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“Turn the crank while I clean out the sieve. The sows have wreaked havoc with this water tank mechanism.” After half an hour’s efforts Harold lowered himself to cussing, and Addie tried in vain to ignore him.
Finally, he looked at his watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be in town?”
Grateful for deliverance, she pedaled straight to Third Street, cooked breakfast, and called Mr. Allen to the table.
“Good morning, sir. Here’s your breakfast.” She pointed at the line of white dots beside his plate. He eyed her askance, but popped one behind a chipped brown tooth and gulped some coffee.
“Set yerself down.”
His left eye begged her to stare at it, but she conquered the urge. “You fought in the Great War?”
He coughed as if to bring up a pyramid. The tremble in his shoulders hurt to watch.
Harold said Mrs. Allen died years ago, but a hook on the wall still held her apron, stained with what looked like splattered angel food cake batter. The creamy tan wallpaper featured brown teapots and cups faded almost to white. Near the stove, the small Frigidaire listed south.
Finally, Mr. Allen stopped hacking and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. He ate three bites of egg and some toast, and took the next two pills. Addie’s hopes rose, but then he turned inquisitive.
“Who sentcha here?”
“My husband, Harold Bledsoe.”
“Oh, yeah. He likes to talk about religion and the war.” He balanced his elbows on the table, his shoulder blades like wing joints.
“Did I tell ya how good it was t’ see Fernella when I come back from the troop ship?”
“Fernella?”
Another cough let loose, and he lost what he’d eaten, maybe a pill, too. The nurse said if he missed one, not to give him another, so Addie put the lost pill out of her mind and cleaned the table.
“Fernella McCluskey.”
Addie froze. “Fern’s real name is Fernella?”
Norman put a quivering finger to cracked lips. “She’d kill me if she knew I told. Don’t know if I’d-a made it without Fernella.”
“You mean—Mrs. McCluskey at First Methodist?”
“Who else?” His hedgerow eyebrows registered impatience. “I’d camped out in the woods through the Battle of Saint-Mihiel... rained five days straight... had to leave our food behind in the mud. Buddy got trench foot even ’fore we dug the trenches... ”
His head drooped, but then he jerked awake. “Shipped us home t’ New York Harbor and I hitched...” He coughed and spat on his plate. “Met Fernella back here at the church, helpin’ returnin’ soldiers. Only place her folks’d let her go. Worst thing she coulda done, ’cause she met me.”
The clock made Addie edgy. She had to clean the chicken house and bake pies for the church council meeting tonight, but she wanted to hear the rest of the story.
“Wasn’t good ’nuff for her daddy, but she thought she wasn’t good ’nuff for anyone a’tall. Sometimes we slipped away b’fore her daddy picked her up. She didn’t mind my eye, neither, ’n it was worse back then.”
His wounded eye watered above his lop-sided grin.
“She showed me I could still do somethin’ ’sides kill. Never forget how good she made me feel—like I was alive again.”
On the word alive, she leaped up and sent Norman’s cup flying. His startled look washed regret over her as she mopped up the mess.
“I’m so sorry. You need to take three more pills right away. I—it’s so late. I have to get back home.”
After he swallowed them, she poured him more coffee. Then she threw the smelly goup on his plate into the wastebasket and backed toward the door.
“Comin’ agin tomorra?”
Something came over her, like the time she and Kate watched the boys turn over their cranky Latin teacher’s outhouse on Hallowe’en. Even though she didn’t do a thing but watch, a thrill went through her when the stinky contraption smashed to the earth.
“Maybe.” She opened the door and paused like Jean Harlow. “If you behave.”
Her heart practically beat out of her chest—Harold would never abide this tone. She pedaled home and parked her bicycle in the shed, where he greased the plow.
“Did Mr. Allen take his pills?”
“Yes.”
“You would make a fine nurse, honey.” He squinted at her like he was planning something. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her honey.
While her pies baked, she shoveled chicken manure on her raspberry patch, and her mind wandered to an advertisement in Berthea’s Sunday newspaper.
Install Cel-o-glass.
Attracts ultra-violet rays,
and gives you the most eggs
at the lowest cost.
A sketch showed a chicken coop with big new windows and happy hens laying piles of eggs. Could sunshine make that much difference in egg production? Harold used to say he brought home ideas like this from Iowa State, only to have Orville reject them.
But he wouldn’t even give the Cel-o-glass ad a second thought. His only comment was, “Now there’s a money-making deal, eh? But will it make us money, or them?”
She took a bath, ironed his shirt, and wrapped her pies and a platter of ham in newspapers. Headed toward the pick-up, Harold gave her a pinch, an improvement over last month’s council meeting when he demanded she re-iron his shirt at the last minute.
That night, she feared he might burst a blood vessel at the bad news from the Philippines, and gave silent thanks that she lacked her older brother Reuben’s illogical laughing urge when Dad lost his temper. Every time this happened, she wanted to clamp her hand over Reuben’s mouth so Dad wouldn’t strip off his belt and go after him.
But Reuben seemed destined to laugh at such inopportune times. No wonder he lit out at the first opportunity. True, Harold became furious, but surely he would never hit her.
The potluck went fine except for Marge Calease’s pineapple and shredded carrot gelatin salad. Wilbur thought she made a hot dish and put the bowl in a direct line with the car motor, melting her creation into a sickly brownish liquid. Marge wrung her hands as all the women offered their contributions.
But Fern rushed to her rescue. “Let’s not waste it, Marge. Someone will drink it, I bet.” She poured the slime into several cups and her prophecy proved true.
