| |
Harold could see into her soul. She knew it. He could read her deepest motives like his sermon notes. And what did he see? She was selfish and incapable and immature. She felt six years old once again as she braced herself for a blow.
But like an echo from a deep cavern, Kate’s voice rose. When you stand up to a bully, he always backs down. The hens’ nervous tittering calmed her, for some reason. Her voice flitted high and soft, but at least she found it.
“The paint didn’t cost anything.”
“Bah!” Harold tensed his biceps.
“Someone gave it to us.”
“Who?”
Mentioning Jane would only make him angrier, so she kept quiet.
His spittle landed at her feet. “You hide things from your own husband.” Her cheeks burned, for if he discovered she’d been included in Norman’s will... Shame bore down, no matter how positive she felt yesterday, or how the paint had improved the kitchen. If she stood in a police line-up right now, any random observer would declare her guilty.
“You’re an unfit wife. You vowed before God to honor and obey me, but you’ve made our marriage an offense in His sight.” Harold’s voice soared as it had one Sunday in June when he preached about the end of the world.
Unfit wife, an offense in God’s sight. How did the topic alter so fast, from paint to their marriage?
But she had no time to consider. On his next indictment, Harold’s eyes turned metallic.
“Bill and Sue are expecting another baby, and you haven’t even had one yet.” He flipped his hair back. “You’re under God’s curse. You can’t bear children because of your disobedience.”
Cold fingers squeezed Addie’s chest as he raised his hand. His chin jutted inches away. A rush of air made her blink.
Then he stepped back. “No. I refuse to let you cause me to sin. You ought to be my help-meet, but you’ve become my test, my Jezebel.” He turned on his heel and slammed the door, sending the hens into another frenzy.
Though her hands trembled, an odd serenity enveloped Addie. She leaned on the doorframe as Harold advanced toward the barn. Her theory proved true again—in his fury, his limp disappeared.
Behind her, hens fluttered their wings. Such flighty creatures, just like her. But at the same time, she paused to consider. Harold did back down, as Kate said he would.
Light manure swished under Addie’s chore shoes, and Harold’s charges pulsed in her ears. Under God’s curse. He spouted the very fear that had kept her awake in adolescence, pleading for God’s forgiveness and protection.
If I should die before I wake, I pray thee Lord, my soul to take.
What fate could be worse than being cursed? When sleep evaded her back then, she finally went to visit Kate and Aunt Alvina’s pastor.
“You believe Jesus died for you, don’t you, Addie?”
“Yes, but I have doubts and terrible thoughts.”
He patted her shoulder. “Nothing changes God’s love. He sent His only Son to die for us. Don’t you think he can handle a little doubt?”
The fear that haunted her for months diminished a little. The pastor scanned his bookshelf and handed her a slim volume, Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners. “You and Kate have read Pilgrim’s Progress. The author, John Bunyan, wrestled with fierce doubts and thought he was destined for Hell.
“Our sin reminds us we’re human. By comparison, shame says there’s no hope. But with God, there’s always hope. Above all, He is gracious and merciful. Read the book of First John along with this. God’s love is greater than our hearts when they accuse us.”
She and Kate read both of the books, and gradually the condemning voices died down. But Harold’s fresh accusations revived them. Outside the chicken coop, sunlight loosened Addie’s shoulders. So did the sight of her garden with bounty weighing every branch and vine.
Her daylilies, ragged from battles with the weather, hunched over, their stalks crisp and brown. With a good rain, though, they would bloom again—flowers sometimes withdrew to regroup, not to die.
You can’t judge the future by the present. That would be dear Jane again, transferring flower wisdom to everyday life.
A speck of blue hidden under a hydrangea bush caught Addie’s attention, so she leaned down for a closer look. Periwinkle blossoms. Somehow a seed landed here, and though all the other plants blossomed in June, this one, spritely and vigorous, sent out its color weeks later.
