At Every Turn (29 page)

“Go on in,” he grumbled as he stalked past me.

I watched him jog down the stairs. What had he done now? I rolled my eyes and steeled myself for whatever foul mood my father had incited in Webster.

But Webster greeted me with his biggest grin. “There you are. I missed you last night.”

Indeed his manner had changed. But I hadn’t expected it to be for the better. Wary, I tucked my feet under me and sat in the faraway chair.

“Mother wanted us to have supper at the table. Like normal.” I laughed. “Or as normal as we get.”

Webster chuckled, too, his eyes never leaving my face. I squirmed a bit beneath the pointed gaze. “So what did you and Father find to talk about?”

He shrugged. “This and that.”

I waited. Surely he’d tell me more. But the silence lengthened.

I cleared my throat. “Did you get things settled between you?”

“Settled?” His head tipped to one side. “I guess settled is a good word.”

Frustration boiled inside me like water in a kettle. If he didn’t say something soon, I knew it would pour out through my spout.

“How’s your grandmother?” A mischievous glint in his eye.

“Fine.” Through my clenched teeth.

His grin grew wider, his look more tender. I wanted to grab him by the collar and strangle him. Or kiss him. I wasn’t sure which.

I pushed up from my seat, passed near the bed. “I guess you’re tired already, so I’ll stop in later. If you want me to.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me near. I didn’t want his touch to dissolve my anger, but it did.

“I’ll always want you beside me, Ally.”

My heart raced like a car in sight of the finish line, but I jerked the wheel and it swerved aside. If he still couldn’t share openly with me, we had no future together. Ever. I extracted my hand from his grasp and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind me.

 38 

A
lthough part of me wanted to throw the covers over my head and disappear on Sunday morning, another part was ready to get the ordeal over with. Once I told the truth, I’d have done my part. I couldn’t worry how other people would react or what they would assume. Though I imagined the gossip would hurt all the same.

I planned to get to church early and confess to the McConnells in private before announcing my failure to the congregation. I threw my robe around my shoulders and started toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. No stirring sounded, abovestairs or below, though I knew Clarissa was bustling around the kitchen at the back of the house.

I bathed and dressed with as little movement of my arm as possible, then set it back in its sling. Balancing my handbag and small hat atop my Bible, I descended the stairs. Setting my Bible and purse on the table, I stared at myself in the mirror in the foyer, attempting to pin my hat in place with one hand. Gray shadows lined the skin beneath my eyes. I could have covered them with cosmetics, but I decided to let my flaws show. Perhaps my appearance would elicit a bit of sympathy. Prove that, despite the wealth of my father, my life was not unmarred by trouble.

If they only knew.

I jammed the hat pin in place and tried to smile. The words of Psalm 42 came quickly to mind:
Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me?

Why indeed.

I shrugged into one sleeve of my duster and buttoned it closed one-handed. Handbag hanging from my arm, I cradled my heavy Bible, and then decided to leave it. I slipped out the front door. The sun hovered just beneath the tops of the trees that lined our lane. The low iron gate opened with a push. I followed the rutted road toward town. The road Webster walked almost every single day.

I glanced up to the window of the room where Webster was sleeping. Morning light hit dew on the grass, transforming heaven’s teardrops into an endless field of polished diamonds.

The chug of a motor sounded behind me. I moved into the weeds that edged the road. The car slowed. The night nurse leaned through the open window over the driver’s door. “Need a ride?”

Not one other conveyance sat beside the little white church when I climbed from Nurse Amy’s Brush Runabout. Not even Pastor Swan’s old Tin Lizzie.

“Are you sure you want me to leave you here?” she asked.

“I’m sure. Thanks again for the ride. I don’t know that I’d have made it on my own.”

She shook her head, trying not to laugh. “You do have pluck, I’ll give you that.” She put the car in gear and chugged away.

