Cast a Road Before Me (12 page)

Mom hesitated. “I’m supposed to be at the Center that day, sweetie. Helping serve. You’re needed too. You know how many extra people we’ll have to feed.”

“Get somebody else to work!” I’d pouted. “We
never
do anything on holidays; you’re
always
volunteering. Why can’t we go just this once.”

I badgered Mom unmercifully, even calling Brenda Todd myself and asking if Mom could be replaced at Hope Center for the day. She’d given us her blessing. Mom had finally capitulated. If I’d been a little older and if I hadn’t been so selfishly excited, perhaps I’d have paid more attention to the anxiety lining Mom’s face when she said we’d go. Perhaps I’d have taken to heart her intimations over the years about her difficult childhood. Instead, I thought only of myself and my rose-colored dreams.

I dressed carefully that Thanksgiving day, wearing a pink dress, white tights, and my black dress shoes, shined to the hilt. The drive took only a couple hours, but it seemed an eternity. Full of anticipation, I watched cars whiz by the car window, pretending not to notice my mother’s unusual quiet.

“Jessie,” she said as we entered the city limits of Columbus, “you must be very, very good. Remember all the manners I’ve taught you. Compliment your grandmother on all her food. Speak only when spoken to, especially with your grandfather.
Don’t
give him any cause to get angry.”

“I won’t, Mom.” I looked at her impatiently, vaguely annoyed with her skittishness. This was a special day, and I wasn’t about to have my exuberance quashed. “Why are you so afraid he’s going to be mean?”

No answer.

“If he was mean to you, that was a long time ago. You’re grown up now. Things’ll be different, you’ll see. You’ll get along just fine, and we can keep coming back.”

Her lips curved into a wan smile. “I hope you’re right, Jessie. I really do.”

When we arrived, my grandma hugged me and told me how much she’d missed me. She said the last time I’d been at their house I was only two years old, and look what a beautiful young lady I’d grown into. She said my dress was lovely and how pretty my hair was. She was wearing a red-and-white-checked apron over a cream blouse and brown skirt. Her hair was gray, and she wore glasses. Her appearance was very much what I expected in a
grandma. My mother exchanged hugs with her, smiling, but there was a caution in the air that I couldn’t fathom.

“Where’s Dad?” Mom asked.

“Upstairs.” Her mother turned back to the counter and began cutting out dough for the rolls. “He’ll be down shortly.”

It was half an hour before my grandfather appeared. Eight years’ separation, and he couldn’t even get downstairs to say hello. I wondered about that. My mother was setting the dining room table when he entered the kitchen, and even from where I stood, stirring gravy on the stove, I could see the tension roll across her back.

“Hi, Dad,” she said through the dining room doorway, her voice unnaturally light.

“Hello, Marie.” He nodded to her, as if she were a distant relative. “And who’s this pretty girl?” he asked, chucking me under the chin. He eyed my face, my dress, a slight smile on his lips, as though he liked what he saw. I was glad—and relieved—that he was pleased with me.

The meal was all I’d hoped for. Turkey and dressing, thick gravy and sweet potatoes, rolls and cranberry sauce—all homemade. We were even going to have pumpkin pie afterwards, with all the whipped cream I’d want. I was on my best behavior while we ate, telling my grandmother how good everything was and being careful not to take more than I could hold. The conversation was stilted from the outset, with pauses in between. In the silence, our forks seemed to clink louder than usual against the plates, my grandfather swallowing his wine audibly. Every time he drained his glass, Grandma rose as if on cue to refill it. He drank most of the bottle.

The atmosphere around the table grew unsettling, fraught with some dismal expectancy I couldn’t quite discern. My mother sat ramrod straight as she ate, her eyes sliding toward me as I sat at the end of the table on her right. Grandpa was opposite me, on her left, and Grandma was across from my mother. Just before we’d sat down to eat, Grandma had taken off her apron. I’d complimented her on the lacy blouse she wore, and she’d thanked me.

The three adults spoke of people I didn’t know—longtime neighbors and friends. At first Grandpa’s comments about this or that person were only mildly derogatory. But the more he ate—and drank—the more caustic he became, leering in his contempt for whomever was mentioned. My grandmother’s opinions grew more scarce by the minute, until she only nodded, no matter what he said. I watched my mother’s fingers tighten around her fork, her shoulders brace. She looked as though she wanted to flee. I was sorry for her obvious discomfort and began to wish we hadn’t come.

