Asked For Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for Colleen L. Donnelly

  Asked For

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  She wore her auburn hair longer now because Cletus liked it that way, but it was pulled back out of Magdalena’s and Betsy’s reaches. And no makeup. She’d come plain, the way she always was, plain and tired.

  “I probably am a sight.” Lana felt her face flush, but tried to ignore it. She wasn’t here to be told how good she looked. She was here to see Grandma, see herself and her new life against her old one and the person who’d told her how this new one was supposed to be lived.

  “You look just fine, actually.” A tall shadow filled the shed’s doorway behind Grandma. “If anything, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Jim…”

  Jim Dillon stepped from the shed’s dark interior. He’d changed. She was shocked at what he’d become. He’d grown in three years, muscles where scrawny arms used to be, tanned skin and chiseled features where softness used to be. There was still the boy in his eyes, though, the boy who’d helped her with chores before she left to get married. The boy Grandma had said really wasn’t there to help Lana but was there because he needed the pay. A bucket half full of milk dangled from one of Jim’s hands. Grandma was right again. He was here not because Lana was but because he needed the pay.

  Jim didn’t stare at her daughters, or the bulge of her stomach, or the worn dress that covered it. He just looked at her face, his eyes scanning every feature as if relearning, even admiring, who she’d become.

  Praise for Colleen L. Donnelly

  “After reading ASKED FOR I walked away with a renewed gratitude for the life I have. ASKED FOR is a work that will cause you to realize that no matter what you have been through, no matter what you are going through, there really is hope for us all.”

  ~Kacee Everhart, Ordained Pastor

  ~*~

  “I have truly watched [Colleen Donnelly] grow in her amazing talent of bringing the reader into the story and making them feel a real part of it. She has the rare gift of more than just entertaining us with a fictional story …making the reader feel uplifted and inspired along with the characters. You'll find you can't put the book down until you finish it and it will leave you wanting for more! It makes me see things in ways that I had never thought about before. A true work of Art.”

  ~Sherri Minick, Production Stage Manager

  ~*~

  Donnelly keeps the reader guessing until an unexpected but thoroughly satisfying ending. This is Colleen Donnelly's second novel and I think this one is even better than Mine to Tell.”

  ~Carolyn Paul Branch, Author and Librarian

  ~*~

  “Through the dark grittiness of this story, these characters shine. In a publishing world focused on slick commercialism, this was a pleasant change. I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and look forward to reading more from Donnelly.”

  ~Lori Robinett, Author

  Asked For

  by

  Colleen L. Donnelly

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Asked For

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Colleen L. Donnelly

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Historical Women’s Fiction Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-609-5

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-610-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my mom,

  who inspired this story

  and continues to inspire me as a writer.

  And to my critique partners,

  who have bettered me and my writing

  with their diligent work.

  Prologue

  Magdalena 1960

  Mama had six children after she had me, five of them one right after the other, mostly because Pop couldn’t leave her alone. It wasn’t that he was in love with her; he just loved hard the same way he worked hard. He worked her hard too, and us kids, keeping up with that patch of Missouri dirt he called a farm, and the welding shop he ran in town. Mama never complained, no matter what Pop did, and my brothers and sisters didn’t either. They were too afraid.

  My name is Magdalena. When I was growing up I was Magdalena Paine, but now I’m Magdalena something different. I’ve been several something differents since I was a girl, but none of them matter. What matters is the time I was Magdalena Paine, because that’s when I first saw Mama for what she really was…beautiful. None of the rest of my family would have ever noticed if Glen Morgan hadn’t said it to my littlest brother, James. “Your mother’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” Glen told him. That comment opened my little brother’s eyes, and made me look at beauty in a different way, a deeper way. It just took me awhile to see it through my own eyes instead of Mr. Morgan’s.

  Chapter 1

  James 1947

  Is he coming? James gripped the thin wooden slats that lined the back of the dugout and peered between them. Maybe he wouldn’t come. No, he had to! He stared at his mother in the seats behind the dugout, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes to ask the question without speaking. She answered without a word, her smile saying something back to him, something thinly positive, even though the spot next to her was still empty.

  “Jimmy, get ready! You’re almost up to bat!”

  James kept his back to the ball diamond, his knees planted on the wooden batters’ bench where he knelt while he kept his eye on the space next to Mama.

  “Jimmy! Come on!” Coach’s orders boomed
from near third base.

