In Grand Junction, Juliana suffered few war-related hardships, but sugar, gasoline, butter, coffee, and meat were rationed. She fussed over the fact that she couldn’t get silk or the new nylon stockings. Both fibers were needed for parachutes. Some women used leg paint and learned how to draw straight, dark lines up the backs of their legs to simulate stocking seams, but Juliana would not stoop to that. Housewives saved tin cans for use in armaments and their bacon grease—collected door to door in Grand Junction—for use in ammunition. The war with Japan raged on and in May, Pvt. Henry S. Grumman, #36289471, waited for his orders at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. From the beginning, they had not drafted fathers, but hundreds of thousands of American soldiers had died and with the war in the Pacific still raging, they finally had to draft Juliana’s son.
Crazy with worry, Juliana saw Nora’s brave front for the sake of her children as certain evidence that she didn’t care what happened to Henry. Edwin firmly expected divine providence to protect his son. Juliana kept her worries from the children. Winna and Chloe were too young to even imagine anything bad happening to their father. With a brave face, she told her granddaughters that when the war was over, their daddy would come home and they believed her.
Not long after Henry was drafted, atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. When Juliana saw the mushroom clouds in the newsreels, she vowed never to go to the pictures again. She kept that vow. Just nine days after the bombs fell, it was announced on the radio that the Japanese had surrendered and the war was over. Henry Grumman did not have to go into battle. He would not have that adventure, but he didn’t come home for a long time. They sent him from Fort Leavenworth to Fort Hood, and then to Camp San Luis Obispo for his postwar duties.
By late 1946, Juliana could not get out of bed in the morning, sometimes rising as late as noon. Often, she was unable to eat until dinnertime. After dinner, she drank bourbon to help her fall asleep. She began to lose weight, lose interest in her house, in everything. She stopped calling on friends. She wanted to be alone.
By fall, when Henry had not yet come home from the army, she found herself spending most of her days rocking herself in the gold damask rocker that had belonged to her grandmother. If anyone had noticed and asked her why, she would not have known what to tell them. It had become hard for her to concentrate on anything, even her own thoughts, which seemed jumbled and senseless.
ONE EVENING, EDWIN came home from work and found Juliana sitting in the middle of the library floor, the world globe in her lap, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Dear, dear girl,” he said, going to her. “What’s troubling you?” He bent to offer his hand, but she looked as if she did not hear him. “Juliana,” he said, kneeling beside her. His wife’s head drooped as if her neck was broken, her hair in tangles, her tears dripping off Europe like a river running south toward the pole.
“Juliana! What’s going on here?” He tried to take her father’s old globe from her hands and return it to its floor stand, but she only hugged it tighter and moaned.
Edwin straightened up and tried another tactic. “Get up off the floor this minute. I’ll not stand for this kind of behavior from a grown woman!” He demanded. “I’ll not be frightened like this by women’s tears.” He used the toe of his wingtips to nudge at her back. “You look like a crazy woman.”
Suddenly, she turned and looked up at him. No new tears wet her cheeks, her eyes were vacant. “Yes, I’m afraid I am—crazy.”
When she stood, the globe slipped from her lap and thundered across the floor, stopping under the Boston ferns. She reached for her husband and the crying came again in horrible anguished gasps. He led her into the alcove and made her sit down on the window seat.
“Don’t move, Juliana. I’ll get us both a drink.”
When he returned, they sipped their bourbon and water in silence. Juliana propped up on needlepoint pillows with Edwin beside her, his elbows resting on his knees. Soon, both felt better.
Juliana wanted to talk. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me—some terrible sadness—I’ve been—”
“Don’t try to explain, dear. Just put it out of your mind. You mustn’t dwell on it. You are fine now.” Edwin was uncomfortable with all that emotion. He was embarrassed for his wife, ashamed. He was sure the servants had heard.
“Now you rest here and I’ll see what Maria has for dinner,” he said and left her for the kitchen.
