At Every Turn (18 page)

“I mean, people like him are often up to no good.”

Why did my friends harbor such suspicions of each other? Webster with Lawrence. Lawrence with Webster. And now Lucinda. Perhaps I’d lived a more sheltered life than I realized. But I knew them, each one. And all of them seemed kind.

“Oh, Lucinda, I really think you’ve misunderstood. He’s a fine, upstanding man. He works for my father. He attends our church.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. Almost as if she pitied me. I wanted to take offense. Then I remembered the hard road Lucinda walked. Would it be surprising to learn some envy fluttered in her breast toward those whose way seemed easy? Could I forgive her that?

I reached across the space and laid my hand on hers. “But I didn’t come here to talk about Mr. Trotter. Really. Though I did wonder if you could tell me anything of . . . another person.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Would she think as unkindly of Webster as she did of Lawrence? Maybe her grief had tainted her view of all men.

I studied my hands. “Webster Little.” My head jerked up. “Do you know him?”

Her face relaxed, eyes turning almost dreamy. The stew I’d savored turned sour in my stomach.

“I know him.” Soft words. Then silence.

The heel of my boot clattered against the floor. I stilled my bouncing knee with my hands. “Well? What about him?”

Tears filled her eyes. “He’s one of the kindest, most giving men I’ve ever met.”

“Why do you say that?” Joy warred with fear in the center of my being.

Her face twisted with emotion, then settled. “I’m not sure he’d care to have his actions bandied about. He acts on the sly.”

I cocked my head. “Lurking in alleys, like you say of Mr. Trotter?”

“Oh no. Not that kind. It’s just, he’ll leave a basket of food for a needy family, maybe some ready money tucked in beneath a loaf of bread or such.”

My tension deflated. Not what I’d expected to hear. “How do you know he does that?”

Her face flushed scarlet. “Because I’ve seen him. And not just at my doorstep, either.” She shook her head. “But I never told. Until now.”

Webster as the Good Samaritan. It fit what I knew of him, but it frightened me, as well. How did he come by the money for such acts? Was he plotting to rob Africa to feed Langston?

I forced a smile even as confusion spun inside me like a tire in mud. “Thank you, Lucinda. That helps. Now, tell me what the children have been up to.”

She stared at me for a moment before her eyes brightened, as if she suddenly remembered that we called ourselves friends.

 23 

B
y Friday, I’d packed my driving outfit in an old carpetbag and stowed it with the racing car under Webster’s care. At the train station, I flitted from waiting room to platform and back again.

“Sit down, darling. You’re making me nervous.” Mother patted the hard seat beside her.

I sat, knees bouncing. I popped up again. “I’ll check to see if the train’s here.”

“But you can see—” Mother’s voice trailed away as I escaped from the stuffy waiting room and back into the fresh air. My fingers pressed against one another. I straightened my hat. Walked to the end of the platform. Webster waved at me from farther down the line, his backside resting against the white number 7 painted on the hood of the blue car.

If only I could meet him down there. But we’d made a pact to stay clear of each other in public. No use drawing any attention that might ferret out our secret. Or rather, my secret. Webster apparently had different secrets. Ones he refused to reveal even to me.

The deep whistle of the train sent me flying back to the waiting room long before the locomotive chugged into sight. “The train’s here, Mother.” I grabbed her hand, pulled her up from her seat. But she didn’t move quickly enough for me, so I ran on ahead.

By the time the train lumbered to a stop, I was bouncing on my toes, eager to embark.

“If we get on now, we’ll just have to sit and wait,” Mother said from behind me.

“I know.”

Mother’s squinted eyes searched my face. “I’ve never seen you quite so eager to leave Langston.”

I licked my lips to get them moist again and forced my feet to remain completely rooted to the ground.
Control yourself. Be careful.
I brushed a curl aside and smiled. “I’m just happy we’re all going together.”

I linked my arm through hers with a quick stab of melancholy. If Grandmother were with us, it would be a perfect trip.

“Good morning, Miss Benson, Mrs. Benson.” Mrs. Swan stood next to us, another woman from my church by her side. Mrs. Swan turned her sweet face in my direction. “Are you leaving us again so soon, dear?”

“Just for a few days. You and Pastor Swan will visit Grandmother while we are gone, won’t you? You’ll let us know if there is any change?”

“Of course. We are so pleased she is getting stronger. We wouldn’t miss our visits with her. I think I draw more from our time together than she does.” Mrs. Swan’s expression turned wistful. “Laura Benson knows the goodness and faithfulness of our Lord in a way so few of us do. I would like to have her depth of understanding and conviction.”

Mother blinked. Sniffed. Turned away. I cringed. But in a strange way, her response brought new hope. She’d heard Mrs. Swan’s words. Really heard them. They’d made her feel uncomfortable, not defensive. Perhaps caring for Grandmother during her illness had softened the soil of her heart. Maybe seeds of truth would take root.

I offered Mrs. Swan and her companion a crooked smile of apology.

“Alyce, darling?” Mother stepped up into the train.

