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Going inside Norman’s house for the first time since he passed troubled Addie. In one way, Fern had spoken the truth—she’d put off facing those empty rooms.
At least Jane, as unshakable as anyone Addie knew, would go with her. She gave the chickens a little more grain and ate some toast and apple butter. With no meals to cook, the day seemed peculiar.
Down by the rocky incline to the dry creek, two dark horse tails swished together, one much lower than the other. Daisy’s foal was growing by the day. Addie toyed with names, but nothing seemed quite right yet.
Old Brown lingered by the back porch steps, so she took him some water and a chunk of leftover beef and petted him for a while.
“Do you sense the strangeness, boy? Harold and Berthea are gone, and now I’m leaving too. Enjoy this peace and quiet while you can.” The dog’s yellowed eyes communicated understanding. “Watch out for things, all right?” Old Brown stretched out and settled his nose on his paws.
Not long afterward, Jane chugged into the yard. At the law office, Mr. Masterson came into the waiting area as she entered and reached toward some hooks on the wall.
“Glad to see you, Addie. Here you go. Hopefully, we’ll get this taken care of soon.”
During the short ride to the house, her throat constricted. If only she could trade this task with someone else. Lately Mama’s favorite tune, This is My Task, kept coming to mind.
“To do my best from dawn of day till night—and smile when evening falls—this is my task.”
But this task, going through someone’s things—especially Norman’s—bothered her. When Mama died there’d been little to go through, and she and Ruth had made quick work of it. But those things belonged to her mother. This was different.
Jane parked in the alley, and on Addie’s third try to unlock the cantankerous back door, Jane took over. “Probably hasn’t ever been locked before. I imagine after his time in France, Halberton seemed like safety itself to Norman.”
The air was stuffy, so they opened as many windows as they could and set to work. Three hours later, Addie sank on the floor near a dented army trunk. Jane sat in the armchair where Norman’s hospital bed once sat.
“Well, what do you think of all this?” She glanced at a wad of dollar bills in a wooden cheese box on her lap.“I don’t know what to say. Stranger things have happened, I keep telling myself.”
“I imagine they have.”
“But not to me. I never pictured this much money. Do you think I ought to tell Mr. Masterson?”
Jane pushed deep into her chair. “No. Everything in the house belongs to you. Norman was no fool—he knew how much money he had.”
She ruffled the bills. “It’s time for you to do some thinking. What do you need, or what might you like to do some day?”
The living room seemed larger without Norman’s bed. But his scent lingered, like the reflecting pink diamonds on the far wall. And his words still lived on.
“No one could’ve stood up to her daddy for her.”
Kate’s philosophizing matched Norman’s. In her own way, Jane expressed the same concept when she read the lawyer’s letter. A woman must take charge of her own life with the brain God gave her.
But this huge cash pile, the Ford coupe and the furniture in this house—Norman had given her far too much. Still, it was hers to manage. Before this all came about, she had nothing she could call her own except Mama’s sunshine-and-shadows quilt, her photographs, and her clothing.
Now she possessed more than she imagined owning in her entire life. If Harold’s accusations were true—she was unworthy and disobedient—why did she receive this treasure?
“What is it you want, Addie?”
But Harold’s condemnations burrowed in her spirit like a wasps in a fencepost, eating away at her a little more each day. How could she move ahead or make decisions when her foundation teetered like rotting wood?
Jane slid forward, expectant. Finally, Addie blurted, “How can I want something when I don’t deserve anything?”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“Harold said I’m cursed—that’s why we don’t have children yet.” A tremor took her, but the truth finally was out in the open.
“Why, that—” Jane’s face reddened.
“He called me his Jezebel and said I’m not a fit wife.”
“You have about as much in common with Jezebel as Eleanor Roosevelt has with Betty Grable.”
“Our adult Sunday school class is studying evil women like Potiphar’s lustful wife and Delilah, who ruined Samson.”
“Who teaches that? Walt, I wouldn’t wonder. Potiphar’s wife, phooey! Delilah? Wasn’t Samson the one who allowed her to shatter his defenses little by little?”
Jane sputtered on, but Addie remembered her comment the morning after the painting incident. “If he ever hits you, tell me. I’ll make that boy real sorry.”
The sun shifted, sending rose diamonds further up the wall. Stillness descended on the room. The glass over Norman’s discharge papers reflected too, doubling the diamonds’ effect. If only Kate were here to watch them dance.
She would decry Harold’s accusations in a minute. But Kate couldn’t fight this battle. For some reason the thought of penning Harold’s harsh pronouncements on paper made her squirm, and she felt like a traitor for letting them slip to Jane.
They replayed most often at night, an ever-ready snake’s hiss when she was too weary to fight back. What if Harold was right? What if God had cursed her? What if her disobedient attitude did keep her from bearing a child?
When weariness should have guided her into sleep, these taunts stole her peace. In the daytime she dealt with them by throwing herself into her work.
Jane’s eyes flamed with fresh passion. “You not deserving anything—that’s an outright lie. Who does Harold think he is to talk to you like that?”
She squashed the chair’s nubby grain with her thumb. “If you could, what would you do right now?”
