entirely. Betsy would never see her new curtains.
Janice had been terrified more times in her life than she could count, but these last years had been relatively comfortable ones. She didn't want to go back to the terror of living from one day to the next, never knowing where the next meal would come from or if she would have a roof over their heads. Panic froze her insides, as it always did at times like this, and she walked woodenly toward home.
It wouldn't do any good to go to the sheriff now. Maybe they would turn up a new suspect before dawn. Maybe Peter would tell them a believable lie. Maybe he would tell them the truth and they would come to her for corroboration and everyone would believe them. Maybe pigs could fly.
There wasn't a chance of sleep now. She went in and filled up a bucket and began scrubbing the kitchen floor.
She could show them the wrinkles on Betsy's bed. She would show them the new curtains and the wood shavings on the hearth and they would have to believe her. They would have to believe Mulloney was innocent. They wouldn't have to believe the same of her.
The panic she had experienced as a pregnant unmarried fifteen-year-old came back as clearly as if it were yesterday. Janice vividly remembered the buckets of tears her mother had wept, the stony anguish on her father's face, the uncertain looks she had received from her younger siblings when she broke the news of her fall from grace.
To hide her shame, her parents had made a disastrous move to Cutlerville, a move that eventually destroyed the lives of everyone in her family, right before Janice's eyes. She had watched her mother starve to feed her children, watched her father grow old and weak in the years of scraping by after that. She had spent years bending over backward to make some kind of reparation to her brother and sister for the misery she had caused. Only to have it happen all over again like this.
Hot tears hit her hand as she scrubbed the wood planks—tears ten years had failed to heal. She would never rid herself of the hideous memories of those years of poverty and guilt. She wept harder, wept for the child she had never been, the parents she would never see again, the years of deprivation and suffering that followed their deaths. She had tried so desperately to keep her little family together. And she had succeeded. She had succeeded despite everything. They were all healthy and nearly grown now. They would be happy.
Except for Betsy. Wouldn't God ever forgive her for that one mistake? Why did He have to make Betsy suffer for what her mother had done? It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair. Why should any of them have to suffer for what was as much Betsy's father's fault as anyone's?
The thought of Betsy's father made Janice sit up and wipe her tears. They'd both been young and foolish, she more so than him. He'd known precisely what he was doing, but she'd only been madly in love and eager to display her affections. Things went too far too fast.
She had tried to stop him, but he was older and stronger. She remembered the piercing pain, the helpless struggle, and the humiliation. But when he was done with her, she remembered her foolish pride that this handsome man had chosen a girl like her for his wife. Except they never quite made it to the altar.
And she placed that blame squarely on the shoulders of Artemis Mulloney, Peter's father. Janice hastily wiped her face with her sleeve and tried to remember she was a grown woman now. Artemis Mulloney was a crippled old man. He couldn't ever hurt her again. He didn't even know she existed. All he had done was fire Betsy's father from his job on the railroad.
Actually, he fired most of the employees so he could hire cheaper labor—Negroes from the South and indigent immigrants. The town they'd been living in was a railroad town. It had become little more than a ghost town after that. And Stephen had left for parts unknown along with dozens of others.
Leaving her with Betsy, an
Janice had been terrified more times in her life than she could count, but these last years had been relatively comfortable ones. She didn't want to go back to the terror of living from one day to the next, never knowing where the next meal would come from or if she would have a roof over their heads. Panic froze her insides, as it always did at times like this, and she walked woodenly toward home.
It wouldn't do any good to go to the sheriff now. Maybe they would turn up a new suspect before dawn. Maybe Peter would tell them a believable lie. Maybe he would tell them the truth and they would come to her for corroboration and everyone would believe them. Maybe pigs could fly.
There wasn't a chance of sleep now. She went in and filled up a bucket and began scrubbing the kitchen floor.
She could show them the wrinkles on Betsy's bed. She would show them the new curtains and the wood shavings on the hearth and they would have to believe her. They would have to believe Mulloney was innocent. They wouldn't have to believe the same of her.
The panic she had experienced as a pregnant unmarried fifteen-year-old came back as clearly as if it were yesterday. Janice vividly remembered the buckets of tears her mother had wept, the stony anguish on her father's face, the uncertain looks she had received from her younger siblings when she broke the news of her fall from grace.
To hide her shame, her parents had made a disastrous move to Cutlerville, a move that eventually destroyed the lives of everyone in her family, right before Janice's eyes. She had watched her mother starve to feed her children, watched her father grow old and weak in the years of scraping by after that. She had spent years bending over backward to make some kind of reparation to her brother and sister for the misery she had caused. Only to have it happen all over again like this.
Hot tears hit her hand as she scrubbed the wood planks—tears ten years had failed to heal. She would never rid herself of the hideous memories of those years of poverty and guilt. She wept harder, wept for the child she had never been, the parents she would never see again, the years of deprivation and suffering that followed their deaths. She had tried so desperately to keep her little family together. And she had succeeded. She had succeeded despite everything. They were all healthy and nearly grown now. They would be happy.
Except for Betsy. Wouldn't God ever forgive her for that one mistake? Why did He have to make Betsy suffer for what her mother had done? It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair. Why should any of them have to suffer for what was as much Betsy's father's fault as anyone's?
The thought of Betsy's father made Janice sit up and wipe her tears. They'd both been young and foolish, she more so than him. He'd known precisely what he was doing, but she'd only been madly in love and eager to display her affections. Things went too far too fast.
She had tried to stop him, but he was older and stronger. She remembered the piercing pain, the helpless struggle, and the humiliation. But when he was done with her, she remembered her foolish pride that this handsome man had chosen a girl like her for his wife. Except they never quite made it to the altar.
And she placed that blame squarely on the shoulders of Artemis Mulloney, Peter's father. Janice hastily wiped her face with her sleeve and tried to remember she was a grown woman now. Artemis Mulloney was a crippled old man. He couldn't ever hurt her again. He didn't even know she existed. All he had done was fire Betsy's father from his job on the railroad.
Actually, he fired most of the employees so he could hire cheaper labor—Negroes from the South and indigent immigrants. The town they'd been living in was a railroad town. It had become little more than a ghost town after that. And Stephen had left for parts unknown along with dozens of others.
Leaving her with Betsy, an
Similar Books
