sunshine there at the end of the green tunnel. Abilene didn’t really lean on me physically as we walked, but I could feel another kind of leaning. Lord, help me to help her!
We reached the motor home, and I started fixing iced tea. Abilene sat on the sofa, absentmindedly fingering a straggly spike of hair behind one ear. I’d been wondering ever since we first met about that strange haircut.
“Boone liked your hair short?” I asked.
She stretched the strand out to what there was of its full length. “He hated it short.”
“So that’s why you cut it short?”
“No. It was long when we got married, and it got almost down to my waist. It . . . it was the only thing about me he ever seemed proud of. The only thing he ever complimented me on. So I kept it that length even when he grabbed it a couple of times and used it to swing me around and hurt me.”
“Oh, child . . .” Desperately needing approval even as she was abused.
“But then he did it again a few weeks ago when he was mad about my saying something ‘smart-alecky’ to him, and I . . . I vowed he was never going to do it again. I went out to the barn and whacked it off with the electric horse clippers.” She touched another ragged strand at her temple. “I guess I got it kind of . . . uneven.”
I had to smile in spite of my fresh shock at this new revelation about Boone. A bad clip job on a hedge is uneven ; Abilene’s hair looked like the graph on an earthquake. “Maybe you’ll want to let it grow again now.”
“Maybe I will.”
I handed her the glass of iced tea, and she pressed the cold glass against her forehead for a moment before taking a sip. Her driving without a license didn’t seem important now, but I did wonder why she didn’t have a license.
“You had a driver’s license, but . . . ?” I waited for her to fill in the blanks.
“No, I never had one. Boone wouldn’t let me.” Koop was already in her lap, purring madly. “He said I didn’t need to go anywhere without him, so I didn’t need to know how to drive.”
“So you didn’t even know how to drive when you took off in the middle of the night to get away from him?”
“Well, I kind of know how,” she said, her tone defensive. “I drove the old tractor we had for farm work lots of times. But Boone wouldn’t let me drive anything else, and driving a car out on the highway turned out to be different than driving the old tractor. A jackrabbit ran across the road, and I lost control trying to miss it. I ran off the road and hit a tree.” She smiled ruefully. “I think there was only one tree in that whole county, and I hit it.”
“The car?”
“I’m pretty sure it was totaled.”
“But you walked away.” Not unscathed, but walking. “The Lord must have been looking out for you.”
She lifted her head in surprise. “Why would he look out for me?”
“For one thing, he loves and cares about all of us. And maybe he appreciates what you did for three little kids.”
“I never took the kids to Sunday school.” Abilene shook her head, not one to take credit for something she hadn’t done. “I never read them Bible stories or said prayers or told them anything about God.” She hesitated a moment. “I don’t even know much of anything about God.”
“Could you have done any of those things if you’d wanted to?”
“No. Boone was dead set against anything to do with church.” But she still looked troubled that she hadn’t fulfilled her duties as a mother. Then her blue eyes brightened. “But MaryLou will! She said it was really her faith that got the kids back, and she’ll take them to Sunday school. And the dentist too, and give them birthday parties and shoes that fit.”
“So they’re in good hands and you’re free. Maybe it’s kind of a happy ending after all.”
Abilene managed a wry smile. “Except for Boone’s car.”
“Does he know it’s wrecked?”
“I’d planned to drive it maybe three or four hundred miles, park
We reached the motor home, and I started fixing iced tea. Abilene sat on the sofa, absentmindedly fingering a straggly spike of hair behind one ear. I’d been wondering ever since we first met about that strange haircut.
“Boone liked your hair short?” I asked.
She stretched the strand out to what there was of its full length. “He hated it short.”
“So that’s why you cut it short?”
“No. It was long when we got married, and it got almost down to my waist. It . . . it was the only thing about me he ever seemed proud of. The only thing he ever complimented me on. So I kept it that length even when he grabbed it a couple of times and used it to swing me around and hurt me.”
“Oh, child . . .” Desperately needing approval even as she was abused.
“But then he did it again a few weeks ago when he was mad about my saying something ‘smart-alecky’ to him, and I . . . I vowed he was never going to do it again. I went out to the barn and whacked it off with the electric horse clippers.” She touched another ragged strand at her temple. “I guess I got it kind of . . . uneven.”
I had to smile in spite of my fresh shock at this new revelation about Boone. A bad clip job on a hedge is uneven ; Abilene’s hair looked like the graph on an earthquake. “Maybe you’ll want to let it grow again now.”
“Maybe I will.”
I handed her the glass of iced tea, and she pressed the cold glass against her forehead for a moment before taking a sip. Her driving without a license didn’t seem important now, but I did wonder why she didn’t have a license.
“You had a driver’s license, but . . . ?” I waited for her to fill in the blanks.
“No, I never had one. Boone wouldn’t let me.” Koop was already in her lap, purring madly. “He said I didn’t need to go anywhere without him, so I didn’t need to know how to drive.”
“So you didn’t even know how to drive when you took off in the middle of the night to get away from him?”
“Well, I kind of know how,” she said, her tone defensive. “I drove the old tractor we had for farm work lots of times. But Boone wouldn’t let me drive anything else, and driving a car out on the highway turned out to be different than driving the old tractor. A jackrabbit ran across the road, and I lost control trying to miss it. I ran off the road and hit a tree.” She smiled ruefully. “I think there was only one tree in that whole county, and I hit it.”
“The car?”
“I’m pretty sure it was totaled.”
“But you walked away.” Not unscathed, but walking. “The Lord must have been looking out for you.”
She lifted her head in surprise. “Why would he look out for me?”
“For one thing, he loves and cares about all of us. And maybe he appreciates what you did for three little kids.”
“I never took the kids to Sunday school.” Abilene shook her head, not one to take credit for something she hadn’t done. “I never read them Bible stories or said prayers or told them anything about God.” She hesitated a moment. “I don’t even know much of anything about God.”
“Could you have done any of those things if you’d wanted to?”
“No. Boone was dead set against anything to do with church.” But she still looked troubled that she hadn’t fulfilled her duties as a mother. Then her blue eyes brightened. “But MaryLou will! She said it was really her faith that got the kids back, and she’ll take them to Sunday school. And the dentist too, and give them birthday parties and shoes that fit.”
“So they’re in good hands and you’re free. Maybe it’s kind of a happy ending after all.”
Abilene managed a wry smile. “Except for Boone’s car.”
“Does he know it’s wrecked?”
“I’d planned to drive it maybe three or four hundred miles, park
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