Cast a Road Before Me

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Strikin’ ain’t the answer,” Lester Maddock extolled a few minutes later. “Maybe a walk-out for an afternoon, somethin’ to show Riddum our not workin’ could cost him far more than a raise.”

  “Then what?” Al Bledger shouted from the crowd. “We go back to workin’ and he still don’t do nothin’!”

  “But what if we strike and he goes to Albertsville for more men?” Mr. Maddock shot back.

  “We form a line and nobody’ll get through it!”

  “We’ll stop ‘em!” someone else cried.

  “That ain’t God’s way!” a third voice yelled.

  “Yeah, well what if I strike and you don’t?” hurled a fourth. “You gonna take bread from my table?!”

  The crowd roared to life, a buzz like angry bees flying toward the rafters. Men were out of their seats, shouting, wives beside them, while Lee and Uncle Frank screamed for quiet. My stomach churned, goose pimples prickling my arms. I wanted to put hands over my ears, run through a side door and escape. I wanted my rented truck at that moment, wanted to drive away from Bradleyville as fast as I could. I turned to thread my way out of the gymnasium and saw Thomas hastening toward the stage steps, face gray. “Thomas!” I wove through bodies to his side, grasping him by the arm.

  “I got to git up there!” he yelled.

  “Okay!” I helped clear him a path until we reached the stairs. As he hurried up them I dropped back, glancing toward Lee. He caught sight of Thomas and left the podium to greet him. He saw me on the bottom step. For a split second our eyes locked. Then he caught Thomas’s elbow and turned away.

  My heart sank. Clutching my arms, I eased off the step and toward a window, hungry for fresh air.

  The crowd’s momentum surged, then waned as folks noticed Thomas standing quietly before the microphone, arms at his sides. Neighbor elbowed neighbor, voices lowered, heads tossed into muffled words. Across the room I saw Jake Lewellyn sitting in an aisle seat next to Hank Jenkins and Mr. Tull. Aunt Eva was there too, perched nervously two rows back, shushing the woman beside her.

  Facing the mass, Thomas looked frail. Yet his mere presence seemed to shame the whole gymnasium into silence. The hurt on his face was palpable. My eyes filled with tears.

  Thomas ran a hand through his whitened hair and cleared his throat. “Folks,” he began, then faltered. Jake Lewellyn lumbered to his feet and began a purposeful walk toward the stairs at the far side of the stage. “Folks,” Thomas tried again, “I lived here all my life, y’all know that. This is the town my daddy built. And never did I think I’d see the day when the whole a Bradleyville would be yellin’ at one another, neighbor against neighbor.” Mr. Lewellyn had reached the stairs and was beginning to climb. “But we ain’t never faced nothin’ like this before neither. So here we are. And how we gonna act? Like the rest a the world? Or are we gonna stick together, like we always done?” Jake Lewellyn was crossing the stage. Thomas saw him and waited. Mr. Lewellyn reached him, put a supportive, beefy hand on his shoulder. “See who we got here?” Thomas said. “My old friend Jake. Sure, we fight and carry on like a couple a cats in spilt milk. But y’all know that’s just show. You know we love each other like brothers. Right, ol’ man?” Mr. Lewellyn puckered his chin, pretending to think it over. Subdued laughter undulated through the room.

  “The both of us span more years in Bradleyville than four or five a y’all put together,” Thomas continued. “We’re united by a love fer this town. Just as y’all are. So here’s what I’m tellin’ ya—beggin’ ya. Let’s face this thing with one mind—together. I say the mill workers take a vote. We’ll do it on paper, if ya like. Y’all got to vote on whether or not to strike; there’s really no in-between. Either you tell Riddum you need your jobs more than his respect, or you cain’t work without it. And only each a you, with your wives, can decide that for yourself. But here’s the hard part. In stickin’ together, we got to abide by the majority vote, whether we like it or not. Otherwise we got brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. ‘A house divided against itself falls,’ so the Bible says. And so it goes for our town.”

  His words drained away, and Thomas looked tired.

  “Let’s do it!” someone cried from the crowd.

  “We got to talk things over more first!” another voice answered.