A few minutes later, the putter of an overworked engine carried on the crisp September breeze, and a cloud of dust moved in the distance. Pastor Swan’s Model T rolled near the building. The engine sputtered and died. Ava McConnell’s laugh wafted from the car. I shuddered beneath my linen duster, one sleeve limp and empty. The moment I’d dreaded had finally arrived.

Give me courage, Lord.

With firm steps across the damp grass, I met the Swans and McConnells at the car.

“My dear girl. You’re here early.” Mrs. Swan’s gloved hand reached for mine and then paused. “Should you even be out yet?”

My stomach tumbled, and I glanced at Ava McConnell’s confused face. Evidently no one had informed them of my injuries.

Pastor Swan led me up the steps, into the church. “Should we drive you back home again?”

“No. I need to talk to you. All of you.”

“Of course.” Pastor Swan’s footsteps echoed through the sanctuary. We followed him to the back of the building, where his small office crouched in a corner. Mrs. Swan’s delicate forehead wrinkled in confusion as her husband unlocked the door.

Two chairs—one behind the desk, one before it—were offered to the ladies. I proclaimed my preference to stand, though I did position myself against a bare spot of wall for support. Pastor Swan wedged his body behind his desk chair, hands resting gently on his wife’s shoulders. Mr. McConnell stood close beside his wife, as well, his large hands perched on the back of her chair.

And all looked at me with a disconcerting expectancy.

“I have a confession to make.” I ducked my head, counted the scratches in the wood floor beneath my feet. Deep gouges, presumably made by desks and chairs of rectors past.

“No one here will condemn you.” Ava’s angelic voice made me wince. Best not to linger. Best to face it now, all at once.

The smell of musty books tickled my nose as I pulled in a breath big enough to push out the unpleasant words. “I don’t have three thousand dollars.”

Silence.

In agony, I lifted my eyes to the face of my grandmother’s former-nemesis-turned-trusted-friend. No shock registered on Mrs. Swan’s face. “Whatever amount you have, dear, will be appreciated all the same. Isn’t that right, Ava?”

My shoulders sagged. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t have any of it. Nothing.” I opened my empty pocketbook. “I thought Father would give it to me. He wouldn’t. Then I tried raising the funds myself, but—” My voice faltered. I stopped, steadied it. “But I kept giving the money away. To meet other needs in our town.”

Mrs. Swan’s lips twitched. Almost as if she were holding back a laugh.

“Then I—” My voice lowered. “Then I earned some money. In a race.” I held my breath in an effort to diffuse the sting of their displeasure.

Pastor Swan’s eyebrows shot upward. “You bet on a horse race?”

“No!” I gasped out, head shaking, curls bouncing. “I’d never gamble!”

“Oh.” Pastor Swan and Mr. McConnell looked visibly relieved.

I swallowed, reminded myself that I drove my car around town all the time and no one minded. Much. Only the venue had changed.

“I earned the money driving in an auto race. At Speedway Park in Chicago. Then in Cincinnati. And Indianapolis.” There. I’d said it all.

Mr. McConnell’s eyes stretched wide. “You raced against Dario Resta?”

Now my lips twitched. I pressed them together, demanding sternness. “Yes.”

His eyebrows lifted. “And how did you fare?”

This time I couldn’t quell my smirk. “Not well enough.”

Mr. McConnell’s laugh shook the room. I reached for the wall as my knees quaked with the vibration. Ava McConnell leaned toward me, a twinkle of humor in her eyes. “But what happened to the money, Miss Benson? You did say you won some?”

Her words sobered me in an instant. “I earned some for driving. Unfortunately, the money was stolen from me just before the race at Indianapolis.”

Mr. McConnell’s gaze took in my limp sleeve and the half-healed cut on my face. “And you crashed at Indianapolis.”

My mouth dropped open.

He nodded at my sleeve. “Even missionaries read the newspapers, Miss Benson. And since auto racing fascinates me, I read the accounts of it in particular. Though I would never have taken you for Albert Butler.”

