We Hope for Better Things

by Erin Bartels

  William walked up to the man who had attacked him in the street and held out his hand. “Good evening, sir. I’m William Rich.”

  Daniel Balsam struggled past his incredulity, got to his feet, and shook William’s hand. Nora would have taken this as a good sign had it not been for the steady change in the color of her father’s face. She had no sooner opened her mouth to preempt whatever he might say than her mother’s strangled gasp stopped her short.

  “Oh, Nora! What have you done?”

  Nora covered her left hand, but it was too late.

  “What?” Daniel asked.

  “Mom, don’t get hysterical.”

  But the snowball was already rolling down the hill, and nothing could stop the avalanche of angry words that followed.

  “How could you do this to us?”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “You can get it annulled.”

  “Where will you live?”

  “Does he even have a job?”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “Why would you go and pull such an idiotic stunt?”

  “You have ruined your life.”

  Nora weathered the barrage of disapproval, gritting her teeth like someone receiving surgery with no local anesthetic. At her side, William stood stoic and silent.

  When the comments slowed enough that she could get a word in, all she could think to say was, “You seemed to like him just fine before you saw the color of his skin. And it shouldn’t matter. We’re in love.”

  “No you’re not,” her father said. “You’re just trying to make some stupid statement. All you kids, all brought up with everything you could ever want. Most ungrateful bunch of idiots I’ve ever seen. Marching around town creating problems where there were none.”

  “I hope it does make a statement,” Nora said with more boldness than she felt. William squeezed her hand in support. “There are problems. Real problems that can’t be ignored. And I’ll have you know I was in that march. I saw Martin Luther King speak at Cobo Hall, and he was amazing.”

  “Amazing? I guess any huckster can amaze an audience of simpletons.”

  “He’s a well-respected minister.”

  “He’s a Baptist.”

  Nora threw up her hands. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nora, I’ll give you my solemn blessing on this farce if you can name one Presbyterian minister other than our own.”

  Silence grew between them.

  “You know why you can’t do it? Because we know how to mind our own business.”

  Nora’s stomach turned as her own words to William rushed back.

  “Francis Schaeffer,” William said in an even tone.

  “No one’s talking to you, boy,” Daniel spat.

  “Watch it!” Nora practically shouted. She caught the look of shock on her mother’s face at this and said in a more respectful tone, “Ending segregation is everyone’s business.”

  “No it isn’t. That’s the South’s business. We were on the right side of the war. A black man can do whatever he wants up here.” He looked at William. “And he obviously does.”

  Nora let out a mirthless laugh. “Maybe our ancestors were on the right side a hundred years ago, but it seems pretty obvious whose side you’re on now.”

  Daniel’s eyes snapped back to his daughter. “I’ll tell you what side I’m on. I’m on the side of folks who don’t skulk around behind people’s backs and fill their daughters’ heads with propaganda. I’m on the side of decent people who do their jobs, earn their keep, and don’t rabble-rouse. And it’s apparent you’re not.”

  “Maybe not. But I’m on the right side.” Nora looked at William, who nodded his support. Then she had an idea. “What about Ray?”

  “Ray?” her father said incredulously. “The groundskeeper? What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “You like Ray.”

  “Ray is not trying to sleep with my daughter!” Daniel appeared on the verge of erupting. He closed the gap between them, stopping a few inches from Nora’s face. “Black people already ruined this family once, young lady.”

  Nora’s breath caught. “What?”

  “You will get this marriage annulled.”

  “I most certainly will not!”

  Daniel clenched his fists, white knuckles delineating the end of every bone. His cheeks trembled in what seemed to be a herculean effort to keep from exploding. “Fine. I want nothing to do with you or him.” He raised a finger and began to wave it at her face. “No more apartment. No more clothes. No more restaurants. No more money to waste on junk art. And you can leave the Corvette here and call a cab to get back to whatever slum this guy’s been living in. He won’t get his grubby paws on even a cent of Balsam money. Not a cent. Now get out of my house.”

  Whatever cold reception she had anticipated from her father, Nora had not been prepared for this. The magnitude of her hasty marriage began to accumulate like a great weight on her chest. Her mother sat in stony silence, her face an emotionless mask.

  Stunned, Nora led William into the house. She veered off to the kitchen as he kept going out the front door. She picked up the phone to call a cab. Her mother appeared in the doorway and took it out of her hand. “I’ll take you.”

  The long drive was silent beyond the giving of directions. When they pulled up to the Rich house, William got out of the car without a word and went inside.

  Nora hung back, fighting tears. “Mom, I wish you would be happy for me.”

  Mallory looked at her daughter, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. “How could I be happy for you when I know what your life will be like now? What was wrong with Michael Kresge? Or Kenneth Lowe? Or any of the others?”

  Nora shook her head. “How can you even ask me that?” She started to open the car door, but her mother squeezed her hand.

  “Call me when you’re settled and give me your new address.”

