Though Malinda was the older of the pair, her behavior indicated a complete lack of maturity and responsibility. Regardless of the awkwardness of taking her older sister to task, Belinda wouldn’t mince words when they were face-to-face. She had enough concerns without Malinda adding unnecessary worries to the list.
Peter called to the oxen, guiding them to make the turn into the lane leading to Summer’s empty house. As she had expected, Malinda was there, sitting on the steps of the wraparound porch, watching the lane as if she expected someone. When the wagon rumbled close, she pushed to her feet and stood, unsmiling, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the bright morning sun. On the ground at the base of the steps sat the little chest Belinda had seen in their attic.
Belinda touched Peter’s sleeve. “Will you give me some time alone with my sister, please?”
He nodded solemnly and intoned, “Whoa,” bringing the oxen to a halt.
Belinda leaped over the side of the wagon and raced to Malinda. Despite her intention to berate her sister, she found herself instead enveloping Malinda in a hug. Malinda’s arms wrapped tightly around Belinda, and she pressed her cool cheek to Belinda’s hair.
“I’m sorry if I worried you,” Malinda said, her voice tired and raspy, “but I knew you would come. I needed you to come.”
Belinda pulled back. She brushed Malinda’s straggly hair away from her face. “Why?”
Taking Belinda’s hand, Malinda sat on the lowest step and tugged Belinda down beside her. She reached into her pocket, withdrew a brass key, and inserted it into the tiny lock on the front of the chest. But then, instead of opening the box, she turned to Belinda, shamefaced.
“Belinda, please forgive me. Shortly before Papa died, he gave me this chest. He told me it would secure our futures, but I was . . .” Tears rolled down her thin cheeks, and her shoulders heaved with one sob. “I was selfish. I kept it hidden, because I thought if I showed it to you, you would take the contents and leave me.”
Belinda’s heart thumped mightily. She licked her dry lips, taking care to remain focused on her sister’s face rather than letting her attention drop to the box.
“I hid it here after the fire, in the cellar. I knew no one would find it there, and I planned to keep it for myself. But when you told me last night that—that you l-love me, I knew I couldn’t hide it from you anymore.” Malinda’s trembling chin and tear-filled eyes begged Belinda to offer understanding.
Belinda caught Malinda’s hand. “I forgive you, Malinda. But . . . what is in the box?”
Slowly Malinda turned the key. A tiny
click
sounded, and Mal-inda lifted the lid. Neat stacks of paper money and several official-looking certificates came into view. Belinda gasped. She remembered the financial worries that plagued Mama’s final days. How different things would have been if Malinda hadn’t hidden this box away! Her astonishment erupted in one word: “Malinda!”
Tears rained down Malinda’s cheeks and plopped into her lap. “I-I’m so sorry!”
Sympathy replaced the shock. Belinda once more enfolded her sister in her arms. Malinda’s insecurity was the root of her deceptive behavior. Losing her fiancé, her health, and her anchor— Papa—had created a fear of abandonment. Although Belinda still wished her mother’s last days could have been less anguished, she did understand her sister’s choice.
Against Malinda’s musty hair, she whispered, “It’s all right. I’m not angry.”
With a shuddering gulp, Malinda pulled free. “It’s yours now, Belinda. All of it. I . . . I don’t want it. Not one penny.”
“Oh, but—”
“In addition to Papa’s cash savings, there are several surety bonds that’ll mature over the next several years. Maybe now you won’t have to work so many jobs.” Malinda cupped Belinda’s face between her palms. “Please take the box and its contents, Belinda, with my sincerest apology.”
Belinda shook her head, dislodging her sister’s hands. “I can’t! Papa gave it to you.”
“But I want to give it to you!”
“And you need money because—”
Malinda raised her hand. “I know I can’t work and earn a wage. Not like others. But . . .” Suddenly she lowered her head and began toying with the folds of her skirt.
A large shadow fell across the women’s feet and covered the chest. Belinda looked up into Peter’s concerned face.
“Malinda, you are all right?” His deep voice held no impatience, only compassion.
Malinda kept her head down.
Belinda answered for her. “She’s fine, Peter. I’m sure she’s tuckered from her long walk, so if you could help her into the wagon . . .”
