Color the Sidewalk for Me

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Mr. Lewellyn.” I slid a hand into my purse and brought up a small bundle covered in one of Granddad’s old hankies. Unwrapped it. “Granddad wanted me to give you this.” I held out the cracked play teacup. The marble lay inside, glinting black and silver in the chilly sunlight. “He said to tell you”—my voice broke—“that you win.”

  Jake Lewellyn bawled like a baby.

  chapter 41

  Two days after Granddad’s funeral our family gathered in Mr. Quince’s office to read the will. Mama was fearful, her tension spilling out in dueling bouts of sentimental tears and caustic anger. Mr. Quince read the document matter-of-factly, eyes not leaving the paper. Granddad had dictated letters for each of us, signed and sealed in separate envelopes. We were to read them later.

  The rest was short and straightforward. His medals and military insignia Granddad gave to me. To Kevy, his German canteen. His material possessions, clothes and the like, he wanted donated to a veterans organization. And then there was the issue of money, which I didn’t know he’d possessed. From his savings account at the Bradleyville Bank, which had been steadily growing with interest ever since he “sold the sawmill for a hefty profit,” five thousand dollars was to go into an account for Kevy, and fifteen thousand dollars was to be given to his sweet daughter, whom he dearly loved. The balance, over sixty-five thousand dollars, was left to his grandgirl, Celia Marie Matthews, to be kept in the account until she was eighteen and graduated from high school, then released in total.

  Mama moaned. The look she turned on me as I sat in stunned silence dripped with pain and betrayal and bitterness. I knew she believed that Granddad had reached out and slapped her from the grave. I understood none of it until I could retreat to my room, locking the door and sinking onto my bed, his letter in my hand.

  Dear Celia,

  Now you know what my decision was. I’ve hoarded the money all these years, planning on giving it to your mama, knowing she in turn would be generous to you and Kevy when it came time for you both to leave home. Things are different now. You and Danny have alife to build and she won’t help you. If Danny owned anything, I wouldn’t have needed to do this. But he has struggled all his life and has nothing to give you but himself. So take the money with my blessing.

  One request, missy. Don’t tell him about this yet. You may think it will ease his mind in the coming year while you two are apart. I think it would make things worse. He has his pride. He’ll be hesitant to ask you to leave your family once you graduate, afraid that you’ll believe he wants you only because of the money. A stupid thing to think, but people can convince themselves of stupid things about those they love the most. So wait till you’re together again, then surprise him.

  There’s something else, very, very important. Always remember what I told you about praying to heal things with your mama. Because God promised me something yesterday after I talked to you. I’m ashamed to admit I was right mad at him, demanding to know why he never answered me about my problems with her. Something inside me told me to pick up my Bible, and it fell open to Matthew 11:28.

  “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The next verse says it again, even better—“Ye shall find rest unto your souls.” God was telling me plain as could be that I can rest now because I’ve done all I can and he’ll take care of it. And then he told me something else, Celia, clear like a bell. He told me that you are the one on this earth who’s going to reach your mama, if you’ll just follow his leading. You two are going to learn how to love each other. You can imagine I sure felt better after that. It may take awhile for you to see this happen. But don’t ever give up. Just keep asking the Lord how to go about it and he’ll tell you. One thing I know—the Lord don’t go back on his promises. If you don’t turn to him for help, though, you’ll never manage it by yourself.

  One more thing. In my letter to your mama I told her that a lot of prayer went into my giving you so much money. I’m praying she’ll understand that and not harden her heart. I also told her many, many things that I hope she’ll finally begin to hear.

  You’re the best grandgirl a man could have. It was a blessing to watch you grow. I loved taking walks with you, and fishing and swimming, and most of all going to Tull’s.

  All my deepest love,

  Your Granddad,

  Thomas Bradley

  P.S. Don’t forget to give that old henpecker Jake Lewellyn his marble.

