Bette

by Lyn Cote

  Chloe interlaced her finger with Bette’s. “Love him. Just give him love, but also give him time alone. He has to have time to work things out for himself. Just love him and let him know you accept the man he’s become.”

  Bette nodded, feeling uneasy and almost frightened. Yet excited all the same. Curt will be here soon. And her body warmed, anticipating being alone with him tonight.

  Her stepfather, somehow both smiling and somber, joined them on the porch, putting an end to the conversation. He said nothing, but gave her a hug that emphasized his support.

  Then all her waiting and wondering ended. Curt was there, driving his father’s well-worn Chevy up the lane toward Ivy Manor. Because of wartime rationing, it was the same car that Curt had used to take her to the prom.

  Seeing him, worry again reared inside her. Why hadn’t he come to her first? I’m his wife. She pushed these unworthy feelings down. She couldn’t allow herself to be petty at a time like this.

  Curt parked the car. His father got out and helped his mother and Curt’s younger sister out of the backseat, but Curt didn’t stir. Bette waited on the top step, her hands clenched together. Curt’s hesitation lengthened. His father turned to wave him out of the car. Shouldn’t he be running to me? A terrible sense of wrongness squeezed Bette’s heart with icy fingers. She had trouble finding her breath.

  Finally, Curt eased out of the car and started toward her. Her ambivalence over his show of reluctance kept her frozen in place. He reached the bottom step and a barrier inside her melted. She rushed into his arms, tears pouring from her eyes. “Curt, oh, Curt, my darling.” She threw her arms around him and felt his go around her—tight and reassuring.

  “Bette,” he murmured in her ear. “Bette.” He kissed her and his lips set the familiar fire in her veins and she wished they were alone.

  But then his father began snapping photos with his camera. Bette wiped away wet tears with fingertips and smiled when instructed to do so. A grinning Mr. Sinclair, an older version of Curt, went on taking photos of various poses. Several featured Bette wearing Curt’s military hat at a rakish angle and her kissing Curt in various places—his cheek, his forehead. She Eskimo-kissed him with noses. Curt began smiling, but the foolishness must have embarrassed him because he held back somehow. But soon she was laughing instead of crying. And glad their parents shared their joy.

  “Everyone,” her mother invited, beaming beside the double doors, “come inside. Jerusha has been cooking all day and we’re the lucky ones who get to eat it.”

  When Curt didn’t offer his arm, Bette went ahead and tucked her hand inside his elbow and they entered Ivy Manor together. When they reached the dining room, Curt dropped her hand and seated her formally—without a word or endearment. It was as if someone had reminded him of an old grudge between them. The light in his eyes had been switched off again. Why? A sick feeling leaked through her. What’s wrong, Curt? Or is this just my imagination?

  Later in the gathering twilight, Bette stood side by side with Curt in the cottage at Ivy Manor. Something was very wrong. After a day of celebration and feasting, his family had finally gone home. Then her mother and father had escorted them here to the cottage and now strolled away toward the big house. Plainly, Curt was upset. Was she the only one who sensed his misery? What could he possibly be sad about?

  Beside her, he closed the door, pulled away from her, and then stopped in the middle of the kitchen. He just stood there like a stick figure without emotion or identity. Something forbidden crouched behind his shuttered eyes. She’d never felt so alone in all her life.

  Unable to bear this one minute more, she walked into his arms without invitation. She kissed him, breathing in his scent, remembering the last time they’d been together. They’d only seen each other once during the long war. He’d come home for New Year’s Eve 1943. That had been a passionate reunion, nothing like today. She waited for him to respond to her embrace. Finally, she felt his arms go around her—somehow tentative, somehow new, somehow the same. Her tension loosed a notch. She breathed again.

  “I was so frightened you wouldn’t make it through four years of war,” she murmured. “It’s almost a miracle.”

  “A lot of guys didn’t make it.”

