Beautiful Inside and Out, Part 1

"Look at me. I used to be pretty," my great-grandmother said to me when I was visiting her in the assisted living center.

I had dropped in one sunny spring afternoon during my spring break from college. While she welcomed me with a smile and a kiss initially, her secondary response was to slap me across the shoulder, because she wasn't ready to receive visitors. She immediately put on some lipstick and then turned to her thinning hair. That 's when she started talking.

“Some might even say beautiful," she continued. "I would say I was someone who knew how to look beautiful when the situation or need arose. Stunning. Drawing attention to myself. I liked to have men look at me." She smiled at her former self in the mirror.

Then she put the brush down and then took a good look at herself in the mirror.

“Then one morning I woke up, and I was ugly.”

“Grandma!” I scolded.

“No, it’s true,” she interrupted. “I was ugly and old. My hair was white and getting dry. I had bags around my eyes, and this long eyebrow whisker. That I could fix, but the other, it was just me. There was nothing I could do about it.”

She went to her closet and selected a sweater. Holding it up, she turned to me.

"Will this be enough?" she asked.

I nodded. "It's nice out."

She pursed her lips. "Nice for you or nice for me?" she inquired. "Remember, honey, you're a very warm-blooded man, and I am a reptile."

"Warm blooded with very cold hands, you mean," I corrected. "Warm enough for you, in a sweater."

I offered her my arm and escorted her out of her room, down the hall and into the facility's garden.

“They used to say, ‘ugly is as ugly does,’” she continued, as I helped her into her sweater, “and I was ugly on the inside. Florence, my sister-in-law, warned me. You remember her, Aaron's wife? 'Leta,’ she said, ‘you are a beautiful woman, and I can’t help but think that all this running around is going to come back to you one of these days.’ She didn't say anything else, but I knew what she meant. How I was living was dark and ugly. I wasn’t married at the time, and she didn’t think a single woman should be consorting with the kind of men I was with, you see. They were rough types, you know, and some were even married, and I knew it. But it didn’t stop me. In those days, women who went with men weren’t respected very much.”

“Grandma, even today, women who date a lot of men aren’t respected,” I shared.

“But it’s different for men,” she noted, “except, come to think of it, Florence used to tell her husband Aaron that he was ugly on the inside, too, and one day, if he didn't change his ways, it would surface.”

“Did it?” I asked.

“Not that he was ever very handsome, even if he was my brother, but no, it never showed up in him,” she answered. “But he stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“One afternoon he just came home from work, kissed Florence on the cheek, planted himself in his easy chair to read the paper and never went back to the Flat Iron Bar where he used to spend a lot of time or anywhere else again,” she said.”

Thanksgiving

My father's family is relatively small. His parents each have only one sibling, and he has two siblings. In addition, my father’s siblings are significantly younger than he is. His brother Larry is 12 years younger and his sister Linda is 14 years younger. My own parents married at ages 19 (mother) and 21 (father) respectively. They started having children immediately. Consequently, Larry is closer in age to my older brother Jeff than to my dad, and Linda is closer in age to me. When I was a child, they were teenagers, babysitters and playmates.

Like most couples, my parents had to arrange their holiday time with their respective parents and birth families, so we spent different Thanksgivings at different grandparents’ homes.  While she may have alternated Thanksgiving dinners between her two children right after Richard Eckman died in 1963, once she moved into the senior facility in 1972, her Thanksgivings were spent with her daughter Vivian’s—my—family.

Those dinners (in fact, all family meals in the Metzker household) went something like this:

We had an afternoon meal for which my grandmother Vivian, with the help of her daughter Linda, did all of the preparations. While she baked cookies and other treats, no one can seem to remember whether or not she made the pies (my mother’s specialty), although we had them.

We would eat at the large cherry wood dining room table, using both the good china and silver. Each of us had our assigned places. My grandfather Ed would sit at the head of the table; to his right, nearest the kitchen sat my grandmother Vivian. Next to her sat Linda, then Leta, and then Larry (until his relationship with his high school sweetheart moved into long-term—engagement and marriage—when she sat there. Her name is Linda; we call her Linda Jo). When Linda Jo joined the family, Larry moved around to the foot of the table. My father Don always sat at the foot of the table. Coming from the foot to the head up the opposite side from my grandmother were my siblings and I—Jeff closest to Don, then me in the middle, then Michelle closest to our mother Pat, who sat at my grandfather’s left.

