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Dust roiled the curve, and Addie stole a glance at Jane who gripped the steering wheel like Adolph Huhnlein. Harold used to have a picture of the famous German racecar driver in the ’33 Autobahn groundbreaking ceremony. But when the Luftwaffe dropped its first bombs on London, he tore it to shreds and tossed them into the pigs’ swill.
“Swine! German swine!”
The Studebaker swayed on the gravel, but Jane maintained control. “I heard Fern muttering on my way to the car and thought I’d better come for you right away.”
She took her eyes off the road for a second. “The sale went well, but she could only fume about you not being there.”
They roared into the alley, and Addie ran around the car to open her door, but Jane waved her away. “The less I see of that woman, the better.”
A dwindling crowd lingered near the empty hayrack, so Addie straightened her work dress and headed toward Fern. Her brilliant hair and a bright yellow dress made her easy to find.
“A person would think you didn’t care about this money at all, Addie Bledsoe. Maybe we should put it toward the orphanage fund.”
Addie glanced around at the bystanders, beckoned Fern farther away, and lowered her voice. “We have no power to change Norman’s will, right?”
“No, but you certainly do exasperate a person. Anybody with an ounce of sense would have been here a half hour ago, or all day long. I don’t know how Harold stands it. A preacher needs an organized, timely wife.”
Addie’s heart thrummed faster, but she tamped her heating emotions. No use making a scene. Then Harold would hear about this for sure. She took a deep breath and looked Fern in the eye.
“If you have the money ready, I can take it now.”
Stand up to a bully. For the first time, it occurred to her that Fern, more subtly than Harold, did her own share of bullying.
“All right then.” The words were issued crisply, like the maple and oak leaves underfoot on this beautiful fall day. Fern handed over a wad of bills and Addie forced herself to stay calm under another tirade.
“I hold my tongue only because of my promise, but a good wife would find a way to get this money to her husband. I’m afraid Harold probably has lost out on that score.”
The same inspiration that overcame Addie that morning in the library when Fern attacked Kate swept her. Her reply issued forth with a life of its own.
“Why would you say that? I keep my promises, more than you know, especially to Norman about his war memories.” Fern’s blush darkened by two shades. “And he judged me capable of handling this money, don’t you think?”
With her stuck-out chin, Fern resembled a fox ready to lunge at its prey. But strength flowed through Addie.
“I’ll take some time to think about it, but I may donate to the thousands of desperate orphans in London. Kathryn Isaacs knows firsthand about them, and would make sure not a penny went to waste.”
Fern choked on whatever she intended to say. But Addie, aware of a strange tranquility, stood still. The sun on her back seeped into her spirit, and Fern stalked off, muttering under her breath. When she was out of sight, Addie hurtled back to Jane, who headed the Studebaker out of town.
Near the railroad tracks, she glanced over. “She was nasty?”
“Yes, but at least I don’t have to deal with her any more.”
“And it looks like you have more money for your dream basket.”
“Dream basket?”
“Mama taught us girls to keep one. I’d saved almost a hundred dollars when I got married.” Purpose outlined Jane’s profile. “Let’s stop at my place and see how much you’ve added to yours.”
Within minutes, bills and coins spread across Jane’s table like troops assembled for battle. “Make some tea for us, Addie. This will take a while.”
They counted twice, and then Jane re-counted. “For safety’s sake. Three hundred and forty-seven dollars in this pile alone.” Addie sipped her tea in wonder as Jane set the last dollar bill on a stack of ones, secured rubber bands around three other crinkled piles, and gave a low whistle.
“That makes more than a thousand dollars in all. Do you want me to keep this with the rest?”
The tally swirled in Addie’s head. A few years back, she lacked $5 to pay for the senior trip to Des Moines. At the last minute, Mrs. Morfordson came through with the money, and her comment resounded now: “An anonymous person supplied this without knowing who would receive the donation. You deserve to go on this trip, if anybody does. You’ll have so much fun climbing the state capitol stairs with Kate.”
Yet to suddenly have this much money for no specific purpose created a puzzle. Jane read her unspoken questions.
“Don’t you fret. When the time is right, you’ll know why this money appeared. You’ll come asking for it, maybe in a dreadful hurry, and it’ll be waiting right here underneath my potato bin. If I’m gone, you can always find it.”
Beneath the curved tin potato receptacle, a pocket-like niche created a cobwebbed shelf. No thief would think to run a hand under the bin.
“No one on earth knows about this place. Found it by accident myself, and thought it was perfect for your stash.”
“Anywhere is better than the best hiding place in our house. Harold has a way of going through my things.”
