Dust by Eva Everson (epub e reader .TXT) 📕

“Look, Wes. I didn’t come to fight none. I came to ask you a favor. A big one and it’s hard enough as it is. But I think you might … not mind it … so much.”

Westley crossed his arms. Raised a brow. “A favor?”

“I need your help. See, I want to go to college. Up in Atlanta. There’s one up there and I’m pretty sure I can get in, but first I got to get my GED and then I’ll need help with what to do next and with things like housing and paying for schoolbooks. And see, I can work while I’m in school but—well, you’ve done all that and—here’s the tricky part—Westley, Mama cannot know nothing until I’m already there and the deed is done.”

Westley leaned toward her, eyes large and steely. “Cindie, you are not taking my child to Atlanta.”

“What?”

“I mean it. My attorney—”

“No.” She slipped her fingers over his forearms and stepped toward him. Close enough to wrap herself around him if she could. Not that she would. Not now. Because that wasn’t in the plan. Not for at least another few years. “No,” she said again. “I just need your help with the steps I need to take because I have no idea what to do after I get my GED and … Westley … stop looking at me like that.”

“You’re not taking her.”

“No…”

“Then—”

“I thought maybe you’d want custody of Michelle while I’m gone. You and—” Cindie swallowed back the heartache of what she was about to do. What she had to do. “—your wife. Allison, is it?”

His face softened and he took several shallow breaths. “Are you serious?”

“But just while I’m in school.”

He blinked several times. “Are you truly, truly serious? Cindie, don’t mess with me.”

“Just while I’m in school,” Cindie reiterated. She took a deep breath. Squeezed his arms to give herself strength. Strength she’d need if she was ever going to see this through. “Will you do it? Will you help me?”

Chapter Twenty-two

August 1978

Allison

Iwoke with a ton of bricks lying across my body. Not literally, but it certainly felt that way. Or, perhaps at some point during the night, I had walked into the street, a Mack truck had run over me, the driver had gotten out, thrown me over his shoulder, rushed me back into the house where my poor, unsuspecting husband lay flat on his back softly snoring, dropped me unceremoniously onto my side of the bed, and then left by the same door he had entered.

One of those two things had happened. I was sure of it. Otherwise, why would I feel so awful? Simple fatigue? Could most certainly be. Going from new bride to the full-time “mother” of a one-year-old practically overnight had taken every bit of strength I’d ever hoped to have. My days and nights were filled with her. She hadn’t slept well at first, which meant restless nights for me. Nights soothing her while hoping Westley wouldn’t wake up, seeing as he had to work the next day. Gradually, she became accustomed to being in her new bedroom, which brought some relief. But during the day, Michelle was a full-time job and, on his days off, Westley was bent on “doing stuff.” Sometimes we went to Paul and DiAnn’s and sometimes we drove up to Calloway Gardens. Other times we headed for Panama City, which wasn’t far for two adults, but for two adults with a baby, the drive was an eternity.

Of course, no matter what we did, we went at it in Westley’s way: full throttle. Periodically, Miss Justine insisted that we leave Michelle with her and Rose Beth for the weekend so Westley and I could have some “alone time.” As much as the thought thrilled me—and nearly sent Westley over the top with anticipation—once we were back home from dropping her off, all I wanted to do was catch up on laundry and housework … and sleep. Marabel Morgan would be sorely ashamed if, somehow, she could know.

Most of our days—mine and Michelle’s—were spent at Miss Justine’s. There, standing next to Rose Beth in the kitchen, I learned to cook food that Westley declared to be better than his mother’s. And when I wasn’t standing next to Rose Beth or tending to Michelle who had grown quite used to the layout of the massive house, I could be found sitting next to Miss Justine learning how to manage both household and business affairs, namely hers. How to balance a checkbook. And how to pay bills before they were due, unlike Westley who paid them a day or two after. Miss Justine insisted I save back at least ten percent of Westley’s earnings and put another ten percent in the offering plate on Sunday mornings. “You cannot—I repeat—you cannot outgive God,” she told me more than once. “I’m living proof of that.”

“That’s right,” Rose Beth would second, were she around to hear it. “That’s right.” Which always left me wondering exactly where it was Rose Beth lived and to what degree God had given back to her compared to Miss Justine.

I also became quite masterful at something Miss Justine was superior at: investments. She taught me to read the stock market reports in a way no man ever could. “With a woman’s eye,” she said. “If we women don’t learn to take care of ourselves, by ourselves, who will teach us?”

Words which always brought a hearty, “Mmm-hmm. That’s what I say. Ever time,” from Rose Beth. Again, this left me wondering…

But that morning in August, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands balled into fists and pressed against the mattress, my head hanging low between my shoulders. I took deep breaths as I tried to decide whether to lie back down and hope for another half hour of sleep or to go ahead and get up. Push through.

Westley came in from the bathroom then, his hair spiky from his shower and a towel wrapped around