Curtis, part twenty-nine

Leta had been in a deep sleep, so it took her a few moments to realize that her husband was lifting her nightgown in an attempt to consummate their marriage. For a moment, she started to anticipate the flush of emotion that would come from his affection, but then she remembered where she was and that Curtis had been deceitful to her about the automobile, which he led her to believe was his, but actually belonged to a neighbor. Then he accused her of harboring feelings for the neighbor who had come earlier that day to claim the vehicle. She had no interest in any affection from him.

“Curtis?” she whispered, “What are you doing?”

“Lie still,” he commanded quietly, as he fumbled with himself.

She could feel the weight of his chest against hers as he attempted to balance himself. He was breathing heavily, expelling air into her face that smelled of day-old coffee grounds. She had not opened her eyes, not that it would have mattered. Their bedroom had one small window that left it in nearly total darkness.

“I’m tired,” she said, wriggling to her side.

“You’re my wife,” he stated, as if that was explanation enough for her to engage.

“You’re my husband,” she said, almost mockingly. “Now go to sleep.”

She felt his hand on her shoulder and wondered if he was going to turn her onto her back and proceed with his intention. Was he trying to remind her of their union by this unexpected and uncharacteristic aggressive act? Was he so jealous of her meeting their neighbor that this was the only means he could utilize to exert his claim to her? Or was he trying to prove to himself that he was a valuable husband? He had fathered twelve children with his first wife; he must have some capability at sexual relations.

However, she had no interest in his affection at this time. Her day had been long and filled with work. She had wanted to go into town in the afternoon to make some purchases, telephone her children and simply see and speak to other adults. Spending her several days maintaining a household for fourteen and only speaking to children was wearing on her. Then to learn that the automobile that she had believed belonged to her husband was actually borrowed from a neighbor diminished her husband. That he also believed she was enamored of the older neighbor had driven her directly from the supper table to bed.

While she cared little that her husband was sharing the bed with her, she had no interest in engaging with him in conversation, let alone sexual intimacy.

“Curtis, I’m very tired,” she repeated firmly.

He continued to breathe beside her and finally released her, rolling back to his side of the bed. She relaxed but remained in that position until she could hear the heavy breathing that signified he was asleep. Then she eased herself back to sleep.

But she did not sleep very well. At any moment, her husband might demand that she, as his wife, satisfy his desire, and she was concerned that he might force himself upon her.

She finally rose several minutes before the alarm to begin her day—only her fifth full day of marriage to Curtis.

To be continued.

Curtis, part twenty-eight

Perhaps she had stood in the front yard too long. Perhaps she was too tired to move. Perhaps she had looked to wistfully at the departing automobile as it disappeared down the road. Whatever held her in place for those few minutes, she had not heard her husband come up behind her or realized that he had been watching her. She jumped when he spoke.

“Curtis,” she gasped, holding her hand to her breast, “you startled me.”

Her husband was glaring at her in a way she had not yet experienced.

“I said, what are you looking at?” he repeated, scowling at her with his arms folded.

“That was Mr. Wilcox,” she answered. “He came for his car.”

“And why, pray tell, were you staring after him like that?”

“Curtis,” she said defensively, “I didn’t even know that was his car. I thought it was yours. Do you know how embarrassed I felt when he showed up here like that?”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Curtis persisted, becoming angrier by the minute.

“What question?” she responded.

“Why you were staring after him like that?”

“Like what?” she answered, incredulously. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You are my wife now, Leta,” he stated firmly. “I won’t have you staring after Wilcox or any other man. If I so much as catch you looking in the direction of his house, there will be hell to pay. Do you understand me?”

Leta was flabbergasted. She simply stood where she was and stared at her suddenly ferocious husband. Somehow he had grown in stature over the past several minutes and seemed to her to be like a rabid animal ready to pounce.

“Curtis,” she stammered, “I assure you that I have no interest—“

“Enough said,” he interrupted. “Now get back in the house.”

He glared at her as she made her way back into the house, and although she felt no amours or any other kind of feelings for Mr. Wilcox, for a fleeting moment, she considered how life might be more pleasant with their neighbor than her glowering and threatening husband.

As she, the girl and the two little ones harvested more vegetables from the neglected garden, she realized that in the turmoil over Mr. Wilcox, she had been unable to question her husband about the automobile. If the vehicle did not belong to them, then all they had to transport themselves to the market or anywhere else was a rusted truck that spewed smoke every time it started, idled and was turned off.

However, she barely saw her husband over the rest of the day. Late in the afternoon, three of the boys brought her seven squirrel carcasses that she was to prepare for supper, and with the girl’s help, she cleaned and prepared them. Individually, the creatures did not hold enough meat on their bones to justify serving each one separately, so she breaded them, browned them, and then stewed them with onions, carrots and black pepper.

As far as she was concerned, she could not use enough pepper to drown the unpleasant taste of the animal. Throughout the meal, Curtis continued to express his displeasure at her imagined indiscretion, and she was far from hungry. She had one piece of bread and butter. After the meal, she gave the children strict instructions to clear the table and wash the dishes, and then dragged her exhausted body up the stairs and into bed.

