Cast a Road Before Me

by Brandilyn Collins

  She laughed throatily. “No. Well, I mean, sure. But I meant Lee.”

  “Oh.” I took a purposeful drink of iced tea.

  “He talks about you all the time. And when he’s not talkin’, he’s got this dreamy look. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

  “Maybe he’s just thinking about all the work on the house.”

  “No.” She wiped sweat from her forehead. “It’s you.”

  Her candor was embarrassing. “Hasn’t he had girlfriends?”

  “Plenty. At least, that’s what the girls thought they were. My friends used to go nuts over him. But he was never interested in very many. And not anybody like you.”

  “Well, I think he’s … very nice also.”

  A sudden grimace rolled across Connie’s face. Her hand went involuntarily to her belly.

  “Are you okay?”

  She closed her eyes, holding her breath. I grew alarmed and started to rise. “I’ll call Lee.”

  “No, no.” She held up a hand. “It’s all right.” Exhaling slowly, she carefully shifted her position. “I been gettin’ these pains lately. Used to think I was goin’ into labor, but Mama says they’re just puttin’ me in practice for the real thing. She had ‘em with both her kids.”

  “How will you know when they’re real?”

  Her eyes fell on me, and in them I saw her vulnerability. “Cain’t rightly say. Since this is my first time.”

  Half a cookie was still in my hand. I put it on a napkin. “You’re right; I’m glad your mom’s here for you.”

  “Yeah. She’s been such a help. And Lee too; he takes care a us both. He’s a good provider.”

  Connie had a gracious subtlety that her mother and my Aunt Eva lacked. No expression gave her away, no particular tone of voice. All the same, I saw a flash into her soul. It was not the “selling” of her brother to me that was surprising. It was the fact that she did it so unselfishly in her own time of need.

  “I’m sure he is,” I mumbled.

  Fortunately for me, Miss Wilma shuffled back into the room about that time.

  The three of us talked for more than an hour, fanning our sweating faces with napkins. I found myself admiring Miss Wilma more and more. She was so down-to-earth in her outlook and even joyful amid the hip pain she tried to hide. Unlike Connie, she showed no self-consciousness in mentioning Jesus. His name seemed to slip into her sentences whatever the subject—her healing hip, struggles at the sawmill, Connie’s future, Lee’s talents. The depth of her devotion to her faith left me wondering and somewhat envious. The closest God had ever seemed to me was during my dream about my mother, and that had been more than seven years ago. A tiny voice inside whispered that Miss Wilma seemed to know something I didn’t. It was an uncomfortable thought, and I pushed it away.

  I’d stayed long enough. “I’m sorry I have to go,” I said, rising, “but I’d like to get in a couple hours’ sewing. Before my date tonight.” I added the last sentence with a knowing smile, just to see their faces light up.

  Before leaving, I threaded my way through the addition and found where Lee was working. He was on his knees, multicolored electrical wiring in his hands. “Hi,” I said, stopping to lean in the doorway. He smiled at me as he searched my face. “I love them—your sister and mom. They’re wonderful, wonderful women, Lee. They deserve you.”

  He put down the wires, dusted both knees, and rose. Silently, he took me in his arms.

  chapter 18

  What happened to Connie’s husband?” I asked Lee that evening. We were sitting on his blanket, spread buttercup-yellow upon deep green grass on a hill overlooking Bradleyville. Leaves from a gnarled oak shaded us from the setting sun. Pushed off the blanket were the remains of our sandwiches, tea, and dessert along with an old wicker basket of Aunt Eva’s. A slight breeze tickled my arms as I wrapped them around my legs, gazing at lights twinkling on in the town. Drifting on the wind were the smells of honeysuckle, apple pie, and Lee’s lime aftershave.

  “Ex-husband, you mean.” He watched the hills across the valley. “Not sure. But he won’t be comin’ back.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  “Sounds like there’s more to it.”

  “There is.” He flexed his jaw. “But somethin’ tells me you wouldn’t approve.”

  “Oh, come on, am I that judgmental? Tell me.”