“You don’t say. I suppose he thinks he has a right, just like he thinks he can see the inside your head. But he can’t, can he?”
For now, Addie set the question aside. Hiding Kate’s letters in the storeroom made sense, but she shuddered at the responsibility of this much money. Far better to entrust it to Jane.
Her ears hummed like the grove in steady wind. Harold knew nothing about this treasure, and Jane would never let the secret slip. But inside, a third Great War simmered. Keeping such a secret might some day lead to an unprecedented explosion.
Jane sensed her agitation. “Don’t lose sleep over this. In wartime, people do things they would never do otherwise. We can’t foresee the future, and who knows? Harold may still find a way to join the fight. Besides, we have no idea what other challenges might come up. You’re only honoring Norman’s wishes. Nothing wrong in that.”
When they added the auction money, the pile overflowed a 6 x 10 inch cigar box. Addie carefully positioned the bills and shut the lid with a queasy stomach. Even the mellow tea failed to quiet her fears.
“Every woman has a right to something of her own, but it takes us time to figure out what that is.” Jane wound two wide rubber bands around the box and nudged it into the covert space.
“Thank you, Jane. I feel so much better leaving this here with you.”
“Still planning to butcher chickens Tuesday?”
“Yes. Do you still want to come?”
“I surely do.”
“We’ll have the place to ourselves. Berthea’s found a ride to see the grandchildren for two days, and Harold will be in the field. I’d better get going now.” Addie paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you today.”
“Want a ride home?”
“No, thanks. It’s a perfect walking day.”
Beside Jane’s tool shed, a screen full of walnuts topped two sawhorses. What a good idea to gather them now and avoid the slippery mess when their husks blackened and fell in oily, slimy pieces. Every fall, the tractor smashed hundreds of them in the driveway, and Harold yelled at her to get them picked up.
A slight breeze rustled drying cornfields, and Jane’s words resonated. A right to something of her own... takes time to figure out what it is.
One night years ago when they walked home from a neighbor’s, Ruthie stopped in the middle of the road. “Listen to the corn.”
That was the first time she heard the corn stretching. Now, she was that cornfield. She could make decisions and claim her feelings and opinions, no matter how Harold reacted. Deciding what to do with that money might not be easy, but she’d joined the ranks of people who made similar choices every day.
Back at home, a screen stored in the corncrib caught her eye, so she hauled it down. Walnuts in various stages already littered the yard, and some had started to blacken and ooze.
She propped the screen on two empty barrels and filled a pail with green walnuts, some smooth like rubber balls, some dried into the first rot, with the wavy exterior of a topographical map. Others already cracked at the ends.
Under the lilac bushes, busy squirrels worked through smelly black pulp that stained whatever it touched. Addie spread three pails full of the messy nuts across the screen.
When Harold came in the yard, he backed the tractor toward the shed and pulled out his two-row corn picker. He squatted to reach the machine’s inmost joints with his grease gun and spied Addie.
“You’re wasting your time. They’ll rot just as well on the ground.”
He pushed back his cap, and she considered. In a way, he was right—all walnuts shared the same destiny. Their husks disintegrated and dried, to be stowed in burlap sacks in the fruit cellar.
But who said it was better for them to rot on the ground? An urge to aim a walnut at Harold’s stubborn head nearly overcame her.
A woman must take charge of her own life with the brain God gave her.
Her life might consist of walnuts, squash, and beans to pick, chickens to butcher, eggs to wash, floors to scrub, shirts and sheets to iron, and pies to bake. But it didn’t belong to Harold. It belonged to her.
She needn’t respond, nor tell him everything she thought. After all, what passed through her mind made her an individual, didn’t it? And couldn’t she decide how to handle her responsibilities? She never suggested improvements to him about his work, so why should he care how she managed the walnut harvest?
The old wheelbarrow’s wooden handles felt grainy against her palms. She tossed her curls back and shot him a smile.
Actions speak louder than words. Who used to say that, Mama or Mrs. Morfordson? Maybe both.
“Don’t you love the smell of fall in the air, Harold?”
“Hunnh?” His frown jagged lower as she aimed the persnickety wheelbarrow toward the closest walnuts.
v
“I hate to tell you this, girls, but your time is almost up.” Corralled into a makeshift wire enclosure, the chickens eyed Addie with caution.
The oldest stewing hen cackled furiously, sending the guilt of betrayal scuttling down Addie’s backbone. She sharpened two butcher knives on the file from Harold’s workbench and waved to Berthea as she left the yard. “Have a good time.”
“Here I am leaving you again,” said Berthea “I’ll make it up to you. Apple pie some night next week.”