  That night and all the next day Nora and William emptied out her apartment, shoving her clothes and shoes and coats into every closet in the Rich house until they spilled out onto the floors. Boxes of her books and keepsakes filled the basement. Her makeup, brushes, and curlers littered the bathroom counter and jammed the drawers. The house she had admired for its cleanliness and spare ornamentation had been inundated with the clutter that came from a life where money was no object.

  Though Mrs. Rich was welcoming, Nora could tell she was uncomfortable with the situation. Bianca too was courteous, but sighed constantly and closed curtains whenever she found them open. Even William seemed on edge, and Nora wondered if he regretted their decision to get married.

  But J.J. was the worst. Nora began to suspect that he was sabotaging her. An expensive shoe turned up missing. A favorite blouse had an unidentifiable stain. A lipstick was smashed. A coat lining was torn. One night at dinner, Nora pondered aloud the disappearance of a diamond-studded bracelet, and J.J. said what everyone must have been thinking.

  “Man, I wish you would disappear. Just get outta here. This ain’t your house.”

  “J.J.!” Bianca whacked him on the back of his head.

  Everyone looked at their plates, but Nora could see the truth in their faces. She and William needed to find a place of their own. Fast.

  Yet two tedious months later they were no closer to success.

  As she and William neared the house, Nora was stunned to see her mother’s car on the street in front of it. She was even more surprised to see Mallory Balsam sitting next to Mrs. Rich on the couch, sipping a cup of tea.

  “What are you doing here?” Nora asked.

  “Hello to you too. I came to see what happened to you. You were going to call when you found an apartment.”

  “We’re still looking.”

  “So Louise tells me.”

  Mrs. Rich rose. “Give me a hand in the kitchen, Will.”

  They left Nora staring at the empty spot next to her mother.

  “Are you going to sit down?”

&
nbsp; Nora rounded the coffee table and sat. “Don’t say I told you so.”

  “That’s not why I’m here, Nora.” Mallory folded her hands. “I’m sorry about what happened. We were both quite shocked. You can’t pretend that we shouldn’t have been. But I want you to know that I don’t share your father’s view on cutting ties. That’s why I’m here.”

  They were silent a moment. Nora felt herself begin to unravel like the hem of her skirt.

  “Anywhere they’ll even show us an apartment it’s horrible.” She took a slow breath and stifled the tears that threatened to spill forth.

  Her mother said nothing.

  Nora stared out the front window and tried to understand. Why did people care about what she did with her own life? How did her marriage affect anyone else? How was it any of their business at all? Then she voiced the question she had been brooding over for the past two months. “What did Daddy mean when he said black people ruined this family?”

  Mallory shook her head. “I don’t know, honey. You’d have to ask him.”

  “I’ll do that,” Nora said bitterly. “On our next golf outing, perhaps.”

  Mallory ignored this. “I do have a possible solution to your problem of where to live. It would mean a lot of changes. But perhaps that would be a good thing.”

  Nora gave her mother a quizzical look.

  “There is a house that has been in the family for generations. A big house. Your Grandma Rose told me about it not long before she died. There’s no mortgage. Your father and Uncle David have kept up on the taxes. All the furniture is still there, though I’m not sure what shape it’s in. It hasn’t been lived in for thirty years, so it may need some work.”

  Hope rose in Nora’s heart. “Where is it?”

  “That’s the catch. It’s not in town.”

  “So where is it?”

  Mallory sipped at her tea. “Up north a ways, just outside of Lapeer.”

  “Lapeer! We can’t move to Lapeer. What about William’s job?”

  “I said it would mean changes. But you said yourself that you don’t have many options here. If you lived out in the country, at least you wouldn’t be bothered every day by people on the street.”

  “But what is William supposed to do? Become a farmer?”

  Mallory shrugged. “It’s not far from Flint. I’m sure he could find another job. He does have a car, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course he has a car.”

  “Okay, okay. No need to get defensive.”

  They were both quiet a moment.

  “You could make some extra money sewing if you needed to,” Mallory suggested.

  Nora’s heart sank at the thought of having to take in sewing for other people. It was just something she did for fun. “Does Dad know you’re here offering this house to me?”

  “No. And there’s no reason for it to concern him. If he’s intent on pretending this whole situation doesn’t exist, then he won’t go looking into where you’re living.”

  Slowly, the thought of being where prying eyes would not see her—where no one would even know she was there—caught hold of Nora. A house just for her and William. And their children. Children who would never need hear their parents jeered at. A yard for them to play in away from the dangerous streets. Just their own little family, insulated from the world. Protected. Secluded. Safe.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  But she didn’t need to. In her heart, she was already there.

  twenty-four

  Lapeer County, March 1864

  Not long after Nathaniel returned to his regiment, Mary had resumed writing him letters. For nearly three years she had written regularly, keeping him abreast of developments on the home front and wishing him a safe return. Now the renewed distance helped erase the resentment she had felt toward him when he was home. In January, she had added a new step to her routine. Once she signed off on Nathaniel’s letter, she began one to George.

