Another Homecoming (16 page)

“Nonsense, is it? How would you like all my shares and voting rights to be returned to my father? Would you care to see him demote me and resume his place on the board? Because that is
exactly
what he has threatened if I so much as call your daughter.”

There was a lingering silence. Kyle’s gaze flittered around the room. Randolf’s absence from her mother’s little parties made sense now. Along with how there had been less mention made of him in discussions with Abigail. Instead, Kyle had simply been kept on a short leash, allowed to attend college classes so long as she did not have time or space to make new friends.

“That old fool,” Abigail muttered. “I thought his meddling was only temporary, that he would leave you alone once the business with the will was finished.”

“So did I.” There was a loud creaking, and Kyle’s hand flew to her mouth. She knew that sound. It was her father’s chair. Randolf Crawley was leaning back in her father’s chair. His cultured voice went on, “His health is not good, you know, and—”

Before she fully realized her intentions, Kyle grasped the doorknob and flung it open. The shock on both their faces was reward enough for her boldness. Her mother had been standing by the side panel, holding a crystal plaque given to her father at some honorary banquet. It fell with a crash and shattered on the hardwood floor. “You!”

“Good afternoon,” Kyle said evenly. Seeing Randolf leap to his feet gave her the strength to remain calm and continue. “Excuse me for disturbing you. I was here doing some research for school and heard you were here, Mother. I’m downstairs in the coffee shop whenever you’re ready to leave.”

She turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. The absolute silence that marked her departure granted her a sense of satisfaction all the way back downstairs.

Abigail sat musing. It was not a pastime that she readily allowed herself. She did not like to reflect. One could get oneself in a state of morbid discontent if one thought too deeply. No—action was more her style. Quick, decisive action that left no room for sentimentality or self-pity.

Not that she had much reason for self-pity, she admitted, as her eyes traveled over the expanse of the elegant library.

But it had not always been so. With a grimace she thought back to the fear she had known in her teen years, when her father’s inept business dealings had whittled away at the family fortune. And that had been followed by those tough, struggling years of her early marriage. The scrimping to make last year’s wardrobe look fresh for a new season. Even now her face flushed with the humiliation.

Somehow, Lawrence by his sheer will and hard work had pulled them out of that morose state and provided them with more than an adequate lifestyle. Their success had been a matter of great importance to Abigail. She had enjoyed showing off the new wealth in front of her father, the man who had blustered and fumed when she had announced her intention of marrying a man who had little, as far as her father was concerned, and not much chance of changing those circumstances.

Why had she been drawn to Lawrence? Abigail dared for the first time to ask herself that question. Had it simply been to challenge the authority of a weak-willed father? The father who spoke forceful words, prefaced always with, “For your own good,” and then followed with demands that indicated only his own desires?

Certainly she had been drawn by how utterly different Lawrence had seemed from her loud and blustering father. There was a gentleness to Lawrence, despite his rough masculinity. There had always remained an underlying sense of strength and genuineness in his hearty manner. One never could have called him weak. He was decisive and firm when the situation called for it. Even her complaining father eventually had been forced to admit that.

Lawrence.

Abigail paused in her reverie, one delicate finger tracing the rim of the gold-edged cup. Lawrence. It seemed so strange without him. She hadn’t expected to miss him so much. It wasn’t that they had been really close. Yet it was not the same house without his energetic presence. He had always been so generous with his praise, so easy with his encouragement, so much the protector and provider. He had not been one bit like her dark-browed, scowling father. Even his hearty disagreements had added spice to her life, keeping her alert in seeking ways to best him.

She stirred herself and brought her thoughts back to the issue at hand. Kyle.

Kyle was not cooperating. In fact, she was most exasperating. Abigail wondered how much longer she could keep Randolf on a tether. He must be as tired of the delay as she was herself. Perhaps he was even tired of Kyle. And now there was this unwelcome interference by his dotty father.

The very thought made her stir in irritation. What would happen if Randolf now decided that Kyle was not worth the wait? That the company money and position was not worth the effort of trying to win Kyle? Would he give up? But he couldn’t. They would both be losers. Dreadful losers. The way the exasperating will was set up, neither Randolf nor Abigail would acquire control of the company that they wanted. It would be horrible. Just horrible. No—even worse. It would be disastrous. There was only one way for Abigail to maintain any control of the company. Kyle had to marry Randolf. She had to. There was no other way to work out the situation.

Abigail stirred again, her hands trembling on the cup between her fingers. She had to find some way to convince the girl—to force her if necessary.

But how? She had tried everything she knew. Was she going to lose it all now? Lose it because of this girl who wasn’t even of her own blood—nor Lawrence’s? Why had she let him talk her into an adoption? Why? She should have known it would come to no good.

Then a new idea came to her with such clarity that it stiffened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Ahh,” she heard from her own mouth and her eyes took on a new glitter. She wasn’t done fighting yet. There were still ways that she hadn’t explored.

She set her coffee cup on the marble-topped table with such force that it rang out in sharp protest. But Abigail did not notice. She was done with musing. Now was time for action. She lifted her head and reached for the bell.