  ~ 1997 ~

  chapter 42

  How I wished for my wise granddad’s guidance as I struggled with my growing feelings for John Forkes. He had begun to haunt my thoughts. Visions of his hand over mine swirled with my ancient ache for Danny. The visions did not lessen the old loss. But in the midst of living with Mama and cheerleading Daddy through seemingly endless therapy sessions, John’s image sent a warmth through me that I had not felt in a long time. I imagined that he was thinking of me as well. Since the day we met, an inexplicable communication had flowed between us. I pictured Carrie talking about Andy and remembered the quickened senses of a woman desired.

  But John wasn’t free, as Andy was. John was engaged. Planning a wedding. He was Daddy’s doctor; that should have been our only connection. And I was no longer a teenager, too self-absorbed to realize the tragedy of poor choices.

  Our talk over iced tea happened on a Friday. The following Tuesday John would return. I waited for the day with impatient dread, as I once had waited for Saturday and my next visit to the river after Danny had not shown up.

  I “Mama,” I asked as I set the table for supper Monday, “I was thinking of painting the living room. What do you think?”

  She was stirring rice on the stove. “Paintin’ it? With us right here?”

  “I’d just do a wall at a time, so it wouldn’t be too disruptive. It really needs it.”

  “Well, I know, but—”

  “Let me do it for you, Mama,” I pressed. “I need a project to keep me busy anyway.”

  She hemmed and hawed but ultimately acquiesced, even smiling at me briefly. I smiled back. For Daddy’s sake we had been trying harder to get along ever since he became so upset at the supper table last week. I knew, however, that solving our differences would not be as simple as painting a room.

  After Daddy’s therapy Tuesday morning I drove to Albertsville, ostensibly to buy the paint but intent on other business as well. Reaching the south end of town, I followed the familiar streets that led to Sledge’s Farm Equipment. Many times when I was a child, I had driven with Granddad to pick Daddy up from work on the days Granddad had needed the car. How Granddad used to fly over the hills, my stomach bouncing into my giggling throat as he trumpeted that we were “streakin’ into battle for the Allied Forces.”

  My mission today was just as important, as far as Daddy was concerned. I had to reverse the damage Mama had done. His boss was not expecting me; I could not have risked Mama’s overhearing a phone call. I hoped that the element of surprise would work in my favor.

  To my relief, Mr. Sledge greeted me heartily, asking about Daddy and saying how much he was missed. “That’s good to hear,” I replied, “because I’m here to talk to you about how we can best get him back to work.”

  He didn’t blink an eye. “Of course, of course.”

  Ushering me into his industrial office, he bid me to sit in an old wooden chair opposite his gray metal desk. Boxes, papers, invoices, and supplies littered the room and the sill of its one grimy window. From the showroom outside filtered the sounds of a salesman testing a tractor motor and another calling for a serviceman to “pick up that doggone phone!” Mr. Sledge nodded to me apologetically. “It’s always pretty noisy around here. Your daddy amazed me, the way he could work the books in the middle of all the commotion. He had a knack for filterin’ out what he didn’t want to hear.”

  I thought of Daddy when I was a child and found that easy to believe.

  However, he was no longer so distant from his surroundings. I wondered
if that would change his ability to perform here. It had certainly changed his tolerance for my fighting with Mama.

  “You told my mother a temp is replacing him right now?”

  “That’s right. He knows he’s most likely got two months here; after that we’ll see.”

  “Mr. Sledge”—I leaned forward in the chair—“I’m handling Daddy’s therapy. We work very hard at it twice a day and he’s improving. The improvement is slow; it’s likely to take all of those two months. It might take longer, though, and that’s why I’m here. To ask you early on to grant him some extra time if we need it. He’s worked for you a lot of years and I know you value him. So it seems to me that if you have to employ a temporary accountant for a few more weeks, it’s worth it for you to wait.”

  He regarded me indulgently, light from the overhead bulb reflecting off his glasses. “You came from outta state to help your daddy, didn’t ya? Left your own job?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He shook his head. “Your daddy sure is lucky to have you. I’d like to think my kids’d do the same for me, but . . .” He shrugged. “I guess you’re mighty close to both your folks; that’s the way Bradleyville breeds ’em.”

