A Searching Heart (11 page)

She did put in a few hours each week in her father's law office, keeping accounts and filing. But she still found time for sewing and needlework that she tucked away in the cedar chest she had received for her seventeenth birthday. Danny teased her about her growing collection in the hope chest, but Virginia just smiled, tossed her head, and enjoyed the ribbing. After all, Jamison would not be attending college forever, and even the wife of a professional football player needed housekeeping items.

So the summer months blurred one into the other. Life seemed to rather drone on, neither particularly difficult nor exciting. Belinda remarked that people needed such times. It gave them opportunity to regroup. If simple routine continued for too long, it would certainly become a rut, but it seemed to agree with them after the months that had preceded it.

The weather, too, suited the ordinary atmosphere. Neither extremely hot nor cold. Not rainy nor arid. Just—natural. Days mixed with rain and sunshine, periods of clear skies and cloud. Times of wind and times of calm. Like life itself.

Little Anthony continued to grow in personality and size, becoming not just a member of the family but the hub of their entertainment. Virginia wondered how they had imagined they were really living before his coming. His first steps excited them. His first words delighted them. They laughed and frolicked and coaxed and encouraged. And shared every new discovery that he made with one another, repeating every little anecdote to anyone willing to listen.

Mr. Adamson seemed to take special delight in the small boy, so Virginia made sure she took him to the fence for frequent visits. Anthony was even invited into the yard and allowed to collect bouquets for his mother or grandmother. He squealed with delight, holding the tender stems in tightened baby fists, anxious to get home with his treasure.

———

“I feel like . . . like a bumblebee,” Virginia remarked to her mother one day as they sat on the front porch doing needlework together.

“A bumblebee?”

“Fat and lazy. Like that one over there.” She pointed with her needle to a nearby flowering bush.

“Bumblebees are far from lazy,” Belinda responded with a chuckle.

“Well, they look lazy.”

It was true. The one in question did seem to take its own sweet time, testing out each blossom, hanging midair or dropping for a sip from this, a drink from that. Or just crawling in and out of the large blooms, in no hurry to go anywhere at all.

Belinda laughed again. “I'd hate to put in the miles that bumblebee does in a day.”

Virginia shrugged. “Well, it is so different not having to race through the day and still not be able to keep up with all that needs to be done. I mean, look at us. We've just washed up the supper dishes and here we sit. We have the whole evening to do nothing except what we feel like doing. It's so different.”

Belinda nodded her agreement. “I like to think that this is the normal way to live. Not the other,” she responded.

Virginia considered that idea for a few moments. “You know, it might be fine—for a while. But I think it might get boring.”

“Don't borrow trouble,” her mother cautioned.

Virginia stood and stretched. “Trouble I can do without, but a little excitement wouldn't hurt.”

“Frankly, I'm enjoying the change of pace. But it is rather dull at times for you, isn't it? Rodney and Danny off working all hours. Jenny gone. Jamison . . .”

“I think I'll go write to Jamison. I've no idea what I'll tell him. Nothing has happened since . . . since the Pickerly's pig got loose and rooted up Mrs. Tingle's garden.”

Belinda laughed. “That was two weeks ago.”

“That's my point.”

Belinda laughed again. “I'm sure your summer would be much different if Jamison were here.”

Virginia did not comment. She was sure that was correct. But Jamison was not here. He still hadn't come, even after his letter had stated that he planned to be home to discuss something personally. Whenever Virginia thought about that planned discussion, her stomach tightened. Jamison had not referred to it again, but she had the feeling that it was still there. Still needing to be addressed—whatever it was. Jamison's subsequent letters seemed different somehow. Rather—stiff and stilted. But maybe she was imagining it. Perhaps it was just that he was so very busy. Virginia was only too happy to mark it down to that.

———

A mid-August knock on the front door, and Virginia found Jamison standing on the porch. With a glad squeal she flung herself into his arms, and he held her close for a long time.

It was Virginia who pulled away, needing to see his face. His smile was a little crooked, maybe a little uncertain?

“When did you get home?” she asked, for something safe to start with.

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“You didn't tell me—”

“I wasn't sure I would make it.”

She gathered her emotions—surprise, joy, a little fear—and reached for his hand. “Come in. Everyone will be so—”

“No, I'd rather not. Can we take a walk—or something?”

Virginia felt momentary bewilderment. Jamison always came in to greet the family—even if he was anxious to see her alone.

“Sure,” she nodded. “I'll . . . I'll just tell my folks I'll be out for a while.”

Jamison nodded and stepped back from the door to wait.

When Virginia joined him, he was silently gazing off into the distance, his hands stuffed in his pockets. When he saw her, he gave a quick smile and reached for her hand.

“Where do you want to go?” she asked.

“How about the creek?”

She nodded and fell into step beside him. It seemed that Jamison intended a rather lengthy stroll.

They walked quietly until they reached the last street of the town. Virginia could stand the silence no longer. “How is football going?”

“We haven't been doing as much this summer. I don't know. It's hard to get the fellows motivated. Guess winning the championship last year sort of took away their drive or something. Not many of them even stayed around.”

Virginia could tell that it had disappointed him. Jamison was keen on more than one championship.

Silence again.

“How's work?”

“It's going okay. Pretty routine.”

More silence. They were almost to the creek. As they walked through the neighboring woods, they could hear its soft murmur as the water gently slid over the rocks and fallen trees. At this time of year the creek was anything but a torrent.

“How's your summer been?” Jamison asked.

Virginia looked up into his face. Here was someone to whom she could express her innermost feelings. Here was someone who would understand.

