Asked For
Praise for Colleen L. Donnelly
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
She wore her auburn hair longer now
because Cletus liked it that way, but it was pulled back out of Magdalena’s and Betsy’s reaches. And no makeup. She’d come plain, the way she always was, plain and tired.
“I probably am a sight.” Lana felt her face flush, but tried to ignore it. She wasn’t here to be told how good she looked. She was here to see Grandma, see herself and her new life against her old one and the person who’d told her how this new one was supposed to be lived.
“You look just fine, actually.” A tall shadow filled the shed’s doorway behind Grandma. “If anything, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Jim…”
Jim Dillon stepped from the shed’s dark interior. He’d changed. She was shocked at what he’d become. He’d grown in three years, muscles where scrawny arms used to be, tanned skin and chiseled features where softness used to be. There was still the boy in his eyes, though, the boy who’d helped her with chores before she left to get married. The boy Grandma had said really wasn’t there to help Lana but was there because he needed the pay. A bucket half full of milk dangled from one of Jim’s hands. Grandma was right again. He was here not because Lana was but because he needed the pay.
Jim didn’t stare at her daughters, or the bulge of her stomach, or the worn dress that covered it. He just looked at her face, his eyes scanning every feature as if relearning, even admiring, who she’d become.
Praise for Colleen L. Donnelly
“After reading
ASKED FOR
I walked away with a renewed gratitude for the life I have.
ASKED FOR
is a work that will cause you to realize that no matter what you have been through, no matter what you are going through, there really is hope for us all.”
~Kacee Everhart, Ordained Pastor
~*~
“I have truly watched [Colleen Donnelly] grow in her amazing talent of bringing the reader into the story and making them feel a real part of it. She has the rare gift of more than just entertaining us with a fictional story …making the reader feel uplifted and inspired along with the characters. You'll find you can't put the book down until you finish it and it will leave you wanting for more! It makes me see things in ways that I had never thought about before. A true work of Art.”
~Sherri Minick, Production Stage Manager
~*~
Donnelly keeps the reader guessing until an unexpected but thoroughly satisfying ending. This is Colleen Donnelly's second novel and I think this one is even better than
Mine to Tell
.”
~Carolyn Paul Branch, Author and Librarian
~*~
“Through the dark grittiness of this story, these characters shine. In a publishing world focused on slick commercialism, this was a pleasant change. I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and look forward to reading more from Donnelly.”
~Lori Robinett, Author
Asked For
by
Colleen L. Donnelly
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Asked For
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Colleen L. Donnelly
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Historical Women’s Fiction Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-609-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-610-1
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my mom,
who inspired this story
and continues to inspire me as a writer.
And to my critique partners,
who have bettered me and my writing
with their diligent work.
Prologue
Magdalena 1960
Mama had six children after she had me, five of them one right after the other, mostly because Pop couldn’t leave her alone. It wasn’t that he was in love with her; he just loved hard the same way he worked hard. He worked her hard too, and us kids, keeping up with that patch of Missouri dirt he called a farm, and the welding shop he ran in town. Mama never complained, no matter what Pop did, and my brothers and sisters didn’t either. They were too afraid.
My name is Magdalena. When I was growing up I was Magdalena Paine, but now I’m Magdalena something different. I’ve been several something differents since I was a girl, but none of them matter. What matters is the time I was Magdalena Paine, because that’s when I first saw Mama for what she really was…beautiful. None of the rest of my family would have ever noticed if Glen Morgan hadn’t said it to my littlest brother, James. “Your mother’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” Glen told him. That comment opened my little brother’s eyes, and made me look at beauty in a different way, a deeper way. It just took me awhile to see it through my own eyes instead of Mr. Morgan’s.
Chapter 1
James 1947
Is he coming?
James gripped the thin wooden slats that lined the back of the dugout and peered between them. Maybe he wouldn’t come. No, he had to! He stared at his mother in the seats behind the dugout, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes to ask the question without speaking. She answered without a word, her smile saying something back to him, something thinly positive, even though the spot next to her was still empty.
“Jimmy, get ready! You’re almost up to bat!”
James kept his back to the ball diamond, his knees planted on the wooden batters’ bench where he knelt while he kept his eye on the space next to Mama.
“Jimmy! Come on!” Coach’s orders boomed from near third base.
James tugged his lower lip between his teeth while he stared at the empty spot where his pop was supposed to be.
