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A strong southerly wind made the going difficult. Matchstick fence posts blurred before Addie’s eyes, and every breath hurt. Halfway to Jane’s house, she considered going back, but why waste all this effort? She pushed harder, and by the time she knocked on Jane’s door, she was spent.
“My goodness, child, out on a day like this? I was sure I saw someone coming down the road, but decided my eyes must be playing tricks on me. Is everything all right?”
The warmth of her embrace reached through Addie’s heavy layers. Jane unwound her frozen scarf, pulled off her coat and boots, and wrapped her in a thick woolen blanket from the other room.
The air made Addie’s nose and lips tingle. At the same time, Kate’s news poured from her mouth in gasps. Jane wiped away tears with the back of her hand as she boiled tea water and hung coat, scarf, and socks on a chair near the stove. Then she brought a basin of warm water for Addie’s feet.
“Such bad news. Oh, my. That kind of searching can take a long, long time, especially this time of year.”
“I don’t know how Kate handles all this waiting.”
“You heard about the Owens boy?” Jane shook her head. “Killed last week on some island in the Pacific.”
“Yes, George told us. Roy’s sister Lila was in Harold’s class.” Once again, Addie wondered if Roy ever got those soldier cookies she and Berthea sent him last winter.
While Jane poured her tea, a bloody scene from Wake Island made Addie tremble, and she willed the image away. Back when she saw the movie, the battle seemed surreal, but Roy might have died that way, far from home, in great pain, and all alone.
“What do you hear from Harold?”
“He hasn’t written.”
As Jane poured the tea, her eyes darkened to the color of the lowest pine boughs, but she said nothing.
“I’m happy for him, though. He hates being stuck here, and loves to study.”
Jane worked her mouth as if tamping down some feisty response, and friendly quiet descended. Here, there always seemed to be plenty of time. No scrabbling to think of an answer that would please, no holding back. But Addie’s mind went blank, except for thinking about Kate’s telegram.
The clock’s steady rhythm melded with some chicken bubbling in broth on the back of the stove. Jane rimmed her cup with her forefinger, and Addie savored her tea.
“How about a molasses cookie—it’ll cure what ails you.” Jane grinned and brought out a plate full, each specimen as crinkly as a washboard. Then, in her straightforward way, she brought up another subject.
“We haven’t talked since Christmas Eve, and I would expect you’d have questions about Simon.” She set out the topic like Addie’s gloves drying near the stove, and went on.“I’ve been too secretive for far too long.” Jane’s gaze shifted to the cabin’s distant slanted roof, stark against barren trees.
“Even though I like to have things out in the open, that’s one of my besetting sins. But I suppose we all make choices we later doubt.” She tapped her fingers on her teacup.
“I used to think we were here on earth to make sense of things, but I’ve come to believe we’re meant to take care of each other as best we can. If any sense comes of anything in the process, we can be extra thankful.”
They sat together for a while in a quietness far different from the silence she endured with Harold. “About 10 years ago, Simon began forgetting where things were—his truck, the barn, our bedroom at night. Once, he even forgot how to feed the pigs. He’d always been a jokester, so at first I thought...”
Jane gestured toward the grove, where Simon, with a scarf bound over his stocking cap, plunged through hip-high drifts. Holding out a long stick, he tapped random trees in some sort of ritual.
“Doc found him wandering on the railroad tracks south of town one day, and sat down with me after he brought Simon home. Simon fought other folks when they tried to guide him home, and they called him cantankerous. I heard later that some even swore he hit me.”
Jane’s sigh enveloped her teacup. “People. It’s hard to know who you can trust. But Doc had a way with Simon, and said his mother changed the same way as she aged. They had to watch her night and day, so he knew how hard it was to see a loved one slip in and out of this world.
“We had an old castoff table outside the door, and Simon stayed out there while Doc and I talked. We watched him jiggle his finger along the boards behind a big black ant, like he was doing something important.
“Doc knew of places he could live, he said. At a place down in Independence, nurses watch the patients day and night.”
