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September 10
Dear Kate,
Your wait must be abominable. I wish I could help you pass the time. Harold obsesses over Dieppe and acts now as if the paint incident never happened. Since last night’s council meeting, I’ve become the Thin Man’s perfect wife. The seminary agreed for him to come home to plant crops, so from December to April, he’ll attend classes in St. Louis, and George will help with chores. I didn’t ask how Berthea got Harold to agree to that.
He actually grabbed my hand when he told me the news. But acting too happy upsets him, so I tempered my emotions, as Mrs. M would say. Your letter enlightened me—maybe you’re right—he chose me because he knew I’d never fight back. Your analysis made me think and brought Shakespeare and Mrs. M to mind:
“Go to your bosom: Knock there, and ask your Heart what it doth know.”
Harold goes there less and less to remind me of my responsibility to produce heirs. But what more can I do? If it didn’t cost, I’d visit Benson’s new doctor, since I doubt Doc Ayers would have much to say.
Rest easy, your letter perished in our burn barrel and didn’t send me into despair, but the Allied defeat did put me in a gloomy mood.
Do you walk in the evenings? I think I would have to, after doing office work all day.
Please send a description of Mr. T—nose, coloring, ears, etc. I picture him blue eyed?
I’m so thankful for your job, and can’t get discouraged when I think of you waiting for word. You’re one to take action. I merely think about it.
The newspaper posted an ad for a reporter, but Harold says he needs me here, especially now that Berthea is “gadding about.” Yet when I manage things, like Daisy’s birthing, he gets furious. That day, I feared for the prominent vein crossing his forehead when he heard I’d allowed a stranger in the barn. I reminded him that Jane has lived down the road forever, and he let Mr. Lundene in. He glared at me as if I’d just strafed our cornfield from a Messerschmidt. This calls for another analysis, oh, wise one.
His seminary news rendered him friendly again, but that may change tomorrow. At least he’s leaving in December. (I never say this out loud, lest I jinx the plan.)
Have I taken your mind off your fingernails and the Cliffs of Dover for a few minutes?
Let me know the SECOND you hear.
Addie
“Find out if the Benson elevator has storage space—Halberton’s full.” Harold gave no more details before igniting the tractor engine and chugging down the driveway. Berthea had driven the Chevy away earlier, so Addie secured a quart jar of water in her bike basket with some twine and took off on her bike.
Seven miles of dusty gravel later, she waited in line. Aware that she stood out like a red Farm-all in a dry hay field among all these farmers, she kept a low profile. Stained denim caps topped farmers’ heads in a long row to the counter. Peeling lime green paint near a grain scale absorbed local gossip.
Men-talk, Jane would call it, but gossip nonetheless.
Kate would dub these fellows dirt philosophers, definitely not landed gentry. Some of them lined First Methodist’s pews yesterday to acknowledge the Almighty as ruler over all, but now demanded fairer prices. Conversations followed two eternal topics—the weather and money.
“Rain’s comin’ Thursday. Gotta get the crops out by then, but where kin a man put ’em? Runnin’ outta room, don’t wanna drive t’ the Mizippi, neither. Prices run a nickel higher there, but gasoline’s up three cents a gallon, so I figger—”
“Cedar Rapids pays a pretty penny. Think it might be worth renting a truck? If it rains in the next six days, we could lose the whole crop. Blamed if these elevators don’t own our sorry hides.”
After waiting for 20 minutes, Addie rode home and delivered Harold’s answer—no room in the inn. His scowl sent her to the grove to chop some more weeds, and then she picked raspberries again. Later, after washing supper dishes, the evening seemed perfect for a neighborly visit, so she popped her knitting needles and yarn into a paper sack.
Luscious late Queen Anne’s lace and sunny ditch sumac brightened her way. An early evening breeze hinted of fall, her favorite season. Spring was glorious and summer prolific, but September golden and mellow.
From an electric wire, a cardinal sent three strong low notes: Agree, agree, agree.
“I could transplant some sumac near that old fence, but it grows so tall, the roots might suck up all the water from my garden.”
This afternoon had given her breathing space—no hired men to feed, no lambs to tend, just soft, plump ewes eyeing her from the field beside the grove as she demolished weeds encroaching on the raspberry patch. After picking the berries, she spread them on old newspapers on the front porch floor.
Pouring them out coaxed black hard-shelled picnic bugs, masters of deception, from the succulent fruit. Light and fresh air always won, since the insects could no longer hide in their dark, cramped quarters down in the berries. They crawled forth only to be crushed under Addie’s thumb.
