CHAPTER NINETEEN

LESLIE SAT IN CUNNINGHAM’S ICE-CREAM/COFFEE shop, hoping she would not run into anyone she knew. Mike would be at work, so he most likely would not stop here. His cousin seemed only to be around in the afternoon. She had not made that many friends in Butler yet, so she felt safe making a cell phone call from her booth.

The number now was familiar to her.

“Pastor Blake? I hate to always bother you.”

“Leslie, it’s no bother. Trust me. I get paid for this, remember? And if I didn’t want to take your calls, I could let them go into voice mail, right?”

“I know you’re being kind to me. And I appreciate that.”

Leslie allowed the barista to add coffee to her three-quarters-filled mug. The dilutions of sugar and cream had been perfect, and now the ratios were all different. She would have waved the pleasant young man off, but this way, she bought herself a bit more privacy since he would not be around for a while. She sprinkled in a hazing of sugar and a dribble of cream.

“What can I do for you this morning?”

Leslie quickly related the story of last night’s dinner, leaving out some of it, but claiming a small victory.

“An evening like this would have been sure to trigger panic in the past.”

“That’s wonderful, Leslie. There is hope, right?”

“I’m doing what you told me to do. It works. Or is working.”

The pastor let a moment of silence form.

“Pastor, I have a question. Nothing about panic attacks.”

“Go ahead.”

“Should you be with someone … allow yourself to be with someone … just because it’s safe?”

“Safe? You mean, like ‘not dangerous’? Or like ‘just good enough’?”

Leslie nodded, even knowing the pastor couldn’t see her.

“Yes. No. Not safe from danger, but just safe. Like you said: just good enough. No fireworks. No stirring desire. You know, like between a man and a woman.”

Leslie hoped he couldn’t tell she was blushing—keenly embarrassed by what her question implied.

“No need to be embarrassed, Leslie. Pastors get to deal with the whole body—not just the mind and soul.”

This brought silence to her side of the conversation.

Does he get questions like this often?

“It’s not an everyday question,” he replied, causing Leslie to be surprised again. “But if you want my personal opinion—the answer is yes. You know, back in the times of Jesus, and when the Bible was written, there was not a lot said about romantic love. Sacrifice and commitment—yes. Lust—yes, like in David’s life—but not love as we talk about it today.”

“So … is it okay?”

“Leslie, here’s my pulled-punch counselor’s response: Only you can decide that. I just read an article on the Web …”

He goes on the Internet? A pastor?

“… about some book a woman wrote on ‘settling.’ Her premise was that a lot of modern women wait their whole lives for a perfect man who will fit every preconception they have. And they reject a lot of men who are pretty good, even very good, but not perfect. Is there a perfect mate for all of us? I’m not sure. Does God have one and only one person out there that we have to find or else He will be unhappy with our choice? We will be unhappy? I hope not. What would happen if I were sick the day I was supposed to meet that person? I think our task is to find somebody we respect, enjoy being with, who shares our values, understands us, perhaps—someone with whom we experience a deep friendship, perhaps. And if they don’t set off Roman candles, so be it. That part of love fades quickly for most couples.”

“So … is it okay?”

Pastor Blake sighed. “Have you found someone? Is Mike Reidmiller the person you’re talking about?”

I keep forgetting that Butler is really a small town.

“Maybe. I don’t know. He could be. I mean … yes, it’s Mike, but I don’t know where things are. Maybe that’s what is making the panic attacks go away.”

The voice of the pastor grew firm, and he quickly responded.

“Leslie—do not confuse the two issues. The panic attacks are a separate thing. Mike has nothing to do with them. If you like him, fine. If you really like him, go with it. But go slow. You’re not a teenager anymore. Romantic love changes when you’re older. You’re a mother, too. You have to consider your daughter. Everything changes. So my advice is to go slow.”

Leslie was nodding the whole time.

“And pray about it,” the pastor continued. “God has promised to guide those who ask for His help.”

“You’re right. You’re right. I’ll pray. And go slow. And I won’t expect fireworks.”

Like the ones I feel with Jack …

She slipped the phone back into her purse. The barista, probably bored that there were only a few customers in the store, stopped at the table again, with a coffeepot in one hand and a hopeful smile on his face, eyebrows arched in supplication.

