A Bridge Named Susan

by Sharon Chase Hoseley

  Tom had to be at work at seven o’clock every morning so we were always in bed by eight-thirty and up at five-thirty. Ten days passed. We were getting into a routine. We had gone to bed. Tom was already asleep. He worked hard pulling the logs into the sawmill. As I was slowly winding down and drifting into sleep, I heard a scuffling sound on the front porch. I sat up, my heart pounding. Tom didn’t hear. He snored on. There were voices and sounds of footsteps outside. Not ever having lived in a city, I froze with fear. What should I do? Should I wake my tired husband and risk him being angry with me? Should I crawl over him and go look out the window? Where was that shotgun he’d told me about?

  I didn’t have to make the decision. The air was suddenly filled with horns, banging pots and pans, lights, yelling, and things rattling. That brought Tom out of his deep sleep. Jumping out of bed, he grabbed his pants and stumbled into the living room trying to put them on. I cried out, “No, Tom—be careful.” I tore after him in my long flannel nightgown.

  “Oh, no! I should have known!” he yelled. Then he began laughing.

  “Known what? What’s going on?” I screeched above the noise, which now included banging on the door.

  “It’s my family!” he shouted.

  “Your family? This is your family?” I was mortified. The only member of his family I knew was Aunt Grace. The rest of the family hadn’t even come to the wedding. What were they doing here in our front yard making all this racket? What kind of family did I marry into? Are they all crazy? I suddenly became aware that I was standing there in nothing but my nightgown. I rushed into the bedroom and grabbed my robe. “How can I meet his family looking like this,” I thought as I used my fingers to push my hair in place.

  Tom opened the door and his brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, and mother and father came spilling into the house, still banging, tooting horns and singing, “If you knew Susie like I knew Susie. . . ” Oh if they only knew how much I hated that song. I hoped my face didn’t show my feelings.

  They certainly seemed to be having a grand time. They were laughing, slapping Tom on the back, and filling our small kitchen counter with piles of food. Grace was the first to reach me outside the bedroom door. She gave me a hug and shouted in my ear, “It’s okay, Susie. This is your chivaree. Welcome to the family.” I had never heard of a chivaree. I guess my Dutch/Irish ancestry was too reserved for such carrying on. Grace explained, “Family and friends throw a surprise party for the newlywed couple just when they least expect it to celebrate their union. Were you surprised?”

  Surprised? Was I ever! Scared, surprised, humiliated, and very uncomfortable. I said in Tom’s ear, “I’m going to get dressed.” He nodded and I retreated to the bedroom. I dressed as fast as I could.

  Suddenly the doorknob rattled and my heart was again in my throat. Who could it be? “Susie, I’m coming in. Are ya ready for me?” I just needed to put on my shoes. Who was this? Who would dare enter my bedroom? Why didn’t Tom see this happening? He knew where I was.

  I opened the door. There was a gray-haired man leaning against the hall wall, grinning from ear to ear. Not a good grin, more a leer. “Betcha I scared the bejesus out of ya. Ah, come on pretty girl, don’t look so scared. I was only teasing.” I slipped past his outreached hand and ran to find Tom among the many bodies crammed into the house. I never left his side the rest of the night.

  Tom began introducing me. There were two other sisters, Neva and Frankie. Frankie? Yes, I remembered when my brother dated her. Didn’t get to know her well. Johnny never brought her to the house except for a couple of dances. She was beautiful with pale skin and dark wavy hair. She gave me a hug and said, “Welcome to the family, Susie.”

  Neva was older. She wore her hair pulled straight back and in a bun on top of her head. She gave my arm a squeeze. “I think Tom’s found a good wife.” She smiled. “Very pretty.” She had deep brown eyes, a sharp contrast to Frankie and Grace’s blue and Tom’s hazel.

  We continued threading our way through. There were three brothers: Irvin, Stanley, and Paris. Paris was the youngest, only nine years old, a skinny boy with unruly dark hair and a crooked grin. He immediately captured my heart.

