The Sisters of Summit Avenue

by Lynn Cullen

After that, saying that the cream separator needed repair was their secret code for intimacy. Eventually just the word “cream” was enough to make them smile. Even someone innocently asking to pass it produced a knowing look between them.

  Now, standing at the sink with her empty jelly jar, the memory of the life they’d shared drove a pain through her heart that hurt all the way to her fingertips. They had been good together, no matter that he’d loved June first. She had worked the farm with him in a way that June never could have, pitching in with the milking, taking care of the calves, the chickens, the horses, anything living, while doing the best job she could of mothering her daughters. Working with animals was something that she was better at than June, something she loved, and John knew it and appreciated it. Those years they had been a team, working hard, laughing hard, lovemaking hard. She had been her best with him. Finally, finally, she had actually been proud of herself. And then he had left her, not by choice, but he’d left her, just the same.

  She furiously pumped another glass of water. She was putting it to her lips when she heard the tractor rumble and sputter and then roar to life in the machine shed.

  Nick rode out on the stuttering beast, looked for her, then waved when he saw her, the shirt under his arm wet. She could imagine how he smelled. Like a man.

  She pulled back from the window, hesitated, then waved. Let June come. Ruth wasn’t ashamed. What was wrong with wanting more than her sad and lonely life? June, with her cornucopia of plenty, had no right to begrudge her at least a smidgeon of happiness. Hadn’t Ruth paid enough already for what she’d done?

  She dumped her glass and went out.

  SEVEN

  St. Paul, Minnesota, 1934

  Chunks of sunlight fell through June’s windshield as she drove under the newly leafing trees of Summit Avenue. Spring green lawns, flowering bushes, and substantial homes spun by to her right. The grassy median of the boulevard was an emerald flash between tree trunks out her window to the left. Eleven years after moving here, and there wasn’t a day that she took for granted living on this beautiful street, the finest in St. Paul. She knew that she should have been happy. Maybe she would be, if she could just have a baby.

  As she wheeled the car around a corner, she glanced in her rearview mirror. In it, a girl in a long gray coat was heaving away on a rusty swing. The rhythmic squeak of metal against metal swelled into the interior of the car.

  June swerved, hitting the curb.

  The girl disappeared as abruptly as a soap bubble.

  June tightened her gloved grip on the steering wheel, the jolt from striking the curb still radiating through her body. She hadn’t lived across the street from the State School since graduating from high school. Her husband was a surgeon, she lived in a mansion, she was respected at work, she had an interesting job. She was safe.

  She piloted the car onto Marshall Avenue, where a line of vehicles crept along the boundary of the Town and Country Club, slowed by some kind of obstruction on the bridge ahead. She was sure to be late now, and she had to hurry back to work if she was going to leave early. She thought of the little family who lived in the shadow of the spans, and hoped that they were okay.

  Ignoring the pit greening in her stomach, she lifted her chin to see which of her friends were at the club as she passed. There were still plenty of members who had not lost everything in the Crash and sunken from sight, still plenty of nice-enough people to socialize with, although she wasn’t particularly close to any of them—her shortcomings, not theirs. She squinted through the barrier of trees and shrubs that limited, though did not completely obstruct, the view of the club from the street. Perhaps by design, gaps had been left in the greenery, the better for regular folk to imagine the elegant events taking place on the other side.

  When Ruth and she had been children, they would go joy-riding with Dad on a Sunday afternoon. On one such occasion she had been sitting tall, on top of the world, as they puttered through downtown Fort Wayne with its domed courthouse and awninged storefronts: Dad had a new (at least to her family) truck, a Ford, hardly dented, with “Bud’s” scrolled on the sides. They had swung back past the house (no, Mother still did not want to come) and along the river, past the Centlivre brewery and its stink of cooking hops, to Johnny Appleseed’s grave, where, after marking the headstone of the barefoot pioneer with three shriveled apples from the trees he had planted (Dad’s idea of paying their respects), they had climbed back in the truck and joggled on their happy way. At last they came to the glorious summit of their journey—Forest Park Boulevard, home of some of the newest mansions in town.