Grandmother Vivian or Grandfather Ed would carve the turkey in the kitchen, and she would serve it on a large platter. We also had all of the standard Ohio fixings: stuffing (in the turkey and also cooked separately), mashed potatoes and gravy, noodles, corn, Waldorf salad, cranberry sauce (jellied from a can), rolls and sweet potatoes. (Our family sweet potatoes were boiled, peeled, sliced into large chunks, and then sautéed in butter and brown sugar.) Because it was a holiday, all of the kids got a small taste of sweet wine.

For dessert, we had our choice of usually three kinds of pie: pumpkin of course, cherry (my father Don’s favorite) and mincemeat (the American version—that is, with fruit in it).

After eating, the women would clean up and do the dishes, while the men went into the living room to watch football. Don would invariably fall asleep (unless he was working that day—he was a police officer). My sister and I would occupy ourselves until it was time for Grandmother Vivian to play with us. She taught us a game we only played on holidays. It involved playing cards and chips (or pennies—she had a stash of them in a jar and would let us keep whatever we ended with), and was simple and elaborate at the same time. At about 5:30 p.m., we’d have turkey sandwiches and then, shortly thereafter, completely stuffed and thoroughly happy, we’d go home.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Seven husbands - #3

While a lack of actual history might seem to be an ideal opportunity for a writer to invent, most writers would agree that more often than not, actuality (or fact) provides far more fodder to a creative enterprise. The phrases, “I couldn’t make this stuff up!” or “The truth is stranger than fiction” apply here.

As nearly all of the persons in my story have passed on, and those remaining were children during the greater part of my great-grandmother’s life, I am endeavoring to acquire the facts and then build on them. After all, seven times married between 1913 and 1969 is intriguing, if not sensational, enough to warrant interest. The more historic details I can uncover the richer the texture of this biographical novel I am undertaking. My job, as I see it, is to fill in the details. Knowing how long Leta was married to a specific husband, as well as his background and marriages (before or after) are terrific fodder for the creative process.

So here is an update on Leta’s husbands and marriages (see blog entries of September 9 & 14, 2010 for the introduction). My sincerest apologies for repeating previous information.

Leta Scott (age 19) married Ralph Chetister (age 21) on April 19, 1913. Both were born and raised in Ohio. They had two children (Vivian in 1913 and Dale in 1916). Leta filed for divorce, which was granted on November 8, 1922. Ralph subsequently married Eunice Tinkle (born June 12, 1895 in Moreland, Indiana. She died on August 26, 1934. I do not know their marriage date or location. As he was living in Toledo at the time, I hope a trip to the county courthouse yields the answer.

On November 22, 1922, just two weeks after her divorce from Ralph was finalized, Leta married Albert Mohr. She was 28 years old. Albert was born on June 20, 1885 in Toledo, Ohio. This was his first marriage. He was murdered just outside their home on June 4, 1927.

Six months later on December 27, 1927, Leta married husband number three, Ora Freeman. Ora, a house painter, was born on October 10, 1885 in Michigan. Although he was married previously, I have so far been unsuccessful in locating the dates and details of that marriage. I have been equally unsuccessful in learning how this marriage ended, whether Ora died or they divorced. All I know is that after early 1929, Leta’s children Vivian and Dale moved in with their father, stepmother and grandmother.

Robert Fields, husband number four, was born on November 14, 1893 in Butte, MT. He died on June 19, 1946 of a heart attack, while he was married to Leta. I still do not know when and where they were married.

Leta married Claud N. Bassett, husband number five, on December 30, 1948. He had been previously married to Bertha R. Kohlman, from March 21, 1907 (in Palmyra, Lenawee, Michigan) until after the 1930 census. I do not yet know how this first marriage concluded. Leta and Claud divorced on October 15, 1952, and she returned to the surname of Fields. Claud died on August 11, 1953.

On September 22, 1960, Leta married her sixth husband, Richard Adrian (or Adrian Richard) Eckman. I have not yet been able to ascertain if there are two different individuals, because the information is so similar. Richard/Adrian was born on February 27, 1894 in Toledo, Ohio to Albert and Daisy. On August 8, 1917, he married Sadie Edwards of San Francisco in Lucas County, Ohio. Both noted that they had been married previously. The 1930 Census lists Adrian (born 1894/1895) and Lillian Eckman as the parents of three young children: Richard, Albert and William. I am still trying to sort this one out. Richard/Adrian died on December 27, 1963, about 28 hours before I was born. 