Forget-me-nots spoke of friendship. An ache wrenched her as she touched the five-petaled flowers. A talk with Kate would take the sting from Harold’s biting words.
“Think of the positive,” she would say. “You stood your ground, and he backed down. Good for you, Ad!”
The eggs still waited, so she returned to the chicken house. In his overalls now, Harold leaped onto the Farm-all and smashed down on the seat. When the engine fired, he spun the tractor ahead, a spreader full of manure in tow.
Berthea’s door opened and shut, but Addie looked away. Her trembling still rattled the eggs—this was no time to talk. But when Berthea crossed the driveway, she had no choice.
“Did Harold just take off with the tractor without milking the cows?”
“He...” Her voice broke.
“Addie, what is it?”
Berthea grasped her hand. “Why, your fingers are freezing. Look at me, dear. What’s wrong?”
Her brow knit in consternation and Addie bowed her head.
“Did you and Harold fight about the paint?”
Her breath came in spasms. “I can milk the cows. Don’t worry, everything will be all right.”
Berthea gathered her in. “Now, now. He’d better get back here and do his work. Did he—did he hurt you?”
Her soft shoulder felt like heaven. Addie wanted to say, “He said terrible things and threatened to hit me,” but stifled the torrent.
The tractor motor hummed beyond the grove, and Berthea pursed her lips. “I know he can be difficult. Let me handle him.”
“Please don’t say anything.”
“I won’t, but I will tell him the paint makes a big improvement, and he’d better start appreciating all of your work around here.” Berthea’s eyes widened. “He’s just like his father. I put up with his attitude far too long, and you shouldn’t have to do that for the rest of your life.”
She set her jaw as Harold drove back into the yard. “After he milks, I’ll invite him in for breakfast. Let me know if he troubles you any more, all right? We women have to stand together.”
She swung across the yard, her pale coral bathrobe brushing the gravel. A robin warbled from a branch, his sturdy legs supporting his own unique melody. Addie’s next breath came a bit less haggard.
Sunlight glinted on something shiny down the road, and Berthea was feeding Harold breakfast.
Why not ride over and let Jane know she’d survived?
v
For a week, Addie left Harold’s breakfast in the skillet while she went out to do chicken chores, but today he waited at the table with a sour expression. She broke the silence.
“In a little while, Jane’s picking me up to get some yarn, just so you know.”
The admission made her feel better, though he gave no indication he heard. She would also visit the lawyer’s office, but at least she told him part of the truth.
Did lies come in large and small sizes? A question for her next letter to Kate.
Jane beeped the Studebaker’s horn as Addie dried the last plate, and she hurried out into the front seat.
“Feel all right about this meeting?”
“I’ve never seen the inside of a lawyer’s office.”
“You’re not on trial—just listen and nod.” Jane dropped her off and headed to the Red Cross office.
“I’ll just sit here and knit when I get back, so don’t worry about me.”
Addie shut the door but turned back. The light in Jane’s eyes communicated everything she needed.
“You’ll be fine. Masterson will do the talking. You can always ask questions later, if need be.”
“Harold’s going to Benson this morning. What if he drives by?”
“Fiddlesticks. Worry about something worth your energy.”
Seeing Fern sitting in the waiting room surprised her, but Fern’s jaw dropped, and a flush showed under her make-up. She muttered, “I didn’t expect to meet you here.”
Mr. Masterson opened his door and tipped his fingers toward his head. Fern rose, but Addie waited.
“Come in, both of you.” He led the way into a spacious room with light cascading from two directions onto a walnut desk seven feet wide. He gestured to a wooden chair on his right. “Sit here, Mrs. Bledsoe.”
The plush paisley rug tripped Addie, so she half fell in while Fern took the other chair. Her pale blue suit complemented her hair’s red highlights. Her fine-grained leather purse sat primly in her lap, but her white gloves couldn’t hide the way she kneaded its handles.
Suddenly aware of her plain calico shirtwaist dress, Addie worked at her thumbnail. But the lawyer’s salt-and-pepper hair and his matter-of-fact tone testified to many such meetings.
