The Widow's Choice (10 page)

“No, he just wanted to make Christmas extra special for you boys.”

“He must be rich!” Carl exclaimed. “This stuff costs a lot of money.”

“You’ll have to tell him how much you appreciate it.”

“We will,” Tim said. “Do you think we don’t have any manners?”

Alona laughed. “I know you have very good manners. I was just reminding you. Now, let’s clean up this mess and then you can look at your new things. Zac, you can go out and shoot tin cans. I’ve been saving some for you.”

The boys were thrilled at this, and after they cleaned up all the paper, Alona watched them enjoying their presents, thinking of Oscar Moran with a warm feeling. And then she thought about another man who was quite different from Oscar—Raymond Atwood. She had put all fears of him out of her mind for the last couple of days, but now she knew that the holiday was over and it was back to work, and a dread came over her as she realized that Atwood was not going to change.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jason Lends a Hand

The woodbox beside the cookstove was practically empty, holding only two rather small chunks of white oak firewood. Carl and Zac were sick with some sort of virus that was going around town, and Tim was going to stay home to look after his brothers. Alona had managed to cook breakfast but knew someone would need to chop wood later on. The first week of 1941 had been bitterly cold. Six inches of snow covered the ground, and every morning for the first six days of the year frost had coated the windows.

The boys were all in the living room, with Zac and Carl each covered with a blanket and curled up in a ball on opposite ends of the sofa. “Get plenty of rest, boys. I’ve left sandwiches for lunch.” She left the house and shivered as she walked to work wearing a coat that was too thin for the unseasonably cold temperature.

She made her way toward the factory, which was a walk of a little over a mile. On her way, she noticed how beautiful the icicles were that hung down from the eaves of the houses—like crystal daggers reflecting the reddish rays of the morning sun. She passed by the birdfeeders that a neighbor kept well supplied with scraps and seed and noticed that the few birds that had gathered were puffy and moved slowly in the cold. Most of the colorful birds had already flown farther south, but the male cardinal made a brilliant red splash against the white background as he pecked at the sunflower seeds. Alona stopped and watched for a moment to see if he would perform
the ritual she so delighted in. He picked up a sunflower seed, cracked it, and then hopped across to the female cardinal dressed in brown with none of the male’s showy crimson. She opened her mouth, and he shoved the seed in. The act never ceased to delight Alona. “That’s a good husband,” she whispered. “Go at it, boy.” She watched for a moment as he fed the female before hurrying on toward the factory.

She had made it a habit of going to work early, in order to have a few moments of quiet to pray, and the place was virtually empty when she arrived. She welcomed the warmer air inside and went into the cloakroom, where she hung her coat and hat and took off her galoshes. As she turned to leave the cloakroom, the doorway was filled with the ominous presence of Raymond Atwood.

“Good morning, Mr. Atwood.”

He took a step forward. The cloakroom was small, and the large man towered over her. “I’ve told you a hundred times you can call me Ray.”

“All right. I’ll try to remember that.” She started to move forward, but before she could, Atwood reached out and grabbed her, catching her off guard, and planted a kiss on her lips. He was a strong man, and she struggled futilely, turning her head aside to avoid his lips. “Please let me go!”

“Oh, come on. You’re a good-looking woman in the prime of life. You’ve been married, and you know what it’s like. What do you want to be so standoffish for?”

“This isn’t right, Mr. Atwood. Please don’t ask me to do anything that’s wrong.”

“I got a wife that pays no attention to me and won’t have anything to do with me in bed. I figure that gives me the right to find affection somewhere else. Look, you’ve been struggling with those boys of yours. Why don’t you let me help you? I can double your salary. You can do the same work. You and me can go away for weekends sometimes.”

“I couldn’t do anything like that. Please let me go!”

Atwood’s grip only tightened. Alona managed to get one
arm free and slapped his face. The blow made a meaty sound, and she saw the imprint of her hand on his cheek.

He cursed but let her go. “You’re so holy, ain’t ya?” he sneered. “Well, you may be too holy to work around here. You think about what I’m telling ya. I’ll give you the rest of the week to think about it. If you don’t like my terms, you can go find a job somewhere else.” He turned and left the room.

Alona stood for a moment, still shocked by the encounter. Fear came over her at the thought of losing her job, for the Depression was still bitter hard. There were still soup lines in the big cities and hobos roaming the countryside asking for food and work.

She took a deep breath and bowed her head.
Lord, you know I want to be what you want me to be, and this man wants me to do an evil thing. I don’t have any other help but you, Lord, so I’m asking you to give me the courage to do the right thing.
She stood there for a moment battling the thoughts of how she would provide for her family if she lost this job, but even as she prayed, she knew she had no choice.

She put her coat back on, along with her hat and galoshes, and went to the large room where the radio parts were assembled, stopped at her worktable, and picked up the few things she had there. Resolutely she walked to Atwood’s office, which was at the far end of the assembly area. Without knocking she stepped inside. Atwood was sitting at his desk and looked up with surprise. He got up at once with a grin on his face.

“I reckon you’ve decided to be smart.”

“I’ve decided to quit. Pay me what you owe me, Mr. Atwood.”

For a moment Atwood stared at her in disbelief and then his lips drew together in a pale line. “All right,” he said. “But don’t come crawling back when you can’t get work.” He went across the room, opened a small safe, and took out the cash box. “There. I’m paying you for the rest of the week. It shows I’ve got the right kind of spirit.”

Alona took the money without counting it and put it into her purse. “I appreciate the work you gave me. Good-bye.” She turned and closed the door and walked steadily toward the entrance. As she approached the door, her friend Mary Alworth was coming in.

“Hello, Alona. You just get here?”

“I just quit, Mary. It’s been good to work with you.”

