What Once Was Lost (37 page)

Let go … Let go …
Cora lost all strength. Her arms dropped away from
Tommy, and Mr. Jonnson turned the boy to face him. He caught Tommy’s hands and pulled them from his chest. Green bills stuck out of Tommy’s fingers like clumps of weeds at the edge of the road.

A gasp rolled across the churchyard. Dresden leaned close, his grin triumphant. “Now ask him where he got that money, Jonnson, since you’re so set on knowin’.” Dresden poked Tommy on the shoulder, and his voice turned hard. “Tell ’im, boy. Tell ’im.”

Chapter 36

Tommy’s breath came in short little spurts. He felt dizzy. Mr. Jonnson’s hand on his arm kept him from falling, but it also kept him from escaping. He wanted to escape. He didn’t want to say what Mr. Dresden had told him to say. But the man stood right there. Tommy smelled the cigar smoke that always clung to his clothes, the same odor he’d smelled the night the poor farm burned. He’d wanted to get help from Cora, but she’d gone and hollered out, and now everybody waited. He sensed them surrounding him the way he’d once seen a pack of wild dogs surround a lame lamb. Then, he’d cried out of sympathy for the poor creature. Now, the tears rolling warm down his cheeks were for himself.

“I … The money—it …”
“I’ll burn down the mill.”
Tommy shrank against Mr. Jonnson.

Dresden spoke again. “That’s the money took from the mercantile. Am I right, boy?”

Tommy bit his lip and managed to nod in a jerky manner.

Mutters and gasps filled Tommy’s ears. Firm, familiar hands gripped his shoulders. Mr. Jonnson’s warm breath, scented from this morning’s pancakes and maple syrup, brushed his face. “Are you sure the money’s from the mercantile, Tommy?”

Tommy pulled in a shuddering breath. He told the truth. “Yes, sir.”

“Take the boy to the sheriff.” Dresden’s booming voice carried over all the other angry murmurs.

Suddenly a new voice intruded. “Folks, come inside the church now.” Reverend Huntley, Tommy realized. Would the people listen to the minister, or would they rather listen to Dresden? If they’d go inside the church, like Reverend Huntley asked—if they’d stop thinking bad things about Miss Willems—then
maybe they weren’t really hypocrites after all. Tommy needed to believe something good existed somewhere. He held his breath, waiting, hoping.

It seemed hours passed, but then feet shuffled. Voices still murmured, but the murmurs grew softer. Soles of shoes pat-patted on steps—the steps leading to the church. Mr. Jonnson let go of Tommy’s shoulders, but he curled his hand lightly around Tommy’s neck instead. Tommy stayed still, holding the money Mr. Dresden had given him and waiting until all the noises from the crowd’s leave-taking faded away.

He sniffed the air, searching for a whiff of cigar smoke. Had Dresden gone inside, too?

“Tommy …”

Over the past weeks there’d been plenty of times Tommy thought Mr. Jonnson sounded sad. But he’d never sounded sadder than he did just then. “Y-yes, sir?”

“We’d better take that money to the sheriff.”

Someone cackled. Chills broke across Tommy’s body. Dresden was still there. The man spoke. “That’s exactly what you oughta do, Jonnson. Hand it over to the sheriff. Let the boy tell where it came from. He’ll do what’s right. Won’tcha, boy?”

Tommy stiffened, hugging the money tight to his chest.

Mr. Jonnson gave Tommy a little push. “Come on.”

Tommy stumbled alongside Mr. Jonnson with Mr. Dresden’s cackling laugh following them. Mr. Jonnson boosted him into the wagon, then climbed up, too, the seat shifting under his weight. Not until the wagon had rolled forward a good distance did Tommy find the courage to ask the question tormenting him.

“Mr. Jonnson, if the mercantile people get their money back, will the sheriff let Miss Willems go?”

“Well, Tommy, that’s not quite the way things work.” Mr. Jonnson’s voice sounded tight, like something was stuck in his throat. “You see, when people do something wrong—like stealing—they have to be punished for it.”

Tommy’s heart thudded so hard he worried Mr. Jonnson would hear it. “Punished … how?”

“They usually have to go to jail, Tommy.”

