An Imperfection in the Kitchen Floor

by Heather Greenleaf

  Ellis followed suit. Because was young and able, he was eagerly welcomed as one of the first to sign up. Our area required three hundred forty-four men to enlist, and once he passed the medical exam, Ellis’ name appeared in the local newspaper as one of the brave to volunteer.

  Despite the rationing, grand parties were thrown in honor of the volunteers, attended by the most important men in town. The boys were served fine food, including fresh corn from local farms, and encouraged to eat their fill. Upon return from one of these parties, Ellis regaled me with the story of the host who insisted that to be a real man, each soldier needed to eat ten ears of the corn. Patriotism was high around town, and strangers on the street would often stop Ellis to give him a hearty handshake or clap on the back.

  There were a rash of weddings in town. The men going off to battle were eager to secure their sweethearts. Frank Leeds got married to a local girl, and Mr. Malcolm proposed to Virginia. Papa preempted any possible proposal from Ellis, insisting to him that not marrying me would give him more incentive to come home safely to secure my hand.

  As a new recruit, Ellis swelled with pride and sense of duty, and on the surface, I was proud to be with him. A threatening fear hovered below, though, and seeped in during quiet moments when I had time to think. Though I was able to outwardly show my support for Ellis’ decision, when I was alone, everything took on a brutal, bruised quality. The blossoms on the rhododendrons that stood in front of our porch burst forth, reminding me of wounds on a soldier’s uniform, and Sousa’s patriotic songs air-lifting over from Willow Grove Park blasted like a betrayal.

  The night before Ellis left, he received permission from the commanding officer to visit me. Thankfully, Mama and Papa understood our need for privacy. When Ellis arrived at the house, he and I sat in the parlor and Mama closed the pocket door separating us from them in the dining room. The fear in her eyes was equal to the pride in Papa’s. They slowly retreated to allow us to say our goodbyes.

  Ellis was dapper in his uniform. We sat quietly together, my hand in his, our eyes downcast. It seemed as if there was so much to say, but nothing important enough to warrant words. On the eve of his departure, I certainly wasn’t going to waste time talking about the stain I couldn’t get out of Oliver’s shirt, or the chicken salad that needed to be prepared at the shop tomorrow.

  “How are you feeling? Are you nervous?” I finally asked, desperate to simply hear his voice, needing to hear it so that I could remember its sound and cadence in the coming months.

  “Yes. A little,” he said. “I will miss you very much.”

  “I will miss you too. But I’ll write, as often as possible, and look forward to receiving every letter you get a chance to write me.”

  “I’m sorry to leave you, Tish, but I know this is the right thing to do. Those Huns won’t stand a chance now that we are involved.”

  I tried to echo his confidence and patriotism, but without leave, tears began to snake their way down my cheeks. I felt Ellis’ gentle hands on my face and was fearful that this would be the last time he would touch me.

  “Please try to be brave,” Ellis said, my chin in his palm. When I looked up, his face was so close to mine that I could see every long eyelash, every root of his thick eyebrows. His features became muddled by my tears and I blinked them away, desperately trying to memorize his details. “Once we kick those Germans back to Berlin, I’ll be home and we’ll make our way West. The mountains will be gorgeous on your canvas.”

  I nodded, snuffling and composing myself. He kissed me then, putting into it all of the time that we would be apart.

  ●●●

  At eight the next morning, I stood on the platform at the Willow Grove train station, crowded with soldiers’ families. Together we waited in front of the steaming engine that would lead them to training and onto war. Parading footsteps echoed in the cool morning air, and our boys were now suddenly disciplined men. In their crisp uniforms, they were led onto the platform by Boy Scouts bearing the American flag. I stood on my toes searching for Ellis, peering over the jostling crowd. Though I knew his gait and features by heart, the men melded into reproductions of each other and I was panicked that I wouldn’t find him. My eyes skittered across the marching rows until we finally made eye contact. A grin marked his handsome face; he was searching for me as well. I swerved and shoved my way through the crush, shouldering my way to be closer to him.