THE TIME CAME when Edwin knew his wife was not fine and he called the doctor to the house. He found Juliana in a stupor, staring at the wall, unwilling or unable to look at anyone or speak. The doctor encouraged Edwin to take her to Minnesota for treatment at the Mayo Clinic.
Edwin had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. He wondered why, with her less than stable history, he hadn’t seen it coming. He’d just read a newspaper story about the war’s contribution to the public’s decline in mental health. People everywhere were suffering from anxiety and depression. The ramping up of the Cold War didn’t help. The US was testing atomic bombs in the Pacific. The Russians had been at work developing a bomb. The arms race was on. The mushroom clouds over Japan were enough to undo a woman of Juliana’s delicate temperament. Edwin knew that much. Most people believed that the bombs dropped on Japan had saved lives, that they had ended the war. Still, people felt the horror of it. Like a killer after a murder, Edwin thought, they return in their dreams to the scene of the crime.
At the Mayo Clinic, Juliana underwent a course of both talk therapy and electro-shock therapy. She stayed for three months and returned to Grand Junction greatly improved. Not long after her return her parents died. Edwin was afraid that would send Juliana into another downward spiral, but she grieved reasonably and kept busy tending to her sizeable inheritance. Her beloved son had finally come home.
26
1999
ON A WOODEN DECK hanging from a sandstone cliff three steps down from his living room sliders, John Hodell balanced a tray of hors d’oeuvres on one hand and with the other offered Winna a martini studded with four olives.
She laughed. “I can’t drink these anymore,” she said, accepting the drink anyway.
“Sure you can.” He smiled, bending low, offering her a choice of hors d’oeuvres. “Here we have several old favorites, prepared by my own loving hands, delicious tidbits from the past. Little repasts wrapped in fond memories—like this onion dip with chips pomme de terre, these bologna cornucopias filled with julienne of carrots and sweet pickles, or this—my favorite—crunchy celery stuffed with real cheese food.”
Laughing, she reached for one of the little cornucopias and sipped gingerly from the rim of the martini glass, surprised by how much she enjoyed the sting of gin on her lips and tongue.
“You are talented, John. You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to take us back to the fifties.” She nibbled on the cold bologna spiced with hot dog mustard. With the martini, it tasted surprisingly delicious. “How did you ever find the time?”
“I took the afternoon off to do these—and sweep the dirt under the carpets,” he said, resting the tray in front of her on the patio table. “Unfortunately, there’s lots left to do.” He sat down beside her. “But a good host must stop and visit during cocktails.”
“Yes he must,” she said, patting his hand. “I’ll help you in the kitchen after cocktails—if I can still stand.”
The evening was warm and Winna settled back in her chair to relax, glad that she had worn comfortable sandals and a white linen tunic and slacks. Sips of martini went down easily.
“Your view is just as lovely as Emily’s and Hugh’s,” she said. “My goodness, this view two nights in a row. Lucky me.” She felt warm and tingly and decided to put the martini down. “Just look at that sun setting—and the lights of the city coming on.”
“Did you lock your kitchen door, Winna?”
“Yes, John. Twice—no three times—even while I took a bath. I figured I should lock myself in.”
“What did yo
u find at the library?”
“Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot,” she said, surprised that she had neglected to mention her exciting discovery. John’s presence, the martini, and the funny hors d’oeuvres had been a distraction. “Gramma’s lover died on that train trip on August 27, 1915, which means that she lied to me. She didn’t have a son to abandon until late April of the next year. I may be the granddaughter of a poet not a department store magnate.”
John leaned back in his chair, letting his muscular legs stretch full length across the deck floor. “Have you counted the months?” he asked as he ticked off the fingers on both hands. “Fascinating. So maybe Whitaker knocked up Grandma.”
Winna laughed at the image John had created in her mind. She changed the subject. “The old newspapers were totally fascinating. What with World War I and Grand Junction still a cow town with Indian troubles of sorts.”
John’s eyes narrowed in the light of the setting sun. “I’ve been thinking about your unexpected visitor, Winna,” he said, crunching on a stalk of celery. “Who’s read the story about the jewels hidden in the trunk?”