  Uncle Frank shook Thomas’s hand and nodded to Mr. Lewellyn. Together, the two elderly men left the podium. “I think he’s right,” my uncle’s voice rang through the microphone. “If you want to have your say, come on up. Then we’ll vote.”

  Men began to line up, Lee first. His muscles flexed as he laid both hands on the podium. He had to lean down to speak. He looked at me then; I know he did, even though he pretended to scan the crowd. The ache I felt for him at that moment weighted my feet to the floor. “I been tryin’ real hard to be patient with all this,” he began, his voice tight. “For my family’s sake, I needed a paycheck. And I know I’m not the only one with worries at home. I’ve done the best I can to work with a man that just won’t be worked with. Now he tells us we’re not ‘pulling our weight.’” Disgust dripped from him. “So now what’re we gonna do? Seems to me it comes down to this question: Can we continue with things bein’ this way? A covered pot ain’t gonna just simmer forever. As for me, I’m already close to boilin’ over. And seein’ the way Riddum was today, I don’t doubt he’s gonna turn up the heat.”

  He paused as numerous men shouted their agreement. Lee, I thought, look at me.

  “So I’m ready to strike. Now the question is, what would I do if things don’t go peacefully. Well, I don’t know for sure. Right now I can only say if things go that route, we’ll deal with it then. Personally I don’t think it’ll get that far. Yeah, Riddum’s mean as a snake, but one day’s shut-down’s gonna cost him hundreds a dollars. He’s also a good business man, and I’m bettin’ his greed’ll get the better a his stubbornness.”

  Applause erupted when Lee was finished. He walked off stage on the far side and remained standing by the wall, arms folded. He would not look at me, but through the remaining speeches, I know he felt me, and I felt him.

  Not everyone wanted to strike. Men closer to retirement were less willing to take the chance. I wasn’t sure what Uncle Frank wanted. And not all who took the podium worked at the mill. Mr. and Mrs. Clangerlee declared they’d keep grocery prices as low as possible. Neighbors said they’d share food if money got tight, and the Baptist and Methodist pastors both said their churches’ offerings would go to a common fund. The sincerity of folks was both heartwarming and chilling, for it assumed not only a strike, but a drawn-out one.

  It was as though Bradleyville were preparing for a siege.

  By the time votes were taken, written on torn slips of paper provided by a teacher from her classroom, the atmosphere was funereal. Women exchanged consoling whispers, absentmindedly rocking sleeping children. Aunt Eva was crying quietly in her seat. Lee collected votes on his side of the room. I found my way to Thomas and hugged him, seeking solace when I should have been giving it. He gripped me tightly, then looked into my soul with over-bright eyes. “Sometimes,” he said, “you got to fight.”

  The results were three to one for a strike.

  With grim determination the mill workers gathered down front to count off one through five for “sit-down duty” one day a week. There was no need for signs or picketing, only a silent watch in case new workers began to show. Uncle Frank and Lee announced they’d be there the next morning to tell Riddum and would stay throughout the days. Pastor Frasier said a fervent prayer for the town, and we all went home to wait.

  chapter 33

  The next morning, Uncle Frank was out of the house by eight o’clock as usual, but it was only to sit with the “1s” at the mill and wait for Riddum’s reaction. By noon we’d heard little, other than Riddum had been furious, which anyone could have predicted. Around 3:00, I was finishing my final working hour with Miss Alice. I hugged her good-bye and gave her sewing machine a final pat
.

  “You saved the day for me,” she declared, clinging to my hand. “You decide anytime to come back here, you just let me know. I can’t keep this shop goin’ much longer myself, ya know.”

  Her unsurprising offer held not the slightest temptation. I was on the straight and narrow to leave. I couldn’t wait till Saturday. My plans were still on schedule, strike or no. Meanwhile, the atmosphere around town was nothing but gloom and doom. No one was downtown making purchases; folks were already clutching their life savings like Midases. And I vacillated between hurting over Lee’s snubs at the meeting and feeling almost relieved by them. Maybe there’d be no need for long good-byes. I was on my road and he was clearly on his, and they would not converge. Fine then; if he wanted to lead a strike, whatever the cost—let him. But I’d had a good talk with Uncle Frank after we’d arrived home Wednesday night. A terrified Aunt Eva and I had made him swear on his life that if violence erupted, he’d stay far away from it.

