Homewrecker

"How do I look?" Leta asked her 12-year-old niece June, who had been eagerly assisting her for the past thirty minutes. Leta was sitting at her vanity, where she had just put the final touches on her hair. She stood, pressing down her new dress with her hands.

June grinned with admiration. “Beautiful, Aunt Leta,” the girl cooed.

“Well, I hope I look good enough,” Leta said with a bit of superstitious humility. She didn’t want to be over-confident, but she was still pleased with her appearance this evening. Her sometimes unmanageable hair had smoothed and curled to her satisfaction, softening the sometimes harsh features of her face. The past three days working with her sister-in-law Florence in the flowerbeds had colored her skin just enough to give her a kind of glow. While she could not afford the new dress, she believed that on this particular night, she needed one.

She was in her fourth month of being courted by Mr. Waldo Johnson, a banker from Cleveland who she had met one winter evening that she and her brother Aaron were visiting a speakeasy in Sandusky. The proprietor had been seeking someone to deal cards in his back room and invited Aaron who agreed to take a night off from his usual local haunt. As Florence was anxious about her husband traveling so far, especially as the federal prohibition agents had been raiding establishments in Northwestern Ohio frequently over the past several months, Leta accompanied him. While she didn’t play cards, she did enjoy the atmosphere and conversation around the bar itself.

Mr. Johnson was the fourth man who approached her during that long Saturday night, and the only one who behaved as if she was a lady. They talked and flirted for two hours.  He told her he was opening a new branch office in the growing community. When it became clear that Aaron would be dealing cards until the wee hours, Leta informed him that she had accepted Mr. Johnson’s offer to drive her home.

It surprised neither that Aaron actually arrived home before she did. However, in her own self-defense, Mr. Johnson invited her to dine with him the next Friday, which she cheerfully accepted. And so it went for four months, conversations, date and long encounters in hotel rooms. For two months after his business in Sandusky concluded, Mr. Johnson continued to drive the distance to be with her.

Tonight she had a sense that he was going to propose marriage. He had nearly said so when he invited her to his own city for the weekend. He was a widower with children, and she suspected she would be meeting them.

Leta was ready to be married once again. Since her ugly divorce from Leech Hoose, she had given up her children to their father, had several furtive encounters and ended up living with her brother’s family. She felt unsettled and alone.

Now, she believed she had some opportunity for advancement. Mr. Johnson was a banker. Once married, she would retrieve her children from their unhappy life with their father and move to Cleveland, where she had no reputation, would become a respectable banker’s wife, keep her own house, join a large church, and even return to sewing. As she left her room, she confessed in a hushed whisper to her young niece that this was the time.

However, it was not to be. While Mr. Johnson’s proposal later that night—after a lovely drive, delicious dinner en route and series of compliments—was to invite her to move to Cleveland, it was not as his wife, but his mistress. He revealed that the mother of his children was very much alive, and he “would never leave his family.” Yet he had set some money aside and could get her a small apartment where he could visit her on a frequent basis, and they could continue their mutually enjoyable situation. Driving every weekend and claiming that the bank branch in Sandusky needed his supervision was stressful on all of them. His offer would be far more convenient for everyone.

Leta clutched her hands tightly together, hidden in her lap where he couldn’t see them and continued to smile and nod. It took every ounce of her composure to not scream at him for his brutal insensitivity. But what rose in the back of her mind was a self-condemnation: What else could she have expected, a woman like her? It was a joke that he would marry her—already four times married! And a woman who was so willing to include carnal relations in the relationship?

God was punishing her. That’s all she could conclude.  Still, she wasn’t a homewrecker.

She excused herself from the table, and rather than go into the ladies’ lavatory, as she indicated, she walked out the back door and walked to the bus station, where she caught the first bus back to Toledo.

The third child

The first sign was the increasing exhaustion. As she dragged herself out of bed to get her husband Albert off to work and her children to school, Leta thought she was coming down with the same flu that had floored her eight-year-old son Dale for nearly a week. In her nightgown and robe, she roused her family and started making their breakfast. When her husband Albert came into the kitchen, he found her vomiting in the sink.

“You are sick!” he exclaimed. She was leaning on the basin, bracing herself on its rim, because she feared her weak legs would give out. Albert stood silently for a moment and then ordered, “Go back to bed. I’ll get the children off to school.”

“I would,” Leta said quietly, “only I’m afraid to let go of the basin for fear I’d fall over.”

In a flash, she felt a throb spread quickly from the back of her head to her eyes and almost immediately settle as a dull ache. Somehow—she couldn’t remember—she ended up back in bed and lay there.  Before he left for work, Albert brought her a cup of tea. She had just vomited again, so the warm liquid was welcome.

For the rest of the day, she felt nearly fine, a little tired perhaps, so she made sure to add extra sugar to her coffee. When he arrived home that evening, Albert was surprised to find her cooking supper “You seemed so sick this morning,” he commented.