  Finally, we reached the corner where our only chair sat in the living room. Perched on it was a tiny lady who Tom introduced as his mother, Lilly. She looked small and frail, not at all like a farm wife. Tom said she could work from dawn till dark with the rest of them. You could see his deep love for her in his eyes as he introduced me. When she smiled, I felt like someone lit a new lamp. She was beautiful even with her white hair and wrinkled face.

  A man stepped next to her and commanded, “It’s time ya introduce your father, Tom. I’ve been made to wait way too long.” I instinctively stepped back. It was the voice at the bedroom door. I gathered courage to put on a smile, looked up, and responded, “Pleased to meet you,” and shook his hand. He grabbed my hand and pulled me hard to him, knocking the air from me. My pleading eyes went to my husband. He simply said, “Father likes girls” and turned away.

  Chapter 23

  The Silence

  A little past midnight the last reveler left. The house was deathly quiet. Tom didn’t say a word. He went to the kitchen sink, washed up a bit, and disappeared into the bedroom. Homesickness, exhaustion, nervousness from meeting the family and enduring my advancing father-in-law left me in a puddle of tears.

  Where was my husband? He should be here to comfort me and listen like Papa always did. When I finally controlled my sobs, I heard Tom snoring through the bedroom door.

  My heart was torn in two. Lonely and abandoned, I fell to my knees in front of our only chair and cried, “Oh, God. How can I do this? I hurt so bad. No one cares. I’m alone, I’m afraid.”

  I will never leave you, or forsake you. Do not be afraid.

  “Yes, I know you said that. It’s good you said it, but I don’t think I can believe it. I’m in a horrible place. I don’t feel you. I don’t feel anything. I’m numb. I can’t even think. I want to escape.”

  Trust in me with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding, acknowledge me and I will direct your paths.

  “Trust?” I replied bitterly, “I trusted my husband and what did I get? Nothing! Not even protection. At least Papa would come to my rescue. This man snoring in the other room doesn’t love me or even care what happens to me. He just wants to sleep …”

  I don’t know how long I argued and complained to God about my predicament. The next thing I knew Tom was shaking my shoulder and saying, “It’s six-thirty.” He walked out slamming the door.

  “What? No! Oh no! Your lunch … I didn’t get to make you … a lunch … or breakfast or …” My voice trailed off as I heard the car start then leave. Tears flooded my eyes again. How can one person have so many tears?

  I pushed myself off the bare wood floor. “Ouch,” I cried as my hand was attacked by a big splinter. “Now that just adds injury to insult,” I complained out loud. “Oh, well it’s not the first time.” I went to find a needle. I held it in the flame of the lamp Tom had lit to make his lunch. “It has to be sterilized before you dig in after a piece of wood.” Papa always said. It was deep. I could do this. It was in the side of my right hand and try as I might, I couldn’t make my left hand prick, pry, or push that sliver out. Exasperated, I finally gave up.

  “Now what?” I asked myself. The sliver distraction had brought me back to the reality of the messy house. People had flooded in, eaten, drunk, and flooded out, leaving a disaster.

  “Where should I start? The least messy room. The bedroom.” I didn’t want to go there. My last time there held scary memories—changing, pounding on the door, a leering old man. Did that really happen? I forced myself to quickly open the door, make the bed and leave. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I reached the living room. I picked up cups, glasses, pieces of food, and dirty plates stacking them in the k
itchen. I grabbed the broom and swept with all my might. Then filling a bucket, I scrubbed that floor for all I was worth—trying to wash last night out of the house. I stood in the kitchen looking at the clean room. It still dug deep in my memory. I could see my father-in-law standing by the chair, grinning. I tiptoed across the wet floor, grabbed the chair, and turned it around to face the corner. Now for the kitchen.

  It was good—cleaning, washing, sweeping, mopping. The house sparkled, but I was hot, sweating, and needing a bath. No time. I took a quick sponge bath and started supper. I had failed miserably as a wife this morning. I would make a great supper. Tom’s family had brought a big ham. Lots of meat was left on the bone. Ham and navy beans had always been my favorite. I stoked up the wood stove that had burned low all day and put on the pot. Too bad I didn’t get some fresh bread started rising this morning. The dried-out bread from Tuesday’s baking could soak up the soup.