When Bertrand appeared, her words were clipped, curt. “Bring round the car immediately. I need to go to the office.”

“Very well, madam.” He gave a slight bow, but she was already heading for the hall and the long, winding staircase. She would freshen her makeup, grab her handbag, and be off for another session with Randolf.

14
 

Joel climbed the millers’ front steps,
his heart racing in its painful flip-flop fashion. Was it just his sorrow, or was today’s wild flutter from some other unknown reason? These bouts, whatever they were, had been coming more often lately and seemed to leave him shorter of breath. Much as he dreaded the thought, maybe he should talk it over with Doc Austin.

Once on the Miller porch, he found himself unprepared to enter and face what waited behind that door. He turned and leaned against the weathered banister. The morning was clear and fairly cool for July. Birds sang from every tree. A lone car slid quietly down the street, one of those new sporty Corvairs. The Corvair had been a hit from the start, a sort of affordable T-Bird. Small, low, and well balanced with its rear engine, all a guy had to do to wow his friends was to claim to have driven one. Joel watched the car roll by and listened as the radio blared out “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Joel sighed. The song certainly fit his mood.

Normally Saturdays were great. Ever since he had stayed with the Miller family that previous summer, weekends were spent with them. He would finish his paper route, return for breakfast at his house, then leave for a day of carpentry and fellowship and laughter, returning home only after the Sunday service and meal the next day.

Those weekends, and the three weeks he had lived with them, were a retreat from a world in which he mostly felt alienated. The Millers were so full of life and hope and fun that his own home, school, and the rest of the world seemed like a different planet.

Along with watching no television, the Millers never went to the movies. In a year when Danny and the Juniors took all of America to the hop, the Millers remained completely untouched by popular music and its accelerating influence on society. Nor did the strife and strained silence so familiar to Joel have any parallel in their joyful, boisterous household. He looked forward all week to these times of work and laughter and worship.

But today was very, very different.

“Ah, Joel, what do you say, sport.” As Doc Austin pushed his bulk through the front door, Joel was not surprised. It was not unusual for Doc to be at the Millers’. He checked on his patient frequently. Doc Austin’s tired-looking eyes regarded Joel with mild interest. “Over for a last visit?”

“Yes, sir.” There was no escaping it. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face the front door. “I guess I am.”

“Never would have expected it, the son of Harry Grimes becoming friends with the Millers.” Doc Austin stuffed a prescription pad in the side pocket of his rumpled jacket. His clothes looked perpetually slept in, which was kind of strange, for the doctor’s face looked as though he rarely slept at all. His cheeks were puffy, his eyes lined with dark smudges. Joel’s father said the man was destined to an early grave. “Cheer up, son. You’ll make other friends.”

“Not like these,” Joel said simply.

“No, perhaps not. The Millers are one of a kind.”

It surprised Joel to hear the doctor agree with him. He found the strength to say what was on his heart. “I feel as though I’m losing my own family.”

Eyes far older than the man’s years regarded Joel. “Your mother tells me you’ve gotten quite caught up in their religion.”

Joel met the doctor’s gaze. “It’s the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Ach, such a fine parting gift Choel gives the family, to hear how simple faith he values.” Joseph Miller pushed open the screen door and stepped carefully out on the front porch. His normally broad smile was tempered with sadness. “You are well, Choel?”

“I guess so.” Seeing the sorrow in Mr. Miller’s face made his own heart ache even worse. “Well as I can be.”

“Yah, yah, a hard day it is for all.” Joseph offered the doctor his hand. “To you I owe more thanks than words there are.”

“Don’t mention it.” Doc Austin accepted the hand, yet seemed embarrassed by the man’s openhearted tone. “I’ve been real glad to see you respond so well to this new medicine. I’m thinking about writing up your case, sending it in to the
Journal
.”

“Yah, with patience and skill, years of life you give me. Strength and time to see the farm again. Such a debt we carry back with us. Glad we are to be able to go home again. Now my brudders can care for their own fields and stock and let me take over the work of mine once more. Too long we have kept them over busy. And the children—they miss their cousins, many that they are, and their pets.” His somber nods spread his beard down flat across his chest. “This debt to you, we will never be able to pay it still.”

“I’ve already been paid.” Doc Austin fumbled with the strap to his black bag. “Not to mention the porch chairs and table you made for me and my wife. The finest things I’ve ever seen. We’re much obliged.”

Mr. Miller stumped over and placed a hand on Joel’s shoulder. The strength of that grip brought a lump to the boy’s throat. Mr. Miller went on, “Prayers we will say. May you hold the gift of life, Doctor Howard Austin. That gift only One can grant, and for that we will pray.”

The doctor’s nervousness increased. “Never had much time for religion.”

“Speak with Choel. Here is one who has found the time. He has learned well.”

“Not yet, but I’m trying,” Joel mumbled.

“Yah, yah, lessons of faith are there for all our days.” The grip tightened. “But salvation is yours. This you know.”

