The crisp air lingered well into October; then the rain began. Often, it just misted, continuously, but sometimes at night, a deluge of rain hammered on the rooftop. Selena snuggled under the blankets, thankful to be warm and dry. For some reason tonight the persistent pattering reminded her of home, and memories of the Midwest flowed as swiftly as the rain.
Thunderstorms! I’ve never heard thunder in Oregon; not once, all summer. She marveled at the thought. As she lay listening to the rhythmic beat of the rain, she remembered the thunderstorms in Illinois. Blinding streaks of light would split the sky, illuminating the night in an eerie flash until the darkness swallowed up the scenery once again. But it wasn’t the light that she feared. No, it was what followed next: deafening thunder that shook the house, rattling the windows. As a young child, she shivered in her bed, the pillow smashed against her ears, longing for the racket to end. But the darkness possessed one advantage. It hid from view what the daytime exposed. How she dreaded the ominous, green sky that rolled over the plains-the premonition that the horrific black tunnel might soon appear. She shuddered under the covers with the memory. Selena remembered standing in her doorway watching the churning monster, fervently beseeching some unknown power: Please, don’t let it touch down. Please, let it stay up in the air! Over and over the words flowed from her silent lips as the dark mass swirled in the distance. Sometimes her prayers were answered, sometimes they weren’t. During the humid summers these raging storms formed regularly, sometimes weekly, sometimes more often than that.
Dwelling on her past rekindled other memories as well, like the hot, sticky nights in the attic. Unable to sleep because of the oppressive heat, she would lay awake for hours serenaded by the frogs croaking loudly to their mates. Exhausted, she would get up longing for a breeze, sit by the window, and watch the fireflies twinkling in the grass. I’ve never see a firefly here either. Oh, I miss those. How fun as a child to sneak out late at night and fill one of mother’s old jars with the glowing beetles. She’d tiptoe into her brothers’ room to show them her find. The boys would crawl out of their beds and plop on the floor around the blinking jar, watching the light ebb and flow. One day she’d tell Wade about the fireflies, but the story would never compare to actually running through the fields and catching the fascinating insects himself.
Recollections from her past evoked memories of her family. Before leaving Illinois she had written her parents a letter explaining the truth of her life with Johnny. But she had never heard back from them. Of course, how could they? She left them no address. She wondered if they would have tried to contact her if they did. Anxiety had caused her to procrastinate, but she would write again, eventually. She longed for them to care. As a new mother, she understood love in a way she never imagined existed; it gripped her heart. Did they feel this way about me? Sadly, she thought not. She never felt loved by her parents. Perhaps they loved me, but if they did, they never said. I imagine they were just plumb busy, preoccupied with their own struggles. Julia’s home evidenced love; it permeated every room. Selena wanted her home to be like that. The pounding rain softened. She let the mesmerizing rhythm lull her into a peaceful sleep.
The next evening, Dirk lugged a large trunk out of his room and heaved it onto the living room floor; it landed by her feet. Sitting close to the kerosene lamp mending, she jumped, startled. Dirk left the trunk there while he tended the fire. She watched him. What now? This man constantly intrigued her. The past ten years of her existence had methodically ticked like a clock from one monotonous day to another. Then, she stepped into this new world; it sparkled with change. Dirk’s actions were an enigma to her. She succumbed to her curiosity. “Alright, I give up. What’s in the box?”
He looked up confused by her statement. He hadn’t tried to surprise her. “Remember, I said that the winter nights get long and the work load lighter?” He waited for her nod. “Like Julia, I have my own ways of keeping occupied during the evenings: this trunk of books.”
She stared at him. No one in her family had ever read, except what school necessitated. Of course he would be a reader; he wrote for a living. In Illinois she tried to read to Johnny, but his attention span required books that only children enjoyed. She watched Dirk open the box and pick up one of the treasures: beautiful bound books embossed with gold print. Large and small alike filled the container. The musty scent of paper drifted through the room dispersing its pungent aroma. She set her mending down on the table entranced by the colors.
Kneeling on the rug before the trunk, she asked, “Do you have a favorite?” Picking up the largest volume, she carefully opened the cover. The pages crackled with reproof.
“Not really. I enjoy novels that speak to social injustice although I’m drawn to different authors at different times of my life. They each have a unique voice: Dickens, Mark Twain, Victor Hugo. Last year I read Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, the book that Abraham Lincoln claimed started the Civil War. I wanted to read it for myself, to understand why it prompted such a response. It was powerful. Mrs. Stowe addressed each fallacy raised by the proponents of slavery.” When he saw Selena’s questioning eyes, he explained, “You know, the argument that not all slave owners were bad: some treated their slaves like family or promised them freedom over time. In the novel, the author depicts each type of slave owner as Uncle Tom moves from one plantation to the next in a haunting portrayal of slavery at its best and worst.”
He went on, “The Civil War was like no other in our land. Americans fighting Americans. My uncle died at the Battle of Shiloh. Had it been my father, I would not have been here. It makes you think about your life.”
Selena looked intently at Dirk, unsure whether or not to divulge her secret. “I’ve not heard of any of those authors. I’m afraid I really haven’t read that much.”
Now, it was Dirk’s turn to stare. Embarrassed, she elaborated, “I mean I can read; I just never had access to such books.” She perused the pile before her, glancing at the length of the pages and the size of the print. “Which one would you suggest?” Picking up a rather thick version of something that looked foreign, she brushed her hand gently across the cover before laying it back down again. Standing up, she swept out the wrinkles in her dress with finality. “I don’t know why I even think I’d have time. My evenings are full with all of the mending and sewing that needs to be done.”
Dirk looked thoughtful. “Well, what if I read aloud while you worked? Least I can do as most of the mending is mine.” Without waiting for an answer, Dirk shuffled through the books before selecting David Copperfield. Using the trunk as a type of makeshift table, he propped his feet up on it and began to read.
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.”
Over the next weeks the dark nights transformed with the laughter and tears the story evoked. Selena chuckled when Peggoty’s buttons flew off the back of her dress and cried when Mr. Murdstone’s cruelty destroyed his wife’s will to live. Often, Selena found her hands lay idly on her lap, her eyes fixed on her husband, spellbound by the drama. Usually, Dirk waited to read until later after they tucked Wade into bed, but during thrilling sections of the novel, Dirk picked up the book right after supper and read while Selena washed the dishes, and Wade played with his toys on the floor in front of the woodstove. Not only brightening the evenings, the story prompted deeper conversation between the pair: dialogue about motives, characters and eventually discussion about his work at the newspaper. Selena never asked him if he missed his work at The Oregonian. Instead, she steered the conversation toward the articles he wrote, the people he met, and the challenges of the job. Unaware to either one of them, the nights spent reading and talking were the initial threads ‘warping the loom’ that would eventually weave their lives together.