Unmentionables

by Laurie Loewenstein

“The printing on this list is so small. It looks like the twenty-fourth. No, the twenty-eighth. It’s the twenty-eighth.”

  Later that day, after she’d collected her trunk and gotten herself back to her apartment, Marian wrote a hurried letter to Deuce. She filled him in on her new assignment. She attempted four different endings. She wasn’t sure how he felt about her. Would he be as anxious to see her as she was to see him? All his letters had been affectionate, but made the point that he didn’t expect anything from her. She finally ended with, I am very much looking forward to seeing you. Can we plan on a late supper after my talk? She added, So you can tell me all about your new venture and about Helen.

  * * *

  The out-of-state mail service in Emporia had been sketchy since June when two of the three postal clerks were shipped out. Deuce did not receive Marian’s letter until three days before she and her Packard were slated to arrive in Emporia. He quickly sent a telegram to Lewistown where, according to the schedule, she’d be speaking that night. When he penciled in his message on the Western Union form, it sounded clipped, as telegrams often did. Supper fine. Stop. Looking forward. Stop. Much to talk about. Stop. He hesitated. He wanted to sign off, With deep affection, but held back. The telegraph operator would read whatever he wrote. And Deuce was uncertain how Marian would take it. Would she feel threatened that he had invested too much in such a brief encounter? He settled for, Most sincerely.

  * * *

  The morning of the day she was to appear in Emporia, Marian woke up at three thirty and again at four twenty. When her eyelids flew open an hour later she gave up and got out of bed. The hotel room in Mattoon smelled strongly of turpentine. Someone had treated it for fleas, Marian thought, and not successfully. She scratched her ankle. But she knew the real reason she couldn’t sleep.

  * * *

  That same morning, Tula, too, had suffered from lack of sleep. She had spent the last week in Jasper’s apartment over the photography studio helping him nurse his three children through successive bouts of scarlet fever. She only managed to get home for a few hours each night and today, the seventh in a row, she woke exhausted. Jasper’s four-year-old, Min, was not out of the woods. The two older children had recovered quickly. But Min couldn’t shake the fever despite Jasper’s patient application of ice to her cracked lips and spoonfuls of Tula’s broth. Every day her eyes sank deeper.

  This morning, the last day of Chautauqua, dawned with temperatures already in the eighties. These long days are catching up with me, Tula thought groggily, as she fumbled around her kitchen, taking a cup and saucer from the cupboard and absently putting them back. Yesterday she’d gotten a letter from Clay, postmarked from Milwaukee, and that had contributed to her restless night. Since her brother had skipped town in January, after arguing with Deuce about paying off the loan, he’d written from Chicago, then from Minneapolis. Both times he sent a small amount of cash that, along with what Tula herself made from sewing, had been enough to keep the house running. He boasted about the money he was making as a traveling photographer for a growing concern based in Chicago. If it was true, she was glad for him, but there lurked the dread he would announce he was coming back to Emporia. She didn’t know what she’d do if that happened.

  From the rear porch came an insistent meowing. The cat stood on back legs, hooking his front claws into the screen door.

  “Coming, coming.”

  She set the coffee pot to boil with yesterday’s grounds and opened the door. The cat, braiding himself around Tula’s ankles, almost tripped her up.

  “Poor, neglected Snowball.” Tula scratched under the lifted chin. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

  She pulled a chicken carcass from the ice box, pinched off a bit of dark meat, and shredded it onto Snowball’s dish. The slippery remains went into a soup pot filled with water. How many gallons of broth had she simmered this week? Tula settled at the kitchen table and sipped her coffee, waiting for the mental fog to lift. From the window over the sink, sunlight formed white squares on the linoleum.

  When the pot began rocking noisily, she turned down the heat. Beyond the window, Mrs. Johnson marched past, pulling Samuel by the hand while the little boy concentrated on scuffing the sides of his shoes against the concrete. This Chautauqua he had won the coveted role of Jack-Be-Nimble in the Mother Goose Festival, due to his mother’s energetic campaigning, according to Mrs. Sieve. Across the driveway, Deuce’s house was silent. The army of painters and paper hangers hired by Vera Mummert to redecorate for her son and daughter-in-law had not yet started their day. It was sad to see Winnie’s brocade draperies cast out on the lawn. But Winnie was gone, the heavy furnishings of that age had passed, and Deuce seemed quite content in his digs downtown. Tula had noticed the Garland Weekly showing up on the porches of her neighbors. More people than she’d first imagined seemed to like the controversy that Deuce’s editorials stirred up.