At least he isn’t here to hear the coach call me Jimmy
. He scanned the park around the bleachers. Young kids were chasing each other across bare ground, clouds of dust bursting from behind their shoeless feet. Adults stood, arms crossed, engaged in conversations, like obstacles the kids were supposed to avoid as they wove in and out. It was the last inning, the last at bat. If Pop was coming, it would be any second.
“You hit a big one,
James,
” his mother called. The sunlight glinted off her auburn hair. She was tall and sat straight, even on the rough bleachers, the worn and faded housedress a little too loose as it fluttered where it wasn’t tucked well around her slender body. She rarely had time to get out, what with seven kids, a house, chickens, and a garden to keep up with, but she always came to James’ games, and she did her best to make sure the coach knew his name.
James smiled, but it felt feeble. It would have been better if the spot next to her wasn’t vacant. Mama had told him before the game, “Your father will be there today.” Then she’d added, “I’m pretty sure,” as an afterthought. His eyes and heart had exploded when she’d said he’d be here. Pop never came to his games. He ran his own welding shop. He worked hard and came home hot, late, and dirty every night. He came home cranky, too. Mama said he was cranky because he was tired, not because James or his brothers and sisters had done anything wrong.
“James, you heard Coach. Get your bat.” Andy shoved against James’ side. “Stop gawking around!”
“I’m watching for Pop.” James leaned to where Andy sat next to him and shoved his best friend back.
“Your pop never comes, so get your bat and get out there.”
“Mama said he would. She said, ‘Your father will be there today.’ She said it right before the game.” He omitted the “I’m pretty sure.”
“She called him, ‘Your father?’ Since when do any of you call him Father?” Andy snorted.
“Jimmy!” Coach yelled again. The on-deck-circle was empty.
James shoved Andy one last time, then stole a quick glance around the bleachers before he turned away from the crowd. Coach’s eyes were on him, he could feel them, as he trudged to the row of bats leaning near the dugout’s entrance. The lightest bat was his favorite. It was his, it was small, and it suited him. He rested his hand on the bat’s handle. Pop said small meant sissy. James glanced at the other bats. He was six years old now, so maybe a bigger bat would be better, a bat for someone the coach would call James instead of Jimmy. He wrapped his fingers around the handle of a stout bat. It was fat, almost too fat for his hands. He stretched his fingers and wrapped them as far as he could around its base. Too much binding. Someone had wound layers of tape and cloth around the handle. He wiggled his fingertips until they touched his thumb.
This was the sort of bat Pop would want him to use. He glanced at the bleachers from the corner of his eye. If Pop was there, James would sling the bat up and take a couple of practice swings. His mother was there, and she was watching, just like she always did, no one at her side. He let go of the stout bat’s handle and grabbed an even bigger one. He’d never touched this one before. He heaved it up to his shoulder, and it scraped his ear as it dropped into place.
“Batter up!”
James stole one last glance at the crowd. Mama had added, “I’m pretty sure.” That meant she really wasn’t. He stepped from the dugout onto the playing field, powdery dirt giving way beneath his shoes.
“Jimmy! Go back and get your little bat! That one’s too big for you!” Coach clapped his hands like a seal. James ignored him and strode to home plate. Coach dropped his hands to his sides and shook his head as he paced off a circle near third base.
James bolstered his shoulder under the bat’s weight as he stepped into the batter’s box. It was heavy, and heavy meant more power. Pop would agree with more power. James would tell him about it later if he didn’t make it to the game.
“You can do it, James,” his mother’s voice rang from the bleachers. James nodded and drew in a breath. He held it, and squeezed it in his chest until it was so tight it felt like a scream that needed to get out. He listened, his lungs burning, waiting for Pop’s thundering echo. The voice that thundered every night, at Mama, at his six brothers and sisters, and especially at him. Surely Pop would shout something encouraging here and not pick on him for the things he did at home, like for being so small, for being so many years younger than Carla, the next oldest; for being a consequence instead of a blessing, something James never understood. If Pop saw him play, surely he’d thunder something better than the things he hollered at night.
The pitcher stared from the mound, waiting for James to get settled. It was too late for a practice swing, and the bat was too heavy anyway. James let the burning air seep out of his lungs like a slow leak. He bobbed his head at the pitcher like the other boys did, ready, still hoping to hear his pop shout, even if it was to go get the baby bat.
“Strike one!”
James wheeled to look at the umpire. The man was overweight and sweating. He raised a finger and a fist in the air at the same time.
