Becoming Mrs. Smith

by Tanya E Williams

  “I needed to get away for a while is all. Be alone with my thoughts.”

  John picks at the fuzzy end of a tall piece of grass. “I’d say you’ve come to the right place. I come here for the quiet and to think.” He pauses before adding, “And to fish. Something bothering you, Vi?”

  “Mother and I had a disagreement.”

  “That’ll happen.” John’s statement of the obvious catches me off guard.

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.” I rummage through my thoughts, attempting to speak my mind without disrespecting my parents. “I have been informed that I won’t be going to high school next month, after all.”

  “Hmm, and this upsets you?”

  “I was honored to be invited.” I’m unable to conceal my righteous tone.

  “I’m sure you were.”

  “You don’t think I should be disappointed?” I can’t believe I’ve found myself in another argument regarding the same topic.

  “Well, in this situation, either you or I would be disappointed. And this time, I prefer it be you.”

  “What are you talking about, John Smith? Your riddles are infuriating.” My back becomes rigid with indignation, and I contemplate finding another quiet spot to brood.

  “If you go to high school, I won’t get to see you every day, Vi.” John tilts his head in my direction, and a smile curves the corners of his mouth. “That doesn’t suit me, you see.”

  With so few words, John has managed to melt my anger and disappointment. I shake my head and smile, before kicking my feet hard against the water’s edge to splash him.

  ***

  June 1939

  The screen door slaps against the frame, signaling Iris is coming to find me in the back garden. I hear Mother issue cross words from the kitchen, but at ten years old, her delight precedes her common sense. She’s already moving on toward her next adventure.

  “Violet.” Iris sounds exasperated. “Where are you?”

  I stand, and knees stained with dark prairie soil peek out from beneath my summer dress. I brush my hands against each other and dirt falls to the ground. I watch her skip toward me. She is the embodiment of a free spirit, not a care in the world and often without a thought ahead of where she stands. I giggle at her exuberance for life and embrace her in a quick hug. I hope the contagious youthfulness mixed with a touch of tomboy remains constant throughout her life.

  “Can I help?”

  “Of course. Though I thought you had to help Father water the pigs.”

  “Oh! I forgot.” She dashes off toward the barn as Daddy comes ‘round the corner, in search of his helper.

  “I’ll be back,” she hollers over her shoulder, waving wildly.

  Hands on his hips, Father’s grim look of disappointment dissolves into a softer expression as Iris runs past him, in search of the pig pen behind the barn. I wave at him and his smile widens. He shakes his head with a laugh as he follows his youngest daughter on one of her many escapades.

  I focus my attention back to the row. Bees buzz about while I weed and tend to the plants. I breathe in the earthy scent and thank God once again for the farm life. Even with tough times all around us, the farm is a constant, steady supplier of food, purpose, and sanity. I expect I would miss this place even if I had never been here.

  My heart flutters, an everyday sensation since the fever. At first, the flutters filled me with dread. I spent months lamenting my weak heart. After much consternation on my part, Father, forever the optimist, suggested I view the butterflies as a message of good fortune. He insisted they exist to remind me that all is right with my body.

  I tell myself all is well as I kneel to examine the strawberry plants. My mind drifts to a time, not long ago, when Mother worked beside me in the garden. She would tell stories passed down by her father while she taught me how to grow the tallest green beans and the juiciest tomatoes. Mother’s soft spot for the garden was evident in the way she would glide from plant to bush. I loved watching her move between the rows. She made me feel like I was in the audience of a masterful play. Two summers ago, she entrusted me with all the garden duties, a chore I welcomed with gratitude. The time has come, though, to pass that information down to Iris before I move on to further my education in town next September. I am giddy with anticipation.

  “I’m back.” Her breath is labored as she halts a mere inch from the potato plants.

  I notice her wet shoes, already caked with mud, and make a mental note to wash them off before she goes into the house. “You can start at that end.” I point to the row opposite me. “Our job today is to pull weeds.”