“Of course.” Peter stepped forward.
“No.” Malinda scuttled sideways on the step, distancing herself from both Belinda and Peter. “I’m not going back to your house.”
Peter’s brows came down, but he spoke gently. “You cannot stay here. There is no means of caring for yourself all alone out here.”
Malinda shook her head fiercely, her hair flying about her pale face. “I’m not staying here, either. I just needed Belinda to come for the chest so I didn’t have to carry it back to town.”
Belinda looked in confusion from Peter to Malinda again. “Malinda, you must come with us.”
But Malinda turned stubborn, jutting her chin defiantly. “I am not a child! I will not be forced to go somewhere against my will!”
Belinda rose, tangling her hands in her skirt to keep from reaching for her sister. “But, Malinda, you have to come back with us. Our house is gone. You can’t stay here or in Gaeddert—not by yourself. There’s nowhere else for you to go.”
Malinda pushed to her feet. She swayed slightly, but she remained upright, her head held at an arrogant angle. “There
is
somewhere else for me to go.” Taking a deep breath, she fixed Belinda with a firm look. “I am going to the Industrial School and Hygiene Home for the Friendless.”
The home outside of Hillsboro for the orphaned and destitute? Malinda chose that over living with the Ollenburgers? Belinda’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, Malinda . . .”
“Not because I am friendless.” Malinda continued as if Belinda hadn’t spoken. “I know I have friends . . . the Ollenburgers have proven that.”
Peter and Belinda exchanged a quick look. Belinda said, “Then why—”
“Because I can be of service there.” Malinda took two stumbling steps forward, catching Belinda’s hands. “Don’t you see? There are children at the home. Children who could benefit from an education. I know I can’t do hard labor—not with my weak heart—but I could teach. Couldn’t I, Belinda?”
For the first time, Malinda’s resolve seemed to waver. Belinda squeezed her sister’s hands. “Of course you could. You would be excellent.” She spun to include Peter. “Don’t you agree?”
“
Ja
.” Peter nodded, his face serious. “I have seen you with my girls. A very
goot
teacher you would be. But . . .” He sucked in his lips for a moment, his thick brows low. “Does the home have need for more teachers?”
Malinda worried her lower lip with her teeth. “I . . . I assumed they would.”
Peter put his hand on her shoulder. “If you like, we will drive out there and ask.”
“Now?”
“Now,” Peter confirmed. “Come.” He closed the lid on the chest and lifted it easily. Malinda took Belinda’s hand and followed him to the wagon. Peter bypassed Hillsboro and drove straight to the large stone building a few miles outside of town.
When the oxen heaved to a stop in the yard, Malinda said, “Please, Belinda and Mr. Ollenburger, stay here and allow me to make the inquiries.”
Although a part of Belinda wanted to argue against Malinda’s idea, she swallowed her protest and nodded in agreement. She watched Malinda enter the big building and then waited, fidgeting on the seat beside Peter. It seemed hours passed before Malinda emerged, a triumphant smile on her face.
“They can use me,” she exclaimed as Peter helped her into the wagon’s bed. “If someone will drive me out tomorrow, I can start work immediately.”
Happy tears filled Belinda’s eyes at her sister’s confident, enthusiastic tone. She gave Malinda a hug and offered a husky, “Congratulations, Malinda. I’m proud of you.” Another thought followed as Peter turned the wagon back toward Hillsboro: What would she do now that she didn’t need to take care of Malinda?
Pardue tossed Thomas’s article onto the desk, hooked his elbow over the ladder back of the wooden chair that usually sat in the corner of Thomas’s small office, and offered a pleased grin. “You’re comin’ along, Ollenburger. I marked a few word choice changes, and the third paragraph slanted toward your own opinion about the ease of using the current voting ballot, but for the most part . . . yup, you’re comin’ along.”
Thomas decided “coming along” was a significant step up from Pardue’s normally lengthy list of suggested improvements. He picked up the article and glanced over the penciled changes. Much fewer than he expected. Satisfied, he nodded. He looked forward to the day when Pardue would simply hand him back his work with no suggestions for improvement, but for today, seeing only a half dozen scrawled comments let him know he was making progress toward becoming a full-fledged reporter.
