by Linda Byler
She gritted her teeth and held her breath to fish out the soiled diapers, wring them out by twisting in either direction as hard as possible, before throwing them in the sputtering washing machine. One of these days that thing was going to breathe its last breath, and that was the truth.
She filled every line with threadbare sheets and torn blankets, then caught sight of the boys leaving for school. Her mouth flattened to a grim, determined slash as she prepared her speech for those two oldest.
She’d supply the garbage bags and give them orders to start picking up outside; there was no sense in any of this debris laying around as if no one lived here. On Sunday visitors would begin to arrive, well-meaning friends and neighbors bringing baby gifts and food, so if she was the maud they’d listen to her. If Dave would support her, see to it that things got done, it would make all the difference.
She finished hanging the last blanket, carried the clothes basket and clothespin bag to the washhouse, rinsed the machine and the tubs, swept the chipped concrete floor, picked up an array of children’s clothes, and went to the kitchen to heat leftover coffee. If there were any shoofly cake left, she’d have a nice chunk of it in a bowl, with milk.
She found Emma seated at the kitchen table with something in a bowl, her head bent over it as she spooned it up, the clicking of the spoon hitting her teeth the only sound in the kitchen.
“Oh, you’re up. Good morning. I hope you’ve slept well,” Edna remarked, hoping she sounded cheery enough. Her eyes slid sideways to the battered aluminum cake pan containing only crumbs and smudges of shoofly goo.
Sure enough, she’d eaten the last of it.
Emma put down the spoon, belched, lifted the tablecloth to wipe her mouth, fixed a penetrating stare at Edna and asked why she had to settle for shoofly cake when she should have something hot for breakfast, and no, she had not slept well, the baby didn’t settle, which was due to the tomato sauce in the spaghetti they had for supper, which had made her milk acidic.
Edna took a deep cleansing breath, turned the burner on under the stained, battered coffeepot, and apologized for not having her breakfast ready.
“It’s alright, I’m used to looking out for myself.”
“Would you like an egg sandwich if I make one for myself?”
“No. I want three fried eggs with mush.”
“The cornmeal is all gone. I fried the last of the mush yesterday morning.”
“Well, you’ll have to go to the store, then. I guess.”
They ate their eggs together, Edna making small talk, attempts at lifting the poor woman’s spirits with a description of the clouds, the melting snow, and the arrival of spring in a few months, but there was no response.
“Emma, would you like for me to buy a few boxes of Pampers for you? I’d think it would certainly help your workload considerably.”
Emma shook her head.
“Mam would have a fit.”
“You’re a grown woman, Emma. If Dave wants you to use them, I think you should. What your mother doesn’t know doesn’t hurt her.”
“But I can just hear her. She’ll think I’m lazy.”
Edna sat back and rolled her eyes at no one in particular. It was the only way she could keep from saying things she’d regret later. Honestly, this situation was beyond decency.
“I’ll get some. What size would Ivan take? And Atlee isn’t trained yet.” Emma sighed, a deep and weary sound that reached Edna’s soft heart.
“Three diaper babies. I have three again. I don’t know how I’ll ever manage after you leave. I should potty train Atlee, but he’s just not ready. He doesn’t want to sit on the potty chair.”
None of your children want to do anything you say, Edna thought. You’re like an old dishrag someone threw in the corner.
She had no answer to the whining, the cry for help from this woman who lacked even one ounce of energy and optimism. Part of Edna felt a deep sympathy, Emma having gotten herself into a situation that was simply unmanageable through doing what her husband felt was right. As she had done all her life, swimming along on the current of her mother’s views, never quite coming up to her golden standards. There was no thinking for herself, no rebellion, simply this washed-out existence where her husband and children took up everything she had to give until there was nothing left.
In her own eyes, she was submitting to her husband, the exact thing she was supposed to do, slowly spinning the cocoon of righteous martyrdom around herself until her surroundings were mostly hidden from view. The chaos, the filth, simply wasn’t there, or if some of it penetrated her conscience, she immediately justified her lack of concern with exhaustion.
Emma was exhausted and had ample reason to be drained of energy. But these children were here, by the will of God and her husband’s convictions, and they could no more help being born than someone could keep from breathing. And by all appearances, they would grow up wild and undisciplined, lacking the guidance from either parent.
Dave Chupp was a good person, easygoing, jovial, the whole world his playground, with goodwill coming out of his ears. Edna believed he loved his wife, his children, his cup running over with his own sense of accomplishment, so who was she to stick a pin into his balloon?
She looked across the table at the languid Emma and felt a decided sense of urgency. Something had to be done. Could be done.
“Emma, would you consider seeing a doctor about your . . .” just say it, she thought.
“Depression?”
She hurried on, without giving her time to answer.
“You know you’re feeling overwhelmed. Tell your doctor how you feel. He’ll explain it to you, and give you a small dose of an antidepressant, just enough to restore the brightness in your world.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed.
“No. Oh no. No. Not those pills. They’re only for crazy people. It will mess with my brain and well . . . you know, I’ll do something. People do if they’re on them things.”