“Yes,” Joel said, lifting his head to find the doctor’s gaze upon him. “That’s right. I do.”

Doc Austin opened his mouth, closed it, nodded absently to them both, then turned and shuffled down the front walk. Mr. Miller waited until he was around the corner before saying, “Such a man, he does not know his heart cries to the Savior.”

“I wish he’d listened to you,” Joel agreed.

“Perhaps,” Joseph Miller said quietly. “Perhaps it is you who he listen to.”

The door opened behind them. A teary-eyed Ruthie appeared, her hands in a tight knot before her. “Mama says come to the table.”

“Yah, the first furniture in to come, the last out to go.” Mr. Miller turned and moved into the house. “Mama has made the house a home and given our kitchen a heart.”

Joel tried to return Ruthie’s wobbly smile, but felt as though his face merely twisted into a different shape. He followed the two of them inside. His heart thumped in his chest as he surveyed the empty rooms. Nearly everything was already packed and loaded into the two trucks, even the pallets they had spread out to sleep on last night. Joel had skipped two days of school to help with the loading. Their silent acceptance of his gift had been the finest thanks he had ever known.

The table and few chairs still in the kitchen somehow made the room look even emptier. Mrs. Miller turned from the stove long enough to give him as big a smile as she could manage, but she did not say anything. Joel asked, “Where’s Simon?”

“Moping in the shed,” Ruthie said. “Sit yourself down, Choel.”

But before he could settle himself, Ruthie’s younger sister Sarah grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the back door. He did not resist. Together they moved to the back stoop, where Sarah looked up in a silent challenge to him before calling toward the carpentry shed, “Simon, come from your work in, the coffee soup’s on the table and Choel’s about to et himself done already!”

“Hush yourself,” Joel countered, continuing a game that Sarah had started the day he had moved in with them. At first, he had found their speech among themselves to be utterly baffling. But by the time his three weeks in their boisterous household was drawing to a close, he had picked up quite a few of the phrases himself. “Sarah, go comb yourself wunst, you’re all strubbly,” he added.

“Am not!” For a brief instant her lively face lit up with the joy of playing a game of her own making. “Talk like that, Choel Grimes, you ain’t so fer schnitz pie!”

“And change that terrible schmitzig apron, wunst,” Joel said, wondering how it was possible to joke when his heart was cracking.

She pretended to look down at herself. “Been layin’ over the dough, got to get my bakin’ caught after.”

“Then hurry up wunst, and go smear me all over with jam, a piece of fresh-baked bread.”

She slapped little hands over her face. The first to giggle lost the game. She gave a little high-pitched laugh, but just as swiftly her sky blue eyes filled with tears, and she turned and fled through the back door. Her forlorn wail sounded through the empty rooms.

Simon walked over, cleaning his hands on a rag. “Never did I think we could be so sad over going back to the farm.”

Ruthie pushed the door open, stepped out and stood there, her hands still gripped tightly together. “Mama says come to table now.”

Joel looked at her and repeated the words she had said to him after his first meal there, then said again the day he had left to go home the summer before, “Don’t leave now. Leave next time.”

She swallowed and tried to smile. A single tear traced a lonely path down one cheek. “You must promise to come visit, Choel.”

He nodded. “Next summer.” It seemed a lifetime away.

When they were all seated and the prayers said, they ate in silence until Mr. Miller finally set down his fork. “Choel, such sadness my family shows because of one thing only. You do not come with.”

All eyes turned his way. Joel stopped pretending to eat food he could not taste. “I will miss you. All of you. So much.”

Mrs. Miller reached over and rested a work-hardened hand on his. “You are like another son to me, Choel.”

Joel could only nod in reply.

“Choel.” Mr. Miller waited until he raised his gaze, but then could not seem to find a way to express himself. He glanced at Ruthie, who turned pink and looked at her plate. Joel glanced in confusion at Mrs. Miller, who was smiling gently at her husband. Mr. Miller cleared his throat and tried again. “Choel, at our table a place waits for you.”

“Thank you,” he managed, unsure exactly what was meant but finding himself blushing just the same. “Thank you very much.”

Before the sky had given itself over to night, Joel excused himself and went upstairs. He closed his door to the murmuring television and stretched out on his bed. He missed the Millers with an ache that left him hollow. Their laughter, their smiling concern, their simple acceptance of him. Never before had he felt such a sense of belonging. Now they were gone, and their absence was a ballooning void in his heart, so great he could scarcely draw breath.

He climbed out of bed. There was no use trying to sleep. Lying there in the darkness only made the loss worse. Joel seated himself at his desk and turned on the lamp. He pulled over his Bible and opened it to the Old Testament.

He loved the ancient words. He loved the sense of divine history displayed before him. He loved belonging to something so strong that it had borne the test of time. A long parade of people, marching down through the centuries, had learned from God and passed on the lessons, step by step, until
he
was able to sit there and read their stories and hear their messages. No matter how hard this moment might be, still they were there in spirit with him, letting him know he was part of a huge and loving family, united by the Spirit of God.