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As usual, Mamaw fixed the trout to perfection, and her potatoes fried in bacon grease were mouthwatering, but Bertha couldn’t summon up enough appetite to eat more than a few bites. Listening to Mr. Woods go on and on about himself was as painful as getting a nail stuck in her bare foot. Who was he trying to impress—her grandparents or her mother? Her mother was already impressed, so it must be Papaw and Mamaw.
How could Papaw stand having this pompous man talk down to him about current events as if her grandfather were too dumb to read or understand what was going on in the world? Why wasn’t Papaw speaking up?
After fifteen minutes of Mr. Woods pontificating about whatever he thought was important, Papaw set his fork across his plate, wiped his mouth on his napkin, leaned back in his chair, and winked at her. Mr. Woods was too busy filling his mouth with her trout to notice the change in her grandfather’s attitude.
“So, Mr. Woods, what is your take on States’ Rights and how do you think it’ll end up?”
Mr. Woods paused and raised an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the Republicans wanting to end slavery?”
Papaw nodded. This should be interesting. Since he was from the north, would Mr. Woods believe as they did, that people shouldn’t be held in slavery to line the pockets of their owners? It was something they’d discussed many times on the farm.
“Well,” Mr. Woods, leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his purple vest. “I believe, as do most people, that without the black man, our economy will crash. We need their labor to work the fields.”
“So, you think it’s all right for men, no matter their color, to be owned by other men? To be worked until they drop? To be torn apart from their families to be sold to another rich land-owner?”
Oh, oh. Did Mr. Woods note the disdain in Papaw’s voice? She was growing to dislike this man more and more and, from Papaw’s frown, so was he.
“Well, when put like that, no, but if slavery is ended, who will do the work?”
Papaw leaned across the table and poked a finger in Mr. Woods direction. “I don’t know, maybe set them free and pay them fair wages?”
“But that would mean fewer profits for the businessman.”
Papaw’s face turned red. He clenched his jaw, then opened his mouth.
“Pa,” Bertha’s mother put a hand on her father’s arm. “Maybe this isn’t a good time for this discussion.”
He tossed his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair. “I’m going out to the barn and listen to the donkeys braying. At least I’ll hear something intelligent.”
No one said anything after he slammed the screen door behind him. Her mother finally stood. “Well, why don’t you young people go out for a walk while Ma and I do the dishes.”
“Alone?” Was Mother crazy? For all her mother’s society issues, she surely should know a young woman didn’t go for a walk with a man unchaperoned. If this was Sy, there was no way her mother would let her go off with him alone. And, as far as she was concerned, she would never know about her association with Sy.
“What a lovely idea, Mrs. Jorgenson.” Mr. Woods rose and pulled out her chair. “Come along, my dear. It looks like a lovely night for a stroll.”
The kitchen was as stuffy as Mr. Wood’s conversations, but the air outside was fresh and pure from the rain. She took a deep breath to dispel the nerves racing through her when he tucked in the crook of his elbow.
“This looks like a fine trail. Shall we take it?”
It hadn’t been that long since she’d raced the storm down it toward home, but it seemed like ages. How far would they walk? Surely not as far as the fishing spot. Taking him there would ruin her memories of Sy. Talking with Sy had been easy, but now she searched for a topic to discuss with Mr. Woods.
After walking a few minutes, he finally spoke up. “Do you believe about the Negroes as your grandfather does?”
Why would he ask such a question? Most people in the north abhorred slavery. She opened her mouth to answer, but he held up his hand.
“I’m sorry for asking such a question. Of course, being a girl and one so young, you would have no opinion. I’m sure your head is filled with nothing but thoughts of fancy dresses, balls, and dancing with handsome men.”
Could she punch him? Of course, she had her own ideas, ones obviously the opposite of his. And he thought because she was a female all she thought about were fripperies? What an idiot. And mother thought she was going to marry him? Ugh. She shivered.
“Are you cold?” Before she could say no, he slipped off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.
What little food she’d managed to eat revolted in her stomach from the scent of cigars and body odor. When was the last time he’d washed the coat? Papaw may work in the barn and fields all day, but he washed every night and never smelled of animals and unwashed body. She swung the coat off and handed it back to him.
“Thank you, but I’m fine.” He returned the coat to her shoulders.
“No, I insist. A young woman has no idea what she wants or how to protect herself. It’s a man’s job to make sure she doesn’t take a chill and become ill.”
