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July 25, 1942
Dear Addie,
Reading your letter proved an ambivalent experience. The massive dictionary in our office defines ambivalence as a simultaneous contradictory attitude or feeling toward an object, person, or action—my reaction to Harold’s recent behavior.
What bothers him about you? I don’t know how to convince you that it’s nothing you’ve done. You’ve worked so hard to please him. In your heart, you surely must know this. What irritates Harold is who you are. You’re honest, sincere, and have opinions of your own. Granted, you’ve stifled them to keep the peace, but he knows you don’t agree with him on everything. That’s such an unrealistic expectation, don’t you see? Who could ever agree with anyone on every single question?
But consider this: why would someone who loves you refuse to embrace your exuberance for life? You’re witty—your tongue only ties when you’re intimidated, so why intimidate you? Insecurity leads some folks to bully. What is it about Harold that renders him unable to abide your strengths? He’s accomplished great things in spite of his so-called limp, so I doubt his behavior arises from insecurity.
If he were in your shoes, he would support you to the ends of the earth. That’s the key—he’s all about Harold. All about himself.
Why do I trust my instinct here? Because our intuition exists for a reason. Didn’t you trust Norman’s perception that God forgave him long ago? What if Harold pulls back because he fears he can’t hold his own with you? You’re too quick-witted, and a thinker. Have you two ever argued? If not, his intimidation has worked. He knows he only has to huff, puff, and withdraw to crush you. In spite of your intelligence, you came from the south side of Halberton, and your dad rented instead of owning land.
Did you know that no one from south of town ever received the Valedictorian award? The spring of our graduation, I researched old issues of the Press under the guise of writing a history report.
I was orphaned into Halberton’s acceptable category because my grandfather distinguished himself as a judge. The British openly claim their social pecking order. If you’re titled and own land, you count more than ordinary people.
Well, small American towns have their own “landed gentry.” Back to graduation: our grade points were tied, and the Valedictorian committee’s finagling infuriated me. Their decision to choose me motivated me to run off. Alexandre proposed we elope at just the right time.
But I missed the looks on the committee’s faces when you received the award, and the pleasure of graduating with you. In my befuddled-by-romance state, standing before a magistrate across the state line looked so much more exciting. Now I regret that—not marrying Alexandre or you receiving the award you deserved—but missing it all.
When I heard that Mrs. M filled in for my speech at the last minute, I felt terrible. Then someone told me your dad didn’t even show up. That made me furious—at him and at myself. Back to Harold. The picture of a perfect woman in his brain, a mix of his doting mother and some dishy brunette from the magazines in the school furnace room, is real only to him.
You fit the pretty part, and your sweet “it doesn’t matter” attitude does, too. But Harold’s inner picture never challenges him, never voices an opinion. So when you do, he intimidates you and conjures ways to put the blame on you. If he ever saw this letter, the truth would send him over the edge and halt our correspondence. Heaven forbid—please burn it right away. Every show of strength in you unsettles him. If you look him in the eye and state your case, he must reconnoiter. Bullies back down when confronted. The sooner you stand up to him, the better.
My fingers have quite worn out, as Londoners say. Please don’t let my analysis send you into a dither. This is how I see it, limited by prejudice. I’m cheering for you.
Kate—‘the analyst.’
“Do you have time to run into town with me this morning? I need some more yarn.” Addie waited outside Jane’s screen door.
“Not today.” Jane’s glance shifted toward a faint sound from the living room. Her watering can lay beside a rose bush, dribbling from the spout.
“That’s OK. I don’t mind riding.” Addie backed down the steps toward her bicycle, but Jane lingered. “Could I pick up anything for you?”
Jane strummed the screen. “Could you... Would you mind taking a note to Dr. Townsend? I can write one quick.”
“Take your time. I’ll feast my eyes on your flowers.”
A few minutes later, Jane stepped out with a sealed envelope. “Would you mind dropping this off right away?”
“All right. See you soon.” Addie pedaled faster than normal. Doc answered her knock and opened the envelope. His kind dark eyes shifted from the note to her.
“Take some time to catch your breath. Let me get you a drink of water.”
She accepted, and he smoothed his white mustache. “I’ll take care of this right away, don’t you worry.”
A few blocks farther, Addie leaned her bicycle on the fence circling the high school and wandered to a row of wooden swings beyond the football field. She sat down and pushed the next swing back and forth with her toe. Along with Jane’s uncharacteristic agitation, Harold’s sour reaction yesterday when she tried to build him up nagged at her.