I cringed.

“By the way, how is your mechanic? The last I read, he remained unconscious.”

“Much better, thank you.”

Mrs. Swan looked at her husband. He cleared his throat.

“You knew all along?” I thought of the Swans helping Webster back to our house.

“Not the whole story, certainly,” Pastor Swan said. “We knew Mr. Little had been injured at the Motor Speedway in Indianapolis. As for you, your father left the details sketchy at best. I might never have suspected if I hadn’t seen your Packard tearing up the roads around town on occasion.”

I grinned. Gooseflesh pricked my arms and legs, but not from fear. From the unexpected wonder of forgiveness and grace. However, I had no illusions that everyone in the congregation would be so kind.

Ava reached for my hand. “The Lord will provide for us. Don’t you worry.” She glanced back at her husband, his face still transformed by awe over all I’d done. “And my guess is you’ve given my husband and me some much needed joy—both by your unusual story and by your generous heart.”

I squatted beside her chair, looked into the serenity of her face. “But the children . . . I wanted so much to help them.”

She laid her hand on my cheek. “And you will, Alyce. I believe that. But right at this moment, the Lord has more important work for you.”

My heart raced. “What work?”

“The work of character. Of surrendering your pride to His loving hands. Allowing Him to mold and shape you in His way, not yours.”

Her words soothed my soul with a peace deeper than I’d ever known. I let my empty handbag slide to the floor and clasped her fingers in mine. “I’m ready.”

 39 

T
he Swans and the McConnells prayed for me before we made our way into the half-filled sanctuary. Mrs. Tillman, swathed in blue, barreled in my direction, as unstoppable as a touring car on snow-slick roads. I retreated to the outer wall, pulled my duster around my sling-clad arm, and pretended to be looking for someone.

Muscles tense, I waited for her to swoop in and start interrogating me. But she never arrived. I glanced over my shoulder. Mrs. Swan and Ava McConnell stood between us, engaging her in conversation until organ notes resounded in a call to worship.

After Mrs. Tillman returned to her pew on the opposite side of the room, I slipped into the space between Mr. and Mrs. McConnell on the front row. Ava held my hand as we focused our attention on Pastor Swan.

“Today we will be giving John and Ava McConnell a generous send-off as they return to their work in West Africa. At the end of our service, we will take up a special offering and pray for them. But first, Miss Benson has something she’d like to say to you all.”

I rose, knees unsteady but heart determined. When I reached Pastor Swan’s side, he anchored me with his arm about my waist. Even if my earthly father couldn’t understand this part of my life, God had given me a spiritual father to uphold me in his stead.

Familiar faces stared up in expectancy, followed by bewilderment. I followed their stares to the limp sleeve of my duster. With as much grace as I could muster, I unbuttoned the coat and slipped my right arm free. Murmurs and gasps of dismay littered the room as Mrs. Swan took my wrap and sat back down. I filled my lungs and emptied them again, praying for the strength to say it all.

“Most of you sat in these same seats seven short weeks ago, when Mr. McConnell stirred our hearts with stories of their work. His words and pictures burned in me a desire for the African people to know Christ. So I committed three thousand dollars toward their mission—and encouraged you all to join together and do the same.”

My heart pumped with more speed than Dario Resta’s Peugeot while inadequacy and humiliation bore down on me like racers eager for the finish line. I glanced down at Mrs. Swan. She nodded, smiled. With a final push, the words tumbled from my mouth. “I stand before you today with empty hands.”

A buzz of astonishment swept through the sanctuary as my chin met my chest. I stared at the floor for a few moments before raising my head, determined to accept their expressions of disgust.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I committed money that was not mine to give. After I raised a portion of the funds, I—”

“Her compassionate heart took over.” Pastor Swan’s voice filled the room. “She heard of needs in our own community and wanted to help. Did help. Though she ought to have consulted with those who had donated before making that decision.”

