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Eyes aglow, Berthea swiveled in the seat. “I thought you’d never ask. For years I was afraid to learn, but there’s really not much to it.” She opened her door. “Come over here.”
“I didn’t mean now.”
But Berthea already rounded the Chevy and opened the passenger door. “Slide under the wheel.”
Goose bumps paraded Addie’s arms, but she obeyed. The day’s perspiration and Berthea’s gardenia perfume wafted as she leaned closer to the gearshift.“Neutral’s in the middle, like the bar of an H. That’s where the motor idles. You have to pass through neutral to first gear.” She pointed to the gearshift and continued. “Top left is first gear, second gear is straight down, third at the top of the other side, and fourth below that. Neutral is like—mmm—your garden.
“Seeds can’t become flowers without soil, right? Neutral acts like soil for the gears.” She angled her head. “Does that make sense?”
Though a tide of fear rode the pit of her stomach, Addie nodded. “In my head, but I’m not sure my hands and feet will cooperate.”
Berthea’s grin never changed. “Oh, that’ll come with practice.” She adjusted herself in the seat. “First, you need to memorize the positions. How about repeating what I’ve told you so far?”
Addie did her best, and Berthea held up a palm. “I’ve always known you’re smarter than you let on. Now, see that pedal?”
“The clutch?”
“Yes. When it’s pushed in, the car isn’t in any gear. You hold it down to change gears. Gradually let up as you move into a gear until the engine takes over. We don’t stay in first long, unless we’re crawling down a street or are out in the field. Any questions?”
“It’s a lot to remember, but I think watching Harold has helped me.”
“Move into first, then second. We’ll stay there till the road curves. At that little bridge past the curve, when the speedometer says about 30, I want you to shift into third gear. Got it so far?”
“I think so.”
After three false starts and a few gear-grinds, the car lurched ahead. Addie’s heart pounded, but Berthea, as calm as if she stirred cookies in her kitchen, maintained her cheer.
“Good—you’re in first. Now second. Now third. There, see?”
They continued on a distance, and then she warned, “We’re coming to the crossroads. Look both ways—nothing’s coming, so shift into fourth now. Just keep your eyes on the road. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”
Gradually, the tension subsided and gave way to a sense of accomplishment. At Jane’s grove, Berthea said to let up on the accelerator and shift down to third. This time there was no lurching, and a smile niggled Addie’s lips.
“All right. We’re halfway home from Jane’s now, so go down into second. Perfect. Now, shift into first.”
Fully aware that the big test, their driveway, lay up ahead, Addie licked her lips. If she drove into the ditch, Harold would—
“That’s right, now just turn the wheel. Good, one smooth motion. There you go.”
With the car parked in its usual spot, Berthea let out a “Yahoo!” She rushed out, flew around the front fender and grabbed Addie by the shoulders.
“What a fast learner you are!”
“Fast? You must be kidding me. It took us half an hour to drive six miles.” Her fingers had cramps, and she let out a long breath.
But Berthea ignored her comment. “Now nothing can stop you. Let go of the steering wheel—take a deep breath and relax. That’s how I feel when I’m driving now. Don’t know why I let it scare me for so long.”
Her eyes glinted. “All right. I’ll teach you to back down the driveway, for wintertime.”
When they finished, Addie had navigated the driveway, backed onto the road and turned around at Jane’s. Jane, out in her strawberry bed, straightened and waved. Back at the farm, Addie parked at Berthea’s back step.
“I never dreamed I’d learn so fast, and surely not today.”
“Why not today? That’s become my motto. For years I set things aside until another day. You don’t know how many times I repeated, But Orville says, when I had a chance to try something. But with his passing and this war...” She shook her head. “We never know if tomorrow will come. On our next lesson, I’ll teach you to parallel park in town.”
“You make a great teacher.”
“I always wanted to be one.” Silence sifted between them like a sermon.
“I never knew that.”
“No, how could you? But I always did. I used to practice teaching my brothers and sisters and friends. One of them even called me Bossy Bertie.” She grinned at the nickname. “But I let that dream go once we married, because Orville wanted me here on the farm.”
Addie wished she knew what to say, but Berthea threw up her hands. “What’s past is past. No use wasting time on regrets. At least I can join committees now, and I just heard that the school secretary might retire. Been thinking I might apply for her job.”
“That’s so exciting—you’d be great, Berthea.”
“We’ll see. You did a fine job today, and on your very first try, too. When you want more practice, let me know. And let’s schedule the parking lesson for Wednesday morning.” She turned at her top step and surveyed the barn. “I imagine this would displease Harold. You won’t mention our lesson to him, will you?”
“No, of course I won’t.”
