Now, she filled a bowl with potatoes and onions, securing the porch door against a nasty air current. She still recalled opening her new pressure cooker that year.
Millie hadn’t been able to contain herself—“Mom, you’re going to love this! You can cook meat in a fraction of the normal time, and you can’t imagine how tender it gets. Last year at the New York World’s Fair, the National Pressure Cooker Company introduced this very cooker.”
Dottie forgot what Cora gave her—maybe her bedroom moccasins. Owen—well, he’d never gotten into the habit of gift giving, but enjoyed watching the grandchildren open their presents. Bill gave the best gift of all—being here.
The phone rang, and Dottie counted the rings. It would be just like Hilda to call to discuss the day’s events. By now, she would know that Dottie spent time with Ruth, and seek details she might have missed. Dottie sighed—at least no one had been hurt, although the Byerlys’ house suffered smoke damage.
“Hello? Oh, Cora—I’m so glad to hear your voice. I was going to call you tonight.”
“Are you coming, Mom?” Her voice sounded different—weaker.
“We are. I have some news for you. Honey, Al Jensen and I are getting married on Saturday. And then we’re coming out to see you.”
“Millie called me Sunday night about you and Al. I’m surprised, but so happy for you.”
“I know—I was pretty shocked myself. But it seems like this was meant to be.”
“Did you buy your tickets yet? I sure hope not.”
“No, we plan to go down to Heston on Thursday for our marriage license, but a storm blew in, and there’s more coming. And then…well, you don’t want to know all that.”
“But I do. Tell me everything.”
Nine times out of ten, the line filled with static, so Dottie had to hang up before the conversation finished. She’d better say the important things first.
“I will, but what did you mean about the tickets?”
“Remember, I told you Dennis and I were buying your ticket? We sent it to you three days ago—you leave on the seventeenth. That means you should be here by the nineteenth or twentieth, depending on whether you stay over anyplace or not.”
“Stay over?”
“It’ll be a long trip for you, so we bought the stay-over option. You can stop overnight somewhere if you want to. You’ll be on the Super Chief, quite a fancy train. You may even see some movie stars, Mom, and they serve gourmet meals.”
“Oh Cora, that was so thoughtful, but I want to pay you for it. We’ll wait to buy Al’s ticket until mine comes.”
“Mom, you coming out here is worth far more than that ticket. We can’t wait to see you. And someone wants to say hello.” A burble met Dottie’s ear.
“Was that little Jeffrey?”
“Yes. Jeffy Owen, we’ve started calling him. He’s built just like Dad, low to the ground and powerful, but with your dark coloring.”
Dottie eyed the Jensen’s Hardware calendar hanging above her dishpan. Today was Pearl Harbor day—six years. “Why, Cora. In just ten days, we’ll be on our way.”
“And married. Millie told me Al looked a little pale. As I recall, he wasn’t the bravest sort.”
“Oh, really?” What did her girls remember about Al, anyway? A veteran of the Great War, not brave? Maybe they compared Owen’s bravado with Al’s more retiring nature.
The usual tap and tap-tap sounded from the back door. Dottie motioned Al in and mouthed Cora to him. He quietly shed his coat.
“That’s the other thing that happened today, Cora. There was a fire at the school, and Al led a group of men to wet down Ruth McPherson’s and Harm Byerly’s front porch roofs. They saved both houses.”
Al’s face reddened, but she gave him a grin. He sidled over and wrapped an arm around her waist.
“That’s great—tell him I’m proud of him, will you, Mom?”
“Sure enough. He can’t wait to meet the children, either.”
“Good—they can be a handful. We’ll have everything ready for…” Cora’s voice trembled. But static made its loud entrance, and after a couple more tries, Dottie hung up the phone and turned into Al’s embrace.
“Cora says to tell you she’s proud of you. So am I, Mr. Jensen. You’re a mighty brave man.”
He held her at arms’ length, his eyes veiled. A parade of colors ran through his eyes, and she pulled him close. Whatever troubled him showed again. His tone had resignation in it, and distance.
