Another Homecoming (15 page)

Joel moved to obey. At the door he stopped in surprise. It was Mr. Miller, his huge frame drooped slightly over his crutches and his good-natured smile on his face. Joel was unsure what to do. They had so few visitors, only Doc Austin and his wife. His heart began to beat a nervous rhythm. As he moved to open the door, inwardly he uttered a short, disjointed prayer. “Don’t let it be something about Simon. Please.”

Mr. Miller stumped through the open door and asked, “Is your father been to home yet, Choel?”

A voice from the back of the house called, “Who is it, boy?”

Joel swallowed hard. He worked his mouth for a moment, but the words were hard to form. “It’s . . .”

“Choseph Miller,” the big man called back and started down the hall, lightly brushing past the bewildered boy. The crutches made a dull thud, thud, on the bare wooden floor.

Joel followed Mr. Miller down the hall and saw his father push himself upright from the chair’s lopsided cushions. He half stood, half leaned on the chair arms, as though uncertain whether or not to raise himself and greet this man who had disturbed his evening.

But Joseph Miller was not an easy man to dismiss. Joel watched as his father stared openly at the big man. The staccato rhythm of the crutches echoed in the still room. His one good leg moved easily in time to the crutches, his other pant leg fastened at the knee. His father watched as the shortened leg swung with each forward thrust of the man’s body.

“Sorry to be cutting in on your evening,” the man said, ignoring the chattering television. “But the boy here’s been saying you have some problem to yourself. The wife to town took herself today and came back saying I was to bring myself by.”

His father glanced toward him, then back to the shortened leg. Harry looked bewildered and even a little angry. Joel could feel his slight frame shiver with discomfort. Surely, he cried inwardly, surely his father would not make a scene. The very thought made him want to dash from the room.

But to his relief his father stretched out a hand in greeting. Joel was pleased that his father did not wince as Mr. Miller gave it a hearty shake. “Have a seat,” Harry offered, nodding toward a neighboring chair.

“I thank you.” Mr. Miller crossed to the chair and seated himself, placing his crutches carefully together and lowering them to the floor. The pleasant expression did not leave his face. He carefully studied Joel’s father before saying, “A hard lot it is, when one’s wife is wonderful sick. Makes a man know not where to take himself next. My Ruth stopped by the hospital, says the doctor wants your good wife to stay to her bed when home she comes. And quiet she needs as well. ‘How can a growing boy live quiet?’ I ask. Boys were made for noise yet. So my Ruth, she says, ‘You go and tell the poor father that Choel can come make his noise to our house.’ He can stay until the Missus be fine on her feet. No hurry to push her back on up. Choel be chust fine.”

Joel’s breath caught in his throat. Was he hearing Mr. Miller correctly? Was Simon’s father really issuing an invitation for him to live with the Miller family? But he couldn’t. He was needed at home. He was the one who ran the errands. Who helped with meals and washed up the dishes. Who soothed his mother when she sank down in quiet despair. Who ran to the store for tobacco or cigarette papers when his father’s nerves and hands demanded something to do.

Then another thought came to Joel. A longing to be part, just a small part, of that big, bustling, loving household. Where laughter was common, and teasing was done in good-natured fun. Where food was tasty and plentiful, and laid out for hearty appetites to devour at will. Where prayer was offered to a God who was so real that He seemed to be standing in the very room, somewhere just beyond natural vision.

He would never be able to go, Joel thought despondently. There was no use even dreaming.

But Joel’s father chose that moment to speak. His voice was deep and unnatural, and his hand fidgeted restlessly with the frayed chair arms. “Well, the doctor’s told us about this place upstate. It’s a veteran’s hospital—they’ve done all sorts of work with back problems. Howard said it would do her a world of good. I was wondering how we could—”

Mr. Miller smacked his hand loudly on the knee of his good leg. The big smile lit his face again. “There,” he exclaimed. “That does it good. You give your Missus a rest to make better the way she is, and we keep Choel with us for this time.”

He beamed from father to son and back again. Joel felt himself squirming on the hard-back chair. What would his father say? Would he agree to such an arrangement? He could hardly bear the moment of suspense.

“That’s mighty kind of you,” his father said and rubbed one thin hand against his shirt sleeve in a nervous gesture. “It would sure help us out, but I understand you already have a lot of mouths to feed. It seems a lot to ask—”

“Yah,” said the big man. “Yah, seven we got. Such a household. My Ruth, she says a pack of hounds chasing the chickens not so much noise makes.” Mr. Miller gave a hearty laugh, one that started deep in his barrel chest and rumbled forth in joyous ripples.