“Sure, a little more would be fine,” Leslie said, lying, knowing that this new coffee would disrupt her perfect arrangement of coffee, cream, and sugar once again.

Grandma Amelia prayed about such things. I guess I could too …

Saturday came, and Leslie had spent the previous twenty-four hours in a state of dread. The panic—well, the panic was not entirely out of the equation that was her life, but it had diminished. Whatever Pastor Blake had said or done, or what he’d encouraged her to do—pray—had helped. And perhaps, Leslie thought, it was the mere fact of sharing it, opening up about her situation that was working to diffuse it.

But yet, as the visit from her ex-husband neared, she grew closer and closer to the edge of that familiar panic. The anxiety was fueled by the terror she felt—the terror that she might lose her one and only daughter.

She prayed the only prayer that she knew how to pray.

Oh, God. Help me. Help me … give me peace.

He had said he would be there at 10:00 in the morning on Saturday. He had never been a man whose word she could depend on, so Leslie had told Ava he would be there by lunch. If he arrived early, it would simply be a surprise to her, rather than her being crushed at waiting for hours in anticipation.

Leslie couldn’t help it. She paced back and forth in the apartment, even though she knew her pacing set Ava off in a bad way. Ava would see the pacing and worry that her mother was falling into a self-destructive pattern. So instead of pacing in front of Ava, Leslie left the girl watching Saturday-morning cartoons, a rare treat, for Leslie did not appreciate the content of most of those programs, and walked downstairs, so she could pace outside in the chilly morning air. She told Ava she was stepping outdoors for a breath of fresh air and would be on the sidewalk in front of the building.

She only took a sweater, so Ava wouldn’t think she was set on intercepting her father before he came upstairs, but it was enough. She checked her wristwatch every few minutes, starting at 9:30.

She waved through the front display windows to Alice and Frank, who were explaining something to each other, in loud animated voices, their arms swinging and gesturing. They both stopped when they saw her and stared at her, their faces both a large question mark.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she said, loudly, to carry through the thick glass.

“You can wait in here,” Alice shouted back, then mimed being frozen, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Thank you, but I’m fine. Where’s Jack?”

Both of them, as if on cue, spun around, looking for him, as if they expected him to be there. They both thought each other’s actions hilarious, and Frank finally shouted back, “He’s working on the Pettigrews’ place. We’re waiting on some permits. But that doesn’t stop either of us from obsessing about things. I hope you don’t mind us being here.”

Leslie thought about miming back, but couldn’t think of anything specific, so she simply said loudly, “It’s fine. You go back to work. Don’t let me bother you.”

She turned back to the street, feeling empowered, to a degree. She was now a businesswoman of sorts, or at least a landlord, and that felt good. She paced from the Stickles’ door, marked with a skewed plastic nameplate, and a smiling stained-glass angelic cherub, held on the window glass with a suction cup, then back to the front door of the Midlands Building, soon to be the home of Alice and Frank’s. Leslie considered it an odd name, until Mrs. Stickle told her that the couple had “made millions” with their store of the same name in Shadyside. Leslie doubted that they had made millions, but she was fairly certain the store had been profitable.

They dress better than anyone I’ve seen in Butler—or anywhere, bar none.

Then she turned and walked back, a half-block circuit.

She did not see his car, but she saw him. He must have parked around the corner. She glanced at her watch. It was 10:30. Her heart started to beat fast, not yet panic—fast, but fast like that moment in class when the teacher angrily announces a pop quiz—on the only day that you hadn’t done the required reading.

He did not wave, or acknowledge her, until a few feet away. Then he stopped and eyed her critically.

He’s gained weight. And his hair is thinner. Maybe it’s the cut.

“Hello, Leslie. I’ll have you know it took me two hours to get here. And I stayed at the speed limit the whole time. Two hours. That’s not just a trip around the block. Two full hours.”

She knew he was lying but would not belabor the point. The first time she and Ava drove from Greensburg, when Leslie was not sure of the route, and half afraid to be on her own, it took one hour and twenty minutes, including two potty breaks for Ava.

“This doesn’t make a father’s visitation an easy task, Leslie. I want to go on record as telling you that.”

The judge had allowed her to move within the state.

