A Bridge Named Susan

by Sharon Chase Hoseley

  Mama and Papa had taken my wind-up phonograph to their house for safekeeping when we found out we had to move from the Stick Ranch and weren’t settled. I dug through the stack in its cabinet and found a Christmas album. We put the record on and sang along to the familiar carols. Edna and I competed in who could sing the loudest until Mama said, “Hush it down!” I read “A Visit from St. Nicholas” just like I did every year to my sister. Laughing, visiting, sharing memories—all was healing to my soul.

  We were startled by the telephone ringing on the wall—two long and one short, the folks’ ring.

  Mama reached up and removed the black receiver from the wooden box. “Hello.” There was a pause. She turned white. I quickly put a chair for her to sit, but the telephone was too high. She shook her head and stood bravely. “It’s Johnny. He says, ‘Merry Christmas’ to everyone.” “Merry Christmas to you too, son.”

  Papa hightailed it from the living room, putting his ear down to the receiver to listen with Mama. “Merry Christmas, Johnny,” he spoke loudly into the belled piece. “We miss you.” That’s all he could say as his voice cracked.

  “Thanks for calling.” Mama was in tears. “I know this is costing a lot of money, so I’ll say goodbye. Yes, yes, you too.” She plopped into the chair and wept. The only sounds in the house were falling tears and happy sobs. Handkerchiefs were pulled out of pockets, eyes wiped, and noses blown. Each lost in our own thoughts. Our brother and son had come home for a few Christmas minutes—the first we’d heard from him in eighteen months.

  Dinner seemed unimportant after the gift of the phone call. Holiday meals were always eaten around three in the afternoon and were called dinner instead of supper. We ate until we could hold no more, washed the dishes, and then ate some more in the evening. Food was never taken off the table, so it was a process of nibbling our way through the day.

  Today, being Christmas, there was the distraction of opening presents after the dishes were washed. We sat in a circle in the living room, and Edna, being the youngest, got to pass out the gifts. No one opened until the packages were to their rightful owners. Then sister got to choose which of hers she’d open first. She chose the one from Papa and Mama. It was a big, heavy box, scooted not lifted. Inside? Her own set of cast ironware. “If you’re gonna be a cook, you’ve got to have the right pans.” Papa winked. It was their way of letting her know they accepted her choice. She hugged Papa and took Mama’s hand and said, “Thank you. Thanks for understanding.”

  Mama gave us a set of everyday dishes collected from flour sacks. Golden Mill Flour Company put a different dish in each flour sack as a buying incentive. They were perfect. Plain, white, sturdy, and much needed at our house. We had a pink glass setting for eight at the folks, a wedding present that we didn’t want to claim until we had permanent housing; someday, I hoped. Papa had built Tom a tool cabinet with a place for everything. Edna had made a tin of cookies at work. Mmmm. We’d save those until later.

  Now, what did Tom bring? A seat cover for Papa’s pickup, a warm housecoat for Mama, a sweater for Edna, and for me? A radio and five books! I couldn’t have been more thrilled. Something to listen to, something to do during the long, lonely days. My husband had done well. Plus, he brought old-fashioned chocolates for everyone, including himself. He was grinning ear to ear. My heart was so happy. In one week, I had gone from being in the dumps up to the mountaintop.

  Before we left for home, Papa pulled out his well-worn Bible and read the Christmas story. That’s what today was all about: Love—a loving God giving us the gift of His Son, showing us how to love each other. For one day, I felt all was right with the world and I could say, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

  Chapter 52

  A Bridge

  New Year’s. I couldn’t face Tom’s father. The traditional Chase dinner was going to be at Neen’s. All the family would be there. My fear hovered too near the surface to be exposed. I would feel his angry, lurking eyes following me. Tom understood. I fixed a potato salad and baked beans for him to share.

  He dropped me off at the folks for the day. No one asked about me except Mother Chase. We kept the “incident” a secret from her. “She’s not feeling well,” was Tom’s excuse we had decided on.

  “Oh, is she with child?” was her comeback, he told me. Tom had shaken his head no immediately, feeling guilt for not producing Chase offspring.

