by Cathy Gohlke
I tried to pull away, but he gripped my fingers so tightly I feared he’d break them. Once he’d nearly crushed my fingers until forcing me to return his hand squeeze three times, meaning I love you. I knew his strength.
“Pennsylvania courts are particular. I don’t suppose you know that. But the law allows divorce for only a few reasons. One, of course, is insanity . . . something that can be rather cumbersome to prove, but not impossible, given credible witnesses. A decree of insanity does have the advantage of putting the culprit away where they no longer create a nuisance, and it does garner sympathy—or at least pity—for both parties.”
I stiffened, remembering his words to my father.
“That would require me to take you back to Philadelphia and go through some psychiatric tests, perhaps a few shock treatments—whatever the good doctors might need to determine their diagnosis. I believe it can be arranged for the state to care for you in one of their institutions for the rest of your natural life.”
My heart pounding, I jerked away again, but his fingers dug through my flesh.
“I’d wanted to do this quickly, but I understand your dear aunt is nearing her end. I realize you won’t want to leave her, and I don’t mind being tethered to you long enough to share in our inheritance.”
“Our inheritance? You’ll never get a penny. Aunt Hyacinth has already seen to that.”
“If I’m the survivor of this marriage or your legal guardian, there’s nothing she can do—”
“Not even then! If anything happens to me, every penny goes to someone else.”
Gerald’s eyes burned. His jaw set. “Then we need to change her mind. There are other just causes for divorce that may not require the messiness of returning you to Philadelphia. Adultery, for one. I don’t think that would be too difficult a case to make, now that I’ve seen you with the good reverend.”
“You’re the one who—”
Gerald chuckled. “Ida Mae thinks it’s quite possible you seduced him. You evidently have cast quite a spell over the man—much as you did me. Pity, that fall from grace. Scandal will be his ruin in this backwater town—and your fault, like everything else.”
“Don’t do this, Gerald. He’s a good man and he’s not done anything to—”
Gerald stopped in the middle of the street and turned me toward him. To anyone passing, or to Ida Mae peeking beneath the window shade, it would look like a lover’s plea. “Truth is relative in this case, don’t you think? Allegations of promiscuity, adultery, with the affidavit of credible witnesses like your father—and Ida Mae—will probably be much easier and less time-consuming to accomplish.”
I pushed aside the painful certainty that my own father would testify against me. “You’re the one with the uncontrollable temper. If there is insanity or adultery, it’s—” But he cut me off.
“Have you forgotten my promise? If you ever tell anyone about my upsets—outbursts brought on by you—I will kill you. I swear I will kill you, Lilliana, and then I will kill myself. What would I have to lose at that point? If you speak out, it won’t matter that you’re hiding away here. I will come. I will find you wherever you go. Do not doubt that I will go through your aunt to find you—whatever it takes. Do you understand?”
I tried all the harder to pull away, unable to stop the tears streaming down my face.
“Crying is a sign of weakness. You always were a weak woman. I said—” his grip nearly brought me to my knees—“do you understand?”
I wished I could spit in his face, but I was too afraid.
“Miss Grace?” Reverend Pierce, with Celia and Chester at his side, appeared on the road behind us. “You all right, Miss Grace? Is there anything we can do for you?”
Gerald released me in a moment. The concern on Reverend Pierce’s face and the worry in Celia’s and Chester’s eyes caught my breath.
“My wife and I are having a private discussion.”
I took the opportunity to step back, nearer Reverend Pierce and the children. “This is Reverend Pierce of Saints Delight Church.” I didn’t introduce Celia or Chester, didn’t want to bring them to Gerald’s attention in any way.
“My name’s Celia, and this here is my brother, Chester.” Celia hung back by Reverend Pierce but wasn’t about to be excluded. I should have known. “You’re crying, Miss Grace.”
“And I’m Gerald Swope, Lilliana Grace’s husband.” Gerald said it with the force of a decree, ignoring Celia’s observation.
Confusion swept Reverend Pierce’s face, but he extended his hand. “Welcome to No Creek, Mr. Swope.”