Oh, brother. Guess she was lucky she had enough of a brain to choose her clothes in the morning. They’d reached the crossroads.
“Where do these paths lead?”
Good. An easy topic. “The one to the right goes to the Anderson farm and the one to the left goes to my best friend, Becky’s, family farm.” Oh, how she wanted to go right.
“What about the trail straight ahead?”
“It leads to the creek.”
Mr. Woods grinned. “The one where you caught those trout?”
She nodded.
“I have to say . . .”
Here it comes. He’s going to say she was a hoyden, that young women shouldn’t fish.
He tugged on a loose curl. “I thought you were quite fetching when you came racing up to the porch. Your hair all wild and free. Your bare feet sticking out from your skirt. I like a woman with spirit.” He tucked the curl behind her ear.
She tried not to jerk away. “You do?”
“Of course. Those silly girls at the dances drive me crazy. Simpering, giggling, acting like they don’t have brain in their heads.”
Was he telling the truth? “But you just said females don’t have opinions.” Was she wrong about him? He was confusing her.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I believe they don’t, but I see something in your eyes that tells me you’re intelligent and would be an interesting partner.” He tapped her on the nose. “As long as you understand that the man is always right.”
Well, talk about talking out both sides of one’s mouth. She could be intelligent, but not disagree with him. So, what was the point of being intelligent?
“Can you show me your fishing place?”
The sun was beginning to take its downward spiral of the day. “Now wouldn’t be a good time. We wouldn’t get back to the house before it got dark and the mosquitoes start attacking us. Besides, I don’t think it’s wise to be out alone for too long.”
“Of course, you’re right, but before we head back,” he glanced up and down the trails, “I do have a question for you.”
Was he going to ask her about slavery again? Why bother if he wasn’t going to listen to her opinion. “What’s that?”
“May I kiss you? I’ve wanted to ever since we danced.”
Kiss her? Her head spun. Once again, he didn’t give her a chance to answer, but took her shoulders and leaned in. His lips were warm against hers. It wasn’t an unpleasant kiss. If she hadn’t already been kissed by Sy, would she like Mr. Woods’? At least he didn’t make her stomach want to revolt, which would be a good thing if she ended up marrying the man, which, if she had her choice, she wouldn’t.
Mr. Woods broke the kiss. “I know you’re inexperienced, but in time, I’ll teach you how to kiss properly—along with other things.”
There was a proper way to kiss? And what did he mean by other things?
“I believe you should now call me James, and I’ll call you Bertha Mae.”
Did she have a choice in the matter? “Actually, I like being called Bertie.”
James tipped his head to the side. “No, that’s too girlish and boorish. Bertha Mae suits you better.”
She held back a sigh. That was probably better, because if he called her Bertie, she’d always think of Sy.
“We’d better head back before your grandfather sends out a search party.” He tucked her hand in his elbow again. “Besides, if I kiss you again, who knows where we’ll end up.”
What did he mean by that? She needed to have a talk with Mamaw. If she asked her mother about men, she’d probably get some crazy answer again.
****
“But, Mother, I don’t want to go home yet.” After a night of tossing, turning, and trying to come up with a way to stay on the farm, her eyes were red and itchy from lack of sleep.
“You’ll do as I say, young lady.” Her mother stood in Bertha’s bedroom doorway. “You’ll come back with Mr. Woods and me today. Now start packing.”
Mamaw slid passed her daughter, sat on the bed, and ran a hand over Bertha’s pillow. “Frieda, can’t she stay until next week? I really need her help putting up berries and the beans are ready for picking and canning. You said yourself there wasn’t another ball until next Saturday. I’ll make sure she’s home by Saturday morning.”
Mrs. Jorgenson folded her hands in front of her and sighed. “I suppose. I’m not sure what she’d do during the week besides pout about not being here.” She pointed a finger at her mother. “But you make certain she’s home by noon.”
Mamaw winked at Bertha. “I promise.”
Relief such as she’d never known washed through her. A week’s reprieve. A week in which to soak up life on the farm and hopefully get to see Sy again. They were haying today, so he wouldn’t be at church. She’d have to get a message to him somehow. If she got her chores done, maybe Mamaw would let her go to the creek every day on the chance Sy would be there.
“Thank you, Mother. I’ll be ready to return next week.”
