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Harold craned his head out the back porch door as Addie started around the house. “What’re you doing now?” His impatient tone strengthened her resolve to stay outside as long as possible.
“Taking a walk.”
“Why would anybody want to do that?” His eyebrows hit the bill of his cap. The icy air stung Addie’s cheeks, but her realization smarted even more.
She might have said, “See how the moisture cleaves to the pine tips? I want to walk over the garden, to remember that seeds wait there for spring already. I want to let the cold penetrate me, and then get warm again. I want to feel something—anything.”
She could have added, “We’re as different as Hitler and Churchill, you and I. As different as north and south. But what hurts most is that you don’t even try to understand me.”
The loud monotony of a news report still spewed from the living room. She’d nurtured a faint hope that tonight would be better, with Harold leaving in the morning. But he hadn’t called to her because he wanted her—there must be something he needed her to do.
Mrs. Morfordson’s words came on a freezing gust as she rounded the west side of the house. “Poets like Donne, Dickinson, and Kipling create parcels of life so real they take our breath away, and novelists reveal who their characters are little by little. The same is true of the people around us, because literature mirrors real life. When someone shows us who they are, it behooves us to believe them.”
Harold made a clear statement tonight, like Rhett Butler walking out on Scarlett in Gone With The Wind. Scarlett pursued him, but when Addie and Kate first saw the movie, they both uttered the wistful phrase, “It’s too late,” in unison.
In the following weeks, they re-enacted the scene a dozen ways, rendering Scarlett less willful and Rhett a bit more patient. He took her along to Europe, and their daughter had no riding accident. But when the movie came back a second time, Scarlett still paved her way to misery and missed the true love right before her.
“I married someone as willful and stubborn as Scarlett. Does he even have the capacity to enjoy this crystal night?” Her question flew away in the wind, but the most important question swirled inside her as she forged a trail to the garden. What did his behavior tell her?
He viewed even Berthea as someone to obey him. The truth glared like their broken-down garden fence. Berthea and George did nothing to contribute to Harold’s attitude except being who they were.
Could that hold true for her, too, as Kate believed? Could it be that she bore no responsibility for his attitudes? But maybe deception had her in its clutches.
With a stick, she traced a heart in the snow. Could she have been so far from reality this whole time? Hadn’t she failed to see the truth about Dad until Ruthie pointed it out?
What do you think he had in his coffee cup all those years... Sleep walking through life...
Before her stood the garden fence she’d plotted so long to hide. A shaft of snow from a bough jiggled the weather-worn wood, and something else came clear. A few axe blows could topple this fence. One of the boards swayed easily when she shoved it with her boot. Instead of trying to hide it, she could tear it down.
Her thoughts pummeled faster than the snow. “You’re just a broken-down fence—that’s all. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. And Harold’s been showing me who he is this whole time, too.”
Snow cover brought the grove closer and turned the house into a huge eerie ship anchored in an ocean of white. A light appeared in their bedroom, where perfect rows of shirts, pants, undershirts, and socks lined the old suitcase she’d packed for Harold.
Jars of chicken, jam, and vegetables, loaves of bread, and two beautiful pies filled several boxes on the kitchen counter. She’d done all this for him, but did he even notice? And if she stayed out here a few more hours, would he truly care?
A white mound already obscured the front steps. Like fine meringue topping, graceful folds hid brick and cement. Then George’s car lights shone on her and he rolled down his window.
“You’re going to catch your death, young lady.” His good-natured comment rolled like laughter.
“Then you’ll find me in the morning.”
His chuckle resonated. That’s what she needed, smiles and laughter and joy. And starting tomorrow, she would find them and hold them close. Her curls, wet through, clung to her cheeks, but her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Normally she had little energy at this time of night, but she shoveled a path to the chicken house, another to the barn, and scooped off the dusting that had accumulated on Berthea’s steps since George left. When she finally went inside, exhilaration replaced the pall that had settled over her since Thanksgiving.
A subdued but joyous rumble began low in her chest. Harold was leaving tomorrow. He was leaving!
“Coal man’s due in the morning. Be sure to get me from the barn when he drives in.” That was Harold’s goodnight, and he turned away after she slid beneath the covers.
In the regularity of his snore, another revelation emanated. His concern wasn’t so much about having a baby, or he would have seized this last chance. The thing he cared about most was power.
Actions speak louder than words. It’s all about power, all about power.
The phrase circled until she finally slept and her pleasant dream of flower buds opening to the sun lingered with her in the morning.
•
BEFORE BREAKFAST, HAROLD piled boxes on the back porch. Soon, Paul Johansen backed his coal truck between the big soft maple tree and the undulating drift dressing the side of the house.
Harold crossed his arms and groaned. “Paulie works even slower than he thinks.”
“But he sure has a good aim toward the coal chute. That must take a lot of practice.”
Harold snorted. “How would you know, Miss Smarty?”
But she did know, and practiced great self-control not to tell him about her driving lessons. She went back to fluting her piecrust and slid her work of art into the oven as he went out to open the chute below the kitchen window.
Cascading black nuggets echoed from the chute to the coal bin. Even their clatter struck Addie as hopeful. Loads lasted about three months, so with an early spring, she shouldn’t have to order again.
Filling the bin reminded her of all Harold’s work around here. No matter what, he was a hard worker, unlike her dad.
