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“Sorry, no letter from Kate today. She was always such a perky, chin-up gal.” From his pick-up’s friendly warmth, George’s infectious grin heartened Addie. “Want me to keep her letters back until I can put them right into your hand?”
Blood pulsed in Addie’s ears, and she focused on his mustache. She jumped when the barn door slammed. When she met George’s eyes again, his brows formed an upside-down V.
“Don’t worry. I know how to keep secrets—it’s part of my job. And maybe you’ll be able to do me a favor some day.” A reassuring grin showed his dimples. “I remember the day Kate came to live with Alvina—that woman had lived alone for so many years, I wondered. But everything turned out just fine.
“Can’t believe how fast that little orphan grew up and always with such fire in her eyes. Now she’s in London. Spent some time there myself during the last war. Has she heard anything about her husband?”
I’ll never forget the good time we had in your garden—that postcard from the spare room upstairs—what had she done with it? Had George written that note to Berthea?
“She’s still searching for him.”
“I’ll watch for her letters—and I won’t say a word to anyone.” George shifted and steered down the gravel road.
Realizing he knew her secret made Addie’s spine tingle. Her breath issued in white mist as she calmed herself. But Kate and Berthea always speak well of George, so there’s no reason to be anxious.
Late that afternoon, freezing rain coated the farmyard again, so Addie skated to the barn to fill water pails and see how else she could help Harold. They simply had to get to town for church tomorrow.
The Lord is good, Mama’s version throbbed through her mind. “Please let the temperature rise during the night.”
A smooth, shiny glaze stuck the chicken house door together, so she pried it open with a crowbar and filled the shallow cement trough. Only a few hens fluffed their wings, and the day’s droppings filled only a pail. Maybe they were hunkered down, knowing that despite all appearances, Spring was almost here.
The hens stirred as the bubbletop entered the yard, and Addie rested the shovel tip on her boots. “You girls startle easily, like me. Kate’s not like that at all. Can you imagine being fearless enough to tackle London? From what Berthea says, Jane puts up with a lot, too, yet she’s always so cheerful. Oh, to be as strong as they are.”
She lifted the latch. “See you bright and early in the morning.”
After supper, she ironed their church clothes and barely stayed awake through Truth or Consequences at 7:30. Sleep came and went, and before daylight, while Harold still snored, she sanded the paths for him and whizzed through her chicken chores.
En route to the barn, she heard a “Whoohoo!” and glanced up. Berthea hailed her from her front step. “Orville’s got the sniffles. I’m afraid I’ll have to stay home.”
When Addie was halfway through distributing the grain, Harold took over, so she returned to the house. While she dressed for church, a bat or mouse skittered through the crawl space where Orville and Berthea had added on the back bedroom—it didn’t matter which, the clawing feet sounded the same.
When Harold came in and cleaned up, she stopped holding her breath. He even used aftershave today—they would be going to church. With persistent rays breaking through low eastern clouds, the bubbletop slid into town toward arched leaded glass windows that blinked from the red brick building. The stained glass half-circle above the altar illuminated the whole sanctuary as Addie sank into their pew.
Maybe today this serenity would seep into Harold. He needed it so desperately. He had thrashed half the night, but refused to talk about Joe.
Sitting here brought to mind the gift Mama gave her when said yes to one of Aunt Alvina’s requests. Yes, Addie could ride with them to her country church. Addie’s unanswered file contained so many “whys” about Mama, but that day, her love shone through.
As Fern plunged into her prelude, other memories drifted in. That question file bulged even more with Mama’s death, but only a week after the funeral, Harold had invited her to the Methodist Youth Fellowship meeting. The group met on Thursday nights, he said, and they could bring guests.
She couldn’t believe a senior, a football player, had even noticed her. And she knew she could never go alone. Later that day, she begged Kate to come along.
“You just have to come, Kate. Harold Bledsoe invited me, and I’ve never been on a date. He said, ‘You have nice pins.’ What does that mean?”
“He told you that? It means legs—I didn’t think that guy would ever go gaw-gaw over any girl. Didn’t I tell you you’re the spitting image of Myrna Loy?”
When Kate walked in with Addie, Harold frowned. But the discussion on Peace and the League of Nations interested Kate, who participated as if she came every week. They both attended for a few weeks, and one night Addie spoke up.
“Wasn’t it President Wilson’s refusal to negotiate that caused all the trouble?”
The adult leader shrank back when Harold cut in. “If you look into it deeper, you’ll see he suffered a stroke.”
