Cast a Road Before Me (16 page)

Aunt Eva glared at him.

“Well, Alice wants to retire, you know.” She arched an eyebrow as she sank her fork through meatloaf. “It would be just perfect for you to take that shop over.”

“What in the world would I want with that shop?”

She looked offended. “To have as your own business, of course. You could stay right here and make a very good living, particularly with your skills.”

“Aunt Eva, I have a ‘living’ to make in Cincinnati. I’ve already got a job there, remember?
And
an apartment.
And
Hope Center.”

“All right, all right.” Her hand fluttered in the air. “It was just a thought.” She bent over her meat with purpose, frustration rounding her shoulders. A strand of red hair straggled from her bun, and she pushed it from her face with impatience. In the ensuing silence, I could hear her jaw popping as she chewed. When she put her fork down on her plate with a clatter, I jumped. “Well, I don’t think you should go.”

“Now, Eva,” my uncle said.

“Don’t ‘now, Eva’ me,” she retorted. “You know good and well you agree with me; you just won’t say it to her face.”

Irritation plucked my nerves. For a moment, I wished I’d never come back. I should have gone straight from my graduation to Cincinnati. Now that I was here, I kept bumping into one complication after another. The sawmill, Lee, now my aunt flagrantly trying to run my life.
Keep calm
, I told myself,
this is nothing to get upset about
. I looked from my aunt to my uncle, searching for the most benign way to deal with this particular roadblock. The subject of my moving away had been lurking over our shoulders ever since I’d come back to Bradleyville, and we might as well deal with it now so I could enjoy a few more weeks of relative peace.

Summoning a neutral expression, I looked to Uncle Frank. “Is that so?”

He set down his utensils and inhaled audibly, as if preparing himself for a long-delayed confrontation. Then he nodded. “You told me just yesterday that nobody could stop me from going.”

“That’s true, Jessie.” His voice was gentle. “But I also told you I want you to be followin’ Christ’s plans for your life, not your own.”

I stared at him, a familiar defensiveness rising within me. “I
am
, okay? I’m following what God wants me to do, what my mother told me to do in my dream.”

He processed that for a moment. “Remember when we talked about that dream, so many years ago? Remember how I asked
you to read the Bible to better understand God’s purpose for your life? You told me you were doin’ that.”

“And I was. I read most of it, anyway. But what’s that got to do with me leaving? You trying to tell me God only lives in
Bradleyville?”

“Of
course
not,” Aunt Eva interjected.

I ignored her.

“No, Jessie.” My uncle’s patience sparked remorse through my chest. “Not at all. What we
are
tryin’ to say, and what we’ve been prayin’ for all these years, is that you will turn your life over to Christ fully, completely, and—with diligence—seek what
he
wants you to do.” He spread his hands. “It’s not that your plans are bad. They’re good ones; they’re laudatory in terms of helpin’ other people. Here you are, a beautiful young woman, and you’re not seekin’ fame or fortune, but how to serve others. Understand me, there’s
nothin’
wrong with those goals as far as your career goes. But that’s just what they are, Jessie, they’re plans for a career. They’re
not
plans for salvation. The road you’re going down is the same one your mama was on. And she set herself on it because of her own sorrow-filled, abusive upbringin’. You don’t
need
to continue that cycle; you were raised with lots of love. You forget that your Aunt Eva had the same upbringin’ as your mama, the same angry father. She’s had to deal with all that hurt too. And I know she would tell you that the answer to breakin’ that cycle lay in acceptin’ Jesus Christ and understandin’ that he could cleanse away all the horrible feelin’s of worthlessness her father had instilled in her.”

I looked at my plate, on the verge of tears. This was the longest speech I’d ever heard my uncle make. I trusted him, respected him greatly. And I knew he and Aunt Eva loved me and would never try to lead me astray. What’s more, I had to admit that deep within my uncle I sensed a serenity that I wished I had. Even my aunt, with all her chattiness and impulsive interfering, seemed much more grounded and free of her past than my quiet mother ever had. In quick succession, two images flashed through my head—my
grandfather’s spite-filled pronouncement, “You’ll
never
be good enough!”; followed by the brief visage of despair that had crossed my mother’s features during what was to be our final moment together.

