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July 26, 1942
Dear Kate,
I’m out on the back step in a strong east wind, wondering about Harold on his way to St. Louis. Will the wind make any difference in the speed of his train?
Probably a question our math teacher would relish, but Mrs. Morfordson would point out the freedom I’m feeling these days. The whole world seems brighter. How lovely to write wherever I want, with Harold off to the seminary for his interview. How glorious to think of the months ahead in a positive light.
Our old pooch misses Berthea, because she goes to town so often. After Orville’s funeral, she volunteered for several church committees. Then she joined the garden club and the library board. The county fair committee needed some new judges for the 4-H projects this summer, so now she’s all excited about her first attempt. The old Chevy doesn’t get much rest—she’s got a new lease on life, she says.
Harold comes back Thursday, so she asked George to help with chores. She’s a smart cookie, Kate, to set this all up before Harold could say no. He fumed about paying George and said she and I should be able to handle things, but then Berthea said George wouldn’t take any money.
“He’s doing this as a friend—we’ve known each other from way back in our school days.”
Harold had nothing more to say. I hope his interview goes well—if the seminary likes him, he may spend some of the winter there. Can you believe it?
You prayed for a change, but I never dreamed anything like this could happen. The other night, Harold said he thinks a person’s death corresponds with finishing our earthly work. I’m inclined to agree, since Norman lingered another day after our final talk, when Fern finally came to visit him. She told me about it right after the burial. I started home as soon as Harold pronounced his part. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Norman’s nephew gave a short sermon, and Lucille read the scripture. Limited to the graveside service, Harold pouted before the service and ridiculed the nephew afterward.
“He has no training whatsoever. Did you notice he used the lilies of the field passage out of context?”
The nephew said Norman knew war first-hand, but still gave him a good example. Never one to complain, he didn’t worry about everyday things and enjoyed life in spite of hard times. Wouldn’t you say that sounds like the lilies of the field theme?
I kept my opinion to myself, though I wanted to point out Harold’s own lack of training. You know where that would have led. Unfortunately, my silence pleased him as much as my opinion, and he read the protest in my eyes.
“I ought to have known. It’s impossible to discuss anything meaningful with you. You’re hopeless. I’m going out to chop some wood.”
He left, and I gave thanks. Come winter, the pump house wood burner will eat all the logs we can feed it. Anyway, after the service I longed for a walk and cut through the cemetery. I didn’t even notice Fern until she hailed me from the bench near Aunt Alvina’s grave and called me over. The black she puts on her eyelashes traced her tear lines, and her hankie smeared her lipstick. She looked so sad, I sat with her a while.
She mentioned that Harold seemed nervous, and I replied that it didn’t help when he realized his tie matched Norman’s.
“You’re not serious?” But I was.
Then she asked if I thought Norman died at peace. I said I hoped so, but that didn’t satisfy her. I knew we were getting into risky territory and said I was pretty sure Norman found relief from things that had bothered him for a long time. Fern withered against the bench and demanded to know what I meant. So I asked if she was related to Norman. She said she wasn’t, but that she’d known him for a long, long time and was concerned about him. What could I say? I mumbled something about him feeling he’d hurt people, though he only meant to love them.
Her forehead split into wrinkles, and my heart sank. When she asked again what I meant, I would’ve given anything for you to take my place. You always come up with something. I told her how I planted lilac starts in the yard, thinking Orville and Berthea would enjoy the blossoms.
But Harold was furious and said his dad would rather see everything going on here. My motives were right, but I still felt like a failure. Fern stared at her lap. A cardinal and his mate perched on the gravestone to our right—that’s rare in the open, but they landed like two pretty geraniums, one brighter than the other.
A cardinal came to the window the other day after I said good-bye to Norman, too. Maybe it was the same one—do you think it was a sign?
But Fern didn’t even notice them. When you’re tormented, you miss so much right in front of your nose. (I’m not saying she’s tormented—she might have buried things so deep that... well, I’ll leave the analyzing to you.)
The lilac story prompted Fern to ask how Harold was doing with all his responsibilities since Orville passed, and that led to me to ask if Fern was close to her father. She said she was, since her mother was ‘quite flighty,’ but he always maintained control. I pictured him doing just that in some seedy doctor’s office in St. Louis.
In the end, we agreed that at least Norman can rest now. Resting brought to mind Harold’s sleepless night before. Even though he only had to say “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,”he showed more nerves than when his debate team advanced to state. He paced half the night and spent the other half in the bathroom.
If this is a prelude to the rest of his career, I don’t know that it’s such a big chance. What if his nerves keep getting worse? Right up to the service, the toilet called him. I went around back to wish him well and delivered my best wishes, ill received. He must have practiced his words 30 times, which brings me to a scurrilous reality. Maybe scurrilous isn’t the right adjective, but this does involve danger and foreboding.
Harold guards his church work with furtive secrecy. He didn’t even tell me when Norman died. Jane did, hours later, when Harold holed up in the living room to study for his sermon, before he learned he didn’t have to give one.
You’re my favorite sleuth, so tell me what you think about this behavior, please. Here’s another question—what is it about me that bothers him so much?