Gerald hesitated a moment too long but loosely took the reverend’s hand.
In that moment Celia slipped her fingers into mine. “Chester and me—Chester and I—are on our way to weed garden for the widow Cramer. Want to come with us, Miss Grace? Is that your whole name, front and back, Lilliana Grace?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s the prettiest name I ever heard. I shoulda known you’d have a name that sounds like flowers.”
Gerald looked like he might blow a gasket.
Reverend Pierce’s hand passed across his brow. The man looked bone weary and swayed slightly.
“Reverend Pierce, are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”
“I need to get on up to see Reverend Willard. My people have had a bad night—a real bad night.”
“What is it? Can I help?”
“Maybe so, Miss Grace—Miss Lilliana Grace—but we need Reverend Willard in on this.” He looked at Celia and Chester. “It’s not for young ears.”
Thankfully, a local wagon crested the hill at that moment and rolled to a stop by the store. Safety in numbers.
“I want to stay, but we got to go or the widow will come lookin’ for us and Mama’ll skin us! See you this afternoon, Miss Lilliana!” Celia and Chester took off at a run, my name ringing behind them. I was never so thankful to see them come or see them go.
“Come by the house for cookies and milk when you’ve done your weeding!” I called, making certain everyone within earshot understood I was not going anywhere and that Aunt Hyacinth and I would not be alone.
“Lilliana, we’re not finished.” Gerald stepped closer, but I took my stance near Reverend Pierce.
“Yes, we are. That’s what I came to tell you. Goodbye, Gerald.” I turned then and would have taken Reverend Pierce’s arm to steady him and myself if Gerald had not been there and if Ida Mae hadn’t been peeking through the store window. I didn’t want to make matters worse for either of us. “The parsonage is on my way home. I’ll walk with you, Reverend Pierce.”
I’d never turned my back on or walked away from Gerald. I knew he was angry, but he didn’t come after me, not in front of Reverend Pierce.
Reverend Pierce didn’t say a word, but after we heard Gerald’s footsteps recede and his car door open and slam closed, he passed me his handkerchief.
“Thank you.” The sigh came from my toes, sending a shudder through my voice.
“‘I will praise thee, O Lord, with my whole heart; I will shew forth all thy marvellous works. I will be glad and rejoice in thee: I will sing praise to thy name, O thou most High. When mine enemies are turned back, they shall fall and perish at thy presence. For thou hast maintained my right and my cause; thou satest in the throne judging right.’” Reverend Pierce’s voice, weary at first, strengthened with conviction as he spoke.
His words, I knew, were for me, but there was something more. “What’s happened?”
He stopped in the road, catching his breath. I returned his handkerchief. He needed it more than I. “Miss Lilliana Grace, I don’t know a thing about your husband, but I say this: Remember, no matter what the evil of man, ‘The Lord also will be a refuge for the oppressed, a refuge in times of trouble. And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee: for thou, Lord, hast not forsaken them that seek thee.’”
“‘A refuge for the oppressed.’”
“‘For the needy shall not always be forgotten: the
expectation of the poor shall not perish forever.’”
Not forgotten. All the times I’d hidden from Gerald in our basement in Philadelphia or hidden in the ladies’ room of the church or fled to my parents’ house and hidden in my mother’s closet to escape his tirades, I’d been alone, certain I was forgotten by the Lord.
But now, despite Ida Mae’s suspicions and Gerald’s threats, Reverend Pierce and Celia and Chester had appeared in my need. Reverend Willard was just up the road, and Aunt Hyacinth waited at Garden’s Gate, where I knew she’d be worrying and wondering where I was. Can that be God’s doing? Can it mean that He reached down and stirred them to befriend me, to help me now? It was a new thought, a flicker of light. Shaking, I breathed, relieved beyond words by the plume of red dust Gerald’s passing car left on my shoes.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE NEXT AFTERNOON CELIA SWEPT the porch and stone walk at Garden’s Gate. She wanted everything to look pristine and orderly for the library’s first afternoon of business. She’d hated being sent to weed the widow’s garden, knowing she’d miss the first library customers—or patrons, as Miss Grace, or Miss Lilliana Grace or whoever she was, had called them. But her mama had insisted and then insisted she and Chester each spend an hour at home reading before going to Garden’s Gate. As if she couldn’t learn more spending the day among the stacks of Miz Hyacinth’s books and soaking up all the learning in the world. Still, summer was long and she could be at the library part of every day now.