  I was supposed to have a final visit with Connie after work. Driving to the Hardings’ house, I steadied myself, even though I knew Lee would be at the mill site. Just seeing his house wove bands around my chest. I drove up Maple, praying his truck would not be there. Wanting it to be there.

  It wasn’t.

  Connie and Miss Wilma wore the same furrowed brow. Connie looked miserable, as usual. “Oh, I want to show you something,” she said, hoisting herself off the couch despite my protestations. “Martha Plott came over this mornin’—that sweet ol’ lady—and gave me the cutest lamp. Said she was sorry she was sick for my shower. I got the lamp on that little table in the nursery.”

  Martha Plott was one of the most generous, loving women in Bradleyville. As far as the Methodist congregation was concerned, the Baptists had no one to match her. She was the first to set up for potluck dinners, the last to leave after clean-up. She seemed to be always taking food to the sick or running their errands or cleaning their houses. Her husband had died young, and she’d often declared that Christ had called her to help others instead of feeling sorry for herself.

  “Yes, she is sweet. I’ll go look at the lamp; you stay here.”

  “No, no.” Her smile was firm. “I want to show you everything for one last time.”

  “Goodness, Connie,” I laughed self-consciously, “you’d think I was moving to another planet.” I took her arm.

  “Might as well be.”

  The lightness in her voice was heavy as a hammer. Maybe it was only my imagination, but it seemed she was still trying to change my mind. It seemed everyone was still trying. Why couldn’t they see that I was beyond that? That I always had been?

  We lumbered through her bedroom and past the open door into the small nursery. Beyond lay the playroom through an arched doorway. My yellow curtains over white sheers fluttered expectantly from a slight, humid breeze. On a table by the window sat Connie’s new cut-glass lamp with a diaphanous white shade blessed with the figures of hovering angels watching over a newborn child. Something about the expression of the largest angel struck me, and then I realized what it was. Her smile looked just like my mother’s. “Oh,” I gasped, a catch in my throat. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Turn it on. See what happens.”

  For a moment I could only gaze with awe at that angel. She was bent over the baby, feathery wings enfolding it, and on her face was the look of heaven’s love. Not taking my eyes off the lamp, I glided to the table and flicked it on. I drew in a breath as the angels shimmered to life. Running a wondering finger over the wings, now golden-tinged, I exclaimed, “It really is beautiful.”

  “I thought so too.” Connie leaned against the wall, admiring it. “It has another switch for a little nightlight.”

  I turned off the main bulb and flicked the smaller switch. The angels glimmered down to the palest of yellow. “They look almost transparent now,” I breathed. “Like angels only the baby can see.”

  As if in agreement, the curtains ruffled, brushing against the shade. We left the small light on, the cut glass sparkling tiny rainbows. Turning finally with reluctance, I gazed around the room and sighed with satisfaction. “I’m proud to say I helped, Connie. It’s all so pretty.”

  “I know. Thank you.” She started to say more, but turned away as tears filled her eyes. I let her be, walking to the crib to finger the baby blanket I’d made.

  “Whew,” Connie exclaimed after a prolonged moment, forcing a smile. “Guess I’m just gettin’ tired. Better get back on the couch.”

  I took her arm to go, looking over my shoulder one last time at that magical angel lamp.

  By the time I had Connie settled once more, Miss Wilma had already informed me, “You still got time to change your mind, you know.” I didn’t want to hear it. I searched for a way to cut my visit short, but found none. And so I filled iced tea glasses and visited, patiently explaining how my apartment and job that I’d wanted for years were waiting for me. And had I mentioned I would be volunteering at Hope Center, as my mother had done? And the city, how much I’d missed it? I sat in an arm chair, legs crossed, fingers around my cold glass, tone pleasant. Smiling. Telling myself it was wrong to be irritated; that they wanted me not just for themselves, but for Lee. When it was finally time to leave, I hugged them both, Connie bursting into tears.

