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After a humid haying day, Addie weeded until sunset when Harold let the hired men off at their rattletrap pick-up. She washed up at the outside pump and made supper. Harold went straight to the living room and flipped on the news, so she took his plate in and picked up her knitting. A few minutes later, the broadcaster struck an alarm.
Finally, the Woman’s Army Auxiliary Corps bill has passed. Introduced by Edith Nourse Rogers a year ago, the law fell into gerrymandering, even with Mrs. Roosevelt’s support and the nurses’ brilliant work at Schofield Hospital.
Not even the events at Hickam Field could sway our legislators. The Chief Nurse earned the Bronze Star and Purple Heart for her meritorious service, but still they quibbled. Justice has now prevailed, however, and the Navy, Marines, and Coast Guard now authorize women’s training. Chins up, boys, our women will soon join you over there.
Next, the Congress will consider authorizing Negro women to join up.
Harold ran his fingers through his hair and snortled. “Your Kathryn will love this.”
Addie focused on her stitch.
“Aren’t you going to answer me?”
“Sorry, I wasn’t really listening.”
“Ach—you don’t care about the war at all. I said Kate would support a women’s corps, and probably the Negro women, too.”
“Our troops need help, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What would have happened in the Battle of the Coral Sea without a hospital ship?”
Harold kicked his chair into the corner. Addie cringed, but Kate’s advice popped into her mind. You don’t have to say everything you think.
“Kate’s addled your brain—you don’t know right from wrong anymore. The Bible clearly reveals women’s rightful place.”
Though her needles quivered, something overtook Addie. Her breath came hard, but she heard herself say, “Pick up that chair, Harold. If you want to discuss the war, go talk with your mother.”
His fingers undulated along his thigh, and her heartbeat staggered against her breastbone. The click of boots on waxed linoleum echoed, though the cloud of his fury lingered.
Weariness descended like a driving rain, and she switched off the radio. “No wonder he dislikes Kate—he puts all women in one sub-male category. But what was I thinking to sass back like that?”
She wracked her brain considering what she could do to make amends and pull Harold from his brooding. But a question nagged at her: why did he assume he was the only one who cared about the war?
Maybe she’d fry donuts in the morning. They made a mess, but he loved them. She could use Berthea’s recipe again, and see if she had any extra sugar to roll them in. But even as she made this plan, she knew it wouldn’t work. A quick shiver went through her at a sudden memory.
Joe Lundeen had dared to speak the truth that long ago day. He’d come to help Harold sort the pigs on a wet spring day with biting wind that sliced between the buildings. Addie bundled up and trudged down to the barn with a basket of warm cinnamon rolls and a thermos of coffee.
Sweet Joe said he didn’t know how Harold had gotten so lucky to win someone as thoughtful as Addie. She could still remember Harold’s eyes narrowing.
After that look that always welded her to the floor, he stuffed a roll in his mouth and grunted.
“I’m goin’ over to check on Dad. He’ll want to know how the sorting went.” He stomped off, leaving her with a slap in the face without a mark.
Joe looked away for a moment and then murmured, “Addie, I’m sorry.”
He spoke so quietly she nearly missed the words.
She brushed away escaping tears and faced him. “It’s OK. It’s been a long morning. I understand.”
Joe gave her a steady look and blew out his cheeks before he replied. “I’m not sure you do.”
It took him a long moment to continue. “You know Harold and I played football together in high school.”
She nodded.
“And you know he went with Clara Schmidt for a while.”
She nodded again.“You know why he broke it off with her?”
Heat ravaged her cheeks, and she opened her mouth, desperate to change the subject. What if Joe told her—
He interrupted her flashing thoughts. “Clara missed our biggest game that fall. Harold scored the winning field goal in the last five seconds.”
“I can understand him being upset. Football meant a lot—”
“Carla missed that game because she’d gone to help her sister who’d just had a baby. She’d hemorrhaged and nearly died.”
Joe’s voice came to her again, gentle but firm. “It’s all about him, Addie, always. Wouldn’t even say this is his fault. His folks had him late and Orville spoiled him rotten. Oh, he’d get after him, sure. But let anyone else say a word and he’d rip them apart. That included Harold’s mom.”
Why should this recollection come to her now, as sharp as it had been that day with Joe? Addie’s sigh swept the living room. She might make donuts for Harold in the morning, but she knew one thing for sure—they wouldn’t make much difference in his attitude.
April 30, London
Dear Addie,
Alexandre returned whole and has flown off again. For the moment, gratitude outweighs my anxiety.
Mr. Allen intrigues me. I never pictured you as a nurse, but you can do whatever needs doing. I’ll be awaiting your next report—I do love suspense, but please have mercy on me. Drumroll—I got the job! Evelyn and I celebrated with dinner and stopped by a park that somehow has escaped the bombs.
I wonder how things looked here before, as you must wonder how dapper Mr. Allen once appeared in his Great War uniform.
Evelyn finally divulged her history. Her mother’s health had failed the past few years, and after the first bombing of their area Evelyn rushed home to nothing but rubble. She says the bombs detonated her emotions too, but she’s adopted her mother’s habit of hope.
I can’t feel sorry for myself and can’t help but think that destiny had us meet. Maybe the same is true of you meeting Mr. Allen, even with the horrid smells. Evelyn would say, “Da—a—astardly, dear, yet onward we go.”