  There, they slowed to gape at the serene palaces lounging behind their trimmed green hedges. Who lived in such places? They must be almost gods.

  She looked at her dad, idling his delivery truck, the same brown hat he’d worn her whole life plunked down straight on his head as he craned his neck for a better view. The shirt cuffs above his hands gripping the wooden steering wheel were frayed. Then she looked at her little sister, her red hand-me-down dress barely covering her rear as she leaned out the truck window, wiping her runny nose on her arm as she gawked. June’s favorite two people in the world.

  In that instant, it was as if magic glasses had been dropped before June’s eyes. With horrifying clarity, she saw her dearest ones—her own self—as who they really were: everyday people, maybe even poor ones, snot-nosed and fraying at the edges. How lowly they must seem to the near-gods on the other side of the hedges. And she had always thought that they were special.

  Unconsciously, she wiped at her nose as she inched the Hupmobile forward. She belonged on the right side of the hedges now. She knew the fun of dining on the wraparound veranda of the Town and Country clubhouse, waited on by young men in starched white jackets. She was familiar with the intoxication of fox-trotting in a shimmering gown under the sparkling lights of the ballroom. She was privy to the exhilaration of climbing the winding stairs to the observation deck, with its queen’s view of the Mississippi.

  Yet, she admitted to herself now as she warded off the glare from the bumper of the auto in front of her, life at the club wasn’t always a dream. Too often one of her fellow members would follow her out to the veranda or up to the deck, where he would offer her sips from his silver flask before lunging in for a stolen kiss. This attention confused and depressed her. Surely her “admirer” wouldn’t have tried to so baldly seduce someone born into his circle.

  How did she give herself away? Her accent? The way she dressed? Which inadvertent slip showed her ignorance of how to behave, of the knowledge that the cradle-rich imbibed along with their infant formula? She tried so hard. Maybe that in itself was the problem.

  The line of automobiles inched forward. She patted through her purse on the seat next to her for her dark glasses, then unsnapped their case one-handed. She was too eager to please, that much she knew. She emboldened her would-be seducers with the knowledge that she would be too sweet, too nice, to reveal them. She had always been that way.

  The aroma of coffee beans in the cast-iron grinder suddenly filled her nose, as did the wheaty scent of Wonder Bread in white paper wrappers, lined up in a row. She was seventeen and in Dad’s store. It was a Saturday afternoon and she was the only one there. A fly buzzed around shelves neatly stacked with canned goods. She was refilling the pickle barrel with a new batch put up by old Mrs. Thigpen, the tang of vinegar rising up and slapping away the other cozy smells, when Mr. Horn entered.

  They nodded. Nerves fluttered in the back of her throat. She’d always thought Mr. Horn especially handsome in a dark, sharp-featured way. Under his fedora, his hair was shiny black and his face thin and cool. He and his wife were some of the few customers who actually came into the store. He rarely spoke to anyone when they did. He let his wife, holding their baby, tell Ned what she wanted from the shelves as he stared at June with his Rudolph Valentino eyes.

  Now the mysterious Mr. Horn was strolling through the store. She was listening for him a
s her heart pounded and pickles plopped into the barrel, when rough hands grabbed her.

  In one movement, he pinned her arms behind her back, spun her toward him, and forced her backward against the counter. The edge of Mrs. Thigpen’s galvanized bucket hit the arch of her foot when she dropped it. Pickle juice splashed up her leg.

  His mouth, his sandpapery chin, raked her face and neck as she struggled. He bit the words into her ear: “I want to fuck you.”

  Vomit flashed to her throat.

  Wherever he touched burned. His brutal kisses cut her to her soul.

  The bell over the back door jingled.

  He pushed her away. She was wiping her cheek, too shocked, too sick, to cry, when Ruth trotted in.

  “Say, June—” Ruth stopped. She looked from June to Mr. Horn, who was pulling down his hat.

  She snatched up the broom Dad kept by the counter and stabbed at him. “Get out!” She drove him backward. “Get out! Get out!”

