| |
A lazy Sunday afternoon after a lovely nap made the perfect time for letter writing. Even with Kate’s bad news, Addie figured it would be easier to write her than to answer Harold’s recent note. For the 4th or 5th time, she reread the single typed page.
January 24, 1943
To my wife,
My first class, The History of Methodism, makes me proud to be a Methodist. All things have a method, as I always have believed. Our professor’s philosophy centers on three tenets:
Shun evil and avoid partaking in wicked deeds at all cost; perform kind acts as much as possible, and abide by the edicts of God the Almighty Father.
It will take a lifetime to fulfill these. If I cannot be on the front lines, then this is second best.
Another professor here, Dr. Wesley, speaks boldly about marriage, and believes great tension between man and wife can reduce one’s chances of procreation. He attributes most marital trouble to disobedience in regard to clear-cut biblical instructions. He says his own wife had many lessons to learn, which gives me hope. But are you willing? I had given up when I came here, but now have begun to pray for a miracle.
Our early morning prayer group keeps in mind the troops overseas. Many of us were denied, so we volunteer at the railway station USO.
The soldiers have eyes only for the girls, but we do the heavy lifting and cleaning, and sometimes hold chapel. You might be surprised how many attend.
You probably don’t keep up with the war news, but in the Pacific, our forces have finally attacked. I still hold out hope to join the seven million now serving.
Keep an eye out for Mother. I fear she attempts to replay her youth with George Miller. A widower of long standing, he ought to squelch fleshly desires, just as our troops must.
I hope this winter is not too hard on the ewes and sows. We need their litters for hard cash.
Harold
If he knew how much George helped with the sheep and pigs, or how happy Berthea was, he would be even more irritated. Addie closed her eyes and pictured George’s smile. Such a wonderful man, and all Harold could see were his “fleshly desires.”
She gritted her teeth. “How dare he say I don’t keep up with the war?” What could she write back to him? His prayers for a miracle revolved around her changing, and she was, a little every day. But not in the way he desired.
At least she agreed with his premise—a breakthrough would require divine intervention. But since he saw himself as perfect and blamed their marriage troubles on her, what hope was there?
“Oh, Harold, I am changing, but you’re not going to like it.”
She couldn’t share what he’d written with anyone but Kate. Did he think she failed to conceive because she painted the kitchen —because she didn’t agree with him on every single point? But what he said about the war bothered her most. She’d just received Kate’s news about Alexandre. Still, Harold acted like she didn’t care. Kate’s opinion made sense on this point—he was convinced he knew her mind.
Making sense of the part about Wesley tried her, too, but maybe Jane was right—things didn’t always make sense. Instead of reacting to Harold’s letter, Addie decided to list the temperatures for the past five days in her letter, give him news about the animals and the bills she’d paid.
She twiddled her pen between her fingers. She couldn’t mention Berthea and George. There were so many things she couldn’t write. Finally she ended with, “You’re mistaken about me and the war news. I listen to it every day. Have you heard Roy Owens died in the Pacific? And Alexandre has been killed, too.”
Tempted to add, “I hope you’re happy now,” she signed her name and sealed the envelope.
George entered the yard, so she stoked the furnace, bundled up, and went outdoors. As usual, he whistled through the stalls, and when she carried water for the chickens, he took the pail from her with a headshake.
“Sometimes I think you take better care of these animals than you do of yourself.” The look he gave her mixed sternness and concern, the way Aunt Alvina sometimes looked at Kate.
“Go in and get warmed up. I like being out here after being cooped up with the mail all day long, but you go in and have a cup of tea. Enjoy the sunset.”
Before she did, Addie petted Missy and Daisy. Now, to write a letter to Kate. What could encourage her at such a time? Maybe everyday things would be best. Her life had changed drastically, but their friendship hadn’t.
February 2, 1943
Dear Kate,
I had so hoped Alexandre survived the crash. I’m glad you two could share Christmas together. You kept on believing he’d come, and he did.
