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“You introduced me to oyster stew on Christmas Eve, Berthea. It’s a German tradition, isn’t it?” Addie took a second helping of the mellow soup and another biscuit.
“Now we can say that word out loud. Harold forgets he spoke German with his grandmother until she died, and oh, how he loved her sauerbraten.”
“I’d vote for sauerkraut any day.” George’s eyes twinkled, but his voice sobered. “Did you hear that some general stores around here canceled their normal oyster order this year, for fear of provoking more local anger?”
Berthea shook her head. “I understand, but that’s too bad—wish we could detest Hitler without hating all that great German food! Mama always made mulled cider, red cabbage and spatzle when I was growing up, but my Norwegian aunt married into the family and introduced us to oyster stew.”
George gave a Christmas Eve-sized grin. “And tonight, we’ve got it all, thanks to you.”
Berthea squeezed his hand, but couldn’t hide her wistful expression, so Addie chimed in. “This’ll be a different Christmas, with Bill and Sue not coming, won’t it?”
“Yes, I miss those little ones, but wouldn’t want Bill driving with them in this weather, either. They’re forecasting blizzard conditions around Cedar Rapids. But with you and George around, we still make a family.”
She brought more stew from the stove, and George took another helping. “Can’t forget all the empty places at so many tables with sons or husbands thousands of miles away tonight.”
“I don’t understand why the seminary called Harold down there before the holidays, but maybe it’s a good thing.” Berthea reached for something on the floor. “I have a little gift for you, Addie, since Jane’s due to pick you up soon.” She handed over a paper sack and Addie peeked inside.
“Oh, this is the best surprise ever, so thoughtful of you.”
“Well, I know Harold frowns on you buying tea.”
George cleared his throat. “I didn’t bring you a gift, but promise to clean out the driveway early every morning when I do the chores.”
“You already brought my Christmas yesterday—Kate’s letter. It took twice as long as usual to get here this time.”
“Lots of Atlantic war traffic these days. Has she heard from her husband yet?”
“No.” Addie finished her second roll, but George’s next question made her gulp.
“Have either of you heard from Harold?”
In the awkward silence, Addie forced a smile. “I’m sure he’s busy.”
Berthea set down her fork. “That’s no excuse.” Tires crunched in the driveway. “That’s Jane—tell her hello for me, and that I still remember that wonderful supper she brought over last winter.”
“I will. Have a blessed Christmas Eve, you two—sorry I’m leaving you with the dishes.”
George brought her coat and saw her to the door. “We’ll do them together. Enjoy the service tonight, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
When Addie looked up from putting on her boots, he was studying Berthea with devotion. Harold hadn’t even sent her a postcard, although she’d mailed him a scarf for Christmas.
A clear, starry sky hid the Studebaker’s dents, and Jane seemed particularly talkative. “Isn’t it beautiful out? I’m so glad you’re coming, it’ll be like the old days when you visited with Alvina and Kate. Oh, before I forget, we’ll pick up your coupe before January first—some day next week.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten.”
A friendly parishioner ushered them into the sanctuary, where soft blue light enveloped the oak altar. Someone handed out small candles, and Jane led the way to a pew on the right, where Aunt Alvina said the women always used to sit.
Right for women, left for men, that’s how it used to be, with a door on each side—never the twain shall meet.
After they sang “I Am So Glad Each Christmas Eve,” the pastor read the nativity story. His resonant voice drifted over rows of worshipers clad in wool coats while the massive floor grate belched heat with a musty tinge.
“We have prayed through the darkness and possibility of Advent. ‘Come to us, make straight paths through the wilderness of our lives. Reduce the mountains our pride has raised and shore up the valleys formed by guilt. Now, build in our hearts a wide way for Your Son to enter anew.’ This evening we embrace the joy of our Savior’s birth with gratitude.”
In the front pew, his youngest boy shifted in his seat next to a gaggle of sisters and brothers. Down the row, his mother sent the lad a sharp look.
“Our Lord came into this world in the shadow of a cruel oppressor. His was not an easy life, and under Roman rule, he was no stranger to tyranny. Tonight, we remember our brothers and sisters around this hurting world in similar circumstances.
“We all plead daily for deliverance from great evil unleashed on many nations. As we gather in this warm place, tens of thousands are cast from their homelands and wander the earth, and our soldiers suffer for our sake far from home.”
Pastor Bachmann endured his own share of suffering, some stemming from First Methodist, fueled by Harold himself. The mountains of our pride and the valleys formed by our guilt played a haunting melody.
Which troubled her most? As Pastor Bachmann spoke of the longing for peace among the nations, guilt won easily. At home, surrounded by reminders of all the times she disappointed or displeased Harold, not a day went by when she felt free of guilt.
At least now, with him gone, no fresh evidence mounted of her failures. But he obviously had no desire to share Christmas with her in even the smallest way.
Shoring up the valleys... guilt had gouged plenty of them in her soul. How could they be shored up? Then, like a Christmas Eve angel sent just for her, Kate’s analyzing came to mind. Harold’s behavior made a statement about him, not her, so why should she allow guilt to harass her?
