He slammed his fists to his sides. “Can’t you understand that I love this house just the way it is?”
I changed tacks, frustrated by this merry-go-round argument. “But I am here alone. We used to do everything together. I feel really alone in this. I feel really alone here.”
“You’re not alone. You have me, and Hayden. Do you know how many people have trouble having kids? There are three women in my office who can’t even listen to me talk about Hayden because they are having trouble conceiving. We are so lucky and you don’t even appreciate it. Sure, being a parent is hard, Hayden is tough, but where’s your gratitude, Molly?” Corey’s anger was ratcheting up now too, and it caught me by surprise. “If you don’t start appreciating this time, you’re going to miss out on everything. Hayden is growing and changing every day. He’ll never again be as tiny as he is today. And that is true every day. You’ll never get this time back. I don’t get to have that time because I’m at the office all day, but you do get to have it, and you just want to throw it away. Just like my mom. Think about your mom and what you wouldn’t give to get that time back with her…”
“Don’t! Don’t even bring her into this…” I warned.
“Fine, I’ll talk about mine. She didn’t want me around either,” he said, his voice cracking. “Aunt Tish was the only one who did. So this place stays the way it was, the way she had it. Forget your stupid dinner party.”
I couldn’t answer. My mouth gummed up with the tears that had started, like it was full of marbles. My energy for the fight ebbed and morphed in a bottomless despair and tears rolled down my face. Corey didn’t understand. He wasn’t listening. Nothing would change. He would work and I would take care of his child without his help. I would fade and disappear into the existing past.
“I’m going out. I need to cool off,” he said from the doorway, not looking back, and closed the door behind him.
He didn’t even notice the new pane of glass. From the Pack ‘n Play, I heard Hayden begin to cry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tish, 1920
To lose Mama and Ellis in one week was too much. Heartbroken seemed too simple a description. My chest ached and I struggled for breath. Tears fell freely in waves of sorrow and only stopped when I was too exhausted to continue. Every part of me was screaming to go to Ellis and be with him. But then Oliver’s frightened and bewildered face, desperate about what he might lose next, appeared before me needing something: a mend in his pant leg, a haircut, a meal, and I would think of Papa’s inability to carry on, function, even speak. Without me, they would have no one. My resolve flapped back and forth like a flag in the wind.
It was different before Mama’s passing. Longing to get away seemed natural; my independence was just part of growing up. I felt safe being far away, as we would be tethered by letters and an occasional long-distance telephone call. I would know that life carried on in Willow Grove as it always had and things would be unchanged when I came home for a visit. Without her here to maintain the family, a move to California wasn’t growing up, it was running away.
Everything about staying made me furious and frustrated, though. I was angry at the fiery train. I was angry at the rescue workers for not finding Mama sooner. I was angry at the doctors for not being able to save her. I was angry at Papa for his emotional absence. I was angry at Ivy for her lack of obligation. I was angry at Ellis for not understanding. I was so angry.
There were moments, in the following weeks, when I would forget that Mama was gone. I would be busy doing something and then turn to ask her a question. Each time, sorrow rushed in and everything darkened like storm clouds across the sky. To remind myself, I read every newspaper article about the train crash. In them lay revised lists of the dead, accounts of the trial, conviction, and sentencing of the engineers, and details of a proposed new law banning wooden train cars. I cut out the initial article, published the day after the crash and showing the ghastly burnt out train, and tucked it secretly inside of Papa’s recipe book, wanting Mama to be a part of it forever.
For all of us, our mourning blanket seemed to thicken. Outside, it remained frigid and bleak, with the sun hiding behind smoky clouds. Trees with bare skeletal limbs waved in the wind’s bluster and the snow that lay on the ground collected dirt and soot. The air hit my face like walking into a pine tree, needle prickles of freezing pain on any exposed skin. Inside, the silence burrowed deep into us, and although I kept our house clean, it was by rote more than anything else. No one had the strength for enthusiasm. Our loss took up space in every corner, every cupboard, every windowsill. We plodded through the rooms of this house, meant for us all, but truly a gift for her, and felt alone.