Later that night, Curtis arrived and crawled on top of her.

To be continued.

Curtis, part twenty-seven

"Ma'am?"

The voice startled Leta awake. She had only intended to sit at the kitchen table momentarily, before assessing the cleaning needs of the living room. Over the four days she had been living with her new husband Curtis and his 12 children, she had yet to devise a plan of attack on this obviously little-used and filthy room. Even she, who liked to relax with a beer and some sewing in the evening, had not had time to do so since her arrival. The other needs of the household took precedence. And by eight in the evening, she was too exhausted from the unrelenting labors of the day to sit. Instead, she collapsed into bed.

“Ma’am?” Curtis’s oldest girl said again.

“Yes, my darling?” Leta responded, standing slowly. Her body felt stiff and her arm and shoulder ached from resting her head on them.

“Mr. Wilcox is at the door,” he girl answered.

“Who?”

“Mr. Wilcox,” she repeated. “That’s the man that lives down the road a bit. He’s here for his car.”

“His car?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The girl lacked guile and deviousness, so Leta was very confused.

Mr. Wilcox was standing on the front porch. He was an older gentleman dressed in rough cotton trousers with suspenders to hold them up and a faded flannel shirt. He had obviously been spending his morning working on his own farm, for his face was smudged and his clothing dirty. He wore a large straw hat over what Leta presumed was a round bald head. He was neither fat nor skinny, but his face was blotched with red spots, and his cheeks were puffed.

“Mr. Wilcox?” she said gently.

“Ma’am,” he responded politely.

“Hello,” Leta continued as she exited the front door with the girl remaining in the doorway.

“I apologize for intruding, but I come for my auto car.”

“Yes, that’s what I heard,” Leta said.

“Curtis borried it on Friday and told me he would be bringing it back this morning,” Mr. Wilcox explained. “I wouldn’t ordinarily be so demanding, but I have need for it myself.”

“I’m afraid my husband isn’t here,” Leta shared, giving the girl a quick glance to affirm her contention. “He’s out in the fields working.”

“But, if you’ll pardon my insistence, ma’am, my automobile is right there.”

Mr. Wilcox gestured to the vehicle parked in the dirt driveway on the side of the house, the very same automobile that Curtis had been using to transport the two of them since she had first ridden in one with him.

“Pardon me?” Leta questioned. She was simply stunned, and needed a moment to collect herself.

“I’d like to take it, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Wilcox was so polite and kind that Leta could do offer no protest, and in spite of her instinct to lay claim to the vehicle, if only to secure her own dignity, she assented.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “But I don’t know where Mr. Curtis keeps the key.”

“Papa always leaves the keys in the ignition,” the girl said helpfully.

“Oh yes, then let’s see for ourselves,” Leta stammered.

Mr. Wilcox stepped aside to let her pass, and followed her through the still wet lawn, dodging a few puddles remaining from the heavy rains of the prior day, to the automobile itself. Sure enough, when Leta looked opened the door of the vehicle, she saw the keys in the ignition.

“The girl was right,” she noted. “The key’s right there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Wilcox agreed.

He was standing close, and she could smell the combination of fresh soap and hard work on him.

There was a long pause. Leta’s entire body was in turmoil. She felt deceived and betrayed yet again by her new husband. Throughout their relationship and into their marriage, she had believed that this automobile was his. To learn that he had been deceiving her the entire time weakened her feelings for him and assaulted her own judgment, not only of him, but also of, at least momentarily, everything. Nonetheless, if the automobile was his, then he had every right to claim it.

“Very well, then, Mr...,” she began.

“…Wilcox....” he interjected.

“…Wilcox,” she finished, “if the automobile is yours and you have need of it, then by all means, you must take it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Curtis,” he said graciously, seeming to understand her distress by the entire situation.”

He offered his hand for her to shake, and she took it. After shaking it, he got into the car.

“Have a good day,” he wished, as he started it up.

“Thank you,” she said. “You, too.”

As he drove away, she felt as though she was watching hope leave her forever. She followed the vehicle with her eyes as it disappeared down the road and then stood for a few more minutes too fatigued to move.

“What are you looking at?”

To be continued.

Curtis, part twenty-six

Leta wished she had a better recipe. Although she had many homemaking skills, baking bread was not one of them. Up until that Wednesday morning, she had been able to feed biscuits to her new husband Curtis and his brood of 12 children, but each batch was small, and they needed more. They needed bread. As a city girl, she had always had bread purchased from the bakery. On occasion, an aunt or her mother would make bread, but this was a rare occurrence. In her adult life, Leta tried to make bread or rolls only a few times, and each incident was unsuccessful. She did not have the endurance to let the bread rise properly, or she failed to adjust the room temperature enough to warm the yeast enough for it to be active.

Her daughter Vivian was far more successful at this kind of baking, and Leta had often enjoyed the loaves her daughter made. She wished her daughter was with her, or she could at least telephone. But Curtis had no telephone, and Leta’s task was to make bread.

