To Love and Honor (3 page)

As they started out the door, Violet saw the large form of Roger Gibson swinging down the hallway. His figure was even more prepossessing in his smart, brown uniform.

“Hi. I came to get Misty's project.” He looked from Violet's angry face to Janie's tear-streaked one.

“Is something wrong?”

“Janie's exhibit was awarded the Best of Show medallion, but someone pushed it on the floor. I'm going to see how badly it's damaged. I'm determined that she's going to the regional competition, if she has to do a whole new exhibit.”

“Of course she is,” Roger said, and he put his arm over Janie's shoulders. “Come on. I'll help you pick up the pieces and go from there.” Roger's support was as welcome to Violet as Larry's had been.

Miraculously, the shadow box had only a few damaged places, which could easily be repaired. The models had all pulled loose from the box, but only one was broken. Roger knelt on the floor and helped Janie pick up the items.

“No problem at all to put your exhibit back together,” Roger said. “As soon as I get Misty's project, I'll take you home so you won't have to carry this.”

“Oh, no,” Janie said quickly, “I thank you, but I don't want to ride home in a police cruiser. Mrs. Grady or the neighbors might think I'm in trouble.” Roger's gaze met Violet's over the girl's head, and his brown eyes were compassionate.

“Very well,” he said, “but I do want to invite you to our teen group at the church. You will find a welcome there.”

“I'm not so sure about that. Some of the teens who attend your church aren't friendly here at school. I'll continue to worship with Mrs. Grady. Very few young people go to that church, and I'm accepted by the adults.”

The matter-of-fact way the girl talked about her os
tracism crushed Violet. So much stoicism in a girl of that age wasn't healthy. “If you won't let Lieutenant Gibson take you home, I'll walk with you and be sure you don't have any more trouble. I want to see you home safely with your project.”

Janie nodded assent, and Roger moved toward Misty's project. “I still want you to join our teen group, Janie. Think about it.” The grim expression on his face indicated that he would have some stern words to say to the youth he counseled. “I'll see you at church on Sunday, Violet.”

Since he had bidden her goodbye in that manner, Violet didn't expect to hear any more from Roger until Sunday, so it was with some surprise that she opened her door to him, still in uniform, Friday evening.

He removed his hat. “I have something I need to ask you, Violet. Is it all right for me to come in?”

Violet unlocked the storm door and motioned him inside. Obviously this wasn't a social call. He twirled his hat around in his hands a time or two, and his demeanor puzzled Violet. She had never known Roger to be ill at ease.

“Violet, do you know Linda Conley, an inmate in a correctional facility in Topeka, Kansas?”

Roger's face blurred, Violet's hands fluttered nervously, and her body sank slowly toward the floor.

V
iolet didn't black out completely, and she felt Roger's arm around her, leading her to the couch. He pressed her head forward to her knees.

“Hold on a minute.” Roger's voice sounded a long way off. Soon, he sat beside her on the couch, supported her head and wiped her face with a cool, damp cloth. He brought a glass of water and forced a few drops between her lips. She had trouble breathing, and she gasped for air.

“Tell me I'm dreaming, Roger. I can't believe you said what you did.”

Roger smoothed the damp hair back from her face, for he had been overzealous in wetting the cloth.

“It's true, Violet. I received a call about her a few minutes ago.”

Violet caught his hand. “Tell me everything.”

“Linda Conley, a life prisoner, has terminal cancer, with a life expectancy of six months. They're looking for her next of kin to give her a home so she won't have to die in prison.”

Violet shuddered and shook her head in disbelief, grasping Roger's hand as if it were a lifeline. “Roger, you can't understand what you've just said to me. I've never needed a friend more than I do now.”

He squeezed her hand. “You have a friend, so don't worry. Whatever it is you're facing, I'll be with you all the way.”

She sat up, pressing her hand to her forehead. “Who else knows about that phone call?” she asked finally.

“No one in Maitland. Fortunately, I was alone in the office when the call came in.”

“I won't lie to you, but I would rather die than answer that question. I thought when I moved to Maitland, I had left the past behind, and now it's pursued me here.”

Roger patted her hand. “Your past doesn't matter to me, and I wouldn't have approached you if it wasn't my official duty. I don't want to do anything that will hurt you, but you know I can't return that call and say I couldn't find the answer. From your response, it's obvious you do know Linda Conley.”

Violet smiled slightly. “One of the things I've always admired about you, Roger, is that you do what you think is right regardless of the consequences, so I would never blame you for doing your duty because it involves me. It's just difficult to unearth the past.”

“Is Linda related to you?”

“Linda Conley is my mother, but I don't remember ever seeing her, because I was only two years old when she shot and killed my father.”