Joel’s father cut in, as though the sound of untempered good humor unnerved him. “So you’ve already got enough to care for without—”

“So what is one more on top with so many? Besides, Choel is a good helper, already he shows that.” He waved a carefree hand. “He chust fit in fine with the rest of all of them. He won’t be hardly of notice.”

Mr. Miller reached down and retrieved his crutches. “Simon comes to help Choel bring his things to the house over tomorrow. You think nothing of. Chust fix better your good wife.”

Joel’s father watched Mr. Miller heave himself upright and settle the crutches under his arms. For some reason, the action seemed to silence whatever further protest Harry was planning.

Mr. Miller proceeded across the room. “I not keep you more from the chores that take up your time before bed yet.” His crutches thumped toward the front doorway. He swung it open, then turned and nodded, first to Harry and then to Joel. “Good night to you, and God’s peace rest on the house and all who live the roof under.”

Joel watched, eyes wide and heart pounding, as the big man eased himself out and closed the door softly behind him.

Silence. Dead silence. Joel did not even stir. He was afraid that his father might hear the frantic thumping of his heart, but the man said nothing. He seemed to be in another world as his fingers picked at the threads of the chair arm. His eyes did not appear to be focused, but rather stared off into emptiness. Joel found himself wondering what thoughts were churning around in his father’s head.

But when at last his dad did speak, Joel was totally unprepared for his statement. “You didn’t tell me the man was missing a leg.”

Joel gulped. What should he say?

“Why not?”

“I . . . I never thought of it,” Joel managed.

His father’s eyes looked angry. Joel found himself mentally scrambling to try and figure out what he had done to upset him once again. He stumbled on in a hurry, “I . . . it, well, just didn’t seem important, I guess.”

His father swung around in his chair. “A man is without his leg, and you don’t think it’s important?”

Joel knew he had to respond, yet found it impossible to meet his father’s gaze. His head began to dip, until he remembered how much his father hated it when he hid his eyes like that. He had to be a man, his father often said, and learn to face things head on. Joel lifted his chin. “It . . . I mean . . . Mr. Miller, he never says anything about his leg. He just sorta forgets it. I guess, well, I sorta forget it too. Nobody in the family notices it, hardly ever.”

He knew it was not a good answer. But it was the best he could do. Joel held his breath, dreading his father’s reaction. He was bound to come back with one of his angry blasts. He was sure of that.

But it did not happen. His father pushed himself up from the lumpy chair and limped his way to the small front window. With a sweep of a hand, he flipped back the simple curtain and stood staring silently out at the gathering night.

Joel remained on the edge of his chair, mute and still, stifling even the sound of his breathing.

When his father finally broke the silence, it was with a softer voice. “You’d better go get your things together and get to bed. Tomorrow will be a big day if you’re moving over.”

Joel’s breath came out in a shaky little gasp. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he rose and left the room. It seemed that the impossible was to happen. He was to be allowed to become a temporary member of the Miller household. He could scarcely wait to see Simon in the morning.

13
 

College was far more exciting
than Kyle had ever imagined. Her days were filled with a sense of discovery and challenge. College meant an opportunity to broaden, to expand beyond the boundaries of the Rothmore estate and her mother’s friends. She took as many business courses as she could fit around her required freshman classes and mostly found them baffling. But she was determined to learn. She owed it to her father and to his legacy for her.

Years of her mother’s manipulation and subtle put-downs had tempered her spontaneous spirit, however, and she made few friends. Kyle watched the other students meet and laugh, and she yearned to be a part of their easy life. But she did not know how to react when they tried to speak with her. And with the need to return home as soon as classes were over, she remained separated from the college social scene. The few free hours she had on campus were spent at the edge of things, watching and listening. The other students were drawn from every strata of society, and their conversations were as great an education for Kyle as the classes themselves.

She knew she did not have a natural aptitude for business. Lessons that seemed to come easily to other students took her hours and hours each night to grasp. But her teachers seemed to recognize her as someone who was genuinely trying, and they showed a willingness to help. Besides that, she loved the
challenge
of learning.