The morning was still new. The cows milked. The children that could go were off to school. The breakfast dishes were all put away. The eggs gathered. The chickens fed. The rain had graciously stopped at some point during the night. The sun was shining. The oven was warm. Curtis and his older boys were hammering on the roof to hopefully patch the leaks.

Leta was standing at the table. She had assembled all the necessary ingredients: flour, milk, lard, butter, sugar, salt and the yeast. The water was hot, but too hot she feared. The measuring cups and spoons were laid out. She had ten loaf pans, three large bowls and several towels. Her apron was pulled tightly to her. She rubbed her hands against her apron, as if to wipe off any food parts she had collected from her labors.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Curtis’s oldest girl asked. She was standing near the backdoor, having returned from the cellar where she had transported the jars of applesauce they made the previous afternoon.

“There you are,” Leta responded with a half-smile. “I’ve been waiting for you. Please bring me the hot water from the stove, so we can get our yeast working.”

“Water?” the girl questioned.

“It’s right there in the pot,” Leta answered.

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said and crossed the room.

“Wash your hands first,” Leta instructed.

“Did you already scald the milk, ma’am?”

“The milk?” Leta questioned and then caught herself. “Oh dear, I completely forgot. Why don’t I do that while you prepare the yeast? I figure we’ll make 12 loaves today.”

Leta was relieved. Scalding milk was something she could do. Getting the water temperature perfect to activate the yeast made her anxious.

After washing her hands, the girl took the pot of water from the stove.

“It’s still a little too hot, ma’am,” the girl noted. “But that’ll give us time to scald the milk.”

“Of course,” Leta said. “You seem to know quite a bit about bread making.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been making bread with my mama for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was little.”

Then the girl became quiet.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she apologized anxiously. “I hope I didn’t upset you by talking about my mama. Papa says we’re not—“

“—Nonsense!” Leta exclaimed. “You may talk about your mother as much as you like.”

For the first time in the few days that they had known each other, Leta saw her stepdaughter relax.

As they continued to make the bread, Leta was impressed with how comfortable the girl was at this chore, so much so that Leta encouraged her to take the lead. The girl was already feeling confident, and Leta’s compliments made her want to do a good job. This enabled Leta to become a supervisor with gentle advice and compliments, and learn at the same time.

To be continued.

Curtis, part twenty-five

Leta stood in the middle of the kitchen with her arms akimbo and frowned. The assortment of children that had been working on various projects all stopped while she tended to their youngest sibling’s burn. The oldest girl was sitting with her sister at the large table, soaking the little one’s hand in a bowl of cool water. The little one whimpered softly. Before the emergency, Leta had been speaking with her new husband in the living room. Without consulting or even informing her he had taken part of the miserably rainy afternoon to go to the market for groceries. She had wanted to go to the market herself and was irritated by his behavior. Then, while she was tending to his child, he and his oldest boy had quietly brought all of the supplies they purchased—mostly cooking supplies—into the kitchen, stacked them in the corner and then disappeared.

For the first time since she had married Curtis, she wanted to walk out the door of the shanty he called a house, wipe her feet on the miserable excuse for a front porch and head north to her own little room in the Toledo boarding house where she had been living before she married the man. At the very thought, she felt a kind of release from the relentless body of need, responsibility and labor she was currently living in. That one simple act would relieve her of this tremendous burden. She could be sitting in her chair, sipping bourbon and watching the rain through the window.

“Ma’am?” the oldest girl said quietly, distracting Leta from her contemplation.

Leta saw that all the children had stopped their chores and were staring at her.

“Okay, children,” she declared. “Time to get back to work.”

When Curtis returned to the house later in the evening, he said not a word, and she did not want to scold him in front of the children. Besides, being trapped in the house had made them all so irritable that any spark would create complete bedlam. The heavy fire Leta kept in the wood stove, the smell of cooked apples and fresh beef and gravy with a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes provided a welcome coziness, but Leta knew that the slightest comment, gesture or glance could disrupt the tentative calm.

After they had eaten, most of the children attempted to scatter as they had the previous night, but this time Leta was prepared.

“Hold it!” she commanded. “No one is leaving the kitchen until he has cleared his plate from the table and put it in the bin of water beside the sink.”

Several of the boys looked at their father imploringly, but Curtis, too, realized that there was tension in the room, even if he did not know why, and he simply shrugged his shoulder lightly.

“After you do that, I want you to light a fire in the fireplace,” he added. “We need to clear out some of this dampness.”

The room was getting dark and the rain renewed its relentless battering.

“And someone needs to empty all the pots,” Leta added, referring to the variety of pails and pots that were collecting water from the leaks, “before they overflow.”

While Leta could feel the tension rise in the little shack of a house, the children followed her instructions. The boys emptied all the pots and started a fire in the fireplace. Three of the girls washed and dried the dishes. The oldest girl put the smaller children to bed. And her husband checked on the animals.

An hour later they were all in bed.

To be continued.

Curtis, part twenty-four

While she had yet to develop any particular emotional connection to her new husband Curtis’s 12 children, having only just met them a day earlier, the child’s scream seized her mothering instinct. She was in the living room with her husband and one of his older sons about to launch into an argument, and immediately all thoughts of the disrespectful disregard being perpetrated toward her were replaced by a child’s urgent need.