  He protected his face with his hands. “What are you so sore about?”

  “Get! You monster!”

  “What’s your dad going to say? I’m a paying customer! No, wait—Rowdy Dowdy wouldn’t say shit.”

  She landed one on his shoulder.

  “Hey! That hurt!”

  “Good!” Ruth hit him again.

  “You little bitch! I’m telling the police!” Spit whitened the corners of his mouth. “I’m telling them Rowdy Dowdy’s slut daughter attacked me.”

  “You do that!”

  He backed his way out the door. “Whores!”

  June’s vision was blue with shock as the bell tinkled behind him. “Ruth! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  Ruth put down the broom. “I know that.”

  “How’d you know I needed help?”

  “You were smiling. He wasn’t.”

  “Smiling? But I wasn’t happy!”

  “I know!”

  * * *

  White gloves flagged June into the present. From beside a police car parked against the traffic, the officer directing the crawling line of autos indicated for her to stop. She put on her dark glasses. He swaggered over in tall boots.

  In spite of his erect posture, his lightly padded torso and the slightly reddened gooseflesh on the back of his neck suggested early forties in age. The stubble on his chin glinted in the sun when he tipped the patent leather bill of his cap. “Afternoon.”

  June kept on her dark glasses. “Good afternoon. Is there a problem?”

  He bent down to look inside the car. “Oh, another man jumped from the bridge.”

  She felt a jolt, as if a shard of the broken man had been sent through her. Her heart took another blast: Had little Ethel and Maeve seen the man jump?

  “Did you see a family living under the bridge?”

  Her tone made him squint at her in assessment, as if he might have a hysteric on hand. “I have not been down there, ma’am. But don’t you worry, they’ll round up any bums they find. We won’t let anyone bother you.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  The policeman put both hands atop her open window, then leaned in. “White dress, white shoes. So am I right? Are you a nurse?” He grinned. “You must have married a doctor to drive a vehicle like this.”

  “Actually, no. I’m Betty Crocker.”

  She took advantage of his surprise to drive away.

  On the other side of the bridge, she pulled the car to the shoulder of the street, panting as if she’d run there. She strained to see the dirt road below. Police cars were parked scattershot in the weeds near the rusty lean-to. Several officers were gathered around a white ambulance, the rear doors of which had been opened toward the riverbank. The girls and their mother were gone.

  June scrunched back against the upholstery, flattened by the ache in her chest.

  Ruth! How she wanted Ruth! And Dad! Dad, I want you back. I’m lost.

  A Lamb Beer truck piled with steel barrels rumbled by, shaking June’s car.

  She fumbled for the radio, her hand trembling on the dial, and turned it on. After a moment, she was able to pull out into traffic.

  * * *

  “Here we are, Betty. Ninth floor!” Mr. Gustafson pulled back the shiny brass inner accordion-gate and then the elevator door. With a wink to June, he delivered his line with no less cheer than he had that morning. “Go make someone happy!”

  His eager, wizened face fell when she didn’t quickly return his grin. She felt instant remorse. He had not pushed that poor jumper over the bridge by the country club. He had not hounded off little Ethel and Maeve. He had not caused her infertility. He had not betrayed her by taking the only man she had ever loved.

  She balled her cheeks into a smile. “I will, I promise, Mr. Gustafson.”

  “Good!” he called after her happily. “You do that, Betty!”

  She pushed her way through the glass doors of the reception area, unburdened herself of her purse and hat in the cloakroom, then entered the kitchen, loud with the clinking and clanking of spoons against bowls, pots onto burners, and pans into ovens. The air simmered with the rich scent of sugared fruit baking in lard and flour.

  Darlene stopped nipping at her pencil when June joined her at their table. “I’m trying to be creative with menus for the other page of the Clark Gable spread. But honestly, just how much Bisquick can I make the man down?”

  June pulled her white skirt over her knees as she sat. “You have him eating pancakes for his breakfast, yes?”

  “Griddle cakes, yes.”

  “What if for the other page, you thought of all the other meals one can center around pancakes.”