“I know,” she answered. “But then I was fine.”

In the late evening, as she was hustling Dale to bed and checking on her daughter Vivian’s homework, the headache returned with a vengeance. She had to lie down.

Vivian brought her a cool compress and then another cup of tea.

The next day she felt more fatigued than tired but managed to go about her regular duties. However, on the morning after that the nausea, headaches and fatigue returned.  This went on for several days, some days harder than others, until Sunday morning. Again, she felt the fatigue and vomited, but she was determined to take the children to church, because they were singing in the service. She bore through it the best she could, although it required two trips to the toilet for vomiting. After the children finished, Dale, who had sung a solo, rushed up to her for his hug. When he pressed his body tightly against her breasts, a numbing pain shot through her, and she gasped.

Leta shared a knowing look with her friend Mrs. Drew who was sitting in the next pew that confirmed it. She was going to have a baby. Although she was 31 years old and already had two children, and her husband Albert nearly 42, this was exactly what they wanted. Over the next two days, she accepted the indications—the nausea, vomiting, headaches, fatigue and tenderness in her breasts—with excitement. All she needed was confirmation from the doctor before she would tell her husband and children.

However, on Tuesday morning, as she was following her routine of breakfast, getting her children off to school and Albert to work, she felt differently than she had over the previous week. Rather than weak and nauseous, she felt numb, as if her body wasn’t under her supervision. Her movements felt sluggish and awkward. She was sometimes weak, sometimes paralyzed. Then, just as she waved her customary farewell to the children, the violent cramping seemed to twist her insides. She gripped herself tightly and moaned in distress.

If sheer force of will could have held onto the child-to-be in her womb, then Leta would have won the day, but this was not to be. After only a few moments, clutching her lower abdomen, she staggered to the toilet. An hour later Mrs. Drew arrived to accompany her to the doctor to find her sitting quietly in a living room chair, pale, breathing lightly and staring at a small knot in the wall.

“Leta?” Mrs. Drew whispered in the living room. While the room was rather bright in the morning light, Leta felt like she was in a cave of sorrow.

Mrs. Drew understood immediately and reached down to take Leta’s hand. “Oh my dear, I am so sorry.”

After this, Leta would never again exhibit the signs of being pregnant.

Visitors, part four

Finally Leta was able to serve her son Dale and his young lady. They had come to the truckstop diner she managed for supper on a stormy Saturday evening, expressly for Dale to introduce to each other those he would soon be calling “the two most important women in my life”—his mother and his girl. Because of diverging schedules, the best time for the two women to meet was that night at the diner. What Leta had not anticipated was that the stormy weather would leave over a dozen truckers stranded and lined up to eat. Since it was a small establishment, just her and one very limited waitress, she was unable to visit much with her guests. But having just served Dale and Kate fresh fried chicken (one of her specialties) with mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans, along with home made biscuits, she decided to take a short break and sit with them for a few minutes.

One activity she did enjoy was watching those she loved happily dining on her food. But it was not to be. Before either of her guests could take a bite, one of her regular customers called her name.

“Leta, more pancakes!”

“Just a minute,” she snarled back.

Then she smelled something burning and immediately rose to run back to the kitchen. It figured. The sweet, but mostly incompetent waitress Susan couldn’t even make toast that evening. The poor girl was in tears. Leta refrained from chastising her but directed her in a firm tone that she should make a new pot of coffee. Still whimpering, Susan obeyed.

Leta swiftly discarded the burned toast and started four other pieces. While it cooked, she started a pancake batter. That’s when she heard words that stopped her in her tracks.

“This chicken is raw!” her son exclaimed from the dining room.

Leta froze momentarily, Dale’s loud voice reverberating in her ears. Every other sound seemed to fade away and a coat of shame surrounded and grabbed her. She quick turned off the toaster and ran back into the dining room, where Dale and his lady friend were staring at each other, both still holding their silverware. They could not have looked more distressed had a mouse run across their table.

“Are you sure?” she asked Dale, sotto voice, when she reached them.

“Look at it, Ma,” Dale said, pushing himself away from the table in disgust and spreading the breast where he had just cut into it. Sure enough, it was not only pink, but also juicy. Leta sighed a high, grunt kind of sigh and stepped away from the food herself. She looked at the young lady’s plate, which was already devoid of green beans and potatoes and several bites of thigh.

“Oh drats!” Leta growled, as she reached for their plates. “I’m terribly sorry. Let me whip up a couple of hamburgers for you.”

“No, Ma,” Dale countered, gently grabbing her wrist. “It’s all right. We’ll just have coffee. Right, Kate?”

“Yes, coffee,” Kate said, smiling with a light embarrassment. “That would be nice.”

“And pie,” Leta added. “I made pie for you.”

She looked at them imploringly, and after a few moments, Dale nodded.

They stayed another fifteen minutes, but Leta avoided them. It was easier for her to focus on the needs of her customers, and the diner was busy enough. Once she gave them the pie a la mode, Susan kept their coffee replenished. What that young woman must think of me, she kept telling herself over and over again. Serving uncooked chicken like that was disgraceful.