Words cloaked in gentleness, but I felt their censure all the same. And I reflected that my actions, however well intentioned, appeared too much like Lawrence Trotter’s than I cared to acknowledge. My gaze landed on Lucinda, wearing one of my old dresses, seated next to Mr. Morgan. She nodded, wiped a tear from her cheek. Teresa sat peacefully in her arms, and I smiled. Then a blur of robin’s-egg-blue silk darted toward the platform.

My stomach clenched, but I refused to shrink back. “Mrs. Tillman, I do hope you and all the members of the Women’s Mission Auxiliary will forgive me for not fulfilling my obligation.”

Mrs. Tillman stopped so fast she almost reeled backward. She blinked as if I’d struck out at her instead of spoken words of humble repentance. “Of course you’re forgiven,” she stammered. Then her usual authoritative tone returned. “I wanted you to present this quilt to Mr. and Mrs. McConnell.” She looked down at the folds of fabric filling her arms and then at the sling that hung from my shoulder. “But I guess you’ll need some help to do that.”

She unfurled the patchwork quilt. The congregation gasped. Names stitched in colored thread wound through the entire design, culminating in an outline of Africa stitched in the center,
Alyce Benson
emblazoned across the continent in letters twice as large as the rest. My cheeks burned.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered again.

“Whatever for?” Mrs. Tillman motioned Mrs. Swan up to the front. Together they held it open and aloft. “Go on now, Alyce. Make the presentation.”

I swallowed down my own emotion. “Mr. and Mrs. McConnell, the Women’s Mission Auxiliary of Langston wishes to extend to you the fruits of our labor. Between bake sales and suppers and the donations of generous members, we wish to present to you this quilt in commemoration of those who sacrificed for the cause of Christ.”

“And three thousand twenty-six dollars and fifteen cents.” Mrs. Tillman’s face lit as brightly as an Edison light bulb in a dark room.

Faces young and old reflected the awe I felt—awe that God would allow our small congregation to participate in His work in such a big way.

The McConnells stepped forward, Ava weeping with abandon. A man’s voice rose from the back of the room. “Could we take that offering now, Pastor?”

“Offering? I think that’s a fine idea.” Pastor Swan motioned for the deacons to pass the plates. I stumbled back to my seat, thankful for the Lord’s provision for my friends, even if it didn’t come through me as I’d hoped.

Organ notes rose and fell with intensity, but as the final sounds faded, the squeak of rubber on hard floor caught my attention. I turned.

Webster was sitting in a wheelchair, his plastered leg propped up in front, Mother and Father walking behind.

My body refused to obey my commands.

“Did I hear the collection plates are being passed already, Pastor?” Webster’s strong voice carried across the stunned silence. “Because I have something to put in.”

He laid a white envelope on top of the bits of cash already inside the plate.

I sucked in a trembling breath. Webster lured my gaze to his. My hand gripped Ava’s until I felt sure the bones in her hand would snap.

“May I?” He motioned to the front pew. I nodded. Father parked the chair in the aisle, and he and Mother took a seat in the pew behind us.

Pastor Swan remained open-mouthed on the platform. Clearly they’d not prepared him for such an incident in seminary. Finally, he gave a slow nod to the deacon holding the offering plate. The man slipped behind the sanctuary, into the pastor’s office, I assumed. I turned my attention back to Pastor Swan. Standing behind the pulpit, he found his composure again.

He opened his Bible and began to preach. But while his words reached my ears, they penetrated no farther. Instead, I kept sneaking sideways glances at Webster from beneath my lashes. My fingers twisted in my lap while my legs tingled with the need to move, and my mouth twitched to spill out the swirl of questions in my head.

After what seemed ages, the rustle of the congregation alerted me to the end of the sermon. The prayer ended. The deacon reappeared, surrendering a fat envelope into the Pastor’s outstretched hand.

