“Betty Gibson, that’s enough now!”
Annie stepped back, edging away from her grandmother’s raised voice. Outside, her breathing came hard as she ran, from the back yard to the farm lane, until she finally reached the front door of the old stone house. She folded down onto the stone steps and rocked back and forth with her knees to her chest.
Father, again.
The tightness in her chest edged upward to her throat and she felt as if she might suffocate. Her breathing came fast and shallow and the bright fall colors dimmed into a blurring whir of dizziness.
He left, and her mother died. The two events were years apart, yet inextricable. Her mother’s death certificate read “Hodgkin’s disease,” but what coroner would be brave enough to list the words “Broken Heart.” Her father wrecked her childhood and now his legacy threatened to wreck her future.
How dare Betty Gibson accuse me of being like that man. Despite her indignation, the caustic words settled onto a tender part of her exposed soul.
Chapter Ten
BEULAH HAD MADE a study of people for most of her life. It wasn’t hard, really. If a body simply listened and watched, there was much to be learned about other humans. An extra dose of intuition helped. For her examinations, she had been rewarded, or maybe cursed, with a refined sense of what lay beyond simple words, expressions, and actions. Fred had called it radar.
Tilting her face up to the warm September sun, she shifted in the metal chair and stretched out her legs. She had her suspicions as to what was wrong with Evelyn. Even if she did guess right, it wasn’t her news to share. No, it was Evelyn’s hand to play when she felt the time was right.
Then there was Annie. Her granddaughter came home from the stone house last night dragging and going to bed without her supper. When she found Annie’s phone in the upstairs bathroom, she couldn’t help but see Jake had called. Later, Jake came to the door looking for her granddaughter. What was Beulah to say? That Annie had gone to bed? After all, her bedroom door was shut and the room was dark.
Jake had frowned when she told him and seemed perplexed before thanking her and leaving. It didn’t appear to be a lover’s quarrel. Maybe Annie was sick, what with running herself down and burning the candle at both ends. A thought struck her and made her feel like she had been punched in the chest. Could Annie have Hodgkin’s disease, just like her mother?
No, no. Beulah could not let her mind go down the old worry road. Beulah pushed herself up and went into the house where she pulled a chair to the refrigerator. With the door open, she pulled out condiment jars and wiped off shelves.
Beulah prayed while she combined two open mustards, which gave her plenty of time since the especially tedious process involved a knife, a small spoon, and ultimately a tiny spatula. When she finished she felt calmer; there was only one mustard container in the refrigerator and the shelves were sparkling clean.
***
“Just checking to see if you needed anything,” Evelyn said, taking off her cardigan and settling into a chair. “I’m on my way for groceries.”
Beulah sensed the visit was about more than groceries. After all, her house was in the opposite direction from town, not to mention a quarter mile off the road.
“Well, I could use another gallon of whole milk. I had a mind to make some potato soup later,” she said. “Fall gets me in the mood for soup. Coffee?”
“Yes, I will, if you have some left,” Evelyn said.
“Annie’s off so early these days, she’s not drinking nearly as much. I reckon she and Jake will have the farm whipped into shape the way they are going at it,” Beulah said, putting a mug in front of Evelyn, and then sitting.
“They are working hard,” Evelyn smiled. “It’s so good to have them both home. And together.”
“Yes,” she said, and waited. Evelyn looked deep into the coffee mug, as if it had a secret.
“Beulah,” Evelyn said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m all out of sorts these days.”
“Having Jake back and running the farm is an adjustment. Even with him living in the cottage. And you’ve taken on this wedding, which is no small thing,” she said, thinking a wedding alone would put anybody out of sorts.
“True,” Evelyn said. “I suppose we never realize quite how much a thing might take from us until we are in the thick of it. Maybe it’s a combination of those things. And you’re right about Jake. Having him here is wonderful, but seeing so much of Charlie’s work with the dairy changing over to Jake’s dream of raising beef cows, chickens, pigs, goats, sheep and who knows what else before it’s all over with.” Evelyn chuckled. “It seems like he’s biting off an awful lot. I don’t know what Charlie would say about all this.” Evelyn was quiet a moment. “I suppose maybe it’s a little bit of grief. Somehow I think if everything stays the way Charlie left it, maybe he’ll come back. Strange?”
“Normal,” Beulah said. “Every single time I come in the back door and see Fred’s boots sitting there, it makes me think he’s inside waiting on me. Of course, it’s why I leave them there, so if anyone has the intention of breaking in, they will think the same thing.”
“Maybe so,” Evelyn said, pushing her chair back and reaching for her cardigan. “Thank you, Beulah.”
“Is that all?”
“Hearing I’m not crazy is salve,” Evelyn said, looking back at her from the door.
Beulah watched her friend walk out and it finally dawned on her. Evelyn doesn’t realize what’s happening. Well, I would not be the first to tell.
***
For all her self-promises not to gobble up the letters, Beulah had read all the correspondence from Ephraim’s boot camp and training time in a matter of days. She was back in North Africa and could hardly wait for bedtime when she was alone with her big brother through his words. Bedtime had grown to be her favorite time of day and she found herself edging it earlier and earlier until she was now going up by eight in the evening. It was nearly dark at least, with the days growing shorter.