Miss Willems in jail? How could he say what Dresden wanted him to if it meant Miss Willems might go to jail? But if he didn’t say what Dresden had told him, the man would burn down Mr. Jonnson’s mill. Tommy swallowed.

“Whoa …” The wagon stopped. The brake was set. A hand clamped over Tommy’s knee. Firm. Comforting. Steadying. “Here we are.”

Tommy swallowed again, but the sour taste in his mouth—the taste of fear and sorrow—didn’t go away.

“Let’s go talk to the sheriff, Tommy. Then—” Mr. Jonnson’s voice caught in a funny way. The same way Tommy’s did when he was trying not to cry.

Mr. Jonnson helped Tommy down, then took his elbow and led him onto the boardwalk. As Tommy moved slowly beside Mr. Jonnson, he suddenly realized why the man was so sad. He believed Miss Willems had stolen the money. Why was everything so mixed up?

Reverend Huntley preached a fiery sermon. Cora found herself shivering as he pounded his Bible and worked his way through the Ten Commandments. She’d never seen the man so overwrought. Even though she didn’t want to listen—he scared her with his stern frown and thundering voice—she couldn’t turn her attention elsewhere.

“These aren’t my words, brothers and sisters. These are given to us by God Almighty Himself, and He says, ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.’ Lies! Idle gossip! Speculation! God is a God of truth, and He calls us to defend and promote truth.” His eyes roved across the congregation. Cora released a little gasp as his gaze found her.

“Promote truth …”
Did he know? Oblivious to the minister’s continuing admonishments, she leaped up and scrambled over the Creegers’ feet. Ma Creeger reached for her, but Cora pushed her hands away and stumbled up the
side aisle and out onto the grassy churchyard. Her chest heaving, she slung her arms around the trunk of the same maple that had shaded Tommy and her earlier and gave vent to the deep fear and sorrow and guilt weighting her down.

“Cora, Cora …” Ma Creeger’s tender voice carried over the sounds of Cora’s anguish. She took hold of Cora’s shoulders and pulled her into an embrace. Stroking Cora’s hair, she soothed, “Shh, now, shh. Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see. The truth’ll come out, as truth always will. And everything will be fine.”

Cora shook her head, hiccups jolting her shoulders. Once the truth came out, her life would be ruined. “N-no it won’t. It won’t ever be fine again.”

“Of course it will. All these rumors about Miss Willems—”

Cora jerked free. “Miss Willems?”

Ma Creeger’s brow crunched into a confused frown. “Why, yes. Isn’t that what’s got you all upset—what people have been saying about Miss Willems?”

Cora’s tears continued to roll down her cheeks as she let out a wild laugh. “I wasn’t cryin’ about Miss Willems. I was cryin’ ’cause—”
“Promote truth.”
Cora cupped her swollen belly, hidden by the full layers of her blue-striped skirt. She gulped twice, gathering strength, and then blurted, “I was cryin’ over me, Ma Creeger. ’Cause I went an’ got myself in a family way, an’ I don’t know what to do.”

She held her breath, waiting for Ma Creeger to purse her face in distaste. To rail at Cora for her stupidity and shamefulness, the way Ma had. To storm away and not look back. But instead a soft look—a look of such deep tenderness it brought a new rush of tears—crossed Ma Creeger’s face. She opened her arms, and Cora fell against her, weeping anew.

Somehow Ma Creeger managed to hold on to Cora and walk at the same time, because the next thing she knew, Ma Creeger was settling her into one of the rocking chairs at the mercantile. She fetched a handful of new cotton handkerchiefs from the little box on the shelf and pressed them into Cora’s
hand. Then she sat in the other rocker, put one hand on Cora’s knee, and waited until Cora ran out of tears. It took a good long while. Cora hadn’t known a person could hold so many tears.

When she’d finally run dry and cleaned up her face by using three of the handkerchiefs—it seemed a shame to sully such bright, crisp squares of white—Cora wadded the sodden cotton in her lap and sighed. Head low, she rasped, “I’m sorry, Ma Creeger, for not telling you the truth sooner. An’ I’ll understand if you send me away. But would’ja …”—she braved a quick glance at the woman’s face—“would’ja wait ’til after I have my babe? ’Cause I wanna give it to you an’ Pa Creeger. For you to raise.”

