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Piles of husked corn covered every inch of Addie’s kitchen table. Last night when she mentioned her plans for the day, Jane offered to help. With Harold in the field all day and Berthea busy judging fair projects, they plunged into pan after pan.
Pop, pop, pop... slap. Holding her knife parallel to the top ear, Jane slid the sharp edge through the kernels like a professional. When the knife contacted the pan in her lap, it made a slapping sound, and then she threw the cob into a metal pail on the floor. Bang.
In real time, the pop, slap, bang came from one deft movement. Jane did the same thing when she knitted, instead of throwing the yarn over the needle like most women. She called it the pick method.
“Modern knitters frown on it, but Mama knitted this way, and it works well for me.”
Toward midday, they’d worked themselves into a rhythmic fever, and Jane paused to wipe her forehead with a rag. The muggy air made it hard to breathe.
“Wish I could do more for our boys, like work for John Deere or make Spam for the Hormel factory. Better yet, I’d like to work for an airplane factory. My cousin’s boss said she does better inspections than the man she replaced.”
“My sister Ruthie works with munitions in California. Her last letter said they even found jobs for my brother Herman.”
“Is that the Herman who worked out at the gravel pit?”
“Yes, in their busy season. Dad worked there too, on and off.”
Jane’s left eyebrow asked her next question.
“Dad worked from May through October, except when they fired him. But Mr. Andrews always relented. He would stop by for Dad to promise to show up every day. Dad would glance toward Mama with Ruthie’s arm around her, and then at the rest of us, on our best behavior. Dad would work steady for a while, but then one day after school, Ruthie would cradle Mama in the kitchen corner again.
She’d gesture toward the living room, or outdoors. That meant Dad had gone off again, and I needed to watch the little ones. Mr. Andrews would stop again and shake his head. ‘Don’t know what more I can do, Betty Ann.’ He repeated that every year.”
Addie replaced the full cob bucket with an empty one and headed to dump it in the swill. “I’ll be right back.” Her thoughts raced. Dad could’ve fed pigs and milked a cow—he could have provided better for them. For a while, they did have a cow that Reuben taught her to milk. She even named her Harriet, around the time Kate moved to Halberton. But one night after school, the barn sat empty.
“I lost her.” Dad reported this to Mama, then turned tight-lipped.
“How did he lose Harriet?” Addie waited to ask Mama until he sprawled in his chair, oblivious to his three older children scrambling to organize socks, shoes, and books for school in the morning. Mama burst into tears, and Ruthie chided Addie.
“Your questions only make things worse.”
The fresh corncobs brought delighted squeals from the pigs, but back in the kitchen, Jane’s forehead puckered. “Your dad sounds a lot like mine. Did you know that a bookie out of Chicago followed a regular route here? Drove a little carriage with a white horse.”
“A bookie?”
“A gaming man—sold tickets on races in Chicago; horses and dogs. The local men knew his schedule.” She shaved another ear—slap, bang.
“That’s how we lost everything.” Jane stared out the east window as if checking to see that her house still sat down the road.
“House, land, and my brother Joey to a badger attack when he went out hunting for meat one cold night. Dad was off with the bookie, and my brother had no experience night hunting. Mama and I got him to Doc Wilson’s, but he’d already lost too much blood.”
She sawed through two more ears, and Addie had no idea what to say. “That night Doc cried, too. Said what an awful waste of human life. Joey had just turned 11.”
Norman had been right—sometimes comforting words meant little. Jane strummed an empty corncob with her knife, wasting valuable seconds, and the clock ticked too loud. Addie kept cutting as if her life depended on it. Then Jane’s voice came, soft and warm, like butter on an ear of hot sweet corn.
“Mama never forgave dad, though he sobered up and earned our place back. About killed himself doing it, but he knew he’d already killed her.”
“It was just your brother and you?”
Jane nodded.
“Did you live in the same place back then?”
“Yes.” Jane emptied her pan into the big cooker. Her movement cleared the air, and her verdant eyes flashed.
“I’ll never let a man lose it again. Sometimes a woman has to take charge of her own life with the brain God gave her.”
Questions teased Addie, but she clamped her mouth shut. If Jane wanted to tell her more, she would.
Jane wet her dishcloth, wiped the table, and scanned the clock. “I do love corn in winter, but on sultry days like this, it’s even stickier to work with than jam or pickles.”
“Please, will you take some jars home with you?”