However, Harold standing you before the council like he did goes beyond fair or right. Remember Mrs. Morfordson’s challenge to our class: “Consider the question each moment poses?”
In your shoes, Evelyn would say “Blaahst the council.”
She always wears a bright red scarf, the only thing left of her mother’s, and often exclaims, “BLAAHST that bugger Hitler!”
Practice it. “Blaahst them!”
From the sounds of it, Harold is getting worse. Here’s a question for you: why do you let him treat you with such a lack of respect?
Awaiting your response,
The Typist
Harold refrained from shoving his chair back when the minute hand hit 7:00 a.m. Addie reached to clear his plate, but he held her wrist.
“We need to pray.”
She sat down so fast, her plate spun like a top. She’d definitely done something to disturb him. How many times had she asked, “What is it we need to pray about?”
Suddenly, she knew the answer to Kate’s question. It was fear.
But this was no time to consider that. The furrows in his brow vied with the ones in his cornfields. This time, she didn’t know what she’d said wrong, but her statements often antagonized him. Usually she cowered and asked what was bothering him, but she determined to keep quiet this morning.
Harold ran his tongue along his teeth. “Harrumph!”
She jumped, but steeled her resolve. A stubborn itch began between her shoulders—something to focus on besides Harold’s drawn expression.
Harold’s tongue finally settled down and the uneven edge of a mismatched tooth extended over his lower lip. “We must beseech God for children. ‘For where two or three are gathered—’”
“...together, there am I in the midst of them.” The rest of the verse flitted from Addie’s mouth before she could stop it. Harold stuck out his chin.
“Yes, smartie.”
She stared at the bright tablecloth, the one thing in this room she’d picked out herself.
“Addie!” Harold let go of her wrist, sending tingles all the way to her shoulder.
The lines in his neck protruded. Tendons, their high school biology teacher called them when Kate sat next to her and gashed the leg from a chloroformed frog before Mr. Mertz said they could begin dissecting.
Mr. Mertz hadn’t been pleased, but Kate held her ground.
Harold thrummed the tabletop, creating a muffled beat not unlike the Halberton band at the Fourth of July parade. At the same time, the clock’s tick grew far too loud.
“Harold... Harold?” The screen door squeaked open. “Is anybody home?”
Normally quick to do Berthea’s bidding, Harold glared at Addie as though she’d arranged for his mother to come.
Yes, I told her we’d be asking a blessing on our efforts to conceive, and she agreed to interrupt us.
“Oh good, you’re still here. Something’s gone wrong with the car. The engine’s making such a racket, I thought you’d better check it.”
Harold sucked in his cheeks. If he took Berthea’s statement the wrong way, Addie would hear about it later.
“I’ll be back.” He focused over Addie’s head to the yellow checked curtains floating in a brisk spring breeze.
“Did I come at a bad time?”
Harold grabbed his hat, leaving Addie to respond.
“Oh, you know Harold likes to start work early.”
“Just like his father.”
“Would you drink a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you. I hope he can find the problem soon and—I did interrupt something, didn’t I?”
“We were just—ah—praying for a child.” Addie clapped her hand over her mouth. Harold would be furious. “I’m going to visit Norman Allen soon. Can I pick up anything for you if he can’t fix your car?”
“No, thanks. I have a meeting to attend, that’s all.” Color rose in Berthea’s cheeks.
A meeting this early? The churchwomen always waited until midmorning so they could serve cookies or cake.
Berthea pulled at her collar and Addie noticed how her jacket complimented her figure. Or had she lost weight?
“Did you get a new jacket?”
“Goodness, no. This is something I found going through our old things.” Berthea fidgeted with her skirt, and Addie searched for something to say.
“That shade of blue matches your eyes.”
Perspiration ranged Berthea’s forehead, although the morning temperature stayed cool. It wasn’t like her to be at a loss for words, so Addie filled in the silence.
“I think I’ll plant a row of late beans this afternoon, and the lettuce is almost ready. How are your radishes doing?”
Berthea jerked her head toward clatter from the yard and dabbed her forehead with her hankie. “Fine—almost too big now.” She turned back, and it seemed less flesh moved than normal. “I’d better go out and see how Harold is doing.”
The seams of her hosiery divided the backs of her calves perfectly as she navigated the back steps and approached Harold, half-hidden under the raised hood. This past week, she hadn’t been over much. But they did meet at the mailbox two days ago, and Berthea startled when Addie drew near.
“I must be going, George. And here’s Addie to fetch their mail.”
Addie attributed the flush on Berthea’s cheeks to the afternoon heat. But the egg truck turned down the driveway just then, so she put it out of her mind. In retrospect, the scene piqued her curiosity.
Where the walnut-stained oak wainscoting met a waist-high lip encircling the kitchen, decades-old brittle varnish peeled off. She fingered a transparent, golden-brown piece the size of her thumbnail.
Her coffee didn’t sit well, increasing her hankering for some tea. Ruthie used to brew a pot for Mama when things troubled her.
She could point out to Harold that coffee was rationed too. But what good would it do to say anything, anyhow?
To rid herself of the vile taste, she leaned over the slop pail. Harold would frown on this, too. Women shouldn’t spit, sit with their legs uncrossed, or... She shook out her yellow tablecloth, the same brash shade as her late daffodils.
Kate would say, Where there’s a will, there’s a way. But would it be right to pray for tea in wartime?