Ma Creeger slipped out of the rocker and knelt before Cora. She cupped Cora’s chin in her hand and lifted her face. Cora’s sore eyes stung with new tears at what she saw in Ma Creeger’s eyes. Something she’d never seen aimed at her before. Love. “A child is a gift. You’re growing life inside your womb, Cora.” She spoke so soft and sweet that Cora’s chest ached. “Do you really want to give it away?”

Cora gripped the mound where life blossomed. Something pushed against her palm—a little hand or a foot? Longing washed through her to nurture this babe, to raise it with the love she’d always wanted from her own mother. She cried, “But I have to!”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause I don’t know how to be a ma. An’ I got nobody to help me.”

Ma Creeger gave Cora’s cheek a gentle pat and then took her hand. “Of course you do. God will help you.”

Cora hung her head. “God doesn’t want nothin’ to do with the likes of me.”

“Why?”

Cora gawked at the woman. “You know what I done! I laid with a man, an’ we weren’t wed. Now I’m carryin’ a babe who’s gonna grow up bein’ called every kind o’ bad name. I shamed my ma, an’ I made a mess of my life an’ this poor little baby’s life, too. I can’t fix none of that!”

Ma Creeger smiled. “You still haven’t answered my question, Cora. Why wouldn’t God want anything to do with you?”

Cora pushed out of the chair and paced back and forth, frustration making her restless. “I’m dirty, don’tcha see? When the preacher talks about sinners, he might as well be pointin’ right at me!”

Ma Creeger rose and followed Cora. “When the preacher talks about sinners, he’s talking about every person sitting on a bench in the church. He’s even talking about himself.” She plucked a Bible from the shelf of books and flipped through several pages. Then she turned it toward Cora. “Look here. See what it says in Romans, the third chapter? ‘As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one.’ We’re all sinners—every last person ever born.”

“Not you.”

“Of course I am.”

“Not as bad as me.”

“Of course I am.”

“But you”—Cora gulped—“you didn’t do … what I done.”

Ma Creeger let out a soft chuckle. “Maybe not, but in God’s eyes sin is sin. My getting impatient with a customer, or repeating a word of gossip, or turning my back on a person in need—none of those things honors God. That makes them sins.”

Cora raised her chin. “None o’ those’re as bad as mine …”

A tender smile crossed Ma Creeger’s face. “What you have to understand, Cora, is what it says here in verse twenty-three: ‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’
All
. Every last one of us is in need of a Savior. And when we accept Jesus as our Savior—when we ask Him to take away our sins—He throws that sin so far away it can never be found again. Then when He looks at us, He doesn’t see the ugly stain of the things we’ve done wrong. He sees His child—holy and spotless and blameless.”

Cora hugged herself. If only it were true! “I’ll never be blameless. Not as long as folks know I had a baby without bein’ wed. As far as folks are concerned, I ain’t worth nothin’.”

Ma Creeger set the Bible aside and stood staring at it, her shoulders slumped forward as if someone had piled bricks on her back. “Unfortunately, some people will treat you unkindly because of what you did. Some people like to make themselves feel better by pointing at others who’ve made mistakes. Some people forget how God forgives and try to sit in judgment. As long as we’re living among people, there’ll be unpleasantness, because people aren’t perfect.”

She straightened and faced Cora. “But you can’t let people’s behavior convince you you’re not worth anything. That’s wrong. You’re worth so much that God sent His very Son into this world to die on a cross—the most shameful way a person could die—and take on every sin committed by every man and woman born before, during, and after Jesus’s time here on earth. That means your sins, too. But He can’t take them unless you’re willing to let go of them.” Ma Creeger took Cora’s hands. Tears glittered in her eyes. “Are you willing, Cora?”

Cora filled her lungs with a shaky breath. “Will askin’ Jesus to take on my sins make this baby go away?”

Very slowly Ma Creeger shook her head. “No. Sin carries consequences, and the choice you made to lie with a man can’t be erased. But the shameful way you feel? He can send that far away, Cora, and He’ll remember it no more.”

Cora so much wanted to be free of the burden of shame. It sat like a boulder on her heart. Could Jesus really take it away and leave her all fresh and clean as if she’d never let Emmet Wade touch her? She wanted to know. She reached for Ma Creeger’s hands. “I wanna try. Will you tell me how?”