Jane snorted. “When I asked if that’s what he did with his mother, his mouth contorted. That settled it for me. He said his mother roamed so much, he and his wife constantly waited for her next disappearance, so they could protect her and pick up the pieces. It was no way to live.
“But little by little, they figured out to handle her. He told me to keep things as simple as possible, allow Simon in only one part of the house, keep him away from the stove—things like that. Otherwise, I’d spend my whole life in fear.
“That’s when I thought of the cabin. Years ago, when a neighbor planned to burn it down, Simon said we’d take it, and one afternoon, eight men, two to a side, hauled the building across the field. It’s not often you see a cabin progressing on centipede legs. I met them and asked Simon what he was doing.
“‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll make something nice for you.’ He’s good with wood, so he built cupboards, a chest of drawers, and a bedframe. Next thing I knew, he’d patched and shingled the roof and reinforced the hearth. The work kept him busy during the winters.
“Ten years later with Doc, I realized Simon had created his own safe place. We all walked out there, and Doc asked Simon if he’d like to live in the cabin. You should have seen him smile—back there in the grove, he feels better, without seeing the traffic pass by.
“Simon sat down in an old armchair out there and leaned his head back real peaceful. Doc and I exchanged a look and sealed the decision.”
“Everything’s been fine, for the most part, ever since. Before my knee went bum, I cleaned houses and saved up a nest egg. His pension from the meat packing plant pays for gas and fuel oil, and that’s about all we need.”
“And flowers.”
Jane’s eyes brightened.
“Thank you for letting me meet Simon.”
“We haven’t done much on Christmas all these years, because I didn’t want to disturb his routine. But I decided to take the risk. You’re the first person I’ve trusted enough, and I thank my lucky stars you live so close. You mean a lot to Simon, too—he mentions you every day.”
“That’s the best compliment I’ve had for a long time. I never told you, but last fall, Simon saved little Willie Miller when he wandered into the cornfield while Berthea was watching him for George. Simon brought him to the edge of our grove and told him to run back to us.”
“So you knew about him...” Jane poured some more tea. “Goes to show how much good all my hiding did, eh?”
Outside, Simon tired of his activity and went into the cabin. “Thank you for thawing me out. I need to get back—can’t let the fire go out.”
Without a word, Jane got her coat and the Studebaker keys.
“But it’s so icy.—”
“I can manage. You’re not walking home.”
Bundled up again, Addie rode beside her in the freezing car, observing how Jane handled the wheel and the brakes, and how she navigated the turn into the driveway.
“One of these days, you should practice driving again, just in case. But for now, don’t be going on any more long walks, hear me?”
Addie nodded and Jane waved her inside. The house was freezing. Still in her coat and boots, Addie scrambled down the basement stairs to the furnace.
“Can’t believe I let the fire get so low. Harold would have a fit.”
After shaking the ashes from the grate, she scraped up hot coals, scooped on some corncobs, and waited for them to flame. Then she added enough coal to sustain the fire. When the peculiar dry odor of burning cobs filled her senses, she left the draft open a little and started back upstairs.
Light on the moist limestone wall caught her attention. Such a small rectangular window, and so little light today, but a few rays still found their way here to create a show. Something Jane said this morning wafted through Addie’s mind.
No way to live. I’d spend my whole life living in fear. “That’s exactly what I’ve done for three and a half years. I don’t ever want to miss out on today again.” In spite of her coat, Addie shivered as she opened the stovepipe damper. The rest of the day, she went out only to check on the chickens and the barn water—and when George brought the mail.
January 22, 1943
Dear Addie,
God spared me a long wait. I knew in my heart that Alexandre was gone, but the RAF has now confirmed it. He’ll never surprise me again as he did on Christmas Eve when he knocked on Mrs. T’s door in time for plum pudding.
He offered little information about his whereabouts the past weeks, but said that when he finally made it to his base, he enjoyed reading all my letters. Stifling all my questions challenged me, but then Alexandre said we only had 24 hours—why spend such a short time on details?
The next day he left again for his next-to-last mission, and I realized that not all questions find answers. In line with that, I’ve heard no details of the crash—just that it took his life.