  He turned toward me, his expression almost challenging. “All right, I’ll tell you. The reason I know is because I told him if I ever saw his face ‘round here again, I’d bash it in. And I’m a lot bigger’n he is.”

  “Oh.” Immediate disapproval swirled within me. “Why would you do that?”

  Flickering leaves danced shadows across his profile. “It’s a long story. There was this girl named Tammy who lived next door to Connie and Bart in Albertsville. She was still in high school. Bart took up with her. Connie was too ashamed to tell us what was goin’ on till I heard the whisperin’ around town. She near had a breakdown. I coulda killed the man. I told him he’d better stop or he’d have me to deal with. But he didn’t stop at all. Then what was I gonna do. I’d shot off my mouth, with no way a backin’ it up without gettin’ myself in trouble. Then Connie found out she was pregnant.” He shook his head. “She was thrilled, thinkin’ that would stop Bart. By then he wasn’t even tryin’ to hide it. But the news didn’t change a thing. So I went to see him again. And I gave him the surprise a his life—five hundred dollars, all my savings. Told him to take Tammy and hit the road and don’t dare come back. If he wasn’t gonna change, at least he wasn’t gonna flaunt it in front a my pregnant sister. About that time I came back to Bradleyville to live. I brought Connie with me.”

  Oh, boy. My notions about the complexity of Lee’s personality were proving true. It was hard to imagine the hothead he’d just spoken of being the same man I’d watched calm the mill workers at our house night after night. He’d certainly meant what he’d said about protecting his own.

  “Does Connie know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was she mad at you for what you did?”

  “It was over, Jessie; she’d lost him. She just didn’t have the strength to leave him.”

  “So you did it for her.” I couldn’t keep the accusing tone from my voice. Why should the end of his sister’s marriage have been his decision?

  “I protected her,” he replied levelly. “I did what she was incapable of doing.”

  Maybe she didn’t want your protection, I started to say, but thought better of it. My toes dug into the blanket as I tried to assimilate this side of Lee.

  He nudged my arm. “Still like me?”

  I managed an unconvincing smile.

  We sat in strained silence.

  “I knew I shouldn’t tell you,” he said finally.

  I thought of poor Connie then, and my heart twinged. She was so sweet and unassuming. I’d be furious too if I saw someone treating her so badly. At least Lee hadn’t given in to his inclinations and beat the guy up. He’d never laid a finger on the man. He’d simply found a way to rid his sister of a bad husband—at his own expense.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I heard myself saying. “I don’t like what you said to him, but you ended up doing the right thing, bringing Connie home. Without fighting. I’m sure she’s better off here. Imagine her going through this pregnancy in Albertsville, knowing her husband was sneaking off to be with someone else.” Scooting closer, I put my hand on his arm. “I think you’re a wonderful big brother. She thinks so too. You should hear her bragging on you.”

  Relief washed over his face. His eyes told me he understood my risk in stretching beyond familiar bounds. When he wrapped his arms around me, I laid my head against his chest. I don’t care, I told myself. So what if he has a bit of a temper. I even sent a little prayer heavenward, asking my guardian angel to understand. It was inexplicable, really, this sudden willingness to blur the boundaries of my mother’s teaching, like brazenly colorin
g outside the lines. But I didn’t have time to pursue that thought.

  “Tell me,” he was saying, his lips brushing the top of my head, “tell me why you’re so afraid of violence.”

  My breath stilled. I could hear his heartbeat through his shirt. “I told you before. It’s what my mother taught me.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that. I saw it on your face when we talked about it. Did you see someone get hurt, a person killed at that homeless center or something?”

  I raised my head. “No. Nothing like that.” What I’d seen had been much less—and far more—than that, for it had cut to the very core of me. I’d never told anyone the story, for words would bring renewed clarity to a scene too hurtful to dwell upon. What’s more, how could I make anyone understand how the occurrence had molded me, weighting my mother’s mere exhortations with the stark reality of example?

  Lee brushed hair off my cheek. “Come on, Jessie. I want to know you. Inside your heart.”