  James tugged his lower lip between his teeth while he stared at the empty spot where his pop was supposed to be. At least he isn’t here to hear the coach call me Jimmy. He scanned the park around the bleachers. Young kids were chasing each other across bare ground, clouds of dust bursting from behind their shoeless feet. Adults stood, arms crossed, engaged in conversations, like obstacles the kids were supposed to avoid as they wove in and out. It was the last inning, the last at bat. If Pop was coming, it would be any second.

  “You hit a big one, James,” his mother called. The sunlight glinted off her auburn hair. She was tall and sat straight, even on the rough bleachers, the worn and faded housedress a little too loose as it fluttered where it wasn’t tucked well around her slender body. She rarely had time to get out, what with seven kids, a house, chickens, and a garden to keep up with, but she always came to James’ games, and she did her best to make sure the coach knew his name.

  James smiled, but it felt feeble. It would have been better if the spot next to her wasn’t vacant. Mama had told him before the game, “Your father will be there today.” Then she’d added, “I’m pretty sure,” as an afterthought. His eyes and heart had exploded when she’d said he’d be here. Pop never came to his games. He ran his own welding shop. He worked hard and came home hot, late, and dirty every night. He came home cranky, too. Mama said he was cranky because he was tired, not because James or his brothers and sisters had done anything wrong.

  “James, you heard Coach. Get your bat.” Andy shoved against James’ side. “Stop gawking around!”

  “I’m watching for Pop.” James leaned to where Andy sat next to him and shoved his best friend back.

  “Your pop never comes, so get your bat and get out there.”

  “Mama said he would. She said, ‘Your father will be there today.’ She said it right before the game.” He omitted the “I’m pretty sure.”

  “She called him, ‘Your father?’ Since when do any of you call him Father?” Andy snorted.

  “Jimmy!” Coach yelled again. The on-deck-circle was empty.

  James shoved Andy one last time, then stole a quick glance around the bleachers before he turned away from the crowd. Coach’s eyes were on him, he could feel them, as he trudged to the row of bats leaning near the dugout’s entrance. The lightest bat was his favorite. It was his, it was small, and it suited him. He rested his hand on the bat’s handle. Pop said small meant sissy. James glanced at the other bats. He was six years old now, so maybe a bigger bat would be better, a bat for someone the coach would call James instead of Jimmy. He wrapped his fingers around the handle of a stout bat. It was fat, almost too fat for his hands. He stretched his fingers and wrapped them as far as he could around its base. Too much binding. Someone had wound layers of tape and cloth around the handle. He wiggled his fingertips until they touched his thumb.

  This was the sort of bat Pop would want him to use. He glanced at the bleachers from the corner of his eye. If Pop was there, James would sling the bat up and take a couple of practice swings. His mother was there, and she was watching, just like she always did, no one at her side. He let go of the stout bat’s handle and grabbed an even bigger one. He’d never touched this one before. He heaved it up to his shoulder, and it scraped his ear as it dropped into place.

  “Batter up!”

  James stole one last glance at the crowd. Mama had added, “I’m pretty sure.” That meant she really wasn’t. He stepped from the dugout onto the playing field, powdery dirt giving way beneath his shoes.

  “Jimmy! Go back and get your little bat! That one’s too big for you!” Coach clapped his hands like a seal. James ignored him and strode to home plate. Coach dropped his hands to his sides and shook his head as he paced off a circle near third base.

  James bolstered his shoulder under the bat’s weight as he stepped into the batter’s box. It was heavy, and heavy meant more power. Pop would agree with more power. James would tell him about it later if he didn’t make it to the game.

  “You can do it, James,” his mother’s voice rang from the bleachers. James nodded and drew in a breath. He held it, and squeezed it in his chest until it was so tight it felt like a scream that needed to get out. He listened, his lungs burning, waiting for Pop’s thundering echo. The voice that thundered every night, at Mama, at his six brothers and sisters, and especially at him. Surely Pop would shout something encouraging here and not pick on him for the things he did at home, like for being so small, for being so many years younger than Carla, the next oldest; for being a consequence instead of a blessing, something James never understood. If Pop saw him play, surely he’d thunder something better than the things he hollered at night.

  The pitcher stared from the mound, waiting for James to get settled. It was too late for a practice swing, and the bat was too heavy anyway. James let the burning air seep out of his lungs like a slow leak. He bobbed his head at the pitcher like the other boys did, ready, still hoping to hear his pop shout, even if it was to go get the baby bat.

  “Strike one!”

  James wheeled to look at the umpire. The man was overweight and sweating. He raised a finger and a fist in the air at the same time.