Pastor Swan looked down. Cleared his throat. When he raised his head, his eyes were glistening with unshed tears. I held my breath as he motioned John and Ava McConnell to join him up front. He handed the envelope to Mr. McConnell.

A grin transformed Pastor Swan’s wrinkled face into a picture of pure joy as he slapped a hand on Mr. McConnell’s back. “Combining the Women’s Mission Auxiliary’s gracious contribution and the generous offerings of this morning, Langston Memorial Church is pleased to present to you all that God has provided for your work in the Gold Coast. Six thousand, six hundred forty-two dollars and twenty-four cents.”

Mrs. Swan handed me a handkerchief before she wrapped her thin arms around me, guiding my head to her shoulder and telling me it was okay to cry. They were tears of joy, to be sure, joy and gratitude for the Lord’s mysterious ways. When I finally composed myself, I noticed Webster’s chair no longer rested at the end of the pew. I looked around and saw that Mrs. Swan and I were almost alone in the sanctuary.

“I’m sorry.” I blew my nose once more. “I’ll return this to you when I’ve washed it.”

Mrs. Swan chuckled. “I’m not concerned about a scrap of cloth, Alyce. I’m concerned about you.” With a gentle whisk of her fingers, she pushed one of my curls from my face. “Why don’t you join your parents and that nice young man? I believe they came here today for your sake.”

I nodded, studying the delicately embroidered edge of the handkerchief. Small purple flowers on a vine of green.
I am the vine, ye are the branches
came quickly to mind. A branch accomplished nothing on its own power, but when connected to the vine, it produced the fruit or flower it was created to provide. My job was to abide and let the Vine do its work.

“Miss Benson.” Mrs. Tillman’s prim voice stiffened my spine. In spite of her graciousness to me in front of the congregation, I feared a scolding remained to be endured.

I turned. Her gaze swept over my immobile arm, and her eyes softened.

“I apologize again, Mrs. Tillman. Especially since you made my name such a focal point on the quilt.” I tensed, waiting for the smack of her words.

“I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, Miss Benson.” She fidgeted with the purse hanging from her arm. “But I have to admit, your pledge, however rash, stirred the rest of us to action. And in the end, I do realize that your desire is the same as mine—to send the gospel into all the world.” She sniffed as if the admission had cost her dearly.

“As it stands, Miss Benson, you are welcome to continue to be a part of the Women’s Mission Auxiliary. In case you wondered.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tillman. I appreciate your consideration, both now and in front of the church this morning.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment before darting up the sun-drenched aisle.

A few parishioners lingered in the yard as Mrs. Swan and I stepped outside. Webster stood propped against the trunk of a large tree while Father and Mr. McConnell strapped his chair to the back of my Packard. Lucinda’s face danced with excitement as she jiggled Teresa into silence.

Eyes trained on Webster’s face, I stumbled over the sprawling roots of the tree and tumbled into Webster’s arms. He tilted. Mr. McConnell caught his arm, held him until he found his balance again.

Mr. McConnell stepped away, and Webster grinned at me. “I’ve been hoping to hold you in my arms.”

“I’m sure you shouldn’t even be out of bed yet,” I said, moving from his grasp, letting him anchor himself steady against the tree once again.

A slight bend at the waist brought his face closer to mine. “When your father told me where you’d gone, I knew I didn’t want you to face it alone. I just wish we’d have arrived sooner. I’m sorry.” The backs of his fingers grazed the side of my face. I wanted to catch them, hold them. But not in front of all these people.

Father cleared his throat. Webster’s arm fell back to the tree trunk as I forced my gaze to Father’s face. He looked as giddy as a child with a bag full of sweets. “You’ll never believe it, Ally girl.”

“Believe what?” Hope sprang into my heart. Had the Lord answered Grandmother’s and my long-standing prayer?

“I have a new business partner.” Father beamed as he landed a light clap on Webster’s shoulder.