Mary Lou kissed her cheek. “Good girl.”
With each step closer to the Folsons’, Zona’s stomach took another stir. The mantra Help me, help me, help me spun an inner rhythm.
It wasn’t that apologizing was difficult, for her regret was sincere. The issue that made her nervous was how the offended parties would react. Would they accept her apology gracefully, or would they use the moment to make her writhe? It didn’t really matter. What must be done must be done.
Fortunately, the streets of Decatur were fairly quiet, as the combination of the winter wind coupled with the early hour had most people comfortably warm in their houses.
Today was not a day of comfort for Zona. Not until her task was complete, her penance accomplished.
She reached the Folson house, a clapboard in need of paint. The front steps were icy, causing her to fully grip the railing for support. She saw a curtain at the front window pull back then drop. Then the front door opened before she had a chance to knock.
“Good morning, Johnny. Is your grandpa home?”
“He’s making porridge.”
“May I speak with him?”
He studied her a quick moment then let her inside.
Mr. Folson called out from the back of the house. “Johnny, get in here and eat. I gotta get to work.”
Johnny motioned for her to follow him then ran ahead. “Miss Evans is here.”
“What?” Mr. Folson appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, a spoon in his hand. “Miss Evans.”
It was now or never. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, but I wanted to make sure I caught both of you at home.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Didn’t you like my singing?” Johnny asked.
She put a hand on his hair, which needed a good combing. “You sang beautifully.”
Johnny offered her a quick smile then looked to his grandpa, who said, “Yes, you did.”
His acknowledgment led Zona to rush forward with her apology. “I am here to apologize for deceiving you, Mr. Folson, for going against your wishes that Johnny not sing and for practicing in secret. I went too far. It was not my place nor my choice to make. I should have abided by your wishes.”
“Indeed you should have.”
Zona swallowed.
Mr. Folson pointed the spoon at her. “I have enough to worry about, having to care for Johnny on my own without the benefit of my daughter or her husband. And he’s been a good boy—until this. Like Satan himself, you tempted him to do wrong. To lie. To sneak.”
Johnny’s face was stricken. “Grandpa, I said I was sorry.”
The older man’s face softened a moment—until he looked at Zona. “I blame him some but blame you more. It doesn’t matter if you thought my reasons were wrong. They were my reasons.” He paused and looked toward the doorway. Zona looked over her shoulder and spotted a blue bonnet hung by its ribbons on coat hooks.
No women lived in this household. Not anymore.
To see the bonnet still hanging there, years after the daughter’s death … it made Zona think of the daguerreotype she kept of Cardiff.
With a cleansing breath, Mr. Folson said, “By letting Johnny sing, you forced me to revisit the pain of my daughter’s absence, Miss Evans. You had no right.”
She hung her head, not wanting him to see her shame. “I had no right.”
He accepted her words with a nod but went to the bonnet, touching the flowers along its brim. “Why would God take her from me? She was the light of my life. And not just take her but my granddaughter, too.” He looked at Zona with eyes drowning in grief. “Can you tell me why, Miss Evans?”
She had no words. And suddenly the meeting moved beyond an apology to a communion of two broken souls. Mr. Folson’s was broken through no fault of his own, and Zona’s was broken because of her own willfulness. Together, they shared a poison pill of bitterness that owned no antidote.
Except perhaps …
Zona closed her eyes, prayed for strength, then opened them. “We are two of a kind, Mr. Folson.”
He let his hands leave the bonnet. “What?”
“You are bitter regarding the loss of your daughter and granddaughter, and I am bitter regarding the loss of the love of my life.”
“I didn’t know you had a suitor.”
She shook her head. “It was a long time ago, when I was but a girl.”
With a nod, Mr. Folson gestured to the table in the kitchen. “Will you tell me about him?”
“If you will tell me about your daughter.”
Coffee was poured out—as were their hearts. Zona heard all about Violet and little Flora, and felt a purging of her own soul by being able to share her memories of Cardiff. Regrets and laughter wove together with wistfulness and gratitude.
Through it all, Johnny was silent, looking back and forth between them, taking it all in.
When the clock on the wall struck ten, Mr. Folson sprang to his feet. “Here I’ve talked away the morning and now I’m late for work.”
Zona rose, completely shocked by the passage of so much time. She headed for the door. “I’m so sorry for making you late.”
Mr. Folson put a hand upon her arm. “I’m not. ’Twas a good conversation that’s made me feel better about everything. I hope it’s done the same for you.”
She smiled. “It has.”
“One thing before you go. One thing for both of you.” Mr. Folson looked at Zona and then to Johnny. “I offer both of you my own apology. I was wrong to keep Johnny from singing when I knew he had a gift. I was smothering the fire out of him by trying to control him. It was my problem to overcome, not his.” Johnny beamed.
But to Zona, Mr. Folson’s words elicited a meaning beyond his original intent. “I was smothering the fire out of him by trying to control him. It was my problem to overcome, not his.”
“Is something wrong, Miss Evans?”
She repeated her thought out loud then added, “I forced him away. I was in the wrong. It was my problem to overcome, not his.”