  * * *

  Knowing Helen would want to catch Marian’s talk, Deuce had sent her a telegram as soon as he’d learned the schedule. Helen had arrived on the early train, after promising Alma, the nervous typesetter, that she’d be back the next day. She and Deuce walked over to the Rainbow Grill for a breakfast of over-easy eggs and bacon. They passed Sy Camp, who was setting up sawhorses in front of Tender’s Candies, his carpenter’s apron slung low on his hips. A rotten cornice lay to one side. At Jasper’s studio the blinds were drawn, a Closed sign dangling from the doorknob.

  “I’m happy for her,” Helen said.

  “Tula?”

  “Um huh.”

  “Me too.”

  Outside the feed store, Floyd was rolling a galvanized hog trough out the front door, adding to a line of farm equipment already displayed on the sidewalk.

  “How have sales been?” Deuce asked after the three exchanged greetings.

  “Fair to middling. More than usual, but then it’s Chautauqua week and we sort of expect that,” Floyd said.

  “Susan’s coming over later this morning, right?” Helen asked, bumping her shoe into a small implement of screens and spouts. “What’s this thing?”

  “It’s a corn seed grader. And she’ll be there as soon as she’s finished stocking for me.”

  When Helen had found out how Deuce was struggling with the newspaper, she’d suggested he hire an apprentice. She had lobbied hard that the apprentice should be a young woman, given a chance at man’s work the same as she had, but with a better outcome, of course. After several letters back and forth, they had settled on Floyd’s daughter Susan, and she had accepted.

  A farm wife stopped to examine an assortment of seed packets Floyd had spread out on display. Deuce and Helen moved along, taking a shortcut down an alley. The door was open at the Bide-A-Wee, its dark interior exhaling the odor of spilled beer and cigar smoke.

  “Did Marian tell you what time she thought she’d get into town?” Helen asked in a neutral tone. Deuce had let drop a couple of times that he and the dress reform advocate had exchanged letters during the past year, but otherwise he’d been pretty tight-lipped with Helen. By the way he flushed—like now—when her name was mentioned, Helen guessed he was smitten. She suppressed a smile.

  “No. She’s coming from Mattoon. I think. Or one of those towns out that way. I don’t know,” he said, then added quickly, “So, what’s on the docket today?”

  “I can’t wait to see her,” Helen said.

  Deuce plowed on: “You’re going to show Susan how to print that letterhead for the Lutheran Church, right?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  At the Rainbow, Deuce paused with his hand on the knob to peruse the daily lunch menu taped on the door. Roast beef with mashed potatoes. Ham and cheese sandwich. He frowned. Pork and liberty cabbage? What the hell?

  “Did you see this?”

  “What?” Helen squinted where his finger pointed. “Is that supposed to be sauerkraut, do you think?”

  “No doubt.” Deuce exhaled heavily. “This patriotism has gotten way out
of hand.”

  Ever since the doughboys had first touched French soil, Emporia had been as tense as an alley cat. There’d been some ugly incidents. Yellow paint was slapped on mailboxes of “slackers,” people who weren’t contributing their share to the loan drive. Willie Heiserman, the German-American who ran a corner grocery near the Flats, was hauled out of his house in the middle of the night by three men with blackened faces. They threatened to tar and feather him for not contributing groceries to a Liberty Loan bond-sellers dinner but settled for forcing him to march down Main Street singing the “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The next day, they organized a boycott of his store. Even the Lutheran pastor had received a threatening letter.

  Deuce had run articles about these incidents in the Garland Weekly. Since the sheriff’s office would not verify these events, he’d had to report them as “rumors.”

  They glanced at one another. “Guess I’ve got to find another place for breakfast,” Deuce said.