How could she fathom what was going on with Jane when she couldn’t even understand her own husband? Kate’s letter showed that she understood so much about Harold. That perfect woman in his head made so much sense, but what to do about it eluded her.
Brooding only wasted time, so she gulped down her heaviness, brushed off her skirt, and continued on her way. Under the striped awning of Olson’s Café, a new corkboard replaced one that had fallen apart. The announcements tacked to the corkboard hadn’t changed much.
“Home grown pecans from my Georgia cousin, 10¢ a pound. Elmer Sweeney.”
“Passel of six-week old pups. If someone don’t take them, they ain’t long for this world. Got kittens to send along, too. Theo Thorson.”
“Ride the bus to Cedar Rapids on Friday nights at five p.m. to help out at the USO Hall. Free ride leaves from Town Hall.”
Another, scrawled in childlike letters, magnetized Addie.
“LOST: new mattress on Benson curve August 3. Reward. Contact Denny Hayes.”
How could anyone lose a mattress? Wouldn’t a driver notice such a cumbersome object flying from a truck or the top of his automobile?
“Truth can sometimes be stranger than fiction.” A man’s voice startled her, and she turned to see Walt McCluskey. “Hello, Addie. In town to shop today?”
“No, I’m picking up some extra Red Cross yarn for sweaters.”
“For the troops? How good of you. My Fern’s too fidgety to settle down long enough to knit. How’s Harold these days?”
“He’s busy haying.”
“We’re mighty pleased with that young man. Yes, indeed.” Walt rocked back on his heels. “You must be awfully proud to be his wife.”
Proud to be his wife. A simple Yes refused to come forth, and in Walt’s puzzled gaze, Addie felt the back of her neck heat. Finally, he changed the subject.
“Nice hot weather we’re having. Well, then, we’ll see you in church on Sunday.” He gave her a nod and sauntered off, the successful banker in his pinstriped suit.
But his words remained—he expected her to be proud of Harold. But considering the way Kate analyzed everything, how could she be? Outside the Red Cross station, signs advertised far-flung volunteer positions. The long list intrigued Addie, as if assigned by Mrs. Morfordson and penned by a classic author. So many possibilities—farm laborers, replacements for Civilian Conservation Corps firefighters drafted into the military, factory workers in corporations modified into war plants.
Reading the needs energized her—across the nation, people of all ages joined together to support the war effort. Farm laborers came first on the list, and farm work was what he did from dawn till dusk. Why couldn’t he be satisfied with that?
A few minutes later, yarn in hand, she braked in front of the hardware display—a shiny paint can pyramid. Something clicked inside her, a puzzle piece slipping into place. The dark kitchen—she’d put it off all summer. But tomorrow Harold would be gone with Maynard Lundene the entire day, and Jane had offered her the paint.
August 10, 1942
From my bright white kitchen, the plot thickens. Oh, Kate,Harold will be furious when he comes home from Cedar Rapids. But Jane stands ready, should I throw myself on her mercy.
She offered me her leftover paint, and Berthea liked the idea, so I plunged ahead. I’m biking this letter to Jane, so she can mail it in case my treachery drives Harold too far.
I do hope I live to obey my summons to the lawyer’s office concerning Norman’s will—I’ll tell you about that later, but back to the paint. With every brush stroke, covering those dark boards created a sense of... what? Adventure? Victory? You’ll remember who wrote, “Unless we act on our dreams, life becomes puppet play.”
Well, I acted on my dreams, and sparkling white walls surround me. I have to admit though, that when I think of Harold’s reaction, I still feel as needy as a puppet. Oh how I wish you were here to argue him down this time.
Always... or at least for a few more hours,
Addie
After eating a sugar cookie she baked that afternoon, Addie did the chores and rode to Jane’s. Everything seemed back to normal there, and Jane said nothing about the note to Doc Ayers.
“Maybe Harold won’t even turn on the light tonight. In the morning, you’ll be able to handle his reaction better.” She offered some fresh tea, and Addie stayed until sunset. At home, she left a glass of buttermilk and a plate of cookies for Harold on the table.
Moonlight streamed over the landing, followed her up the stairs, and decorated her rose chenille bedspread. But when she closed her eyes, her thoughts erupted. Why had she let her desire to paint the kitchen overwhelm her? What had gotten into her?
Kate would say, Our desires and feelings are no accident, so you can trust your instinct to lighten the room.