  “Aww, really? I thought you were gonna be more fun.” Her disappointment contorts her face into a large pout.

  “We can have fun,” I say with a forced brightness. “This is an important part of being a master gardener. You know you need to learn all about the process so you can help Mother next spring.”

  Iris steps over the row of strawberries and sits in the dirt. She sighs as she pulls and examines each weed before stretching with great embellishment to dispense the clump into the weed bucket. “Why do you have to go, anyway?”

  “We’ve been over this.” I measure the impatience in my voice so I don’t upset her. We’ve already had teary discussions by the bucketful. “The only way I can extend my education is to move to the high school in town. You know I should have gone last year. This is the right time. Iris, my education is important to me and to Mother and Father, and I want to graduate from high school.”

  “But why can’t you get Mrs. Graham to teach you more?” Her voice climbs an octave, nibbling at the edge of a whiny tone.

  “Mrs. Graham doesn’t teach older students.” I choose my words with care. “I know this is difficult for you to understand, but you will move to town, too, when you are older, and you will go to the high school same as me. You can be a nurse or an artist or whatever you want to be when you graduate.”

  Her silent sulk feels louder than the echo of chirping birds in the apple tree. “You get to have the bedroom all to yourself.” I hope to boost her spirits. “You can put all your own drawings on the walls to decorate. Iris, consider the possibilities, the entire room covered with your masterpieces.”

  A small smile lifts the cheeks of her bowed head. “As long as you’re not moving because of John.” She draws out his name sarcastically. “His sisters told me their family bought a house in town. They’ll attend school in Cedar Springs come September.”

  I stifle a smirk. “I would attend high school whether John Smith moved to town or not.” I try to convey a casual, nonchalant tone, but somehow the words escape my lips sounding strangled and almost embarrassed.

  Iris laughs as she rolls in the dirt. She clutches her stomach, without the slightest awareness that she has almost crushed the row of beets behind her.

  I roll my eyes, trying to hide my true pleasure at the situation, and direct my attention to the swatch of weeds.

  ***

  September 1939

  The summer heat warms the brick school house. The third week of classes end, and teachers usher us out of the stuffy building as they board up the windows in preparation of the weekend. I pause on the front steps and reposition my books for the walk back to the boarding house, where I live with other girls my age from farms surrounding Cedar Springs.

  “Hi, Vi,” says a soft voice.

  “John. How nice to see you.” I wear what I hope is my most cheerful smile.

  He shuffles his feet as we walk toward the street, his eyes focused on the ground. I wonder if he would rather be somewhere else.

  “I—I’ve seen you ‘round school a few times.” He pauses, and I become aware that this is the first time I have seen shyness in John Smith. “But you were always surrounded by people. You seem to have settled in at school.”

  I nod and wait for him to say more. When he doesn’t, we stroll in silence for several blocks. The thought of a missed opportunity would kill me, so I muster up my courage. I tighten m
y grip on my books to help steady my nerves and ask, “John, are you being coy or has the Cedar Springs water made you nervous around me?” Little about my question could be mistaken as ambiguous, a trait I inherited from Mother.

  “I’ve been thinking is all.” He kicks at the dirt, rising a cloud of dust above his shoes. “Aw shucks, Vi. I’ve been thinking about you all summer and I wonder if you would see fit to go with me?” His cheeks turn rosy pink as his eyes dart about, avoiding contact with mine.

  “Go with you where?” I tease. I allow him to squirm a minute before I let him off the hook. I reach for his hand and fit it into my own.

  ***

  December 1939

  The Christmas season ignites a sense of magic within me. Christmas bells adorn shop doors, ringing cheerfully as customers come and go. Store windows display pretty ribbon-wrapped gifts, while the bakery offers sweet breads and gingerbread men piped with frosting.

  Excitement bubbles inside me as John, Helen, and I—bundled in our winter coats—leave school on our first holiday break. The past few weeks have required lots of study time, but with our tests behind us, we are free to participate in the holiday joy.