Maybe I never will.
I used to wonder if anything could render me speechless—now I know. But I do wish I could talk about all this with you.
Mr. T offered me some time off, but my nervous fingers crave action. Work is the best thing for me right now. Mrs. Culver says she’s afraid I might wear out the typewriter.
We’ve had some bombing this month—I can’t sleep, so I go on patrol with Mrs. T almost every night. She found me a tin cap like hers, so I feel official. It’s another world out there, with shrapnel flying, searchlights everywhere, siren wails, and lots of shouting. Some of the wardens really like to give orders.
It may sound crazy, but in the flames of rocket guns and the bang and BOOM of their recoil, Alexandre seems quite near. Maybe this is how it was when his plane went down. The wild flashes remind me I’m alive, and somehow, I feel his presence.
Mrs. T says it’s getting more like the Blitz by the day. We never know where it’s safe—some people died in a restaurant recently, and a bomb hit a school. So by night, we patrol for incendiaries that fall by the dozens at times.
One night, we helped a neighbor smother one near his front door. All the while, he muttered “Bugger you, Hitler!”
Please don’t be afraid to write me. I’m still the same Kate, and look forward to your letters even more, if that were possible. Thank you so much for the telegram. You can’t imagine how much it meant to me.
Love,
Kate
v
The road grader passed early in the morning, mashing January thaw like potatoes and forcing the oozy mess to the frost line. After it passed, Addie checked the road.
The ice was gone for now, and maybe the gravel had firmed up enough to give the red coupe a run.
For days she’d thought about it. The last time she’d driven was when she followed Jane home from Norman’s garage. Tucked in the far shed, the coupe had survived the month. But today, the timing seemed right.
Berthea normally left for work by now, yet the Chevy sat unmoved. After only one knock, she opened the door. “Morning, Glory! Come on in. I have a surprise for you.” She pointed to a rectangular wooden box hung on the wall.
“Wow—I’ve only seen telephones in town. How did you manage?”
“The principal said I’d need one, since he might have to call me after hours. Remember when the company strung the wires last fall? I thought we’d have to wait until summer, but he convinced them to install this in spite of the cold.”
She smoothed her hand over the oak fixture. “You didn’t see the workmen yesterday?”
“No, they must’ve come when I was over visiting Jane.”
“Want to try it out?” Berthea lifted the shiny receiver and turned a smooth black crank on the right side.
“Say hello to Selma.” She thrust the receiver into Addie’s hand.
“Is that you, Addie?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sorry. Got another call. Take good care of Berthea out there, now. ’Bye.”
Berthea hung the receiver up and grinned. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
They say all the farms on our road will have one by summer’s end.”
“Don’t you have to go to work today?”
“Not until noon. The furnace acted up and Mr. Woods called to let me know. The ring almost sent me through the ceiling.”
“I have something to show you, too—come outside with me.” After the words left her mouth Addie had second thoughts, but it was too late. Berthea gaped when she slid the heavy shed door down its track.
“How did this get here? When— Whose—”
“It’s mine.”
“Yours? But—how? It’s in much better condition than the Chevy. Wherever did you get it?”
“It’s been in storage and I can’t say. I wish I could tell you—sorry.”
“Ah...” Berthea ran her hand over the leather dashboard. “Maybe I can guess. Aunt Alvina?”
Addie pressed her lips together.
“Does Harold know?”
“No. Jane and I brought it here the first week of your new job.” Berthea was still blinking. “This car is yours, title and all?”
“Yes. When you taught me to drive, I had no idea, but then—I wish I could explain, but I can’t.”
Berthea’s thoughtful look lasted a long time. “You’ve been instructed to stay silent. I understand, I think. I’ve known other cases where it took a long time to settle an estate.” She opened the passenger door. “Do you think it’ll start after all this cold weather?”
“I have no idea, but Jane said we were trying a cold start when we moved it. The engine turned over after a few tries, and she said it was a wonder—she thought we’d have to go downtown to get a mechanic.”
“Let’s try it, then. Why not? After all, the Chevy starts every day, even though it sits outside. But then, George sprayed something under the hood early in December.”