My grandfather continued drinking, the corners of his mouth drawing down to his chin. His words became more vile. He uttered curses about various kids Mom had grown up with. Mom winced, upset that I had to hear such language, but said nothing. Systematically, methodically, she ate. Fork to mouth, fork to mouth. A fear stole over me as I watched her, until I had trouble swallowing. Then I was afraid of leaving food on my plate and forced myself to eat, my actions matching hers. Her father talked louder, now jeering his opinions on the governor of Ohio, the president, the nation. Mom kept her eyes on her plate.

The once-luscious smell of cooling pumpkin pies drifted in from the kitchen. I wondered if I’d be able to stomach a piece.

“Marie, you been mighty quiet,” Grandpa said suddenly, picking up his wine glass. “Tell us what you been doing with yourself.”

My mother forced a bite of stuffing down her throat. “I still have my job as a receptionist.”

“Had that job for years, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Almost ten.”

He grunted in disgust. “Don’t you think it’s time you did something better with your life? Answering other people’s phones all day, that’s a slave job.”

“Guess so.” My mother’s voice sounded almost childlike. “But it pays the bills.”

“Not that well, obviously.” He sniffed loudly as he speared a turkey leg. “One look at how your daughter’s dressed would tell you that.”

My lungs froze, my shoulders drawing inward. I felt as though I were shrinking. And dirty. My eyes raised to his face for a clue to his disdainful remark. I’d tried to look so pretty; he’d even
said
I was. What had I done to make him change his mind? And why was he being so vicious to my hardworking mother?

Mom’s face pinched. She did not look at me, but I knew the hurt she felt was more for me than herself. Her eyes remained on her plate. The sickening realization hit me that she’d known something like this was coming. What’s more, I realized that our presence at this hateful man’s table was my fault. I’d begged her to come; I’d pestered her and heaped guilt about our lack of relatives on her head. Now she was paying for my selfishness.

“So what else do you do?”

“No, Mom,”
I wanted to yell,
“don’t tell him about the Center! Don’t!”

She hesitated—and in that second of hesitation, the pain of her childhood opened itself before me. For in that one brief moment, I saw her frailty and fear as she scrambled for the most diffusing of answers. “I still volunteer at the homeless shelter,” she replied quietly. Further shadows played across her face. Then, with courage—or was it resignation?—she raised her eyes to his.

His lip curled. “Hanging around a bunch of dirty, worthless bums. That’s about what I’d expect from you.”

“They’re not worthless, Daddy; they’re just people in need.”

Her defense of the helpless leapt from her mouth of its own accord. She caught herself, the awareness of her mistake widening her eyes.

My grandfather’s neck thickened as he recoiled, his face hardening like granite. With lightning speed, his right hand whipped out, slapping my mother’s left cheek with a resounding
smack
. I gasped. Her head rebounded in my direction and hung there, tears springing to her eyes. Instantaneously, a large handprint screamed red upon her white skin.

“You think you’re such a goody-two-shoes,” he sneered. “Trying to make up for the rotten kid you always were. Well, hear this. You’ll
never
be good enough.”

Anger rose within me, so caustic, so acidic, that it burned my very lungs. I thought it would flow right out of me, sweeping me across that table so I could smack my grandfather silly. I pictured myself punching his ears and pulling his hair, screaming at him for what he’d done—just then and for years long past—to my mother. I felt my leg muscles tense to raise me from my chair, felt my face go hot. Then my mother looked at me. And I saw in her tear-filled eyes a warning, a
pleading
for me not to move.

“Oh, dear,” my grandmother tut-tutted mildly, playing with the buttons on her blouse, “look how you’ve gone and upset your father.”

I don’t remember actually driving away from that detestable house. I do know that we left quickly, the odor of uncut pumpkin pies now sour to my senses. I also remember bursting into tears. Crying and crying until my mother pulled over on a city street to calm me down.