  John ducks inside the bakery where his father works to purchase three gingerbread cookies, one for each of us. The warm, soft cookie almost melts in my mouth as the sweet frosting tickles my tongue. We stand near the town center, eating our treats and listening to the carolers sing holiday favorites. A few flakes begin to fall. We lift our faces to the clouded sky and attempt to catch a few on our tongues before John walks us the rest of the way to the boarding house.

  Helen says goodbye and thanks John for the cookie before she steps inside the tall building. I imagine her retreating to the seclusion of our shared bedroom.

  “You’ll come for dinner?” John stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets.

  The invitation for dinner came last week. Our first dinner at the Smith house as a couple. “Sunday after Christmas,” I say. “Is there a dish I should bring?”

  John shakes his head. “Mother already has everything planned. She was so excited you said yes. I gather this will be the best New Year’s we’ve had yet.”

  “I’m looking forward to the evening.”

  John shivers against the cold. “I better be off. I’ll see you at church. Merry Christmas, Vi.”

  “Merry Christmas, John.” I put a hand on his shoulder, then lean in and place my lips to his cheek.

  His hand touches his cheek where my lips were. “Bye.”

  I smile to myself as my heart flutters in my chest.

  ***

  January 1940

  Helen listens raptly to my stories of New Year’s Eve at the Smith house a week ago. I ramble about the dinner and the party hats and the banging of pots and pans at midnight. My cheeks ache from the wide smile.

  “What a night.” Helen collapses backward onto the bed in an exaggerated dreamy fashion. Her red hair fans out, vibrant against the white sheets. “Tell me about the kiss again.”

  I tuck my legs under me and lean against the head of my bed. “When the clock struck twelve, John and I were sitting on the front porch steps. The chime sounded and John turned to look at me. He took my face in both his hands and he said, ‘Happy New Year, Vi.’ And he leaned in and kissed my lips.” My tummy flutters remembering that kiss. “His lips were soft and warm and so tender.” My own wistful voice lingers. Helen sighs and I giggle before we both erupt into a fit of girlish laughter.

  “My goodness.” Helen pulls herself into a seated position. “Guess we’d better start on that English essay. Dinner will be soon.”

  I pull out my notebook and read the assignment notes. Helen lies on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, books spread on the bed. “I’m really happy we met,” I say.

  She looks up from her books. “Who? You and John?”

  “No, silly. You and me. I thank God for you every night. You are a good friend, Helen.”

  “Takes one to know one,” she says with a wink.

  ***

  November 1940

  We gather at the church to celebrate Armistice Day. School is closed as we honor the soldiers who fought during the First World War. The unusually spring-like weather adds to the celebration as the congregation files through the wide church doors to enjoy the warm air. Children run about, and women serve home-baked delights. I watch Iris laying out the apple pies she baked with Mother. I see, for the first time, a glimmer of maturity in her until she dashes off to join a game of hide-and-go-seek.

  I pass by the men of the congregation and hear that, on this day of remembering all who died in battle, the men are deep in discussion about an impending stand against the war brewing in Europe. The irony escapes them, and I can’t make sense of why our country is in this situation to begin with. I have always despised war. From everything I have learned in school or read in books, war is nothing more than a platform for humanity’s evil. Even when John took me to see Gone with the Wind a few months back—though the movie was rich with the life and times of Scarlett O’Hara—the devastation of war remained at the forefront of my mind weeks later. I believe in standing up for others. I believe in protecting our homes, families, and friends. But the idea that going to war can solve problems goes round and round in my head. I have a hunch that war only ends up turning good, honest folk into people who do evil things, that the act of war makes them similar to the enemy they fight against.

  “Hey, Vi. You look like you’re stewing on something.” John approaches where I sit on the front steps, a half-chewed piece of straw hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  “All this war talk is all.” I shield my eyes from the sun.