  “Well, I’ve been gone a long time. But they needed me, so I came.” “That’s what I mean.” He leaned back, looking at the ceiling as he plucked absentmindedly at the blue-and-white striped shirt half untucked around his bulging stomach. “Tell you what, Celia. I do want your daddy to return. But the impression I got from your mama was that he may never be able to. So she and I settled on two months as sort of a reassessin’ time, know what I mean? Gosh, she told me he couldn’t even talk. I figured, ‘Who knows if he can ever handle my books again?’”

  “He couldn’t talk at first but he’s learning,” I responded. “And his mind is clear. What he can’t say, he can write. It’s not a matter of being able to think logically; it’s merely a matter of his body regaining the strength to function normally. He may never drive himself to work again, for example, but there’s no reason Mama couldn’t bring him.”

  “Your mama seemed awful protective; I don’t know if she’d go along with this.”

  My fingers gripped the arms of my chair. “Excuse me, Mr. Sledge, but I don’t think it’s for her to say. It’s up to Daddy. Put yourself in his place—stuck in a wheelchair, working so hard to relearn the simplest things like pulling on your socks. Imagine how depressing that would be, then imagine someone telling you that even if you completely recovered, you could never return here, that your working life was over. Don’t you think that would affect how hard you’d work at your therapy? Don’t you think you’d say to yourself, ‘What’s the use?’ You know it’s true; a man’s life is his work. And I know that with all Daddy’s been through, this place means a lot to him.” I stopped abruptly, aware that my voice had risen. I felt my cheeks flush.

  Mr. Sledge slowly tapped his thumb against the desk. “I’ll say it again—your daddy’s a lucky man to have you fightin’ for him. And yes ma’am, I do understand. So let’s do this. I told your mama we’d reassess in two months, and I’m gonna stick to that. That’s, let’s see”—his lips moved as he counted silently—“six weeks away. If William ain’t ready to come back by then, you come around and see me. Tell me how much longer you think it’ll be, if he can come back at all. You’ll be honest with me about that, won’t ya?”

  “Yes, I will.” Relief rushed through me. “Thank you, Mr. Sledge! Thank you so much.”

  “That’s all right.” He pushed back his chair, slapping his palms against his knees. “Sounds like you’ll be here for however long it takes, huh? Till your daddy can come back.”

  My smile froze as the impact of his statement hit me. In wheedling extra time out of Mr. Sledge, I had opened the door to an indefinite stay in Bradleyville. How on earth could I not have thought of that before? What if Daddy didn’t heal in time and my remaining six weeks stretched to ten, twelve? At what point would I cut it off, admit defeat? How could I just return to Little Rock and leave Daddy forever at home with Mama? “Well, yes, of course,” I replied lamely. “If he’s able to come back.” Mr. Sledge was opening his office door, chuckling. “Sounds to me like you won’t stop till you git him back; that’s what you got your mind set on. And that’s fine ’n’ dandy. We’ll be countin’ on ya. Just like your daddy is.”

  “Yes sir.” I forced my lips to curve. “I’ll do my best. Thank you again.”

  In my car I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes, keys dropped in my lap, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

  I had planned to call Bobby Delham while in Albertsville, to see if I could meet him after work. I still felt I needed to see him and express my sorrow over Melissa’s death, and I thought it might be awkward to visit him at home with his children present. But after my discussion with Mr. Sledge, I no longer had the energy. Driving to the hardware store, I promised myself I would phone Bobby another day.

  Another day. Another week? Month? Who knew? After the commitment I’d just made, I could possibly put off seeing Bobby Delham all summer. What in the world was I doing, I railed inwardly. The therapy sessions, difficult as they had been, were not half as draining as the tension between me and Mama. I didn’t know how I could be under the same roof with her for more than two months. I worried about being absent so long from the ad agency. And June 30 would come all too soon. I couldn’t imagine conducting my annual all-night candlelight vigil in Mama’s house.