  He would hear no further protestations. And so, eventually, I did tell him. Sitting beside him on his yellow blanket, my eyes focused on the twilit valley below. I told him of the November day when I was ten years old, when my mother and I had received an unexpected letter from my grandmother, inviting us to drive to their home in Columbus, Ohio, for Thanksgiving.

  “Let’s go!” I’d cried. I’d dreamed of meeting my grandparents, had pestered Mom about them many, many times. All my friends had at least one grandparent who sent them money for birthdays, presents for Christmas. Why couldn’t I have my own; why did my mom refuse to take me to see them? We hadn’t heard from them in years; now they’d asked us for Thanksgiving! Mom and I didn’t have the money for a huge meal, but I was willing to bet they did. Maybe Grandma would serve those wonderful candied yams and homemade bread and lots of stuffing. Maybe they’d even give me an early Christmas present.

  Mom hesitated. “I’m supposed to be at the Center that day, sweetie. Helping serve. You’re needed too. You know how many extra people we’ll have to feed.”

  “Get somebody else to work!” I’d pouted. “We never do anything on holidays; you’re always volunteering. Why can’t we go just this once.”

  I badgered Mom unmercifully, even calling Brenda Todd myself and asking if Mom could be replaced at Hope Center for the day. She’d given us her blessing. Mom had finally capitulated. If I’d been a little older and if I hadn’t been so selfishly excited, perhaps I’d have paid more attention to the anxiety lining Mom’s face when she said we’d go. Perhaps I’d have taken to heart her intimations over the years about her difficult childhood. Instead, I thought only of myself and my rose-colored dreams.

  I dressed carefully that Thanksgiving day, wearing a pink dress, white tights, and my black dress shoes, shined to the hilt. The drive took only a couple hours, but it seemed an eternity. Full of anticipation, I watched cars whiz by the car window, pretending not to notice my mother’s unusual quiet.

  “Jessie,” she said as we entered the city limits of Columbus, “you must be very, very good. Remember all the manners I’ve taught you. Compliment your grandmother on all her food. Speak only when spoken to, especially with your grandfather. Don’t give him any cause to get angry.”

  “I won’t, Mom.” I looked at her impatiently, vaguely annoyed with her skittishness. This was a special day, and I wasn’t about to have my exuberance quashed. “Why are you so afraid he’s going to be mean?”

  No answer.

  “If he was mean to you, that was a long time ago. You’re grown up now. Things’ll be different, you’ll see. You’ll get along just fine, and we can keep coming back.”

  Her lips curved into a wan smile. “I hope you’re right, Jessie. I really do.”

  When we arrived, my grandma hugged me and told me how much she’d missed me. She said the last time I’d been at their house I was only two years old, and look what a beautiful young lady I’d grown into. She said my dress was lovely and how pretty my hair was. She was wearing a red-and-white-checked apron over a cream blouse and brown skirt. Her hair was gray, and she wore glasses. Her appearance was very much what I expected in a grandma. My mother exchanged hugs with her, smiling, but there was a caution in the air that I couldn’t fathom.

  “Where’s Dad?” Mom asked.

  “Upstairs.” Her mother turned back to the counter and began cutting out dough for the rolls. “He’ll be down shortly.”

  It was half an hour before my grandfather appeared. Eight years’ separation, and he couldn’t even get downstairs to say hello. I wondered about that. My mother was setting the dining room table when he entered the kitchen, and even from where I stood, stirring gravy on the stove, I could see the tension roll across her back.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said through the dining room doorway, her voice unnaturally light.

  “Hello, Marie.” He nodded to her, as if she were a distant relative. “And who’s this pretty girl?” he asked, chucking me under the chin. He eyed my face, my dress, a slight smile on his lips, as though he liked what he saw. I was glad—and relieved—that he was pleased with me.

  The meal was all I’d hoped for. Turkey and dressing, thick gravy and sweet potatoes, rolls and cranberry sauce—all homemade. We were even going to have pumpkin pie afterwards, with all the whipped cream I’d want. I was on my best behavior while we ate, telling my grandmother how good everything was and being careful not to take more than I could hold. The conversation was stilted from the outset, with pauses in between. In the silence, our forks seemed to clink louder than usual against the plates, my grandfather swallowing his wine audibly. Every time he drained his glass, Grandma rose as if on cue to refill it. He drank most of the bottle.

