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  Photo Copyright Bob Bradshaw
 
     A Novel
 
    By
    Jim Oakley
 
 
 

   Copyright © 1999 by Jim Oakley 
Chapter 28

SSally dropped the phone as if it were a live coal and stared at it. Lately all its messages were of gloom; Johnny's illness, his worsening condition and death. Now when she needed to hear the comfort of Ream's voice, his words had been cold rejection at a time when she least needed it. When the full realization of what had just occurred hit her, Sally felt as if someone had clobbered her world with mud.
She was more attached to Ream than she realized. She stood, weakly holding the chair arm and looking around her cozy rock home which now seemed lifeless and drab. So their relationship was all a fantasy because of some handicap he had. Or was that the real reason? Had she been too pushy, too revealing? She felt in situations like this a woman is always left guessing.
Of course it was probably her own fault. Why had she been so remiss in calling him in the last few weeks? Or he might have called if he'd been really interested. Now the terrible fact was, he didn't want to talk again.
Suddenly there was no air in the room and she had to get out. Where? What did it matter? She wished she could fly away to some place where nobody knew her and never come back. She grabbed her car keys and purse.
Drizzling rain spotted the dusty windshield and made her view cloudy. Any other time Sally would have stopped to clean the glass, but this time the rain would have to do the job.
She nearly hit the mailman as she backed down the driveway. Flustered, she stopped to apologize. He smiled gently in understanding and handed her some mail which she tossed into the passenger seat.
Slowly regaining her composure, she drove out of Mountain Club Estates and headed down White Spar Road and then into Montezuma Street. Passing the Court House Square, she looked toward the gazebo recalling how she had met the blind man and asked him to dance with her.
Unwanted tears dimmed her eyes and blurred her vision, and at that  moment a man with a white cane entered the crosswalk. Sally stabbed at the brake as she thought she recognized Maurice Johnson. The man wore the same color shirt, had the same build, and was wearing the same kind of hat. He stopped and turned her way, and it was obviously someone else. But nearly hitting him was another slash at her already crumbling self confidence. 
A car pulled up beside her and an old woman rolled down her window to yell at Sally. "Wake up, you stupid fool, you nearly killed that man. I'm gonna report you. You will lose your license."
In a flash of memory the old woman looked and sounded like Aunt Myrtle. Sally felt like a little girl again, reduced to a quivering jell. Everything she did was wrong. Myrtle's voice rang in her mind, "Why can't you do something right for a change? I have told you a hundred times to hang up your clothes; make your bed, and clean your room. Remember to wipe your feet before you walk on my carpet. Finish everything I put on your plate." The harsh voice pounded her.
 Myrtle was always right. Sally was always wrong. She was wrong to have been born. Wrong to have no father and a mother who never came to see her. Wrong to have driven carelessly without cleaning the windshield. Wrong, and too bold in asking a man to dance with her, and most of all wrong in letting those talks with Ream continue in hopes a loser like she could have a full, loving relationship with a man
 Johnny was gone and that was probably her fault to; maybe something she did while she was carrying him that caused his heart problem. What good was she in the world as half a woman? Yes, she was a good reporter, but dozens could take her place and no one would notice she was gone. 
Sally drove aimlessly, her old car eating up miles of back country roads, in which direction she didn't care or know. The gas tank had been full when she started and the gauge read a quarter of a tank just after sunset when she found herself at the camp grounds of Granite Basin Lake.
She had little idea of where she had been or any memory of anything she had seen. Defeated, she pushed the car seat back into the reclining position and leaned back. The tears she had been avoiding slowly began to well in her eyes. At the funeral she had been strong, but now the hurt was more than she could contain. She was too beaten to restrain all her anguish, and she just let go. She cried until she was limp with exhaustion. Darkness thickened and she napped for about hour. 
When she awakened, Sally was perspiring. She opened the car window to let cool air in, and noticed the full moon. Its light was enough to vaguely illuminate the interior of the car, and she noticed the mail she had carelessly tossed on the flight from her driveway. One letter seemed to stand out from the rest, and she picked it up to look at it more closely.
The return address indicated it was from a Reverend Lindsey Martin. Beneath his name were three words, (concerning your mother). This set off an alarm for Sally and she  turned on the overhead light and read the following:

