At Every Turn (5 page)

My shoulders lifted and fell as the idling engine jiggled us. “How can I raise such an amount—and in only seven weeks?” I shook my head. “Father’s money is the only thing I have. I must find a way to convince him to give it.”

“Are you sure?”

Of course I was sure. My foot cramped on the brake. I put the car in gear, motored down the little path, and turned onto the main road. I oughtn’t to have expected more, I guessed. In the course of our two-year friendship, Webster had never mentioned God or attending church, though he’d never belittled my faith, either. He had no idea what it meant to obey the voice of the Lord. And yet he did seem to believe I could raise the money on my own.

The idea turned itself over in my head as we bounced up the drive beside the house and through the porte cochere. When we reached the garage, I pulled the handbrake, let the engine fall silent.

Webster unfolded himself from the car. “Leave it here. I’ll need to clean ’er up a bit.” His long legs carried him into the carriage house, out of sight.

The silence jarred, as unfamiliar as the new thoughts swirling around my head. Raise the funds myself. Was such a thing really possible? Behind the wheel of a motorcar, any goal seemed attainable. Just another challenge to meet.

Stripping off the coat and goggles, I returned them to the nail on the wall inside what used to be my pony’s stall. And I remembered. Every time I fell from that pony’s back, I brushed off my dress and climbed back on again. Was this really any different?

On my way back out into the light of day, I stopped beside the Packard. A girl couldn’t spend her entire life behind the wheel of a car with the wind in her face. Sometimes she had to move on the strength of her own two feet.

 5 

A
fter another quick wash of my face and hands and a change of clothes, I cajoled Betsy, the upstairs maid, into helping me maneuver Grandmother out of bed. With one of us on each side, we propped her upright. She weighed little more than a child. Either one of us might have carried her. But we both knew she’d hate that. Instead, she shuffled through the hall and down the stairs at a pace even a turtle would find tedious.

“Come now, Mrs. Benson, we’re almost there.” Betsy’s childlike voice belied her forty-plus years.

Grandmother grimaced but nodded. I winced to see the pain so clearly in her face. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

When we reached the dining room, her frail body relaxed into a chair, her hands searching for the table’s edge. I took Mother’s seat at the foot of the table rather than my usual place across from Grandmother.

“Thank you, Betsy.”

Grandmother’s head whipped toward the door, as if searching for the maid’s location. “Yes, dear. Bless you for your help.”

The woman bobbed a quick curtsy and returned to her work as Clarissa bustled in from the pantry, skirts swishing. She set a plate of delicate sandwiches before each of us, like the ones she served for Mother’s occasional card parties. Grandmother groped for Clarissa’s hand.

“Stay with us, dear, as we bless this good food.”

Clarissa’s face pinked, but she stayed. I bowed my head and dashed off a prayer.

Grandmother echoed my amen. “Thank you, Clarissa.” She squeezed Clarissa’s hand before letting her disappear into the kitchen.

My stomach suddenly felt as empty as a summer rain barrel. I finished off three small triangles of chicken salad slathered between slices of fresh-baked bread before Grandmother managed to eat even half of one. Without waiting, I dove into my saucer of fresh blackberries and sweet cream and almost licked it clean.

While Grandmother nibbled, I pushed my dishes away. “I talked to Father this morning.”

Her face brightened, then fell. “About the money?”

“Yes. It didn’t go very well.”

“I’m not surprised.” She took a long drink of the sweet lemonade beside her plate. I watched her feel the spot before setting the glass back down again. “I suppose you’ll just have to explain it to Pastor Swan. Such a shame. But I’m sure the Lord will still provide for His worthy servants.”

I fingered the rim of my own glass, staring at it as if it held every answer I longed for. “Maybe there’s another way.”

“Oh?” Her face turned toward me like a flower seeking the sun.

“I could raise the money myself.” I picked up my lemonade, let its coolness slip down my throat, which burned as if the words had scorched it on their way out. Grandmother’s face flickered through emotions, finally settling on excitement.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, Alyce. But what would you do? That is still a lot of money.”

“I could ask people to donate, of course.” I chewed on my lower lip. “Although they would have to be people who don’t attend our church.”

“That’s true. Any other ideas?”

Twirling a short curl around my finger, I remembered the list I’d given Mrs. Tillman. Bake sale. Quilting bee. Even a picnic, complete with lemonade for sale and games set up to play at five cents each. I couldn’t take back any of those ideas. Did I have anything else to offer?

My head involuntarily turned in the direction of the garage, even though I couldn’t see it from where I sat.

The only other thing I knew how to do was drive.

My back stiffened, and I sucked in a breath.

“What is it, dear?”

“I just thought of something. What if I hired out my services as a driver?”

Her mouth turned downward. “Like a chauffeur?”

“Yes. Or even a taxicab, like in Chicago.” I silently blessed Webster for watering the tiny seed that was now pushing through the ground of my mind and into the nurturing sunlight.

“I don’t think your father would care much for that idea.”

“Perhaps not. But he mentioned raising the money myself. I’d be acting on his instructions in the matter. Now if only I knew where to start . . .” My forehead crinkled as I demanded information from my brain.

“Start with your friends, dear.”