Berthea and Jane cried when I told them. Mrs. M visited First Methodist on Sunday, and her chin quivered at the news.
I wish you were here for a long chat. I imagine you working through this walking to work, typing like crazy, and stamping out those blaaaaasted incendiaries by night.
Tell me about the birds there. Is Mrs. T’s courtyard home to some over the cold months? Or don’t they fly South there like they do here? The cardinals never tire of proclaiming ownership of our grove.
George visits Berthea every night—the porch light still shines when I go to bed. This would trouble Harold beyond the telling. His one letter bothers me, but I’ll save it for later, when you’re up for a puzzle.
Berthea’s relief to have him in St. Louis rivals mine. I’d never have believed she’d become an ally.
Does Evelyn know about Alexandre? Can you talk with Mrs. T? Does anyone there speak his name? I would think that might bring you solace.
Here’s my favorite memory of him. We all searched for something, I can’t remember what. Anyway, remember when Alexandre pulled quite a large corset from behind the washing machine? Aunt Alvina’s face flamed, and we all laughed till we were sick.
He loved life, and made a perfect partner for you. Maybe eloping with him wasn’t so impertinent—that gave you more time together. As you often remind me, our intuition is to be trusted, and we ought not be too hard on ourselves. I’ll return to local news. Due to her new job, Berthea has had a phone installed. She invites me over every evening, and usually I go—why sit alone with the war news?
For Christmas, she gave me a sack of tea, and said she should have braved Harold’s wrath before. Every day, I brew some and oh, the comfort in a single cup! Her support comforts me too.
Still, I dare not show her Harold’s letter. I said I’d mention it later, but have changed my mind. I’m enclosing it, and once you figure out what he means about childbearing, please tell me. Then destroy it, please.
Since I cannot visit London, I’m scrubbing our living room and dining room walls these days. The next time I get to town, I’ll buy some paint. Berthea has offered to trade some of her hardware coupons for gasoline.
George loves the lambs and baby pigs. He whistles the whole time he does the chores before his mail route and again in late afternoon. He says delivering the mail is making him fat and old, and he hopes I don’t mind him taking over.
Mind? Would I mind if rising temperatures spared a grim February and March, or a mighty wind carried me to Westbourne Grove, London?
I’ve run out of news. When I think of you (all day long), I pray you cling to your best memories of your wonderful Alexandre.
Love to you always,
Addie
Thinking of the chocolate rationing in London, Addie baked a double batch of soldier cookies for Kate and took the box to Berthea’s for George to mail. At the last minute, she grabbed a bag of walnuts to crack while they talked.
“I’m glad you came over. George had to sort mail tonight, so I’ll get this package to him in the morning.” Berthea set her embroidery hoop aside and turned off the radio.
She scooped nuts from Addie’s sack and reached for her picks. Addie cracked a walnut, scraped around its edge and dropped the nutmeat into a bowl. They worked in silence for a while before Berthea cleared her throat.
“What would you think if George and I were to get married?”
“I’d think you got exactly what you deserve.”
“People will say I didn’t wait long enough after Orville died, and Harold will balk for sure. But that’s one good reason for us to marry soon. May as well let the town talk about us now as later. By the time Harold comes home, we’ll be old news and George’s servant heart will have won over the church members. Harold won’t be able to find anyone to take his side.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve realized since Orville died that Harold’s intent on arguing. Guess I didn’t see it before, since we didn’t have to work on farm business together. Surely you’ve noticed when someone disagrees with him, he attempts to win them over?
“As I look back, he’s always been that way, while Bill accepted others’ views. I meant to treat the two boys the same, but after Harold’s accident, I wish—”
Addie picked at a nutmeat. Most of the time, instead of trying to win her over, Harold ignored her. “Have you and George set a date?”
“February 14, Valentine’s Day.”
“Why, that’s only a few days away. Can I help you get ready?”
“We want you to stand up with us, dear. I almost drowned in my own self-pity the past few years, but I’ve always admired your spunk. Would you witness our vows?”
