The Widow's Choice (21 page)

Despite Tim’s secret activities, the summer was miserable for him. He had stopped speaking to Oscar except when spoken to, and the warfare between the two seemed unending. Alona tried to get Tim to modify his attitude toward his stepfather, but he found no reason to do so.

Once during the height of summer he was sitting with his mother in the back yard under the arbor when a large flock of crows flew over. “Mom, do you remember what Dad always said about crows?”

“Yes. He said when you see large numbers of crows in the summer it’s a raincrow summer.”

“And he said a raincrow summer meant something bad was going to happen.”

“That’s just an old superstition, Tim.”

“I’m not so sure about that. It was a raincrow summer just before Dad died. Maybe something else bad is going to happen this year.”

Alona leaned over and put her arm around Tim. “We’re not going to believe that old wives’ tale. Put it out of your mind.” Despite her brave words, she could not watch the crows without a twinge of fear.

****

Finally the summer dragged itself out, and Tim was actually excited for school to start again. One day during the first week of school, he hurried home to read a new book about painting he had checked out of the library. His brothers had gone to play baseball in the park.

Tim walked along the broad street that led to Oscar’s house. He never thought of it as his house or his mother’s house but always Oscar’s house. He was almost past a large brick house with an enormous yard, and even a barn out back, when he heard his name being called. Turning, he saw Helen Arnette inside the fenced yard, playing with a large German shepherd. Tim stopped and said, “Did you call me?”

“Yes. Come here.”

He walked over to the gate opposite Helen. She was, without a doubt, the most popular girl in his school, and probably the prettiest as well, with pretty blond hair and blue eyes. Tim was surprised she even knew his name. There was a small group of students from well-to-do families that hung out together, and Tim never expected to be invited into that group.

“Hi, Tim.” Helen smiled. “How do you like my dog? His name’s Chip.”

“He looks like Rin Tin Tin, the dog in the movies.”

“He does, doesn’t he? He’s supposed to be a guard dog, but he’s nothing but a pushover.” She patted Chip’s head, and he licked her hand, then reared up on the fence. Tim reached out his hand tentatively and stroked the big dog’s head. “We’ve got a collie named Buddy.”

“Does he look like Lassie?”

“Sure does. He’s a beautiful dog, but he’s a little sensitive.”

“What do you mean sensitive?”

“I mean if you scold him, he goes off and pouts.”

Helen laughed. She had a nice laugh, and her eyes sparkled. “It’s hard to believe that a dog would pout. What does he do? How can you tell?”

“Oh, it’s easy enough to tell. If he’s in the house, he goes to a corner, flops down, and sticks his nose in the corner of the wall. He doesn’t move until we go over and make a fuss over him.”

“I think that’s funny. I never knew a dog could be sensitive like that. You’re not, are you, Chip?” She ruffled the dog’s head. “Why don’t you come in? Mom just made some cookies.”

Tim was surprised at the invitation but quickly said, “That’d be keen! I love cookies. My mom makes the best in the world.”

“No she doesn’t. Mine does. When you have one, you’ll see.”

Tim followed Helen into the house. “You smell that?” she asked as they stepped inside.

“I sure do.”

“Mom’s probably still in the kitchen.”

Tim followed Helen down a long hallway. It was a big house, and he couldn’t believe the number of paintings on the walls. “You’ve got lots of paintings,” he remarked.

“Oh, my mother loves art—especially paintings.”

Tim paused to examine one of the paintings. “Why, this is an original—not a print.”

“My mother won’t have a print in the house. She likes the real thing. She painted that one herself.”

Tim stared at her incredulously. “She did? That’s wonderful!”

“You can tell her that.” Helen smiled. “She goes to art shows all the time. Come on.”

The large kitchen that Tim stepped into behind Helen was flooded with pale sunlight. The woman who stood at the counter removing warm cookies from a cookie sheet was very attractive. He had seen her before at school events.

“Mother, this is Tim Jennings.”

“How are you, Tim?” Mrs. Arnette said. She had hair as
blond as her daughter’s and the same bright blue eyes. “I’ll bet you don’t like cookies.”

“Oh yes, ma’am, I do!”