Dear Ms. Barringer
This letter concerns the death of your mother who has been a  recent member of our small congregation. She asked me not to contact you during her final days since she felt she had burdened your life enough.
Likely you did not know much about her since your aunt Myrtle forbade her contacting you as a condition of your adoption. She tried to reach you many times in the early years but these efforts were always intercepted by Myrtle.
She carried much pain in her heart and was troubled for many years because she abandoned you. Because of her religious upbringing, and that of Myrtle, she felt disgrace for having a child out of wedlock. She believed she had sinned and therefore punished herself unduly. She made what living she could in order to send money to Myrtle for you. In the end she turned to alcohol for solace.
She found her way here because we help in the recovery process and we are a fellowship that does not believe in a punishing God. Undoubtedly your mother had a sad life and it does little good to speculate now about who was to blame. She was not well when she came to us and supported herself by working in our office. During the last months of her life she was a good and fine person, and was always willing to help others at her own expense, especially children. She began letters to you many times, but could never find the words she wanted to say. In the end she found these words and trusted me to forward them to you.

Sincerely
Reverend Lindsey Martin

Dear Sally 
I gave away the most precious thing I ever had. There is no reparation to a child for being abandoned. God knows if I had to do it all over again, I would do it differently, and if I could go back and change it, I would. What I did was wrong.  I hope others may learn from my mistake. There are no words that could ever make it right. For whatever comfort it may bring you, I will use the rest of eternity to beg your forgiveness.
                                                                Your Mother
Sally sat dumbfounded for several moments. A mother she hardly knew had suddenly reappeared. Instead of silence and noncaring there was an admission of wrong doing and a plea for forgiveness. Sally remembered the years of pain and confusion trying to understand her mother's rejection. Now came a reason for it. Perhaps one which was possible to understand. It didn't make it right, it would never take away the hurt, but to understand it went a long way toward giving closure on a bad debt in her life. She decided to take a walk and let the impact of the letter soak in.   
There was a gentle breeze as she slipped out of the car and walked along the trail until she came to the edge of the lake. Near the entrance to the lake was a sign informing the public no swimming was allowed. 
Sally thought the sign surely didn't prohibit wading on a hot summer night. Leaving her sneakers on, she rolled her jeans up to her knees and waded in. As she stepped on a large moss-covered boulder her footing slid out from under her, and she plunged in over her head. 
Her submersion allowed a feeling of life to soak back into her, while it drowned the sorrow and hurt she had inside, both about Ream and her childhood. When she surfaced, the irony in her slip forced her to smile at herself. She experienced the lovely sensation of warm air in contrast to the cool velvety water sliding over her skin. A path of moon beams led her eyes around the lake toward the towering trees, with only the sounds of the night birds and the soft swishing of wavelets for company. If there was danger in the quiet water, she didn't find it, only the comfort of knowing life was still good, still worth risking. 
Drenched, but now with a smile, she found a picnic tablecloth in the trunk of the car to use as a towel. On the moon-lit way home, the road bordered a pasture where a preservation breeder raised Davenport Bedouin Arabians. A graceful war mare with a streaming white tail and mane was standing, accompanied by a prancing colt, and Sally stopped to watch them. Her childhood trauma flashed back. 
A sudden anger engulfed her as she said to herself, "That does it, enough is enough. I'm tired of being beaten down by life, being kicked out of someone's life, of being held prisoner by a 40 year old experience. Maybe  it's time to get back on a horse."
The colt and its mother stopped and glanced toward Sally.
"I wonder," she thought, "if I could ever manage to ride a horse again? A white Davenport war mare."  
As she entered her own driveway at sunrise, she had a thought. "I'll go see Gus and talk to him about it."
 

 
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