  When he picked me up, we rode silently home. I knew a wall had formed in my absence. I must be patient. I must be loving. I must … Why did I fall right back into the fix-it pattern? What did Papa say? “He makes all things beautiful in His time.”

  After a week, life returned to normal routine. The radio was great company. I found a station that had wonderful continued stories. Later, I learned they were called soap operas. What a strange name. They got their name by being sponsored by companies who sold cleaning products. They were a radio drama series about typical daily events in the lives of the same group of characters. The Smith Family was the first I found. Then I discovered Fibber McGee and Molly. Oh, my, how I would laugh—especially at his closet that was so stuffed, they didn’t dare open the door. They were so silly. My grandmama was right, laughter is good medicine. I found myself feeling better and better, singing along and dancing to the music. It was the best gift Tom could have given me.

  In April of 1936, Tom came home early in the day. “Are you all right?” I questioned. He would never leave work unless he was dying. “Here, sit down. Can I get you a glass of water? Coffee? Bread?” I found myself in a panic. What could be wrong?

  “Whoa! Slow down. Sit. I have something to tell you.” He pointed to a chair. I shut my mouth and sat ready for the next disaster in our life. “Charlie gave me the day off. He said, ‘Tom, you need to get a better job than scooping cow pies and milking all day. I hear the Camas Prairie Railroad’s hiring, now that the economy’s picking up. You get yourself down there and apply for a job. Railroading is good, decent work and pays pretty well.’ So, I went down today, filled out an application, and talked to the boss. He hired me on the spot. I’m gonna be fixin’ up railcars in the roundhouse.”

  “What? Is this true? I’m gonna be married to a rail-driving man?” I had two uncles on Mama’s side that worked for the railroad most of their lives. Aunt Phoebe owned a hotel in Reubens that catered to railroaders who stayed overnight before heading back to Lewiston. Now, my man was going to be one of them. I jumped up, grabbed Tom, and danced him around the kitchen singing, “I’ve been working on the railroad, all the live long day. . .”

  Out of breath, we both fell into chairs laughing. After the hard times of the last eight years, I saw a light at the end of the tunnel … a train tunnel!

  Tom stood and took my hands and said, “I have to go up to the ranch and tell Charlie I won’t be coming to work tomorrow. They want me to start in the morning.”

  He gave me a hug and a kiss, and headed out to say goodbye to the cow-tending business. How great it would be not to have the house smelling like manure all the time. Even though he left his tall rubber boots outside the door after he washed them off in the river, his clothes carried that odor wherever he went.

  Charlie was right. The railroad paid almost twice what Tom was getting on the dairy ranch. Bless his heart for the suggestion. The Kerbys were good folks. Always looking out for others’ well-being, even though it might mean harder times for themselves.

  Tom had a lot of learning to do. Russell was a good teacher. He’d been in the roundhouse for twenty years. Knew it all. Tom caught on quick when it came to doing things with his hands. He was able to be on his own, repairing railcar beds after just a month. They were pleased with his work.

  As an added bonus, he worked the swing shift from three in the afternoon to eleven at night. In those winter mornings, I read to Tom the books he’d given me for Christmas. The saleslady in the store had picked out some classics. I
started with Moby Dick. Tom was mesmerized. With only a third grade education, he never heard the wonderful adventures found in books.

  Another bonus was two days off. Since he was the new guy at work, he didn’t get two days together or his choice of days, but he did have two full days. We spent one day going to Lewiston, shopping and visiting either his family or mine. What a treat that was for me. The second day, we worked on repairs around the house. The bedroom window still hadn’t been replaced, and the house needed calcimine inside. We were still the only occupied house, so we needed to keep the brush down around the other houses. We didn’t want the owners raising our five-dollar-a-month rent.