This new question nudged out the old, at least for the moment. Who did Harold think he was—her father, or her lord and master? And what would she do if she could? Finally, one forbidden answer bubbled up.
“I’d go far away.”
The invitation in Jane’s eyes led her to continue.
“I’ve tried so hard to make Harold happy, but nothing works. He accused me of wasting money when I painted the kitchen, even though I told him the paint was free. He said I don’t honor him as the Bible says women should treat their husbands, but I’ve tried to. Really, I have. I just can’t seem to get it right.”
Jane leaned forward and flexed her fingers. A sob started low in Addie’s chest, and the next thing she knew, Jane’s arms surrounded her. Through her tears, the diamonds danced even brighter against the wall.
In the same tone she used to quiet Daisy that day in the barn, Jane shushed away her fear. “There, now. Nothing like a good cry to cleanse the soul.”
Addie’s first deep breath confirmed Jane’s pronouncement.
“Seems to me your logic’s askew, child. Was Harold right about Daisy’s foaling?” She answered for herself. “No. He thought he was, but we both witnessed the truth. So why should what he says about you be right?”
For a moment, Norman joined them in the room. He had questioned Harold’s assumptions, too. Why should she believe Harold knew more about her than she did herself?
Jane’s voice flowed like ointment. “I believe you met Norman for a reason. What if he came into your life to show you an honorable man’s opinion of you? Obviously he thought you worthy of an inheritance. Did he ever thank you for coming here?”
...you know how to keep a story, I can tell.
The curtains blew in a sudden breeze, wafting another recollection. Take that tea with you. Don’t forget.
“He called me Addie girl...”
“Maybe today, you’re getting another chance to say good-bye to him.”
“I wouldn’t trade the hours I spent here for anything. What Norman gave me—this money is nothing in comparison.”
“See? And who knows what else waits around the corner? You’re being watched over, child. I’m no prophet, for sure, but I’m certain things will turn out all right.”
Jane pulled at her overall buckle. “And for the record, if a woman’s cursed for not having children, then I’m cursed right along with you. In fact, if everything Harold says is true, I’d say all of us are doomed.”
So she didn’t have children. The curtain rolled in on itself as the wind shifted, and she smoothed Addie’s tousled curls. “Be that as it may, Addie Bledsoe, something’s being born here, and you’re the mama.”
v
August 27, 1942
Dear Addie,
Hopefully you still count me your friend after my melancholy letter. Still no news of Alexandre, but I hold out hope. This disastrous battle produced intelligence—now we know the enemy can intercept communications, that they watch for an increase in vessels on our side of the channel, and that we need more naval fire and armored vehicles. The command saw it as a test, finding a way to open up an entrance to the continent.
Canadian forces were more than eager to prove themselves after two years of waiting here in England. Alexandre’s friend Arnold was one of them—he told Alexandre he envied his crashes—at least he was in on the action. But very few in Arnold’s unit survived.
Two days before the raid, the Telegraph’s crossword puzzle contained the target city’s name—can you believe that? Gives me shivers. Do spies communicate through the Daily Telegraph? Mrs. T says it’ll be cold in August before she buys another copy.
The command knows they need new codes. Perhaps they should hire us, with our note-passing experience. There. My sense of humor has returned—it always does when I write out my feelings. Still, couldn’t the commanders have learned this at far less cost?
Perhaps waging war is like living, fraught with uncertainty and inevitable error. Do you feel that way? Probably your next letter will tell me—you often answer my questions before I ask them.
Mrs. T says I carry myself well, but the turmoil, I share with you. Thanks for bearing it. On another topic, did you hear Clark Gable enlisted? It’s quite the story—he’s a private at age 41, earning $66 a month.
And speaking of famous people, the Duke of Kent was killed two days ago. London grieves him. He was in the Navy I think, on the water in Scotland, and ran into a cliff or hill. Remember what I wrote about landed gentry? Mrs. T and her friends know this Duke only from the newspapers, but if you’re a royal family member, the whole nation mourns you.
I’m assuming the furor over your kitchen paint has passed? And how did the lawyer’s meeting go? I’m dashing this off at lunch, since they keep us late. Evenings find me too exhausted to wield a pen.
Still in hope,
Kate
All day long, tension hung in the air, and sultriness invaded every space. The ants in the old sidewalk crevices had a heyday, so when Berthea drove in, Addie ran to her car window.
“Do you know any remedies for ants?”
“Outside or inside?”
“Out.”
Berthea wriggled from under the wheel. “Mix two tablespoons of sugar with two tablespoons of Borax and sprinkle it down their hills. The sweet smell and taste will deceive them.”
“That sounds easy enough, although I hate to waste sugar.”
Berthea gave a hearty chuckle. “Two tablespoons won’t make or break this war, and with all the misery over in France, won’t it feel good to carry out a successful offensive.”
“Do you think it’ll storm?”
“Sure feels like it. Maybe you should wait with the Borax till afterward. If you don’t have anything for supper, come in for some sausage rings I’ll never use.”
“All right, thanks. One less meal to plan.”