“I’m glad it’s over and no one got hurt.” The scents of his hand soap and aftershave wafted to her. He’d combed every hair just right, even after such a tiring day.
“Me, too.” She rubbed his shoulders. “Guess what? Cora and Dennis already sent my ticket, with an option to stay over somewhere along the way if we want to see the sights.”
“You don’t say?”
“And she thinks it’s good we’re getting married. Millie told her before I did.”
Al pulled something from his back pocket. When he met her eyes this time, that unreadable look fled, replaced by his usual good-natured sparkle.
“I sent for more information, and this came in the mail today. Perfect timing.” He tossed a gold envelope on the table. “I thought nothing could be more exciting than planning our trip, Dot. But now”—he drew her close again—“I’d say just thinking about that stopover wins the prize.”
“Hey, I thought you were worn out.”
“Not that worn out, sweetie.” He lowered his voice like Valentino in a love scene, and Dottie couldn’t keep from giggling. Whatever it was that bothered him so much—something to do with the fire—fled. She melted as he kissed her soundly. Across the room, steam hissed from the pressure cooker.
“Al, I have to put the pressure regulator on the cooker.”
The regulator danced on its stem. Sss…sss…She freed herself, but it wasn’t easy.
“Now I need to peel the potatoes—I should have had them cooking already, but this day has been so upside down.”
He followed her to the sink. “The phone rang, and I—” He kissed the back of her neck.
“Come on. You must be starving.” She handed him a knife. Here she was, a grown woman—a grandmother—making eyes like a schoolgirl with her first beau—Millie and Cora would never believe it.
“Start peeling. I’ll skin the onions.”
Al obeyed but shot her a hungry sideways glance.
Chapter Twenty-Four
By Thursday morning, snow piled so high, Dottie could hardly see the street from the attic window. The clearing crew passed twice yesterday, but more inches fell during the night. Would they even be able to drive to Heston today? She went up to the attic to find a suitcase.
She’d never needed one before. When she moved here with Owen, they brought everything in his father’s old truck, in boxes or right in her dresser and bureau. In fact, the only suitcase packing that ever happened in this house took place in the children’s rooms. She’d washed and ironed, delivered and watched, but never packed.
Normally, she avoided the dusty half-attic adjacent to Bill’s old room. Owen spent more time in there than she did, baiting and killing mice or bats. The door creaked open into close air swimming with cobwebs. Dottie used to clean this space every couple of years, but since Bill’s death, she hadn’t had the heart.
Maybe there wasn’t even a suitcase in here—she should have brought a flashlight. Maybe Cora took every suitable container when she moved to California.
“You home?”
She reversed her direction and waited until her feet left the last step. No use yelling when you could speak in a normal voice. “I’m up here—I’ll be right down.” Then she went back up and waited till her eyes adjusted to the closed-in space. Along the wall lay exactly what she needed—a straw-colored thick cardboard case with an intact handle at the top. That ought to do.
By the time she navigated the steps and deposited the case near the bathroom sink where she could wip
e it down, Dottie’s breath came in gasps. She huffed around the corner into the kitchen, where Al stood on the mat, snow up to his trouser knees.
“Boy, oh boy—what a storm! I thought for sure it’d stop during the night, but it’s coming down even heavier. The mayor’s getting desperate—called in farmers to help with snow removal.”
“Really?”
He flicked wet flakes from his eyebrows, looking more excited about the historic snowfall than distressed about their chances of getting their marriage license.
“Have you eaten breakfast?”
“I sure haven’t, and shoveling that heavy, wet stuff creates quite the appetite.”
“I can take care of that.” Dottie rinsed her hands and wiped them on her apron.
“I’ll do your front walk again while you cook, is that a deal?”
“Deal, but here—have some hot tea before you go out again.” Her questions about being able to say their vows on Saturday stuck in her throat. Up till now, Al had shown more enthusiasm than she had, but suddenly, she realized how much she wanted the moment to arrive. Her train ticket had come two days ago, and time was growing short.