“Just family, Emily and Hugh. I told Chloe the gist of it, but she hasn’t read it yet. They all know I found nothing when I searched the trunk. I told you what I found while Emily and I were looking through an old box of marbles—the ring. And it’s valuable. I sent it to be appraised in Denver and it’s a real canary yellow diamond.”
“Someone else must know about the trunk in the attic.”
“Just you.”
“I don’t count,” he said. Then, sounding like he wanted to get to the bottom of this business, he said, “Tell me again about the recreation of your childhood bedroom in the attic.”
“I already told you all there is to tell, John. It’s not something I want to talk about now—here on this lovely evening,” she said, feeling her throat tighten and a hot flash coming on. “The more I think about it—there’s something very scary about that.”
“All right, lady. I can tell when it’s time to feed you,” he said, taking her hand, helping her up from her chair. “You said you’d help me fix dinner.”
“Yes,” she said, relieved. “I’d like that. Where’s the kitchen?”
Winna made a tossed salad while John fired up the grill and fried up an iron skillet full of onions, chili peppers, potatoes, and chorizo that he seasoned with cumin. She was starving by the time the steaks were ready and they sat down to eat outside at the patio table.
As flames from two hurricane candles flickered softly, John looked at Winna and raised a glass of wine for a toast. “Here’s to Winna, the girl I couldn’t forget.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said, blushing, trying to make light of his touching compliment, of the affection that shone in his eyes.
After dinner, they moved inside. John sipped from a snifter of cognac, she from a cup of hot herbal tea. They sat side by side in two handsome leather club chairs separated by a low wooden table, its warm patina lit by an ornate tin lamp studded with brightly colored bits of glass. Furnished largely in the mission style, the rest of the living room held several interesting antiques; a modern Kulim rug covered the terra cotta tile floor. One of the white walls, lined with glass shelves, held John’s collection of Indian pottery, glowing colorfully under the track lighting. The north-facing wall, built entirely of glass, glittered with the lights of the city below.
For a long time they talked easily and laughed about the old days. “You know, Winna,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief, “in those days, as often as I saw your father, I never guessed he was an alcoholic.”
“That didn’t register with me either—until after Ruth left. Of course, he got worse then. Anyway, once I realized his problem, I had to admit that all the signs had been there for years. He was always respectable, hard working. He never let us down that way.”
“Tell me about him,” John said, his expression sympathetic, even ponderous. “What was he like as a father?”
“Oh, John, I don’t know,” she said, not anxious to stir up bitter memories. “In the late eighties he did get sober—went to AA meetings for years. We were proud of him for that.”
As if it were a crystal ball, John turned his gaze to his drink, a pool of warm cognac. “You know, Winna, I had no idea you were so private—I remember you being just the opposite.”
He turned to look her way and their eyes met. “Do you really want to hear all about how frightened I was of my father? How, as a child, he scolded and hit me. How, as an adult, he distanced himself from me and showed no interest in my life. You know, when Walt left me and I called to tell Dad that my marriage was over, his only reply was, ‘How’s the weather out there?’”
John sat up straight in his chair. “What?” He reached out to touch her shoulder.
“Thanks,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Maybe that’s why I’m so interested in Juliana’s marriage. I’d like to know what happened when Dad was a child. What were his parents like? There’s a picture of him with his mother holding him when he was a baby. His face is so happy—alight with joy. What happened between the time that picture was taken and when I was a girl? I never saw joy on that face, only alcohol-fueled mania or a withdrawn quiet. What did they do to him?”
John shook his head. “You know, it isn’t always the parents—”
The door chime interrupted. John went to answer and Winna wondered who it could be so late. She heard laughter and loud voices coming from the front hall, then Chloe and Todd appeared through the shadows with John at their side.
“We’ve come to celebrate!” Chloe called from across the room. “We have good news.” She was flushed with excitement and looked a bit tipsy.
Surprised, Winna got to her feet. “How did you find me?”