“Now, come downstairs and say good-bye to Mr. Woods.”
“You mean, James?”
Her mother squealed like a little girl. “James? You mean he’s allowed you to call him by his first name?” She clapped her hands and held them to her chest. “Why, it’s wonderful. That means—”
“Now, Frieda.” Mamaw stood and removed a skirt from Bertha’s satchel. “Don’t be getting your bloomers in a bundle. Calling a man by his first name means nothing.”
“But . . .” She eyed Bertha and grinned. “But . . .”
“Frieda, drop it. Don’t push things.”
As usual, her mother didn’t listen, but instead pushed and pushed until Bertha was ready to push back. Sometimes honoring one’s mother and father, especially her mother, was as difficult as trying to keep Papaw’s blasted goat from smashing through the garden’s wooden fence and eating everything in sight.
Bertha had finished braiding her hair for the day and was buttoning up her short-sleeved, pink blouse when her mother entered her bedroom again without knocking and plunked herself down on a rocking chair in the corner of the room.
“Bertha Mae Jorgenson, I need to speak with you.”
Obviously, why else would her mother have barged into the room. “What about, Mother?” Bertha rested against the headboard, bent her knees, and wrapped her arms around her legs.
“I was appalled by your behavior this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.” She held back a sigh and rested her chin on her knees. “What did I do wrong this time?”
“Do wrong?” Mrs. Jorgenson narrowed her eyes. “How can you ask such a stupid question?”
“I guess because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t get cheeky with me, young lady.”
Okay, so maybe she was getting cheeky and knew what she was talking about. But what was wrong with a girl fishing? Was she supposed to sit on her hands while on the farm? Didn’t she recall what it was like to live here? Or maybe that was the problem. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
“Now, Bertha Mae. I was totally appalled at the way you looked when you came to the house. Why, the embarrassment nearly made me swoon in Mr. Woods’ arms. Bedraggled hair. Muddy feet. Skirt and blouse muddy.” She fluttered a hand at her throat. “And, heavens, those fish you held up as if they were the most precious things and I should be proud of you. I can’t imagine what Mr. Woods thought.”
She couldn’t very well tell her mother that Mr. Woods thought she’d been fetching. “Again, I’m sorry, Mother. Had I known you would be visiting, and bringing Mr. Woods with you, I would certainly have made myself presentable.” She paused and took a good look at her mother. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair impeccably coiffed as usual. As she was only eighteen when Bertha was born, at thirty-five, she was still fairly nice looking. Goodness, she was only few years older than James. Why would her mother want her to marry a man closer to her own age than to her daughter’s?
“It doesn’t matter. Ma and Pa let you run wild while you’re here, but since you’re seventeen, it’s time you grew up and acted like the lady. And once you’re in St. Paul, you will act properly.” She rose, brushed out her skirt, looked her up and down, and narrowed her eyes. “Now, put on something more proper to say your goodbyes to Mr. Woods. He must remember you in a presentable fashion during the next week.” She stabbed a finger at Bertha. “And you will be home when I said. Understand?”
Bertha’s heart sank. She blinked several times. It wouldn’t bode well to cry and show weakness in front of her mother. “Yes, Mother. I understand.”
At the doorway, Mrs. Jorgenson paused, and moved back into the room. “By the way, who are Sy and Les? I’ve heard you talk about them with Ma.”
“Just the Anderson brothers, who live on the other side of the woods. They work the farm with their parents.”
“I see. Do you know them well?”
Did she dare explain how she’d first met Sy? Why was she hesitating to tell her own mother about it when it had been easy to talk to Mamaw about him? She certainly couldn’t tell her about him kissing her. “I met Sy at a dance at the schoolhouse last month. I’ve been fishing with him a few times.”
“Alone?” Mrs. Jorgenson slapped her hands at her waist. “You’d better not tell me you’ve been alone with him.”
“No, Mother. We’ve always been chaperoned.”
“Good. It wouldn’t do well for anyone at home to find out you were keeping company alone with a farm boy.”
Bertha turned her back so her mother wouldn’t see her roll her eyes or clench her teeth. “What’s wrong with a farm boy?”
“I want more for my girl than to scratch out a living on a farm.”
There was no sense in arguing with her. Obviously, her mother thought banking was a much better profession than farming. How did she figure bankers got their food? From bank vaults?
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’ve been chaperoned. Now don’t dawdle. James and I must leave soon.”
