that pleased her more, but Alona’s life was busy, and money was precious. Sighing with frustration, she plucked a pencil out of her apron pocket and drew a circle around July the Fourth.
Turning from the calendar, she focused on her good feelings on this very special day. The whole family was going to a Fourth of July celebration with games and then a free lunch furnished by the politicians, if you cared to listen to their speeches long enough to wait. Truman would then be pitching for the Mountaineers, and after he won his ball game, as the boys vowed he would, they were all going to go out to eat and then take in a movie.
The sun shone brightly through the window, lighting up the old linoleum on the kitchen floor that was worn through all the way down to the black tar underneath in a couple of places. Opening the icebox door, Alona saw that the last chunk of ice had melted down to about a five-pound lump. Closing the door to the oak icebox, she went to the living room and pulled the iceman’s sign off a nail on the wall, considering how much ice to order. The sign was marked on the four corners: twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, a hundred.
For a moment she was tempted to put up the number one hundred, but money was so scarce that she settled for the fifty-pound chunk.
But we’re going to have ice cream,
she told herself, changing her mind again and firmly putting the hundred-pound number at the top instead and placing the sign in the window, where the iceman could see it. She only hoped that he ran on the holiday.
Going back to the kitchen, she quickly built a fire in the stove so she could cook breakfast. Ten minutes later the fire was burning smoothly. She was about to start breakfast when a knock at the back door caught her attention. “Who could that be?” She put the skillet down on the stove and went to the door. Through the screen she saw a tall, spindly looking man with a pale, cadaverous face. He was dressed practically in rags, and he pulled off his weather-beaten hat and held it with both hands.
“Ma’am, could I chop some wood or do some work for a meal?”
Alona hesitated. This had become such a common occurrence that she had been forced to turn many men away, but something poignant in the hobo’s face urged her to help him, and she said, “Yes, come on in. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“I can eat out here on the porch, ma’am.”
“Nonsense. Come on in and sit down at the table. The coffee’s about ready. I’ll cook some bacon and eggs.”
The man stepped inside, looking around apprehensively and saying nothing.
“Sit over there,” Alona said, pointing to the table and pouring him a cup of coffee. “Do you use sugar or cream?”
“If it ain’t too much trouble, ma’am.”
Alona set the glass sugar bowl on the table, opened the storage side of the icebox, and pulled out a mason jar half full of cream. As the man drank his coffee, she began fixing the meal. “Have you come far?”
“Yes, ma’am, all the way from Ohio.”
“Ohio! How in the world did you get from Ohio down to Georgia?”
“Well, ma’am, the factory I worked at for twelve years closed, and work was hard to find.” The man’s voice was rusty, as if from lack of use. “I just drifted south lookin’ for work. Do you know of anything?”
Alona had broken two eggs into a pan with some bacon but hesitated before breaking a third. “You want your eggs scrambled or over easy?”
“Any way, ma’am.”
She turned the eggs over with a spatula, then put the bacon and eggs on a plate. She opened the storage compartment over the top of the stove, took out two biscuits, and added them to the plate. “There you are.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from the man, studying him as she sipped her drink. “Work is scarce around here,” she finally said.
“Scarce everywhere. I don’t know what we’re gonna do if things don’t get better.”
“We’ll just have to trust the Lord, I guess. What’s your name?”
“Nick Saban. This is mighty good food, ma’am. I reckon I was hungrier than I knew. Please excuse my manners.”
“Don’t mind that. Oh, I’ve got some strawberry jam that’ll go good with those biscuits.” She went to the cupboard and pulled out a jar of jam, opened it, and set it on the table. She watched as he very neatly layered half of one of the biscuits, then took a small bite. He had better manners than most, and she could tell that he had come from a better position in life than many of the hobos that came by. “I wish I did know of a job,” she said.
“This depression. Everybody says it’s Hoover’s fault.”
“I doubt if one man could have brought it all on.”
“You’re probably right.”
She waited until the man had finished and said, “I’ll make some sandwiches for you to take with you.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll need to work for this meal.”
“That’s all right. I’ve got three boys and a strong husband to do the heavy work around here.” She got up, fixed three thick sandwiches of bologna with cheese, wrapped them in wax paper, and put them in a bag. She put an apple in also and handed him the package. He stood before her uncertainly, and without thinking, she said, “Would it be all right if I prayed for you before you go?”
“Pray for me? Well, ma’am, ain’t nobody prayed for me since I was just a boy. My mama prayed for me, but she died when I was only twelve.”
“I’d like to pray for you if you don’t mind.”
Saban bent his head, but she saw the glitter of tears in his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, you go right ahead.”
“Lord, we ask that you go with Mr. Saban. Provide work for him. Give him health and strength. May he learn to look to you, the Lord Jesus, for every need. Father, I ask this in the name of Jesus. Amen.”
Saban looked up and something had changed in his face. “That . . . that was mighty fine, ma’am. A good prayer. It reminds me of my mother.”
“Let me ask you something,” she said. “I’ve always been curious—how do you decide which town to go to, or which house?”
He smiled briefly but with a flash of humor. “I follow the signs.”
“What kind of signs?”
“Signs that us hobos leave. You see, we put marks and drawings of different kinds on curbs, posts, buildings—even houses. They tell us if the people in that town will help us out. Give us work or food. I seen the mark on your house.”
“I never saw anything.”
“If you’ve got a piece of paper, I can show you.”
Alona got up and found a paper and pencil, handing them to Nick. He drew for a minute and then showed her the paper.
“This sign here,” he said, pointing to a group of intersecting
lines, “means hobos ain’t welcome. But this one here means this is a great place to stop.” He was pointing to a group of three small
u
’s drawn inside a rectangle. “And three little circles like that means keep on moving—the police are out to get ya.”
He picked up his small bundle of personal belongs and the sack of food. “I’ll be going, ma’am, but I won’t forget you.”
“God bless you.” Alona watched as he left and made his way down the street. She thought of the thousands of men like Nick Saban wandering the streets and countryside of America and sighed.
Abruptly, she shook off her thoughts and walked down the hall to the boys’ bedroom door. Opening it, she said, “Get up, boys! Get up and wash.”
The only response was a groan.
“It’s the Fourth of July! We’re going to have a fun day today.”
She went down the hall to the other bedroom of the small house. She tiptoed to the bed and looked down into the face of her sleeping husband. With a smile she remembered how she had felt the first time she had seen him when she was seventeen. She had gone to a ball game and seen him pitch, and although she didn’t much believe in romantic tales of love at first sight, something had indeed happened to her at that game. Now, looking down at his tawny hair and the clean-cut lines of his strong body, lean as a leopard, she wanted to reach out and put her hands on him. For just a moment she felt somewhat abashed that after a dozen years of marriage she could still be so in love with her husband. Quick to cover her emotions, she gently shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Truman. Time for breakfast.”
As always, he woke up suddenly—wide-eyed like a cat. Before she could move, he grabbed her and pulled her down on the bed. He began to kiss her neck, ignoring her protests and squeals.
