Cast a Road Before Me

by Brandilyn Collins

  The phone rang again. I pictured his mother answering while exchanging a wink with Aunt Eva over our taking so long. Lee let out a long breath. “I suppose we oughta get back. Sounds like I got more talkin’ to do.”

  “Good luck,” I smiled. We stepped back into the house.

  On the short trip home, Aunt Eva asked me no less than three times what I thought of Lee Harding.

  chapter 11

  The Bradleyville I knew had been so predictable. Summer’s hot humidity usually descended in June, and by July it was a smothering woolen blanket. Luckier folks had an air conditioner set in one central house window that struggled to blow cooler air into back bedrooms. Most of the businesses downtown were air-conditioned except for the Laundromat, whose machines emanated heat of their own. When I was in high school, Bradleyville summers had beat a steady, torpid rhythm: old folks jawing in chairs under the Tull’s Drugstore awning, kids at play, men working the sawmill, mothers choosing ice cream with their little ones at the IGA.

  But the week following “Riddum’s No,” as it was quickly dubbed, seemed anything but predictable. On one level, life went on. The Baptist church had their first summer potluck. The hardware store announced a sale on small tools. Mothers changed their babies’ diapers on the Laundromat’s long folding table as clothes rumbled dry. Thomas and his two cronies, Jake Lewellyn and Hank Jenkins, lounged daily in their respective chairs outside Tull’s, sipping on shakes. Women still canned vegetables and fruits; and children, oblivious to the heat, still played kickball on the school playground. Yet beneath the rhythm of everyday life beat a steady, vague dread, like the sound of distant warning drums. I was deeply affected and skittish. If I had known then what was to come, I never would have stayed.

  Aunt Eva and Uncle Frank continued to pray for a quick resolution. Sometimes I prayed also—to my guardian angel. Since my dream, I had come to think of my mother as my special intercessor to God.

  To keep my mind off the mill situation, I prepared for my move to Cincinnati with dogged intent. Twice, I drove to Albertsville’s large fabric store to choose patterns and fabric for my career dresses. As I sewed, I mentally arranged my mother’s old bedroom furniture, which was now mine, in my new apartment. Her bedroom had been a light blue. I’d already asked the manager for permission to paint mine the same color. I also wrote Brenda Todd at the Center, telling her details of my graduation and how I looked forward to seeing her. She wrote back, exclaiming over the huge, gleaming kitchen stove that had recently been donated. “You won’t believe how much soup we can cook at once!” she added. She told me of two new families in particular who were there—the Westons, whose little boy was crippled with spina bifida, and the Hedingers, who had four children and no skills for employment. My heart went out to them all.

  I also talked a couple of times on the phone with Edna Slate, the social worker I was to replace on September first. She was leaving the department to have her baby and did not plan to return. “Be prepared to work hard,” she warned me. “You’re starting August fifteenth; that only gives me two weeks to get you up to speed. I’m carrying a huge case load, and you’ll have to become familiar with them all in that space of time.” I knew that meant becoming acquainted with more misery. Children without parents, children abused, families in crisis. Sometimes my mind reeled, just thinking about it all. There was so much misery in the world. I knew I was to follow in my mother’s footsteps and do my part, but whatever I could do seemed so minute. I’d find myself thinking in such terms, then try to shake myself out of it. I hadn’t even started working or volunteering yet, and already I felt overwhelmed. No wonder my mother had said she could never do enough. I was beginning to understand the look of despair that had crossed her face as she drove away from me that Saturday.

  As I busily planned my life “after Bradleyville,” I tried not to think too much about the sawmill. That problem was too close to home, too frightening, and I didn’t want to be caught up in it. Through Hope Center or my job, I was ready to deal with the hopelessness of men who’d lost their employment. But I couldn’t begin to imagine half the families in Bradleyville facing the same terrible issue.

  Meanwhile, all around me, the town rumbled.