Jane chose that moment to glance over with such kindness in her eyes—what a true friend she’d found, and living so close by. Maybe shoring up was what Jane and Kate did when they refused to let her blame herself for everything.
“We look forward to our Easter hope, for the gift of the baby Jesus means the Father highly values us. His coming to earth tells us we are worthy by bearing our grief and carrying our sorrows. Whatever loads we shoulder, He longs to share.”
Pastor Bachmann faced the altar and bowed his head. “As we enter a new year, Father in Heaven, reveal Thy benevolence and help us believe that He who sent His only Son for us will also with Him freely give us all things.”
He lighted a candle and carried it to two parishioners who walked down the aisle. Then they returned, lighting candles all the way. Row by row, individual flames multiplied until their joint warmth became tangible. In the glow, people’s faces took on an ethereal radiance.
“Come to us anew this night, Lord God. Invade our darkness and shine eternal light into our hungry hearts. Grant us to carry the light with us wherever we go, whatever we face.”
The altar lights dimmed, and a bulky man hurried out the side door. As everyone sang “Silent Night,” the pale blue light once again cast friendly shadows on the high walls. The tender harmony touched Addie, and she hated having the lovely song end.
Pastor Bachmann’s firm handshake strengthened her as the people filed into the cold. Along frozen roads out of Currier and Ives, Jane kept silent. But near the Bledsoe farm, she turned to Addie.
“Would you mind stopping over for a while? I have a little surprise, and I’ll drive you home later.”
“Oh, I’d love to. I wasn’t looking forward to that big empty house.”
v
December 25, 1942
Dear Kate,
Your letter arrived—Alexandre is all right! I hope you see him today. You never give up, and your persistence amazes me. It’s quiet here, but I’m thankful for a warm downstairs and our bathroom, since it’s 20 below zero. Most of all, I’m so glad Alexandre’s alive.
Last night, Jane gave me an unexpected gift. She invited me over after church, and her mystery man waited for us in her living room. He sank back in his overstuffed chair when I entered.
“We have company, Simon.” Jane flung her coat over a chair. “Remember, I told you it’s Christmas Eve?”
He smiled shyly and brushed his fingers over his flannel shirt. “Like we had with Sarah?”
Jane ignored that and introduced us. Then she asked if I’d mind heating some tea water. My mind raced. Who was Sarah? In this bitter cold, did Simon still stay in the cabin? He looked too delicate to clear that long path to the house. He seemed so innocent, almost boyish. Had he undergone a personality change? The burbling teapot and a simple verse stilled my questions. Love one another. All my wonderings vanished as Jane read from a big black family Bible, and Simon drank in the story.
When she finished, Jane handed me a package, and gave a larger one to Simon. I rummaged in my coat pocket for her gift. The day we canned corn, she’d exclaimed over my sharp knives.
“My sharpener’s gone missing, and I can’t imagine how I lost it. I’ve looked everywhere.”
Norman had a sharpener like mine, so I set it aside. This morning, I wrapped it in one of the two dozen embroidered dishtowels the church ladies gave us for our wedding. Knowing Jane’s love of country, I chose the American flag design.
Simon giggled with anticipation when he told Jane to open her gift first. She arched her brows and tugged at the ribbon. Then her face lighted with pleasure. She remarked on my good memory. I asked if she’d ever found her sharpener, and she said she hadn’t. Simon gasped, and Jane’s eyebrows arched as he wriggled out of his chair and crossed the room in a haphazard lope, slid his hand along a shelf, and pulled out a gray metal piece—a knife sharpener much like the one in Jane’s hands. Jane half rose, and Simon ducked his head.
Then, her face softened. “Were you playing a trick on me?”
He tightened his lips in a charming O. “Merry Christmas, Janey.”
She fingered the sharpener and patted his hand. “All right, then. Sit down and open your gift.”
He clapped his hands over a Five and Dime puzzle of a sleigh and horses. “’Member how we used to ride, Janey?”
Jane’s moist eyes matched his. “It’s Addie’s turn now.”
I hoped she hadn’t spent much. The package held a gold locket, and under its tiny latch, what do you think I found?
“How did you...?”
“Letha Cady cleaned out Alvina’s things and saved a few items back for Kate. But when I told Letha about our neighboring, she gave me this picture of Kate to give you. The locket belonged to my mother.”
I hugged her hard—to think she would give up this treasure for me. And the gift goes on—now you can delight in this story. My “Who is Sarah?” will be answered in due time, I’m sure. Ambiguities improve my patience.
Write and tell me all about your plum pudding, please.
Near at heart,
Addie
The New Year came in with another cold blast. A week later, Kate wrote that he’d resumed his duties, and as Addie cleaned the chicken roosts one morning, apprehension hovered over her like a cloud.
When she checked the animals, the filly raised her great dark eyes. One day last week, she sauntered over for her usual carrot, and a name occurred to Addie.
“Missy. That’s what I’ll call you. We won’t tell old Harold.”
She inched her fingers toward Missy’s nose and waited for her to adjust. Little by little, she worked her way to her muzzle, but Missy still startled, even after all these weeks. Hopefully, the reflex would fade, along with Addie’s fear of horses.