Jane kept a little wooden mallet on the outdoor table where she dumped her berries, but enjoyed smashing them, just the same.
“Makes me feel good every time I squash one. Exactly how I felt when the Justice Department executed those German spies.”
Addie could have recited every detail of Operation Pastorius, since Harold repeated the spies’ names over and over. Weeks later, he still exulted in their demise.
When all was said and done, Addie carried four jars of fresh preserves to the basement. Counting them warmed her heart.
Her blue and white enamelware canner still overflowed with jars of tomatoes every other day. So far, she’d stored enough tomato soup for a jar every week this winter, plus more juice than she could possibly drink.
With only beef and chicken left to can, depending on when Harold butchered, a weight tumbled from her shoulders. She could manage the chickens, thanks to his ingenious system of lining up four nails about the width of a chicken’s neck on the tree stump chopping block. With a fowl’s pulsing neck between them, the nails steadied the bird, simplified her axe stroke, and saved valuable time.
The rest of the way to Jane’s, she let her mind wander to her childhood. Twice a year, Mama arranged knives, pans, and vats of cold water out beside the barn in the evening. Mama’s sister Iva came to help, with her brood of five. The cousins flapped their arms, mimicking the headless chickens that circled the yard, sometimes colliding with each other.
The women plucked and singed feathers over the fire. To this day, that burning feather odor nauseated Addie. By the time all the chickens lay in cold water for the night, the work was half done.
She’d never thought about it before, but where had Dad gone on those evenings? So much hard work, but the women did it all.
She swerved around a bump, and thankfully the bike settled down instead of sliding on loose gravel. Across the fields, the Benson Catholic Church spire rose like a slender finger. She’d never been inside, but the building’s vaulted windows struck an artful chord when she biked past en route to the elevator this morning.
Ruthie once said Dad hadn’t allowed Iva to help Mama butcher for several years because she’d married a Catholic. But eventually he relented, or more likely failed to notice.
Mama used to let them sleep out in the haymow with the cousins, and it was a wonder none of them fell out. They jumped on the hay until their ribs hurt, played hide and seek, and dribbled sticky watermelon juice. With the mow door open, the five girls and four boys stretched out for the night and counted stars. Time stalled in summer’s fickle promise to last forever.
The next day the work took on a party quality. Uncle Elwood never came along, but Aunt Iva and Mama worked as fast as they talked. Iva’s eldest, Charlotte, cleaned the birds, and Doreen, Addie’s age, taught her how to slice through breastbones with ease.
Near the driveway, Jane’s chrysanthemums welcomed Addie. She parked by the back porch in the shade of the tall sunflower patch and in sight of gentle hollyhocks standing guard over melon vines. Was the soil here more fertile? Silly question—less than a mile separated the two places.
Knitting across from Jane vied with playing the piano with George on his accordion. You couldn’t help but play faster than normal. The rhythmic click of their needles ate away at the yarn with singular intent.
Honored to go beyond the kitchen, Addie eyed the side door. Since the day that diminutive man had approached, she’d hoped for another glimpse, and kept expecting Jane to offer some clue.
She imagined her saying, “By the way, the hand-sawing you hear in the distance? That’s Simon out in his workshop.” But it never happened.
Once, Simon’s name appeared on a letter she carried to the house when George handed her the mail. Jane thanked her heartily. “George knows the walk hurts my knee in this humidity, and you’ve saved me the trip.”
A perfect time to say, “By the way, Simon’s my husband.” But she didn’t.
Now Addie checked the mailbox every time she turned in, often finding letters addressed to Simon W. Pike, a dignified-enough name. Curiosity welled in her. By now Kate would have found a way to discover the truth.
“The truth will set you free.” Harold preached on that verse last Sunday. These questions wouldn’t circle like hungry hawks had she found the courage to ask Jane. But something held Addie back—it was really none of her business. Jane looked up from her work. “Need more tea?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Would you mind fetching it? This old knee likes to stay put once I’m sitting.”
Addie leaped up to fire the gas burner. Out the north window, a light flickered. Maybe Simon in the cabin? She warded off her inquisitiveness and poured the hot brew.
“How’s Berthea lately? I see her whiz by in a cloud of dust.”
“Fine. Visiting the grandkids last weekend put a smile on her face.”
“Haven’t seen Bill in a coon’s age, probably three or four years.”