She raced into the kitchen to find Curtis’s oldest girl carrying the youngest girl, only three, toward the sink. The older girl was holding the forearm of the little one in one hand and pointing the hand toward the sink.

“Water!” she shouted, and one of the other children started pumping water. By the time Leta reached them, the older one had the little one’s hand under the running water.

“What happened?” Leta asked.

“I had her take some of the apples to put in the pot. She dropped one, and burned herself picking it up,” the older girl answered.

“Let me see,” Leta instructed and reached for the child’s hand.

“No!” the little girl screamed and pulled her hand away.

“Now, Willa, you know she needs to see it. Let’s show her,” the older girl directed. She firmly forced the child’s hand toward Leta.

Leta took it gently in her own for examination. The palm was red, and the fingers a slightly deeper red. There was no indication of blistering.

Tears were still flowing down the girl’s cheeks, and she was whimpering, partly in fear, Leta suspected.

“Well, now, that’s not too bad at all,” she said. “It’s going to sting for a little while.”

She had the older girl set the little one onto the table, filled a bowl with water and instructed the child to keep her hand in the bowl.

“Do you think you can do that?” Leta asked.

The little girl just stared at her.

“Sure she can,” the older girl said confidently, as she followed Leta’s directions with her baby sister. Initially, she had to exert some effort to separate herself from the clinging child.

“You know, when my son was little, he burned himself several times,” Leta said. “When he got excited about things, he would forget to think, and then he burned himself. But he always healed and so will you. You’ll be just fine. You just sit here, all right?”

The little girl nodded. But when her older sister pulled away, she grabbed her and started to cry again.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the older girl apologized with a strained look.

“That’s all right,” Leta said gently. “You just stay her with her for a little while. We’ll manage.”

“So, Curtis…” Leta continued turning her attention to the children’s father whom she had presumed followed her into the kitchen to investigate the child’s scream. She was surprised to find that he wasn’t in the room.

“Curtis?”

To be continued.

Curtis, parts twenty-one through twenty-three

The heavy rain that had started in the middle of the night continued throughout the day, and Leta was miserable. While the old wood stove kept the kitchen as warm and cozy as possible, all of her plans and intentions were shelved. Instead, she, the oldest girl and one of the boys spent their entire day emptying pots and water buckets that served as receptacles for the ten or so leaks in the house. The girl—Betsy—was primarily assigned to regularly mop the water running down the wall in the girls’ bedroom. As they had no formal mop, Leta gave her a urine-stained child’s dressing gown she had found on the floor and a bucket.

She strung a clothesline through the kitchen to hang wet coats, clothes and rags, but with such a large brood—twelve children, her husband and herself—it was quite a challenge to fit everything. Even she had been out into the rain three times in the morning—to milk the cows, feed the chickens and gather eggs, and once to the outhouse.

The backyard was all mud, and they all tracked it into the house, despite her plea that they leave their shoes at the door. So she had a small shovel, bucket and rag beside the door to keep the kitchen as maintained as she possibly could.

This was quite a task, as the teenaged boys tramped in and out throughout the day.

At least, she was able to send seven of the twelve children off to school. However, even that was a challenge, as she had neglected to consider that they all would need to take lunch with them. With no bread in the house, she made three more batches of biscuits, filled them with raspberry jam she had one of the girls retrieve from the cellar, and added a small apple for each. They barely caught the bus.

The littlest child refused to brave the rain and promptly peed through her clothes onto the floor. This required a quick stripping and bathing of the child, as well as washing all of her soiled clothes. Leta had the older girl bundle the little one in a towel and put her in a chair by the fire until her clothes were dry. In the meantime, she washed the bedpan from beneath her own bed and put it in the corner of the kitchen.

The four-year-old boy was greatly relieved, because he didn’t like to go out into the rain either. Having received permission to use the indoor receptacle, he became very eager to assist Leta. This was good, for she needed someone to help empty the pails and pots she was using to collect the water of the eight leaks throughout the house. While the filled pans were too heavy for him, he could return the empties back.

For lunch, she fed everyone biscuits with jam, a meal that made her already irritable companions obviously more unpleasant.

“Curtis,” she explained to her husband, “I’ve been practically stuck in the house all morning. We can’t even get to the garden. It’s one giant mud pit out there.”

“It’s a farm, Mrs. Curtis,” he chided. “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

“Well,” she said brusquely, “we’re out of wood. You or one of the boys needs to bring some more in or it’s going to get cool and damp in here pretty quickly.

“Betsy can do that.”

And then he abruptly stood, grabbed his coat and hat and walked out of the house.

“What about the leaks?” she called after him.

Betsy and the little ones were staring at her.

“What?” she asked in frustration.

“Papa don’t like to be talked back to, ma’am,” Betsy said.

Regardless, the heavy rain continued, keeping Leta and the children quite busy. Fortunately, the girl fetched enough wood from the pile out back to keep the kitchen warm and cozy and stave off the damp. But Leta felt far from productive. And she had so many plans to transform the dirty, rickety house into a clean and pleasant home for her new husband and, by extension, his twelve children.