  A course-changing event in one’s life, as I well knew, could happen in the space of minutes. Or it could form slowly, a primitive webbing splaying into fingers of discontent, a minuscule trail hardening into the sinewed spine of resentment. So it was with the mill workers as the heat-soaked days after “Riddum’s No” marched on. Blair Riddum had added insult to injury by telling Thomas that his employees were lazy and were to blame for the “poor annual earnings.” Each day when Uncle Frank dragged home, reeking of sawdust and the malcontent of men, Aunt Eva and I heard the latest. At first the men vowed to work harder, hoping still to win Riddum over. But when teeth-gritting labor gave way to further unsafe practices and no softening of Riddum’s ways, the men’s resolve dwindled.

  Like the rest of the town, I couldn’t help slowing down on my way to Albertsville for a narrow-eyed glance down the long driveway leading to Blair Riddum’s newly remodeled house.

  Midway through June, mill employees, cleaned up and suppered, began to gather at our home to vent their frustrations. Lee Harding was always among them. Uncle Frank, with his wide-browed face that radiated honesty and good sense, would listen attentively, displaying concern while calming bubbling reactions. Lee, too, I was pleased to hear, advocated constraint. There was a sense among the men—and the whole town, for that matter—that something would give, for like soup simmering in a too-small pot, a boil-over was inevitable. Everyone still prayed that Blair Riddum would back off his criticism and sanction a raise. Even a token one would soothe many ruffled feathers.

  During those meetings Aunt Eva would serve cake or cookies and iced tea. Bustling about refilling glasses and plates afforded her presence the perfect raison d’être. I selfishly sat in my bedroom, telling myself I didn’t want to hear it, but with the door wide open. Like it or not, for Uncle Frank’s sake I wanted to make sure Lee kept his promise. A few times I’d answered the door when he had arrived, and we’d eyed each other until he nodded in response to my unspoken reminder.

  Things became more heated once Al Bledger started showing up. And about that time Aunt Eva asked me to help her serve.

  Mr. Bledger was short and wiry, with his hair shaved almost Marine-style. His eyes were steel gray, and his full lips turned down. What he lacked in size, he made up for in mouth.

  “I don’t know ‘bout the rest of y’all,” he declared one Thursday evening, “but I ain’t takin’ much more a this. And neither am I leavin’. I been at that mill since high school, some twenty years, long afore Riddum come along. He don’t scare me none. And there’s a good four or five other men I know feel the same way. I say we all band together and tell him to put out or we git out.”

  “So he says take a hike,” Lee challenged. “Then what?”

  “Then we take one.”

  “And who’s gonna put food on our tables?” someone asked.

  “We won’t be outta work that long,” Bledger insisted. “What’s Riddum gonna do? He don’t meet our demands, he’ll be losing a lot more money than we will.”

  “He can probably afford it longer than we can,” Uncle Frank commented.

  Numerous voices spoke at once, increasing in volume until Lee shouted them down. “Wait a minute! I been sayin’ again and again we cain’t make a move like that without bein’ willin’ to face the worst. ‘Cause once we’re in it, we ain’t gonna want to back down. So, Al, are you willin’ to stay outta work for weeks if Riddum digs in his heels?”

  “If I have to. But I still think he’ll come around right quick.”

  “What if he brings in new workers?”

  “He ain’t gonna get three hundred workers overnight.”

  “There’s plenty a unemployed men in Albertsville who’d be happy to drive down here to work,” Ned Finks said. “My brother-in-law’
s out of a job. Said he’d take mine in a minute. ‘Course I’d strangle him first.”

  “Albertsville would laugh itself silly,” Tom Elkin said disgustedly. “They been thumbin’ their noses at us for years. They know our mill dies, so does Bradleyville. They’d probably quit their jobs just to take ours.”

  “Oh, that ain’t true,” the man sitting next to Mr. Elkin declared, and voices rose again as neighbor argued with neighbor.

  “You gotta be ready for the worst!” Lee hit a fist into his palm. “Who’s willin’ to fight to keep the mill shut down? Talk about disruptin’ the town—we’d have state police down here. Who’s willin’ to take that?” He glanced around, arms extended. “‘Cause if you ain’t, you better not make the first move.”

  “Ah, you think too much,” Bledger said in disgust. “That ain’t gonna happen. What is gonna happen if we do nothin’ is we keep on just like this, with Riddum treatin’ us like dirt for little pay. Is that what you want?”