Not soon enough.
After a brief hug from her mother, and a peck on the cheek from James, they left the farm, her mother intimating there would be time at the ball next weekend to get to know Mr. Woods better.
“Your mother acts like she’s planning your wedding already.” Mamaw hooked her arm through hers and led her to the kitchen.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes, my girl.” Mamaw poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. “But mind my words, don’t let her push you into marrying that man, unless you want to.”
“How do I do that?”
“Knowing your mother the way I do, I have no idea.” She pointed to the chair across from her. “Pour yourself some milk and cut us each a piece of that berry pie from last night, then take a seat.”
“Aren’t we going to church?”
“There’s no time to get ready. Your grandfather and I already agreed we’d skip it this morning. He wanted to get the hay cut this morning, anyway.”
After she served up the pie, she sat down and took a bite, letting her tastebuds enjoy the sweet, savory blackberries and Mamaw’s flaky crust.
“Now, young lady, we need to have a talk.”
Oh. Oh. What had she done wrong? “What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything, but I want to know what made Mr. Woods let you call him by his first name and why he called you Bertha Mae. Did he kiss you?”
Heat rose to her face. “Yes.”
After taking took a sip of her coffee, Mamaw cupped her hands around her mug, and grinned. “My, my, you’re having quite a summer, aren’t you? Kissed by two different men.” Using the side of her fork, she cut into her pie. “So, what did you think?”
What did she think? “James’s kiss was pleasant, but Sy’s made my heart race.”
“That could be because you don’t know James as well as Sy.” Mamaw raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with the Anderson boy, haven’t you?”
Bertha nodded and set her fork on her plate. “Yes, but Becky and Les are always with us.”
“Has he kissed you more than once?”
“Yes. Is that wrong?”
“We’ve had this discussion before, Bertie.” Mamaw held her cup just shy of her lips. “As long as all you do is kiss, then I see no harm in it?”
“Do you think Mother will make me marry James?”
“I don’t know. We have to come up with a plan to hold her off. You should at least be able to teach one year before getting hitched—no matter who you get hitched to.”
“Can I ask you some questions?”
“Anything you want, Bertie. You know I’ll be honest with you.”
“James said he shouldn’t kiss me again or who knew where we’d end up.” Bertha took a bite of her pie. How did one ask someone about men without sounding like a fool? “Um. . .”
“Spit it out, Bertie. You don’t have to be embarrassed around your old grandmother.”
“Well, what did he mean? I have so many questions about men and women.”
Mamaw grinned and tapped Bertha’s hand. “And I’m just the person to ask. Who knows what stories your mother would tell you.”
****
Her room was sweltering. Not a whisper of a breeze came through the open window. Like the night before, sleep was hard to come by, only this time her brain was filled with what Mamaw had told her. Having been on the farm every summer and most Thanksgivings and Christmases since she was knee-high to a grasshopper, she’d seen animals together. But who knew men and women did what animals did? At first it seemed a disgusting thing to do until Mamaw had explained how love played an important role and, no matter what some women and men said, making love should be just as enjoyable for women as for men.
Could she do such a thing with James? With Sy? She flipped her pillow over searching for a cool spot to rest her head. Ugh. Men. Women. Love. Marriage. Children. Everything was so confusing. Why couldn’t she have stayed a child, unaware of what life was about? Growing up was no fun anymore.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Spending time with Sy was fun. His kisses were more than fun. If she were still a child, he probably wouldn’t have kissed her. Probably wouldn’t even had noticed her.
She gave her pillow a punch. Thank goodness her grandparents had gotten rid of the mattresses and pillows filled with feathers and straw. Not only was the cotton filling more comfortable, there were no more bugs, nothing poking through the ticking making her itch, nor the smell of molding straw.
One summer, anxious to make her own pillow, and deciding she knew more than her grandmother, she hadn’t waited for the goose feathers to dry completely. A month after painstakingly stitching the seams and stuffing it full, the foul odor of rotting feathers seeped through the fabric, making it impossible to rest her head on it. Her grandmother never said anything when she complained, but never again did she not listen to Mamaw’s advice. Now all they had to do was occasionally add more cotton batting to fluff up the pillows and mattresses.
One week. She had one week before going back to St. Paul. Her mother had been so angry earlier. Besides attending social events, what would happen once home? Was Mamaw right? Was Mother already planning her wedding? If so, she was going to be disappointed. Wasn’t it her right to marry whom she wanted when she wanted?