“If you leave Pennsylvania, if you plan on relocating, you must alert the clerk of the court of that decision. I will decide if parties need to gather to adjudicate the matter. Is that understood?” he had said.

Leslie had agreed and asked if relocating to Butler fit into the custody guidelines. It did.

“You packed on a few pounds. You been eating fast-food trash again? Are you cooking for Ava at all?”

I’ve lost weight. From stress … because of what you …

She stopped herself.

I will not go to that place. God, help me not to go there.

He folded his arms across his chest. He was wearing the khaki jacket that she had purchased for him for his birthday. He had claimed that the style was wrong and that she had no idea of what he wanted—or looked good in—and that only a blind man would be caught wearing it. He had tossed it into the corner of the closet and left it there, until he demanded that she clean things up. She had put it on a hanger and didn’t touch it ever again.

“Are you dating? You are seeing men, now, aren’t you? Someone like you can’t do without, can you? Or do all the men in Butler already know how crazy you are?” He grinned at her. “No. I shouldn’t say crazy. Lisa always reminds me of that. She says I should say ‘mentally unbalanced.’”

Lisa? Giving him advice on what to say about me?

“So you have nothing to say to me? It’s been a long time, Leslie. You’ve done nothing I would find interesting? Figures. You haven’t changed a bit. You’re as worthless as you’ve always been. I should go to court for custody of Ava so she’ll at least have a better chance with her life.”

The front door opened and Ava tore past her mother, her arms outstretched, her hair streaming behind her.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she shouted, glee obvious in her voice. He bent down and scooped her up and spun her around two times, then set her down and knelt in front of her.

“You are getting so big, Ava. I hardly recognize you. Like a weed, you’re growing so fast. Is your mother feeding you too many fast-food hamburgers with all those bad growth hormones in them?”

Ava leaned back and turned to her mother, with a most curious look, like she wasn’t sure if her father were kidding, or if her mother was trying to make her grow up faster. “Nooo, Daddy. We hardly ever eat out.”

Randy looked up at his ex-wife. “Well, Ava, Daddy will take you out to a real restaurant for a change. Get you out of that cramped old apartment, what do you say about that? And ice cream, too. I bet you don’t get a lot of ice cream, either, do you?”

Ava turned to her mother again. “Do I get enough ice cream, Mommy?”

Leslie wanted to scream. “I think you do fine, Ava.”

Randy stood up, took his daughter’s hand, and stage-whispered to Leslie, “We’ll be back by five, maybe sooner, so don’t go anywhere. Wait here for us. You got that?”

Leslie fought the old feelings, stirred up this morning, as best she could, until she felt things crumble, just a bit. “I’ll be here.”

Ava didn’t look back as they walked away, almost breaking Leslie’s heart. But she’d known somehow, even before this morning, that Ava wouldn’t look back, and had tried to steel herself to the fact when it happened. They turned the corner, walking away from downtown.

She looked down at her right hand. It was responding like the proverbial leaf in the wind. She quickly grabbed it with her left hand, to stop it, to stop the actions of her body, to try and prevent their betrayal, to force herself to stand up, to stand up for herself, to respect her own self.

She tried, she really, really tried, but he knew her too well. He knew where to attack, at her meager resources, at her awakening desire, at her lack of worth. He knew. And if he could do all that damage with a few words …

Leslie wasn’t sure if she could be strong enough to face him and stare him down.

Let God fight for you, Pastor Blake had said.

As Ava and her father slipped around the corner, the front door to the Stickles’ opened. Mrs. Stickle peered out, grabbed the newspaper that was on the step, clutching at the robe she had draped over her normal housedress. She was wearing her once-fuzzy slippers.

“Leslie, dear, it’s cold out here. What are doing standing there in only a sweater? I saw you from the window. Get inside before you catch your death.”

Leslie didn’t move, not right away.

“Leslie? Are you okay?” Mrs. Stickle asked in her most grandmotherly voice. “Would you like some tea?”

It was then that Leslie turned, the anguish obvious on her face. “Yes, Mrs. Stickle, some tea would be great.”

In minutes, the teakettle began to whistle, and Mrs. Stickle began her tea-making ceremony. This time there were no gingersnaps, but a plate of Lorna Doones instead.