  “Thomas is still tryin’ to negotiate,” Lee said. “Riddum knows we’re havin’ these meetin’s; he’s bound to be gittin’ anxious.”

  “What’s he got to be anxious about; we ain’t doin’ nothin’!”

  As arguments popped up again, I watched Uncle Frank. He could have dominated the meeting. Instead he stood away from the crowd, arms crossed, watching—looking so tired. His lips moved silently, and I knew he was praying. Aunt Eva was fanning her face with a napkin and shook her head at me when our eyes met. Six weeks, I thought, and I’ll be away from all this.

  After the other men finally drifted home, still arguing, Lee lingered to talk with Uncle Frank. As Aunt Eva ran hot water in the kitchen sink, I collected plates and forks.

  “We can’t keep a lid on this thing for much longer,” Uncle Frank sighed. “Maybe you and I need to join Thomas for another talk with Riddum.”

  “You worried what that might do to your job?”

  “No. But I do wonder what I’d do if things came to a head. He ain’t treatin’ me all that poorly, and I ain’t got that many years left at the mill. Personally, I could ride things out and be okay financially.”

  Lee and I exchanged a look. He made no comment. “I think you’re right ‘bout us seein’ Riddum,” he said finally. “Let’s talk to him tomorrow after work. I don’t know how much more Thomas can do anyway.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  A fork slid from a plate I was holding, scattering white crumbs on the carpet. I frowned at it, my hands already full. “I’ll get it.”

  Lee stooped at my feet, picking up the fork and carefully plucking crumbs into his huge palm. He brushed them onto the stack of plates in my hand.

  “Thank you,” I said stiffly, feeling his closeness.

  “Here, Jessie, I’ll take ‘em on in.” Before I knew it, Uncle Frank had emptied my hands, leaving them with nothing to do. I clasped them in front of me.

  “Well.” Lee hesitated. “Better get goin’.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” It was the polite thing to do.

  The night air met us with moist warmth. A moth was fluttering around the overhead light as I stepped onto the porch behind him, fingers on the door, not quite shut. “Thanks for trying so hard, Lee.” It was the first time I’d called him by name, and he shrugged to cover his awareness.

  “Well, I promised a young lady.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose you’ll all be back tomorrow night. Which means I’ll have to bake another cake.”

  “I guess,” he sighed. “I got to start stayin’ home, though; I’m not gettin’ any work done on the house and Connie’s due the end a July.” He gazed absentmindedly down the street. “Maybe your uncle and I can get somethin’ outta Riddum tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” I replied doubtfully. Pulling the door shut, I crossed my arms and leaned against it. “But exactly what do you expect? I mean, you should have a clear goal. Don’t just give him more complaints or vague threats that the men are ‘going to do something.’”

  “I don’t expect to walk outta there with a raise for everybody, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not what I mean. It’s just…. Look. You and all the other employees need a ‘yes,’ even if it’s a small one. Just to turn the heat down for a while.”

  He raised his eyebrows, half amused. “And I suppose you have a suggestion?”

  Absently, I watched the moth, thinking. I could feel Lee’s eyes on me. “Maybe I do. How about this: why don’t you tell him the men are talking about walking off their jobs if they don’t get a raise. Ask him to reconsider over the next—six weeks—and to meet with you again August first. If he says no to that, he’s an idiot, ‘cause all he’d be doing is buying time.”

  “Uh-huh. And if he says no on August first?”

  “Then you’ll have to deal with it. But meantime, my uncle’s had a rest and you’ve finished your house. And the workers have had time to really consider the consequences of a strike. And I can quit baking cakes.”

  He lifted his chin. “Pretty good. Smart fighter, you are.”

  I winced. “That’s not exactly the word I would use.”

  “Which one? Smart or fighter?”

  Annoyance flitted through me. “I don’t believe in fighting, Lee. Ever. Okay?”

  “Hey, I’m sorry; I was just givin’ you a bad time.” He held up a hand in contrition. “Anyway, I’ll talk to your uncle about it tomorrow; sounds like a good idea to me. You’d still have to bake for at least tomorrow night. But wouldn’t it be great if we had some good news to report.”