“But you’ll never make it on your own. Your children will get you down, and Dave doesn’t see it. You need help.”
“No. Not medical pills, I’ll take more vitamins, build myself up.”
Edna pressed on, relating other cases where women suffered from terrible depression after the birth of a baby, and the difference one pill could make in their life.
“I’ve been doing this for fourteen years, Emma, and have seen so much. Why wouldn’t you go for help if it’s available? For your children’s sake? They need a mother, not just a helpless shadow.”
“No. No. I will not see a doctor. We don’t even have a family doctor. My mother raised me to depend on natural alternatives. We don’t take antibiotics.”
“This is not an antibiotic,” Edna said firmly.
“Worse. It’s worse.”
“Would you consider going for counseling then?”
Edna thought a counselor would persuade her, perhaps. Or get Dave to see this was not a normal family life.
“Counseling? What for? My mother wouldn’t want me to do that. She says counseling is overrated. People just need to get a grip.”
The mother again.
Edna sighed. “Well, I’ll call a driver. Get the groceries you need. And I’m buying Pampers. You need them.”
Emma said nothing, merely watched Edna pull on a sweater and go to the phone, housed in a shack built on to the washhouse.
Edna stepped into a fresh mound of dog doo, then into an icy puddle, wiped her shoes on a sunken pile of slush, yanked open the door to the telephone, and dialed the number with shaking fingers.
She bought bulk foods. Comet cleaner and Clorox. She bought the largest box of Tide with bleach she could find, two boxes of the cheapest disposable diapers, each box containing one hundred and twenty diapers.
If they only lasted for the time she was helping them, it would ease her own workload. If Dave did not approve, well, then, it was time that man had a talking-to, a genuine addressing of the situation he called home.
She sang as she organized her purchases in the pantry, whistled under her breath as she pulled Pampers from boxes and stacked them on the baby’s changing table, the larger size in the sink by the bathtub in the downstairs bathroom, with Emma hovering over her, wringing her hands in agitation, saying over and over she didn’t know what Dave would say.
What he did say was what Edna figured he would. He approved of purchasing the disposable diapers, if that is what she wanted, which led Edna to believe Emma’s fear of her husband was embedded deeply from her childhood, the mother’s overreaching views and constant belittling were what Emma now expected from all adults in authority.
So here was a beginning. A first step, and a small one perhaps, but at least the house would no longer reek of the acrid stench of old wet diapers thrown into corners. She caught Emma at the baby’s changing table, gingerly picking up a disposable diaper with one thumb and forefinger, as if it might be alive and would deliver a bite.
She unfolded it, turned it first one way, then another, before figuring out which side went beneath the baby’s bottom. Her eyes held a light of newfound optimism when she met Edna’s eyes.
“Just imagine, Emma. No more diaper pins and plastic pants. No more safety pins. But . . . after you leave?”
“After I leave you’ll go right on using these Pampers. Dave has agreed one hundred percent.”
“Really? You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I told him your diaper washing is ridiculous. You can afford to buy these diapers.”
Emma dipped her head to hide her smile.
“Ach. Well. Alright then.”
Edna stirred cornmeal and water into boiling, salted water, turned the gas burner to low and let it cook for forty-five minutes, savoring the rich smell of roasted corn. She put on the kettle for boiling water, measured two cups of molasses and a teaspoon of baking soda into a large bowl, and began measuring brown sugar and flour for the crumb topping on a shoofly cake. She’d likely be making another one tomorrow, the way this family ate anything homemade.
She set the molasses and boiling water to cool, then began a double batch of chocolate chip cookies. She whistled low under her breath and whirled around the kitchen stocked well with adrenaline. There was something about providing food for a large family that filled up her heart and supplied deep inner happiness.
She knew she had never experienced romantic love or the affections of a man, but could not imagine it was much different, or better, than this.
Being a maud meant she had the best of both worlds. She could do what she loved, which was the domestic work of keeping a household running smoothly, then retire after two weeks to her own domain; the full and ongoing responsibility would rest on someone else’s shoulders.
Now, here, if she were the mother, her first priority would be to instill some values in these children. Teach them to pick up clothes, toys, make beds, wipe shoes or boots, wash hands, improve table manners, and have absolutely no talking back. She knew she could do it.
But after two weeks, she’d be gone.
Her baking finished, she wiped down the counters, the front of the kitchen cupboards, then filled a bucket with hot water and a generous splash of Pine-Sol, before getting on her hands and knees with a large rag and setting to work on the kitchen floor.
She met the school-age children at the door, one hand propped on the doorframe, the other on her hip.
“Shoes off,” she said loudly.
“Naw.”
“We never hafta take off our shoes.”
“Take them off,” Edna barked, hoping she sounded like a German Shepard. The boys gave her an exasperated look, she heard snatches of “stupid,” “bossy,” and “maud,” but they kicked off their wet shoes.
“Now pick up your shoes and carry them to the washhouse. I just cleaned the kitchen floor.”
“Duh. It’s just gonna get dirty again.”
“Not if I have my way. Your mother is going to need help after I’m gone, and there are ways you can help. This is one of them.”