  * * *

  Two blocks over, Jasper stood at his second-floor window. Passing on the sidewalk below, he spotted Tula’s short-brimmed hat, generous bosom, and a blur of kid pumps. He’d gazed on this image every morning for the last week and never tired of it. This morning he had good news. Min’s fever had broken during the night.

  He greeted her with a kiss, took the Mason jar of broth from her hands, and stored it in the apartment’s small kitchen. Dorrie and her brother, recovered but still weak, were on their stomachs, heels clicking in the air, dominoes arranged between them on the front room’s carpet. In Min’s back bedroom, Tula sat on the far side of the bed, applying a warm palm to the girl’s forehead and exclaiming, “You have turned the corner!”

  “See, what I tell you?” Jasper asked, his mouth stretched wide.

  A shadow of a smile crossed Min’s face too, before her lids slowly closed. Jasper sat down on the other side of the bed.

  “Her color looks much better,” Tula said, laying her hand atop Min’s curled fingers, warm and sticky to the touch.

  “I couldn’t have done this without you. You know that,” Jasper murmured.

  They sat quietly for some minutes by the sleeping child, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. Tula began to softly withdraw her hand when Jasper placed his over hers and Min’s.

  She thought to say something funny about their pile of hands but caught Jasper’s solemn gaze and stopped.

  “Tula, you know I love you. I loved you the first time I saw you sitting downstairs, trying to get your courage up to ask me to buy Clay’s old equipment. You’ve done so much for me and the children. But even if I was a confirmed bachelor and you couldn’t cook a lick, I’d be asking you this. Because you are kind and loyal and because I believe we are meant to be together. Tula, my love, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

  Tula’s eyes widened. Blood rushed up her neck, into her face. She put her hands to her cheeks. She was smiling. Then laughing. Above the pounding of her heart, she heard herself say, “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you. Of course, I’ll marry you.”

  * * *

  Marian reached the edge of Emporia in late afternoon. She pulled off onto a grassy bluff to stretch her legs, shake off some of the road dust. Below her, the town stretched out in a palette of green, ochre, and brown. There was the railroad depot, where they’d seen Helen off. The tracks cut across town like a silvery zipper. Off to the right, the pale yellow courthouse dominated a grid of commercial buildings. Most were three or four stories, with shops on the street level and offices above. From her vantage point, Marian saw that many had false façades, giving the impression of added height. The true roofs, running below these extensions, were considerably less ostentatious: flat and covered with tar paper. In the past, she might have disdained these illusions as pretentious. But now they struck her as brave, an attempt to soften the harshness of the prairie. Like the Canizy grandmères insisting on examining the charity blankets handed out from the back of Lulu, as if making purchases from a fine shop. A lump grew in her throat. Beyond the businesses spread the shingled roofs of Emporia’s houses. Somewhere out there, under the surfeit of trees, was Jeannette’s. She thought of her last night in town, when she’d walked to the edge of the Chautauqua grounds and gazed at the Bellman house, every window alight. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She turned away from the view and hurriedly cranked up the Packard.

  When she pulled under the oak at the Bellmans’, the front door was shut despite the heat. Across the pasture, hundreds of townsfolk poured from the tent flaps as the afternoon session let out. A hum of voices, broken by the toot of auto horns, could be heard in the distance. But here, all was still. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves overhead. Marian mounted the steps and rang the bell.

  Ted Bellman, in a spotless work shirt and dungarees, answered. “Afternoon.”

  “Mr. Bellman, I don’t know if your wife will speak with me, but I’m Marian Elliot Adams. I was here last—”

  His voice broke in gently. “I know who you are.”

  Marian tucked in her lips, feeling tears welling up again. “If I could have five minutes with her. That’s all.”

  Under the oak, the thick air lay motionless.

  “She won’t talk to you.”

  Marian dropped her head. The floorboards liquefied.

  From inside the house, a thin voice called, “Who is it, Ted?”

  He turned, saying, “Someone needing some carpentry, Mother.”

  Marian met his eyes. “I just wanted her to know how sorry I am. But I understand, certainly, I understand why she wouldn’t want to speak with me. Thank you for your time.”

