A small gasp puffed from the widow’s parted lips. She froze, her back still bent over the plant, the watering can suspended. What on earth? Why had such a crazy thing entered her mind? She pondered it until her back began to ache, and then she straightened, shaking her head. Must have eaten too much Jell-O salad at lunch; the sugar was acting up on her again. She took a deep breath, mentally shaking herself back into place, then lifted the can to water her mint plant. Next, she moved to the parsley. After a moment, her humming resumed. A heater vent was in the wall below the window, and she took her time, relishing the warm air on her legs.
She was just about to water the rosemary when the vision flashed a second time into her brain, with double the clarity. “Oh!” she cried, nearly dropping the can. She froze again, mind reeling. Then, slowly, a new expression spread across her wrinkled face. With a slight frown, she set the watering can on the counter and turned her back to the window, facing the empty kitchen. “Lord?” she said aloud. “Is that you?” She listened intently, eyes lifting toward the ceiling. “You tryin’ to tell me somethin’?”
She stood for what seemed a long time, until her legs started to get stiff and her right hip throbbed. She headed for the kitchen table, pulled out her wooden chair with the handmade red padded cushion tied to its back slats, and fell into it with a slight sigh. That’s when the vision leapt into her head for the third time, clinging to her thoughts so forcefully that she could not pry it loose.
“Dear God Almighty,” she breathed, shaken to her bones. “Please tell me. Is this fearful picture from you?” She tried to still her pounding heart, awaiting the reply, and the answer came as surely as though God had spoken aloud.
Yes.
“Oh, help us, Jesus.” Automatically, the widow clasped her hands, leaning over the table to talk to God. It was a long time before she arose.
When she did, she walked purposefully into her small, neat living room and toward the phone. As she had prayed, she’d begun fully to grasp the meaning of the vision. A terrible crisis was going to befall Bradleyville. She didn’t know what or when or how. Only that God had called her—and a few others she was to tell—to intercede in prayer.
Lips moving silently, she picked up the phone and dialed Pastor Frasier’s number.
~ 1968 ~
chapter 5
A faint squeaking of brakes filtered through the open kitchen. window and, reflexively, I jumped. Brushing aside the white sheers, I spotted a red pickup truck pulling toward the curb out front. Frustration twinged inside me. I hadn’t been home for more than half an hour, just long enough to eat a hurried supper. My bags were still in my car. I’d made quite an entrance, twirling my tasseled college graduation cap, as if it hadn’t been exclaimed over enough two days ago at the ceremony. I’d expected the three of us to linger over our meal, discussing how well my plans were going. Instead I’d found my aunt on tenterhooks, my uncle preoccupied.
“Oh, that’ll be Lee Harding,” Aunt Eva breathed, deftly slicing into her still-warm chocolate cake. “Will you get the door please, hon?”
“You didn’t tell me we were having company,” I called over my shoulder as I turned the corner into the living room.
“Well, just Lee and Thomas, but there was hardly time, and we didn’t want to get into the subject….” Aunt Eva’s chattering answer drifted through the hallway as I opened the door.
My gaze fell chest-high on the massive man standing before me, and I raised my eyes to take in broad shoulders, a muscular neck. Lee Harding was easily six-foot-five, with thick black hair combed over a wide forehead, eyes of dark chocolate. I was only five-foot-five myself and had to tip back my head to look him in the eye. One of his huge wrists was probably bigger than both of mine put together. For a brief moment we stared at each other, my hand still on the doorknob.
“Jessie,” he said, pleasure in his voice. “I didn’t expect to see you this soon.”
I hesitated, searching for a response.
“I met you when you were down for Christmas, remember?” he said, automatically wiping his large booted feet on Aunt Eva’s worn welcome mat. “And again in church at Easter.”
“Yes, of course I remember,” I smiled. “Nice to see you again. Come on in, they’re expecting you.”
Aunt Eva appeared around the corner, a crumb-coated server in her hand. “Come in, Lee, come in!” she cried, flitting toward me like an eagle joining her chick. “Thomas will be here any minute, and Frank’s right on my heels. Just have yourself a seat. You remember Jessie. She’s gonna be with us till August; it’ll be so nice to have her around this summer, don’t you think?” She beamed meaningfully at us both.