  The formation stayed still in the hushed air until the men were given permission to mingle with the crowd. The platform swelled with conversation and embraces as mothers clutched their sons, fathers draped protective arms around shoulders, and sweethearts embraced. Ellis reached out his hand to me and I rushed forward to grab it. Burdened by a large sack on one shoulder, he pulled me to his free side.

  I looked up at his face, his hair peeking out from under his triangular overseas cap, and saw with a sinking ache that Ellis was afraid. Without any of the bravado I had seen in him last night, I feared that now that he was marching under the command of an officer with his worldly possessions in the bag slung across his back, he began to realize that going off to war was more than just patriotic rhetoric.

  “I love you. And I am so proud of you,” I whispered, lightly kissing his cheek.

  I wanted to reassure him further, but I trusted myself with no other words. With my free hand, I ran my fingers over his chest and fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. His Adam’s apple bounced off the uniform’s high collar as he swallowed deeply and straightened his back. Mustering strength for each other, we stood on the platform, hands firmly entrenched, my head tucked under his chin, letting the surrounding noise fall away.

  Too soon, the call was given to board the train, and when I stepped out from under his care, I was relieved to see his courage was mustered and he was ready. The grin was back and the moment of fear had subsided. He gently removed his hand from mine and cupped my cheek. We kissed then, briefly, and said our goodbyes. I watched him turn, disappearing into the mass of brown uniforms ascending the stairs of the southbound train.

  I searched the line of train windows, fighting the reflection of the station, hoping to see him within, but I never did. Perhaps his seat was on the other side of the train car, or perhaps he needed the time we shared on the platform to be our goodbye. I stood alone, though surrounded by people waiving handkerchiefs and calling out farewells, as the train chugged out of the station.

  ●●●

  The next day, I returned to the shop. I completed each task in a haze. I watched my hands work as if they were someone else’s. I could not shake the fear that had descended upon me with Ellis’ departure. It sat heavy in my stomach.

  With all the fanfare of the men leaving, patriotism in town was in a fervor. While we felt it too, the simple fact that our last name was Hess seemed to project otherwise.

  About a week after Ellis left, we came in to find the word HUN written in capital letters across the window with soap. Papa grabbed the bucket and immediately wiped it away with hot water. His hands shook slightly for the rest of the day. His jaw remained clenched and ready for a fight every time the bell on the door rang to announce a customer’s entry.

  Over the next few months, business was slow, and though I hoped that it was just because the park was no longer in season and the weather had turned cold, I feared otherwise.

  To expand our customer base, Papa decided to start selling toasted cheese sandwiches. They were inexpensive to make and we had the bread on hand to sell anyway. It seemed an American offering, as Mr. Kraft hailed from Illinois, so we hung a sign up in the window and hoped that a few people would order them.

  Papa asked me to make some to test them out, so I sliced bread and cheese and put each sandwich in a cast iron skillet in the oven. I turned the oven on high and waited for the cheese to melt and the toast to brown.

  I passed the time watching the icicles drip and harden out the front window. They held colors inside of them—reds and blues—if I turned
this way or that. The world outside was white and shiny and I supposed I would miss the snow a little when Ellis and I went West. I was envisioning the snowcapped mountains of Colorado and Utah when an acrid smell filled my nose. I heard Papa yelling and ran to see what was the matter. Smoke was pouring out of the oven and filling the shop. I had forgotten about the cheese sandwiches.

  Papa threw open the oven door and was hit in the face with a black plume of smoke. He pulled the skillets out, their charred contents now unrecognizable, and clattered them into the sink and under the cold running water. I turned the oven off and desperately tried to fan away the smoke. I coughed and moved away. Unable to face Papa, I went to the front door to open it and let in some fresh air. The winter breeze sliced into my face and I accepted its bite as punishment. Why couldn’t I manage to succeed here?

