He looked down at the mess of blood on his own sleeve. With a look of disgust he ripped the shirt off and threw it to the ground. A rolled up tube of paper fell from his back pocket. “Jeepers creepers, I gotta lose that. If my ma sees blood on my shirt I’m gonna be in real big trouble for fightin’ again.”
Cordelia smiled. “I could explain for you. You were very brave—”
“No! Pa told me if I got in trouble in this town, he was gonna . . .” He kicked at the shirt. He locked his fingers together over his head, resting his arms against his ears. “I’ll run away before . . .”
Cordelia tipped her head to the side to look up into his downcast eyes. “Before what?”
He mumbled.
“What did you say?”
He looked defiant. “I said before I get beat again.”
Cordelia jerked back her chin at the odd choice of words.
“Berr-nard!” The voice carried over the fence.
“Com-ing,” he yelled but never took his eyes off Cordelia.
His stare reached into her soul. She shivered. He looked about thirteen. Same age as her, but at least a head taller, and really cute. He’d be gone in a second. Cordelia’s heart thumped an erratic rhythm. At least she knew his name . . . Bernard.
“I have to go before she comes looking for me. My dad will be home from the mines any minute. I got to already be at the dinner table when he comes in.” He reached for the rickety wooden gate.
“Hey, you dropped something.” Cordelia pointed at the rolled paper.
Bernard grabbed it up and unrolled the tube. Flattened, he showed her the comic book with a mostly yellow and white cover. A man in blue tights and a red cape lifted a car over his head. “This is the first Action Comic! And this here is Superman. He flies over tall buildings.”
Cordelia looked at the page, then back at Bernard. “So what?”
He just shook his head. “So what? Do you know how many extra chores I had to do for the ten cents to buy this?” He shook his head. “You’re just a girl. Girls know nothin’.”
She tipped her head to the side and a smile creased her lips. “Well, can you fly and lift a car over your head?” He used what she considered super-human strength to save her. Her regular smart-alecky mouth replaced her anxiety. Grammy said her mouth always got her in trouble. She wanted to slap herself for being flippant.
He began to argue.
“Berr-nard, dinn-ner,” a lady’s voice yelled from the other side of the tall wooden fence.
He never took his eyes off Cordelia. “Comin’, Ma!”
He turned to the gate, and then back to Cordelia. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Cordelia . . . Cordelia Grace.” Now her heart pounded for a different reason.
“Good to meet you, Cordelia-Cordelia Grace. He winked and reached for the gate.
“Welcome to the neighborhood.” Cordelia‘s heart thumped against her ribs. Her voice trailed off as the gate closed behind him.
Cordelia leaned over and grabbed up the red shirt. She held it up, looking for the spots of blood. Scrunching up her nose, she folded the splashes to the inside. Why did she want this messy thing? She stuffed the shirt into the book bag in her bicycle basket. Then pedaled out of the alley and down Olive Street.
May 19, 1942
“Did you hear what I asked you, baby girl?”
Cordelia’s thoughts jerked back to the present but her hand rested on the red circle of triangles. The memory both stung and warmed her heart. “I’m sorry. What did you ask, Grammy?”
“Well, I asked what had you deep in thought. You even breathed heavy for a spell there.” Grammy Mae measured squares of colored cloth as she rocked in her chair.
Cordelia hitched up the side of her mouth in a wry smile. “Ya know how some people can pinpoint when their lives changed for the better or worse?”
“Yes, baby. I’ve heard tell about folks like that. For me, I just personally felt it all began the day I was birthed.” Grammy Mae, with her hair pulled back in a perfect chignon, wore a tailored house dress, and looked prim and proper every day Cordelia could remember. Even her black Hill and Dale stack heel oxfords were polished to a high shine. Grammy loved shoes. She taught Cordelia the brand name of every pair, though to her grandmother’s chagrin, Cordelia preferred to go barefoot.
Cordelia rubbed her hand over the red material close to the center of the quilt. “Well this is when I was reborn.”