Oh, boy. It appeared Aunt Eva had plans of her own for me my last few weeks in Bradleyville. “I’ll go get some iced tea,” I said.
By the time I’d gathered three glasses of iced tea for the men and prepared three plates of cake, Thomas had arrived. I trotted to the door to hug him, feeling the thinning bones beneath his red-checked shirt. “Thanks again for coming to my graduation,” I whispered, kissing his scruffy cheek.
“Ah,” he waved a hand, “what’s a bit of a drive for my best girl.”
Uncle Frank and Lee stood to greet Thomas—my uncle with warm familiarity, Lee with a touch of reverence. Next to Lee Harding, my uncle looked diminutive, even though six feet himself. As the men settled into armchairs and the couch for their meeting, I excused myself, noting the look of concern in my uncle’s eyes, the corners of his mouth dragging toward his rounded jowls. Aunt Eva was edging toward the couch, and he gave her a look. “Well,” she exclaimed, smiling at no one in particular, “Jessie and I’ll just … eat our dessert in the kitchen.” She walked away with dignity, beckoning me to follow like an errant child.
The reason for the unusual meeting was evidently serious, indicated by the fact that Lee and Thomas had arrived on our doorstep at 6:00, a sacred time in Bradleyville. The mill shift let out at five, with wives putting suppers on tables by 5:30. Supper was a time for fathers to question children about their behavior, for mothers to “tell daddy” a toddler’s newest word. Visiting hours did not begin until around 7:00—an unwritten rule, perhaps, but no less sacrosanct in a town founded on strong familial bonds.
Aunt Eva and I returned quietly to our seats at the kitchen table, out of sight of the three men but within good earshot. My aunt perched at attention, picking up her fork and gliding it through her piece of cake and into her mouth without a breath of sound. I suppressed a smile. She’d never change.
“Thomas, I hear congratulations are in order at y’all’s house.” Lee Harding’s voice was deep but surprisingly gentle for a man his size. “How’s the baby?”
“Hooo, you should see that grandson a mine!” Thomas crowed. “Kevin Thomas Matthews—ain’t that a name! He’s strong, smart. Just amazin’ what you can tell in a person one week old.”
I heard the slap of Thomas’s fingers against his leg, could imagine his pleased-as-punch grin.
“And Estelle?”
“Fine, fine. Takin’ care a her growin’ family. And what a big sister little Celia’s turnin’ out to be. Won’t let that baby outta her sight.”
Aunt Eva scratched her nose impatiently as the “askin’ after” pleasantries continued. We heard that Lee’s mama was still mending slowly after falling and cracking her hip. And his younger sister was “havin’ her ups and downs, what with bein’ pregnant and suddenly husbandless and all.” That comment wrought forth a shudder from Aunt Eva as she poked her fork in the air and turned it, skewering an imaginary Bart Stokes for his faithlessness. “That’s what comes a marryin’ an Albertsville boy,” she’d sniffed when she’d told me the news. “They just don’t have our morals.”
When the men’s conversation turned to business, my aunt was again all ears.
“Thomas,” Uncle Frank began, “Lee and I been wantin’ to talk to you ‘bout the mill, and after today, figured it couldn’t wait any longer. Blair Riddum just informed us he�
�s not gonna raise wages again this fiscal year. The men’re mighty hot over it.”
“What’s his reason?”
“Same as before,” Lee put in. “Mill’s not doin’ well, cain’t afford it, and on and on. It was hard enough hearin’ that last year, but he promised things’d be different this year, so we all tightened our belts and waited it out. Not much else we could do; the mill puts food on our tables. Now it’s the same thing all over again.”
The discussion paused. I managed a bite of cake, upset for Thomas over the news. After his wife died four years ago, Thomas had sold the mill and retired, moving in with his daughter, Estelle, and her family. He’d never have wanted that sale to hurt his employees.
“Everybody was grumblin’ somethin’ fierce on their way out the door tonight,” Lee continued. “It particularly don’t set well, Thomas, seein’ as how not two months back Riddum finished that big addition to his house. You must a seen it out Route 622. He’s got a new wrap-around porch and a fancy-cut, heavy door, plus at least a couple a new rooms. So now he’s got no money for us. I can tell you, that’s hard to take when I’m addin’ on to Mama’s house for my sister and her baby. I was countin’ on a raise to repay the bank for materials.”