Christmas passed us by, feeling like just another mournful day. Ivy spent it with William’s family, and in a way, it was a relief. We wouldn’t need to put on cheerful holiday faces that lacked authenticity. Though I put a few decorations up, neither Papa, Oliver, nor I felt like celebrating. We went to bed early on Christmas Eve craving sleep’s kind obliteration, with little anticipation of morning.
Oliver went back to school after the New Year. Notes were sent home pinned to his jacket from Mrs. Ely saying that he wasn’t keeping up with the class, and that instead of working he was mostly staring out the window. One day, the note reported that he had shoved another boy and nearly knocked the boy into the stove. I discarded these papers after reading them and didn’t discuss their contents with Papa or Oliver.
Eventually, we had to open the delicatessen again. Papa went there each day, perhaps a little later than usual. We worked in near silence next to each other and he was sullen with the customers. When he returned home, he went directly up to bed.
Ivy’s phone calls went from daily to weekly. She never offered to help and never stayed on the line long, always citing some club meeting or luncheon she needed to attend.
I tried to keep up with the housework and found that the hard work kept my mind from wandering to Ellis. When I went into town to purchase the food for our meals, I kept my eyes on the ground and was thankful for the slippery icy roads that forced everyone else do the same. I wrapped my face deep in a scarf and kept my hat low on my head, hiding and unwilling to make small talk.
Back at the house, after working all day at the shop, I cleaned until my muscles felt tight and heavy like bricks and I yearned for bed. I couldn’t bear the thoughts that roamed my head in the quiet moments, and found I slept better if I had the strength for nothing else. So each day I rose with the dawn, dusted every corner, expelled all the cobwebs, swept the floor and the stairs before leaving for the delicatessen. I left the clock silent. It hung on the wall, frozen at twenty-five past eight.
On days when the shop was closed, I fired up the oven and cooked meals too big for all of our diminished appetites, and our quiet trio sat at the table pushing the food around on our plates. When enough time had passed for dinner to reasonably be concluded despite the leftovers, I cleared the dishes and washed up.
My hands were white in the creases, tight and dry. The skin eventually cracked and split open, bleeding, and it felt like I could shed my skin like a snake if I splayed my fingers far enough. Maybe a new skin was what I needed. This one didn’t seem strong enough to weather this winter and all the pain it contained.
Despite the stilled clock, our lives marched on. Reason told me that day by day, we would feel better, mourn less, smile more, but we didn’t. Perhaps this was my fault, perhaps I was the one responsible for bringing joy back into the house. After all, isn’t that why I stayed? Isn’t that why I gave up on a life of my own, to take care of them?
Ivy set our schedule with a Sunday phone call, briefly asking after Papa and Oliver, but mostly berating me about Ellis. “What have you done, Tish? Ellis loved you and wanted to make a life with you. He has a good job and I have spent a lifetime hearing nothing from you other than traveling! Men don’t wait. If you’re not careful, he’ll marry someone else.”
William was still in to
uch with him, and Ivy was eager to pass along updates she had heard. The news was painful each time, but I remained hungry for any information my sister had of him. “He’s still in New York, you know. Staying at the Roosevelt Hotel. Why not send him a letter?” Ivy prodded.
I refused, explaining to Ivy the best I could about my obligations to Papa, and especially Oliver, hearing my own words and hoping my assured tone would finally convince me that I had made the right decision.
In our conversation one week, Ivy reported that her forewarning had finally come true. I had waited too long to change my mind. Ellis had, indeed, married a girl from New York, and they planned to live in California. I took the news like a punch in the gut, but it changed nothing.
Ivy didn’t understand how my regret mingled with my obligation and love. She didn’t understand how I loved them all but how these loves couldn’t coexist. Fully entrenched in her own life, we hadn’t seen her since the funeral, and so she never fully perceived how desperate things had become.