“Where is Mr. Stickle?” Leslie asked, just to make conversation.

The older woman shrugged. “Who knows?”

Then she laughed, picked up the teapot, and sat down at their kitchen table. “His nephew picked him up to go to some car show in Pittsburgh. He has always loved cars, but neither of us drives anymore, so I don’t see the purpose in it. I suppose it’s like going to a movie with handsome men in it. They’ll never be calling me to ask for a date, but I still enjoy looking at them.”

Leslie nearly laughed aloud.

“Was that your ex I saw with Ava?”

Leslie nodded.

“I have to ask. I mean, these days, I guess it doesn’t matter. Ex-husband or ex-boyfriend?”

“Ex-husband. We were divorced over a year ago. This is really the first time he has come to Butler to see his daughter. We lived closer before. Even then he didn’t come around that often.”

Mrs. Stickle chewed her second cookie thoughtfully. “Does Ava know anything about it? She’s such a sweet little girl. But she’s never mentioned anything about the divorce. Not that I asked her or anything.”

“She knows we have to live apart. She accepts it, I think. But she misses having a father. She talks about Trevor Reidmiller and how it’s so sad that he doesn’t have a mommy.…”

“That’s Agnes and Merle’s grandson, right? Mike’s son?”

“That’s what you said.”

“Well, that woman Mike married was a tramp. A tramp, I tell you. In the worst sense of the word. I remember that Agnes told her son not to go through with the wedding, but Michael was older, a little bit older, and I think he thought he would never have another chance. Such a shame. Then her getting pregnant. I’m glad that the little boy looks like his father. I mean … with that woman, you would never know for sure.”

Leslie listened, almost glad there was another story being told—a story that didn’t involve her and her pain.

“But … that’s a whole different ball of wax,” Mrs. Stickle said, as if recognizing her landlord’s discomfort. “Though I don’t know what balls of wax have to do with it.”

Leslie picked up a cookie and nibbled at it. It tasted like cardboard in her mouth. “He shows up, and I immediately think he wants to have custody of Ava. I get so scared about it. I couldn’t live without Ava.”

Mrs. Stickle did what any proper grandmother would do in this situation. She shuffled her chair close to Leslie and put her frail arms around her. “Not to worry, Leslie. God wouldn’t let that happen. You’re a good mom. I see that. Everything will work out fine.”

A month ago, Leslie would have gone into panic mode. But not today. A month ago, she would have started to hyperventilate, sweat, and tremble. All of those conditions were not far from the surface, but none of them manifested themselves. Instead she relaxed, thankful for the simple peace and security that Mrs. Stickle offered to her. She sat, comforted—not happy, but not desperate or terrified.

“You let God take care of things, dear. He will make it right. You have to trust. Just like that preacher on TV says. You know—the one with the curly hair—the one from Pittsburgh.”

Leslie had no idea who she meant, but nodded anyhow.

“He says that God loves us and has a plan for our lives. I believe that. I do. He does love us. You have to let Him love you, Leslie. Open your heart. You have to trust.”

Is that why I’ve changed, God? Are You why I’m not panicking?

Leslie sat back up as Mrs. Stickle shuffled her chair back into position, and took a second cookie.

This time it tasted better, almost as if a Lorna Doone was the perfect cookie to eat after your ex-husband has just taken your most precious thing in the entire world with him, and you do not have any idea where they are.

Open my heart? Trust? Can I do that?

The downstairs buzzer rang and Leslie jumped to the entry to unlock the downstairs front door with her buzzer. Randy said five o’clock, and it was only two in the afternoon. She pressed it for five seconds, then swung open her door and hurried to the second-floor landing.

Ava came running up the stairs, her little feet clad in plaid sneakers, thumping like a horse.

Randy, remaining downstairs, made no move to step into the building. He just leaned in. “I have to go. It’s a long drive home. But then, you’re well aware of that. And Ava had a wonderful time. We all did. Be prepared for me to call you this week.”

He stepped out and the door latched behind him.

Leslie remained, staring at the door, until she heard the electronic chatter from the television behind her. She walked back into the living room, not wanting to interrogate her daughter, but keenly interested in what had transpired. Ava had not seen her father for months and had spent only a few hours with him—when he had claimed they would be together all day.