  Two hours later, I heard Tom’s car pull in the driveway. I knew he was going to be tired. I would try hard to make his evening relaxing and enjoyable. I smoothed my apron and put on my best smile, glanced at the already set supper table and gave the beans one last stir. The door opened. I ran over and gave him a hug and asked about his day. I chattered on about cleaning and filled a big bowl for each of us. It wasn’t until I sat down to eat I realized Tom hadn’t said a word. Silence hung heavy over our meal. I had put aside my tears that morning and concentrated on making a good finish to the day. My husband had retreated somewhere inside and refused to come out. I was confused. Was this my fault? What had I done? Is he blaming me for his father’s behavior? Why won’t he talk to me?

  How do I break this ice that’s growing between us after only one week of marriage? Maybe if I just carry on the conversation, he’ll eventually talk to me. “I can’t imagine how tired you were today at work after only five hours sleep. I have a hard time even thinking when I don’t get enough sleep. If I get up and move around, then I’m better, but give me a book and I’ll soon be nodding …” Scrape! Tom scooted his chair back, stood, looked at me, and walked out of the kitchen. Oh, dear. That didn’t go well. I’ll just have to try harder. I began to clear the table. Tears were on the brink of exploding again.

  By the time I finished washing the dishes and putting food away, I could hear Tom snoring in the bedroom. After turning off the kerosene lamp, I crawled over the end of the bed carefully into my place next to the wall.

  The next morning I bounded out to get Tom’s breakfast and make his lunch before he went out the door. The silent treatment still met me. I made no attempt at conversation. You can only carry on a one-sided conversation so long.

  It was the same, day after day. Time moved like a snail. I was hungry for conversation. Yet, I was becoming somewhat comfortable in the quiet aloneness, even when I was with him. I had so many questions, but kept them to myself because I knew he wouldn’t answer. So during the day I talked out loud to myself and to God.

  The memory of the chivaree began to fade like a bad dream. I struggled to keep my eyes on what needed to be done. On the seventh day, I walked across the bridge to the hardware store in Lewiston and bought some blue calcimine. Before Tom arrived home that evening, I had painted the living room and hall.

  I just finished cleaning the brush when my husband drove in. I hid around the corner in the table end of the kitchen and held my breath. How was he going to react? Will he say anything? Will he even notice? Heavy footsteps clunked up the front steps and stopped on the porch. He always took off his boots before coming in to keep mud and sawdust out of the house. I heard him brushing off his coat. I was shaking with suspense. The doorknob turned and he stepped in. Silence.

  I heard him stocking foot it down to the bedroom then come back. “Would you look at that!” he exclaimed. Suddenly he and I were nose to nose as he peeked around the short wall where I was hiding. “It’s beautiful, Susie.” He wrapped me in a bear hug then kissed me. “It sure makes the place look different. Now I’m thinking we need to start looking for a second-hand davenport so more than one person can sit and admire these purdy blue walls …” He continued to chatter on and on about anything and everything that had happened during the last silent week.

  I had my Tom back.

  Chapter 24

  The Dress

  During the next two weeks, we managed to get into a routine. During Tom’s days off, he would drive me around the area to see the sights of the valley. It was a great geography lesson. On one side of the Snake River was the biggest town called Lewiston, Idaho. It had the mill where many people worked and a long main street with a variety of stores. On our side of the Snake River was a small community called Clarkston. It was in the state of Washington. These two towns were connected by a wooden bridge with trolley tracks running between the two lanes.

  One day I braved getting on the trolley and rode all the way to the end of Lewiston’s main street. I brought a shopping bag but didn’t have much money so I looked. So many, many beautiful things! I was amazed at the jewelry, the furniture, the store-made dresses. Store-made dresses? I never had a store-made dress. Oh, how fine they were. My heart longed for one. If only I had enough money to buy one. No, I could not spend Tom’s hard-earned money on something I didn’t need. What a waste that would be! I had plenty of clothes. Who needs more than three dresses? One for going to church, one to do housework, and the third to wear for shopping and visiting.