Then why did she shiver on this hot August night?
Harold would counter Kate, By your logic, anyone could validate their actions, even a cold-blooded murderer—even Hitler.
You’re taking the parallel too far.
Hogwash!
And to that, Kate would say...
The next thing Addie knew, sunrise streaked the horizon, and Harold snored beside her. She skulked downstairs. Jane was right. He must not have noticed the paint. His trail left boots, cookie crumbs, and the sour odor of spilled milk.
While she made coffee and sniffed the dawn, the last star faded. She smoothed the white wood enveloping the kitchen and willed away the tension that rose in her chest.
Outdoors, Old Brown rubbed against her leg, so she petted him. “No matter what happens, boy, it’s good to be alive on this fresh new day.”
Before Harold found her, she fed the chickens and cleaned their water pans. When he entered the chicken house, a chill came over her. He never came in here. Chickens pecked his legs when he was young, and he avoided them at all cost.
But now he took two full steps in and faced her with the rising sun at his back. Goosebumps traced Addie’s arms.
“You painted the kitchen.” Harold took two more steps letting in more light.
An odd calmness descended over her. Harold’s muscular torso pushed his arms out from his sides. In the yellow rays, his legs looked like posts, and though one measured an inch shorter, they looked the same from where she stood.
He hadn’t put on his overalls yet, which said a lot. Nothing kept him from donning his overalls first thing in the morning, but here he stood in his long johns. With his thumbs hooked in his pockets, he looked like the little boy Addie visualized when he held the orphan lamb. In the aura, his features went hazy. So this was why the hens’ eyes dazed every time she entered—from their perspective in the shadows, any random intruder might be entering.
Her voice chirped from some deep well, like the one where Joseph’s brothers threw him when their jealousy turned into revenge. She tried again.
“Do you like it?”
Harold stamped his foot. He ought to have known better—the sudden movement startled the hens, and one of them grazed his face. He startled back as another crisscrossed his chest, and the rest of the flock sent up a cackling chorus.
Their comradeship widened the opening in Addie’s throat.
“Your mother liked the idea. She said the varnish was as old as Methuselah, and white would make everything look clean.”
He tilted his head like a carnival bobble doll. She wished he would scratch his temple, make a sound—something. But he stood there—immobile.
An image of her dad surfaced, whipping off his belt and ordering her closer. She had to obey, even when he bent her over his knee. She held her breath as he pulled up her dress, whisked off her panties and stung her bare buttocks.
Once Ruthie burst into tears when she checked her backside and legs. “He bruised you with his buckle. I’ve gotta get you out of here.” But several years passed, and Ruthie fell in love. Before she married Reginald, she held Addie’s hand in the Presbyterian church basement.
“You’re in high school now. It won’t be that long before...”
When she married Harold, Addie finally escaped, but this morning she almost choked on the same suffocating sensation Dad’s whippings had produced. Her eyes stung, but she determined not to let any tears fall.
“Don’t look at me with those innocent eyes. There’s nothing innocent about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You always go your own fool way, changing things that have served us well for a long time. Worse yet, you’ve stooped to using my mother to shield yourself.”
“But it’s true, Harold—she said the whole house needs painting. She said the old furnace hopper assembly your dad replaced when they built their new house was full of rancid smoke, and it made the whole house dingy.”
“How dare you use my father!” Harold’s forehead vein bulged even more. “I leave for one day, and you spend money we don’t have. This has to stop. I’m fed up with you!”
With each accusation, his voice rose. He pulled his thumbs out and jabbed his finger at her. “You don’t know how hard my parents worked to pay for this farm. Dad almost lost it during the Depression. You think we have money to waste on paint? I’m fed up, do you hear me?”
Addie’s throat clogged. Where was the courage she felt yesterday when Jane’s pig bristle brush transformed the kitchen’s darkness? After she put away the can, she fetched Berthea, whose mouth fell open when she stepped in.
“Why, it’s beautiful. I can’t imagine Harold not liking it.”
“You really think so?”
“Once he gets used to the surprise. But he never would have agreed to this. That’s how Orville acted about moving, yet when we did, he liked the new place.”
By the moment, the sun beamed brighter. Addie pictured Berthea still enjoyed her morning sleep in her back bedroom, insulated from outside noises. The coop’s walls loomed in and she wanted to crumble into the dirt floor. The hens hunkered down in their roosts as morning mist reached the far wall, and Harold moved three steps closer.