“What do the accountin’ books say, Frank?” Thomas asked.
My uncle snorted in disgust. A boding wind blew through me at hearing such an atypical display of frustration from my patient uncle. “They been taken outta my hands. Riddum told me last week my title means assistant manager in production only. ‘You got to get more work outta the men. They’re gettin’ lazy and slow,’ he says.”
“The men were never slow when I was there.”
“And they ain’t slow now, Thomas,” Lee declared. “We already been workin’ faster, hopin’ for those raises come July. It ain’t even safe around the blades now. Ken Beecham like to cut off his thumb the other day.”
Someone sighed loudly. Probably Thomas. I’d been in Lexington attending the University of Kentucky when he sold the mill but had heard all about it from Aunt Eva. It was a major affair for Bradleyville, being the first time the mainstay of the town had passed into the hands of someone other than a Bradley. Blair Riddum lived about a mile outside of town and was no stranger, but neither was he Bradleyville born-and-bred. Some of the townsfolk had expressed their doubts about the sale, which is a nice way to say that the other mill in town—the gossip mill—ran wild. But Thomas had calmed everyone’s fears, reminding them that buyers don’t come often, and that one mile past the large wooden Bradleyville sign was a heck of a lot better than twenty-two miles—referring to the nearest town of Albertsville.
I heard an iced tea glass being set on one of Aunt Eva’s glass coasters, then the creak of a chair.
“I been hearin’ things for a while,” Thomas said. “No way not to. I’ve tried to keep outta the way, thinkin’ it’s not my place now. But I cain’t help but feel bad that sellin’ for my own retirement is hurtin’ the town.”
“No one’s blamin’ you, Thomas, certainly not us,” my uncle replied. Lee Harding voiced his agreement. “We didn’t want to come to you, especially now, with a brand new grandson and all. But there’s not a man in Bradleyville who won’t listen to you. So what we’re askin’ is for you to pay Riddum a visit. Let him know how serious the situation is.”
“Just how serious is it?”
Uncle Frank cleared his throat. “Well, a few hot-tempered ones have even mentioned strike.”
Strike.
Aunt Eva’s eyes widened. “Frank didn’t tell me,” she whispered fiercely. I shook my head, brushing back a long strand of hair. It would never happen.
There had been a strike at a big sewing factory in Albertsville when I was seventeen. That town was five times the size of Bradleyville, yet it still had reeled from the impact. Violence erupted when “scab” workers were brought in to replace the strikers, and three people had been killed. More than three hundred families were without income for a month, and grocery store robberies were common.
“Strike,” Thomas repeated.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Lee said quickly, “that’s just a few loose cannons talkin’. Al Bledger always runs at the mouth.”
“I tried to calm the workers down after the shift,” Uncle Frank explained. “Lee came to my rescue—he’s someone they look up to, even though he’s been there less than a year. It was his idea that we see you.” He paused. “What I’m tryin’ to tell you, old friend, is that this here meetin’s no secret. We’re all countin’ on your seein’ Riddum, hopin’ it’ll knock some sense into him. If it don’t, well, Lee and I’ll keep tryin’ for some sort a compromise. We don’t want trouble.”
“And we don’t want a union either,” Lee added. “Not yet, anyway. But if this don’t work itself out, a union’s promises are gonna look better and better.”
“Always said I’d be in my grave afore a union got hold a my mill,” Thomas said. “Goes against everything Bradleyville stands for, outsiders tellin’ us what to do.”
Aunt Eva’s cake was forgotten. She leaned her elbows on the table, hands cradling her stricken face.
“So,” Uncle Frank said, “you’ll see Riddum?”
“I’ll do what I can. And if it don’t work, gentlemen …,” he paused, “we’ll have some hard prayin’ to do.”
chapter 6
I unpacked my suitcases slowly, disturbed by the news I’d heard about the saw mill. Thomas had stayed a while after Lee Harding left, and his expression left no question as to how distraught he was. “I jus’ cain’t believe it’s got this bad,” he kept repeating as we sat around the kitchen table. I’d cleared away all the dishes. “Where’ve I been?”