Mr. Folson nodded. “Life lessons learned are earned.”
Indeed.
Then he added, “If it’s all right with you, Miss Evans, I wonder if you could find a spot for Johnny in your Christmas musicale.”
Zona walked home with a spring in her step. She’d apologized, been forgiven, and had achieved her original purpose in getting Johnny for the musicale. And more than that, she felt good about sharing some of her memories and culpability regarding her relationship with Cardiff.
Yet as she walked, her pace slowed, as if this last issue wasn’t completely resolved.
“Good morning, Miss Evans.”
Zona looked up and saw that she was in front of the church. Pastor Davidson had just come out and stood on the steps. “Good morning, Pastor.”
He walked down to her side. “You seem consumed with thought. Are you upset about what happened at the depot?”
The memory of that humiliation seemed further away than the memory of her sins from the distant past.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
Although it might have been advantageous to talk to a godly man like the pastor, she felt compelled to talk to his Boss, alone. “May I go in the church and sit for a while?”
He waved a hand toward the door. “The Almighty is waiting for you.”
Zona entered the empty church and began to take her usual place in the front pew where she always sat while working with Johnny. But then, she decided against it. That place belonged to before. It was time to begin a new after.
She walked down the aisle to a random pew then let the sacred silence tuck her in. She looked up at the vibrant colors of the Jesus window above the altar. His face was forever kind and full of peace, and His arms reached out to her, drawing her to Himself. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
Zona drew in a deep breath and expelled it raggedly. Then she put a hand to her mouth and
let the tears come. The tears turned to sobs that echoed in the rafters, returning to her many fold. She wasn’t even sure why she was crying. Was it the humiliation of the depot, her own wrongdoing in deceiving Mr. Folson, her less-than-kind treatment of Mrs. Collins, Seth, and the other singers?
Yes.
But she sensed the sobs came from a deeper, hidden place, where old fears, doubts, and shame squatted without her consent. All previous rationalizations for her actions stepped out of the shadows, demanding attention. You can’t hide from us forever. We are the ugly part of you. We hover close, awaiting our next chance. You pretend you are a good person with pure motives, but we know better. We are patient and take our chances when you let us loose.
Zona covered her face, shaking her head, trying to make the ghosts of her sins disperse. Yet they stood firm, waiting for her to fully notice them. Name them.
She saw Pride and Selfishness in the front row, with Stubbornness and Obstinacy right behind, until Impatience and Manipulation shouldered their way into view.
No, no, no. Go away! I don’t want you to be a part of me anymore!
Zona hugged herself, longing to disappear, leaning forward, her head bowed, ashamed. “I’m so sorry for putting my plans and schemes above all else, above everyone else. Above You. Please forgive me. And if there is any good in me, bring it forward and make positive attributes take over my life.”
The prayer lingered in her mind, and slowly Zona sat upright. She opened her eyes and risked a look at Jesus. He had not turned away from her, and His face was not full of disgust and anger. He looked upon her with compassion, and His arms were still outstretched, drawing her in.
His love allowed hope to enter her soul. She closed her eyes and let the peace of His forgiving presence fill her entire being. Her shadowed places were overcome as they filled with His light, leaving no corner unlit.
Finally, she drew in a new breath, and a new Zona was freshly born.
“She’s here.”
As soon as Zona saw Mrs. Collins walk by the kitchen window, heading for the musicale rehearsal, she hurried into the auditorium to greet her.
“Hello!” Zona said as Mrs. Collins entered.
Mrs. Collins put a hand to her chest. “Gracious sake, you scared me half to death.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
Mrs. Collins removed her cape, bonnet, and gloves. Then she faced Zona, her face skeptical. “If you’re going to get after me for telling Mr. Folson about your secret—”
“I want to apologize to you, for the deception.” She took a cleansing breath. “I was wrong.”
“Well now.” Mrs. Collins draped her cape over a chair, setting her bonnet and gloves on top. “It was wrong of you.”
Zona laughed inwardly. If anyone was going to make her apology difficult, it would be Gertie Collins. “I offer no excuses.”
Mrs. Collins smoothed her skirt, as if unsure how to respond.
Her silence nudged Zona to say more. “I also apologize for not letting you sing in the musicale. Who am I to keep you from using your talent?”
Mrs. Collins’s eyes batted in a flutter, as if Zona’s words were a swarm of pesky gnats.
“Would you like to join us?” Zona asked.
“I …” She rearranged her bonnet on the chair. “Actually, I had a talk with my husband and asked him to be honest with me about my singing.” She cleared her throat as she fingered a feather in her hat. “He suggested I focus on costume design.”
Although she tried, Zona could not hold in a laugh.
At first, Mrs. Collins looked appalled, but then she smiled. “The truth is, I wish someone had been honest with me sooner. When I think back to all the solos I probably desecrated …”
“That’s far too harsh a word.” Although it wasn’t.
She waved Zona’s appeasement away. “Actually, I need to apologize to you for the trouble I caused at the depot.”
“I deserved it.”
“Yes, you did, but it wasn’t up to me to dole out your punishment—especially in public.” She sighed deeply. “Sometimes I can be quite wicked.”