“That’s all right, Jane’s coming over.”
“Really?”
“The other night, she said she liked to put up chickens. I can’t believe that, but she’ll be great help.”
“She’s a worker, that’s for sure.”
Berthea backed the Chevy around the windmill, whose metal flaps whistled in an east wind. Good—she and Jane could sit near the fire to singe feathers off the slain birds without breathing the smoke.
Like a dirty chartreuse bug, the Studebaker entered the yard at precisely 7:10, and Jane emerged. Butcher knife in hand, she looked intent on slaughter. “Good morning. I’m here for my orders.”
“Okay, take a look at my lay-out and tell me if anything’s missing.”
“Nope, you’re all organized. We think alike, you know.” Jane stood near the stump, holding the axe at the ready. “You catch and I’ll chop. Just keep them coming.”
In 20 minutes flat, they amassed 15 chickens. Addie had half a notion to go for five more, but that would make her wearier when Harold walked in tonight. No use starting out irritable and touchy.
The tinder she’d gathered from the grove leaped into flame when she struck a match, and by 10 o’clock, the plucked, singed birds cooled in tubs on the shady side of the back porch. Jane cleaned up the mess with boiling water Addie carried from the house.
The pigs made a racket when she tossed chicken heads and feet into the swill. They barely looked up as she addressed them. “Your standards lower by the day, fellas.”
After changing the water twice, Jane pronounced the carcasses cool enough to carry inside. They hauled them by the dishpan, and then Jane positioned a carcass on the breadboard, unsheathed her sharp knife and halved it in one wallop.
She grinned over at Addie. “My mother taught me to halve them first. Makes the gutting easier.” They each gutted a half, and then another whack of Jane’s knife produced quarters. Addie cut eating pieces, and soon five cut-up chickens boiled in two enormous pots.
At half past 11, Jane laid down her knife. “I have to check on something. Be back in an hour.”
At noon, Harold came in and took three ham sandwiches with milk and a handful of cookies to the living room. When he passed through again, he glowered. “Stinks in here.”
Maintain your English dignity. Without answering, Addie headed for the barn with another scrap pail. Before she returned, the tractor chugged back to the field.
November 16, 1942
Dear Kate,
The chickens are laid to rest in the fruit cellar. Walt has relatives in St. Louis where Harold can stay free, but he’s taking canned goods for lunches. Several chickens will end up there. Jane cut the butchering time in half. In spite of her arthritis, she works like the wind, and as usual, being with her did my heart good.
Prayer is a presence—I like that. For me, thoughts, prayer, and wishes blend with the war news these days, and with stirrings of something inside. I’m not sure how to describe it... maybe later. Anyway, back to Jane. This morning, she said we think alike—wouldn’t it be wonderful to marry someone like that? Do you and Alexandre think alike?
At 4:30 the last of the jars waited to be filled, and Jane gathered her belongings. “Think I’ll go on home now.” I tried to get her to take some chicken home, but she said it would be a while before she eats any again. Still, she insisted that she enjoyed the day’s work.
Unpredictable as Old Brown’s drool, impetuous words departed my mouth. The image of that man I saw coming to her side door flitted through my mind. Then I let something slip that I never meant to utter. “Maybe your husband will want some.” My thoughtless outburst embarrassed her, and she headed out fast.
“Oh no,” I thought. “Now I’ve done it.” I followed along like a lost soul, hoping I hadn’t ruined our friendship. I opened the car door for her, and after she got in, her normal cheeriness returned.
“Come over real soon, Addie.” Dumbfounded, I waved her off. My tongue has rebelled before, especially in my adolescence. But why couldn’t I rein it in now? What would I do if I lost Jane’s friendship?
Ruthie wrote me this week. Herman works nearby and Dad keeps busy. Hard to imagine, but she could always handle him, unlike me.
You’re thinking about my slip with Jane and saying, “Think of the good things about yourself. Think how Jane must value your friendship, too. I’m trying. Praying you’ll hear about Alexandre very soon.
Your mouthy friend,
Addie
“Addie—are you down there?” Berthea’s call echoed down to the basement, where cobwebs fought Addie’s reorganization campaign. She’d swept the ceiling and walls before she started, and with her feet straddling a shelf and an old wooden stool, she called up the stairs.
“Be right up.”
Berthea’s countenance crumbled when Addie entered the bright kitchen.
“What is it?”
“George dropped Willie off this morning, and I was working out in the shed. Willie pulled an old wagon the boys used to play with, but all of a sudden he disappeared. I’ve called and called.”
Shivers coursed Addie’s arms. “Where have you looked?”