From the way they were dressed, their good news seemed obvious. Chloe wore tight white satin jeans hitched around her tiny waist with a silver concho belt, a white satin and lace blouse. A tulle train fell to her waist from a white felt cowboy hat studded at the crown with sequins and pearls.
“I called Emily,” Chloe said, rushing to throw her arms around her big sister. “We got married this afternoon!”
“Congratulations, Buddy,” John said, clasping Todd’s shoulders. The groom wore an astonishing wedding shirt with a black-banded collar and a white front-pleated bib.
“Don’t look so shocked, Winna,” Chloe said, her smile bright as a neon sign. “We have to celebrate.” She spun around holding a huge bottle of champagne aloft. “We had an amazing dinner at La Petite Rue—but you, above all others, must celebrate with us—the night is still young.”
“My goodness, Chloe,” Winna said, bewildered. Trying to look happy, she kissed her cheek and reached for Todd’s hand. “Todd, you are full of surprises.”
“Chloe wants your blessing,” Todd said.
John took Winna’s hand. “The time for a blessing is before a wedding, Chloe.”
Winna felt tears rush to her eyes. “I wish I could have been there—it would have meant so much to me.”
“You know us, Winna,” Chloe said, hugging Todd around the waist, “We’re kinda private. It’s not that we got married on a whim, or anything. Last week Juno told me this afternoon would be the perfect time—so we just did it.”
John and Winna looked at one another. He stepped behind her and gently pulled her close against him. “Winna’s ok. Aren’t you, kid?”
“Of course, just surprised,” she said, warmed by his embrace. “You know how I am—a sap for engraved invitations, the church, the loving family gathered around.”
Over champagne and toasts into the wee hours of the morning, Chloe gushed and sighed with happiness. Todd did his “aw shucks” kind of blushes. John played the host and Winna suffered hot flashes.
Chloe and Todd said their goodbyes at about one thirty and were gone. Winna grabbed her purse and turned to say good night to John. As Todd’s headlights went on in the driveway, John took her hand and pulled
her into his arms.
“After all that champagne—I don’t want you to drive home alone.”
“I’m fine, John. I hardly had a drop.” His lips held her like a magnet and they stood a long time in the foyer locked together.
“Don’t go,” he whispered between kisses.
She lifted his face in both hands. “I’m tempted,” she said, “but I’m going.”
She gave him a peck on the cheek and, heaving a big sigh, opened the door.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” John said.
“Yes I do,” she called as she hurried to her car.
Winna was halfway down the mountain with no memory of the drive down the first leg of Little Park Road. Her head swam with visions of John: his face, his eyes, his sweet grin. After Walt, she had not expected this. “That part of my life is over,” she had told herself. “Now is the time to focus on my career.”
John is so different from Walt. He actually talks with me not at me. He hasn’t put on the TV once in my presence. He was a jerk in high school, but he’s changed. Is this too good to be true?
As she neared the foothills, she caught a last glimpse of city lights and wondered if John had gone to bed. Was he sitting alone beside the window? Did he walk out to the deck and watch her car lights move down off the mesa? That’s what she would do. Do men do things like that, moon over a woman? She doubted it.
Approaching a sharp, steep curve, she applied her brakes. Nothing happened. She pumped the brakes again. Still nothing. Terrified, she thought of shifting into second. The car swerved violently and she knew she was going too fast to down shift. She grabbed at the emergency brake and gave it a tug.
In shadows cast by a bright full moon, she could not see what lay below the road. Knowing there were several deep ravines along the way, she pumped the brakes hoping they would respond this time. Her headlights splashed on another tight curve just ahead. She turned the wheel sharply, pulling at the emergency brake again. The weight of the car tipped to the outside. As the car careened around the curve, the tires squealed. Winna gave up a terrified scream. Keeping control, her high beams flashed on the landscape. She was nearing the bottom of the foothills where the road flattened out. Her heart pounded violently as the car began to slow. She shifted into second, then first gear. The car staggered and she pulled the emergency break, bringing the car to a stop. Breathless, her whole body trembling, she sat a moment in the dark, trying to calm her shaking and the rapid beating of her heart.
The House on Seventh Street Page 17