That he had twelve children became extremely apparent later in the afternoon when the school bus stopped out front, and the number crammed into the house increased from four to eleven. Further, the new arrivals were all wet, mud-coated and hungry.

While Leta was arranging their coats and hats on the clotheslines she had strung throughout the kitchen, one of the girls grabbed the basket of biscuits sitting on the counter and passed them out to the others.

“Biscuits again?” one of the twins griped. “Biscuits, biscuits, all we got around here is biscuits!”

“Hush up,” one of the older girls ordered, “you know Papa don’t like backtalk.”

Still, they devoured them all, the older ones having two each. The portioning of the bread raised tempers, and they were already irritable. They began to pinch, poke and slap each other, and Leta understood that such bickering would soon escalate unless she put a stop to it.

“Here, here,” Leta said, “that’s enough of that.”

They didn’t listen at all. The four-year-old pressed against her, either out of sympathy for her plight or simply to use her as a shield for the upcoming sibling battle.

Leta gritted her teeth and raised her voice a little, “I said, that’s enough of that.”

Still, the children continued, their volume and agitation increasing.

Finally, Leta could refrain no longer. She lifted a large skillet and slammed it hard onto the stove.

“Stop it!” she ordered.

The children froze where they were and stared with gaping mouths.

“Now that I have your attention,” Leta said, “we can get some things accomplished around here.”

She couldn’t remember any of their names, so she just pointed.

“You two are now in charge of all of the leaks. I want you to empty whatever pots and pails we’re using to collect the drips into the large tub over there in the corner.”

“What do we do when we’re finished?” one questioned.

“You won’t be,” she answered.

She pointed to the second oldest girl. “You are in charge of clothes and coats.”

The girl looked at her with confusion.

“That means rinsing out the muddy clothes and hanging them on the line, taking down the dry clothes and coats and putting them away. You’re also in charge of keeping the floor clean. There’s water on the stove, but I’d put another pot on there if I were you.

“You two are in charge of fetching apples from the cellar,” she continued. Use these pots. And I don’t want you tracking mud into the kitchen, so you will stand at the back door and hand off your full pots to her, and she will dump them in the sink. I think about eight trips should do it. I’m going to be making some applesauce.

“Now, who’s left?

One boy, the oldest girl and her little guy raised their hands.

“You,” Leta said, pointing to the boy, “are in charge of gathering all the dirty dishes you can find. I’ll put some water on and then you will be washing and drying them and putting them away.”

“But that’s women’s work!” he protested.

“Ma’am,” the oldest girl added, “I can do that.”

“No,” Leta said, “I need you to help me peel the apples. I think he can manage.”

“But papa says—“ the boy began.

“—I am the boss of this kitchen,” Leta interrupted firmly, “and you will do what I say.”

Then she addressed the two youngest.

“And I have special jobs for you,” she said. “We are going to have lots of apple peelings that need to be taken from the sink and put into that pail over there. Do you think you can manage?”

They nodded.

“Can’t I have a man’s job?” the disgruntled boy mumbled.

Leta ignored him. “We all have our jobs. Now let’s get to work!”

Soon after the kitchen was humming with activity. Leta had assigned everyone tasks, and for the most part, they pursued them. One of the older boys was displeased with his doing dishes assignment and disappeared out the back door, leaving the dirty dishes that were scattered around the living room for another day. Leta was too busy herself to notice. She and the oldest girl were peeling and dicing apples that she set to cooking on a large pot.

At four-thirty, her husband Curtis and one of the older boys barreled through the front door with a large sac of flour, a sac of corn meal, a sac of oatmeal, a large tin of lard, coffee, and a sizable piece of beef.

Leta heard them, dropped what she was doing and ran into the living room to learn the cause of the commotion. Several of the children followed her.

“What is going on here?” she asked.

“Just bringing in some items from the market, Mrs. Curtis,” her husband said as he dropped the bag of oatmeal onto the floor.

“You went to the market?” she inquired.

“Just to pick up some stuff we need,” her husband answered. “Couldn’t do much else with all this rain.”

“But I wanted to go to the market with you!” Leta protested.

“And we brought you something, ma’am,” the older boy said, as he handed her a full sac.

“Really?” she said, feeling less dismayed.

She opened the bag to find it full of several blocks.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Yeast,” her husband answered. “For making bread. Biscuits are good. Bread is better.”

Leta was furious. This was not a gift. It was more work for her, and furthermore, work she was unaccustomed to doing. She had not made bread since she was a little girl with her mother, and even then all she did was assist. In addition, her husband’s making the surreptitious excursion into town and the market without informing her while leaving her trapped in the house with two handfuls of children during a downpour was particularly irritating.

“Now see here—“ she began with her voice raised, but that was the most that she was able to speak before a scream erupted from the kitchen.

Leta instinctively turned her attention to the source and ran from the living room to investigate.

To be continued.