  I propped the door open, crossed my arms against the cold and Papa’s anger, and went to the back to help him clean up.

  “Papa, I…” I began.

  He continued to scrub the pans and wouldn’t look at me.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I just wasn’t paying attention.”

  “It’s always something, Tish, isn’t it?” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Papa, maybe it’s time to admit that I’m just not cut out for this…”

  “Oh, hogwash,” Papa yelled. “You don’t want to be here. You don’t care about our business.”

  “It’s your business, Papa. I have never wanted to be part of it,” I yelled right back.

  “Oh, I know. Painting and travel and all such nonsense. There’s a war on, Tish. Our family livelihood is failing, and you can’t get away fast enough.” His anger suddenly left him and he walked away from the steaming pans.

  I sighed and followed. I hated to disappoint him, especially since I knew he was right. “I’m sorry about the sandwiches, Papa. Truly, I am. I know this is important to you. I will try harder in the shop from now on.” I walked over to him and took his hand. “But please try to accept that I do, honestly, want to paint and travel. When Ellis gets back, we will go West.”

  He shook his hand out of my grasp and left me in the back to clean up.

  ●●●

  We spent a cold winter huddled inside while the snow piled up in the streets. Letters came from Ellis about once a month, telling vaguely of the shelling and the gassing, but they all ended upbeat and with confirmation that he was without injury.

  Our holidays were subdued. Wheat, eggs, and meat were rationed, so we celebrated Christmas with a simple meal of brown onion soup. Mama baked a potato bread, using less flour than called for in her usual recipe, and together we baked a buckwheat spice cake for dessert. Papa was able to get a few Tinker Toys for Oliver, but we exchanged little else.

  Weeks would pass without a letter from Ellis and I would startle awake from dreams in which I heard his voice, muffled by something and calling my name. I huddled deeper into my blankets, alone in my room, fearful he would never return.

  When the weather warmed, we planted a garden and added hens to our existing clutch. I was in the garden one afternoon when Virginia barreled through the back gate with the latest on her wedding plans.

  “Oh, Tish, everything is coming together!” she said, settling down next to me in the newly turned dirt. “Ken has been so helpful with the Phoenix Hotel, and they have assured him that there will be plenty of food for all of our guests. I was just so worried when the ration cards came out that we wouldn’t be able to have a nice reception, but it’s amazing what Ken’s money can do! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  I continued to place and cover the roots of the tomato seedlings while she tittered. The plants were large enough now to move outside, their green leaves reaching for the sun and outgrowing the small pots we had begun inside the house a few weeks earlier. “That’s lovely, Virginia. I’m very happy for you.”

  She frowned. “You are not.” She placed her hand on mine. “I know that Daddy has been saying the most awful things. I can’t stand it! I have asked him to stop; he knows I adore you! He’s just gotten so fearful of anything German. I told him that you would be a bridesmaid and that’s that. So cheer up—I’m getting married!”

  I missed Ellis with a pain that was physical, more so with every word that Virginia said about her happy life.

  Mistaking my silence to be about her, she asked, “Do you think marrying Ken is a terrible idea?”

  “It isn’t a terrible idea if you love him.”

  “Well, I do. I also happen to love his house and the life he offers me. Is that so wrong?”

  I turned to her, made a motion to touch her arm but reconsidered, fearing that my dirt-caked hands would soil her dress. “No, it’s not so wrong,” I said. “I’m sure your marriage to Mr. Malcolm will be as grand and wonderful as his house.”

  “Ken. Please do start calling him Ken,” she pouted. “Perhaps Ken is an odd choice, but don’t forget that he is a kind man.”

  “And a family? Do you want to start a family with him?” I involuntarily shuddered at the thought, thinking of his lanky frame and sharp nose. I hoped Virginia didn’t notice.

  “Yes, of course. I’d rather have a family with him, living comfortably, than scraping by with some boy, even if we are madly in love. My parents married for love. Oh, I know it’s not easy to tell now, and that’s the problem. They loved each other once, and what did it get them? At the end of the day, not much more than a few dollars and a dirty pile of hair clippings.”