Kate whispered, “I think he’s wrong—it was Wilson’s stubbornness.”
The next week, Harold’s roving hand under the table broke Addie’s concentration. Still, she liked having a destination one night each week, with only Dad’s snore and her brother Herman for company after Mama died. Ruthie, the oldest, took their youngest sister Bonnie with her when she married Reginald and moved to Minnesota. But now they were even farther away.
To the opening chords of Are Ye Able, sunshine created a glorious effect on Fern McCluskey’s fiery hair. Her playing was just as interesting, and her black velvet hat perched over her widow’s peak in military style highlighted the upswing of her hair-do, a perfect Victory roll.
Beautiful Carole Landis may have pulled off that look in Hollywood, but only Fern would attempt it here in Halberton. Now that Addie thought about it, hadn’t she seen Carole’s latest photograph feature Fern’s exact bejeweled earrings? If only Kate were here to confirm her hunch.
Next to her, Harold straightened and gave her an arched brow. She folded her hands like his and set her mind on churchly things, but for some reason, Orville’s words on her first Sunday here came blasting in.
“You’re Presbyterian?”
“Mama’s parents were, but Dad grew up Lutheran—”
“Watch out for them Lutherans. Bad as Catholics—worship a statue.”
Later, Orville revealed other biases. “Watch out for them Baptists, they’re out to getcha. Watch out for them Holy Rollers—”
Addie relaxed and gave thanks for Fern’s fervent playing and this chance to leave the farm. The beauty of flickering candles on oak grain generated an ease in her chest she hadn’t experienced since last week.
A pale graying man emerged from the back room and took the pulpit.
“This is the day that the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” The guest speaker prayed for the troops before greeting the congregation. “I commend you all for braving this weather. I received very short notice, so we’ll sing a couple extra hymns. First, Trust and Obey.”
Voices reedy with the cold produced feeble results, so he took the pulpit after the first song.
“On second thought, we will sing only one hymn.” He fluttered his notes, and Harold stretched his long legs under the pew.
“Today’s text, ‘Love endures all things,’ includes war. Love endures even that great evil.” The guest pastor sneezed into his handkerchief.
“Here, love functions as a noun, but in ‘Love one another,’ we discover it shows action, and bids us question ourselves. Do we show love to the elderly, the infirm, and the backslider? Do we love our youth and children? But most of all, do we love the stranger who darkens our door?”
A woman two rows down clasped her brown gloves. The net trailing her gold velvet hat brushed her nose. Next to her, Mr. Olson, the café owner, fumbled with his hymnal.
“Would you love a black-skinned family if one moved to Halberton?”
Harold lunged his elbow into Addie’s ribs. Her cheeks scalded as his whisper carried. “Negroes in Halberton?”
The speaker paid no attention. “If I entered your church smelly and hungry, would you keep your love in your pockets? If my ancestors hailed from a country you detest, how would you treat me? Add i n g to the word love—would you act in a loving way? To be disciples, we must care for the outcast, especially during this time of war.”
Harold struck again. “Oh, this is deep—nouns, verbs and adjectives, even.”
The pastor retired to his lonely seat near the organ pipes. Walt McCluskey walked to the front, gathered his pinstriped lapels, and cleared his throat.
“In lieu of our final hymn, I have an announcement. Pastor Taylor has now joined our troops, like all true patriots of a rightful age.”
Harold stiffened. Addie held her breath as a stir traversed the congregation.
Diffused window light revealed a perfect part on the left side of Walt’s thinning hair. “Besought with requests, the national church office has no shepherd to send us, so we have a challenge.”
He paused and stared directly at Harold. “But among us sits a young man with a scholarly bent and the desire to serve.”
Harold’s knee began a riotous bounce. Walt scanned the scattered members as the guest speaker slunk down the side aisle. Then his focus returned to Harold. “Infirmity deters Harold Bledsoe from fighting, a bitter blow to one so zealous. The solution seems as clear as the ice on our sidewalks. Harold, would you be willing to consider First Methodist your battlefield?”
Harold’s foot halted in midair. Everyone knew Orville’s stroke forced him home from college during his freshman year, and many may have viewed his forced return as comeuppance. But today, his aspirations acquired transcendence in the light from a purple and gold leaded window.
As Mrs. Morfordson often said, “In literature as in life, perspective makes all the difference.”
Walt maintained that this congregational son could lead them through war’s tumult and as an added benefit, cost far less than a full-time pastor. Fern, Walt’s wife and the Sunday School superintendent as well as the organist, surveyed today’s sparse flock. She’d instructed most of them at one time or another. With a knowing glance at Walt, she fixed her eyes on Harold.