Riffling the edge of the page with his thumb, he rocked in his chair and stared thoughtfully across the desk into Pardue’s whisker-dusted face. Would this be a good time to show his mentor the article that had kept him up late the past several nights? He valued Pardue’s opinion, and he knew the man would be able to offer advice on making the article the strongest it could be. Besides that, if the article were going to make it into the paper in time to impact any voters, it needed to happen now. Only four more issues and Election Day would be upon them.
Pardue must have sensed Thomas’s thoughts, because he leaned forward and said, “You have something weighing on your mind, boy?”
“Well . . .”
“Some writin’, maybe?”
Thomas pulled his lips to the side, one eyebrow raised high.
Pardue laughed and stretched out his bony hand. “Hand it over.”
For a moment, Thomas hesitated. “Can . . . can we keep it between the two of us?”
Pardue’s brows raised in obvious surprise. He smoothed his hand over his balding scalp before giving a brief, serious nod. “What are you up to?”
Without answering, Thomas slid open his desk drawer and removed the pad of paper he carried back and forth from his cottage to the newspaper office. He peeled back the top layers, exposing the article titled simply, “Watson.” For a moment he bit down on the inside of his cheek, wondering at the wisdom of showing the article to Pardue. Although they’d spent part of every day for the past week and a half together, and although Thomas trailed the man as he interviewed people about the campaign, he had yet to ascertain Pardue’s political stance.
“Well, what is it?”
The impatient bite in Pardue’s tone forced Thomas to act. He thrust his arm forward, shoving the pad across the desk. The man snatched it up, flopped the pad around, and began to read.
Thomas sat, unmoving, and watched Pardue’s eyes rove from left to right all the way from the top to the bottom of the page. Pardue’s forehead crinkled and his lips poked out in the now-familiar expression of deep concentration. Without breaking pace he snapped the page over the top of the pad and continued until he reached the end of the second page—the end of Thomas’s editorial on why Watson would not be an appropriate choice for the United States’ next president. He shot Thomas a quick, unreadable look, and then he flipped the first page back and read the entire article a second time.
Thomas battled squirming while he waited. The man’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, no matter how hard Thomas peered into his face. But when he finished, he grimaced. Thomas’s stomach turned over in trepidation.
Pardue slapped the pad onto Thomas’s desk with a mighty
smack.
“You’ve been digging pretty deep, haven’t you?”
Unable to determine by his tone whether he approved or disapproved of Thomas’s editorial, Thomas shrugged in response.
“I gotta tell you, you organized that well. Good balance of facts and subsequent opinion based on the facts. There’s enough passion in the lines to light a fire under the most apathetic reader.” The man whistled through his teeth. “But if you’re thinking Severt will let you publish that in his newspaper . . . you better think again.”
Thomas shot forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “He’s printed other editorials about the various presidential hopefuls. Why wouldn’t he let this one go in, too?”
Pardue shook his head, his eyes sympathetic but his expression firm. “You know as well as I do, boy, that Severt wants to see Watson in office. He’ll never allow one negative word about his man. Not in
his
paper.”
Thomas blew out his breath in frustration. “But that’s not good reporting. Withholding truth just because you don’t like the truth?”
Pardue’s skinny shoulders rose and fell in an unconcerned shrug. “Happens all the time. Editor of his own newspaper gets to decide what goes in and what stays out.”
“But”—Thomas’s voice rose with fervor—“a paper should be inclusive, not exclusive when it comes to reporting information of merit.”
Pardue grinned. “You got strong feelings on this.”
“Yes, I do.” Thomas flopped back in his chair again, the springs protesting the force of his movement.
“Well, boy . . .” Pardue unfolded his long frame from the chair and peered down his nose at Thomas. “There’s only one surefire way to get that article into print, far as I can see.”
Thomas sat up attentively. “How?”
Pardue winked. “Start your own newspaper.” He turned and ambled out of the room.
D
APHNE
READ THE BIBLE’S
final words aloud: “ ‘He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly. Amen.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.’ ”
With a sigh, she closed the book, rested both palms on the worn black cover, and let her eyes drift shut. She whispered, “ ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all . . .’ ” She swallowed the lump that filled her throat, realizing after all she had learned about Jesus Christ, she did want Him to be with her.