And another thing. Her mama had explained, after talking things over with Miss Grace and Miz Hyacinth, that Grace was Miss Grace’s middle name and that from now on they should all call her Miss Lilliana, although she was really Mrs. Swope. The married part ranked a scandal in the general store and post office; Ida Mae whispered that Lilliana Swope had run clean away from a perfectly good husband and come here pretending to be somebody she wasn’t, and shook her head that poor Reverend Willard was an innocent around conniving women.
After seeing the way Miss Lilliana had cried and the way the man had near crushed her arms the morning before, not to mention the bruises that sprang up afterward, Celia wasn’t sure Gerald Swope was a “perfectly good husband,” but the Lilliana part pleased her. Lilliana was closer to a flower name, more befitting the Belvidere ladies. What did Celia care about Ida Mae and her rattling of “skeleton husbands in the closet”? Why should anybody care? But Celia knew they did, especially about Reverend Willard, just as they whispered about her daddy in jail and her mama being the wife of a jailbird and what did she do all those long and lonesome nights without a man? It didn’t seem to matter that half the county men ran moonshine—married or not—leaving their wives alone for nights on end; her daddy’d been caught. Being caught was the sin.
Celia’s mama made it clear that Celia and Chester weren’t to ask Miss Lilliana a single question about her husband or the name change or any of it, nor were they to mention it to another living soul. But Celia figured a person could still think on it.
Celia tucked the broom away and sat on the front step with her chin in her hand. An hour passed and no one came. Finally Ruby Lynne Wishon stopped by.
Celia was glad for company. “Care to pass the time of day? Want a book? I can check you out a book. That’s my regular job here.”
Ruby Lynne shook her head. “No thanks, not today. I’m here to see Miss Grace.”
She was dressed fit to impress and looked happier than Celia had seen her in a month of Sundays.
“Miss Lilliana—that’s what she goes by now, though sometimes I call her Miss Lill—is pretty busy, what with the library and all. Maybe I can help you,” Celia offered, eager to stay in the middle of things, even though the part about calling her Miss Lill was a lie. Still, it seemed like a good name.
“She’s expecting me. Could you tell her I’m here, or should I just go on in?”
“Oh, all right. Follow me. I’ll find her.” It was the perfect excuse to learn what Miss Lill would give Ruby Lynne to do. Celia’d been looking forward to checking out books to folks ever since they’d dusted and rearranged the first bookcase. She hoped Miss Lill wouldn’t give Ruby Lynne that job.
What Celia never expected was to find Miss Lilliana and Marshall Raymond sitting in the kitchen, their heads hunched together over a newspaper. The moment Celia and Ruby Lynne walked in, Marshall jerked his head up and jumped to his feet as if he’d been snakebit.
“Ruby Lynne!” Miss Lilliana looked surprised and undone at once. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“I know I’m a mite early, Miss Grace—I mean, Miss Lilliana, but I was able to come and I’m so eager to get started. Do you have any students for me?”
Now Miss Lilliana stood. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do. It’s why Marshall is here. He’d like to learn to read . . . better.”
Marshall kept his eyes on his feet. Ruby Lynne’s eyes went as wide as Celia’s. You could have heard ants crawl. Celia swallowed, knowing this was trouble. Talking about teaching colored little bitties is one thing, but doing it in living daylight with a boy taller than her—near a man growed—is another.
“I’m working with Marshall now to see where he is in his reading and writing. Perhaps you’d like to take a seat and join us.”
Ruby Lynne stood stock-still as if her feet were tarred to the floor. The silence went on so long that Marshall raised his eyes and looked at Ruby Lynne, then at Celia. Celia slipped her hand in Ruby Lynne’s and guided her to the table. “Can I help, too, Miss Lill? It’d be fun to do it all together. I could learn how to teach, too—by watchin’.”