There is still a mysterious seventh husband to whom Leta was reportedly married for one week. As the timeline has worked itself out, it seems more and more likely that this husband would have come between Claud Bassett (divorced 1952) and Richard/Adrian (1960), or possibly in the period between Ora Freeman and Robert Fields. The only other information I have is that it was after her daughter Vivian married, and that was September 14, 1936. Apparently, he was a farmer with 12 children.

Making Whiskey

Having been approved by 36 of the 48 U.S. states (75%), the 18^th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution was ratified on January 16, 1919. Although President Woodrow Wilson initially vetoed it, Congress overrode the veto, and the new law went into effect on January 16, 1920.

This Amendment states, “the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors within, the importation thereof into, or the exportation thereof from the United States and all territory subject to the jurisdiction thereof for beverage purposes is hereby prohibited.” In addition, “The Congress and the several States shall have concurrent power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.”

That’s it—Prohibition. While those with initiative and the financial capability created personal stockpiles before the sale and transporting became illegal, others relied on the Black Market, managed by the Mob. And for example, by 1935 in New York City, there were anywhere from 30,000 to 100,000 speakeasy clubs—i.e. secret clubs where “members” could purchase alcohol.

For those not as well placed geographically, financially less capable or simply more enterprising, this meant that if they wanted alcohol to drink after the Amendment went into effect (for it wasn’t illegal to drink alcohol), they had to secretly make their own for themselves. Thus, the sale of implements and even ingredients to make gin, whiskey or beer still became lucrative business, as well. Gin was quite popular, as it was clear and easily disguised with a variety of juices and colorings.

Bricks—or blocks—of wine also became very popular, and accordingly, grape growers in California increased their area about 700% in the first five years of Prohibition to meet the demand for “grape juice.” The juice was packaged and distributed as an actual block with the instruction to dissolve in a gallon of water. The label also included a warning that the liquid should not be placed in a jug away in the cupboard for twenty days or it might turn to wine, thereby providing appropriate distilling instructions.

In November 1922, almost three full years into Prohibition, Leta Chetister officially divorced her husband Ralph and married Albert Mohr. While there is no information on whether she was a supporter or detractor of the law before her second marriage, according to family lore Leta and Ralph built a whiskey still, which they most likely used for their own libation and additional income. (Albert worked in a factory, and Leta took care of their home and her two children.) As far as any in the family know, Leta and Albert managed this enterprise until his murder in June 1927. My current research thus far has yielded no connection between the whiskey making and Albert’s murder.

I do know that in 1925, Ralph filed for custody of the two children, but withdrew his petition two weeks later. I have not yet been able to learn when he married his second wife Eunice Tinkle, so I don’t know if this coincides with his marriage, is related to Leta and Albert’s whiskey-making or he had some other motive. In any case, it is highly likely that the distillery activity ceased either at the death of Albert (when Leta and the children moved) or upon her marriage to Ora Freeman in December 1927.

As for the 18^th Amendment, it was handily repealed on December 5, 1933. Eight months after President Franklin Roosevelt signed the Cullen-Harrison Act, which legalized the manufacture and sale of 3.2 beer. On the day after he signed the legislation, the president received a case of 3.2 beer from Anheuser-Busch, Inc. delivered by a team of the world-famous Clydesdale horses directly to the White House.

Historical & Research Frustration

While I understand that family history research is often a frustrating activity, I am currently stymied by the several dead-ends that I seem to have encountered in my last few forays into the databases and records. And I fear that I am now looping—that is, following the same trails repeatedly.

For example, my father and his siblings all recall an Aunt Mabel, sister to Leta, who lived in Vancouver. In Leta’s Bible, there is even a bookmark from Mabel. However, this is all I have been able to uncover about this sibling. The 1890 census was destroyed, and she is not listed in the 1900 census with the rest of the family. Actually, this census shows Julia Scott as divorced and head of household with four children still at home (Aaron, Nellie, Louise and Leta). The 1920 census has David and Julia as being married with two children at home: Louise and Leta. No Mabel.

Using this information, I supposed that Mabel could likely be a half-sister, born to David and a different mother. This would make her younger than Leta (although if he had an affair with this woman while married to Julia, then she could be older). As she lived part of her adult life in Canada, I went into Canadian birth and marriage records, finding a Mabel Scott with a father named David and a mother named Margaret/Maggie. This seemed to be quite a good lead; however, after some cross-checking, this Mabel Scott (and another I located) were both children in larger families with long-term married parents. These families ran historically parallel to my own, making them unrelated.