Grammy smiled. “I knew the day you brought that bloody shirt in here, something was burnin’ in your belly.”
“That day I met Bernard.” She sighed remembering the whole jumble of feelings. Her mind had raced to find excuses for the dirt on her play dress. She didn’t want to tell about being pushed to the ground. A bicycle fall always seemed a handy excuse. Sometimes she was sure Grammy guessed the truth. And then there was her Superman, Bernard Howard.
Cordelia knew they were destined to marry, from the moment she laid eyes on him and stole his cast-off shirt. “That day you started my quilt, too. I feel different now than when I was thirteen. How could that be a whole four years ago?”
Different wasn’t exactly the right word. She still feared being deserted, and she was still very good at hiding her dirty secret about God. Older, yes. A more appropriate definition.
She looked up. “Do you think someone my age could be in love?”
Grammy stroked Cordelia’s hair. “Well, of course, child. In my day, girls close to your age were already married and birthing babies. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You know your mind.”
“Seems like only yesterday.” Grammy continued to rock and cut squares. “Out of all the boys skulking around here at the time, why did you pick up with him?”
Cordelia knew all too vividly why Bernard became her hero, but this was not the time to speak her personal pain out loud. “Because I was worried over something he said that day about his father.”
Grammy looked up from the pile of colored squares resting in her lap. “What did he say?”
“He said his father beat him.” Those words made her hands shake after all these years.
Grammy Mae stopped rocking.
“And he said he was going to run away if he got beat again. I didn’t understand why he would he make such a big deal outta getting switched. Daddy always made me go out back to the willow tree and cut my own. That part was worse than getting hit, but I never thought of running away.”
Actually a switching usually consisted of more threat than action. She could only remember getting whacked a couple times. She’d learned an instant performance of crying and screaming, regardless of how light the whack, would cause her father to relent.
Grammy Mae looked like a storm cloud was fixing to bust from her forehead. “I don’t think the boy was talking about a regular switchin’ baby. I think he could have been talking about a full-on man beatin’.”
Cordelia nodded. “That’s what I found out later. His father is a real nightmare. But he wouldn’t try to beat him like that now because Bernard swears he’d fight back.”
Grammy set her jaw.
Cordelia knew that look well. She needed to change topics before Grammy took off to Dix Court to punch Mr. Howard in the eye or worse. “Tell me the story of my life covering again.”
Cordelia glanced around the room at the piles of colored squares spread across the dressing table, ironing board, and bedspread. Over these past four years, the circular Pine Cone Quilt pattern had grown to several feet in circumference.
Grammy’s look softened. “Baby girl, I’ve told you the story of this quilt a dozen times. You should be able to recite it by heart.”
“But I like to hear you say it.” Actually, she enjoyed seeing the twinkle in Grammy’s eyes as she talked.
Grammy Mae looked up, smiled, and then nodded her head. “I guessed it was up to me to teach you since the tradition goes back as many generations as I can remember on our side of the family. This is a Pine Cone Quilt. Som
e folks on my daddy’s side of the family call it a Pine Burr Quilt, but it all works out to be the same pattern.”
“You started working on it because Mom didn’t like it.”
“Now, Cordelia. Don’t be startin’ no trouble with your Ma. I started your quilt because it was time someone got to work on it,” said Grammy with a hint of annoyance in her voice. “It’s not that she didn’t like it. She didn’t think it was necessary to give you a life covering.”
Grammy and Ma were always at odds about the ways of the world. Ma called herself modern. Cordelia had caught her more than once mocking Grammy for talking about the olden days.
Her father told her their tussles resulted from two women, only related by marriage, of different generations in the same house. Grammy was Daddy’s mom. She liked to say she came from different stock than Ma’s family. Sometimes Cordelia felt the tension between her ma and Grammy, but for the most part the two women stayed out of each other’s way. Cordelia pretended to not pay much attention. But she adored Grammy, her confidant and ally.
Cordelia grinned. “She doesn’t know how to quilt either.”