Jane dried her hands. “Maybe some day when they’re sealed for sure. Remember, I have my own patch to put up.”
“Let me know so I can help.”
“You’re a trooper. I’ll see myself out.”
Her hand on the door handle, she gave a last look around. “This kitchen could sure use some paint. I’ve got half a gallon left from doing mine. If you want it, let me know.”
Addie’s feet and shoulders ached. Jane must be sore, too, after such long hours, but rows of jars lining the table and cupboard testified to a day well spent.
Yellow kernels against green glass made a pleasant sight. Now the timer clicked away a 20-minute hot water bath, and Addie considered supper. Maybe she’d fry bacon and eggs, though Harold would lift his petulant chin. Against that familiar image, Jane’s words rang.
A woman has to take charge of her own life... Until today, Addie had no idea Dad gambled, but Jane’s conjecture made sense. How else could he lose Harriet? A ring of truth traced her spine—her dad had gambled away their best food source.
Ruthie revealed his drinking after he and Herman moved to California, when she wrote that she forbade alcohol in her home. “I don’t want my children living with a drunk like we did.” When Addie expressed surprise, Ruthie’s crisp reply shocked her.
“Why do you think he disappeared every few weeks with his paycheck? Didn’t you smell the whiskey in his coffee cup? Couldn’t you see he was in a stupor half the time? Why, instead of fixing holes in the ceiling, did he throw a box of crackers into the attic for the rats every once in a while? Did you walk through life asleep, Addie?”
Clear, yellowish liquid filled the cup her dad kept close at all times, but she didn’t recollect the smell. If she missed something so obvious, she could easily have missed a gambling habit.
She dropped her head on her arms. Harold didn’t like Herman or her dad, so she avoided asking him to drive her to the old place after they married, but last spring, Dad had stopped by. Ruthie’d sent him train tickets to Los Angeles. When he and Herman left, she knew she’d never see them again.
Herman’s excitement showed in his eyes. He sleepwalked through life, too, although not by choice. The more she thought about it, maybe Ruthie’s assessment was right. She’d sleepwalked through her youth.
Ruthie planned to stay in California only until Reginald returned from the war, but her last letters highlighted opportunities she hated to leave.
“Maybe I’ll never see her again, either.”
The timer announced the end of the long day’s work, but Addie still sat, her heart as weary as her body. She could almost hear Ruthie’s voice. Maybe you’re still sleepwalking. “Maybe I am.” She studied the big, airy room. “Jane’s right about this dark wainscoting. I might just take her up on her paint offer.”
v
Humidity laced the hot August afternoon, so Addie carried the mail to the wide front porch. In May, she’d set some wintered-over geraniums beside the steps and dragged a rocking chair from the living room. In the evenings while Harold leaned toward the radio, she sat out here.
The first time she did, he quizzed her. “You don’t care about the war?”
“It’s such a beautiful evening, and I can hear fine from out here.”
She waited, thinking he might join her. After the first night she took a book along to read, or simply rocked to the mourning doves’ evening song.
Now, she sank into the rocker and leaned her head back. Midsummer yellow-greens swayed above the house, melded by sunshine. Behind them, pine tops tickled a sapphire sky. A lazy ladybug traversed the floor, and the dry scent of fields readying for harvest drifted in.
The memory of Jane’s steady cutting rhythm and their conversation brought a smile. Maybe later she’d bike over with a quart of fresh raspberries.
An envelope’s local return address called to her, but weariness quelled her curiosity. Rustling leaves and the rocker’s gentle beat against the slanted wooden floor lulled her into a nap.
The crunch of rubber on gravel woke her, and she started up. Harold was home for supper? She peeked around the corner. Yes, he was heading the Farm-All for the shed. Then he’d do the barn chores—still plenty of time to peel potatoes and reheat the meatloaf.
A letter hit the floor when she straightened the cushions—the one with the local address. She tore open the envelope to a single, hand-typed sheet.
Masterson and Masterson
Attorneys at Law
614 Second Street
Halberton, Iowa
Mrs. Adelaide Bledsoe
Rt # 2
Halberton, Iowa
Dear Mrs. Bledsoe,
We request your presence for the reading of Mr. Norman Allen’s last will and testament at 11 o’clock a.m. on August 15, 1942. Please observe utmost confidentiality. Mr. Allen has requested that not even family members, including spouses, may be notified.
If for some reason you cannot attend, please contact us. Otherwise, we look forward to your attendance.