And that leaves me with a mysterious Aunt Mabel, most likely born to David Scott, who lived as an adult in Vancouver. I don’t know if she was older or younger than Leta (who was born in 1894), if her surname was Scott, whether she married or not, or how she got to Canada (born there or moved there). Quite a puzzle.

I have also run into several other puzzles, which I have not been able to solve:

Leta married her third husband Ora Freeman in 1927; he was born on October 10, 1885 and divorced. However, I have been unable to learn when and how their marriage concluded—were they divorced or did he die? What I do know is that something happened in around 1929/1930, because Leta sent her children to live with their father and grandmother at that time. I also wonder about his prior marriage and family (if he had one).

Although I know when and how her fourth husband, Robert Fields died in 1946 and that he was born in Butte, Montana in 1893, I cannot find their marriage record or any other information about him. I do know that they were not married in Toledo/Lucas County, because I searched those records.

As for husband number five, Claud Bassett, I know a bit more. He was born in 1886 in Kalamazoo, Michigan, married Leta in 1948 in Angola, Indiana. They divorced in 1952, I would like to know when he died, and about any previous or subsequent marriages.

I know her last husband, Richard Eckman, was married previously, but I am curious about his prior family. Was he divorced or widowed? Although there were children, I do not know how many. One of the points of confusion is that his name is Richard Adrian Eckman, and that I continue to run across Adrian Richard Eckman who may or may not be the same person.

As for the mysterious one-week husband, I am not even sure where in the timeline he falls. I’ve been basically in this information state for over a month.

On the other hand, while reviewing the 1900 census document that listed Julia Scott in Millbury, Ohio, the last name of the first listing on the page caught my curiosity. It is Simon and Nettie Metzker with their four children—Louzetta, Ethel, Willie and Simon. Willie—or William—was my grandfather Edward’s father. Basically, when they were children, my paternal grandparents’ (Vivian and Edward) parents (Leta and William, respectively) were neighbors for a time. As no one in my family has EVER mentioned that, I doubt if they even remembered.

Raisin cookie recipe, Part 2

After an afternoon of card-playing, snacking, a great supper, and my favorite raisin-filled cookies with my grandmother, I felt like the day could not get any better. I pushed myself back from the table, too full to get up, too full to return to my own car, drive home and tackle my home work, too full to even help her clean up the table and sighed in contentment. She smiled at me. She was seated across the table and had basically watched me eat the cookies as if my life depended on it. I think she ate one small cookie herself.

“You better get yourself a piece of paper and pencil,” she said.

“Grandma,” I moaned, “I don’t think I can move.”

“Suit yourself, but I’m pretty sure you’ll want to write down the recipe.”

“What?” I said, perking up.

“I know you are a smart kid, but I don’t think you’ll be able to remember it all.”

“You’re going to give me the recipe?”

“You better get your paper and pencil.”

She kept these in a kitchen drawer with her playing cards, rubber bands, scissors and tape. I had just been in there to put away the implements we used in our afternoon card-playing.

So I sprang up, retrieved the necessary implements and returned to the table.

She was holding a dishcloth.

“Don’t get food on your paper,” she instructed, as she handed me the dishcloth. I quickly wiped up crumbs, a few drops of tea and a splotch of gravy that was hardening. I dried off the semi-wet table with my sleeve. She looked at me and shook her head, but she understood I was excited.

Then she recited from memory her recipe. I am glad I selected a pencil, because she had to adjust a few ingredients and measurements as she went along. At the conclusion, I read what I wrote and she made a couple of adjustments. Like all good recipes a couple of the ingredients depended on whether she had any on hand, and others she varied depending on what she felt might taste better this time.

“You’re not leaving anything out, are you?” I asked, “just so that no one could ever make the cookies you made?” I was a little suspicious, because when we got to the mixing part, she said she put all the ingredients into the bowl at the same time and simply mixed them up with her hands. (“I just roll up my sleeves and stick my hands right in there,” she said.)

“There’s only one way to find out,” she answered.

“Thanks, Grandma,” I said. “This is great!”

“You’re welcome,” she answered. Now, don’t you think you better get yourself home to finish your homework. It’s getting late, and you have school tomorrow.

“May I—?” I began before she interrupted.

“Here,” she said. “You can take these home with you. Make sure you give one to your mother.”

While I had been distracted or concentrating on the recipe, she had retrieved a Tupperware container from the cupboard and handed it to me.