“Good-bye.” I pressed my hand on Mrs. Swan’s before following Mother into the passenger car. Like Mrs. Swan, I, too, longed to be like my grandmother. Gracious and kind. Unflustered by those around her. Always faithful to the Lord.

As I settled into the seat beside Mother, I reminded myself this would be a good opportunity for practice.

I’d promised Saturday to Mother since the race wasn’t until Monday, Labor Day. She pulled on her gloves as she turned to me. “We’ll go to Mabley and Carew. We must get you some new dresses, though heaven knows they won’t be what we could find at Marshall Field’s store.” She mumbled the last words as we departed the hotel, as if she didn’t want the people of Cincinnati to hear her disparage one of their city’s shopping choices.

“But I like the clothes I have, Mother. There’s nothing wrong with them.”

She waved away my protest as the taxicab took us through town. When we entered the massive store, she approached a salesman and announced her name and her husband’s occupation, expecting the man to jump to her aid.

I hung back while he bowed over Mother’s hand and pressed his thin lips into a smile. “A pleasure to have you with us, Mrs. Benson.”

I rolled my eyes. A pleasure to see Father’s money, not her. Didn’t she recognize that?

“And this is your lovely daughter?” The man came toward me. I stuck out my hand. His fingertips touched my gloved ones for only a moment before he turned his attention back to Mother.

“Mother, I really don’t need—”

“Of course you do, darling.” She patted my shoulder and continued talking with the salesman, his smile growing wider with her every word. I gave up and wandered to the other side of the store. The money she’d spend today would fill my box for the McConnells almost to bursting. Instead, I would have new clothes to replace ones that didn’t even look worn.

I fingered a set of beaded hair combs.
Why, Lord? Why give me this abundance of things I can’t even use for You?

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” A young woman near my age stood beside me, eyes shining with delight as her gaze caressed the ornaments in my hand.

“Yes, they are.” I set the hair combs down again.

“Aren’t you going to purchase them?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I have no need of them.” Then I noticed the silky blond hair coiled beneath her shabby hat. “But they would look stunning on you.”

“Oh no.” She backed away, almost as if she feared I’d fix them on her right at that moment. “I could never afford such an extravagance.” She bit her lip as she scanned the room. “I’m here for a new chemise. That’s all.” Her cheeks tinged as pink as the lone flower on her hat.

I picked up two combs. “Wait here a minute.”

“But— I—” She clutched her handbag to her body, her eyes darting back and forth.

“Just wait. Please?”

“Well . . .” She glanced toward the door and then back to me. “All right.”

I hastened to Mother’s side. “Have the man put these on the list, too.” I held up the combs. The salesman scribbled on his paper before nodding at me.

“Pretty little things, darling, but I don’t see how—”

I kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mother.” I darted away before she could finish her thought. By the time I reached the blond woman again, she’d inched toward the exit. Grasping her hand, I placed the combs in her open palm.

Her mouth dropped open. She stared down at her hand, then up at me.

“I want you to have them.”

Her mouth closed as her eyes widened. “Why?” A whispered, fearful word.

“Because I want you to always remember how much you are loved.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Loved? You don’t even know me.”

“
God
loves you. He loves you so very, very much.”

She turned and fled the store without even purchasing a chemise. I prayed that one day she’d understand the extravagant love of the Lord. Then I thought of Lucinda, the look on her face changing from awe to excitement the day I’d brought her fresh berries.

Lucinda stood only a bit taller than I. A little thinner, perhaps, but not much. And then there was Clarissa’s sister. Shorter, but nothing her nimble fingers couldn’t remedy. If I gave them some of the dresses now hanging in my wardrobe, they could use their money for necessities other than clothes. A smile worked its way across my face. How had I never considered such a thing before?

With eager steps I returned to Mother’s side. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “I do need some new clothes. And shoes. And undergarments. And—”

“Darling!” Mother threw her arms around me, her face displaying the same warmth of feeling as Pastor Swan’s when he welcomed a new child of God.

We took a cab back to the hotel. One of the bellboys carried our boxes and bags upstairs. As he piled them in the sitting room, I realized I’d arrive in Langston with an entire new set of clothes—clothes I didn’t need. The women at church would peg me as frivolous, not generous. Especially if, dressed in my new finery, I couldn’t supply the small fortune I’d promised to the McConnells. They’d believe they had worked and sacrificed and I hadn’t taken my own words seriously. With a groan, I fell onto the sofa.

Why couldn’t God give me some service for Him that looked normal?

 24 

O
n Sunday morning, I crept from the hotel room while my parents slept. Lawrence met me in the lobby and escorted me to a church two blocks from our hotel. It felt odd to worship surrounded by strangers. And yet not strangers, for we shared faith in our Lord. I let the familiar songs wash over me. So much I’d let go in the weeks since I’d decided to race. Too much. My time with Grandmother. My time with the Lord.