  On cue, the memories began to play in my head.

  “No.” I fought them as I entered the store. With effort I thrust them away. Paid for the paint supplies. Wheeled my heavy shopping cart outside. As I loaded the items into my car, a quiet, selfish voice in the back of my head grew louder, replacing the memories. It murmured that more time in Bradleyville meant more opportunities to see John Forkes.

  chapter 43

  I borrowed some old clothes from Mama and got ready to paint the back wall of the living room and dining area, moving out the dining table and telephone stand and spreading tarp. The house soon filled with the smell of paint, and I opened windows and the front door, allowing the warm spring breeze to blow through. Leaving time for Daddy’s therapy, late in the afternoon I announced I’d done enough damage for one day, doused the paint splatters with turpentine, and took a bath.

  “Luuk guud,” Daddy told me at supper, awkwardly holding a chicken breast steady with his left forefinger as he cut it. He couldn’t hold a fork in his left hand yet, although movement was improving due to his frequent attempts to squeeze the rubber ball.

  “Thanks. Are you talking about me now that I’m cleaned up or the walls?”

  “Bvoth.”

  I squeezed his arm.

  Daddy and I had not had another of our long conversations yet, and he’d been bugging me about it. “Letsss tawk,” he’d said that morning. I’d promised we would—sometime when Mama was out. He’d cast me a disappointed look and reached for his pen and paper.

  What waiting for to make up with M? Armageddon?

  Here we go again, I’d thought. “Daddy”—frustration had coated my voice—“how do you make up for a lifetime?”

  “The paint does look good,” Mama agreed. “Thank you for your work.”

  “You’re welcome; glad to do it.”

  How civil we were to one another.

  As we finished supper, John arrived, taking in the moved furniture and tarp with a glance. His tie was off, shirt collar open. He turned his eyes on me, and I thought of the way Danny used to look when he’d see me at school and we couldn’t touch. While John examined Daddy, I hung around, telling him of the various improvements I’d seen. When he was ready to leave, I offered to walk him out. “Just a quick question,” I explained.

  I waited until we had stepped off the porch, far enough from Mama’s listening ears. “I wanted you to know,” I said quietly as we walked, “that I saw Daddy’s boss yesterday and he granted us extra time for Daddy to return to w
ork if we need it. I haven’t told Mama yet.”

  “For William’s sake, that’s good to hear.” John scanned Minton Street, apparently looking for nosy neighbors. It struck me that he thought this necessary, as if we had something to hide. “Think she’ll be glad you did that?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t really matter. Whether Daddy returns to work is for him to decide, not her.”

  We stopped halfway to his car. “She’s only trying to protect him, Celia. She almost lost him and it really scared her.”

  “This isn’t about protection,” I informed him. “It’s about control. You don’t know her. She’s always tried to control our family, and she never wanted people to leave her; that was her big thing. Now she doesn’t even want Daddy to leave for a day’s work. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on her?”

  “Don’t talk to me about being hard, John; you don’t know the half of it.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  I closed my eyes, suddenly tired. “No. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . touchy about the subject.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He placed a hand on my arm briefly. My skin tingled.

  Suddenly self-conscious, I resumed walking. “When will you be back?”

  “Friday. That way I can keep my weekend clear. Unless some old lady calls about her hemorrhoids.”

  I managed a smile. “A doctor’s duty is never done, I suppose.”

  “Nope.” He opened the passenger door and placed his bag on the seat. “See you soon.”

  I “Ceela. Luuk!”

  It happened Saturday afternoon. I’d finished my painting, the living room and dining area fresh and clean looking. I had informed Mama that I might as well do the kitchen with the paint I had left. Later she had taken a casserole to a sick church member, saying she wouldn’t be long. I was about to call Monica about my house and cats but instead found myself running to the porch at the urgency in Daddy’s voice. He beamed lopsidedly with victory, pointing with his chin toward his lap. “Oh, wow!” I cried. “Look at you! You can touch it!”