  “Today is Armistice Day, after all.” John rounds the banister and sits on the step beside me. Our shoulders touch.

  I shoot him a look that says, “I’m not an idiot,” before my face softens. “Not that war. The new one everyone is so interested in.”

  “Britain is getting bombarded.” He speaks like he might agree with the men I’d heard.

  “Does that mean we should jump in and bring the war closer to home?” My anger surprises me. The words sound more infused than I had intended.

  John chuckles at the heat rising in my cheeks. “No need to get all worked up. Is there anything you can do about the war anyway?”I stare at my hands, folded in my lap. “No. But—”

  “But nothing, Vi. Don’t waste your energy. Why don’t we go for a walk, enjoy the day? Not many days like this left.”

  I shrug and agree to the walk, trying to let go of the nastiness of war.

  We walk toward the pond, through a thick grove of trees behind the church. The time of year and lack of rain has shrunk the pond, leaving dry, cracked banks and putrid pond scum. We settle onto dry grass upwind from the pond and talk about school and the upcoming arrival of John’s newest sibling. My family feels small compared to John’s. The Smith house vibrates and bustles, and I am excited about a new baby to coddle and hold.

  A wind sends a chill down my back. I remember the sweater I left laying across the end of my bed. John sees me shiver and wraps an arm around me while he looks to the sky. I lean into his embrace and watch the clouds sail past the blue backdrop. They are white and fluffy—happy clouds—but within minutes, the clouds darken, casting shadows on the ground, and the gusts of wind turn to an icy blast.

  “We’d better head back,” John says, examining the sky. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  We walk hastily through the trees, our pace quickening with every creak and crack of limbs. My heart beats with an abandoned rhythm, and I place my hand over my chest. We step out of the dense foliage and onto the dirt path, nearly covered with snow already. I look up and snow cascades over my astonished face. The church is in sight, and we run to find our families and let them know we’re safe.

  Mother, Father, and Iris are waiting in Father’s new Chevrolet, his first mode of transportation that does not require hay to run. The exhaust leaves the
tailpipe in a plume of smoke. Father Smith is holding the door for Mrs. Smith as she lowers herself into the front seat of their four-door Buick sedan. We all wave a quick goodbye before hurrying home, spurred on by the large snowflakes.

  The ride home over slippery town roads has Mother bracing herself against the dashboard while Iris and I cling to each other in the back seat. Nobody speaks. Father’s hands grip the steering wheel as the wind buffets the side panels, pushing the car about. The sky is dark, and the headlights barely illuminate the road. The snow is collecting faster than I have ever seen. The road is almost impossible to make out, and the snow banks grow by the minute.

  Father turns onto the country road—the road is less slick, but the wind is more determined. We pass few cars, but Mother tells us to watch out for anyone who needs assistance. She bows her head and prays for anyone in the midst of this ferocious weather. The trip home from church usually takes fifteen minutes. We arrive at the farm an hour and a half later, shivering and covered in snow. Father parks the car as close to the back porch as possible. The phone is ringing as we dash into the kitchen, shaking the snow out of our hair. Mother lifts the phone to her ear as she motions for me to put water on to boil.

  “Hello. Oh, Isabelle! Yes, we just got in. Terrible weather out there.” Mother’s voice is always louder when she is on the phone. “You managed all right? Good.”

  Isabelle is Isabelle Smith, John’s mother. My shoulders relax, relieved the Smith family is safe, while I reach into the cupboard for mugs.

  “I do hope this isn’t how winter will be.” Mother pauses. “Hello. Hello, Isabelle. Are you there?” Mother hangs up. “The line went dead. I guess the storm has taken down the phone lines.”

  Father stokes the fire as the four us huddle together, sipping tea and singing hymns. It storms all night, and in the morning, the car beside the back porch has all but vanished into a white snowdrift. The four of us take turns shoveling a path to the barn so we can water and feed the animals. Winter has arrived in South Dakota.