  “Okay, Jimmy, it’s okay to take the first one. We got a man on every base and only one out, so pick your pitch and put one over the fence.” Coach clapped his hands a couple of times and then leaned forward, propping himself with his hands on his knees like he expected to field the ball.

  James looked around the diamond. Sure enough the bases were loaded. He’d spent so much time watching for Pop he’d lost track of the game. He gave the bat a tug, enough to lift it off his shoulder and get his mind back on what he was supposed to do. He leaned forward, his hands stretched as far around the bat’s handle as he could get them. A pitch whizzed by.

  “Ball one!”

  James backed out of the batter’s box. He could hear his coach, hear his teammates. He looked at the bleachers, even though he tried not to. His mother nodded and clapped. Andy’s parents sat below her. They cheered for him, too. Pop must be busy. He had several guys working for him, all of them worthless, he said.

  He stepped back to the plate and strained his fingers for a better grip on the bat. The pitcher bent forward, eyeing the zone he was going to send the ball. James read the pitcher’s mind; he knew where the pitch was headed. The pitcher straightened, leaned back to cock his body for the pitch, and then launched forward, the ball rocketing toward home plate. James tugged at the bat, he knew just where to place it. It felt like lead, and he had to throw himself into the swing, dragging the bat through the air. It connected. It was late and the ball trickled along the first base line as the bat slipped from his fingers and skidded through the dirt.

  “Fair ball!” the umpire shouted.

  James jumped and raced toward first base. The pitcher came his direction, hurtling toward the ball. They reached the ball at the same time, and the pitcher’s long arm whisked downward like a tentacle and snatched the ball up. He swung it at James’ back, then fired it to home plate.

  “Out! Out!” The umpire called.

  James raced to first base and wheeled to the right. It had been an awful hit, but he’d made it. A grin gurgled deep inside as he circled back to first, glancing at the bleachers.

  “Hey, you’re out,” the first baseman nudged him.

  “I am not,” James glared upward and looked the boy in the eye. He glanced at the first base umpire. The man nodded and jerked his thumb toward the dugout.

  “But he didn’t tag me! He missed!”

  “He got both of you,” the first baseman chided. “You and the kid who ran to home. Game’s over, and we won.”

  “But he missed me…”

  James’ coach was waving everyone toward the dugout. The other team was cheering, jumping against each other, and slapping their hands high in the air.

  James glanced at his mother. She was watching him, and now he was glad she was alone. She’d be
lieve he wasn’t out. He’d ask her not to say anything about the game to Pop. Pop would take the umpire’s side and tell James to try harder next time. Or quit trying to play altogether.

  His teammates gathered their equipment to go home while the coach said a few strained words. They filed out of the dugout, leaving James alone. He dropped to the bench and stared at the empty diamond as he spun the glove handed down from his brothers. He glanced at the baby bat, the one he should have used.

  “Choke up when you use a big bat,” a man said from behind him.

  His heart jumped. Pop? James wheeled around. Tan fingers jutted through the fence’s slats where his had been earlier. Mr. Morgan stared down at him, a black cowboy hat tipped back on his head. His hair was black, too. James couldn’t tell where the hat started and where the hair stopped. “You grip a big bat a little higher than normal so you can control the weight better. You won’t hit as far, but your control will be good.”

  James eyed the owner of Glen’s Restaurant. What did Mr. Morgan know about baseball? He didn’t even have a son. He’d opened his mouth to tell Mr. Morgan to leave him alone when his mother caught his eye. She was watching from the bleachers, her slender form in the background, just beyond Mr. Morgan’s left shoulder. She was listening to what she was too far away to hear, and talking with her eyes the way mothers could.

  James turned back to Mr. Morgan. What he had to say would have to be done carefully, without Mama knowing, but when he looked to Mr. Morgan, the man wasn’t listening. He had turned away, his gaze on Mama. Mr. Morgan held there while Mama stared back at him, the two of them saying or thinking something, and James was afraid it was about him. Mama glanced away, finally, and Mr. Morgan turned back to James. Mr. Morgan’s eyes were different then; they looked too much like James felt: like he’d just lost a game and the one person who mattered wasn’t there.

  James spun his glove in his hands. He would keep the nasty things he’d wanted to say to himself, but he still wished Mr. Morgan would go away. James wanted to be alone, he didn’t want advice, and he didn’t want to think about baseball now or maybe ever again. He glanced up at Mr. Morgan, into eyes as dark as his own. Dark and familiar. He thought he saw himself in there for a moment, but it wasn’t him, it was Mama, and she was telling James to be patient, be kind, and fight above the hurt.