  “Oh, Connie, please don’t cry,” I begged, my own eyes filling. “I’ll see you again before you know it, at Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s so long away,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “The baby’ll be so big by then; you’ll never get to see it in those cute newborn sleepers. And besides,” she pulled back from me, trying to control her quivering mouth, “I’m not cryin’ for myself; I’m cryin’ for Lee, ‘cause he jus’ don’t know what he’ll do when you’re gone. He don’t say it, but I know.”

  I thought my heart would break in two, both for Lee and his sister. They had major problems of their own, yet each was thinking about the other. “He’ll be fine, Connie; he’ll be okay,” I soothed. It was such a trite, lame response.

  I had to get out of there.

  “I’m gonna pray for you before you go, all right.” It was not a question. Miss Wilma placed her large hand on my shoulder and tipped her head heavenward. “Connie, you lay hands on her too.” Breathing heavily, Connie gently grasped my upper arm. They closed their eyes. I looked at my feet.

  “Dear Lord Jesus,” Miss Wilma prayed, “watch over this child. I know she’s yours, Lord; you’ve called her to be your own, even if she don’t know that yet. And you know all the trials she’ll have to go through. Please be a shield about her, protectin’ her. Work through those trials for your glory, dear Jesus. Bring her to salvation. And bring her back to us safely.”

  “And thank you, Jesus,” Connie put in, “for bringin’ Jessie into our lives. For the wonderful friend she’s been, and for all the talents you’ve given her. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Miss Wilma did her best to smile as I raised my eyes. “You take care a yourself now, you hear.” She gripped my hand, puffing as she and Connie ushered me toward the door.

  “Sorry, I’m moving too fast,” I said, waiting for her to catch her breath. “You don’t have to walk me all the way out to the porch.”

  “Well,” she grunted, casting me a penetrating look. “Steppin’ through the door don’t take long. It’s the gettin’ to the threshold that’s hard.”

  I gazed back, brows furrowing, then smiled briefly. Days would pass before I understood her meaning.

  I promised again that I’d be back for Thanksgiving and made Connie promise to call me if she went into labor in the next twenty-four hours. They stood awkwardly on their small white porch, swayhipped and swaybacked, waving as I drove away.

  “One more day,” I breathed aloud, wiping my face as I turned off Maple. I told myself that after my tires were fixed the following morning, I would not show my face to anyone else in Bradleyville. Including Lee. Especially Lee. Parting with my Aunt Eva would be emotional enough. I did not need any
more tear-drenched good-byes.

  chapter 34

  Twilight fell and the lightning bugs magically appeared. “I got the first one; I’m lucky!” the little girl cried as she clapped a lid punched with holes over one of her mother’s canning jars. The bug flicked against his smooth-glassed prison, flashing yellow under black wings.

  “I already got three!” her friend retorted.

  Gleefully, they ran barefoot through the cooling grass, careful not to stub a toe as they chased bugs across the sidewalk. When the jars were full, they set them down to glow eerily against the cement. Swishing long hair off their sweaty foreheads, they plopped onto the bottom stair of the front porch, gazing idly at their catch.

  “Want a push-up?”

  “Sure.”

  As the first little girl disappeared into her house, the second scratched her cheek, stopping to sniff her bug-scented hand. Tilting back her head, she spied the first star and made a wish.

  “It’s orange flavor,” her hostess announced as the screen door banged shut. They sat side by side, peeling off the top of their ice creams and pushing them up by their wooden sticks.

  “I wished on the star.” She pointed with a sticky chin.

  “Whatdja wish for?”

  “Not supposed to tell.”

  “It’s okay if you’re best friends.”

  “Oh. Well then, I wished the strike would end tomorrow so Daddy could go back to work.”

  Her friend smacked her lips. “Better pick another one; the whole town’s wishin’ that.”

  “Well, I could pick Mama’s. She said she wished Blair Riddum’d drop dead.”

  “Maybe he will.” The little girl’s voice lowered with private knowledge. “I heard my daddy say Mr. Riddum was awful mad this mornin’. Stomped off from the mill and didn’t come back all day. He’s mean, ya know, and Mama says God strikes the wicked.”