The Path Was Steep Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    This day he offered thanks for the food. Flourishing his knife and fork, illustrating his remarks with his hands, eyes alight, Papa ate, talked, and, as always, managed to quote a few scriptures.
    Then it was time to go. George and Thelma came with us to the car. I was quiet, quelled. This wasn’t happening. We were just visiting. Only little jabs of pain struck through my middle and called me a liar.
    I clung to David’s arm, walked beside Thelma, sniffed the nearby gases of the Woodward plant.
    “Things are bad everywhere, son,” Papa waved his hands downwards to illustrate his remarks.
    “I’ll find work,” David said confidently. He rolled a Bugler cigarette, careful not to spill a grain of the precious tobacco. Finding a match, he lifted his leg to tighten his pants, and scratched. The thin material held, and the match ignited. “Someday,” I predicted silently, “he’ll bust his britches.”
    “Do you need any money?”
    “No, sir,” David lied.
    “I could let you have a dollar or so.”
    “Honest,” (how often people use this expression when about to tell a whopper) “I don’t need a thing.” David smoked a few draws and handed the cigarette to George.
    “If you can’t find a job,” George inhaled, then returned the cigarette, “come on home. As long as I’ve got a biscuit, you won’t starve.”
    “I’ll remember that,” David laughed, as if at a joke. He and George smoked the cigarette alternately, holding it at the last between thumb and forefinger.
    “Well, I have to plant some corn,” Papa said.
    I kept a smile on my carefully painted lips and blinked to save my mascara. But the smile ached in my throat. Sharon was too young for bravery. She clung to David’s legs and wept.
    “Daddy will send for you soon,” he stooped to kiss her.
    But I mustn’t cry, though I wanted to scream, “Don’t leave!” I knew his mode of travel. A freight train. I knew the danger. Lose your grip as you caught the train, and you would be crushed beneath the wheels. A “hobo” must spot an empty boxcar, swing onto it, and climb into an open door.
    Guards searched the cars. If caught, a man was thrown into jail for several weeks. How the bright plumes of David’s pride would be soiled in jail! If not caught, how would he eat? This, too, I knew. I could almost see him. His face would be shaved and clean; he’d manage that at a creek or someplace. His teeth would be brushed, and his hair, combed slick with water but drying, would be a tumble of bright gold curls. His long lashes would droop over his gray eyes to hide the deep hurt to his pride, but his smile would be wide, showing his unbelievably white teeth as he said, worn hat in hand, “Lady, do you have some work that I can do?”
    No woman could resist that voice and that smile; this, too, I knew. He would eat, but at what cost to his pride.
    “You write soon,” I whispered.
    His face was white, but he smiled; he even swaggered a little; then his shoulders drooped. He didn’t slump; he’d not let himself do that. His smile was crooked. “Don’t worry, I’ll send for you soon.”
    Papa coddled the motor of the old Ford. It sputtered, heaved, then racketed forward. Davene, happy to be riding, didn’t even look back, but Sharon wept desolately, voicing my own thoughts: “Will we ever see Daddy again?”

4
    Despite All, Well-fed and Loved
     
    As we rode towards the small town of Morris, we were strangely quiet. Usually, with two Mosleys together, you had a conversation. Frequently a heated conversation. “Papa,” I said finally, with the pride bred in people in that era. We didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. We wanted the best things in life, but only if we earned them. We knew God’s law “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread” and didn’t want relatives, friends, or a benign government in Washington to heap unearned benefits on us. So now I said, “I’ll be lots of trouble and expense, Papa. I’ll help with