Just after chicken chores, a late August rain swept the yard, relieving the humidity that made breathing difficult. Harold raced from his tractor to the barn, which meant an early start on his chores, so Addie peeled potatoes, onions, and turnips to fry with the sausage. The downpour slowed to a steady drizzle, and a strong breeze tossed the curtains against the cheery white walls.
Something about yellow checks against white beaded board satisfied, like a perfect pie or Fern’s casserolay. Remembering that dinner with its chiffon dessert gave Addie the urge to make something sweet. She found a bag of raisins in the pantry yesterday, and since Berthea brought over extra sugar and flour last week, she didn’t feel so guilty about baking.
Harold loved raisin cookies. If he balked, she’d remind him she left out the sugar in her apple butter. Stirring up a double batch took no time, and when he entered the back porch, one pan had already cooled. He grabbed three on his way to the living room.
She ought to have known—he never protested something he liked, but if he caught her drinking tea, she was guilty of waste. The Golden West coffee girl, always optimistic and sassy with her pert orange scarf, lifted her coffee cup and winked at Addie from her egg money can.
On a whim, she addressed the chipper cowgirl. “Wouldn’t it be nice if he would say thank you just once?” She turned the can in her fingers and read, “If you are not completely satisfied with our product, ask your grocer for a refund.”
She imagined Minor Randolph’s reaction if she were to make good on the offer. A chuckle burst out.
“Refund my money—Minor Randolph? Like my hens will grow beards.”
She flipped the sausage and checked to see if the potatoes had browned enough. From the living room, the radio roared the nightly newscast.
If only I could write to Kate tonight.
Splattering grease made her leap back. Don’t be foolish. It would never do for Harold to uncover your secret now.
Her thoughts went back to the other day when she met Berthea at the mailbox, and George handed her a letter from Kate. A look passed between George and Berthea, and later Berthea stopped by.
“Peeling potatoes for supper? Wonder how many I’ve peeled in my life? Let’s see, 40-odd years and 10 potatoes a day—” She took a chair at the table. “By the way, I think it’s wonderful you’re corresponding with Kate. It must be so hard for her now.”
“Yes. But—” How should she begin? As if she understood, Berthea winked.
“Don’t you worry, I’ll never mention this to Harold. The way he talks about Kate’s husband bothers me, and she really needs you now. I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes friends can be our real family.”
She stared out at the chicken house. “When we were first married, Orville didn’t like me to have women friends either. I was so focused on being a good wife I never even argued, but now I wish I’d ignored him. How was I to know most of his anger was just bluster?”
“You gave up a friendship?”
“For all practical purposes, yes. What I wouldn’t give to relive that part of my life.”
“That reminds me of something. One day I was cleaning the spare room closet, and found an old postcard. Let me run and get it.”
Berthea’s forehead scrunched as Addie handed her the card, and she took a few moments to read the message. Then she turned the card over and over in her hands.
“Can’t believe you found this. It’s from Geraldine Thomason, an old friend from school days. We always had such fun together. Thank you so much.” She stared at the address again.
“I remember when this came, back when the first war still had a dreamlike quality. But Geri was one of those brave nurses who followed the troops to France, and soon enough she made the war plenty real.” She wiped her eyes with her sweater sleeve.
“The influenza took her. I learned later that disease killed more people than battle did. This card was the last I heard from her, and it touched me that she remembered the fun we had together. I figured this had vanished forever.”
She left, and the broadcast grated as Addie filled a bowl with fried potatoes. She dreaded supper with Harold.
But Berthea’s regret that she hadn’t ignored Orville’s wishes gave her something new to consider. That was no way to live, but how could she break through his anger and make a new start? No time like right now to try.
“Come on, Harold, supper’s ready.”
He ladled his food in sulky silence. She passed him the gravy bowl, the breadbasket, salt and pepper, and the butter dish. Intent on eating, he said nothing before lurching back to the living room. The fulfillment of her longing seemed as likely as the Allies winning the war before Christmas.
Yesterday they listened to the President’s Labor Day address with Berthea. Afterward, Berthea turned down the volume and leaned toward Harold.
“He mentioned the farmers this time, dear.”
“So what? He’s bringing in foreigners to work in the factories and fields. Why doesn’t he send some here? Americans would have changed the outcome of that Dieppe raid, I tell you. That General Montgomery has about as much sense as—”
“But some Americans did fight there, for the first time in Europe.”
“Aw, what do you know about it, Ma? They only used 50 of our men, with a British lord in command.”
Berthea squared her shoulders. “I listen to the same news you do. Those Churchill tanks were supposed to make the difference at Dieppe, but less than half of them made it through the German resistance. Half of the forces were captured or killed, even though the Canadian commanders believed they could achieve success. I even recall two of their names are McHaughton, and Major-General Roberts. Is that enough information for me to form an opinion?”
“Hogwash. You’re as impossible to reason with as Addie.”
Berthea shrugged as the door slammed after Harold. She turned to Addie. “Well, at least you and I are in good company.”
But this evening, Addie’s usual evening company—a glum Harold and the war report—seemed unbearable. She fiddled with her food while her mind traveled to London. Writing Kate would have to wait until tomorrow, when Harold attended a meeting in Benson. Her knitting would have to do.