“You have fun, sweetie?”

Ava shrugged, not turning her attention from the cartoon on the screen. “I dunno. I guess.”

Leslie promised herself, over and over, that she would remain calm and settled. “What did you do? Your father said something about shopping.”

Ava turned to her mother, a quizzical look on her face. “We didn’t shop. He drove around a lot. He talked to that new lady.”

“Lisa?”

“I guess. He doesn’t like Butler. He said it stinks.”

Leslie waited.

“Does it stink, Mommy?”

“No, sweetie, it doesn’t. It’s a perfectly nice town. Did you and Lisa talk?”

Ava didn’t appear upset or troubled. Leslie was happy she had that kind of child who accepted things as they were and never became agitated over the way things should be.

“Maybe. A little. She asked if I was hungry.”

“Were you?”

“No. But we ate at the funny restaurant. The one at the top of the hill.”

“Which one?”

“The one with the funny name.”

“Dingbats?” They had eaten there once. Leslie thought the food was good but the environment frantic.

“Yeah. That one. I had chicken fingers.”

“Did you go for ice cream?”

“Daddy said it was too cold for ice cream. He said you only eat ice cream in the summer.”

Leslie waited.

“Can I still eat ice cream when it’s cold, Mommy? I like ice cream a lot.”

“Of course you can, sweetie.”

Leslie waited. “Anything else? You do anything else?”

Ava shrugged again. “I don’t think so. We drove around. It was okay.”

Leslie waited. “Your daddy said he might come back to see you in a little while. Would that be okay with you?”

“I guess. Sure. Maybe.”

Leslie stood up and walked into the kitchen, away from Ava’s sight. She lifted her hand to reach for a coffee cup and could barely garner the strength to pick it up.

Leslie couldn’t tell if it was from relief or anxiety, or maybe both.

Amelia Westland

Lyndora

Butler County, Pennsylvania

July 4, 1884

I have ceased marking each entry with my age. It seems a childish affectation, yet I am loath to cease it, since it has marked every entry in this diary to date. But when one becomes an adult, one must put away childish things.

I find the greatest pleasure in having a dwelling place of my own, my own private quarters in the teacherage. No one enters it, save me. Yet I am not lonely, for the children fill my days until dusk, and the peaceful nights are most welcome. The bed is fine, and most comfortable. The mothers of the children are exceedingly appreciative of my attentions to their offspring. Many have given me bread, or eggs, or quilts they no longer have use for. The space that was once sparse is now flush with many beautiful objects. I have gotten a few new skirts and blouses made up, of a simple and serviceable style and of durable fabric, such as are appropriate for a woman in my position. I have enjoyed frequent visits here from Catherine.

I find myself in such a wonderful mood. I have met with my Julian again. He could not come here, not by himself, for if he were observed visiting a single female schoolteacher alone … why, there might be serious repercussions for us both. No, we met at a picnic sponsored by his church, a well-respected Lutheran church, to which I was invited by Julian. Since there were crowds of people in attendance, there was no need to worry about neither chaperones nor gossip. He managed to procure a seat at my table, where we partook of refreshment together.

The weather was perfect: not overly warm, with some clouds and sun. He inquired as to my days and how I have gotten on in Butler. We chatted as comfortable as any couple might—conversing, laughing, posing questions, positing opinions on some town matters and diverse other topics.

Oh … but evening was drawing our time together to a close. I dearly wished to linger, however, I stood and thought to excuse myself, for I had a walk of thirty minutes to my home. The pastor of this Lutheran church, a most agreeable man, bid me farewell, but refused to let me, a single woman, walk all that way alone. Since no mode of conveyance nor chaperone could be offered, he assigned a young man to provide me escort, one in whom his implicit trust resides—a certain Mr. Julian Beck. I was in heaven.

Once out of sight of the crowds, in the growing darkness, Julian took my hand and I near swooned. What else might have been discussed between us from that point on, I have no recollection. I am assuming that Mr. Beck will call on me again, owing to his most forward nature.

I will praise thee, O LORD, with my whole heart;
I will shew forth all thy marvellous works.
I will be glad and rejoice in thee:
I will sing praise to thy name, O thou most High.

—Psalm 9:1–2