  My curiosity drew me from the display window into the store. There were many dresses to choose from, along with racks of coats, petticoats, underclothes, shirtwaists, and skirts. Then I spotted it. Made from a silky navy blue material, it fell straight from the shoulders to just above the knees where it was completed by six inches of pleats. Never had I been so captured by a piece of clothing.

  “May I help you find a dress?” asked the clerk who I hadn’t seen come up next to me.

  “Uh, no thank you. I’m … just looking right now.” I wasn’t sure if I said the right thing. I’d never been in a store like this before.

  The lady smiled, “If you’d like to try on something, please let me know.” Try it on? Right here in the store. I felt a surge of embarrassment. How could I try on a dress with everyone watching? Even when Grandmama had sewn my dresses, I always went into one of the bedrooms to put it on for the fitting. I dashed out of the store.

  I continued walking along Main Street. My mind wandered to the store clothes, my clothes, my future clothes. Hmm. This was something I hadn’t considered before I got married. I didn’t have Mama or Grandmama to make my clothes now. What would happen when my clothes wore out? I would have to get them in a store. I didn’t have a sewing machine. I could mend by hand. Yes, I would mend and patch both my and Tom’s clothes. I would keep us neat and clean. That’s respectable and proper.

  Time? What time is it? How long had I been wandering around gawking? I looked up at the large clock in front of the jewelry store. Three o’clock. Oh, dear, I’ve got to get home. It’s time to get dinner started. How do I get back on the trolley? How do I get it to stop? I heard its rumble. It was going the other direction! How long would it take to go to the end and come back? Could I run back to the end of the line in time to get on? I doubted it. I had to find out. I dashed into the jewelry store and looked frantically for help. A man with a strange glass eye looked up. “May I show you something?” he asked.

  “Yes, please show me where to catch the trolley to Clarkston.” I blurted out. “I must catch the next run.”

  “You’re right where you need to be,” he assured me. “The trolley stops right in front of our shop.”

  “Thank you!” I shouted, and headed out the door.

  “Wait,” he called after me, but I was already out the door. He followed me out with a ticket in his hand. “You didn’t get a ticket. It’s five cents.” He thrust it toward me. I dug out my coin purse and handed him a nickel. Blushing, I thanked him. “Happy
to help, young lady.”

  Only an hour to get dinner. From the Clarkston stop, I ran un-lady-like the six blocks to our house, threw open the door, tossed my coat and hat on the chair, and headed for the kitchen. Kole hash, I had decided. That means you throw whatever’s in the kitchen into the frying pan, get it warm, then make gravy to go over the top of it: leftover potatoes from last night, an onion, a few carrots, and a small piece of beef roast left from our Sunday dinner and crumbled-up dry bread to stretch it.

  I had been in such a hurry I didn’t put on my apron. I stoked up the fire with kindling to get it burning faster. Suddenly the pitchy wood snapped, throwing a spark at me. I slammed the door. Too late. There was a brown, burned spot on the front of my going-to-town dress. If only I had taken the time to put my apron on!

  I shoved the food on the back of the stove and hurried into the bedroom to change into my housedress and put on my apron. “Foolish woman,” I chided myself. “Don’t ever forget to put your apron on in the house.” As I rolled up my town dress, the brown spot crumbled in my hands. I hid it. I would have to think about this problem later. My husband must come first. I was setting the table when Tom came home.

  He gave me a kiss and hug, lifted the lid to the fry pan, and stared at me. “What is this?” he almost whispered.

  “It’s Kole hash,” I whispered back. We both laughed and sat down to eat. Milk! I had forgotten to get milk in town. That was the only thing I planned to buy. Tom always liked milk with his dinner. I humbly apologized. “I guess we’ll have to drink water.”

  Not only had I wasted hours looking at pretties, but I failed again to be the perfect wife. Another lesson learned. Don’t get sidetracked. Think, think, think. You must be the perfect wife so your husband will love you.

  Chapter 25

  A Call Home