“Right.” Easier said than done. My few close friends in Chicago had no vast resources to seed my campaign. In spite of what Mother believed, I’d not befriended the society girls that came to my school to learn to run a household. I preferred the ones enrolled in domestic service courses. Hearty working girls. Friends who accepted me in spite of—not because of—my father’s success. Girls with whom I often attended the Moody Church.

I rolled my fork through my fingers. “The girls I knew in high school are mostly married now, with little ones to tend and not much money or time to spare.”

“That is true.” Grandmother picked up another tiny sandwich, but then set it down again without a taste. “I wish I had some money of my own to offer you. Isn’t there anyone else who would help?”

I pictured myself in town, sorting through faces as I would recipes while planning for a dinner party. One visage stopped me. Attentive. Concerned. Friendly.

Mr. Trotter.

He could help me advertise my driving services. After all, he and I shared a desire to see the gospel spread into all the world, did we not? Then again, he had seemed irritated with my pledge of money. Though perhaps he’d been offended because I hadn’t included him in my scheme right off.

“Mr. Trotter will help me.”

Grandmother’s expression relaxed as she wiped her fingers on a napkin before pressing it to her lips. “See? I knew you’d think of someone.” Her chair inched backward. “A lovely lunch, Ally, but I think I’m ready to rest now.”

She wobbled to her feet. I reached her side in an instant, holding her upright, calling for Betsy to help me guide her back up the stairs and into her bed—though with the renewed energy of a solid plan, I probably could have whisked her up the stairs all by myself.

Gathering three thousand dollars still seemed a far-fetched prospect to me, but if Grandmother and Webster thought I could do it, maybe I could. And if it turned out I’d gone motoring down the wrong road, I’d trust God to step in and change my direction.

As I completed my household duties, I jotted down a list of businessmen in town who might be willing to pay for the services of a car and driver. Then on Wednesday morning I rang Father’s office. But Mr. Trotter was out for the day. Replacing the earpiece on top of the wooden box, I pondered the options. Wait for his help or head out on my own? I scanned the list I held in my hand. Having Mr. Trotter’s support would certainly boost my credibility. Or would he just make me feel less alone? As Harry Benson’s only child, my name carried some weight in Langston. And the Lord would be with me, as well.

I charged upstairs and donned one of my more elegant costumes. A jacket-style dress with elbow-length sleeves and a feather-accented hat. At the last moment, I pinned Grandmother’s cameo on my chest. If I couldn’t employ her assistance, I could take some part of her with me.

The mirror confirmed my verdict. Feminine and refined, yet businesslike. Satisfied, I hurried to the garage and drove myself into town.

“What a generous heart you have, Mr. Morgan.” I folded the bills that added up to a two-hundred-dollar donation and deposited them in my handbag. “You are storing up for yourself treasures in heaven, I feel sure. And don’t forget, if you ever need to get somewhere in a hurry, just ring me up. Only fifty cents a mile and no hassle of driving your own motorcar.”

Mr. Morgan, attorney and much-sought-after widower, shook as he laughed, his hands finding their way into his pockets and jangling the coins hidden there. “Does your daddy know about all this?”

My eyes stretched open wide. “Which part?” I’d approached Mr. Morgan precisely because I knew he wouldn’t talk to my father. Mr. Morgan considered himself the most prominent man in town. Father considered himself the same. They’d circled around each other like two tomcats on the prowl ever since I could remember.

“Striking out into business on your own. And asking for money from me, of course.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Best to be honest. “No, sir, he doesn’t.”

Mr. Morgan’s striking blue eyes gleamed like Lake Michigan on a summer day. “You can be sure he’ll never hear about it from me.” Then he winked.

Warmth stole over my neck and face. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”
I think.

He led me into the reception area before retreating back into his private office, shutting the door behind him. I leaned my shoulder into the wall and blew out a long breath.

“Did you get what you came for?”

I whirled around. A woman not much older than I stood beside the small desk. Had she been there when I’d arrived?

“What I came for?” Then I noticed her hand extended between us. I shook it.

“Lucinda Bywater. We go to the same church.” The woman’s voice turned shy, so different from the commanding question that had arrested my attention.

“Oh. I recognize you.” And I did. Kind of.

Her lips curved upward, but more in a wince than a smile. “I’m not often in services. The baby’s a bit fussy most days.”

Baby. That’s where I’d seen her. Whisking a wailing infant from the church, walking it outside after the service had ended. The baby I often wished silent.

She seated herself behind the desk.

“Do you work here, Lucinda?”

She nodded. “I’m so grateful Papa insisted I take a few courses in Indianapolis after high school. I learned how to run the typewriter and the telephone. I’d never have a job like this otherwise.”

“But what about your baby?” I glanced behind the desk, expecting to see a pram with a napping child.

“She stays with Aunt LuAnn—my little boy does, too—at least until the other children get home from school.”

“Oh? How many children do you have?” Maybe she was older than I imagined.

“Four total. Two girls in school, my boy who’s three this year, and the baby, Teresa.”

“You and your husband must be proud of them.”

Her eyes took on the look of reflected light, shiny and bright. “Billy was right proud of his children.”

Was?
I swallowed hard, wanting to ask but not wanting to at the same time. I prayed she read the question in my eyes.