“Baby girl, hush your mouth. The youngsters don’t do a lot of the things we learned as girls. Now, let me tell the story.”
Cordelia stifled a giggle at the thought of her mother navigating anything more complicated than the sales aisle at Woolworths.
Grammy reached across and pulled folded muslin material into her lap. She shook it out across her knees. Concentric circles spaced about an inch and a half apart, spread from the edge of the large completed circle.
“Our family tradition holds that the quiltmaker prays over each square, folding prayers into the triangles.” Grammy grabbed up a square. She folded it diagonally once to form a triangle, then folded each outside point in to create a square.
She held out the piece of green gingham material. “See this? I just folded in a prayer for your good health as I made the corners.”
Cordelia fingered the square and glanced across the pile of cut pieces. “Where’d you get all this material?”
“From clothes that don’t fit you any more or special pieces of fabric I think you’ll want to remember. They’re your life moments, you know.”
Grammy rocked softly as she measured and cut the squares with a large pair of sharp sewing shears. “Going back through the generations, each young lady is presented with her life covering on her eighteenth birthday. It’s the prayers, dreams, and wishes spoken for her and her life as a woman, wife, and mother. I was determined no granddaughter of mine was going without her own covering.”
Cordelia fingered some of the squares. “Can I get yours out of the trunk?”
“Yes, baby, you may. I declare, as much as you fondle that old thing, you’re going to rub all the colors off.”
Cordelia lifted the lid of the steamer trunk at the foot of Grammy Mae’s bed and sorted through several layers of clothing to find it. The bold colors drew the usual gasp of pleasure from Cordelia. “Oh Grammy, every time I look at this I think it gets more beautiful! Are you sure I couldn’t have yours?”
“No, baby, every girl gets her own special one. These are the blessings for my life. You’ll get your own blessings. I explained to you about Elijah and Elisha. Each had his own mantle. This one is yours.” Grammy touched the quilt she was making. “You take care of your quilt, and it will take care of you.”
“But your colors are quite beautiful.”
“Those were clothes I wore when I was a youngster. Yours will have colors and prayers special just for you. It will be ready when you’re eighteen.”
Cordelia lifted her head to look at Grammy. “It seems like forever to get to eighteen.”
Grammy Mae tipped back her head and laughed. “It’s only a year away.”
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What They’re Saying About . . .
The Glory of Green, by Judy Christie
“Once again, Christie draws her readers into the town, the life, the humor, and the drama in Green. The Glory of Green is a wonderful narrative of small-town America, pulling together in tragedy. A great read!”—Ane Mulligan, editor of Novel Journey
Always the Baker, Never the Bride, by Sandra Bricker
“[It] had just the right touch of humor, and I loved the characters. Emma Rae is a character who will stay with me. Highly recommended!”—Colleen Coble, author of The Lightkeeper’s Daughter and the Rock Harbor series
Diagnosis Death, by Richard Mabry
“Realistic medical flavor graces a story rich with characters I loved and with enough twists and turns to keep the sleuth in me off-center. Keep ‘em coming!”—Dr. Harry Krauss, author of Salty Like Blood and The Six-Liter Club
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“A sweet romance, a feel-good ending, and a surprise cache of yummy Greek recipes at the book’s end? I’m sold!”—Trish Perry, author of Unforgettable and Tea for Two
The Dead Saint, by Marilyn Brown Oden
“An intriguing story of international espionage with just the right amount of inspirational seasoning.”—Fresh Fiction
Shrouded in Silence, by Robert L. Wise
“It’s a story fraught with death, danger, and deception—of never knowing whom to trust, and with a twist of an ending I didn’t see coming. Great read!”—Sharon Sala, author of The Searcher’s Trilogy: Blood Stains, Blood Ties, and Blood Trails.
Delivered with Love, by Sherry Kyle
“Sherry Kyle has created an engaging story of forgiveness, sweet romance, and faith reawakened—and I looked forward to every page. A fun and charming debut!”—Julie Carobini, author of A Shore Thing and Fade to Blue.
A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series Page 19