Hello again, Kate.
I’m still tending my patient. You’ll say I should’ve put my foot down with Harold, but hear me out.
Tonight, the women stormed the church kitchen when their husbands holed up for the council meeting. A little later, Walt tapped Fern’s shoulder and said he needed me for a minute.
Oh-oh. Harold wouldn’t like this at all. He’s a one-man show, though one sweet older lady insists, “Harold’s sermons inspire me so, Addie. You make such a wonderful team.” She says this every time she sees me and raises her eyebrows as if to say, “I told you so.”
I joined Harold under the picture of a missionary who sank with her ship after donating her lifeboat seat to another passenger. Strangely, Harold beamed and pulled me so close the metal folding chair cut into my leg.
“You do so well as Mr. Allen’s nurse, dear, that I have suggested you continue.”
My heart plopped into my shoes. Go back to that oppressive place? I spared you the odors in my description, but you can imagine what it’s like, with no indoor plumbing.
The voice in my head knew what to say: “You’ve gone too far this time, Harold. Get Fern to help Mr. Allen. I’m sure she’ll manage just fine.”
But I wilted like my clematis leaves when I trimmed the ground cover around them too much the other day. Harold twisted his fingers in my side, so I mumbled ‘okay, if they couldn’t find anyone else.’ Mama always said suffering reaps unexpected rewards, remember? Several of the council members nodded their heads like I was being a good wife, but I couldn’t wait to get back to the kitchen.
I have to fix supper now, and get ready to feed some hired men tomorrow. But I’ll write again soon. Still waiting to hear if you got that job or not, and hoping the answer is YES.
Take care,
Addie
v
Mr. Allen scratched his scalp. “Doubted I’d ever see ya agin.”
“Why? I’m honored to help out a veteran of the Great War.”
He blinked hard and took four pills without complaint. “Told ya ’bout Fernella yesterday, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but if you eat two bites right now and take another pill, you’ll only have one to go.”
“Ahh, that gal was somethin’. Looks a little stern now, but in those days, she smiled like a princess.”
“Sir, your eggs?”
“Kin y’ ’magine what she meant to a flea-bitten soldier?” He looked Addie squarely in the eye. “If you’re thinkin’ I didn’t love my wife, you’re dead wrong. I woulda married Fernella in a second ’cept for her daddy, but I waited three full years after that t’ marry Millie.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.” Actually, she’d been wondering how Fern could ever have seemed so beautiful.
Mr. Allen’s bad eye roved the ceiling. “Can’t tell by lookin’ what somebody’s been through.”
The county health nurse bustled in. “Now, we’re going to have our bath, Mr. A.”
As she biked home, an insistent question troubled Addie. What had Fern been through? She tried to recall when she’d ever seen Fern smile. Maybe that day in the sanctuary when Walt introduced Harold as their fill-in pastor? No. Triumphant maybe, but not happy.
Since Harold rarely hired men to help around the farm, feeding them today seemed like preparing a big holiday meal. She roasted pork, mashed potatoes and made gravy, cooked corn, and mixed up an orange gelatin salad. As the hired men passed the bowls around, Harold frowned, but he couldn’t accuse her of frivolity, since Berthea brought over two boxes of Jell-O and some extra carrots yesterday.
One of the hired men paused before leaving. Busy clearing dishes, Addie hadn’t noticed him until he spoke.“That was real good, ma’am.”
His smile seemed genuine, and she managed to say, “Thank you.” When the dishes were finished, she bagged cookies for the three o’clock field lunch, fixed chicken salad sandwiches, and squeezed lemons for lemonade. Harold told her he’d like a fresh cherry pie, but she hadn’t found time to pick, much less pit the cherries—maybe later, after she took lunch down the back lane.
While she fed Old Brown some scraps, a low bawl issued from the wrong direction. Down the driveway, six milk cows strung along to the road. Her stomach tightened—Harold would be so upset. He hired the men today because both hay fields came ready at the same time and the forecast included rain. He wouldn’t want to waste a minute.
Thankful to see the Chevy parked near Berthea’s house, she raced over. “The cows are out, but I’m not sure—”
“Oh, my. Well, it’s not the first time. Ride your bike for Harold, and I’ll shoo them toward the pasture.” Berthea launched down the driveway hollering, “Come bisey, Come bisey!”
Down the old lane behind the barn, sun glinting off the baler revealed Addie’s destination. She biked as far as she could and then loped through jagged stalks toward the hayrack. Harold’s scowl welcomed her.
She bent to catch her breath. “The cows are out. Your mother—”
“How did that happen?”
“I don’t know. I noticed them a little while ago and your mother is—”
“You left her alone?”
Catching her breath, Addie strummed her thumbnail. Harold spoke to the driver and leaped off the hayrack. Then he propelled himself toward the farmyard faster than she could ride. No limp at all right now. By the time she reached home, he and Berthea had corralled three cows.
When he spied her, he barked instructions. “Hold your arms out wide and act big.”
Hoping the animals wouldn’t charge, Addie flapped her arms and yelled. Twenty minutes later, the last one entered the pasture and Harold wired the fence shut. Without a look her way, he loaded the lunch into the bubbletop and took off for the field.
Flushed and panting, Berthea caught up with Addie. “We did it—good work! I need to get out like this every day.” She started home, but turned. “Do you think it’s too late to plant dahlia bulbs? I found some I’d forgotten.”
“I’ll ask Jane—she’ll probably say it can’t hurt to try.”
The rest of the afternoon, Berthea’s praise rang in Addie’s head.