  “I can do that.” Darlene fluffed her hair in thought. “What about ‘North Woods Breakfast’? Or ‘Camp Breakfast’?”

  “You don’t have to do just breakfasts. How about some kind of woodsy supper?”

  “I see what you mean. Then how about a ‘Log Cabin Supper’? Or an ‘End of the Trail Dinner’? ‘Hunting Lodge Luncheon.’ ”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Darlene wrote a moment then paused. “What do they eat in log cabins for supper, do you suppose?”

  Before June could answer, Doris Hunter, tall, square-shouldered, dark-haired, and direct as a blast from a fire hose, was surging toward them with such authority that the very tables seemed to part. Her drive could have powered the “Eventually” sign outside—it sparked and crackled from her like electricity from a Tesla coil. For good reason, she was the head Betty. June was slightly terrified of her.

  “Smells like pie!” she sang, loud enough to rattle cookie sheets. “DARLENE.”

  Darlene went rigid.

  “Darlene, sweetie.” Mrs. Hunter landed in front of them. “What are you forgetting?”

  Darlene knew better than to speak.

  “Are you forgetting who you are? You are Betty Crocker! You don’t suppose anything. You tell those people in log cabins what to eat. And they will. They want to. And they will thank you for telling them what to think.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Hunter was just warming up. “People these days are tired, Darlene. Worn out. Bushed. They don’t want to think for themselves, whether it be about finding work or knowing how to behave or just making a pickle sandwich. So help them! Make it easy for them! Give them the relief of thinking What would Betty do whenever they’re in a jam. Do them this little service. For their own good. The poor lambs no more want to think for themselves than to mine for rocks on the moon.”

  Her words settled over the room. Darlene gathered her courage.

  “Well, then, Mrs. Hunter—”

  “Kitty! You know my nickname is Kitty!” She had a gap between her teeth when she smiled.

  “Kitty.” Darlene cleared her throat. “I say Betty thinks that they should have Fried Ham and Eggs for their supper. With Green Tomato Pickles.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Kitty thunked Darlene’s arm, flipping the pencil from her hand. “And don’t forget
the pancakes. Sell that flour!”

  The hem of Darlene’s white uniform brushed the floor as she scooped up the pencil. Kitty trained her floodlights on June.

  “June, sweetie.”

  June braced herself.

  “I have some new copy for you for the Joan Crawford spread.”

  “You do?” June had finished the spread weeks ago. “I’ve sent it to Production.”

  “I just now spoke to Joan over her breakfast. It’s morning, California time, you know. I asked if she were having some Bisquicks with her coffee, and she said, ‘Betty, I certainly am!’ ”

  Darlene lowered her head in a conspiratorial smile. “Does she really think that she’s talking to Betty Crocker?”

  Kitty laughed heartily. “Sweetie, if Joan Crawford wants to believe that, heaven forbid that I should be the one to stop her. Anyhow, I think she’ll forgive me if she ever finds out. Surely the former Lucille LeSueur would appreciate the value of assuming an agreeable name.” She unclipped a typed card from her board and thrust it at June. “She wants to use this for her Smart Dinner.”

  June scanned the card. The menu was especially unappealing, featuring lettuce soup and a mutton chop grilled with kidneys. At least it included bacon.

  “She likes this picture, too.” Kitty unfastened a glossy photograph from her board. “She had these airmailed.”

  June inspected the photo. A set of heavily painted brows, eyes, and lips stared back at her. Any traces of the real woman behind them had been airbrushed into the satin backdrop.

  “She told me this morning,” said Kitty, “that she’ll only appear in the Take a Trick a Day if I use them. Be a dear and fill in the rest of the spread with the riveting copy that you write so elegantly and get it back to me in a snappy.”

  Kitty was waiting when June looked up from the photo. “I know, I know. Betty is supposed to be the one calling the shots. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t wise for her to be under advisement from time to time.” She winked. “Joan Crawford will never realize that she was the rare person to get Betty to back down. The fact is, people are usually too concerned about their own vulnerabilities to notice yours.”