Now, nothing can stop you, replayed as Berthea went inside and Addie smoothed a dark red dogwood branch between her thumb and forefinger. A list of female schoolteachers pranced through her head. Had any of them—especially Mrs. Morfordson—faced opposition from their husbands when they went to work?
And then that newspaper ad came to mind. What if she went in and talked with the editor?
She pictured the scene that might take place. He would shake her hand and say, “Why, Mrs. Bledsoe, Your English teacher told me what a good student you were. I’d be delighted to hire you.”
Harold left the barn and puttered down the driveway on the Farm-All, and Addie shook herself. “No, no, no—you mustn’t think this way. It’s one thing for Berthea to get a job since she’s on her own now, but Harold would—”
If he patterned his picture of the perfect woman after Berthea, as Kate thought, that woman had spent the best years of her life right here on this farm, with her teaching dream unfulfilled. But such a scenario would fit with Harold’s reality, because it left no room for that woman’s satisfaction.
Early September sunlight dappled beautiful, full-grown bushes in a seamless botanical fence right where the farmyard needed one. “Whether Harold likes them or not, planting these lilacs was still a good idea. A very good idea.”
Her own compliment floated around her like a prophecy, but Harold’s perennial pout showed as he dipped a pail into the tank. Why couldn’t he be happy on this pleasant fall day? Had he forgotten his opportunity to study this winter?
Suddenly, their big old frame house appeared in a new light. It needed a coat of paint, but otherwise, resembled several others around here. That’s all it was, a typical farmhouse desperate for a good painting and a new roof.
But this place didn’t have to define her any more than it did Berthea. Orville’s will stifled her for decades, yet now, she could move on. And then something else became clear. What Harold said about her in the chicken house was more than wrong.
You are disobedient, you are cursed, you are a temptress, you are this, you are that. In the depths of her being, Addie knew better.
“I may have failed over and over, but I’ve always tried my best. Even when I was little, I felt God with me, and no matter what Harold says about me, He’s never left me.” She walked out into the pungent grove and turned a circle under towering pines.
“Ruth whispered in my ear about divine love and care. Aunt Alvina allowed me to troop along to church and Sunday school, where Ina Schmidt taught me to color Bible stories and pray. All along the way, I’ve learned so much.”
A wind whipped up in the treetops, maybe enough to usher in a thunderstorm. Her back to one of the tall trees, Addie made a declaration. “Before I married Harold, I was Addie Shields. I loved school and devoured books. I may never have learned to believe in myself, but I’m more than my feelings. We’re all complicated, like Kate wrote, but that’s not a fault. No, it’s one of my strengths.”
She stretched her arms. Even if she wasn’t ready to make a move like talking with the newspaper editor, she could still make progress in small ways. She could be sad about this situation with Harold, yet strive toward happiness. She could feel her anger to the full, yet still be capable of love.
The swish of low-hanging boughs seemed to hum, You’re all right just the way you are. This summer’s changes passed before her—her own special tea stash, a bright red Ford coupe, and even her own money, a fortune under Jane’s watchful eye. She still had no idea what to do with it, but like Jane said, everything would become clear when the time was right.
“And this very day, I learned to drive an automobile.” She hugged her arms tight, and her own skin felt just right.
v
October 18, 1942
Dear Addie,
So much war news—Mrs. T’s friend Blanche has a Canadian cousin who knows the Falcon of Malta’s family. Have you heard of him, the ace with the most kills in the Force? He transferred to the RAF, and Alexandre met him—they trained together.
The Falcon received two Distinguished Flying Crosses and has already qualified for a third. Word has it they’ll send him back to Canada for a victory load drive—their version of selling war bonds.
The last time Alexandre wrote, he said if that’s what they give you for being the best, he’d rather be down the line. His letter still bothers me. He wrote about waking up one morning to seven empty bunks in his hut—not one other pilot returned from last night’s mission. He admitted it’s nerve-wracking, and mentioned one fellow who’d flown his limit and should have gone home to his wife. But he stayed for one more mission with his bomber boy buddies. You can guess the outcome.
Americans take the daytime missions now, Brits the nighttime one. Alexandre wrote that their teams find out ahead of time where they’re assigned and have the whole day—or night—to worry about the mission. I can’t imagine the pressure.
Anyway, Evelyn’s friend actually met the Falcon (his real name is Buerling). She stood in line for his autograph at a war production factory.
Other news here—the usual night raids and office work. I hope Harold is still intent on St. Louis, and know you’re coping as best you can. Of course you are.
Cheerio,
Kate
“Come over and listen to tonight’s fireside chat with me. You can bring your knitting, Addie.” Berthea addressed Harold and Addie, but Harold turned away. A few minutes before seven, Addie hurried over, and after the preliminaries, her ears perked up.