Mary, a tall woman with worn features, stared at her. “You’re doing the right thing, Alona. This is no place for a woman like you, not with a man like that around.” She reached out her hands and Alona took them. “I’ll be thinking about you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. Good-bye, Mary,” Alona said briefly and then left the building. As she walked home, she felt empty and drained. Fear was knocking at the door, and she knew that if she allowed herself to dwell on it, it would only get worse. She held her head up and began humming one of the hymns the choir was rehearsing for the coming Sunday.

Arriving at the house, she went in, and the boys all stared at her. “What’s wrong, Mom?” Tim asked. “Are you sick?”

“No. I quit.” She told them nothing about Atwood, but went on, “I need another job, so we’ll pray for that.”

“That’s good, Mom,” Carl said. “Now you can stay home and bake cookies more often.”

She ruffled his hair. “You’re always thinking about food, aren’t you?”

He grinned but then started coughing.

“Tim, since I’ll be home today, you can go ahead and go to school. If you walk quickly, you’ll only be a few minutes late.”

After he left, she put on her older work clothes and then went out and managed to split enough wood to get the fire going. It was hard work for her, but it gave her an opportunity to diffuse some of her anger and spend some time praying. “Lord, you probably get tired of hearing me ask you for help, but I’ve got nobody else to ask. Please provide for me and for my boys, Lord. That’s what I would ask of you today.”

****

Jason Moran stood in front of his half brother silently. Oscar’s face was red, and his voice was raised in anger. “Can’t you do
anything
right?” Oscar almost shouted. “I depended on you to take care of getting that work done for the Adams account and it’s not done! You’re like a child! I can’t trust you to do anything.”

Jason had learned long ago not to interrupt Oscar when he was in one of his fits of anger. They came rarely, but when he was crossed or when one of his workers disappointed him, the rage flared up in him. Jason met Oscar’s eyes, and suddenly he saw something change in his brother’s face.

“What’s the matter, Oscar?”

His brother had stopped speaking, and his face began changing. Pain etched its way across the set of his lips, and his color faded so abruptly that Jason was alarmed. “What’s the matter?” he asked, quickly stepping forward. “Are you in pain?”

Oscar reached across with his right arm to rub his left forearm. He looked down at his left hand and flexed the fingers, still saying nothing, but his face was becoming pasty pale.

“Here, sit down, Oscar.” Jason guided his brother to a chair and sat him down, bending over him anxiously. “I’d better go get Dr. Roberts.”

“No,” Oscar wheezed, struggling for breath. His right hand went to his chest and he kneaded the flesh. “I’ll be all right. These things pass away.”

“Don’t be foolish! Something’s wrong. It’s your heart again.”

“All I need . . . is to be quiet. I’ll talk to Dr. Roberts later.” Jason stood there uncertainly. Oscar was a difficult man, but he himself was difficult. The two of them had always been different in appearance as well as in behavior. Oscar took after their father, inheriting his short stature and bulky muscles, along with his fiery temper. Jason’s mother, Karen,
had been a tall, willowy woman with auburn hair and light blue eyes, which Jason had inherited. No one ever took them for brothers, for physically they had nothing in common.

As Jason stood beside his half brother, waiting for the spell to pass, watching him carefully and ready to run for the doctor, he thought about how different they were on the inside. Jason was accustomed to thinking of his older half brother more as a father, for Oscar had raised him after Jason’s mother died. It had been a hard struggle, and Jason would always be grateful, for he would have been in an orphanage if it had not been for Oscar. But he himself was so different temperamentally. He naturally had a light spirit, whereas Oscar was a sober man, even gloomy at times. Jason had early shown a love for having fun, which Oscar had tried to suppress. This particular trait had caused Jason to get into many difficulties as a teenager, but Oscar had always been there, ready to take him back, although not without sermonizing.

“I still think I’d better go get Dr. Roberts, or let me take you to his office if you won’t let me bring him here.”

Oscar was breathing more easily now. “Just leave me alone for fifteen minutes.” He took a bottle of pills out of his desk and put one under his tongue. “I’ll be all right. These pills help a lot.”

“You really should go home and get some rest.”

“And who would take over here if I did? You certainly couldn’t do it.”

“Fred’s a good man. He knows everything about the business.”

But Oscar’s stubborn spirit showed in the set of his chin. He sat in his chair, taking deep breaths and still rubbing his chest. “It’s going away now. I’ll be all right.” He took a slow, deep breath. “You’re not any good around here, Jason, so I’ve got another task for you.”

****

“Don’t try to talk. I can’t take your temperature if you won’t be quiet.”

Zac Jennings had great difficulty staying quiet even long enough to get his temperature taken. And his occasional coughing spells didn’t help the situation either. He was propped up on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, as was Carl on the other end of the couch.

Zac waited impatiently until his mother took the thermometer out of his mouth and then piped up at once. “Mom, Carl was makin’ faces at me while you were taking my temperature.”

“Don’t look at him, then.”

“I have to!” Zac responded.

“No you don’t.” Alona looked at the thermometer and shook her head. “You’ve still got a fever. How do you feel?”

“I feel rotten.” He started coughing.

“Well, you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday!” Zac snapped with irritation after he finally stopped coughing.

Alona almost bit her tongue to keep from snapping back. “I’m going to go out and get some more wood. You boys can listen to the radio.”

“I get to pick what we listen to!” Zac said at once. “I’m the sickest.”

“No you ain’t! I’m the sickest!” Carl said.

“You’ll have to take turns. It’s ten o’clock. You can pick the station for an hour, Zac.”

“I want to be first,” Carl said.

“You can be second. Every hour you can switch turns, but you’ve got to be still and get plenty of rest.”