“They don’t come often, with his business in the war effort now, and Sue’s expecting their fourth child. Berthea says she’s ashamed of having to beg rides to the city.”
“Ashamed? I don’t like that word. Get over it bothers me, too. That’s what my Aunt Helen used to tell Mama about her fear of tight spaces.” Jane’s needles clicked even faster. “We come by our fears honestly, and with hard work we might grow out of them. But being ashamed leads nowhere except missing out on today.”
They fell into silence. When Jane reached for her lamp switch, Addie clipped her yarn in place. “Time for me to go. I get more done when we knit together.”
“You’re always welcome. What do you have planned for the week?”
“Chicken butchering.”
“With Berthea?”
“No, she’s got some meeting to attend. I think she had enough of butchering in years past, and I don’t mind doing it.” As she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, Jane stopped her.
“Would you like some help?”
Would she ever—with another worker, the wretched job would take only half the time. “Don’t tell me you actually like to butcher chickens?”
Jane grabbed her cane. “Nothing I like better. Let me know what time.”
September 18, London
Dear Addie,
About Daisy’s birthing. Harold predicted difficulties, and as the expert on everything, his anger makes sense. His make-believe world failed to match reality.
It’s the same with you, compared to the woman in his head. But what will he do when he realizes how strong you actually are? That’s what worries me. You must be your honest self, yet maintain your English dignity. It might not hurt to explore your tendency to turn the other cheek. I’m trying to understand myself better, too. For example, why have I always taken so many risks? We can share our discoveries.
Did I describe my latest outing with Evelyn? The right hand forgets what the left does. But Mr. Tenney says he likes that about me, and Alexandre does, too.
Harold couldn’t begin to follow our talks. He’d call them impetuous and be shocked that the business world values flexibility. We always return to our starting point, don’t we? In this case, it’s my concert with Evelyn. We listened to a comedian, a classical pianist, and a local children’s choir in a war fundraiser. They served currant buns—what a treat. Currants and blackberries are abundant right now, and pears. I fill up more easily lately, but still long for sweet corn and fresh eggs.
It was good to walk through a new area, in spite of the bombing debris. After I got home we had a bomb warning, so Mrs. T put on rubber boots and a tin helmet to patrol the road for incendiaries. I went along with her until the All Clear sounded around one a.m.
Mr. T is thirty-ish, with greying temples. His nose suffered some bad rugby breaks, and his dignity vanishes in a sea of freckles. His ear lobes have a cleft, which means something, I’m sure.
Gathering this data resulted in me missing a dictated word the other day. I was studying his ears when he caught me and said, “Kathryn? Are you off your feed?”
See how seriously I take your inquiries? His military service precluded marriage, I think. As to Alexandre, no word yet. Prayer has become more of a PRESENCE than an activity. Does that make sense? Didn’t somebody famous say, ‘While I breathe I pray’?
The streets continue to tidy up, but people still wait for notification about their loved ones. During the heavy bombing, five-sixths of the children boarded busses for the countryside. Many returned this spring to utter wreckage, and most families still eat at the meals service. Our 150 rest-centre stations tend the displaced and orphans. Fifty others accommodate ten thousand more.
I can’t imagine how Mr. T keeps track of all this. He’s always bustling about, and here earlier than anyone else in the mornings.
Have any more of our friends deployed? Keep me up-to-date, please, and know that I always keep you close.
Your personal war correspondent,
Kate
For the second time in a week, Addie left the grain elevator with little to show for waiting in line. Berthea drove her home with barely disguised impatience.
“Why don’t you learn to drive, Addie? Kate knows how. So do Josie Branstad and Diane Colter.”
“Harold says a woman’s place is on the farm. Besides, he’d be after me for using too much gas. He says once we get a telephone—”
“Harold says—” Berthea stopped at the railroad tracks and tapped the steering wheel a little too loudly.
Clackety-clackety-clackety-clack. She tapped faster as the train rattled by, and Addie considered. Yes, her reasons for not learning revolved around Harold.
Kate would exclaim, “What are you waiting for?” And Jane would say, “No time like the present. We have to move ahead, even if we’re afraid.” But the way this old car accelerated going downhill—she didn’t know if she wanted to be in charge of that much power.
That brought Norman’s coupe to mind. Her coupe. She still had his instructions to follow. When the last car passed, her request rose like a trapped bird taking flight.
“Berthea, would you mind teaching me?”