She pulled the metal box onto her lap and opened it. A ribbon marked her place and she pulled out the next brown V-mail envelope.
Sicily
August 21, 1943
Dearest Mother and All,
I don’t know what news you get at home but I am fine.
We ____ ______ _____ ____.
Please don’t worry and know I am looking forward to being home as soon as we get the job done here.
How is the corn crop? Is it any better than last year? I sure hope I’m there to help with the crop next spring. Do you have a good garden this time? How are the cows doing? I guess you are busy canning beans and tomatoes. Well Mom, I could ask a million questions. Don’t worry about me.
Love,
Ephraim
Black lines marked out several of the words the censor didn’t like. The censors did not want much detail traveling home for fear it could be used against them.
Those times were tough, she remembered well. She was only a little girl, but the hardship of losing Ephraim—to the war, first, and then to death—had marked their family on so many different levels. Ephraim had been her father’s help and partner on the farm. Ephraim loved the farm and would have taken it over when her father passed.
If Ephraim had lived, she probably would not be on the family farm. When she married Fred Campbell, she might have left the May farm and moved with him over to Gravel Switch in Boyle County, where he was from. But as it was, her father needed Fred’s help, without a son of his own to share the work.
If Beulah followed that line of thinking, her daughter Jo Anne would have not met Annie’s father, Eddie Taylor, which meant Annie would not have been Annie. And Beulah and Fred would have had other friends instead of Betty and Joe Gibson and Evelyn and Charlie Wilder. Which meant there would be no Annie and Jake. How strange to ponder, she thought, how one life affected so many others.
Feeling a chill, she pulled the quilt over her legs. If Ephraim had lived, he would
have married Bessie Sprinkle and then Bessie’s life and children would be different. Ephraim might have had sons to carry on the May name. Would her parents have lived longer if Ephraim had survived the war?
A heartbreak takes its toll on the body and both her parents seemed to age faster after the telegram was delivered. Beulah remembered her mother’s dark hair had turned white within months of hearing about Ephraim’s death. She had heard some old-timers talk about hair turning white sometimes even overnight after such a shock. Hair was simply an outward sign of what might be going on inside the body. There was no telling what went on inside, but she felt sure it had contributed to the illnesses that eventually took her parents.
A scripture from Job came to mind: “A man’s days are numbered. You know the number of his months. He cannot live longer than the time you have set.” In that case, it was no surprise to God Ephraim was born in Kentucky and died in Italy. It was as it was supposed to be.
She lay back on her pillow and felt a tear slip down her cheek. A body didn’t realize how much they missed someone until they let themselves go to the secret heart places where memories were stored. And then the pain of the separation was as fresh and new as it had been back then. Even worse, now she knew what all Ephraim missed.
After a few moments, she sat up in bed and looked at the metal box. One more letter. After all, that had been a short one. Inside the box she found the place where she stopped and pulled out the next brown letter.
Naples, Italy
November 1, 1943
Dear Mother,
I am sorry it has been so long since I wrote last. We have been on the move and are now in Naples, waiting and training, but it is the nicest place we have been. It’s raining tonight, so we are all sitting in our bunks writing letters home, smoking and reading.
I am sending you a lace pillow cover for your birthday. No, I did not pick it out myself, so if you like it, you must give the credit to the shopkeeper’s daughter. She doesn’t speak any English, except for a few words, but when I said it was for my mother, she picked this one out for you.
The Italians are having a rough time here but they are grateful to us, and the troops around Naples right now are giving the city a boon. I watched a farmer tending his sheep the other day and I realized we are all just the same, even though he lives here and I live across the sea. He cares about his animals and his land. He wants a better life, a quiet life, filled with work, rest, love, children, and he wants the freedom that makes those things possible. But this war has changed all of us.
How are the neighbors? Have you heard from any of the other boys who signed up? My old teacher, Mr. Ellis, has been good to write me often and tell me about the others when he gets word. He told me about Eddie White. I was sorry to hear he was killed. I know you must not be telling me everything you hear, and I understand. But I don’t want you to worry.
Bessie Sprinkle sent me a letter and I did write her back. Mother, you might not like to hear this, but I told her not to wait for me. It isn’t fair to her and who knows how long this war might go on? I don’t feel for Bessie as a man should feel for a woman. I don’t know how all this will turn out, but when all this is over, I will trust God for who I should marry.
How is Dad doing with all the farm work? I sure hate I can’t be there to help. Please don’t worry about me, Mother. I will be okay no matter what happens. I hope to be home and working in the fields come spring.
All my love,
Ephraim
Beulah took off her reading glasses. Ephraim had broken off with Bessie Sprinkle while he was overseas. Bessie stopped coming to see them and quickly married someone else because Ephraim had broken it off with her. Her parents had known this, but they never explained. Back then, they were all too busy surviving to explain much of anything. With a red ribbon, she marked her place.
