Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [64]
I jumped up from the chair and walked to the window.
“What’s the matter, Roz?” Tillie asked.
“Nothing.” I pressed my forehead against the chilly glass, my breath forming a cloud on the windowpane. The night was dark and starless, as though a curtain had been drawn across the world.
“I can tell you this much, Roz,” Tillie said. “God answers prayer.”
I turned around. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been praying Lyle would come home, and I got my answer today.”
“Lyle?”
“My son. The one who lives in Bolivia.”
I had to think a moment. Then, “Oh yeah. I remember. He has malaria.”
“Not anymore, he doesn’t. He’s better now. But he’s decided to come on back to Illinois and look for work here, sometime after the first of the year. Oh, I know, it was a selfish prayer.” She paused a moment, rocking herself gently. “I should have been satisfied for him to stay in Bolivia if that’s where God wanted him. But I had to ask anyway, just to see if I could have a little more time with him. Of course, I didn’t tell Lyle I was praying for him to come home, but sure enough, he believes God’s calling him to return to the States. He doesn’t know why, but frankly, I don’t care why. I’m concerned with the what, and the what is: I’ll get to be near my son again. At least for a little while, before God calls me home. You know . . .” She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling and nodded. “I suspect he’ll be calling me soon. Any day now, maybe. Though I hope it’s after Lyle gets back.”
“But . . . you can’t go yet, Tillie.”
“I can’t?”
I shook my head. “Mom needs you.”
“Ah.” Tillie waved a hand. “Your mother will be all right. I won’t go until she’s taken care of.”
“What do you mean, taken care of ?”
“I don’t know. Only God knows that.”
“You think she’s going to marry Tom Barrows, don’t you?”
“Roz, honey, I don’t know what God has in store for your mother. I’m afraid I’m not privy to his plans.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be God’s decision anyway, it would be Mom’s, and I hope she doesn’t decide to marry him.”
“Well now, that’s not a very nice thing to hope for, if marrying Tom would make her happy.”
I crossed my arms and turned back to the window.
“Tillie?”
“Yes, child?”
“If I pray for something, like you did, will God give it to me?”
“I don’t know, Roz. He doesn’t always give us what we think we want. Can you tell me what it is you’re praying for?”
“No.” My word sounded angry and abrupt, so I added, “I can’t tell you, Tillie. Not yet.”
“Fair enough. Is it a good thing, whatever it is?”
I turned around again. “Oh yes. It’s a very good thing.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Then maybe God will say yes.”
“The way he said yes to Lyle coming back, right?”
“I suppose so. I – Oh, there goes the phone. I’d better get it.” She pushed herself up from the chair, straightened her skirt, and headed for the door. “Your mother is trying to take a bubble bath and have a few minutes of peace and quiet. Heaven knows she deserves some little luxuries, the way she stands on her feet all day. . . .”
Tillie was still muttering to herself as she disappeared into the hall to pick up the extension there.
The cold night air entered as though by osmosis through the windowpane, and I shivered. Turning to go, I saw the baseball bat that Tillie kept beside her bed, a memento of her son Paul’s athletic days. It looked strange and out of place in the midst of her lace curtains, her wedding quilt, her framed photographs, and all the rest of her frilly adornments, but since it was a family treasure of sorts, I decided it had as much right to be there as anything else.
I reached for it and grasped it with one hand while rubbing its long smooth neck with the other. I struck a batter’s pose, bat resting on my right shoulder, knees bent, elbows out. I waited for the pitch, my right foot nervously pawing the ground, a missile of imaginary spit firing off my tongue and sailing over my left shoulder. Here it comes, a curve ball, and yet no ordinary leather ball. Instead, a memory – my father’s