  She turned and started down the steps.

  “I’ll speak with you.” His long sun-leathered face was placid. He stepped outside, closed the door, and indicated two straight-back kitchen chairs. The chaise where Jeannette had spent the night a year ago was gone.

  “Thank you.” Marian’s voice was almost a whisper.

  She took the seat farther from the door. Ted sat with his knees open, resting his arms on his thighs. He appeared to be studying his clasped hands, mapped with veins as coarse as twine.

  “My father was a farmer,” he said, before she could get a word out. “And his before that. I grew up taking care of the animals. My brother works the homeplace now, but I’ll always be a farmer. Hazel, my wife, she’s from town. Her father was a carpenter. Before he passed the business on to me, we built this house together.”

  Marian’s eyes fell across the plain clapboards, the utilitarian sills and railings. Nothing ornate, but sturdy.

  “Those last weeks, I knew Jeannette was dying. I’d seen pigs, cattle go through it. Something like hoof-and-mouth spreads around and you lose a lot of animals. The eyes become unfocused. There is a restlessness. I saw that in my girl before the Chautauqua tent even went up, but Hazel didn’t. Wouldn’t. After she breathed her last, before Dr. Jack got there, I wanted to have things right. Sometimes, at the end, the body voids. Hazel didn’t know that might happen. I lifted Jeannette’s nightie. She’d soiled herself. Hazel began howling. I said, Hazel, this is the natural course of things. Go get me a basin of warm water. She brought the water but left right away. I cleaned my girl up.”

  He drew a hankie from his pants pocket and pressed it against his eyes. Tears coursed down Marian’s face. After a moment he raised his head and stretched out his arms.

  “Take my hands.” His fingers gripped hers. “I’m saying to you what I said to Hazel. Sickness, death—they’re part of the natural course of things. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Marian’s voice was barely audible. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He rose and pulled her up with his rough farmer’s hands.

  Marian cranked up the Packard and got behind the wheel. She looked back. The porch was empty, the door already shut. She drove slowly down the lane, back to the street. As soon as she was out of sight of the Bellman house, Marian pulled over and laid her head on the steering w
heel.

  * * *

  Earlier that afternoon, Helen had lost her temper with Deuce. Susan, bent over the type case, had been frowning intently at the jumble of letters.

  “Will you quit hovering? I can handle this!” Helen shouted. “Go back to your office. Write up some of those briefs or something.”

  She gestured to the partitioned space up near the front that had been her suggestion. You can’t be a publisher without a private office, she’d written. Even I’ve got one.

  Once the wall had been erected and he’d moved his desk, chair, and lamp in, Deuce was pleased with the result. Most days it felt cozy, but today it was confining.

  Helen was continuing, “Or go make a sales call. You’ve been as wound up as a watch spring all day. She’ll get here soon enough.”

  Deuce flushed. Helen made a show of adjusting her visor and bent back over the type case.

  “You’re right. Sorry.” He picked up his hat. “I’ll go follow up on that print job for Father Flynn.”

  Main Street was surprisingly deserted. Dozens of clerks and merchants should be filling the sidewalks, strolling toward the Rainbow or home for an early dinner before the evening program. But the two Jenkins girls, spinster sisters who ran Emporia Shoes, were the only passersby. The girls turned the corner. Now the street was completely empty. Something’s not right, Deuce thought. He quickened his pace.

  On Center Street, there was a steady trickle of pedestrians, all walking in the same direction. A familiar pair of dusty trousers and shirt back crisscrossed with brown braces strode halfway up the block. Deuce caught up with Floyd.

  “Accident?” he asked, matching his stride to the feed store owner’s.

  “Oh, hey, Deuce. Something at Jasper’s. Don’t know what.”

  “Lord. Hope it’s not Min.”

  Deuce broke into a trot. A crowd of ten or more, mostly men, were knotted under the photography studio’s swinging sign. Even as Deuce approached, more onlookers attached themselves to the outer edges, necks craning. The Closed sign still hung in the studio’s door.

  Henry Wilson, the aged member of the Young Ragtags who had walked out on Marian’s talk a year ago, stood near the front.