“Why don’t you sit down and have a few. Are you in the same grade as Helen?”

“No, ma’am. Helen’s a year ahead of me.”

“I hear Tim makes straight A’s in history. I’m going to get him to do my homework for me in exchange for all the cookies you’re going to give him.”

“But I didn’t say that!” he protested.

“You be careful, Tim,” Mrs. Arnette said. “She’ll wrap you around her little finger just like she does her dad. Here, try a couple of these.” Tim took the plate of chocolate chip cookies and bit off half of one. “Hey, this is really good, Mrs. Arnette.”

“Thanks, but anybody can make chocolate chip cookies.” She checked on the cookies still in the oven. “I met your mother at a PTA meeting. I see where you get your good looks from.”

Tim flushed and could not think of an answer.

“Look, Mom, he’s blushing!” Helen laughed.

“I think that’s a good sign. It shows modesty—of which you could use some, young lady.”

Tim shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth to keep from having to speak. He was almost tongue-tied in the presence of this beautiful and intimidating girl. Tim’s poverty-stricken background still made him very uneasy in an affluent home like this, and he felt self-conscious around wealthy people. He knew that Mr. Arnette was president of the First National Bank, so money was obviously no problem for this family.

Tim ate so many cookies he was ashamed of himself, but Mrs. Arnette only laughed at him. “You’ll have to take some of them home with you if you like them that much, Tim. I made way too many.”

“Tim liked your painting,” Helen told her mother, sipping her milk and leaving a thin white mustache on her upper lip.

“Wipe your lip, Helen,” Mrs. Arnette said, then turned to Tim. “I thought I’d be a professional painter at one time, but it didn’t work out that way.”

“Gosh, that painting I saw in the hall is just beautiful!” He took a sip of milk. “I wish I could learn to paint like that.”

“Do you do some painting?” Mrs. Arnette asked.

“I try. I’ve never had a class, but Jason, my stepfather’s brother, has helped me a lot.”

“I never knew Jason was a painter.”

“He told me he gave it up. He said he didn’t have the talent, but I saw some of his things, and I thought they were good.”

“Would you like to see some of the other paintings in my collection?”

“I sure would.” To his delight, Tim discovered that Mrs. Arnette had a great many paintings she had bought that were not on display. She talked about them, explaining the schools and the techniques, and Tim was enthralled. He fired question after question about them.

“Would you like to see my studio?”

“Aw, Mom, he doesn’t want to see your old paintings.”

“Yes I do!” Tim said quickly.

“Maybe you’d better go do your homework while Tim and I talk about painting,” Mrs. Arnette said, winking at Tim.

Helen rolled her eyes and followed the two as they went upstairs to a room with skylights that let sunlight flood the room. It was a messy room, and the walls were covered with paintings. There were canvases stacked against the wall, and she showed him the painting she was presently working on. It was a watercolor painting of the city hall, and Tim was awed. “It looks exactly like city hall!”

“Well, not exactly like it. Paintings shouldn’t be identical to the object.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not. If you want it to be exactly the same,
you take a picture of it. You’ll notice that this one is painted a little after sundown. I wanted to paint it at dusk, because the lighting is so interesting then. You’ll notice I’ve got several bats up here flitting around. I think they roost in the top of the old courthouse.”

Tim listened entranced. “I’ve never met a real artist before, Mrs. Arnette. Jason was going to take me to meet a friend of his who’s an artist, but it turned out the man was in Canada all summer.”

“That’s too bad. I know you would have enjoyed that. Anyway, I like to dabble with paints, but I don’t consider myself a real artist. I chose to get married instead, and now I’ve got three children. But I still paint quite a bit when I can get to it.” She gave Tim an odd look and said, “Do your parents encourage you in your painting?”

He could not think clearly for a moment and tried to frame an answer. “My mom does, but my stepfather doesn’t think painting is something worth spending my time on. He wants me to study science and math and stuff like that.”

“Well, stuff like that is useful. But so is painting. I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you come by some afternoon after school and bring some of the things you’ve done? Maybe I can give you a few pointers, although I’m not a teacher.”

“Gosh, that would be wonderful, Mrs. Arnette!” Tim exclaimed. “But it would be too much trouble.”