Zona remembered the shadowed vices she’d confronted at the church. “So can we all.”
“And so, I want to ask your forgiveness for not being totally honest with you by working with Johnny in secret. I have come to realize that secrets breed tension, and truth breeds peace.”
At just that minute, Johnny slipped in the door of the auditorium.
“Come in, Johnny. I was just telling the others you were going to join us.”
Mr. Fleming moved a chair between him and Mr. Pearson. “Come sit here, boy.”
“No,” Seth said. “Let him sit with me and Gabriel.”
The eldest of the Martin sisters giggled. “He can sit by us.”
Johnny blushed.
“Next to Seth and Gabriel would be fine,” Zona said. “Now then, let’s run through the staging for ‘Joy to the World.’”
An appropriate song, all in all.
Cardiff didn’t remember much about the ride back to the stable, nor his subsequent walk to the boardinghouse. Hours had passed as he wandered the streets of Chicago, thinking about the past and what could have been, what should have been. So many errors of timing and intent.
By the time he reached the boardinghouse, he was covered with snow and couldn’t feel his hands or feet. Somehow he stumbled up the steps and inside, where his cane clattered to the floor.
Everyone was eating dinner, but upon seeing him, they erupted into motion, drew him to the fireside, and removed his outer garments. The two tenants rushed to fulfill Mrs. Driscoll’s orders of blankets and hot coffee. Cardiff let them fuss around him, too stiff and miserable to protest.
Mr. Johnson put another log on the fire and poked it to higher flames. “You’re just getting back?” he asked. “You’ve been gone since morning.”
“I got the horse back safely. No worries.”
“I’m not worried about the horse, but it’s far too long to be outside, especially in this weather.”
Cardiff had no defense. “I lost track of time.”
“Pooh to that,” Mrs. Driscoll said. “Lose time and lose your life. What were you thinking?”
I wasn’t thinking. Or perhaps I was thinking too much.
The other tenant brought him coffee, but Cardiff’s hands were too stiff to hold the cup. Mrs. Driscoll pulled another chair close then took his hands in hers and rubbed them vigorously. “Where did you go all day? I insist you tell us the reason for risking your life like this.”
Cardiff hunkered his shoulders into the blanket. The tops of his ears stung with the cold. He didn’t want to tell them. For one thing, it was none of their business; for another, it was old business, done business, business that made his heart ache.
“We’re waiting.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to say,” Mr. Johnson said.
“He has no choice in the matter. He comes home near death? We deserve an answer.”
Cardiff closed his eyes a moment and realized sleep was imminent. Best to answer her quickly so he could be left alone. “I sought an old friend but found she had moved away.”
“She? Was she your sweetheart?”
He was too weary to deny it. “Yes.”
“Do you still love her?”
Such a question. And yet, “I believe I do, though it doesn’t do me much good after all these years.”
“How many years?”
“Fifteen.”
“Gracious.”
Mr. Johnson poked the fire again. “You have no idea where she is?”
“Her family moved to help an elderly parent in central Illinois.”
“No city known?”
“No city known.”
Mrs. Driscoll put a hand on his arm. “Surely there’s some way you can find out where she went.”
Mr. Johnson leaned against the mantel. “He can’t very well send dozens of letters to every town.”
Mrs. Driscoll’s eyes brightened. “Why not? Surely one would stick.”
“I don’t even know if she’s still unmarried.”
Mr. Johnson frowned. “Fifteen years is a long time.”
“Too long,” Cardiff said.
Mrs. Driscoll shook away the negative thoughts. “It is never too late for love.”
Cardiff looked at her. “That’s what the woman who lives in Zona’s old house said.”
“See?” She spread her hands as if they held the truth. “It is never too late, and I know what we can do. We can pray.”
“For what?” Mr. Johnson asked.
“Pray that if this woman—what is her name?”
“Zona Evans.”
“Pray that if Zona Evans is unmarried and willing to meet up with our doctor, God arranges it.”
“That’s absurd,” the other tenant said.
“Prayers are never absurd.” She pointed at each one of them. “Take hands and bow your heads. I’ll do the praying for us.”
The men did as they were told, and Cardiff let his landlady’s prayer spin a cocoon of hope around him.
Chapter 8
Cardiff stood by Corporal Statler’s bed. “Your color is better. How are you feeling?”
“Fair to partly cloudy.”
His wit was a good sign. Cardiff had dodged his own bullet with this patient and thanked God for it. And Mother Breston.
“Can I get you anything?”
The corporal nodded at the bedside table. “I got a letter there, from one of those nice ladies who bring them onto the hospital train. Never got a chance to read it.”
“What ladies?”
“In Decatur. When the hospital train stopped there, all sorts of ladies came on board and gave us food, letters, socks, and blankets.”
Cardiff vaguely remembered passing through Decatur on his way north. No ladies had tended to his train.
But it wasn’t a hospital train.
He retrieved the letter and read it aloud: “‘My Dear Friend. You are not my husband nor son; but you are the husband or son of some woman who undoubtedly loves you. I send you my prayers and support with a heart that aches for your sufferings. Signed—’”
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