That spring, she began appearing at the Rothmore Insurance building once each week. Her Wednesday classes ended at noon, and her mother did not expect her home before four. She enjoyed the place and the feeling that she might someday become a part of her father’s work. She began writing down questions before she arrived, then finding people who could answer them. Some employees seemed suspicious or at least perplexed, a few genuinely hostile. But most met her with a smile and kind words of encouragement. She tried hard to ask intelligent questions, to be honest if she did not understand the answer. The majority responded with a real willingness to teach.

For the first month, however, she did not go to the top floor. Earlier that winter, Randolf Crawley had been elected the new chairman and had moved into her father’s old office. Kyle did not want to walk down that long hallway, see the big mahogany door at the end, and know that someone else was now sitting behind her father’s desk.

But Kyle found her thoughts continually returning to Kenneth Adams, and in early March she gathered her courage and took the elevator straight upstairs. She walked the long hallway, trying not to look at her father’s office. Yet when she paused at Kenneth’s office, she found her eyes drawn unwillingly to the end door, now bearing another nameplate. She felt the familiar sadness flood over her.

Hurriedly she knocked and pushed open Kenneth’s door without waiting for his invitation, as though blocking the scene from her sight might soothe her aching heart.

“Kyle!” The young man’s face broke into a delighted smile. He rose from his desk and hurried over. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I didn’t know it myself until I was downstairs,” she admitted. “How are you?”

“Busy,” he said, sweeping a hand over his cluttered desk. Forms and reports and correspondence rose in scattered bundles from every free surface. “Sometimes I think our new chairman intends to bury me in work.”

“Then I shouldn’t disturb you. I just wanted to stop by and say—”

“Nonsense.” He grasped her arm and drew her forward, closing the door behind them. “Come, sit down and tell me how you’ve been.”

Conversation was such an easy matter with him. He seemed to draw her out far more than she would ever have expected—or her mother would have called proper. Abigail had continued to keep a tight grip on Kyle’s activities, and Kyle was determined not to give her mother any reason to pull her out of school. But here with Kenneth, what her mother thought seemed to matter a lot less. They sat and chatted with the easy manner of old friends. Within minutes it felt as though she had seen him just the week before rather than months earlier.

They discussed everything—Kyle’s studies, her work here within the various departments, and the memory of her father.

There came a comfortable pause in the conversation, and Kyle found her attention caught by the
Washington Post
newspaper dropped by the side of Kenneth’s desk. She pointed at the headline that she had heard students discussing for several days now. “What’s so important about Fidel Castro?”

He glanced around and saw the newspaper. “Are you following this in the news?”

“I try. He’s the new leader in Cuba. But it’s such a tiny place, I don’t see how it can be very important to America.”

“It’s not Cuba’s size,” he explained. “It’s how close it is to America. Added to that is the fact that nobody knows what to expect of Castro. Will he allow the Soviets to set up a military base? That’s what has everybody frightened.”

Kyle loved the sense of being able to discuss anything with him, from world politics to her situation at home. “I read about the Shah of Persia taking power. That’s another problem like this one, isn’t it? Nobody knows what he’s going to do. And he could destabilize the whole Middle East.”

“You’re exactly right,” he said, observing her with some surprise. “Your father would be proud of you, Kyle.”

She blushed, then asked the question that had been at the back of her mind ever since she had decided to come upstairs. “The last time I was here, you said if there was anything you could do for me, all I needed to do was ask. Do you remember?”

“Very clearly.”

“You told me there were two trustees.” She took a breath. “You’re the other one, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Kenneth instantly sobered. “Yes, I am.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It is not always correct for . . . for a minor to know who is responsible for managing a trust,” he said, choosing his words very carefully.

“But that’s not the real reason, is it?”

“No.” His voice turned quiet. “After you were here the last time, I was ordered not to call you, not to approach you, not to write you. Since I could not come to you, I hoped you would come to me. The same applies to what has been happening in regard to your trust.”

He seemed to wait for her to ask the next question, but suddenly she could not remain in her seat. Kyle rose and crossed to the window. From the executive floor of the Rothmore building, she looked out over the tops of neighboring white stone buildings. In the distance rose the needle-point of the Washington Monument. Below her, the tree-lined streets were brightly decked with spring foliage. People walked back and forth, stopping below burnt orange awnings to peer at window displays. They were free to come and go, live where they pleased, marry whomever they loved. Kyle sighed, wondering if anyone else in the whole world felt as trapped as she did.