“Mrs. Bledsoe, may I call you Adelaide?”
“No, sir. I mean, please call me Addie.”
Once he explained what would occur, her pulse stopped rattling in her ears. She still wished Jane or Kate sat beside her, but so far Jane was right—Mr. Masterson seemed friendly and kind. He opened a file on his desk and leafed through some papers.
“Are you ready, ladies?”
Fern looked anything but ready, and her rouge accentuated her paleness. She crossed her legs, but the toe of her white pump wiggled back and forth, a little like Norman’s left eye.
“Norman Allen, being of sound mind, made out his will with clear purpose. I propose to read you his wishes for his holdings here in Halberton.” Mr. Masterson smoothed his mustache. “Is that agreeable?”
Addie’s tongue twisted, but the lawyer accepted her nod.
“To Addie Bledsoe, I leave my 1937 red Ford coupe, in the back shed. Before she decides whether to keep or sell it, I want her to learn to drive and try it out a few times.
“I also bequeath the contents of my house to Addie Bledsoe, to be removed before auction and dispersed as she wills. If she decides to sell the household goods at the auction, any and all material profits go directly to her.”
A ’37 Ford coupe—She didn’t even know Norman owned a vehicle.
Household goods—The term floated through her mind like goose down. That must mean the furniture and a few pictures on the living room wall. Then she remembered. Norman had already given her a treasure, Millie’s tea canister.
Fern re-crossed her legs and pressed her lips together through dazzling red lipstick.
“Now, to you, Mrs. McCluskey.” He shuffled the papers. “Let me repeat, these gifts must remain absolutely confidential. Do you both agree?”
Norman must have a reason for his wishes, but how could she possibly keep a car secret from Harold? She’d hoped things could return to normal, but now, she’d have even more to hide.
Then she recalled something Jane said when she first read the letter. “Down the road, you will have a need for whatever Norman gives you.”
Mr. Masterson awaited her reply. “That means no slips, even to your husbands. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
He slid his glasses up his nose. “Mrs. McCluskey?”
“I know how to keep a secret, Mort.”
“Then, in Norman’s own words:
“Sell my house at auction and donate all proceeds to an orphanage, to provide for newborn babies until they find a home. I charge Fernella McCluskey to manage these funds, trusting any and all concerns to her judgment.”
Mr. Masterson raised his eyebrow in Fern’s direction, and she shrank back. “He adds an endnote.”
“My sister, Mrs. Theodore Schultz and her children have been amply provided for in other disbursements. Thus, I require that even she have no knowledge of these proceedings.”
Fern’s facial muscles fluctuated. She froze when Mr. Masterson said Fernella, but then her lips puckered as if she fought tears. Addie turned her attention to the rich Oriental rug beneath their feet, an intriguing mélange of dark reds, purples, blues, and gold.
Lawyer Masterson—as Addie’s dad always called him—angled back so sunlight struck his bald spot. “Any questions?” Several cars passed as a large circular clock maintained its steady rhythm.
“In here, you’ll find the keys to Mr. Allen’s auto.” He handed Addie a bumpy gold envelope.
“And Fern, if you desire help with the auction, we have workers available. Best to hold it before winter sets in.” He turned back to Addie.
“I suggest you look things over inside the house and make your decision about the auction soon, say by September 1st? Let me know, and I will inform Mrs. McCluskey.”
“Is—is Norman’s house locked?”
“Yes. Come by for the key any time.”
“If you have no further questions...” He slid his chair back and circled the desk. Fern’s expression became a caricature of Harold when he heard news of a fresh Allied loss—distress and something else. Was it anger?
A pang skittered Addie’s abdomen. She felt as though she ought to offer her some sort of assistance, but not here and now. Fern marched out, and the outer door banged.
The lawyer held the door open and angled his head. “Good day, Addie.”
“Thank you, sir.” Taking extra care on the thick rug, she made her exit.