Miss Lilliana smiled, a mite nervous, but Celia knew she’d done right to offer.
“Yes.” Ruby Lynne pulled out a chair and sat down, decided. But Celia knew that she was playing with fire—not fire from Marshall, but from her daddy if he ever found out she was helping a teenage colored boy, that she was even spending time in the same room.
Why Miss Lilliana didn’t seem to catch on or care about that was a further mystery to Celia. Or maybe she did, and maybe she was just determined to help Marshall, or maybe she meant to stir things up in No Creek so they’d never be the same, now that she’d gone and made news by leaving her husband. Change could be good; that’s what her mama said President Roosevelt intended for the good of all, what Mrs. Roosevelt advocated. Celia liked that word, advocate. She only hoped Miss Lill’s advocated changes would make things better, not turn deadly.
•••
Celia wasn’t afraid of much, but she knew the noises outside their three-room cabin that night didn’t come from coons or possums. They were human feet, unsteady and jerking through the underbrush. Drunk. She’d heard her daddy’s footsteps sound just like that on a Saturday night before Mama’d open the door and drag him in to bed. But Daddy was in jail, and there ought be nobody else roaming outside their door that time of night.
“Gladys! Gladys Percy!” the drunken voice called. “You come on out here and talk to me, little darlin’!”
Celia peered over the side of her bunk and could see the pale cast to Chester’s face in the moonlight that streamed through the window. He pulled the feed-sack sheet up to his eyes and peeked out as if that might protect him. She didn’t want to see Chester scared. She was scared enough for both of them. “It’s just old Troy Wishon, drunk as a skunk. Don’t you mind him, Chester.”
“I wanna talk to you, Gladys!” The call came again, this time closer to the house.
Celia’s heart beat faster when she heard his boot thump on the front porch. “Mama, don’t open the door!” she whimpered.
“You children stay there and go back to sleep. There’s safety in numbers.” Mama kept her voice steady but firm and shut the bedroom door.
Celia slipped from her bunk and climbed in beside Chester, wrapping his fingers tight in her own. “There’s safety in numbers,” she whispered.
A pounding came on the front door.
“Troy Wishon, you go on home. You’re dr
unk and I won’t have you scaring my children. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Celia loved the authority in her mama’s voice, but she also caught the quaver.
“Your girl ought to be scared, Gladys. I heard what she did over to Miz Hyacinth’s new lendin’ library. What I want to know is just what you ladies are lendin’ out!” He laughed till he near choked over his own foul joke. “You teachin’ your girl to let anybody and everybody in? I just come by to see.” Celia heard the solid door rattle, but Mama had pulled the latch in and set the bar.
“I’ll tell you once more, Troy, go home!”
“Or what? You got no man in there to show me different. Fillmore’s been gone a long while, little darlin’. You gettin’ lonesome? I could help you out there.”
“You’re a boy, Troy, and a drunk one. Go home!”
The door thundered with the pound of Troy’s fist and his boot. Chester cried out and Celia screamed.
“I’ll show you what kind of man I am! If you think I’m a wet-nose boy, maybe I should show that sassy-mouthed girl of yours. She’s not much, but she’s growin’.”
Mama didn’t say another word to Troy, but she opened the bedroom door and slipped inside. She pushed a cane-back chair against the door and up into the knob, pulled down the window, and closed the curtains. Then she took up vigil by the side of the window, a cast-iron skillet in one hand and a hammer in the other.
•••
Celia and Chester walked to the widow Cramer’s for chores the next day. Their mama walked with them as far as Garden’s Gate. None of them had gotten much sleep.
“You and Chester keep close coming and going. You know what I told you.”
“There’s safety in numbers, Mama,” Chester piped up. “Do you think he’ll come back?” It broke Celia’s heart to see the worry in Chester’s eyes.
“No, I don’t.” Their mama was emphatic and that bolstered Celia’s courage. “Troy was drunk and on a rampage last night. We just happened to be in his path. He’ll sober up and likely not even remember he was there. Don’t give it another thought.”