The Stories We Carry, page 24
“After starting that fire, I’d expect not. If anything, he owed you this house to replace the one he took from your family.”
This time, he’d gone too far. She had to speak for her brother. “Don’t—”
“Where did I fit in?” Eli stood in front of the lamp, casting a shadow over the floor.
As she emptied the letter tiles into the velvety bag she wrestled over what to defend—Davis or her marriage. The need in her husband’s eyes made her decision. “I became Glory Pryor because I wanted to be.”
Eli bent a knee beside her and scooped up squares. “What about the money, or is that okay to ask, Miss Logan?”
“It turns out that colleges and high schools love poetry, and for some reason, churches do, too. Must be all that talk about the wilderness. So, when those checks come in, I deposit them, donate them, invest them.” Glory crawled to the edge of the rug and collected the E, R, and S she’d spotted. She held out the sack for her husband, and they collected wooden squares in silence.
When the last was dropped into the bag, Eli helped her up. “You don’t spend it on travel, that’s for sure. I can barely get you to leave this house.”
She pressed a hand to his chest. “Because my home is here with you. I know some married couples believe in keeping secret nest eggs from each other. They consider them ‘escape plans’ in case things go south. That’s not me, Eli. We lived separately most of our lives, but no more.”
Glory placed a hand on each side of his face and hoped he could see beyond her nose and cheeks and lips. She wanted to show him her heart. “I have a debt to pay that has nothing to do with money. It’s not about that. Never has been, baby. One day, I hope to make you understand.”
At first, Eli seemed to look everywhere but at her face until at last, his eyes locked with hers. He sighed and gathered her close. “One day . . . but not today.”
“Not today, but know I love you so much.” It was more a promise than a profession. She stood on tiptoe and touched her mouth to his earlobe.
Eli stood to his full six foot two and lifted her from her feet. “I love you more.”
Glory locked her arms around his neck, reared her head back, and blew out a breath, relieved that they had come through on the other side of this. When he set her back down, she saw his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“That was only one page, one poem, ‘Bare Vines.’ Where’s the rest of the book? Based on our conversations with authors, the publisher sends you the first edition as well as other copies. You must have one somewhere, and it’s missing some pages.”
“Wh-Why does it matter?”
“Because I plan to stay up all night, reading My Former Days: A Childhood Elegy. There’s obviously so much I don’t know about you, and I want to learn. I’m going to hold your hand.”
Glory relaxed her grip though he didn’t. After a minute, she tapped his shoulders twice and his arms fell to his sides. She crossed the room to the corner shelf and slowly lifted the dying plant to stare at the book that rested beneath it after bringing it back upstairs.
“You’ve been keeping it in this room all these years?”
Eyes closed, as close to praying as she’d come in years, Glory took the book from where she’d hidden it in plain sight and she returned to her husband. “I suppose I broke the rule, too.”
22
WHEN GLORY WOKE, she ran her hand over the left half of the bed. It was empty and cold. She opened her eyes and rolled toward Eli’s side. The cover was smooth, and two pillows were stacked neatly from the day before. No circular depression or wrinkle to indicate he’d ever laid his head there for an hour or a minute.
He’d never come to bed.
She flopped to her back and stared at the ceiling, her ear cocked for signs of life. On a typical Sunday, she awoke first and waited for him to stir. Glory couldn’t rest with the birds twittering in the oak tree behind the fence; Eli was a more determined sleeper, who didn’t move until he’d had his eight hours. Last week’s predawn adventure had been well worth the change in their routine. Today’s unusual start filled her with foreboding.
Glory flipped back the blanket and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She stuffed her feet into slippers and tiptoed to their attached bathroom, trying to avoid disturbing Eli who had to be sleeping in their third-floor den. My Former Days was barely a hundred pages, so he must have elected to sleep on the couch rather than beside its author. She’d let him snooze a bit, but once she roused him, she’d steer him to their bed.