Violet hadn't looked at Roger when she blurted out the truth. The words left a bitter nasty taste in her mouth. After a moment, she glanced sideways to see how Roger had taken the news. His brown eyes were
deep dark pools of despair, also displaying another emotion. Was it shock? In his line of work, Roger often encountered appalling situations, and she thought he would be hardened to it by now, but his face registered horror. And no wonder, Violet conceded. A law officer would think twice before befriending a murderess's child. If this news circulated around Maitland, she could bid Larry goodbye, but would she lose Roger's friendship, too?

Lowering her lashes, she said softly, “Think any less of me than you did a few minutes ago? Do you still consider me a reputable teacher for your daughter?”

Roger moved closer to Violet, his arm encircled her shoulders, and he shook her gently. “Stop that kind of talk. I'll admit I'm concerned, but only for your sake. What a burden you've carried all of your life! I have wondered occasionally why you didn't talk about your family, but I thought that was your business, and it really didn't matter to me.”

Violet buried her head on his shoulder, and his hands roamed soothingly over her curly hair.

“Do you want to tell me any more about it?”

“I really don't know much more than that. I've always lived with my mother's sister and her husband, and I have their version of the episode. Aunt Ruth said that my mother acted in self-defense, but that my father was from a wealthy family, and normally, a large portion of their money would have come to my mother and me, so the Conleys tried to prove that she had murdered him to justify stealing my inheritance. They had enough money to hire the most powerful lawyers. My aunt feels my mother's attorney was not capable of standing up to such high-powered lawyers. The ver
dict was guilty, and she was sentenced to life imprisonment without mercy.”

“Have you had any contact with your father's family?”

“None! I don't even know where they live. My Aunt Ruth wouldn't tell me anything about them. My uncle was an archaeologist, and he and Aunt Ruth traveled all over the world, but after they took me in, she stopped going with him, and moved with me to Minnesota. That's where I grew up, and after I graduated from college, Aunt Ruth thought I would be better off not to return to her home. She wanted me to be hard to find should the Conleys ever try, for she feared that if I was my father's heir, they might try to dispose of me. I thought it was a rather ridiculous idea, but she's right about most things, so I was eager to move to Illinois.”

“And you've been happy here?”

“I have never enjoyed complete happiness. I've always felt unwanted, rejected by my father's people and my mother. I can't forgive them for that, and it eats away at my peace of mind.”

“But if your mother was sent to prison when you were a child, she couldn't have done much for you. I don't consider that rejection. Didn't you ever go to see her?”

“Vaguely, I remember going to a large brick building when I was a child and seeing a woman, but Aunt Ruth said that my mother didn't want me exposed to a prison environment. She thought the experience of seeing her incarcerated would be psychologically harmful to me. She told Aunt Ruth not to contact her again.”

Violet paused. She had to rein in her emotions and
bolster her courage before she told Roger anything else. She took a deep breath and settled into one corner of the couch with her feet curled under her body.

“So not having a real, live mother, I fantasized endlessly about one. As I walked home from school, I imagined that my mother would meet me at the door with a kiss and a hug, and take me to the kitchen for fresh-baked cookies and milk. It was my mother, not Aunt Ruth, who dried my tears, and bandaged my knee when I fell off my bike. And she kissed me fondly beaming with pride when I brought home excellent report cards. She was beautiful, kind and sympathetic, and she made me happy.” Violet shook her head to rid her mind of a comforting childhood dream.

“The year I graduated from college, I had occasion to be traveling through Kansas, and I found out where she was imprisoned, and feeling self-righteous and full of sweetness and light, I went to see her. She refused to see me. My own mother refused to see me!” Violet struggled for self-control, but her usual well-modulated voice gave away her emotions. “Can you imagine that?”

“But why?” Roger said compassionately. “Surely she gave a reason.”

“Oh, yes, she sent back a message that she wanted me to leave and forget I had a mother, that a meeting wouldn't do either of us any good. To my dying day, I'll never forget how that hurt me.” She paused and wouldn't meet Roger's eyes when she said, “And may God forgive me for such an unchristian thought, but when I wanted to see her, she told me to forget that I had a mother—now that she's dying, she wants me to take her in.”

“I'm not so sure about that. The woman who tele
phoned me said they tried to get Mrs. Conley to tell them if she had any relatives, and she refused to name anyone. They traced you through your birth records and Social Security number, and when they asked your mother if you were her daughter, she responded that she had never heard of you.”

“Still rejecting me!”

“I don't think so. I believe she's still trying to protect you.”

“If she doesn't want to come to me, why are they forcing the issue?”

“I asked that question, and I received a runaround answer. Some kind of new regulation gives prisons the option to parole terminally ill patients. It may be that they don't have the staff to take care of her, but they are going to release her, if not to the next of kin, then to a nursing home, where she can receive proper care.”