I pulled the tattered picture of the African children from my handbag. Did they realize how much my heart yearned for them to know Jesus? By providing those funds, I could help make a difference not just in their earthly lives, but their eternal ones. As the song ended, I slipped the photo back into my purse. But it didn’t matter. The children remained engraved on my heart.

The young preacher spoke to us from 2 Timothy 4:5.
But watch thou in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.

It seemed the perfect confirmation. Enduring the affliction of Father’s refusal. Working to send the gospel into the world. Full proof of my ministry? I hoped so. I wanted a ministry. I wanted a way to serve. And if that meant hiding myself beneath a cap and pair of goggles to drive a car, I would make that sacrifice.

My gaze roved to the other faces in the congregation. Some attentive, some not, much like our church at home. I twisted my head just a bit to get a view of the back of the church. A familiar tip of the head caught my eye. I stared through the crowd, a round face bobbing in and out of view.

Webster? My heart churned like cylinders in the engine of a racing car. Was it him? I pushed up just a bit, trying to get a better view.

Lawrence hissed my name. My backside returned to the pew as I faced forward once more, suddenly wishing the pastor would bring his sermon to an end.

By the time we reached the front stoop of the church, the dark-haired man had vanished. Had it really been Webster? If only I knew for sure.

“Ready to go?” Lawrence asked, attentive at my side. We shook hands with the preacher before making our way back to the hotel.

Mother was lounging with a late breakfast, a book open beside her. Father, on the other hand, looked ready for an outing.

“I’m off to the track, Ally.” His eyes twinkled.

“May I tag along?” I felt sure a sparkle lit my eyes, too.

“Of course.” Father stuffed a cigar inside the pocket of his coat. “And Trotter can join us. I’m anxious to get a look at this million-dollar track.”

I held my breath and hid my smile. It seemed too easy. Without any effort on my part, I’d get a chance to see the track and visualize the turns in my mind before my practice time in the morning. And if I could sneak in a few minutes of conversation with Webster, all the better.

“Must you encourage her, Harry?” Mother looked disappointed. As if she’d imagined that yesterday’s shopping trip had changed me into the girl she wished I was.

Father patted her shoulder, kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry. I doubt any of your Chicago dandies will see her there.”

Mother sighed, tutting under her breath.

Father, Lawrence, and I rushed out the door before she decided to object.

The track greatly resembled the Chicago Motor Speedway. Boards laid out in an oval with banked turns. Even the width looked comparable to Chicago. Cars and drivers, mechanics and owners mingled in the pit area. I followed Father across the yard, stretching my neck this way and that to size up the competition. I recognized a few drivers. Resta. De Palma. D’Alene. Father nudged me and inclined his head to the farthest car.

“Rickenbacker.”

I stood on my tiptoes but could see only a head of dark hair that poked above the gathering crowd. I frowned. For all I could tell he was the man I’d seen at church. Father pulled at my hand. My feet nearly tripped over themselves trying to keep up.

Then Webster stood before us with his usual open expression and wide smile. Father clapped a large hand on the man’s shoulder. “Everything set?”

“Yes, sir.” He wiped the grime from his fingers and shoved the oily rag into his back pocket. “Just learned they’ve nixed the qualifying heats. Every entered car has run at speeds upward of eighty, so we’re drawing for starting positions.” His gaze slid to mine but refused to linger.

I turned my focus to the track, imagining the pace lap, the starting flag. The rest of the men consuming our smoke and dust. A real chance at the prize money.

One hundred and fifty laps. Could I do it?

Webster’s earnest voice drifted my direction. “Our driver’s ready. I guarantee it.”

I couldn’t hear Father’s grumbled reply—and I dared not turn and pretend to be interested. My playacting skills weren’t that good. But before I could figure out how long to feign disinterest, Lawrence took possession of my arm. We wandered away from Father and Webster.

“I assume you’ll watch the race with us tomorrow?”

“I—” Fingers of panic gripped my throat.

“Unless you are shopping with your mother.” He patted my hand.

My eyes widened. Of course. The perfect alibi. Better than an outright lie. But at the same time, his assumption rankled. Did he think I’d prefer a day of shopping to a day at the races? Fury fizzled before it could flame. I’d kept this part of myself from him. Not just the interest in auto racing, but the penchant for speed. So how could he know the insult he’d whipped in my direction?

Maybe he assumed my desire to see the expansion of the gospel of Christ didn’t leave room in my life for something so . . . worldly as auto racing. But given our common faith, it occurred to me that if I did tell him of my clandestine activities, he’d likely see the ultimate good, even if my behavior shocked him at first.

If I finished well in this race, maybe I would reveal everything to Lawrence. See what he thought of me then.

We meandered back to the race car. Webster tipped his cap in my direction but ignored Lawrence completely. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

Lawrence chuckled, his mustache wiggling like a caterpillar.

I cocked my head. “What?”

He turned serious again. “Nothing.” He disentangled his arm from mine. “See you tomorrow?”

I inclined my head in answer as an excited shiver ran down my spine. I prayed tomorrow would be the day that filled my little red box to overflowing.