Baleful looks, but they bent, retrieved their shoes and tiptoed through the kitchen, the smallest one sniffing, “Cookies?”
Edna reached out to touch his straight blond hair.
“That’s right. Fresh chocolate chip cookies. But first, I need to have a meeting with all of you, O.K.?”
An arrogant look, a tossing of his long, unkempt bangs, but they didn’t say anything. They simply slid into kitchen chairs after hanging their clothes on the hooks Edna had supplied for them.
She joined them, searched each one’s face for signs of outward anger or rebellion, found only resigned patience.
“O.K., good. Now you know this is my last week, and then your mother will be in charge again.
Raised eyebrows, snickers.
“And you’re thinking, ‘Good.’ Well, that’s as it may be, but you will have to change your ways. You’re old enough to help your mother wherever you can.”
“She doesn’t make us work, so you can’t, either,” from the oldest.
“Oh yes, I can. And she will, too. So will your father.”
Edna delivered a rousing sermon, quite proud of her ability to make them take notice, to sit up and listen. The mother in the bedroom for a nap, she kept her voice modulated, but let them know their mother was in no condition to carry on herself, that she was depressed and needed them all to shoulder some of the responsibilities. They could wash dishes, make beds, take out the trash.
“She doesn’t ever make us do that stuff.”
“She will after today. A new day is starting for you guys.”
She received a few stares of unbelief, but plodded on, saying children could be a blessing to their parents, and this is what God wanted them to do, that He looks down from Heaven and loves little children, expects them to be kind and helpful.
She produced the garbage bag with instructions to pick up all the trash, find a rake and gather the loose hay and straw, also the clumps of manure and wood chips, then put it in the garbage tote.
“We never did this kinda stuff.”
“Do it.” Edna said, without hesitation.
She watched from the kitchen window as they all stood together in a huddle, the garbage bag hanging like a deflated balloon between them. The oldest one did most of the talking, his thumb jerking in the general direction of the house, with some serious nodding of agreement from the younger ones.
But they accomplished their task, then piled into the washhouse, hung up their coats and, unbelievably, kicked off their sneakers, came into the kitchen, and sat expectantly.
Edna praised their fast work, brought mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of cookies, and then sat and listened to them talk about their day at school. Emma appeared at the bedroom door, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her dress hanging open, stained with milk and the baby’s vomit, her hair greasy and uncombed, the dichly on her head sliding off toward the back.
The boys all turned in her direction, but said nothing.
Emma came to the table, sat beside the smallest one, reached for a cookie, stuffed half into her mouth.
“Did you sleep well?” Edna inquired.
“I did.” She answered. “Feel like a new person.”
She smiled at the boys.
“How was school?”
“O.K. Good.” Shrugs
“They picked up the trash outside.” Edna said.
“They did? Snow melting so much?”
Emma got up to stand by the window, then turned to reveal another smile appearing on her gray, drawn face.
“It’s like spring, isn’t it?”
Edna sat alone with Dave after everyone had retired for the night. She kept her voice low, knew the bedroom door was kept ajar, for the heat, but told Dave in her no-nonsense way that things had to change.
“Emma needs your help. You have to shoulder more of the responsibility. It doesn’t hurt you to wash dishes, take out the trash when you see the can is full. The most im
portant thing you can do is teach the children to do the same. You know this place is a dump.”
She felt bad when she saw the cringe, the embarrassment on his unlined, good-natured face. But she pressed on, stating her argument, saying how cleanliness was next to godliness, and that company would be arriving, and it was time this family got their act together and changed their slovenly ways.
“Boy, you’re really hitting me here,” he remarked.
“Sorry, but if things don’t improve, your wife is going to go from bad to worse. I’m serious. I want her to see her doctor, but she won’t.”
Dave sat up straight, fixed her with a penetrating stare.
“She’s not that bad, is she?”
“She sure is. If she’d see her doctor, I guarantee she’d be diagnosed as having a severe case of postpartum depression.”
“You’re serious?”
“Of course I am. She’s not well. Is it any wonder? One woman alone can do only so much, and that’s it.”
Then she threw all caution to the wind and suggested eight children were enough. She did not add, “for now,” either. Enough.
Dave eyed her with suspicion.
“Now. Now in that category, Edna, you will not tell me what to do. No sir. My quiver isn’t near full, and God clearly instructed us in the Bible. Children are a blessing around our table.”
A shot of anger.
“Your table, maybe. But not Emma’s.”
Dave recoiled. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what I said. She is overwhelmed. If she were a hardy woman, it would be entirely different. A whole other ball game. She’s not. If you don’t start taking care of her, you might not have a wife.”
There. She’d dropped that bomb.
Dave’s chair scraped the floor as he got to his feet. He stood behind his chair, then, his hands like paws on the back, his blue eyes boring into hers.
“You know, I used to admire you a lot. I would have recommended you to everyone, but no more. You have meddled into affairs that are none of your business whatsoever.”
With that he stomped off toward the bedroom and disappeared through the door, closing it firmly behind him. Edna remained seated at the table, her cupped hand scraping cookie crumbs from the tablecloth, her back bent like a much older woman’s.