Papa’s silence had become part of the house, palatable and ever-present. When he surfaced, I greeted him brightly, hoping to encourage any scant word spoken. He would stare for a moment or two, and then shuffle on.
The void of Papa’s conversation was filled by Oliver’s questions and constant need for reassurance. He had become quite nervous and questioned my every move. Would I be home when he got back from school? If not, would I be at the delicatessen? Could he meet me there?
Today had been the same. I had promised him that I would, indeed, be at home when the school day ended, and so I left Papa to fill orders himself and hustled about town to complete my errands in time. Outside, the sun welcomed me and I was buoyed by a faint breeze. The street was abuzz; a small town’s intuition, something was certainly in the air. Folks whispered as I passed by, quickly turning away from me and frowning. And then, suddenly, some part of me knew it. Felt it. Felt him.
As I walked past Rothwell’s, there was Ellis. He was seated in the window with two other men and a woman who was entertaining them all with a story, her hands out in enthusiastic description. One of the men with them was held in rapt attention, the other threw his head back with guffaws of laughter. They were all drinking fountain sodas. With sudden severe nausea, I knew who she must be. But who were these men? New co-workers, all on their way to California? Ellis looked out toward the street just as I was passing.
Through the glass, his eyes held mine, immediately turning sad. I slowed slightly, only my momentum carrying me past, my breath caught tight in my chest. For a split second, I expected his face to light up and for him to rise from his seat to come and greet me with a kiss. But of course, he wouldn’t now. He looked straight at me and then at the woman, his new wife, before turning his attention down to his drink. I quickened my pace then, hoping to stomp down the jealousy that rose like bile in my throat.
How quickly he had moved on. It was only four weeks ago that he left for New York. Ellis’ job started shortly, why was he here?
In the brief seconds it took for me to pass the window, I had taken in all the details of the woman. Lovely with soft hair the color of wheat and bright eyes; she must have been something special since they were married so quickly.
I had begun to heal in the time since he walked out my front door, but now the wound was twisted and opened again. The scab was not thick enough yet; I still longed to go with him to California, be with him as his wife.
No, I told myself, shaking off the idea. Today I needed to purchase new spring clothing for Oliver. Pants without twice-mended rips in the knees. I hurried on, each step heavier for the responsibility.
I had only gone a block when Ellis caught up with me, breathless and calling my name. I turned, needing to see him, talk to him, but afraid.
“Hello, Ellis,” I said.
“Tish,” he said, stating it resolutely. The sound of it gripped my chest and clenched it, forcing an involuntary and painful release of breath.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” I recovered.
He fiddled with the brim of his hat, which he held in his hands, soft and brown, looking down at it. “Yes, I had to settle something at the boarding house before I went West; I got out of town so quickly… well, you know. And Kathryn,” he paused to look up at me sheepishly when he said her name, “well, Kathryn wanted to see Willow Grove before we left.”
I nodded and bit my lip, forcefully tamping down the tears with my teeth, unable to speak. Kathryn. I felt gutted.
We stood there on the street corner as the moment stretched out silent between us. When I couldn’t stand being this close yet so far away from his body one moment longer, I began to turn away. He reached for me and blurted out, “I don’t love her.”
The air suddenly froze and seemed to suck violently away from me.
He dropped my arm. After a few seconds, I said, “I’m certain she would be sorry to hear that. She is your wife, after all.” I was unable to do anything but state facts.
“Yes. She is,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that about her. I simply meant, well, it’s not the same. I don’t love her the same way… I… I don’t love her like I loved you.”
“Well, she looks lovely,” I said, remembering the sweet face and fine clothing I glimpsed through the shop window.
Ellis reacted harshly, perhaps thinking that I had no right to this jealousy. “You turned me away. What choice did I have?”
“You? What choice did you have? What choice did I have?” I was instantly infuriated. “I want to go to California—but I can’t. You know that. Oliver and Papa need me. I have to stay here. I must stay.” Suddenly exhausted and sad, I continued, “We have been through this. I loved you so much, Ellis. I still do, but this life, this town, it won’t make you happy…” I trailed off. There was nothing more to say.