  Her first letter began with an apology for having taken so long to reply. She added some observations about the weather and a funny thing Angelica had done. She was just about to close with a line about her hopes that the war would soon end and Nathaniel would come home—almost identical to a line she had written in Nathaniel’s letter—when something stopped her. She did not want Nathaniel’s name in this letter. Instead, she wrote, I thank God every day that you came to this house and relieved my loneliness.

  The moment she placed the period she wished she could erase the sentence. The sentiment was true, but much too forward. She considered crumpling it all up and starting again.

  George’s voice from the door interrupted her thoughts. “I have to go into town. Do you have any letters?”

  “Yes, I do.” She folded Nathaniel’s letter and slid it into an envelope. She wrote in the proper address and blew across the ink.

  “What about that one?” George motioned to the sheet of paper still at the center of the desk.

  “Oh, that’s—that’s not going just yet. I haven’t finished it.”

  “I don’t mean to rush you. Take your time and I’ll come back when you’re through.”

  “It’s nothing . . . I . . . well, actually, it’s for you, George.”

  His eyebrows rose. “For me?”

  “Yes. It’s quite late in coming, I’m afraid.”

  He walked behind the desk and leaned over her shoulder to look at the small rectangle graced with fine script. Mary could smell the soap from his bath the night before.

  “It looks like it just needs to be signed.”

  “That’s what I was about to do.”

  What could be the harm, after all, in that one sentence? It didn’t say anything inappropriate. A friend could relieve someone’s loneliness. She dipped the nib in the ink pot and let it hover a moment over the page. How should she close this letter? She signed Nathaniel’s letters with an automatic All my love, Mary. George must have noticed her hesitation, as he backed away from her chair. Finally she settled on Sincerely, Mrs. Balsam. She blew on the ink, folded the paper, and slid it into an envelope.

  “There you are, George,” she said brightly to mask her nerves. “And I promise the next one will not take me six months to write.”

  George responded the very next day, ending the letter once again with a question: Which is your favorite season? Mary responded the day after that, claiming to enjoy late summer the most and early spring the least, and asking him a question of her own: What is your favorite hymn?

  Each day these notes passed between them. George learned that Mary adored the color green but disliked pink, that she preferred fruity desserts to chocolates, and that she harbored a secret love for reading novels that she kept under the bed. Mary learned that George enjoyed milking but not gathering eggs, that he liked building things, and that he wished they might someday plant an apple orchard on the farm.

  Those first exchanges reminded Mary of carefree childhood days when her parents were still alive and she exchanged notes with schoolmates. It was not long, though, before the tone of the letters turned more serious. George asked about her family, and Mary relayed the sad tale of influenza claiming her parents and baby sister. Mary asked about the sister he had once spoken of, but he knew little of her current situation beyond the battles that raged nearby.

  Then George asked a question Mary had not allowed herself to consider. What will you do if Mr. Balsam is killed in the war?

  The letters stopped as Mary debated how to answer. George came to the library as usual to collect her other letters and left with an excuse from her. She had a headache. His letter would be written the next day. But it wasn’t. Nor the next, nor the one after that.

  Then one evening when George and Mary found themselves alone in the library, he looked up from the newspaper and said, “I shouldn’t have asked that question, Mrs. Balsam. It’s none of my business.”

  “It’s not that, George. It’s just a difficult question to answer.”

  “You don’t have t
o answer it.”

  She sighed. “The problem is, I don’t quite know myself. It’s not that I haven’t thought about it.”

  In fact, she had lately thought of almost nothing else. She had known for some time now that she carried another baby within her, conceived when Nathaniel was furloughed. What would she do if he didn’t come home? With a child, she would have to remarry, despite the fact that she could run the farm by herself. She recalled the pricks of bitterness she had felt at Nathaniel’s comments and calculating expressions when he was home. What did it matter if he would have done things differently? She had managed fine in his absence. And what might a new husband think? Would he put her back in her place? Exclude her from decision making? Might Nathaniel do that as well when he was home for good?

  With George, she felt an equal. They conferred about plantings, harvesttime, and pricing. They examined the finances together and made joint decisions on purchasing everything from a new plow to that month’s supply of flour and sugar. They looked to each other for wisdom and affirmation that they had made the right choice.

  Finally she spoke again. “George, no matter what happens—if Nathaniel comes back whole, or without a leg or arm, or in a coffin—I want you to stay. That is all I know for sure.”

  George set the newspaper down. “Good.” He held her gaze. “Will you write to me tomorrow?”

  twenty-five

  Lapeer County, October

  “Is this too dressy for a movie?” I stood in front of Nora and pulled at the hem of my knee-length skirt. “What am I saying? Of course it is. No one wears a skirt to a movie.”

  “They did in my day.”

  “Well, they don’t anymore.”

  Nora sighed. “Yes, it’s all blue jeans and hooded sweatshirts now, everywhere you look. You know, I blame John F. Kennedy. If that man would have just worn a hat . . .”

  “So, you think I should wear it?”

  She assessed me with a critical eye. “Yes.”

  “But what if Tyrese is wearing jeans and a hoodie?”