Curtis, part twenty-one

Leta spent much of her Tuesday morning managing wet clothes and emptying pots and pails filled with leaking rainwater, for the heavy rain that started in the middle of the night continued. Fortunately, the girl fetched enough wood from the pile out back to keep the kitchen warm and cozy and stave off the damp. But Leta felt far from productive. And she had so many plans to transform the dirty, rickety house into a clean and pleasant home for her new husband and by extension his twelve children.

That he had twelve children became apparent later in the afternoon when the school bus stopped out front, and the number crammed into the house increased from four to eleven. Further, the new arrivals were all wet, mud-coated and hungry.

While Leta was arranging their coats and hats on the clotheslines she had strung throughout the kitchen, one of the girls grabbed the basket of biscuits sitting on the counter and passed them out to the others.

“Biscuits again?” one of the twins griped. “Biscuits, biscuits, all we got around here is biscuits!”

“Hush up,” one of the older girls ordered, “you know Papa don’t like backtalk.”

Still, they devoured them all, the older ones having two each. The portioning of the bread raised tempers, and they were already irritable. They began to pinch, poke and slap each other, and Leta understood that such bickering would soon escalate unless she put a stop to it.

“Here, here,” Leta said, “that’s enough of that.”

They didn’t listen at all. The four-year-old pressed against her, either out of sympathy for her plight or simply to use her as a shield for the upcoming sibling battle.

Leta gritted her teeth and raised her voice a little, “I said, that’s enough of that.”

Still, the children continued, their volume and agitation increasing.

Finally, Leta could refrain no longer. She lifted a large skillet and slammed it hard onto the stove.

“Stop it!” she ordered.

The children froze where they were and stared with gaping mouths.

“Now that I have your attention,” Leta said, “we can get some things accomplished around here.”

She couldn’t remember any of their names, so she just pointed.

“You two are now in charge of all of the leaks. I want you to empty whatever pots and pails we’re using to collect the drips into the large tub over there in the corner.”

“What do we do when we’re finished?” one questioned.

“You won’t be,” she answered.

She pointed to the second oldest girl. “You are in charge of clothes and coats.”

The girl looked at her with confusion.

“That means rinsing out the muddy clothes and hanging them on the line, taking down the dry clothes and coats and putting them away. You’re also in charge of keeping the floor clean. There’s water on the stove, but I’d put another pot on there if I were you.

“You two are in charge of fetching apples from the cellar,” she continued. Use these pots. And I don’t want you tracking mud into the kitchen, so you will stand at the back door and hand off your full pots to her, and she will dump them in the sink. I think about eight trips should do it. I’m going to be making some applesauce.

“Now, who’s left?

One boy, the oldest girl and her little guy raised their hands.

“You,” Leta said, pointing to the boy, “are in charge of gathering all the dirty dishes you can find. I’ll put some water on and then you will be washing and drying them and putting them away.”

“But that’s women’s work!” he protested.

“Ma’am,” the oldest girl added, “I can do that.”

“No,” Leta said, “I need you to help me peel the apples. I think he can manage.”

“But papa says—“ the boy began.

“—I am the boss of this kitchen,” Leta interrupted firmly, “and you will do what I say.”

Then she addressed the two youngest.

“And I have special jobs for you,” she said. “We are going to have lots of apple peelings that need to be taken from the sink and put into that pail over there. Do you think you can manage?”

They nodded.

“Can’t I have a man’s job?” the disgruntled boy mumbled.

Leta ignored him. “We all have our jobs. Now let’s get to work.”

To be continued.

Curtis, part twenty

Leta lay in bed. Beside her, Curtis was snoring, but his man sounds didn’t disturb her. Her former husband Ora talked in his sleep. What was keeping her mind active, even though her body ached for rest, was his notion that she knew how to smoke and can a hog. Up until now, her husband had not requested of her anything that she could not do, but her farm-wife skills were limited. As a girl, she assisted her mother and aunts when they made preserves or canned vegetables and fruits, but she had never canned these items on her own, let alone meat.

And how was she going to prepare enough food on a daily basis for a family of twelve children, and when would she be able to clean the living room, even though none of them had the time to use it. She had married into a large, disorderly situation, and the needs of the large brood were overwhelming her mind. How was she going to ensure that they all bathed?

At least, she sighed to herself, she had clean sheets to sleep in. And, after all, tomorrow was another day.

Except they woke to rain. A windblown rain that forced a dampness into the decrepit farmhouse. And Leta heard the drip. It was dark, she was confused about her location, and then she had to listen closely for the location of the drip. It was a muffled sound, unlike one that she would have heard on the floor or dresser. The room was so dark that she couldn’t see at all, so she rose and lit the lamp her husband had hung on a hook near their bed. The drip was steady; she could hear it even with the volume of the wind and outside patter. A draft caught her by surprise, and she shivered outside of the warmth of the bed.

“Dammit,” she snapped. The drip was landing on the pile of clothes in her opened suitcase on the floor in the corner. She set the lamp onto the floor and quickly moved her suitcase out of the way of the drip. Everything was wet, and she regretted not fully unpacking it previously. But she had wanted to clean out the dresser before putting her clean clothes in it. Now she would have to wash them all.