A tear rolled down her cheek. What if she didn’t get to see Sy before she left? But they’d be back for Thanksgiving and then Christmas. They’d promised to share dances at the Christmas festivities. Her heart soared with joy. Thanksgiving wasn’t so far away, was it? She could last that long without seeing him, couldn’t she?
Besides, she’d be busy teaching until then. Hopefully, she’d teach at a school far enough away from St. Paul so she wouldn’t have to live at home. Before leaving for the farm, she’d applied to several districts to the north. Would there be a letter of acceptance from at least one of them when she got home? Of course, she’d be living with one of the local families, but at least she’d be away from her mother.
She swatted at a pesky mosquito deciding to dance around her ears. First one, then the other. Why did they always have to buzz around a person’s ears at night? Were they trying to find a place to roost? She smacked the side of her head and let out a yelp. Heavens, she didn’t need to hit herself so hard, but at least the mosquito stopped its incessant droning, which meant she must have gotten it.
How was she going to get word to Sy about her having to leave earlier than planned? She certainly couldn’t go to his farm to talk with him. Even if she did things her mother considered improper, would it be truly improper for her to show up unannounced and unchaperoned. Why, Mrs. Anderson might kick her to the moon and back for being so presumptuous. Besides, if they were haying all week, Sy might not even be at the farm during the day.
She’d simply have to go to the fishing spot as often as she could and hope he’d show up. Otherwise, she’d have to wait months. Would he be upset if she disappeared without word from her or wouldn’t he care? It seemed as if he cared about her. What if he found another girl before Thanksgiving?
Bertha rolled over and hugged her pillow. Finding a cool spot was impossible. She climbed out of bed and sat by the window, hoping to catch any hint of a breeze. A cloud floated past the half-moon, blocking the sight of a fox creeping around the chicken coop. Good luck to the critter. Papaw made sure there was no way it could enter the closed-up building and sneak off with one of Mamaw’s prized hens.
In the distance an owl hooted, followed by an answering call across the woods, breaking the silence of the night. She imagined mice and rabbits scurrying into their hidey-holes in fear of their lives. She shivered as a bat flew past the window in an uneven path in search of mosquitos and other bugs.
A wisp of Papaw’s sweet cigar smoke floated through her window. He must not be able to sleep in this heat either. Should she go down and sit with him? He said something in his deep voice and was answered with a laugh from Mamaw. No, she couldn’t interrupt them. With her at the farm all summer, and with them both so busy, they didn’t have a lot of time to be alone. After meeting Sy, she understood how a couple wanted to be alone. And even though they were older, it was probably the same for them.
Somehow, she couldn’t imagine her parents sitting on the front porch of their large home at night, talking and laughing with each other. She shook her head. When was the last time she’d seen them carry on a conversation, or hug or kiss each other? They would say a few words over dinner, but other than that, they went their own ways. If that was the type of marriage her mother wanted for her, then she didn’t want any part of it. She wanted what Mamaw and Papaw had.
James’s face popped into her mind. He was good-looking enough and seemed intelligent. The night they danced, he only talked about himself. But how else was she to learn about him? He didn’t seem mean and acted as if he liked her. His family was rich, so if, and it was a mighty big if, she married him, he would be able to take care of her and would probably not want for anything. They’d probably have a big house with servants to cook and clean for her. She’d have to host parties. Even though she hated the gatherings, she’d seen her mother handle plenty, so she knew what to do. If she had a problem, her mother would probably happily give her a hand.
Then there was Sy. Her heart warmed. Even though he was taller and more muscular, he was not quite as handsome as James. The saying handsome is as handsome does came to mind. It also applied to females. She knew several girls who were considered beautiful but had hearts made of ice. They teased girls who weren’t as pretty or who came from families who weren’t as rich. Their haughtiness turned her away from their fake friendship.
Bertha went back to her damp sheets. Morning would come soon enough, and if she didn’t get some sleep, it would take longer to get her chores done, and she wouldn’t have a chance to go to the fishing hole to fish. She giggled to herself. Who was she kidding? Fishing? Admit it to yourself, girl. It’s Sy you’re going to see. Sy and his kisses. Her stomach squeezed. If she didn’t get to see him before she left, she’d die. Simply die.