  It was out with the cow smell and in with the grease—ugh! Not ordinary grease but thick, smelly grease. After two days of wear, the coveralls could stand up in the corner all by themselves. Tom only had two pairs. The washboard and tub sat in the middle of the kitchen while I boiled water daily with shaved bars of homemade lye soap. In would go the coveralls, boiled for fifteen minutes, transferred into the washtub with a big stick, then hand-scrubbed on the board; back into the boiling water, repeating this for three rounds. The sun dried them in about three hours on the clothesline. My hands were raw. On the first payday, we bought two more pairs of coveralls, Bag Balm, and rubber gloves.

  When I was mindlessly scrubbing one day, my thoughts wandered to life—my life. It’s like a bridge. I span from my pioneer parents’ covered wagon and immigrant train days, to travel by car with airplanes flying overhead. I’ve lived in isolation and transitioned to easy communication by radio and telephone. I look forward to embracing new inventions to make life easier. I bridge between the folks and Edna, Tom and his family, even Tom and books. What about the next generation? When was I ever going to produce a child who would be the bridge to our family’s future?

  Chapter 53

  Sibling Heartaches

  It was easy being frugal in our isolation of the past year. Now, we were tempted every time we went to town. More than anything, we wanted to save enough to buy our own place. We put away ten dollars out of Tom’s forty-dollar paycheck every month. One of our stops in town was always the bank. At first, we shied away from having anything to do with the banks because of the Depression, but the First Bank of Idaho assured us our money was safe because it was insured by the government. It didn’t dawn on us that the government might have money problems too. We opened a savings account and rented a safety deposit box to keep our “important papers” in—paystubs, marriage license, and our savings passbook.

  The berry crop was coming on. I asked, “Can you drop me at the folks on your way to town today? I want to help them pick. They’re coming on fast.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s stop at the bank then we’ll both help.” Tom parked in front of the bank and dashed in to do our banking. I giggled with delight at the thought of having banking business. I stayed in the car, away from shopping temptations.

  It took all day for four of us to pick the raspberry patch clean. Papa had used lots of fertilizer and water, and they were beautiful big berries.

  At the end of the day, Tom and Papa climbed into the pickup and took them to the grocery store in Lewiston. The owner bought them for one dollar a flat. Each flat held twelve halics. That was Papa’s Dutch word for berry basket. The grocer sold them to customers for ten cents each halic, making a twenty-cent profit. Papa came home with fifteen dollars. Not bad for the first picking.

  “Sure helped having you pick. Could use your help again, Susie,” Papa commented. We struck a deal. I’d stay at the folks and help pick on the days Tom worked.

  We got an early start each day. Even with taking time out for lunch, we were done by the time it got hot. Edna was off cooking early, so they couldn’t count on her help. I’d pick as much as I could, but it looked like they’d need to hire help.

  After three weeks of raspberries, the blackcaps came on. They were my favorite to pick. They looked like a raspberry, but were black and firm with a unique flavor. They added up quickly in the halic. Because they were rare, they brought a higher price at the store.

  I thought Mama and Papa had a good start on their new little farm. I have to admit, I was glad when berry season was over and I could spend more time with Tom.

  We were on the last picking of the season when an unknown but familiar car drove in. All our heads popped up out of the bushes. We couldn’t believe our eyes when we saw Johnny walking toward us. “Had a hard time finding your place,” he grinned. “Had to finally ask at the grocery store.

  “Johnny!” “Johnny?” “Johnny!” We all cried. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”

  He shuffled his feet and looked away. “We’ve been here for seven months.”

  “What? I don’t understand.” Mama was wide eyed. “You’ve been living here for seven months and didn’t come see us?”

  Papa and I looked at each other. We knew why. “Is Alice with you?” Papa asked quietly.

  “No. She’s at the house.” Johnny’s face was full of emotions—shame, anger, hurt. “I needed to come alone. I … I need to know … am I still your son?”

  Mama’s piercing blue eyes drilled him for a moment in anger, then softened. “Of course, son …” After a long pause, Mama said, “But Alice will never be my daughter.”

  Johnny was working at the mill and Alice in a grocery store. It seems California hadn’t been the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They lived with Uncle Martin a short time. He got tired of Alice’s complaining and nagging. They moved to a migrant worker’s one-room shack in the orange orchard and worked as hired hands. Life wasn’t rosy. They were back, eating crow—especially Alice.