Reuben had sometimes saddled the workhorse for Ruth and Addie, but one time, he disappeared after helping them on. The next thing Addie knew, she and Ruth struggled on the ground in a tangled mass of legs and arms.
Luckily, the horse stood still until they crawled away. Ruth grabbed the reins and tightened the cinch. “Get back on, Addie. Otherwise you’ll always be scared.”
But Addie stepped back, and to this day, that fear troubled her. The summer after their wedding, Harold invited her along when he leaped onto Daisy to check the fencerows one evening. She put her foot in the stirrup, but her hand trembled.
“Come on, don’t be a scaredy-cat.”
Addie cowered, and he never offered again. Now, in the quiet barn, Missy offered hope. Touching her softer-than-snow muzzle fired Addie’s desire.
“Maybe once you’re grown, you’ll give me a little ride.”
The temperature dropped that evening, so she checked the chickens a second time. “You girls stay warm, though it won’t be easy.”
In the morning, the tank evidenced more ice than water, even though George broke it earlier. Addie bore down on the ice pick and picked out the largest chunks with a set of tongs.
Her hands hurt with the cold, so she buried them in a ewe’s woolly fleece. As her fingers thawed, a vehicle rolled down the driveway, and a man hurried toward the house, the black rubber flies of his unbuckled overshoes flapping in the wind. Emmet Lardner from the post office? Addie yelled her loudest.
“Emmet! I’m over here.”
He retraced his steps, his thin nose red and eyes watering. He carried an envelope in his gloved hand.
“Mrs. Bledsoe?”
“Yes?”
“Addie Bledsoe?”
Her heart did a flip-flop.
“Got a telegram for you here.”
Emmet fished in his back pocket for a paper folded in thirds, splayed it on the doorsill, and handed her a pencil. “Sign here.”
She scrawled her name while he shifted his feet in the snow.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
Back in the barn, Addie broke the seal and pulled out a note-card-sized message.
January 6,1943 Stop A’s plane found Stop Pray Stop Love you Stop Kate
Telegrams cost by the word, that much she knew. Even with this dire news, Kate spent extra money to include “Love you.”
Harold’s face flashed before her, distant and strained. Berthea’s pithy Christmas Eve statement about him neglecting to write ran through her mind. That’s no excuse. No, busyness was no excuse—and now Kate had gone to the expense of sending this telegram.
How long had it been since Harold said, “I love you?” She couldn’t even say. But she put the question aside and headed for her new desk—the kitchen table. Now she could write to Kate anytime she wished.
January 6,1943 Stop Dear Kate Stop Holding out hope Stop Love YOU Stop Addie
Her egg money can produced five dollars, and she raced to catch Berthea before she left for school. They met near the Chevy.
“Sure, I’ll send it for you.” Berthea’s brow crinkled. “Something’s wrong?”
“Alexandre’s plane crashed.”
Berthea shuddered in spite of her fur collar and perky knitted hat. “I’ll be praying.”
The hens, stricken with the cold, laid only half their normal amount. When the truck came last Thursday, only ten dozen eggs waited in cardboard containers. Addie addressed her best laying hens, like brown mounds hunkered down on their perches.
“You girls are hoarding your resources. Guess that’s what we all have to do in this cold.”
The cowgirl on the egg money can sipped her perennial cup of steaming coffee, and Addie noticed the pockets on her leather skirt. “With your fancy fringe and your hot coffee, you don’t have a care in the world.”
She put the lid on and slid the can back on its shelf, cooked some oatmeal with raisins, and turned on the weather report. The bay window’s bleak sunshine invited her in to eat breakfast.
“There’s no getting away from the cold today, 18 below zero, and it’s too icy to drive, folks. Stoke your furnace. Expect winds up to 30 miles an hour, but we can be glad there’s no snow in the forecast.”
The stubborn sewing machine awaited her attention. She could knit on the sweater she’d started two days ago, and had a new sock pattern to try. But the desire to talk with someone pressed at her.
The wind howled through the abandoned chimney between the living room and dining room and rattled the windows without mercy. The day stretched ahead like a long, weary road.
“I’ll go to Jane’s, that’s what.” Addie bundled Harold’s overalls over her clothes, wriggled on his chore coat, and wrapped an extra scarf over her head. Then she wound another one around her neck.
Maybe Jane would enjoy a jar of apple butter. She shuffled down the basement steps and put a pint in an oversized pocket. When she emerged, the egg man drove up, so she watched him retrieve her eggs from the milk house and met him halfway for her payment.
His nose shone red as he handed her a few dollar bills and some coins. “Cold ’nuff to blister a fella’s skin today.”
He hurried back to his truck and shifted out onto the road. Watching him go, Addie decided to follow her plan.
“If he can still make his rounds in this bitter weather, and Kate can somehow manage this intolerable news, I’m not about to let the weather stop me from making it over to Jane’s.”
A fleeting thought about the coupe parked in an abandoned shed came to her, but this was no day to slide into the ditch. No, she’d walk.
In the house, she dropped the money into her coffee can and warmed her self thoroughly by the stove. Then she marched outside with resolve.