He left his empty cup on the table and before long, metal rasped against cement out front. Dottie fried six strips of bacon and toasted four pieces of bread. The steady racket of the toaster followed her into the dining room, where she could watch Al shovel. For such a thin fellow, he had a huge food capacity, like Owen. But more and more, she saw the differences between those two.
Yesterday, the Sternville Recorder ran a photo of Al on Ruth McPherson’s roof, but he shrank from the display. “Wish they’d have gotten a picture of all of us—George worked like a fool all day long.”
Owen would have basked in that small-town glory, making an appearance at several stops around town the next morning. Actually, he would have been the one to bring the paper home.
“Lookee here, Dot!” She imagined him holding it out to her, a wide grin on his face. “I made the front page!” With Al, it was the other way around. Ruth sent her granddaughter over with a copy of the paper and Dottie showed it to Al.
“To each his own.” The toaster fell silent, so she flipped the toast, set the monitor to medium, and stirred oatmeal into boiling water. When it thickened, she added a big dollop of applesauce and let it bubble for half a minute, then stirred in raisins and thick cream.
The Frigidaire offered up a carton of eggs from Harley Blackstone’s farm, delivered fresh every Friday morning. Dottie fried six of them. That ought be about right, if she ate one. By the time Al clattered through the back porch, leaving his boots and coat there, she had the table set, and had worked up an appetite.
“Bring your coat in by the stove so it’ll be nice and dry when you go out again.”
She helped him drape everything over a wooden bench and a couple of chair backs. He washed his hands and pulled up to the table, reached for her hand and said grace. At the end, he added, “And we give thanks for what’s coming on Saturday.”
Now, why did he do that? He knew as well as she that the road to Heston might not be cleared before afternoon, and without their license, Saturday’s ceremony couldn’t take place. Had the cold addled his brain? But Al dug into his food like he’d never before seen a breakfast.
Well, she wasn’t about to ask him. “Did you see anybody out there this morning?”
“Yeah, met Friedrich at the corner with his shovel. Such a hard time his wife’s having, and in the middle of this awful weather, too.”
“She’s no better? I’d better take them some chicken soup. Thought I’d make a batch anyway. Does that sound good to you?”
Deep into his second helping of everything, Al nodded. His eyes held a certain glimmer Dottie couldn’t place. Something stewed in his head, she was pretty sure. All part of a new relationship, familiarizing yourself with a person’s ins and outs. She and Al knew each other fairly well, she thought, but on the brink of matrimony, new things kept popping up to surprise her.
“Saw Ned, too. Bonnie Mae’s doing fine down at the boarding house, tuckered out at night without you there.”
“Well.”
“Well, what?”
“That makes me want to run down there and help her out.”
Alarm flickered across his brow, and Dottie spread the suspense over a slice of toast and a few bites of oatmeal. “But not enough to do it, especially on my first full day away.”
Al’s shoulders loosened. Satisfaction swept her. He really wanted her at home, just where she wanted to be.
****
Chicken soup was almost too easy to make. And no matter how cute those cherub-faced “Campbell kids” looked on the poster down at the grocery, Dottie prided herself in never forking over twenty-four cents for a can.
Henrietta Perry met her in that aisle last fall, and for once, they agreed about something. Leaning to grab a bag of cornmeal situated near the soup display, Henrietta’s nose almost grazed the tip of her hat.
Her tone rose with her torso. “These piddly cans of soup for over twenty cents apiece? Who has the money for it?”
Dottie responded with an “um” as she often did with Henrietta’s blatant pronouncements. That gave her a chance to carry on, and Dottie time to formulate a noncommittal reply.
“My father would roll over in his grave if I spent two hard-earned dimes for a can of soup that wasn’t even homemade. Like I said, who would do that?”
“Someone must, or how could stores continue to stock them?”
“Humph. If I had my way, these shelves would be swept clean. Who knows what those factories put into these cans?”
“Right. Well, I need to keep moving, Henrietta.”