“No it wouldn’t be. I think it would be fun.”

Tim smiled broadly. “I’d really like that.”

Helen had been trailing behind the two, not saying anything. Now she spoke up. “Come on, Tim. I’ve got some homework you can help me with. You and Mom can talk about painting anytime.”

He followed Helen down to the dining room table, where her books were spread out, and for the next half hour he helped her with her history lesson. His thoughts were not on history, though, but on the paintings and drawings he would bring over to let Helen’s mother see.

****

After the ball game Zac and Carl headed toward the foundry, where Oscar was waiting to show the boys around. “Come on, Carl,” he said when he saw his brother hanging back.

Carl kicked the dirt and stood his ground. “I don’t wanna see the stupid ol’ foundry again. I’m goin’ home.”

Zac shrugged. “Suit yourself. Mr. Oscar promised to show us around the whole place this time.”

“Sounds boring to me. I got better things to do.”

“Go on home, then. Mind your own taters.”

Carl went on his way and Zac went into the foundry and to Oscar’s office.

Oscar smiled broadly at his stepson. “Well, Zac, did you win the ball game?”

“Nah, we lost. But I don’t care.”

“Where’s your brother? I thought he was coming too.”

“He said he had other stuff to do.”

Oscar chuckled. “I can understand that, but I’m sure glad you made it. I’ll show you the whole business.”

It turned out to be a long tour because Zac fired question after question at his stepfather. Oscar was immensely pleased at this and explained everything slowly and carefully, introducing Zac to some of the workers and showing him exactly how the work was done.

When the two got back to the office, Zac said, “Gee, Mr. Oscar, that was great! You sure have to be smart to run a foundry.”

“Well, it takes years to get a feel for the whole process. I think you may have a knack for it, Zac.”

“I like to do stuff with my hands. Maybe next summer I’ll be old enough for you to let me have a job.”

“You certainly will. And in the meantime, anytime you want, you come by. You can learn an awful lot just by watching.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”

“You don’t mind the noise and the dirt?”

“No, I don’t mind it a bit. It looks like fun to run some of those machines.”

Oscar laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll teach you the whole business, son. It’ll be fun for both of us.”

****

Later that night Oscar returned home from the deacons’ meeting and found Alona in the living room.

“That was a long meeting,” she remarked. “It’s nearly ten o’clock.”

He threw himself into a chair and shook his head. “We’re facing a serious problem.”

“Some kind of trouble at the church?”

Oscar sighed. “Well, I suppose you’ll hear about it sooner or later. It’s Leland Short.”

“What’s the problem with him?”

“He’s been having an affair with a woman in town—a low-class woman, I might add.”

“Why, that’s terrible! Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, it’s all out in the open. The woman’s husband caught them together and is making quite a stink. Of course we’re going to have to do something with Leland.”

Alona put down her book and asked quietly, “What will happen, Oscar?”

“He’s already been taken off the board of deacons. The question is what to do about him as a church member.”

“I feel so sorry for him. He seems like such a nice man. . . . And his poor wife.”

“We had a long discussion about it. It’s pretty certain he’ll be asked to leave the church.”

“Leave the church! Did the pastor make that suggestion?”

“No, as a matter of fact, he was against it. And the board of deacons was split almost down the middle.”

“What did you say, Oscar?”

“Why, I think you know. We can’t have an adulterer in our church, Alona. I’m surprised you would even ask.”

“But surely there’s got to be a better way. The poor man needs the church right now more than ever.”

“He should have thought of that before he took up with that woman,” Oscar said shortly. “I don’t like it, but we’ve got to have discipline in the church.”

Alona felt a twinge of anger. She wanted to speak but knew how sensitive Oscar was about being crossed.

“But the deacons can’t decide a thing like that, can they? Wouldn’t the whole church have to vote on it?”

“Yes, you’re right about that, but I feel sure the church will do the right thing.”

When she didn’t comment, Oscar asked, “What’s the matter?”

“I think we need to show kindness. Has Leland repented—apologized?”

“Oh yes . . . he broke it off with the woman, and he told the deacons he was contrite about it, but the fact is there. He’s guilty.”