  The atmosphere around the table grew unsettling, fraught with some dismal expectancy I couldn’t quite discern. My mother sat ramrod straight as she ate, her eyes sliding toward me as I sat at the end of the table on her right. Grandpa was opposite me, on her left, and Grandma was across from my mother. Just before we’d sat down to eat, Grandma had taken off her apron. I’d complimented her on the lacy blouse she wore, and she’d thanked me.

  The three adults spoke of people I didn’t know—longtime neighbors and friends. At first Grandpa’s comments about this or that person were only mildly derogatory. But the more he ate—and drank—the more caustic he became, leering in his contempt for whomever was mentioned. My grandmother’s opinions grew more scarce by the minute, until she only nodded, no matter what he said. I watched my mother’s fingers tighten around her fork, her shoulders brace. She looked as though she wanted to flee. I was sorry for her obvious discomfort and began to wish we hadn’t come.

  My grandfather continued drinking, the corners of his mouth drawing down to his chin. His words became more vile. He uttered curses about various kids Mom had grown up with. Mom winced, upset that I had to hear such language, but said nothing. Systematically, methodically, she ate. Fork to mouth, fork to mouth. A fear stole over me as I watched her, until I had trouble swallowing. Then I was afraid of leaving food on my plate and forced myself to eat, my actions matching hers. Her father talked louder, now jeering his opinions on the governor of Ohio, the president, the nation. Mom kept her eyes on her plate.

  The once-luscious smell of cooling pumpkin pies drifted in from the kitchen. I wondered if I’d be able to stomach a piece.

  “Marie, you been mighty quiet,” Grandpa said suddenly, picking up his wine glass. “Tell us what you been doing with yourself.”

  My mother forced a bite of stuffing down her throat. “I still have my job as a receptionist.”

  “Had that job for years, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Almost ten.”

  He grunted in disgust. “Don’t you think it’s time you did something better with your life? Answering other people’s phones all day, that’s a slave job.”

  “Guess so.” My mother’s voice sounded almost childlike. “But it pays the bills.”

  “Not that well, obviously.” He sniffed l
oudly as he speared a turkey leg. “One look at how your daughter’s dressed would tell you that.”

  My lungs froze, my shoulders drawing inward. I felt as though I were shrinking. And dirty. My eyes raised to his face for a clue to his disdainful remark. I’d tried to look so pretty; he’d even said I was. What had I done to make him change his mind? And why was he being so vicious to my hardworking mother?

  Mom’s face pinched. She did not look at me, but I knew the hurt she felt was more for me than herself. Her eyes remained on her plate. The sickening realization hit me that she’d known something like this was coming. What’s more, I realized that our presence at this hateful man’s table was my fault. I’d begged her to come; I’d pestered her and heaped guilt about our lack of relatives on her head. Now she was paying for my selfishness.

  “So what else do you do?”

  “No, Mom,” I wanted to yell, “don’t tell him about the Center! Don’t!”

  She hesitated—and in that second of hesitation, the pain of her childhood opened itself before me. For in that one brief moment, I saw her frailty and fear as she scrambled for the most diffusing of answers. “I still volunteer at the homeless shelter,” she replied quietly. Further shadows played across her face. Then, with courage—or was it resignation?—she raised her eyes to his.

  His lip curled. “Hanging around a bunch of dirty, worthless bums. That’s about what I’d expect from you.”

  “They’re not worthless, Daddy; they’re just people in need.”

  Her defense of the helpless leapt from her mouth of its own accord. She caught herself, the awareness of her mistake widening her eyes.

  My grandfather’s neck thickened as he recoiled, his face hardening like granite. With lightning speed, his right hand whipped out, slapping my mother’s left cheek with a resounding smack. I gasped. Her head rebounded in my direction and hung there, tears springing to her eyes. Instantaneously, a large handprint screamed red upon her white skin.

  “You think you’re such a goody-two-shoes,” he sneered. “Trying to make up for the rotten kid you always were. Well, hear this. You’ll never be good enough.”