  She analyzed his gruff voice. Was her mother right? Was he feeling guilt at having survived? “I know and I’m sorry for their families, but this war wasn’t our idea. We didn’t have a choice.”

  “I know that.” He jerked away from her. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  She could come up with nothing to say. How could she help him cross over the bridge back to her, back to their life together? Remembering her mother’s advice, she ignored his remoteness and, taking his hand, led him toward the small bedroom. Surely physical intimacy would bring him closer to her. She’d show him her love was as strong, as true as ever. “I’m glad Mother suggested we stay here at first. We have more privacy and can get acquainted again.”

  Curt made no reply.

  She wouldn’t be daunted. Here alone together, she could reconnect with him, show him how she had longed for his touch. She took his arm and drew him the last few steps into the small bedroom. Feeling unnatural, exposed, she made herself go to the closet and begin undressing, trying to do it as if she’d been undressing in front of him for the past five years. Curt hung back in the doorway, staring at the bed. When he made no move to enter, she was forced to speak. “Curt, is there something wrong?”

  He jerked his head as if he’d been a million miles away from her. “No. I’m just tired. That’s all.”

  Was he telling her he was too tired for them to sleep together? Surely not. She turned from him and continued hanging up her clothing. She made herself finish and put on her nightgown. We are married. Though this feels strange, deep down, we’re the same people we were in 1941 when we married. Still, she sensed that this was not the way it should be. His holding back was the problem, not the years apart.

  In her pale satin nightgown, she bravely sauntered toward him and took his hand. “Come, Curt. You’re at home now and we’re finally alone.” She helped him shrug off his gray-green officer’s jacket and starched khaki shirt. When he was standing before her bare-chested, she ran her fingers lightly over his chest. He sucked in breath and she was relieved to see that her touch still had the power to entice him.

  Then she went to the bed and folded down the covers. She perched on the bed with her legs folded under her and watched him finish undressing and donning his pajamas. When he turned, she held out her arms to him. Desire for him billowed up in her, ready to spill over. “I love you, Curt. I always will. I gave you my promise, remember?”

  He nodded and took her into his arms, kissed her and then slid in beside her. She sighed as passion for him flowed through her, warm and irresistible. But why hadn’t he responded with “I love you, too”? She pushed this silly thought aside. He was here, kissing her, and that was all that mattered. She deepened their kiss and let her hands rover over his back. After all, this was real life, not the movies. And it would be better soon.

  The next morning, Bette awoke to find Curt gone from the little cottage. A note said he’d be home later. She’d tried not to take it as a rebuff, though it had felt like one—a cold slap to her face. No doubt this was part of putting their life back together, this remembering to share plans with one another. She would have to be patient and persistent. This was the man she’d loved for a decade. She had time. She had their long love on her side.

  But he hadn’t called all day and only returned home in time for dinner. When he entered the dining room at Ivy Manor, apologizing for being late, Bette already sat at the table. He took his chair beside her. Surrounded by her parents and brothers, she tried to keep reproach from her expression. She held her tongue between her teeth as her stepfather asked the blessing.

  “I went grocery shopping today,” she said in a cheery tone she didn’t feel. She passed the bowl of fresh green salad to Curt. “Now that I’m a wif
e, I’ll have to start learning how to cook.”

  Curt looked up, but made no comment.

  “Well, what kept you busy today?” her stepfather asked Curt.

  Bette was grateful her stepfather had posed this question. It was good to have her family around her, helping her. And she wanted to know what had been important enough to take Curt away from her on his first day home?

  “I went looking for a job.” Curt served himself and passed the glass bowl of salad to Thompson, now an awkward fifteen.

  “You want to work already?” Rory, now a gangly sixteen, demanded. “If I’d just got home from war, I’d spend some time having fun. Hey, I heard that veterans get first pick of the first new cars out of Detroit this year. If you get a job, you could probably buy one.”