“I will.”

Raisin cookie recipe, Part 1

I've never been able to recreate my great-grandmother’s raisin-filled cookies, at least not the expert way that she made them, nor to my knowledge has anyone else in the family. Further, everyone in my family each has a slightly different recipe, which each of us has selfishly protected from each other. We only knew of the differences from a conversation at her wake. And to top it off, in all my travels, adventures and acquaintances I have never heard of anyone else who heard of this cookie, let alone made it.

The raisin-filled was a sandwich cookie comprised of a light and thick pastry with a dense raisin filling. She would roll out half the dough, pour the filling over it and then cover with the other half of the dough, also rolled. Then bake. In the baking process, the dough would absorb some of the sweet tang of the raisin mixture. At least, that’s what we thought, since she never let anyone watch her make them. And she made them entirely from memory.

I know from the time I was in junior high and took up baking that I wanted that recipe. My mother didn’t have it; no one I knew had it. And every time I asked my great-grandmother to share, she actually made the cookies! I learned later from my mother, who for some reason was never interested in the recipe herself, that the recipe was the only one Leta received from her mother, and she only made them as a special treat for Christmas. When I learned this, I was grateful that Leta had elected not to follow that tradition.

One Sunday evening, we were sitting in her kitchen, having just finished an afternoon of card-playing, gabbing, and a terrific dinner of city chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and milk cabbage (which she liked, but I only pretended to in order to keep her from trying to convince me I was wrong), she asked me if I was ready for dessert.

“Sure,” I said, expecting ice cream or perhaps a few pieces of the ribbon candy she always had around. (I had no idea where she got that stuff; I never saw it for sale anywhere. Was there some secret old lady store where she shopped? My sister and I called it “old lady candy.”) Earlier in the afternoon I rummaged through the cupboards for a snack, which she hated, but I did anyway when she was out of the room. All I found was a container of that lousy ribbon candy.

She went into the cupboard where she kept baking supplies and brought out her metal sheet cake pan with the sliding metal top, set it on the table and slid open the lid.

“Raisin cookies!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea you even made any.”

“And you weren’t expecting them either, were you?” she inquired with a sly smile in her blue eyes.

“You never mentioned them,” I said nonchalantly, my mouth salivating at the prospect of devouring five or six with my tea.

“Uh huh, but when you snooped you didn’t see them,” she prodded.

“Well, I…,” I stammered.

“I know you snoop through the cupboards when I’m not in the room,” she informed me with a raise of her eyebrows.

“Yes, for a snack—but… but not in that cupboard!”

“I know. That’s why I put them there.”

I suddenly felt like I was five years old and looked up at her in astonishment. Was I that obvious? And then I was concerned. She hated for anyone to go searching through her anything in her house—cupboards, drawers, closets—and I had been snooping for two years, secretly, and she knew all the time. Was she going to slam me for it? Then again, she still gave me the cookies. What was she up to?

“You better start before your tea gets cold,” she said finally.

And she watched me eat. I think she felt no little satisfaction that I could and would eat so many.

Family Changes

On February 27, 1976, Vivian Chetister Metzker, attentive wife, dedicated mother, loving grandmother, devoted daughter, compassionate friend and city leader died from complications after a hip replacement surgery. It was a blood clot. For the surgery, the doctors took her off her blood-thinning medicine, and the medical technology at the time was not advanced enough to scan her for any. It happened quickly on a Friday. She reported having some difficulty breathing during her morning walk, lay down and shortly thereafter passed away.

For her grandchildren—my siblings and I—this was particularly devastating. We were scheduled to visit her in the hospital on Saturday. This would have been the first time we saw her since she went in a week earlier. We had made cards, bought presents, were ready to shower her with healing love. We didn’t get the opportunity. The loss set each of us adrift in her/his own way for many years.

Sadly, even though the circumstance of Vivian’s death was quite clear, there was a lot of blame that rode through the Metzker family. Grief can do that to people. And she, in particular, was the powerful glue that held the family together (and it wasn’t an easy job). For a long time, we all seemed to be a bit disconnected from each other, and we were a small family, which made the sudden apparent distance quite prominent for the duration. We did, however, continue with our tradition of Christmas Day together. Leta even joined us.