Sometimes Dad ordered coal to keep their family warm, sometimes he didn’t. When Reuben still lived at home, he exchanged his labor with the coal company for their winter supply. But one cold night, he took off during the wee hours. The next morning, Mama’s voice rose to a near-wail.
“Avery, we don’t even know where he’s gone.”
“At least he left the coal bin full.”
From then on until Herman grew strong enough to work, the hodgepodge three-room house welcomed winter drafts like old friends. Of course, Addie still saw her breath in the upstairs now, like most people around here. But the cold in her childhood went far deeper.
She and Ruthie put Herman between them in bed when the fuel ran out, and Bonnie slept with Mama and Dad. When a truck finally brought coal, light returned to Mama’s eyes.
Slam. The kitchen floor vibrated when Harold dropped the chute lid. A few seconds later, he clumped down the basement stairs.
The aroma of baking apples and cinnamon engulfed the kitchen, and Addie checked his suitcase one last time. Then she dropped dumplings into the beef broth.
“Are you excited, Harold? What do you think it will be like at the seminary?” His calculating glance asked what it mattered to her, but she persevered.
“Don’t you wonder about your classes and the new people you’ll meet?”
“You think I’m going on a vacation or something? This will be hard work.”
An hour later when Maynard’s pick-up chugged into the yard, Harold glanced at her. “Don’t let the pipes freeze, now. I showed you how to use the blow torch in the crawl space over the basement ceiling, remember?”
“Yes.” Not a pleasant memory of scooting into a cobwebby hole in the foundation to hold the torch to the pipes under the un-insulated back porch. She waited for something more, but he hefted canned goods and his suitcase into the pick-up box.
He was about to get in when Berthea stepped out and waved, but Harold turned his back. Maynard goosed the engine up the driveway’s slight incline, and that was that. Berthea put her hand to her chest.
Later, Addie walked to get the mail with a mix of emotions battling inside. A dull throb of disappointment reminded her nothing had changed last night, but stronger than that, relief enveloped her.
“Guess we women are on our own.” Berthea’s cheerful greeting belied the softness in her eyes when Addie delivered her mail. Her voice perked when she glanced through the letters.
“Oh good, here’s one from Bill and Sue. Maybe Lissa scribbled me a picture this time.” A lemon and Borax scent laced the sparkling kitchen.
“You’ve been busy cleaning again—looks great, Berthea.”
“Won’t be long and I’ll be a working woman, so I figured I’d best get things in order. Let me know if you need anything, and come over for supper tonight. Listening to radio programs with George is fun.”
“Thanks, I will.” Addie entered her back porch and ambled through the rooms. With the whole house to herself now, why not spread Kate’s letters out on the table, along with the map she’d drawn? Finally, she could study the lay of London.
London
November 22, 1942
Dear Addie,
Your chicken factory reads like a movie. So does the Simon mystery. Jane’s reaction to you mentioning him fits a thought in one of Mrs. T’s books. (I’m back to psychology now.)
“Individuals often submerge deep sorrow, but their silence implies no lack of integrity. Honesty with oneself evidences the maturity to keep one’s own counsel.”
And for goodness sake, you’re not mouthy. When pressed, you finally garnered the courage to level with your dad, that’s all. What do you call rebellion—attending the Methodist Youth Fellowship meeting? I’d say your dad’s incoherence contributed more to his railings than your honesty did. Maybe Jane needed to hear you mention Simon. Truth speakers can’t let others’ reactions beach their craft.
A few questions: shouldn’t each of us be FOR ourselves, since our Creator is? If we judge our every move, who would ever do anything? Aren’t our ideas and passions given us for a reason?
Things continue here as normal. Mrs. T invited me for my first plum pudding. She says no news is good news, and maybe Alexandre will come during Christmas. Why not assume the best? And wonderful news: we’ve bombed Berlin. Everyone here has been waiting for that. Revenge is sweet...
What will you do the 25th, besides all the chores? I wish I could transport you here for a few hours—we would do the town! As for thinking alike, I can’t imagine living with someone without freely sharing your thoughts. Yes, Alex thinks like me, though not as much as you.
Did your news carry Mr. Churchill’s speech at the Lord Mayor’s Luncheon, about Montgomery turning back Rommel at El Alamein and nearly finishing the Nazi army? After our awful defeats, we had to win—we had to. And the Prime Minister reminded us. Mrs. T adores W.C. If we didn’t already believe in word power, his speeches would convince us.
“The bright gleam has caught the helmets of our soldiers, and warmed and cheered all our hearts. This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”
Ahh... such eloquence. Mr. T brought a radio to work and the performance reminded me of your struggle with Harold. Maybe his absence will mark the end of the beginning.
Mr. Churchill continued, “We mean to hold our own. I have not become the King’s first minister to preside over the liquidation of the British Empire.”
Everyone in the office applauded, many shed tears, and we all took fresh hope. Check the library for a copy of the November Tenth New York Times.
On a Hollywood note, did you hear that Henry Fonda enlisted? Remember watching Wake Island? Amazing to think those actors might soon be in the thick of real battles.
Your letters cheer me, as well as the Thanksgiving packet you sent. Your jam is definitely number one with Mrs. T, and Charles, too. (It’s strange to hear Mrs. T call him by his first name when he visits her.)
Onward, then...
Kate