Perhaps the most difficult phase of the manpower problem is the scarcity of farm labor in many places. I have seen evidences of the fact, however, that the people are trying to meet it as well as possible.
In one community that I visited a perishable crop was harvested by turning out the whole of the high school for three or four days.
And in another community of fruit growers the usual Japanese labor was not available; but when the fruit ripened, the banker, the butcher, the lawyer, the garage man, the druggist, the local editor, and in fact every able-bodied man and woman in the town, left their occupations, went out gathering the fruit, and sent it to market.
Every farmer in the land must realize fully that his production is part of war production, and that he is regarded by the nation as essential to victory. The American people expect him to keep his production up, and even to increase it. We will use every effort to help him to get labor; but, at the same time, he and the people of his community must use ingenuity and cooperative effort to produce crops and livestock and dairy products.
Berthea clasped her hands and sighed. “Part of war production —essential to victory. Oh, I do hope Harold is listening. This has to make him feel his work is worthwhile.”
“There’s no question that he’s listening.” Addie leaned back against her chair, relishing being here without him. “But whether it makes any difference is another thing.”
November 5, 1942
My dear correspondent,
Thank you for the description of Mr. T, but what about his eye color? And please describe his mother, too. I picture coiffed hair, tasteful earrings, gold rings on slim fingers, and a nose less defining than her son’s. Her eyes are bluer than Mr. T’s, and her husband is deceased? I love your depictions of life there. Sometimes I open your letters behind the chicken house on these mild fall days. The pines lend a breeze, and best of all, the smell keeps Harold away.
Drum roll. Exciting news! I should make you guess, but with your anxiety level, I won’t. Berthea taught me to drive the other day. I already know you’re proud of me.
The passenger cars of a train stirred me. So many are on the move while I sat in a rut. Finally, I was ready to take the risk—we’re such opposites about that. Harold doesn’t know, so I go nowhere. But I CAN, and now understand why you like driving so much.
The tractor descends upon the yard, a sign from on high that I must close. Sending prayers for Alexandre, and for you. I don’t know how those pilots stand the tension of facing ‘the end’ over and over and over.
Love,
Addie
“You found nothing of value to you?” Her forehead fretful, Fern blocked Addie on the church steps.
Jane was right—she must be afraid of something. It must be difficult to harbor such a secret, only to have it spring up years later like a snake in tall grass.
“Oh, a few things. Norman had already given me Millie’s tea canister, so I decided to use the rest of the set. The red and white enamel goes well in our kitchen.”
“Is that all?”
“A nightstand from the second bedroom fits just right beside our bed. Otherwise—”
“I assume Mr. Allen’s sister already retrieved his personal items?” Fern craned her neck in a most unladylike way.
“I think so. She took his clothes and his discharge papers.”
Fern scraped her shoe against the sidewalk. “No. I mean, oh, you know, personal items—his Army uniform, mementos, things like that.”
“I didn’t think they would sell at the auction. Who would want a battered World War I uniform?”
“You never know about these things. Every penny counts these days.”
“I never expected anything, so whatever the sale brings is fine with me.”
Fern’s fingers bit into her arms through her thin sweater. “I must say, you can be most irritating.”
“I’m sorry, Fern, I don’t mean to be. Did you want something from the house?”
“Of course not. But a person’s private items, you know, photographs, that sort of thing—I couldn’t help but notice none of that showed up here.”
“Mrs. Schultz must have sorted through them. I was glad, because I wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway.”
“Well, then.” Fern gave a huge sigh. “I’ve hired a man to arrange the hayracks for the sale. When will you take your car?”
“I’ll need to find a storage shed. Maybe whoever buys the house wouldn’t mind if I left it there for a few weeks?”
“I’ll certainly let you know. You’ll surely come to the sale?”
“Saturday will be too busy. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to have this over, but you must feel honored to have Norman trust you with his request.”
Fern’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t forget to come by around four o’clock to pick up your earnings.”
Watching Norman’s possessions sold to the highest bidder didn’t interest Addie, but Jane attended the auction. On Saturday afternoon, Addie poured a boiled frosting on her black walnut cake for tomorrow’s church potluck and wet Harold’s shirt to iron after supper.
The auction never even crossed her mind until Jane wheeled her green Studebaker into the yard. She stopped as close to the back door as possible and beeped the horn.
Addie wiped her hands on her apron and hurried out. “Is everything all right?”
“Hurry and get in! They’re closing down the auction and Fern’s pacing like a cornered animal. She’s really upset with you.”
“All right. Just a minute.” Addie made sure she turned the oven off, tore at her apron strings and raced to the car.