“I don't see how I can possibly bring her here. I have no feeling for her as a mother—it would be like taking in a stranger. Besides the fact that it would upset my whole life-style, how can I afford to do it? I'm living on a shoestring budget now, and there is no way that I can assume her medical expenses.”

“Then she isn't eligible for Medicare?”

“No, I'm sure of that. I think she was only twenty when I was born, so that will put her in her midforties. She's still a young woman.” Violet went into the bedroom and came back with a photo of a man, woman, and baby.

“That's the only picture I have of my parents, and I would assume I was about a year old when the picture was taken. Aunt Ruth gave that to me when I started asking about my parents. They appear to be a
happy couple, don't they? What could have happened in a year's time to cause such a crime?”

Roger took the picture and looked at it closely. Linda Conley was a petite woman with brown hair and eyes. Her husband, Ryan, was handsome with close-cropped black wavy hair and blue eyes. White teeth gleamed below a small black mustache. His expression and posture spoke of a strong sense of determination, while his wife's expression indicated a low-key personality.

“His death may have been an accident, but if his parents were vindictive as you've heard, they might have pushed for your mother's conviction out of revenge. If she didn't put up a strong defense, a jury could have been swayed easily.”

Roger stood up and laid his hand on Violet's shoulder.

“What am I going to do?”

He smiled, and she noted again how his face creased into deep lines when he smiled. “If I were in your place, I would do exactly what you're going to do, although I don't know what that is now. But it will be the right thing—I have confidence in your decisions, Violet.” A sudden burst of wind sent an onslaught of rain against the window, and Violet shivered. Roger sat beside her again and took her hand. “Don't try to give me an answer now. I told the woman I would return her call in a few days. I didn't even indicate that I knew anyone by the name of Conley. Take some time to think it over.”

“I'll have to. Thanks for understanding, Roger.”

He gently squeezed her hand before releasing it. “What are friends for, anyway?”

Violet doubted that she would sleep, but since she
hadn't slept the night before, she had to have some rest. She checked the locks, turned out all the lights and went into the bedroom. The bed did look inviting, and she reached in the closet and removed the pretty pink nightgown that Aunt Ruth had bought for her birthday. As low as she felt tonight, her spirits needed lifting, and she admitted that the pink brought out the luster of her short, curly hair, and picked up the sheen of her long black lashes. The color also complimented her violet eyes. Though tonight they looked dull and lifeless.

Violet eyes! One of the few stories Aunt Ruth had told about her childhood was the reason for her unusual name. Her parents hadn't decided on a name for their child, but the minute the baby had opened her eyes and they had noticed that the color was violet, her father had said, “We'll call her Violet. I've never seen such a startling color.”

And while most newborn's eyes soon change, Violet's never had, except to become more expressive and intense as she had matured. So her name was the one legacy she had gotten from her father.

Lying in bed, Violet did a lot of praying. Were there any similar incidents in the Scriptures to guide her decision? When Jesus was on the cross, suffering an agonizing death for the sin of mankind, one of his last concerns was for his mother, committing her to the care of a beloved disciple. But Jesus had known his mother; she had loved him and supported his ministry. Mary was there at the foot of the cross to bring comfort when He was dying. When Violet had needed her mother, she had been rejected. Violet's aunt had done her best to explain that Violet's mother had only done so out of good intentions, but Violet deeply felt the
pain of that rejection nonetheless—carried it with her always. Even if she was in prison, she could have kept in contact with her daughter Violet had always felt. No, Violet decided, there was no parallel between Jesus's care of his mother and her situation.

Scripture proverbs that Violet didn't remember that she had ever heard insinuated themselves into her mind.
Do not despise your mother when she is old.
Well, she didn't despise her mother; she didn't know her well enough to despise her. But another thought needled her conscience.
You know her well enough to harbor an unforgiving attitude toward her.

Violet had never doubted before that she lived an exemplary life, one that was in harmony with the teachings of the Bible, but she knew that she was facing a situation that would put her Christianity to the supreme test. During her reflection, Violet kept pushing aside one of the parables of Jesus that she would have to deal with before she resolved her turmoil. Once when Jesus had been discussing the end of the present world, He had specified the criteria for those who would inherit eternal life, and He emphasized strongly that the proof of people's faith was illustrated by their treatment of others.

Violet picked up the Bible to refresh her memory; perhaps it didn't really say what she thought it did, but the words of Jesus in the book of Matthew pricked her soul like a hot knife.
I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.

“But, Lord,” Violet murmured in her own defense, “I went to the prison, wanting to see her, and she
wouldn't receive me. Doesn't that vindicate me? What more could I have done?”