“We all are well aware that you can think holes through anything, Harold, like you did on the debate team.”
The little muscle in Harold’s cheek beat a fixed rhythm. He might be pleased, or he might storm out of the building—Addie had no idea which.
Fern forged ahead. “We attest to your football leadership, too.” She swooped her bosom upward, causing her silver sweater pin to sparkle. “We beseech you to use your God-given gifts on behalf of First Methodist.”
Applause exploded. Fern beamed, and Walt ushered a speechless Harold to the basement. As everyone dispersed, Fern paused near Addie.
“My, my dear. Such a big day for you. I’m so thrilled my dear husband had such a wonderful idea.” She stepped closer. “Aren’t you excited?”
A puzzle of emotions prevented an honest answer. Fern angled her head and waited, but Addie still couldn’t think what to say.
“Well, then!” Fern shrugged and bustled off.
Foyer chatter swelled, but Addie veered to the piano. After playing every verse of “A Mighty Fortress” and “The Old Rugged Cross,” she thumbed through the hymnal for another favorite.
But Harold approached her with his hands folded. “I agreed to preach and visit the sick.” His bland expression revealed nothing.
Worms navigated Addie’s stomach. She hadn’t expected to have any say in the matter, like that farmer over by Benson who got stuck in a stall last week with his prime bull. After his experience, local farmers took more caution with confined animals.
An hour ago, Harold had walked through these doors a parishioner like everyone else. Now he’d suddenly become the leader. He hummed an old tune driving home, but the back of Addie’s neck tightened. Brown fence posts etched endless white fields all the way as she plotted when she could write Kate for her opinion.
v
Berthea spread her hands on the kitchen table after supper. “It’s March 11th already. We’re almost through the longest month of winter.”
“Easy for you to say. Every month’s the same for me, Ma. Did you hear they extended the draft age to 42 a month ago? Bill won’t go, of course—his company’s making munitions now, but I can’t do a thing for the troops.”
Berthea rose for the peach pie she asked Addie to bring, based on her belief that pie cured most ills and cinnamon improved almost anything. But just then, the newscaster jerked Harold like a puppeteer.
“Congress has been entertaining females in the army. The Women’s Auxiliary Corps already trains at Fort Des Moines.”
Harold’s wail roused even Orville. “Right here in Iowa they’re training women, but refuse me.” Berthea tried in vain to soothe him.
“They’re nurses, dear, and Congress won’t pass the bill, anyhow. Besides, you’ve got your sermons to write now.”
She shrank back from Harold’s glare, and Addie startled when he jumped up. His coffee cup overturned, drenching his pie.
Writing sermons might help, but might just as easily upset him.
v
The last week of March, Berthea knocked one morning with a Burpee’s seed catalog tucked under her arm. Her boots formed perfect mud tracks to the table, but Addie eyed the catalog she’d coveted all winter. The company designed it for midwinter dreaming on dreary January and February days, but she still wanted to see it.
“Is Harold around?”
“I’ll get him.” Addie called him through the archway, and he twisted from hunching over his books. “What do you want?”
“It’s your mother.”
Berthea eyed her muddy tracks. “I thought I cleaned my boots off well enough—”
“I needed to scrub anyway.” Addie plied her rag as Harold sat down. From her perspective on the floor, did Berthea’s right shoulder slope more than normal today? “Your father wants to sow oats where we border Alfred’s land.”
Harold’s eyes glazed over.
“The Farm Bureau paper says we ought to conserve soil.” Berthea pulled out a dollar-sized yellow paper. “Here’s last year’s tax stamp for growing marijuana. It costs a dollar—shall we renew it?”
With Berthea representing Orville, Harold stiffened. He would never say it, but this was men’s business.
“Harold?”
He fiddled with the paper. “Number 6451, 15 acres. The Navy needs hemp for ropes, so go ahead.”
Addie threw her rag in the pile near the metal washtub and turned into the dining room. But Berthea hailed her and held out the catalog.
“Thought you might like to take a look at this, Addie. Mr. Burpee has outdone himself this year, what with all the emphasis on victory gardens.”
“Thank you. I’ve been wanting to see what new bulbs they have.”
Harold suddenly came to life. “Don’t dream us into poverty, now.”
“There’s nothing wrong with dreaming, you know.” Berthea raised her eyebrows an Addie’s direction.
“Humpfh!”
“Don’t worry.” Addie sailed from the kitchen with the precious catalog in her clutches.