“Will it make you happy?” Ellis asked, searching out my eyes and holding contact.
I thought about it. Minutes went by, or maybe just seconds. “I don’t know. It will have to.”
His mouth straightened and he swallowed hard. Unable to speak, he reached out again and his fingertips grazed my arm. He nodded, simply, finally. With a brave smile, he turned and walked the block back to his wife.
I heard that they left on the train later that afternoon, embarking on the week-long journey to California and the Standard Oil job that was waiting.
●●●
The next morning dawned bright, with much-missed sunbeams streaming onto my bed. In those split moments before I was truly awake, I basked in the warmth like a lizard. But then recollection seeped in, dark and deep, and the pain returned. My dreams had left with Mama and Ellis. My limbs were heavy, as if not my own. I got up anyway, dressed, and went downstairs.
The bright light made me see how filthy the windows were. Since the shop was closed, after breakfast I worked my way around the house wiping down the ones in the shade, trying to beat the sun. This task took most of the day, but it kept my hands and mind distracted and soon it was dinner hour. Tonight, the three of us who remained would share a meal, have a conversation, and find a way to move on, bit by bit, bite by bite if necessary.
I set the table with our fine china, ironed the napkins, and boiled a chicken. When it was cooked, I hoisted it out of the pot and shredded the meat. I added carrots, onions, and peas to the boiling water, and then returned the meat to the pot, discarding the bones. Pulling a bowl from the cabinet, I mixed together flour and eggs, salting the thick, sticky ball generously and adding drips of water until it had a gooey consistency.
I found my mother’s spaetzle maker. It was a tool from my father’s side of the family, a medieval-looking metal contraption with two handles, one attached to a press and the other to a cup with holes in the bottom. The handles were unnecessarily long, presumably for leverage, but the tool was unwieldy and clanked against itself as I attempted to maneuver the wet flour mixture into the cup. I held it over the pot, my arms shaking with the effort of squeezing,
the handles digging into my stomach. With significant strain, a small bit of the glutinous mass extruded through the holes, but not enough to drop into the pot below. I had watched Mama do this countless times, though she didn’t seem to struggle as much as I struggled now. Resting the end of the apparatus on the far edge of the pot, I took firm hold of both handles, and pressed down on the top handle with all my might.
The raw noodles slowly forced their way through the holes in the cup, tiny air bubbles popping as they went. Suddenly, the spaetzle maker shifted under the pressure of my pushing. It caught the pot, sliding it forward where it hung for a long second at the edge of the stove before toppling onto the floor. I jumped back as the dinner I had prepared splashed in thick, molten lumps onto the floor.
I stared at it and heard a low moan. For a horrible moment, it sounded like an animal. Then I realized it was me. I let the spaetzle maker clatter out of my hands to the floor.
Suddenly I was enraged. Dinner was ruined, Mama was gone, Ellis was gone, and I had thrown it all away for nothing. I was incapable of helping anyone. My hands balled into fists and I slammed them down to my sides. I was unable to help Papa and Oliver and foolish to think that I was their answer. How overly confident and ridiculous I was. I wasn’t up to the task of filling Mama’s shoes. Scrubbing the house until my fingers were cracked and bleeding, working at the shop, and trying to take care of the household wasn’t filling them with love and carrying them through this.
With fury, I swept the bowl with the remaining dough right off the counter. A low thud resounded as the thick glass bottom of the bowl cut a deep gouge into the tile floor upon impact. The contents thickly splashed out, and the bowl shattered. I sank down, sitting right in the hot spill, and sobbed.
I ran my fingers over the divot carved in the tile. It radiated into a long crack. The divot was deep, about the size of my thumb, and crescent-shaped. Compulsively, I continued running my finger back and forth over the permanent void in the once-perfect floor. Some things couldn’t be undone. The floor was forever damaged and disfigured.
An Imperfection in the Kitchen Floor Page 22