Fingering the remaining letters, Beulah’s mind reset past events in light of this new information. All these years, she had held hard feelings against Bessie Sprinkle for going on to someone else and living a nice life, leaving Ephraim just when he needed the comfort of a girl back home. Just when he was about to die, Ephraim called it off and may have broken Bessie Sprinkle’s heart. She shook her head in wonderment at the truth. How easy it is to make judgments without all the information.
Mindlessly, she pulled all the letters forward in the box and when she did, she noticed a felt tab in the bottom of the box just behind the last letter. Beulah put her glasses back on and carefully lifted the letters out, placing them in order on the quilt. Then she pulled on the short tab ever so gently. The bottom of the box moved in response. Pulling harder, the brown felt bottom lifted. Underneath were two more letters in the same aged ivory, along with a photograph.
She squinted and saw an exotic young woman in sepia tones, modestly dressed.
It was certainly not Bessie Sprinkle.
Chapter Eleven
ANNIE DIDN’T TRUST herself to speak to anyone after she came back from the old stone house, especially to her grandmother, who always had the ability to look straight through her. She went to bed early, hoping for sleep to take away the pain. Betty’s words pricked some fragile bubble inside her, spilling out darkness in her soul. When she awoke, it was as if all the colors were a few shades darker.
When Jake called that morning, it was easy enough to blame her early bedtime on exhaustion. And when they went in search of hens for the chicken house, Annie was determined to suppress her emotions until she had time to sort through the implications later. As an airline stewardess she was skilled at smiling—no matter what was going on in her private life.
When they pulled in the driveway with a cage full of squawking chickens in the back, Jake was distracted by a phone call. When he hung up, she was already putting the tailgate down.
“I need to help Joe with a cow,” he said. “Think you can take it from here?”
“Sure, just put them in the coop, right?”
“I’ll carry the cage inside, just be sure to close them up and leave them inside for a day or two so they know it’s their new home.”
“Easy,” she said. “Thanks.”
Annie watched him drive away and envied his excitement for a moment. Jake had found his passion. She, on the other hand, was unemployed in a town that didn’t trust her to stick around long enough to give her a chance at something. She missed her old job; not the flying so much as the routine work of serving people.
She closed the door of the chicken coop and then opened the cage. Rhode Island Reds and Black Australorps tentatively stepped out into their new environment. Beady eyes darted back and forth and heads bobbed.
“Believe me, I know how you feel, walking into a new place,” she said, and poured feed into the container. They rushed for it with happy clucking sounds. While they pecked, she poured oyster shells into another container.
“Be back with your water,” she said.
In the lawn mower shed, she found an empty five-gallon bucket and filled it from the water spigot nearby. The bucket was heavy and she walked slowly, sloshing water onto her tennis shoes. When she rounded the corner, a line of chickens fled the coop and headed toward the garden.
“No!” she yelled, dropping the bucket to the ground. She raced after them, which only set them spreading their wings and doing a half-run, half-fly step. They scattered in all directions. She circled around them and tried herding them back to the chicken coop.
“C’mon chickies,” she said, bending down with her arms outstretched. She was within three feet of one bird but as she grabbed for it, up it went, feathers flying.
“May as well let ‘em be,” Beulah said, smiling as she approached the mayhem.
“I went for water and forgot to shut the door,” Annie said, raising her arms in the air and then dropping them to her sides in frustration.
“They might come back,” she said. “Chasing them will only make it worse.”
“I don’t know how things could get much worse,” she
said.
“Something wrong?” Beulah said.
“Nothing. Since I can’t do anything else here, I think I’ll go over to the old stone house and see what else I can wreck.”
***
After an afternoon of frenetic scraping, sweeping and filling trash bags in the dusty house, Annie’s irritability had grown. She almost forgot about an earlier promise to have dinner with Lindy until her friend called to confirm the time.
A bath helped lift her mood. She looked forward to a dinner with Lindy and eating something other than her grandmother’s soup, as much as she liked it.
Annie drove to Maple Avenue and pulled into the drive of a stately old Greek revival. The street was lined with old maples and oaks that stood like guards between the sidewalk and the road.
Inside the grand hallway, she waited while Lindy grabbed a light jacket and her purse.
“Lindy, the crown molding is amazing, and that medallion is beautiful,” she said and pointed to the chandelier hanging from the center of the plasterwork.
“How do you know so much about architecture?” Lindy said. “Did you study it in school?”
“I studied art, but I was always drawn to buildings. European travel as a flight attendant fed my interest,” she said. “This has been restored so well.”
“My mom fell in love with it,” Lindy said. “But she only got to live here for about five years before she died. Dad got it for a song but they put a lot of work in it. I’ll show you around when we get back. Our reservations are at seven, so we better go.”
She ran her hand along the ornate woodwork on the stairway. “I want to see every inch,” she said.
When they reached the restaurant Lindy chose, Annie was reminded of the New York restaurants she used to frequent with her old boyfriend Stuart. Just the right lighting, cozy leather booths, an attentive staff, and good Italian food.
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