Mortimer F. Masterson
Attorney at Law
Concealing the letter in her apron pocket, she sped to the kitchen and lit the fire under the skillet, poured water into a pot and held a match to the second burner. Not a second too soon, she opened the potato bin. The porch door squeaked and Harold’s head appeared.
“How long till dinner?”
“About 20 minutes.”
With each stroke of her paring knife, curiosity assailed her, and with it the weight of wrongdoing. Utmost confidentiality. It was one thing to conceal Kate’s letters, but this had to do with official business. The idea set Addie’s heart racing.
Besides, she’d snoozed away the day’s last working hour. That would upset him, too—if he found out. You don’t have to tell Harold everything...
Steam drifted from sizzling potatoes and onions, meatloaf bubbled in cornstarch gravy, and a hopeful thought surfaced. Since Jane wasn’t related, she might clarify the lawyer’s instructions.
After supper, Harold cranked up the radio and plunged into the world of war and theology, so Addie cleaned the kitchen and headed to the shed for her bicycle. Corn leaves on both sides of the road accompanied her to Jane’s like an applauding audience.
As she rode into the yard, something—or someone—flitted through the grove, toward that old cabin she saw when they picked corn. She looked again, but maybe her eyes played tricks on her—no need upsetting Jane, who waved her into the kitchen. She set her dishtowel aside and motioned to a chair.
“Is something wrong?”
“I need your help. Would you please read this?”
Jane centered her magnifying glass and after a few moments, a grin lighted her face. “Why, child, Norman left you something.”
“Left?”
“He’s included you in his will. Best make sure you don’t forget this meeting.” She peered through the glass again, and an excited tremor entered her voice. “The 15th. I’ll drive you in.”
“But I ought to tell Har—”
“No!” Jane shook her head with a vengeance. “This letter’s addressed to you. They could have written Mrs. Harold Bledsoe, but did they?”
Her green eyes glittered with intensity. Usually she avoided giving her opinion, except where it concerned flowers. But now, her tone took on authority.
“But this is business. What if I need to—”
“Norman had good reason for leaving those instructions. Maybe he knew more about Harold than you think.” She made a fist on the table, and a waft of lard from the pail on the counter reached Addie.
“Did your mother ever have one single thing she could call her own?”
Addie shook her head twice, once for Mama’s two dresses, everyday and church.
“Mine didn’t either, and that’s a crying shame, after all their hard work. Maybe Norman left you his kitchen table, or maybe a whole lot more. If so, you’ll have a need for it up ahead. You mustn’t go against his wishes. A person’s will is a solemn trust.”
She leaned forward and peered into Addie’s eyes. “Obey his instructions and remember, a woman has a right to something of her own.”
The kitchen’s cheerful white wainscoting backed her declaration. Her final words reverberated between them like a sinful pleasure.
“But Harold can read my mind. How will I hide this for so long?”
Another thought interjected Jane’s harrumph. The kitchen wainscoting—she really ought to paint it. One day next week, Harold would drive Mr. Lundene’s grain to Cedar Rapids. Maybe then she could borrow Jane’s leftover paint.
“The same way you took care of Norman. At first you thought you couldn’t manage, right? And the same goes for Daisy’s birthing.” Jane crossed her arms over her apron. “But you did—you managed everything.”
Addie bit her lip. But hadn’t she vowed to share life with Harold?
“I wager that Norman learned as much about you this summer as you learned about him. Death sometimes brings clearer sight, and we mustn’t fight against that kind of thing.” Jane’s agitated toe tapped the thin crackly linoleum.
“I may be old and ugly and half-crippled, but I’ve learned a thing or two in this life. I’ve known Harold Bledsoe since before he could walk, and he’s always been willful, Addie. Sometimes men grow up thinking they always have a right to their own way.”
She leaned even closer, revealing gravy splatters across her apron yoke. “But no one gets to win all the time. You don’t know what lies ahead, but the Almighty does, and maybe He whispered something to Norman Allen. Right now, you need to practice a little faith, and that may mean letting go of what you think you know.”
The queasiness in Addie’s stomach gave way at the image of the Almighty sharing secrets with Norman. She could almost see Him bending down to whisper in Norman’s hairy ear. But her main concern was far more practical. Could she go two weeks without looking Harold in the eyes? Then a sudden idea came to her.
“Would you mind keeping this letter for me?”
“Gladly.” Jane waved the envelope over the table like a banner. You can do this. I know you can.”