More than an hour later, dressed in a loose-fitting, yellow poplin maxi dress, Glory opened the door to her room and listened. Nothing but the occasional ticking as water trickled through the pipes behind the plaster walls. She checked her watch: 9:42. Glory eased across the hall, avoiding the noisiest floorboards, and slowly opened the door a crack.
She expected his head to pop up over the arm of the sofa at the faint squeak of the hinges, but nothing happened, even when she called, “Eli?” Glory abandoned her efforts to be quiet as panic crept in and made itself comfortable, and she said more firmly, “Eli.”
What if he died in his sleep? The shock of my book, combined with those extra pounds he’s carrying, his busy schedule, and his age. They all proved too much, and he had a heart attack in his sleep. What if . . . what if God took him to punish me for all my lies and secrets, for ignoring Him all these years? Mama said what’s done in the dark will come to light. Glory stood in the door, afraid to walk into the room and see his prone form, his arm tucked under his head the way he laid on his pillow.
There was nothing left to do but force herself to move. Every second took hours as the door swung wide. Sure—and yet unsure—of what she’d find, she closed her eyes and stepped deeper into the room, rounded the chair, opening them to . . . nothing but pillows. And that blasted book of poetry.
God had still taken her husband, just not in the way she’d feared.
Relieved and frustrated, Glory snatched up My Former Days from the cushion and ripped out pages in bunches. She imagined sitting beside Charles Graves in the next meeting of their Famous Quotes Group, mourning for a spouse who wasn’t dead but who was dead to her. Glory flung the book and fell to her knees with a guttural cry. Then she beat the floor with her fists until they hurt. Over and over, she cried, “Eli! Eli, where are you?”
Chest heaving, she stalked from the room and down the stairs. She searched all the rooms on the second floor, including the bathroom. Satisfied she’d inspected every nook and cranny, she hurried to the main floor, her ballerina slippers tapping on the wooden treads. At the bottom, she listened, then called, “Eli! Are you down here?”
Only silence answered her. The anger that burgeoned upon finding her book on the sofa imploded. Her shoulders sagged, and her bottom lip trembled. Glory dragged herself from room to room before walking to the last place she expected to find him: her happy place. She wasn’t surprised to find it empty, save for the furnishings and the dust motes suspended over the baby grand piano.
After exhausting the right side of By the Book, she ventured left. The only thing warming her L-shaped sofa were the sun’s rays beaming through the triple-sized window. Before backing out of the octagonally shaped front room, she watched late worshippers, a couple who lived within walking distance, hurry down the street toward Ebenezer.
Glory slogged to the café, empty like the rest of the house, and finally to the kitchen. She hadn’t started here because she’d maintained the tiniest hope that Eli wanted to surprise her with breakfast in bed. Perhaps, at that very moment, he was sticking a rose in a slender vase and preparing to bring it upstairs. Never mind the fact that they didn’t own such a vase, and she hated roses because they conjured memories of her parents’ casket sprays.
Glory pushed the swinging door. The range, island, cabinets, refrigerator . . . but no flowers or pancakes. And no Eli. She fell into her seat at the table and sobbed into her clasped arms, all her anger and frustration dissipated. Solitude felt oh so different than being alone. For a long time, she’d chosen the one. Now, it seemed, she’d been left with the other.
At last, spent, Glory filled the kettle and flicked on the burner. After selecting a pack of Earl Grey from the cupboard, she tapped it against her palm, the sound echoing in the kitchen. She started making plans as she upended the cup draining in the rack and set it on the saucer, then dropped in the tea bag. How in the world had she not noticed how big the house was? How empty? Maybe she would still sell it or move to a smaller place nearby and walk to work the way people did in the movies. A whistle pierced the quiet, interrupting the tumult of her thoughts.
The porch. Take your tea to the porch and sit with Him awhile.
“Who—what?” Nearly dropping her cup, she spun, sure she’d heard someone speak to her, but the same desolate space greeted her. Where had that invitation come from? She poured the hot water with shaking hands, sloshing some into the saucer and on the counter. When she picked them up, the porcelain rattled against each other. Glory considered her seat, catty-cornered from Eli’s, then checked the time on the oversized, antique gold wall clock: ten forty-seven. The choir should be standing any minute.