After three tries, the engine came to life, and Addie turned to Berthea. “Maybe you should drive—it’s been quite a while for me.”
“Absolutely not. The only way a person learns about winter driving is by doing it.” Having the secret out in the open lifted a burden, even though Berthea thought Aunt Alvina had bequeathed her the coupe. It wasn’t true, but that was outside her control. At least she knew about the car—no more pretending it wasn’t here. A weight fell from Addie’s shoulders. Pretending took a lot of energy.
Now that little voice in her head could no longer nag her, you’re a terrible daughter-in-law, keeping this from Berthea. It’s one thing to deceive Harold, but Berthea owns this farm, you know. Last Sunday, the retired minister filling in for the winter months said something about that voice after reading from the book of Romans. There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.
“We walk after the flesh when we let negative thoughts control us. God’s thoughts and purposes are higher than ours. Perhaps you’ve heard that the flesh refers to our physical lives, our passions and desires, but our thoughts are involved, too.”
Oh yes—the congregation had heard that. From Harold. One Sunday morning, Addie had wondered if this might be one reason their attempts to have a child had become so emotionless. Did Harold think it was sinful to be together as husband and wife?
The passage in Romans revolved around freedom from condemnation, the older preacher said, although Harold used it to condemn human needs and desires. What was it Jane said the other day? Something about her besetting sin being so secretive? What if the flesh included keeping secrets, our own harsh self-judgment, and a narrow view of life? What would he say to that?
Hogwash.
He might have said that in her ear, she’d heard it so many times. Kate would understand the difference, but Harold would say she misinterpreted Scripture, and when he returned from the seminary, his formal education might support his view.
Driving north down the center of the road, Addie realized only two-thirds of his time away remained.
Berthea’s smile widened. “This seat gives a more comfortable ride than the Chevy, that’s for sure. And the Studebaker. Good springs, Addie. Isn’t it odd I never saw Alvina drive this?”
“Mmm—I’m going to turn around up there, in that driveway.”
“All right, take your time.”
Circling the abandoned farmstead tightened her shoulders, but she shifted without the car stalling, and some tire tracks made a path around the windmill. “Looks like somebody’s been here lately.”
“Alfred McKee keeps his cattle here during the winter.”
A wide circle sent the coupe back down the driveway, with Berthea watching for cars. “Nothing’s coming from this way.”
The wheels spun on the last few feet, but they made it onto the road. Addie shifted past white fields with golden brown stubble etching zigzag lines to the horizon.
When she parked the coupe, Berthea accepted her invitation to tea, and it didn’t take long to make.
“This is some of your Christmas gift. It’s so tasty on a cold morning.”
“Mmm. It’s my favorite, too. Not bitter like coffee.” Sunlight slanted in and shone on the white beaded board. “Red table cloth, yellow curtains. I just love this kitchen now. Wish I’d painted it 10 years ago.”
They drank more tea, and Berthea asked, “About the coupe: how will you tell Harold?”
“The will said I can’t give anyone any details.”
“He won’t like that at all.” Berthea clicked her tongue. “But we have two months before he comes home. We’ll put our heads together. Who knows how things could change by then? By the way, has he written you yet?”
“Oh, thanks for saying ‘we.’ That means more than I can say.”
Berthea glanced around the kitchen. “I’ll say it again. I really like what you’ve done in here. The yellow and white appeal to the eye, and that dark wood was so gloomy. Harold didn’t bother you any more about it after that first morning, did he?”
“No.” It seemed so natural to discuss him with her now. Just a year ago, she’d never have guessed things would change so much.
“You’re happy with the results, too?”
“Oh, yes. Although at the time—”
“I know—but you plowed through. You’ve been an inspiration for me, you know?” Berthea accepted a refill and described her job. After she put her coat on, she hesitated with a thoughtful expression.
“People like Harold aren’t ever going to like change, but that doesn’t mean we should back away from our ideas. Wish I’d known that 30 years ago. Things might’ve been different.”
She flashed a confident smile. “Don’t you worry about him. I have a feeling everything will work out.”