Our final moment
.

My mother’s time on earth had been so brief. And she’d spent it unselfishly—on me, on others. Something within me stirred at my uncle’s words, and yet those words repelled all that my mother had lived for, like magnets of the same force. All that she had
died
for.

Silence suspended itself over our table. Even Aunt Eva wasn’t jumping in to fill it. I raised my eyes to her, seeking a diversion. “You’re awful quiet.”

“I’m prayin’,” came her terse reply.

Uncle Frank said nothing. I had the sense they’d sit there all evening, awaiting my response. I found a speck of lint on the tablecloth. Pinched it between finger and thumb. Let it drop onto the carpet.

Softly, I cleared my throat. “Well. You know I understand your beliefs; I really do. And I think they’ve … helped you a lot. Deal with life and all its problems, I mean. So I respect that.” I nudged the handle of my fork further up my plate. “When I first came here I was really hurting too. More than anything else, that dream I had about my mom, and the course it put me on, helped me get over the pain. I’ve worked”—my throat clinched, and I fought to control it—”I’ve worked really hard to graduate and get the job I wanted. I’ve planned for this a long, long time. And I believe absolutely that it’s the right thing to do. It
has
to be.”

I stopped abruptly, blinking at the inexplicable tinge of desperation in my last sentence.

“Okay, Jessie,” Uncle Frank said. “You have our blessin’. You know we love you. Maybe your plans will take you where God wants you to go. One thing I know, he can work for our good no matter
what
we do. But regardless of where you live, I still pray—and I know your aunt will too—that you will come to know
Christ personally. Because only through him are you goin’ to find true meanin’ for your life.
His
purpose for you is the
perfect
plan. So no matter how great your own is, you could be missin’ out on the very best.”

Aunt Eva started to say something, but Uncle Frank took the napkin from his lap and placed it on the table with finality. “All right, then, favorite niece.” He pushed back his chair. “We promise not to preach to ya anymore. We’ll just let God do his own work. Right Eva?”

Stymied, she pressed her lips together, giving her husband a look. Then, with a little huff, she wagged her head in my direction. “Right.”

Y
ou hear ‘bout Thomas ‘n’ Jake yesterday?” The lid on his metal lunchbox clanked as he withdrew a sandwich. He inspected his grimy hands, wiped them half-heartedly on his sawdusted shirt, and unwound the plastic wrap
.

“Whole town’s heared. Wish I coulda seen it.”

“Yeah,” a third worker grunted, biting into a thick, home-canned pickle, “I can just see Jake’s face, red as a rooster’s comb. Hey, is that some a your wife’s barbecued pork on that bun?”

“It is, and you keep your grubby hands off.”

“My hands. Look at yours.” The rest of the pickle disappeared into his mouth. “His wife makes the best barbecued pork I ever tasted. But don’t tell mine I said so.”

“I never thought I’d hear a Jake in jail,” the second man added
.

“Aw, he didn’t spend the night in jail.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“He did not.”

“That’s what I heared.”

“Well, you heared wrong. He roared off in his car; wouldn’t have none of it. Bill Scutch didn’t expect him to do that anyway; he was just playin’ along with Thomas. The two a them’s close as stacked crackers.”

“If I know Jake Lewellyn,” the first man said around a mouthful of pork, “he won’t show his face for a week.”

“The July Fourth parade is Thursday. He wouldn’t think a lettin’ Thomas lead it by hisself.”

“Guess so. Hank tol’ me Thomas shouted, ‘I still got your marble!’”

They all laughed. “That musta hurt.”

“You think that marble really exists?”

“Oh, yeah. I seen it myself one time I was over to the Matthews. Real pretty, black and silver, just like the story says. Thomas has the thing settin’ in a child’s play teacup on his bookcase. Tol’ me he polishes it ever mornin’ along with his medals.”

“Jake’ll never git it back.”

“Jake’ll never quit tryin’.”

“My last bite a barbecue. Wonder if I should share it?” The first man considered his coworker’s anticipation. “Naw.” He shoved it into his mouth
.

“Some friend you—”

“Hey. There’s Riddum.”

“It’s still lunchtime.”

“No, it ain’t, it’s 1:00.”

“But we didn’t set down till 12:30.”