“At first it was wonderful. It was so good to not have to be on the run all the time. To actually be able to slow down and take a breath. But after a few weeks of that I—well—I'm bored. Quite simply, restless and rather weary of the sameness. Mama and I get the work done and then just sit and sew. Oh . . . we drive out to Grandpa's now and then and have tea with Grandma, or I go over to Clara's and play with Anthony. But it's . . . it's rather dull. I mean, most of our friends are off somewhere . . . or working. I'm just putting in time.”

He gave her hand an understanding squeeze.

“Maybe you should get a job.”

“I work a few hours a week for my father. It's not the most exciting job in the world. Adding numbers and shuffling papers into proper files.” She shrugged.

He chuckled. “Sounds like you have the malady of youth.”

“Malady of youth?”

“That's what my ma calls it. Says every young person goes through a time when life just isn't exciting enough—no matter what happens. She calls it Malady of Youth. Says it's a disease we all outgrow—in time.”

“So have you outgrown it?” Virginia asked teasingly.

He stopped, bringing her to a halt beside him. “I don't know,” he said and his voice was low, haunted.

It frightened her for some reason she did not understand. She looked up at him. His face matched his voice. Strained— yet empty.

“Let's sit down.” He led her to the fallen tree that had provided them with a seat for talks in the past. Happy talks. Exciting talks. Talks that laid out plans for the future and dreams to be shared.

Virginia wished to ask what was wrong, what was troubling him, but she was afraid. Afraid to even express her concern.

He sat beside her—yet a little distance away—running a hand through his thick dark hair, looking pained and troubled. She reached for his hand again, and he held hers tightly, seemingly to try to find the will to express what was on his mind or the right words with which to say it.

“So much has happened this past year, Virginia,” he began. He licked his lips, looked at her briefly and then off into the distance.

She waited, her hand tightening until she felt her fingers ache.

He began again, but he did not look at her. Instead he gazed out in the distance. Not at the creek, not at the trees, but beyond—beyond to nothing. Or to something else, something unseen.

“I don't know, Virginia. I've been so . . . confused. Everything used to be so . . . so clear. So plain to me. So planned out and right. Now everything seems blurred.”

She didn't understand his words. Hoped that he would go on to explain them. She wanted to know what he was thinking and feeling.

He glanced at her briefly, then turned back to that unseen world out there. “When I first went to college, I had my plans all made. I was going into business. Accounting. I started playing football because . . . because I like sports, and I thought I needed a little exercise—a little relief from studies.”

He hesitated again.

“I didn't know I was good,” he said quite simply. “I had no idea I could make the team. And certainly not as quarterback, but the coach—he saw ‘potential,' so he started spending time working with me in the evenings and on weekends. . . .” He shrugged. “The rest is history, as they say.”

Virginia gave his hand a little squeeze to let him know that she was proud of him.

“Well, I hadn't planned for football to take over my life. I—under the coach's urging—changed my major. Picked up easy classes so I wouldn't have to spend as much time studying. Sort of just . . . skimmed by. Chalked up a lot of credits that don't amount to much.”

His free hand began to work through his hair again.

“You don't like football anymore?” Virginia finally dared to voice the question.

“I love football,” he was quick to respond.

“Then what's the problem?” She asked the question before she had thought it through. Was Jamison telling her that he was not good enough to make a professional team? Was he depressed because he now had neither a business career nor a football career ahead of him?

“Isn't it working out?” she timidly asked.

He looked at her then, his head shaking a negative response, but when he spoke, his words surprised her.

“I think I can make it. I honestly do. Coach is sure I can.”

“Then. . . ?”

“I'm not sure that is what I want. You've no idea of the pressure. The control of others over your life. You don't feel like a person anymore—just a machine. One that the coach screams at and the fans cheer on. Girls flock all around, wanting autographs, flirting, making eyes. Other guys your age envy you and call you names. Teasing, sure. But they don't treat you like a friend. Not a real friend.”

Virginia had no idea. She reached her other hand to enfold Jamison's big one. For the first time she realized how large Jamison's hand was compared to her own. No wonder he could handle the football with such skill.

“Doesn't your church . . . ?” she began.

“I'm not going to church,” Jamison said abruptly.

His words and the tone of his voice shocked Virginia.

“We have a lot of Sunday games and practices,” he explained. “And—quite frankly—I was scared. I mean, that church—not a church really, it was a debate gathering—well, it shook me. I was getting to the place where I was questioning everything I had believed. I didn't know where I was at anymore. I had to get out of there.”

“But couldn't you find another one?”

“I tried. There was none that I could get to—not with my hours.”

“So you don't go anywhere?”

He shook his head.

How can Jamison ever manage without a good, solid church?
her heart cried.

“And the classes,” Jamison said, shaking his head. “The professors—I don't think there's one in the lot who has any kind of faith. And they keep . . . just keep on hammering at it. Evolution. Existence by chance. Religion is a crutch of the weak. That sort of thing. They laugh at what they call myths of Christianity.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “It just goes on and on.”

Virginia had not realized how awful it must be for the Christian students. No wonder Jamison was confused. She did not know what to say to be of help to him. She switched back to football.

“I . . . I certainly don't know how to advise,” she began, “but if you are unsure about football, then . . . then maybe you should give it up. Go back to your other major. Accounting. You were always good in mathematics. Play your sports as a pastime. For fun. There are always ways to be involved. In any community. Even as an accountant. You love working with numbers. Switch back.”

“I'd have to start all over again.” He sounded so dejected. “It would mean two years of college—wasted. I don't know where the money would come from.”

“But you must have some credits?”

“Filler. Junk stuff.”

His words jarred Virginia.

“But didn't your college—the counselor advise . . . ?”

“He wanted a winning team, too. They all did.”