Feeling as if the decision had been made for her, Glory left the kitchen and marched toward the vestibule. Setting down her cup on the round table to free her hands, she grabbed one of the chairs they stored there and opened the front door, jumping when the bell dinged in the otherwise silent area. Once she caught her breath, she placed the chair on the far left of the porch, where a leafy crepe myrtle on the other side shielded her from view. Glory went back inside the house for her tea and returned to her seat. Just in time.
“You’re right, Eli. I do love listening to the choir,” she admitted, knowing he was nowhere near to hear her.
The Lord hath promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.
“Amazing Grace.” She remembered holding one side of the brick-red hymnal and her brother the other, trying not to giggle because the organist’s eyes rolled back in her head when she sang the high notes. Mama would point at Davis and her and threaten them from the choir loft. Glory smiled to herself as she sipped, murmuring over her cup, “I loved those days. If only I’d held on to them, held on to my brother somehow.”
Hold on to God, child. He still promises good to you.
Clink! “See, Eli? You always tease me for taking my tea like a little old lady, with the cup in one hand and the saucer in the other. But that longtime habit kept me from scalding myself!” Glory rested the drink on the wide brick column for safekeeping and considered the good in her life . . .
Her friends—Noemie and Dale, Charles, even Frederick. They’d brought companionship and laughter when she was on her own and had encouraged her when both she and the store were struggling to find a place in the community.
The store, her mainstay. Her home. All the guests who’d trooped through its doors and the stories they purchased as well as the ones they carried with them and left behind.
Her family. Bennett . . . the little boy with the remarkable eyes who felt like the grandson she’d never had, the grandchildren Eli wanted to open her heart to. Mama and Daddy, willing to sacrifice everything for her, including her brother. Davis, who taught her how to trade “bigger” nickels for “smaller” dimes with the younger kids at church, who skipped his class to punch out the boy who was bullying her, who designed animals out of aluminum foil and clay. Whose suffering, addiction, and thoughts transformed her life and paved the way for her future. Who took the fall so she wouldn’t have to.
Eli, her Eli. He strolled back into her life one day and took hold of her heart. The one who wanted to strip away her strongest connection to her past and her pain, By the Book. Not only was he a good thing; he was the best thing.
What about the One who gave you those experiences, those things, and those people?
Glory closed her eyes to the question and to the voice. When she opened them, the choir had launched into another song, encouraging people to behold God’s works, praising Him for being with them in the fire, as a shelter, and through the storm. The fire. Had He been with her even then?
Yes.
At fourteen, she was the good girl: she studied hard to earn good grades; made friends with the girls at church; came straight home after school; said “Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir” at the appropriate times and places; recited Psalm Twenty-Three at the Sunday school convention; helped with dinner; sang in the choir. The worst thing she did was break her mama’s teacup.
She was also the good sister, staying up late to unlock the door for Davis; telling his teachers he was sick instead of hungover; acting as the mediator and moderator, making excuses for and extracting promises from him that he’d never keep; hiding his alcohol from him and for him. Secretly envying his rebelliousness and his freedom while begging him to sober up. Though she chafed at the strict rules Davis thumbed his nose at, she implored him, “Straighten up and fly right, like Daddy told you!”
But being good exhausted Glory, and that last fight between him and their parents depleted her faith. Where was their good God?
Delia Gibson wasn’t one to shout, but that day, the neighbors could surely hear her raised voice all the way down the street. “Pastor told us that nothing should come before our service to the church—not our jobs, our children, and definitely not your drinkin’, Davis Gibson!”
Her brother was lounging in the armchair, his heels propped on the coffee table and his eyes rolling heavenward at what he called her “histrionics.” They had this fight once a week.