  I lingered on the porch as he walked to his truck. Climbing in, he flashed me a grin. “For your information,” he called, “I’m partial to apple pie.”

  chapter 12

  I baked all day, peeling apples and rolling out pie crusts. Taking one look at her wreck of a kitchen when she came home for lunch, Aunt Eva raised an eyebrow.

  “Cakes or cookies are so much quicker. What you goin’ to all this trouble for?”

  Truth was, I couldn’t answer, because I wasn’t sure myself. Why on earth did I care what Lee Harding liked? I’d had only two conversations with the man, and both of them had ended somewhat testily. His cautious approach to the sawmill situation was encouraging, and he’d kept his promise to me concerning my uncle. All the same, there was something about Lee Harding that was almost frightening. Maybe it was just the fact that he loomed over me, or maybe it was those dark eyes under even darker eyebrows. But the aura of power he exuded was more than just physical; it was also the strength of an iron will. I could see why the men respected him. However, it seemed to me he was a man with a temper—if you hit him in the right spot. I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with him.

  “No big reason, Aunt Eva,” I replied, mixing cinnamon and sugar. “Just that I’ve been sitting and sewing a lot, and I thought a few hours on my feet in the kitchen would be a nice change.” The explanation sounded lame, even to my own ears.

  “Hmm,” she breathed, spreading mayonnaise on bread. “Must be nice to be young.”

  I stood at the counter, working pats of butter into flour with a pastry cutter. The white powder poofed out of the large glass bowl, making my nose itch. I turned my head and sneezed.

  “Bless you.”

  “Thanks.” I pressed the pastry cutter harder, working until my arm grew tired. Making pie crust was such a pain in the neck; I wished I’d never started. Aunt Eva was strangely silent, which only meant her thoughts were running a mile a minute. Without looking around, I felt her eyes boring into my back.

  “You had a real good idea last night,” she said. “Frank and Lee’re gonna present it to Riddum after work today. Frank called the post office during his break and said don’t pick him up after work; Lee’ll bring him home.”

  My arm slowed for a second, then resumed its pace. For some reason, I didn’t want to show my surprise at her knowledge. “Who told you it was my idea?”

  “Lee told Frank,” she replied, her m
outh full of sandwich.

  I pondered the piece of information. Lee could just as easily have taken the credit.

  “You two must have had time to talk last night.”

  Her light tone spoke volumes. So that’s what was on her mind. I pictured my conversation with Lee, wondering if Aunt Eva had heard his parting shot about apple pie through the kitchen window. One look at her face, and I’d know the answer. Surreptitiously, I glanced over my shoulder. In an expression only my aunt could attain, she managed to chew, grin, raise her eyebrows, and presume innocence all at the same time.

  She’d heard it, all right.

  I turned back to my flour mixture with a dignified sniff.

  We were both on edge by the time Uncle Frank got home that evening. My pies lined the kitchen counter, the whole house smelling warmly of apples and cinnamon. I’d managed to get off my throbbing feet for half an hour, fanning my face as I lay upon the couch. Aunt Eva had begun pacing the minute she hit the door from work, every once in a while disappearing around the corner to stir her leftover homemade soup on the stove.

  “Aunt Eva, you’re making me crazy,” I protested, laying an arm over my eyes.

  “Can’t help it.” She picked up a magazine and thumbed through it, seeing nothing. “Word’s gotten out they’re seein’ Riddum; you knew it would. So now the men’re dyin’ to know the answer, just like Thomas’s meetin’ a couple weeks ago. They’ll be here in droves tonight.”

  “I made plenty of pies.”

  She tossed away the magazine. “For heaven’s sake, Jessie, it’s not that. Don’t you understand? The men hear another ‘no,’ they’ll be more upset than ever. With all the talk filterin’ into the post office this afternoon, I almost called Frank back and said don’t do it. It’s too risky.”

  My arm fell away. I raised my head to look at her with alarm. “I never thought they’d be any the worse off for trying, even if the answer’s ‘no.’”

  “Wake up, Jessie; where’ve you been every night? You’ve heard Al Bledger and Ken Beecham and the rest of that gang talk. They’re stirrin’ up the pot, and more men’re joinin’ ‘em, pushin’ for a strike. They’re lookin’ for any excuse.”