“I didn’t want Rothmore Insurance,” she said quietly. “Not ever. I hate how all these possessions only imprison me tighter and tighter. I feel so . . . so manipulated. And Daddy’s memory—they’re all so busy twisting things around, turning the goodness he showed me into dollars and cents. I hate it.”

There was a long silence, until Kenneth said quietly, “I have been praying for you.”

The words were so unexpected that Kyle found herself staring at him before she realized she had even turned around. “What?”

“It is the only thing I know to do for you.” His gaze was as steady as his voice. “The only gift I can give.”

Kyle struggled to cast off the sudden feeling of having been caught defenseless and vulnerable. Her eye caught sight of the framed needlepoint still hanging over his door. “I remember something about your father being a minister.”

“He was. He’s retired now.”

She found herself still struggling to bring the fact of his faith into perspective. “I suppose it’s natural that his beliefs have been passed on to you.”

“His beliefs?” Kenneth smiled. “I was raised with Bible knowledge, of course, and am very thankful for my upbringing. But that doesn’t mean that God offers us a family savings plan.”

Kyle found herself drawn to Kenneth’s deep-seated calm. “What do you mean?”

“Salvation is not simply passed down from one generation to the next,” Kenneth said. “It is something that each one must find for himself or herself. Just having a pastor as a father is not a guarantee of God’s presence and blessing here on earth or a place in heaven. Only belief in Jesus can do that.”

Kyle could not keep the bitterness out of her voice as she said, “I can’t see much room for God in everything that’s happened to me.”

“I understand,” he said, his voice so mild there was no sense of conflict. “You feel as though your whole life is caught up in random winds. All around you blow storms so great they push you back and forth without any hope of gaining control.”

The words held such insight they threatened to draw tears from her eyes. “I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know why I’m even listening.”

“Because your heart hungers for something, and I believe what you are looking for is the Lord’s strength and guidance,” he replied. “And I pray that you will find it.”

In the distance, a church bell chimed the hour. She glanced at her watch and was startled to see that it was four o’clock. “I have to be going. Thank you.”

Kenneth rose to his feet to see her to the door. As she turned to leave, he said quietly, “Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”

“I know,” she replied. “And again, thank you.”

“Miss Kyle!” Mrs. Parker’s brisk voice stopped her at the elevator. Her father’s former secretary looked both pleased and surprised. “Were we expecting you today?”

“No, I was just . . .” Kyle allowed her voice to trail off. She had heard downstairs that Mrs. Parker was now acting as Randolf Crawley’s secretary, and she was not sure whether she should say anything of her visit with Kenneth.

“Of course,” Mrs. Parker said, misunderstanding her. “Well, your mother is already in with Mr. Crawley.”

Kyle took a step back. She was not sure she had heard correctly. “My mother?”

“Yes, she arrived earlier than expected, but Mr. Crawley canceled an appointment so they could get started.” She held up the tray she was carrying with the empty pot. “I was just going to make some fresh coffee, but if you like I could first show you in.”

“There’s no need,” Kyle said weakly. She was trapped. She could not leave now. Her mother would hear about her visit and grill her about what she was doing. No, it was better to simply go straight in. “You go ahead, I know the way.”

Mrs. Parker smiled brightly. “Yes, of course you do.”

But when she entered the outer office, the raised voices behind the inner door stopped her cold. Kyle stood in the middle of the room and heard her mother say, “I am telling you, Randolf, this situation must be resolved
immediately
.”

“First you say, ‘Don’t rush,’ now you insist I do.”

“You know things have changed since that foolish will was brought to light!”

“Yes, I most certainly do.” His voice carried a tone of strange smugness.

“Don’t be difficult, Randolf,” Abigail cut in.

“I wasn’t being difficult. I’m just frustrated. There are too many people telling me what I can and cannot do.”

“It’s quite simple. We mustn’t dally. Time is of the absolute essence.”

“And I am telling you,” he lashed back, “that I can do absolutely nothing about it.”

Kyle found herself remembering another overheard conversation and all the discomforting questions it raised. She started to turn and leave, but some unseen force seemed to hold her in place.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Abigail was demanding harshly.

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying?” Rather than his usual forced friendliness, Randolf Crawley’s tone had an edge that sounded razor sharp even through the closed door. “My father has forbidden me to have anything to do with Kyle. Do you hear me? I am
forbidden
to even approach her.”

They were talking about her. Why was she not surprised? Kyle moved closer to the door. She heard her mother snap, “What utter nonsense.”