Cheers to you,
Addie
v
As Addie crossed the yard the next day, Harold drove the Chevy down the driveway and parked in his usual spot. He gathered his suitcase with a new light in his eyes, but it was Berthea who made the announcement.
In the relative coolness of late afternoon, she’d been watching for him, and Addie joined her on her steps.
“The interview went well. I just knew it would.”
Harold swung by them and headed to the big house. “Aren’t you going to tell us about everything, Harold?” He kept walking, so Berthea shrugged and shook her head. “Well, that’s that, then.” Her sigh spoke more than words. “Tomorrow the fair starts. I’d better get busy.”
Addie scrubbed potatoes for supper. Harold dived into his food as if he hadn’t been gone for three days and went outside. A little while later, he waved a sweet corn stalk at her as she headed to the garden.
“The leaves have rolled. This ear looks almost full.” He tore at the stiff green husks and passed the corn to her. Under layers of protective leaves, pale yellow kernels felt full to her touch.
“If we leave this in the field any longer, the raccoons’ll get it.”
Canning corn took a day and an evening, repeated at least twice more until the basement shelves held enough jars for winter. Harold planted several pickings, so when they depleted this first one, plenty more waited.
“Let’s pick all we can.” Addie ran to the house for his old cotton shirt, though afternoon heat still hung in the air. She left the supper dishes on the counter and grabbed Harold’s second set of overalls, too, though he would disapprove of her wearing them. Too many times, tall corn had whipped cruel leaves against her face and slashed at her legs.
Harold took what he called the dead road that bisected Bledsoe land north to south, with a view of the Pike farm. Deep ruts created by decades of cows, wagons, and tractors made for a bumpy ride, so she gripped her door handle. She held back her questions about his trip, but maybe on the way home he would tell her about the interview.
Through a hole in the floor, she watched the distance go by. “Run a truck into the ground,” was Orville’s philosophy, so Harold plastered the rotting vehicle together with wire. “Milton,” as Addie called the bubbletop, would probably serve them for years to come.
“Why Milton?” Harold asked when she first christened it.
“After a neighbor of ours who gave Ruthie and me odd jobs when times got rough.”
Harold whistled Hoagy Carmichael’s Stardust, and the melody made Addie want to reach over and touch his fingers. In spite of everything, riding beside him brought a certain satisfaction—he was so strong. But he gave no sign of considering the melody’s romantic words.
At the edge of Jane’s grove perched a small cabin, like those on the old mill road southwest of Halberton. People still used them for camping along the river, but Berthea said Depression families had lived in them fulltime.
At the corn patch, Harold headed in the opposite direction. Scratching filled the evening air—rough leaves clawing at trespassers, and hungry mosquitoes buzzed her ears. They picked and dumped load after load of corn into the truck and headed home. Thud... thud... thud. The sound seemed much too loud for this quiet summer night.
The short trip took Addie back 10 or 12 years to when Milton offered Mama whatever remained of their sweet corn before the coons took over every year. She helped Ruthie and Reuben pick and husk until fireflies lighted the yard and skunks lent the night their odor.
Afterward, if times were good, they split a sarsaparilla and sometimes took her along to wash off the sticky corn silk in the creek. Ruthie hadn’t written for weeks now—better send her a letter.
The pick-up bounced back onto the main road and then down the driveway, and Harold parked near the tank where she would husk and wash the ears in the morning. Before he walked toward the barn to get a head start on tomorrow’s work, he turned.
Maybe now he would share something about his trip.
“Pack me a double lunch for tomorrow. I won’t come in at noon—have to make up for being gone.”
Not ready to go in yet, Addie glanced down the road toward Jane’s place. Harold pulled the barn door shut with a finality that made her cringe, so she shed his overalls and ran to the shed for the bike. In a few minutes, a churned-up breeze cooled her arms and legs. The sight of Jane in her flowers, backside in the air, brought a grin. Some things she could count on.
August 10, 1942
Dear Addie,
Your long letter came so fast this time. I’m celebrating your little break from Harold. You and Norman became so close—that doesn’t surprise me one bit. Your personality drew him out—Mrs. M always said you have a winning way with people.
And Fern... I have to feel sorry for her, guarding that secret all these years. But Norman’s passing brought up the whole thing again.
News here—the Huns are using a new phosphorous bomb. That’s all I’ll say about it, but now, people fear enemy pilots will drop fighters right into London. Mrs. T’s circle met at the house and discussed what they’d do in the event. To see that proper lady assault the air with her fist made me laugh. It also made me re-think her capabilities. I don’t know what I’d do if a Nazi landed nearby me, but can easily imagine Mrs. T and her ladies pummeling him to death.
Right now, we’re enjoying an abundance of fruit to satisfy our longing for sweets. Mulberry boughs hang heavy, and Mrs. T seems to have connections to the owners. Too bad you’re not here. You could give her a taste of the best pie possible. We’ve had ever so many cherries, but never too many. I fixed up a screen in the courtyard to dry thousands for next winter.
The Japs have taken India—such dismal news. What will happen next? No word from Alexandre for weeks. Waiting for his letters drives me to distraction. I’d hoped to stay away from war news, but it always wedges in. Enough until next time, and cheerio, my friend.
Kate