  Neither Papa nor I said anything about the money they took. Mama had never been told. It was time to move on.

  Our routine became comfortable and life seemed good. Summer tumbled into fall, and fall fell into winter. It was snowing at our river house by the first of December.

  Along with the snow came a visitor one morning. I didn’t recognize the car, but knew the passenger—Edna. I went out the door to greet her and glanced at the driver, a suave-looking man with wavy blonde hair. “We’ve gotta talk,” she commanded as she took me by the elbow and steered me into the house. Inside, the hard-crusted attitude melted as she folded onto the settee and burst into tears. I took her into my arms.

  “Edna, Edna, talk to me. What’s going on?” Attempting to speak through the sobs, I couldn’t understand a word. “Go ahead. Cry your heart out. Then you can explain to me.”

  Finally getting control, she confessed, “You were right, Susie. He’s nothing but trouble. He’s not going to leave his wife or get a divorce. He says he can’t because it would ruin his kids’ lives.”

  “Is that him in the car?” She nodded. I glanced out the window. “Should I invite him in?” She shook her head.

  “He says he loves me, but I can’t believe him …” Tears washed my little sister’s face. “He won’t even leave her now that … I’m … I’m going to have his baby. Susie, I’m pregnant!”

  This couldn’t be happening! Not to my little sister. Oh, God, what now? What do I do

  now?

  “Have you told the folks?” I knew how this would tear Papa apart. I felt this news bending me so low, I couldn’t stand up.

  Edna shook her head. “I wanted to tell you first. You were the one who cared for me, loved me, taught me. Mama never loved me. I heard her say to Papa one day, ‘You take care of her problem, John. You were the one who wanted another child.’ She’s just put up with me. I just want to be loved.”

  I rubbed her back, “I love you, Edna.”

  “Yes,” she looked at me with swollen, red eyes. “Yes, I know you do. But you left me to marry Tom. You found someone else to love you.” I felt suffocating guilt heaped on me. “I want someone else to love me, too.”

  It became so quiet, I could h
ear the wind-up alarm clock ticking in the bedroom. I had no argument. I had put my own need to escape in front of the little girl I had raised. That was in the past. This was now, and there had to be some kind of future plan.

  I was finally able to stand. “I’ll go with you to tell the folks. They need to be part of the plan. When’s your next day off work?”

  “Friday,” she sniffled. “I haven’t told them at work yet. I know I’ll lose my job. They can’t have an unwed pregnant woman working as their cook. It would ruin their reputation.”

  Edna had cried her way through several of my handkerchiefs. She dabbed her eyes one last time. “I’ll have Tom drop me off when he goes to town,” I promised. “We’ll tell them together.”

  She nodded, and I walked her out to the car. I nodded to Herman. He nodded back. What else should I have done in this first meeting? I felt resentment, furious that he had led Edna on. What was he going to do to make this right? It sounded like nothing. They drove away in the gathering darkness.

  Back in the privacy of our house, I shouted to God, “How could you let this happen? It should be me that’s pregnant! Why isn’t it me?”

  Chapter 54

  An Advocate

  Fear thundered through my emotions. It rumbled and crashed from mind to heart in an overpowering storm. I can’t tell Tom about Edna. His reaction will be the same as mine—ranting at God, but I would get the brunt of it. I lay awake when he got home from work, but pretended sleep. My words were not yet formulated to explain the calamity exploding in my life.

  Tom got up first in the morning. He started the fire in the kitchen stove, a habit left over from our winters on the Stick Ranch. He set the coffee pot on to boil. I was exhausted from lack of sleep. He slammed the outside door. I knew I couldn’t put this off. I crawled out of bed and dressed quickly in the still-cold house. He swept the new fallen snow off the steps and made a path out to the car. The coffee smelled good. It always smelled good, like it was announcing a new day, a new start. I never developed a taste for it, but it wouldn’t be morning without the smell of coffee. I made oatmeal and mixed up the pancake batter. “Wish I had some eggs,” I said to myself.