With the cushion that her clothes provided moved out of the way, the leaks splattered loudly onto the floor. Leta grabbed the empty wash basin on the nightstand and and used it to capture the unwelcome water. The drip turned into a ping, as the water hit the china.

Guided by the lamp, she left her room and instinctively checked on the girls. When she stepped on a cold, wet spot, she stifled a shriek. Taking a closer look, she could see that a puddle extended from the doorway into their room. She reached for the door handle and opened it. As far as she could tell, the puddle extended from a corner of the room, where the water was trickling down the wall, forming a kind of river to the lowest geographic point.

She lifted the light to see if there was something she could use to sop up the water, at least a little. Then she saw how small the room was. There were hooks on the wall for dresses, a trunk, a small table and chair and two small beds which each contained a bundle of children. The room was cool, damp and smelled faintly of urine

A little pang struck her heart. She and the oldest girl would definitely clean this room before the end of day, she decided. No children should live like this, and definitely not those under her care.

To be continued.

Curtis, part nineteen

Leta was taking stock of her situation. She had a new husband of three days. She moved into his dilapidated farmhouse on a small farm where he raised 200 laying hens, two milk cows, and a dozen barn cats. He grew his own corn (to feed the chickens and cows), had a few fruit trees and an unkempt garden. He also had twelve children, ranging in age from three to seventeen. Seven were in school, three worked on the farm and two were too young to attend.

Since rising before dawn on this blustery spring day, she had milked the cows twice, made breakfast for her husband and the two older boys, gathered the eggs and fed the chickens, washed another shelf of dirty dishes (that had been sitting for longer than she wanted to guess), churned butter, washed her bed sheets and all of her husband’s clothes that she could find, made a lunch of corn soup for two adults, three teenagers and two small children, cleaned up after that and baked seven batches of biscuits. Four of the biscuits were for supper, a meal she prepared for fourteen that also included three roasted chickens, mashed potatoes and gravy, carrots, peas, and berries and cream.

The previous day, when she encouraged Curtis to inform the local milk collector that she would have a canister every other day for pick up, he told her not to be premature. Now she knew why. In one meal, the twelve children had devoured two days worth of milk. With only two cows supplying the beverage, she would have to ration it.

Twenty minutes after inhaling the meal that took her nearly two hours to make, the children and her husband scattered, leaving a plethora of dirty dishes, spills and crumbs in their wake. She had been so busy since her arrival to the house that she hadn’t really explored the house or she would have noticed that there were two other rooms. The first was off a door in near the stove, one that blended into the wall. She watched one of the boys press a small lever and it popped open, welcoming all of the boys. The girls ran up the narrow stairs, and she heard another door open and close. Her husband walked out the back door.

She was alone in the kitchen. She could hear the murmuring, barking and squealing of young voices through the thin walls. She wanted a stiff drink, but all she had was a cup of cold coffee with a little sugar. She tossed it back like a shot, and the bitterness of it shocked her system for a few moments. Preparing so much food was so overwhelming that she neglected to put the dishwater on the stove to boil. So she restocked the stove with wood and put two pots of water on.

While she was waiting, she made a list of items she would need from the market. Curtis would have to take her the following morning. He could not expect her to feed that many with what few supplies they had on hand. They definitely needed bread; she could not continue to make that many batches of biscuits on a daily basis. She also needed him to visit a butcher for pork and beef; the family could not live on chicken and eggs alone. For breakfast, she could use a large bag of oats to make oatmeal for breakfast.

When Curtis returned, she was drying the first set of dishes. Another stack was beside the sink, waiting to be washed. The dark had just descended, and she lit a lamp.

“Mrs. Curtis,” he said, “I’m glad you’re still up.” He was holding and stroking one of the barn cats. It was purring loudly, but when she turned to her husband, it hissed at her.

“Of course,” she answered. It was only eight, and even though she was tired, she still had several things she wanted to do before going to bed.

“I found a healthy batch of mushrooms in the woods this evening,” he continued. “I thought I’d have the boys fetch them tomorrow, if the rain holds off.”

“That would be good,” she agreed. “If you pick up a piece of beef, then I can make beef stew for supper.”

“I’ve been thinking along the same lines,” he said. “Only I’ll order a hog. The farmer will slaughter it for us, and then you can smoke and can the meat. He won’t have it tomorrow, but plan on it for Wednesday.”

To be continued.

Curtis, part eighteen

Leta had been married to Curtis for three days before she learned why he had such a large kitchen table. After supper, she sat at the end nearest the wood stove, her unfinished coffee before her, now cold.

How could she not have known? How could he have failed to tell her? He courted her for three months, talking continuously about his chicken farm and his recently deceased wife. When she accepted his marriage proposal, he began to talk of future plans for them, of expanding the farm, increasing the number of fowl, buying an adjacent property to grow more corn.

What he failed to mention was that he had children. She told him about hers—Vivian and Dale, both adults with their own families—how she liked being a grandmother to Don and Connie, how she looked forward to more grandchildren. It wasn’t as though the subject never came up.