“I’m serious this time, Davis. I won’t have you embarrassin’ me anymore. How are we supposed to walk into that church as chairs of the deacon and deaconess boards, and our son stays out carousin’ half the night? Comin’ in stumblin’ three, four times a week. You have to go.”
“But Mama, he’s only sixteen! You can’t kick him out. He’s your son, and he needs us.” She touched her mama’s arm, thinking of her words, You can’t do wrong and get by. A promise and a threat.
Delia shook off the weary teenaged advocate. “What Davis needs is Jesus! I can’t put up with him any longer. It’s not my job. God wouldn’t have me acceptin’ sin.”
“But the Bible says this is how we inherit the Kingdom, by helping those in need, starting with home and giving them food and drink. He could be angels . . . or Jesus!” In her youthful ignorance, Glory intertwined Scriptures, homilies, and lessons from VBS, anything to help her mama see reason. Lord, won’t You help him! she’d implored.
“Davis, do you see how you’re corruptin’ your sister? I won’t have it. Glory, go to your room, and Davis, get out. Don’t bother to get your things. Get. Out.” Delia had yanked her son up by his collar.
Gentle as always, even in his inebriated state, and probably disbelieving, Davis had allowed their mama to drag him out the front door while Glory hid in the hallway. And before she knew what was really happening, her brother was gone. Ejected from his home, gone into the night.
Mama had stalked by her. “Don’t say a word. Not one. We’re not supposed to love nobody or nothin’ more than we love God. Love Him first, and He’ll take care of everything and everybody else, includin’ you and Davis. Always remember that. You hear me? Now, clean up in here. I’ve got a headache and I’m layin’ down.”
When her mama escaped to her room, Glory fled to Davis’s. Her respite, her original happy place. She knew where her brother kept his precious journal, his cigarettes and book of matches, and his flask of vodka. Sipping, smoking, and reading over the next few hours helped her drown her misery and her questions. What type of God asks parents to reject their own child? Why was loving Him above all else tantamount to loving Him instead of anything else?
It was near his bed, surrounded by smoke and flames, where her brother found and rescued her. He scooped up her and his journal and led her mother to safety, leaving his family on the sidewalk to watch the house burn to the ground. They never heard from him again.
The choir at Ebenezer began its last song, “Glorious, marvelous, grace that rescued me . . .” and Glory covered her mouth. For the second time that morning, she sobbed her heart out. It was through her swollen eyes and tear-streaked glasses that she barely saw the form of a man turn up the pathway to By the Book and trod up its steps to the porch. Her heart beat faster, and she wondered, Could it be? She called out, “Davis?”
“Davis? No, no. It’s me.”
Eli. She now realized it was her husband wearing a dark blue suit and a blue pin-striped button-down shirt. “You’re . . . you’re alive. You’re home.”
“Of course I am. Are you disappointed to find me on this side of the dirt?” He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets.
“Of course not!” She removed her glasses and dropped them in her seat. “It’s only . . .”
“Only what?” He took a step toward her.
Glory knew it was time to confess. “When I sit out here on Sunday mornings, part of me hopes my brother will show up. Somehow, this feels like the right time. If he ever found me, it would be this day of the week. I could barely see you . . .”
Eli closed the gap and gathered her into his sweet-smelling arms. “So, that’s why the tears?”
She pressed her wet face into his collar. “These tears are because I’m so happy you’re home. I looked for you everywhere. Where have you been?”
“To church, woman. To church.”
Eli tightened the strings on his pajama bottoms, then picked up the copy of My Former Days from their bedside table. The wounded paper seemed to cry out as he leafed through it. It had taken him and Glory much of the evening and lots of tape to sort and piece together the torn pages as best they could.
“I still can’t believe you wrote this, and that I never knew. Anybody else would’ve been crowing about writing a long-standing bestseller, yet you’re so focused on posting about the festival and avoiding publicity altogether. A volume of poetry used in schools and colleges around the country . . . for decades? Come on! But not my Glory, a bookseller yourself. You write under an assumed name, move away from home, and never say another mumbling word about it. You quietly use the money to help other writers and readers.”