“I’d be glad to. What else could I do?”
“How about baking one of your walnut glory cakes? And I’ll bring a couple of pies for afterward.” Berthea rubbed her hands together and leaned closer.
“The ceremony will be really small, and please keep this a secret. Harold wrote me that he’s discovered the Rural Letter Carriers’ Association is fascist, and George was voted in as the county president. I think that will make me the Women’s Auxiliary president when I marry him, and Harold will have a fit.”
Berthea rubbed her forehead. “That boy. If he found out, he might try to stop the ceremony.”
“Your secret is safe with me. Besides, Harold has only written me once since he left.”
Berthea’s lips formed a thin line, but she said no more. The nutmeats formed a growing mound, and the clock’s comfortable tick-tock enveloped their labor. Brown stain covered their forefingers and thumbs, and the almost bitter black walnut odor permeated the small kitchen.
“Can’t say as I like how these taste all by themselves, but I can’t imagine your glory cake without them. And they’re good for what ails you, my aunt always used to say.”
About 20 minutes later, George roared into the yard, and they heard his door slam shut. A few minutes later, Berthea smiled.
“He must be checking the sheep instead of coming in right away. Warms my heart the way he’s taken this place right into his heart.”
In a few minutes she answered a bang on the door. There stood George with a wet gray mass in his arms.
“So glad I stopped out there. Can you quick warm up a bottle? Gotta see to this little fella’s mother.”
“Oh, my.” Berthea received the quivering lamb. “Addie, there’s a black nipple in the pantry, top shelf on the right. Would you heat up some milk, please?”
A few minutes later, Addie whet the baby’s appetite with warm milk on her fingertip. Then she offered the bottle, and he worked it around with his tongue. Berthea fixed a blanket bed near the stove and heated a towel in the oven.
“It’ll be a long evening, I expect.”
“Do you want me to stay around?”
“No, thanks. George will handle this like he handles everything.”
Addie bundled up and closed the door behind her. Frozen mud replaced the afternoon thaw, a bitter wind whipped the farmyard, and the frosty back porch offered slim welcome.
In the kitchen she left her coat on a chair, stoked the furnace, and wandered through the downstairs. This big old house with its high ceilings and crown molding, deep window seat, and beautiful oak floors seemed far too large tonight. The upstairs was so drafty, why not read and fall asleep on the davenport?
She brought down her nightclothes, picked a poetry volume, and bunched Mama’s quilt around her. Suddenly, Mama’s voice flitted through her mind.
Your grandmother made this quilt, stitch by stitch. I still remember her telling me how it needed an odd number of squares for the design to be centered. That didn’t make sense at the time, but now I understand.
“She said that in those days before she died, but what did she mean?”
Addie leaned into the cushion and let her mind wander before she opened to one of Emily Dickinson’s poems.
“Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the words without the tune, and never minds at all.”
In the living room’s shadows, an image rose from last March, the night she found Harold out in the barn, sleeping with a newborn orphan lamb in his arms. Right then, she’d known that she still loved him, and believed in his compassion, though well-concealed.
No matter how he raged about the draft board, blamed her or shunned her, she’d kept on believing. Even as his shows of tenderness became more miserly and finally disappeared altogether, she’d trusted they would return.
Tears dropped onto her book, so she switched off the light and buried her face in a pillow. She’d had tears that night, too, but still thought everything would work out.
But in Harold’s indifferent letter, everything depended on her changing, while she felt exactly the opposite. A year ago, seeing him change seemed possible, but not any more. That thing with feathers seemed to have found another roosting place.
She hugged Mama’s—Grandma’s—quilt close... an odd number of squares... to be centered. Maybe that’s how Norman grew so wise—all the oddities of his life, the war and his choices afterward, melded together into a clear focus as he matured.
But with Harold, something went missing along the way. Somehow, his challenges refused to meld together and rendered him capable of sending her that letter—that indifferent letter.
Indifferent—a fitting word for her psychologist friend in London to analyze.