Would she ever do anything her children could be proud of? Could she ever become the loving mother-in-law she wanted to be? Or would she always be a drunk, lousy cook, terrible hostess or even the loose woman that they couldn’t really talk about?

Certainly, she remained polite to them. When they departed, leaving the pie practically untouched, drowning in melted ice cream, she saw them to the door, shook Kathryn’s hand and let her son kiss her on the cheek, as he usually did.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked Dale. “After church?”

“We’ll see,” he answered. “What time is the service, Kate?”

“We can go at eight, nine, ten or eleven,” Kate answered. “My family usually goes at nine.”

“Then, yes, I will stop,” Dale answered. He was definitely not pleased with how the evening went, which cut Leta to her heart. But she held in her disappointment and smiled.

“See you then,” she said, forcing a smile. “And so nice to meet you, Kathryn.”

Then they were gone.

“Leta!” her customer shouted. “Where the hell are my pancakes?”

The End

Visitors, part three

Leta had just welcomed and seated her 24-year-old son Dale and his new lady friend at a table in the diner she managed. While she suspected that the petite and giggling young woman, Kathryn, had already formed some preconceived notions about her, Leta was still eager to make a good impression.  The diner was in a small truck stop complex that consisted of several fuel pumps, the diner and a bar.

Working in, for or near a bar was not information she would have preferred to share with Kathryn so soon. In fact, Leta and Dale had discussed whether or not to bring it up. Kathryn, he told her, was a devout Roman Catholic from a very straight-laced family that might not appreciate her dating a man whose mother was that connected to a bar.

However, the young and somewhat foolish waitress Susan started her service for the couple by offering Kathryn a cocktail. And Kathryn’s quick response, with a bit of astonishment combined with curiosity, asked, “You have a bar?”

“Well, yes, next door,” Leta stammered, shooing Susan away with a glare.

Dale continued, “The diner, bar and gas pumps are owned by the same man. It’s all one complex, dear.”

“A truck stop,” Leta added, as if to explain.

“Oh well, I see,” Kate laughed. “I guess, I didn’t… Anyway, coffee is good for me.”

“Maybe after, Ma,” Dale said. “But we’re pretty hungry.”

“Oh dear!” Leta exclaimed. “The fried chicken!”

She quickly dashed behind the counter, where her fried chicken was just starting to burn on one side. It wasn’t much burned, but it was burned enough to be unservable, especially to her son and his young woman. This infuriated and frustrated her. She had planned such a nice dinner for her visitors—mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans simmered in bacon and onions, stewed tomatoes with garlic, fresh apple pie a la mode and her special fried chicken. She didn’t want to serve them hamburgers. And aside from breakfast foods, that’s what she was serving.

She would have to start another batch of chicken and stall her visitors the 45 minutes it took to prepare the meat properly. She gestured Susan to her and whispered some hasty orders.

“But the new customer wants a hamburger,” Susan protested, pointing to one of the tables.

Leta glanced quickly at the corpulent diner, who usually stopped for a hamburger at least twice a month.

“God bless me,” she exclaimed, still whispering. “He’ll have to wait.”

A few moments later, she served her son and his lady friend dishes of cottage cheese and fruit cocktail.

“I love this!” Kathryn gushed, her dark eyes opening wide.

“Chicken is on its way,” Leta added with a big smile and then dashed back into the kitchen.

While she tasked Susan with cleaning the used skillet, she quickly breaded several pieces of chicken she had cut earlier and dropped them into the sizzling oil of another skillet that she had been heating. Once the chicken was underway, she tossed a hamburger into another skillet and diced up some potatoes to fry with it for the customer.

For the next twenty minutes, she zipped back and forth between her cooking and her visitors. During those first few minutes she was in the kitchen, the previously threatening storm struck, and several other truckers, temporarily stranded, came into the restaurant. Since they couldn’t drive and didn’t want to work, they might as well eat. The small eatery was quickly full of diners, demanding much of Leta’s attention.

Later, she would note that she didn’t have much of a conversation with Kathryn, who was to become her daughter-in-law, but at least, that first introduction, created the impression that her mother-in-law-to-be was more than a town whore. She was a woman who could work and manage a busy place.

Or at least that’s what Leta hoped. With a full restaurant, it was hard for her to keep up with the orders. And she was the primary cook. Certainly, Susan could wait on them, make and serve coffee and dessert, but when it came to the cooking, Susan was terrible. That left the entire primary cooking duties to Leta. On most busy nights, she managed just fine, but with her own guests, she was distracted and a little anxious.

Apologizing for the umpteenth time for her inability to actually sit down with her son and his wife-to-be, she finally set before each of them a plate filled with beautifully laid out, delicious-looking chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy and green beans.

“It smells delicious!” Kate smiled. She looked at the food ravenously.

To be continued.