Dottie might have issued wholehearted agreement, since she’d heard stories about what people had found in cans of vegetables, but to concur with Henrietta would invite a sermon multiplied.
She scooped a cooked fryer from its broth and turned the burner way down. The meat fell right off the bone, so she cut it into bite-sized pieces, the resulting mound enough for the Messerschmidts’ supper, hers and Al’s, plus some for a potpie tomorrow. Friday. The potpie and leftover soup would last through Saturday—their wedding day.
Like green tomatoes picked before the first hard frost and kept in brown paper bags to ripen, she tucked her questions away. In due time, she’d learned; Al would let her know what he was thinking. She concentrated on chopping onions, celery, and carrots, and when they bubbled away in her savory broth, started to clean up the kitchen.
Then she thought of baking powder biscuits to go along with the soup. Yes, that’s what she’d make. It only took a few minutes to stir them up, but in Dottie’s opinion, the secret lay in letting the dough sit for a while before baking them. No use trying to hurry bread, even something as simple as baking powder biscuits.
Al didn’t show up around noon, so she tided herself over with a sliced apple and a piece of toast. And tea, of course, fresh hot tea. If only Helene had allowed her to drink tea once in a while, the boarding house days would have gone smoother. Dottie chuckled aloud—she bet Bonnie Mae helped herself to as many cups as she wanted, with Helene off in Minneapolis or scooting around the world with her new husband.
Her elbow on the table beside her plate, she leaned her chin on her hand and began talking to herself. “Wonder how long it’ll be till wedding bells ring for Bonnie Mae and Tom? That girl changed overnight when she discovered him, or he discovered her. Love’s a wonderful thing that way.”
That made her think of Al again, but weariness struck. When would she ever catch up on her rest, after those harried days at Helene’s beck and call? Must be because of her age. Her energy wasn’t what it used to be. She filled the dishpan with dirty utensils and tasted the soup. Her eyes grew heavier. She’d sit down in her armchair for a few minutes before she baked the biscuits, all lined up in crisscross rows on her cookie sheet.
Yes, that’s what she’d do, lie down for a little while. Then, while the biscuit
s baked, she’d add her secret concoction to the soup, and Friedrich would remark on it when he returned her pan. “Berta loved the taste—something special you put in there, eh?”
She hadn’t told a soul the ingredient, and with good reason. As a member of her congregation in good standing, what would people say if they knew she added a bit of Owen’s brandy—only a bit, mind you—to the thickening flour she stirred in just before serving the soup?
****
“Confound it all!” Dottie struggled out of her chair at Al’s tapping. When she finally untangled herself from her scraggly afghan, he stood under the archway between her living and dining rooms, a mysterious grin on his face.
“Took a little nap? Good for you, Dot. It’s about time.”
She twitched her shoulders and pawed the floor with her heels, attempting to free herself from the armchair’s clutches. Al grinned and offered his hand. “Those new chairs down at the furniture store would be a lot easier to get out of.”
“But they cost so much, and a person couldn’t go to sleep in them without being knocked out first.”
He laughed, the sound so light that it brought the marriage license conundrum back into her thoughts. That was the last thing she remembered thinking about before she fell asleep.
“You’re in a jovial mood, Al Jensen.”
“Indeed I am, Dorothy Kyle. After all, I’m getting married in precisely…” He lifted his wristwatch. “Two days, give or take a few minutes.”
“Oh my! It’s three o’clock already?”
“Three-thirty, madam.”
“The soup…”
“I stirred it on the way in. Looks lovely, and smells even better. Like you.”
She blinked and touched her wayward hair. “Oh, I bet.”
“I tell you no lies. Tasted it, too, and you did yourself proud. The Messerschmidts will love it, and so will I. That is, if I’m invited to supper.”
“Of course you are. Al, what’s going on?”
“You don’t like it when I’m so happy?”
“Yes, but…” She heard the sputter in her voice and stopped. He would let her know, like he always did.
In This Together Page 21