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Berthea roared off in a terrible hurry, and Harold took his place at the table again. He cleared his throat and, as if someone jogged his memory, reached for Addie’s hand and closed his eyes.
“Dear heavenly Father. We thy humble servants desire a child to brighten our home, as Thou hast promised those who serve Thee.”
Heaven knew this place needed brightening. Before they married, Harold told her his vision of a table full of sons and daughters, as the Psalms pictured.
“We long to bear fruit for Thy kingdom, and faithfully carry out our duty. Now we beg Thy beneficence, if it be Thy will.” Harold squeezed her hand, but before she could gather the right words, he uttered, “Amen.”
Three years and no little feet pitter-patting in this old house. And now, the clock proclaimed a late start on a prime summer workday.
Harold’s prayer replayed as she pedaled down the road against a sharp wind, and questions surfaced like the pebbles ricocheting on her legs. Did he mean since they did their part, God must do his?
That principle didn’t seem to play out in real life, or even in the Bible. Elizabeth and John were upright people, but had no children until a miracle gave them John the Baptist. And what about Mama, who walked a little slower every year, and died in her early fifties? By the summer between Addie’s seventh and eighth grade year, huge sores broke out on her legs.
When Aunt Henrietta drove her to visit Ruthie and Reginald in Minnesota, Ruthie took Mama to a doctor. Left to care for Herman and Bonnie, Addie learned about this when she received her very first letter.
After the first paragraph, she sat down on the log where they used to watch for the school bus. Her breath stopped in her throat.
“Tumor in the womanly parts—nothing they can do. Don’t mention anything to Herman or Bonnie.” Addie could barely whisper the news to Kate at lunchtime.
Mama’s face told the story when she came home, and she never walked outside again. Two months later, she died, though the Presbyterian women prayed for a miracle. The night before, Mama smiled. “God is with me. Do you sense Him here?”
How could she have said yes with a good conscience? If only they’d had some tea in the house, she’d have brewed Mama a cup.
There she went again, thinking of her own wants. Maybe Harold was right about her being selfish. The wind blew chastisement back into her face.
As July sunshine welcomed her to Mr. Allen’s, she set aside her thoughts of tea. Maybe today, her patient would answer her insistent question about Fernella.
June 3, 1942
Dear Kate,
Your recent exploration of that wonderful bookstore entices me to see London. And speaking of enticing, the McCluskeys invited us for dinner the other night. Fern said I shouldn’t bring a thing.
The day of the dinner, Harold came in early and shaved for the second time. I wore my yellow Sunday dress, his favorite, though the shade fades my skin.
Fern served an apéritif right away. We were sitting ducks on the davenport as Walt described a new seminary program that certifies laymen to preach. He said it had been developed to meet the strain, with so many preachers joining the military. Harold asked him how the program works, and Walt obliged.
Soon, Fern asked me to check on the casserole with her. Harold shoved to help me rise, and his eyes glinted. My heart sank at the word casserole. Fern pronounced it “casserolay.” I’d hoped for something lavish and exciting, like a salmon loaf.
The first time I tasted that, I wished we were Catholic so Harold would demand fish on Fridays. When I found out it’s made with crushed crackers and egg, I could hardly believe such simple ingredients could taste so good.
When Fern handed me her cookbook, my outlook changed. She asked me to check the time for the steak en fromage on page 62. The ingredients—how exotic. Olives, mushrooms, and dry mustard, Worcestershire sauce, ketchup, and even Tabasco sauce—all expensive.
The meal might prove to be a treat, after all.
By the way, Olson’s café boasts a new sign, Stop in and ‘ketchup’ with the best, with a wife toting ketchup to her husband on a tray. Harold would strangle me if I wasted good money on such a luxury.
But back to Fern and the casserolay. She told me she wearies of potatoes, and waltzed across her waxed kitchen to the biggest Frigidaire I’ve ever seen. Before she opened the door, she rolled her little finger in a curlicue, accentuating her sharp brassiere points. Then she flung open the door and offered me a taste of her chiffon salad. Wow—Jello-O and whipped cream.
I practiced my dignified pose (I can hear you laughing) and said I wouldn’t want to ruin my appetite. But she insisted. When she pulled a scalloped dish from the oven, the crust shone tawny brown, and Fern sprinkled cheese across the top like molten gold. The crust’s perfect flutes reminded me of Berthea’s pies.
Mrs. M would be proud of my metaphors and similes, don’t you think?
My mouth dropped at that casserolay set on a folded towel beside the stove. Fern peered right into my eyes and asked what I thought.
I said Harold would love it, since we’re used to plain old farmer food at home. But why should Fern be nervous about our opinions?
Norman’s words resounded in my head: ‘I made Fernella feel like she was somebody, but when Walt came back from the war, her daddy latched onto him like scales on a fish. Wish she hadn’t let him make her choices for her.”
I couldn’t help myself then. I asked if he had proposed to Fern.
He said privates don’t enter the officers’ mess and that no man could’ve stood up to Fern’s father for her. His story replayed as Fern’s casserolay satisfied my taste buds. Fern seemed satisfied, too. She leaned on Walt’s shoulder when they watched us leave under a full Iowa moon. More later. Courage, and all my best.
Addie
v
Early Tuesday morning, Harold took Berthea to pick up the Decoration Day containers from her family’s graves, but forgot to sharpen the lawn mower blades before he left. Addie put her muscles to the ancient tool, and when she finished mowing, she attacked the weeds, though her mending pile called her.
Last night when she drooped on the davenport, Harold had shifted his gaze toward the corner sewing machine more than once. Then he stuck his elbow up, showing bare skin through his shirtsleeve.
“I know I’m behind, but could you look at the treadle? It keeps sticking.”
He went to work under the machine with a groan, so she must get started today. But now, she needed to check on Norman. Finding him snoring, she cooked breakfast and counted his pills.
What difference could they make with him so close to death? When she took his tray in, his wicked blues swept her.
“Good morning, Mr. Allen.”
“Call me Norman. Glad to see ya.” He hacked for a few minutes.
On impulse, Addie patted his hand, the shade of sweet Williams, Grandma Shields’ favorite flower. Hundreds of black and brown marks ranged his skin, as fragile as melting snow.
He slept while she did dishes, but later she found him awake.
“Millie used to smile like you. I’d hate for her to see me so useless. That’s what she said when she got so sick. Wish’t I coulda done better by her.” His eyes stopped at the bedroom door.
“We lived here for—almost twen—” A coughing spell claimed him, and Addie wiped his chin. “Almost 20 years—she made my life heaven, always smilin’. Made up fer—”
Coughing wracked him again, so Addie ran for fresh water.
“Now Fernella—” He turned toward the front window. “That girl didn’t smile, not without a good reason.” He pressed his palms down to push his head higher, and Addie added an extra pillow.
He drifted off, so she cracked a window and studied the room’s three wall hangings—the Allen’s wedding portrait, Millie’s parents, and Norman’s army discharge. The sun hid under a cloud, which was just as well in such high humidity.
All of a sudden, he sputtered, “Wish’t Millie could’ve borne children.” A few minutes later, he sipped some water. “But Fernella didn’t neither. I did make her smile, though. Till...” He dropped his hand onto his chest.
“Until what?”
But just like that, he snored. Mystery roamed the room like a trapped ghost, and a glow enveloped Norman’s countenance.