“That’s y’all’s fault. He’s lookin’ this way.”

“Too bad. I’m gonna finish my lunch.”

“Me too.”

“Not me. He’s headin’ this way and I’m goin’ back to work. Y’all’re crazy if you stick around. A few bites ain’t worth it.”

“Doggone it all! Wait, I’m comin’.”

“Well, good fer the both a ya. I ain’t movin’ till my lunch hour’s over.”

B
y midmorning Tuesday I’d finished my blue dress. Luckily, I’d had all the thread I needed. Wasn’t it humorous, I thought with sarcasm as I donned the dress, that I’d gone to see Alice Eder for nothing. Now I would have to find a tactful way to deny her request. Standing in front of the bedroom mirror, I admired my own handiwork, turning this way and that. The color was certainly striking against my hair. Yet I felt no joy in the dress’s completion.

Sighing, I took it off and hung it with the others in my closet. What to do now? The day stretched before me. The last thing I wanted to do was start on another project. I was tired of sewing; it left my mind too open to thoughts of Lee. And, goodness knows, they’d plagued me ever since Sunday. Last night, after that strained discussion with my aunt and uncle at supper, I’d sat before my machine, tensed, waiting for the phone to ring—even while knowing the ball was in my court. I was supposed to be returning
his
call. I just couldn’t do it. I really wanted to, but I couldn’t. How could I explain to him my sudden avoidance? How could I make him understand the intensity of my desire to move back to Cincinnati? And why should I
have
to, anyway? I’d had enough
discussions about the subject with my aunt and uncle. I was tired of explaining myself.

I sighed again loudly, my gaze drifting to my sewing machine. Compared to Alice Eder’s, it seemed hopelessly antiquated. How great it would be to make my next dress in her shop. The stitchings I could create, in no time! Standing in the middle of my bedroom, hands on my hips, I stared at Mom’s old machine, mulling. I wondered how much a new machine like Miss Alice’s would cost. Maybe I’d just drive into Albertsville after all, look around at new models. Looking wouldn’t cost me anything. And it would give me something else to think about.

I walked over to the dresser and picked up my hairbrush.

Driving out of town on 622, every window in my car rolled down, I couldn’t help but smile as I passed the Bradleyville sign. What a kick it had been, watching for cars while Thomas painted over that number. A mile or so farther on the right lay the long, tree-lined driveway that belonged to the Riddums. Automatically, I slowed, gazing down the leafy path. At its end, the Riddums’ new porch pillars gleamed white under the hot sun. Unexpected anger jolted me. I didn’t know the man, but he sure sounded greedy and sour.

My head swiveled back to the road, my foot pressing the accelerator. I was
not
going to think about the sawmill—or any other problems—for the rest of the day.

In Albertsville, I walked into Sears expectantly, only to be informed that they didn’t carry the model I was looking for. I lingered awhile, looking at other machines, but soon grew restless. The clerk sent me across town to a store that displayed every kind of machine I could imagine. As I’d guessed, Miss Alice’s was the top of the line. And, of course, far too expensive for me to ever buy, given the low salary I’d be making. I left the store dejectedly and found myself back at Sears, trying on shoes, considering purses, even looking at earrings, something I never wore. By the
time I drove back to Bradleyville, it was 5:00, time to start supper. I’d bought two pairs of shoes, a purse, three pairs of earrings, a blouse, and skirt. Never had I been so impulsive. What’s
wrong
with me, I lamented as I rounded the curves outside town. I was almost ready to turn around and take back the items. Without a doubt, I was getting more antsy about going to Cincinnati every minute.

It was as if spending all that money on career clothes somehow cemented my plans.

After supper that evening, Connie phoned. “Can you come over?” she wheezed.

“Are you okay?”

“Just tired. But I’d love to see you.”

I hesitated.

“Lee’s almost done with the rooms; you should see ‘em. He said he’d be paintin’ by this weekend. We want the smell gone by the time the baby arrives. Could you help me pick colors?”

Connie desperately needed a friend, and I knew I should be there for her. Thinking of all the wasted time shopping, I flinched at my selfishness. I could have visited her while Lee was at work. All the same, her plea had a certain … timing. “What colors were you thinking of?”