But he never said. Even earlier that day, the two boys he introduced her to, both teenagers, were treated more as if they were hired hands to assist them. Then the girl arrived late in the morning while she was doing the washing, with two little ones clinging to her. Again, her husband told her that the girl, about 15, was there to assist her with the washing, cleaning and cooking. She was awfully young to be a mother, Leta thought, but felt it was too soon to ask. And unfortunately, the girl wasn’t much help. The four-year-old and three-year-old hung on her like weights, and despite Leta’s friendliness, refused to warm to her. Neither would nap, even though Leta offered her freshly laundered bed.

Then, at three o’clock in the afternoon, the boys brought her three slaughtered chickens. Three chickens, she thought, was a bit much, but the boys, the girl and the little ones were all pretty scrawny. She had sent the girl and increasingly irritable young ones to pick berries, carrots and peas, and they returned shortly after the boys, their hands stained and baskets filled.

“I suppose you’d like some potatoes, too,” Leta said with a smile.

Leaving the tykes with the younger boy, the girl went to the vegetable cellar and returned with it overflowing. While she was gone, Leta noted that the little ones were very comfortable with both older boys, although the older one continued to whimper.

At three-fifteen, after she took all of the food into the kitchen to start supper, Leta heard a bus stop in front of the house. Three minutes later, Curtis called her from the front door.

“Mrs. Curtis, come out here.”

She rinsed off her hands, wiped them on her clean apron and followed his voice to the side of the house. He was standing with the boys, the girl, the little ones, and several other children, all in a row, just as scrawny and dirty as the other four.

“I want you to meet your children,” Curtis said matter-of-factly.

Leta was too stunned to speak.

“You already met the John. He’s seventeen. Next is our oldest girl Betsy, sixteen. Then Roscoe, fourteen. They’re all out of school, a course and work here on the farm. John also works for Granger, the next farm over. These others are all still in school. Jane Ann is thirteen, so she’ll be finishing up in a couple weeks. Marty is eleven. Ben, ten. Next are the twins, Pammy and Penny, eight. Ned is seven. Joey, six. Then you’ve already meet our youngest two, not yet in school, Mark, four, and Willa, three.

She counted them. There were twelve. Curtis had twelve children that she not only met, but also learned about for the first time when they arrived at the house. While Twelve children? Twelve children! kept ringing in her ears, Curtis continued.

“This is your new mama.”

She smiled as pleasantly as she could. “You can call me Leta,” she said.

“You’ll call her mama,” Curtis said strictly, making sure every child heard and understood.

Then he dismissed them all, and they scattered, except for Betsy, Mark and Willa, who huddled together and stared at her.

“You best get supper,” Curtis said, as he turned and walked away.

To be continued.

Curtis, part seventeen

Leta better understood how her new husband's house achieved such a state of disarray and filth. After an unquestionably busy Sunday, in which both worked nearly non-stop, he collapsed into bed right after a late supper with the directive to her to leave the unwashed supper dishes in the kitchen and get some sleep herself.

“Tomorra’s gonna to be a busy day,” he said.

But Leta couldn’t leave the mess. There was even leftover stew that she wanted to serve for lunch the next day. And more than any other type of housecleaning, she detested leaving her kitchen dirty. Besides, it would not take her that long to finish, at least with the dishes and pots that they had used for supper. Cleaning the rest of the kitchen would need to be pushed back another day.

As it had the previous day, Leta’s Monday began at 4:30 a.m., and by six, she had milked the cows, separated the milk, filled the newly cleaned milk canister and started breakfast. While she was cooking, her husband came into the kitchen, after counting the chickens, with two scrawny-looking teenaged boys.

“I hope you made enough for four,” he announced. “These boys is purty hungry, ain’tcha boys?”

“Yes sir,” one of the boys answered in a slow drawl.

Leta grimaced, but stayed silent.

“Give me a sec,” she requested. “I’ll just fry up some more eggs. There’s only a couple-three biscuits left from last night, but you’re welcome to them. And I have some berries in the sink. How does that sound?”

“I sure like me some biscuits,” the other boy grumbled.

“’Course you does, boy,’ her husband agreed. “We all does. Mrs. Curtis will whip some right up, won’t you, Mrs. Curtis?”

“Tell you what, then,” Leta suggested in an even tone that concealed her annoyance. “Get yourselves washed up, and I’ll get them going. Then you can have them fresh from the oven.”

“Alrighty then,” the first boy concurred.

Leta was an efficient cook, so she made a batch of biscuits in less than thirty minutes, and fed the three men. As she suspected, the scrawny boys devoured everything and were still unsatisfied. She had intended to sit with them, but spent her time at the stove, frying more eggs and making more biscuits.

“This breakfast is so tasty,” her husband said between bites, “that I tell you what, Mrs. Curtis. I’m a gonna have these boys slaughter the chickens for ya today.”

“Thank you,” Leta said. “I could also use some assistance hanging a clothesline. It’s Monday…and wash day.”

“A course,” Curtis agreed. “But there’s a girl coming pretty soon. She can help ya.”

“A girl? Really?” Leta questioned.

“She’ll have two little ones with her, but she’ll be helping you out. And they’ll all be here for lunch.”

To be continued.