In June of that same year, my parents divorced. They had been separated since before Christmas, but with my grandmother’s indomitable will, as well as the Metzker family name and reputation as a kind of beacon, there was still a glimmer of hope that reconciliation was possible. At that time, in a small Ohio town divorce was a bit scandalous on its own. That my family was a “leading family” in the community, and my grandfather Ed Metzker was one of the city’s founders made the situation far touchier.  However, the divorce went through and later that year each of my parents married another.

These two events altered our family relationship with Grandma Eckman--Leta. First, her caregiving and primary family connection moved to her son Dale and his wife Kathryn. Secondly, as she and my grandfather never really got along, what little relationship they had dissipated. Third, my mother was officially not her grand-daughter-in-law any longer. Fourth, my mother married someone else in November and became responsible for blending a new family. My siblings and I lived with our mother and step-father (except for a two-month stint during the winter of 1977, where I lived with my father and step-mother). My step-father had four children, two of whom also lived with us.

However, my mother continued to visit Grandma Eckman faithfully, taking us along with her, as well as her own new little boy Nathan (born in 1978). When we were old enough, my sister and I would visit on our own, even taking our friends with us sometimes. After all, she was our great-grandmother, and we believed in family.

Restaurant Manager, Part 3

While the bar and restaurant owner was checking on his sole waitress Emily, Leta continued her conversation with Emily’s brash young fiancé. She had originally begun speaking to him to diffuse what she sensed might be a physical altercation, it as in speaking to the young man that got her dander up. He was proving himself to be an overbearing and potentially repressive husband, and while she had him to herself, she thought she could help out—gently. The young man had already been drinking quite a bit, so the first step had been to change his beverage from beer to root beer, and now she was addressing his incorrigible behavior. Leta hinted that she didn’t think he was treating Emily well.

 “I do treat her right!” the young man exclaimed defensively.

“You do?” Leta asked skeptically. “You arranged beforehand to pick her up when she got off tonight?”

“No,” he answered sullenly.

“Then you at least brought her flowers to surprise her?”

“No.”

“You walked into the restaurant, smiled and made sure she wasn’t busy working before you started talking?”

“But that trucker was in there alone with her! I—“

“—You got all hot and bothered, didn’t you?”

The young man bowed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t slouch,” Leta said firmly. “It doesn’t become you.”

He obeyed.

“Here’s my advice,” she said. “If you want to keep that girl, if you want to marry her, have babies with her and keep her from resenting you, then start treating her like she’s a person. Or you’re going to lose her.”

“But she loves me.”

“Listen to me,” Leta said sharply. “Sure, she’ll marry you. She’ll have kids with you, but she won’t keep loving you. And you will know the difference.”

In her mind, Leta heard herself add, Or she’ll divorce you and turn out like me. Very rarely did Leta get this flashes of insecurity and unhappiness. Her resolve, her own self-worth, her own instinct for survival most frequently rejected such thoughts before they formed. But sometimes a situation overwhelmed her. Without realizing it, she felt twinges of uncertainty and regret, and if she was in a very dark mood, even blame. Here she was, fifty-one years old, unmarried, with two grown children and four grandchildren, yet all alone in the world. In her current situation, she had little too do, barely enough money to keep her, but not enough activity. And that made her bored, listless and reckless.

However, her darker thoughts were quickly diverted when the owner came storming back into the bar, rolling a string of obscenities that she hadn’t heard from a man’s mouth in a long time.

The young man jumped up to protect his girl, should the need arise, and Leta immediately grabbed his arm.

“Charlie?” she asked loudly. “What is it?”

“A catastrophe is what it is,” he snarled. “I go in there for a simple cup of coffee and to check on Emily, and—“

The young man jumped up again. “—Is she all right?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Leta said, pulling him back down into his seat.

They both looked at the owner expectantly.

“Four of ‘em, can you believe it?” he continued. “Hungry as wolves. What am I gonna do? All we got is soup, and all Emily can make is toast. I’m done. It’s all been shot to hell. How am I gonna get friend chicken?”

“Fried chicken?” Leta asked.

“Yeah, four starving men wanting fried chicken, mashed potatoes—the works. God Dammit all to hell!”

He pounded his fist onto the counter for emphasis.

Leta felt completely level-headed.

“First, do you have any chicken?”

“Four of ‘em.”

“Are they cleaned?”

“In the icebox.”

“You owe me, Charlie,” she said, as she finished off her root beer, gathered her things and stood. She turned to the young man. “As for you,” she directed, “finish your root beer, go home and come back in two hours—sober—with flowers, something, I don’t care what for your girl. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Now, Charlie,” show me where all this chicken is, so I can get to work.”