  “Wow,” Thompson agreed, sounding awed. “A new car.”

  Curt chuckled in a dispirited way. “New cars cost money.”

  Bette looked up, suddenly alert. Maybe she could give Curt something to be excited about. “We have enough money if you want one, Curt,” she offered. “With all the rationing, I didn’t have anything to spend my pay on, so the money’s just been piling up in the bank. Why don’t we get a new car?”

  “You mean your money has just been piling up.” His voice was wry, but with an undercurrent. “Your pay as a mail censor beat my GI pay, didn’t it?”

  His scolding made her feel funny. Was he still mad about her not staying in Maryland during the war? Was that what was causing trouble between them? “But, Curt. My money, your money. It’s our money.”

  “You know I didn’t want you working in Bermuda during the war.” For the first time since yesterday’s reunion, Curt sounded vitally present and very angry.

  Bette blinked away tears. Curt hadn’t recognized that by suggesting a new car, she’d only wanted to please him. Why did Bermuda matter so much? Or was it just an excuse for something else? Why was he acting the way he was?

  “No doubt Curt would like a new auto,” Chloe commented smoothly, “but I’m sure he’s more concerned about settling down at a job and making use of his good education.”

  Bette still reeled from Curt’s touchiness. It felt as though she were standing on a cliff and a bit of pebbles and earth had slid from under her feet, giving her a breathless fearful tug at her heart. Hiding her hurt, she concentrated on eating her salad. This is hard, so hard. She tried to tell herself that this was just part of working things out after so many years apart. But it didn’t ring true. Again, she was glad for her family’s rallying around at this time. It made it easier to face Curt. I’m not alone in wanting to make things work out.

  Curt looked down at his food, willing Bette to drop the subject of money. He didn’t want to talk about it.

  “What kind of work were you looking for?” Bette’s stepfather asked in a neutral tone. “I could use someone at the bank—”

  “No, thanks,” Curt said quickly, glad his father-in-law had broached this topic. “Last week, my dad got a call from a principal over the line in Baltimore County. I’d interviewed there before the draft. They need substitutes to finish out the school year. I went over to apply today.”

  He didn’t look at Bette, couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t tell her why he had to earn some money fast. He knew his show of irritation had hurt her. She didn’t deserve this kind of treatment, but he couldn’t find a way to tell her. He’d known that being honest with Bette would be the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. What will she say? What will she do when I tell her the truth?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Two days later, in the warm evening gloaming, Curt and Bette sat on the small porch in front of their cottage. Today, Curt had interviewed again for an end-of-the-year teaching job in Baltimore County. A woman teacher had resigned when she found herself pregnant; her GI husband had come home in March. “So the second interview went well.” Bette groped for something Curt might open up and talk about. “You think you’ll be offered the job in Baltimore?”

  “I don’t see why not.” He stared off in the distance as if she weren’t even present.

  She fought the urge to shake him out of his reticence. I must be patient. He’ll come around in time. She went inside and brought out the magazine she’d bought in town that afternoon. Staring into the distance, Curt didn’t even act as if he noticed she’d moved. She cleared her throat. “I picked this up today in Croftown. I thought you’d be interested in this article about new postwar housing.” She flipped open the magazine to the beginning of the article about new home styles. “I was thinking that this might be similar to what we always talked about building.” She turned a page and offered it to him. “See?”

  He glanced down—for a fraction of a second. “It’s too early to be talking about building. I don’t even know if I have a job. I don’t know if I’ll be offered a contract for the fall.” Excuses seemed to flow from his mouth.

  “I know that.” She clung to her patience. “But, Curt, why can’t we just talk about it? We always used to like to plan for our future together and our future is now. And we have the money to build right now. But—”

  “I’ve told you. I don’t want your money. It’s yours, not mine.” He shoved away the magazine.

  His gruff words hit her right between the eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” She heard the forbidden words pop from her lips. “Why are you acting like this?”