“I
hate
him!” I exploded, smashing my fist against the window. “I wanna
kill
him; I wish he was
dead!”
She tried to hold me, but in my shame I pushed her away. “I’m sorry for asking to come, Mom; I’m so sorry,” I hiccuped, pulling her back. “It’s all my fault! We’re never going to come here again, you hear,
never!
And I don’t care what he says, you’re
good;
you’re the
best
person I know! You’re the best person on this whole
earth
, and I’ll never,
ever
let anybody say you’re not. Not
ever again!”

To this day, thinking of that afternoon stabs at my chest. By the time I was through telling Lee, searching vainly for words to capture the pain, I was crying. He pulled me close, his arm protectively around my shoulder.

“And you know the amazing part?” I sniffed against his shirt. “My mother, with her face still red and surely stinging, comforted
me
in that car, even while telling me with an incredible, quiet dignity that I should not be saying those things. That no matter what my grandfather had done, I had to look to my own actions. ‘Raise your hand to no one, Jessie,’ she told me. ‘Now you see the meaning of those words—because people giving in to violence are always at their worst.
It hurts the innocent. And when you give back the same, you’ve only sunk to their level.’” I pulled away from Lee, reaching for a napkin to wipe my face. “Can you believe that, Lee? Even in her own hurt, she wouldn’t allow me—or herself—to be vindictive.”

He nodded, his expression grave. “She must have been a wonderful woman.”

“She was. She really was.” My throat tightened, and I could say no more.

“Jessie,” he said with intensity, cradling my face in his hands, “listen to me. I got a temper sometimes; I guess you’ve seen that. But I’ve been downright cool-headed about the sawmill problems, and you know why? Because you made me that way, through makin’ me promise I wouldn’t lead your uncle into trouble. You understand what I’m sayin’? I’d probably have acted a lot different if it hadn’t been for you. But you’re like your mother, Jessie; you bring peace. And you
do
somethin’ to me; you have since the first day I met you, last Christmas in church. This week with you has been the best week a my life.” His fingers ran over my cheek, smoothing away a tear. “Now that I understand you more, I’ll make you another promise. I promise I’ll keep on bein’ cool-headed, okay? I won’t let you down. For your sake. And for mine.”

His words sent warm colors rolling through my head. In faint echo, reality whispered, reminding me that I was leaving in a few weeks. And the very reason I was going was to pursue the path on which my wise and gentle mother had placed me.

Lee lifted my chin and kissed me then, and all such thoughts fell away.

S
leep eluded me that night. I tossed and turned, caught between my growing feelings for Lee and the unshakable knowledge that my plans would take me away from him. The drive from Bradleyville to Cincinnati was almost six hours long, due to the narrow, winding roads of eastern Kentucky at the beginning of the trip. It would be too long for a normal weekend visit. Besides, I’d be at the Center every Sunday, so that would leave us no time at all. And even if we could visit, where would it lead us? Our lives were heading down very different roads. Lee’s heart was in Bradleyville, his home. My heart still lay in Cincinnati, my home. For more than seven years—ever since the vision of my guardian angel mother—I’d planned and dreamed of returning, where I could literally “follow in my mother’s footsteps.” I’d chosen my sociology major, knowing I’d use my training to serve in that city. I had volunteered hours I didn’t have at the soup kitchen in Lexington, sensing it was only a down payment on the time I would give to Hope Center when my education was finally complete.

Sighing, I rolled over in my bed. The memory of Lee’s fingers, tender against my cheek, sprang into my head, followed
by non sequitur thoughts of the apartment awaiting me in Cincinnati. How happy I’d been to find it, how convenient it was to my work and the Center, both of which were downtown. I’d stood in the bedroom of that apartment with the apologetic manager, ignoring the mess of its current tenant, imagining my mother’s old furniture in that room. I’d pictured the bed against one wall, the tall dresser against another, the smaller dresser under the window. And in the far corner would go my sewing machine. I’d opened the closet door, envisioning newly sewn dresses hanging there, awaiting my first days at work. The manager had even said I could paint the walls a light blue, as my mother’s bedroom had been. In the living room, I’d turned in a slow circle, thinking of the couch I must rent, the table and chairs, the TV and stand. The kitchen was small, which was just as well; I had need of only a few pans and dishes.