“In the barn, all around the yard—”
“How about out by the driveway—I’ve seen him head for those cedars before. And the chicken house?”
“No—I’ll check both places, but I don’t think he could get the chicken house door open.”
“I’ll search the grove.”
“Could he have gotten that far? If he gets in the cornfield, he could be...” Addie knew what Berthea meant—lost for good.
She patted her shoulder. “We’ll find him.”
Berthea scuttled out and Addie flew to the grove. A little fellow like Willie would be drawn here—so many pinecones, squirrels playing tag, and fallen logs to explore. The soft floor made tracking impossible, but the coolness and a quiet inner sense drew her farther.
“Willie! Answer me, Willie—where are you?” Berthea’s frantic calls echoed from the driveway, too. Addie concentrated on the hum of the pines in the barest of breezes.
Near the west edge of the trees, a rhythmic thrash, thrash, thrash sounded from the corn rows, now russet-gold and ready for harvesting. Someone walked there, slow and steady, closer and closer. Addie took shelter behind a wide pine, since an adult obviously made all that noise.
Like curtains opening, scratchy dry leaves parted, and a man sat Willie on the ground—a short man in patched overalls and a black wool beret. Addie held her breath as he bent low and shooed the little boy toward the grove.
“Go on, now. You hear me, little tyke? Go and find Addie and Berthea.”
Willie touched his fingers, but the man shook his head. “No—you can’t play in the corn no more.” His voice turned harsh. “Get back to the house right now—go on.”
Willie’s bottom lip protruded.
“Hurry up. Addie’s waiting for you.” The man’s face twisted as Willie wavered between a pout and tears. “Listen to me. You get going.”
Finally, Willie took a few steps, and the man crept back under cover. The corn took him in, and when Willie lost sight of him, he cried out, but Addie took over.
“Willie—Aunt Addie’s here. Come on, honey.” She folded him in her arms, aware of wild running down the cornrows in the direction of Jane’s house.
“Thank you,” she called, certain Simon didn’t hear a word.
v
Dearest Addie,
Oct. 31, All Saints Eve, and this letter will be scattered, like my thoughts. I visited Westminster Abbey today. Crowds recalled those gone before us and our status as children of the King. I suppose thousands more come in normal times. I’m so unlike a King’s daughter, yet remind myself God still claims me as His very own. Sounds selfish, but our feeble choices reflect on us, not on His faithfulness.
Amidst all the grandeur, I recalled Adolph Hitler sparing Westminster and Winchester Cathedral for his coronation as England’s ruler. He sickens me.
Rumors float from occupied France of Jews deported by the thousands. Mr. T hints of this, and of Stalin’s murders. Yet England’s past reveals travesties, and so does ours. Remember the Trail of Tears? I wonder if anyone rose up against that great wrongdoing at the time.
I bought a Brownie camera and will send a photo of the Abbey when I fill up the full roll. Off the subject, did I tell you Mr. T’s dark blue eyes turn indigo at bad news? You were right. Mrs. T does take her tea with toast. Her garden begs for your touch, with poor soil and the worker shortage, but a salvageable wisteria and an old honey-suckle hold on.
You guessed right about her tastes, too—a suit with a silk blouse, sometimes a tuck here and there or a soft cravat. During one of my sleepless fits, I realized that even her rose silk robe accentuates her coloring. Her bearing reminds me of the Queen Mum, statuesque. Either she uses a powerful girdle or has strong muscles. And she always wears a gold ring.
From the mantel photos, I assume Mr. T senior was a Great War officer. You’d be proud of me for curbing some questions, as you did with Fernella.
Rationing frustrates Mrs. T’s penchant for entertaining, so she delights in the glorious packets you and Berthea send. She has friends all over the world—India, South Africa, Rhodesia, and one of them shipped us some clarified butter. What a treat.
I’ve laid off psychology for a while, to nurture my theological bent. Maybe God deals with us like Mr. T with his staff? We expect sharpness, but find Him gentle with our foibles. “Come, let us reason together...” Mr. T even admits his mistakes. Once, I posted a letter to the wrong office, and he acknowledged he’d given me the wrong address.
For days, I’ve searched for that Scripture about God reasoning with us. I bet you can open right to it—seems Isaiah or Jeremiah-ish. Do you think the Almighty sets a standard we must attain or be damned, or takes us as we are, because as our creator, He’s a realist?
About Alexandre—I pace my room nightly. By bedtime, my mind wakes and I review our life together. This thought train does no good, so adieu for now.
Kate
P.S. Did I say you struck out on Mrs. T’s eyes? They’re as dark as yours.