  Curt surged to his feet. He stalked down the two steps and headed for his father’s car, which his parents had loaned them. He got in and backed the car down to the turnaround.

  Bette stood, dumbfounded, the magazine dangling from her hand. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly, terribly wrong here.

  Hours later in their darkened bedroom, Bette feigned sleep as Curt undressed and got into bed beside her. She couldn’t think of anything to say. No words that would bridge the puzzling gap that stretched between them. No words that would bring him closer, not send him farther away. Who was this man and why was he treating her like this?

  Still, he had come home finally. She’d half-expected him not to return. She hugged this fact close and tried to keep her weeping silent, unnoticed. She experienced the standing-on-the-cliff sensation again and she was losing more ground. Every time she tried to reach out to him, precious earth slipped from beneath her feet. If he doesn’t come around soon, what am I going to do? How do I get him to open up and tell me what’s wrong?

  Maybe you are what’s wrong, an inner voice taunted. Bette squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to listen. God help me, help us.

  Over a week later, home from grocery shopping, Bette walked into the small kitchen of the cottage and halted, brought up short. “Curt? What happened? I didn’t expect to see you home yet.”

  “I quit.” Curt didn’t look up. He sat with his elbows propped on his knees and his chin on his folded hands. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  Bette stood there with the paper sack of groceries in her arms, not knowing what to say. Curt had sounded relieved when he’d gotten the Baltimore job so soon. Now he’d already quit. Should she say something to him about his quitting or stay silent? What could she say? In a carefully controlled voice, she said, “I see.”

  “Stop handling me like I’m a live grenade!” Suddenly he was on his feet, in her face.

  She gasped and drew back. But his attack released the floodgates. “I’d be glad to if I knew how. What do you want from me? Where are you? You came home but you’re never really with me. In bed, you are only a body, not my husband—not the man who loved me, whom I loved. Tell me what’s going on!”

  Curt made no reply, but his chest heaved as if he’d just run a long, hard race. “I can’t do this.” He shoved past her and practically ran out the door.

  Bette threw the bag of groceries to the floor and charged after him. “Don’t you dare run away from me again! I won’t have it!” Her long suppressed anger broke through—blazing, crackling, roaring in her head. “Don’t you dare!”

  Sh
e caught up with him and grabbed the shoulder of his suit jacket. He tried to pull away but her grip held. He swung around and shoved her. Shocked beyond belief, she stumbled and nearly fell. But her grip on him saved her. She only skimmed one knee over the ground.

  “Let me go,” he growled, his face twisted with rage.

  “No!” She clung to him. “We’re going to have this out once and for all!”

  “No.” He yanked her hand from his shoulder, ripping the seam.

  She then seized both his hands in hers, hanging onto them, not giving an inch. Curt cursed and squeezed her hands painfully, then tried to pull away.

  Ted had taught her a few self-defense moves. She slid her foot between Curt’s. Then suddenly, instead of countering his force, she shoved forward. It threw him off balance and she tripped him with her foot. They went down together on the new grass. Both panting. Curt cursed again.

  Bette pushed herself up onto her knees, rubbing her bumped elbows. “What’s wrong, Curt? Why can’t we talk? Why do you close your eyes when we make love? Why aren’t you ever here with me?”

  He turned his head away and wouldn’t answer her.

  She grabbed his lapels and twisted them, shaking him. “We’ve got to work this out. Good heavens, we’ve been sweethearts for ten years and married for five now. Do you realize that? We waited and waited for each other and then the war came and now, finally, we have a chance to begin our life. But you won’t let us. Why?”

  “I can’t do this.” He averted his face.

  His continued intransigence enflamed her. “Well, you’d better decide to.” Her voice was a lash and she couldn’t stop it. “I went to the doctor before I went shopping today. We’re expecting a child in February.”

  “No. Oh, no.” Curt wrenched free of her hold and raced toward his car.