  “Happiness, Virginia. They once got happiness from being together.”

  “Not for long. A year or two maybe, until worries over money started eroding everything. Becoming Mrs. Malcolm will make me happy. We won’t have the arguments that my parents have, concerned all the time about paying the bills and who in town respects us. What good is marrying a man that you love just to hate him a few years later because living is so difficult? Ken has everything established already. We won’t want for anything. Without that to worry about, being happy will be easy.”

  “Yes, I am sure it will,” I said, turning to tend the summer squash.

  There would be no changing her mind. Surely money and status didn’t guarantee marital happiness. I knew making a marriage work took effort, even if a couple had financial stability.

  Conversely, Mama and Papa worked tirelessly when Papa was starting out and they were still very happy together. I wondered how Ellis and I would fare, scraping by for the first years of our life together. Would we be able to survive those tough times? Ellis and I would take odd jobs as we hopscotched the country, vagabonds together, two mouths to feed. But we would be together—surely that was the important part—off on our grand transcontinental adventures.

  “Want to stay and help me with this?” I asked Virginia as I pointed to the rest of our garden.

  “Oh, no. Take a quick break, I want to show you the invitations Mama bought in Philadelphia. They are beautiful.”

  She coaxed me toward our back door. In the kitchen, I washed the dirt from my hands and wiped them on a clean towel. Virginia pulled a crisp white card out of her satchel. The date was set for her to become Mrs. Malcolm.

  ●●●

  With summer came the rash of renters in the neighborhood. New faces populated the streets, and we got to know a few families who were spending the summer away from the city. The crowds streamed down to the park. Despite the war, there were still two concerts each day, and fireworks each night. I took Oliver a few times and we ate popcorn and drank Orangeuce. I rode the Mountain Scenic Railway with him clutching my arm and squealing with delight. I screamed along with him and felt a momentary release. When the cars clattered into the housing station, the weight seemed to crush again.

  It was published in the newspaper that Frank Leeds had been killed in France. His passing brought me to my knees. We had only spent a few moments together at that dance at the park, but he was the first person I knew who was killed over there, and his death brought it home. That summer, many other n
ames appeared in the Public Spirit newspaper. The sad news of heroic casualties lined the front-page columns each week, bracketed by strong urgings to Buy Liberty Bonds! and the names of more men who had enlisted.

  We ate fresh vegetables from our garden and used honey instead of sugar. We followed the instructions in the women’s section of the paper to make our own cider vinegar with ripe apples and a yeast cake, freeing up acetic acid for the country’s production of airplane wings. We began using the patriotic prose “reed birds” instead of frankfurters and this new moniker graced the menus of the restaurants in town. Papa never drove the car on Sundays, adhering to the Gasless Sunday ban.

  For months, the slush of falling letters and the postman’s departing footfalls brought nothing but bills for Papa and letters for Mama. No matter how many times I shuffled and read the envelopes, there was often nothing from Ellis. In the terrible moments following the mail’s arrival devoid of a letter, I was wracked with worry.

  I was out on the porch one afternoon escaping the heat of the house and rocking slowly in the wooden chair. There were no clouds to cool the sky. I spotted the mailman as he turned onto Berrell Road, sweating in his short pants and carrying a heavy pack. I watched as he sauntered up our porch stairs, a bunch of letters in his hand.

  “Afternoon, Miss,” he said, touching the brim of his cap.

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  He handed me the day’s delivery. My eyes fell on the air mail stamp and I rose to my feet. There were two letters from Ellis, a happy bundle proving he still lived. Relief swelled within me and I let out a whoop, startling the postman as he reached the sidewalk. One letter told of a firefight where he sustained a few scratches and lost his uniform jacket. The other described how he had been gassed but had kept his mask on long enough to avoid ill effects. I read them over and over, crinkling them against my body with an ache that no paper could soothe.