“You been thinkin’ ‘bout a baby bein’ born, that’s what, Thomas.” Aunt Eva patted his arm. “There’s a lot goin’ on in your household.”
Thomas shook his head, uncomforted. “I shoulda been watchin’; maybe things’d never a gotten this far. I shoulda talked to Riddum weeks ago.”
“They haven’t gotten all that far,” Uncle Frank put in. “That strike talk is just a couple a hotheads talkin’, like we said. Most a the men ain’t even mentioned it.”
“All it takes is one hothead,” Thomas rejoined. “One hothead, and the whole company can fall; I seen that enough in my battle days.”
“Which, by the way, are behind you, Thomas,” Aunt Eva declared, lightly hitting a fist against the table for emphasis. “Arguin’ over wages is not a war, and Bradleyville’s not Korea. So don’t you go thinkin’ in such ways. We’re not talkin’ here ‘bout strategy or battles; we’re talkin’ ‘bout the mill, which has been here a long time and will continue to be here many more years.”
I threw her an odd look, wondering who she was most trying to convince. She squared her shoulders. “You ain’t been here for a while, Jessie,” she retorted, then caught herself and lightened her tone. “Things’ve been difficult at the mill; no one knows that more’n your uncle, who’s treadin’ the line, bein’ both assistant manager and friend. But all the same, Thomas,” she turned to him, “what we need to be doin’ most of all is prayin’. God helped your daddy build that mill, and he’s the one who’s gonna protect it.”
My eyes slid over to Thomas. Aunt Eva may not have been subtle, but her perception was right on the mark. Thomas’s view of himself as town patriarch—and therefore ultimate problem-solver—reigned supreme. He slowly scratched the side of his mouth, quelling a defensive reply.
“’Course you’re right ‘bout that, Eva.” He puckered his chin. “God’s gonna help us, no doubt. But I’m the one here on earth who’s gotta try to drill some sense into Riddum’s head.”
“And we’re glad to have you,” Uncle Frank interjected. “We’re glad for your wisdom and experience. Eva’s right too; we gotta be prayin’—for you and for the town’s protection.”
“I’m all for that.” Thomas smacked his hands against his knees and rose to leave.
“Now you let us know, Thomas, so
on as you come outta that meetin’.” Aunt Eva stood and pushed her chair back into the table.
“No doubt, Eva, you’ll be one a the first to know,” Thomas replied with a twinkle in his eye. He knew her as well as she knew him. If Aunt Eva caught the intimation, she paid him no heed.
Now, alone in my room, I opened a dresser drawer and sighed. I knew I was being selfish, but I was as disappointed over the situation for me as I was for the town. Quiet was what I longed for, not turmoil. During my entire senior year, thanks to an overloaded schedule, I’d only been able to visit Bradleyville during Christmas and Easter, even though the University of Kentucky was only about four hours’ drive away. Throughout my five years at college, I’d juggled thirty hours’ work a week plus classes. This past year, in order to graduate, I’d had to add an extra class per semester. On top of that, I’d put in about five hours a week volunteering at a soup kitchen run by a downtown church in Lexington. I was exhausted. I’d so looked forward to coming home for two months’ rest before starting my new job in Cincinnati. During that last, crazy week of finals, studying late into the night and repeating facts in my head as I sewed clothes alterations at Susan’s Dry Cleaning, I kept telling myself, “Just a few more days. A few more days, and you’ll have it easy in Bradleyville.”
I shook out a wrinkled dress and hung it in the closet, looking at it askance. I was badly in need of a decent wardrobe for my new job as a social worker for Hamilton County, in which Cincinnati resided. My one goal for the next two months, other than to rest, was to sew at least six outfits, using some of my hoarded savings for fabric and patterns. My first day of work was August fifteenth. The apartment I’d leased would become available August first, which was perfect. I’d have two weeks to settle in to the large apartment complex, re-explore Cincinnati, and possibly make some friends. Most importantly, I’d have a few days to donate to Hope Center, which was still managed by Brenda Todd, who “couldn’t wait to welcome me back with open arms,” as she’d responded when I’d written her of my plans to return to Cincinnati. After my job commenced, I planned to work at the Center a few evenings a week and every Sunday. “I certainly can’t fill my mother’s shoes,” I’d said in my letter, “but I can do my small part to help.”
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