Curtis, part two

For nearly two hours that morning, Leta cried, sitting in the small living room, with its rough and broken furniture, worn carpet and torn draperies pulled tight against the light. One question burned in her soul: How did she get here?

On her first morning in the house, after she awoke and made her way down the narrow staircase, she had opened the drapes to let in the morning light, what little light that could penetrate the thick film of grime that had grown over the small glass. She ran her finger over it, and could barely make an impression.

With hesitation, she turned to face the rest of the room.

“Oh boy,” she said spontaneously. While she had no doubt that the house would be dusty, maybe even a little cluttered, she was stunned to observe the devastation that faced her.

The first thing she observed was an easy chair with tears in its upholstery, where the stuffing was leaking out and one wooden arm missing. Later she would learn that the other arm was cracked and only appeared to be whole.

The sofa, such as it was, had only two of three cushions, both with ripped upholstery. Where the cushion was missing, two springs were exposed. A side table against one wall, coffee table and end table and were cluttered with dirty dishes, food crusted or moldy, and covered in layers of grime and dust. All of the furniture and the walls had animal scratches, but she didn’t smell any cats. Old newspapers and magazines had been strewn carelessly, dropped where they had last been used and then stepped on or kicked out of the way.

Three wooden table chairs were thrust haphazardly against one wall. Two had seats that were split. One had a loose arm that bounced when she touched it. All of them had cracks in their backs or rungs. One had a rung broken out, leaving broken, splintering wood.

The brick around the fireplace and the adjacent walls were black with soot. Several of the bricks were cracked and others missing chunks. Ash spilled onto the floor and stirred every time a draft worked its way down the chimney.

Cobwebs flowed across the ceiling, like a canopy, and the air was heavy with stale cigar and pipe smoke, burned wood and body odor. And to top it all off, there was an open crack on one wall.

At least the room was small.

But just then, a rat ran across the floor, and she screamed. Holding her hand against her mouth, she then took a closer look at the side table. It was covered with rat droppings.

Her intention was to wake early, make her way to the kitchen and cook a delicious breakfast for her new husband. They had arrived late, having celebrated their nuptials at the Stony Ridge Inn until the place closed. Curtis drove them to his house, and helping each other along, they made their way inside and into an unmade bed, where both almost immediately passed out.

She needed to relieve herself, and although apprehensive about the condition of any lavatory in this dingy abode, she proceeded to the kitchen, the most likely location. Although the state of this room was very much a continuation of the living room, she tried not to look too hard at it by focusing on her more urgent need. The only door in the space took her onto a back stoop. Looking across the mostly bare dirt yard, she saw the unmistakable tall, narrow shack in a far corner.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said aloud.

To be continued.

Curtis, part one

Leta and her daughter Vivian were sitting at the table in Vivian’s kitchen. It was a warm Tuesday evening; the sun was setting, casting a thinning streak of light through the kitchen window. Vivian’s son Don was outside playing with his friends. The days had begun to lengthen, but it was almost time for him to come in and prepare for bed. Vivian’s husband Ed was running an errand, or so he said.

In truth, he wanted to leave the women alone.

The air was filled with ambient sounds—a dog barking, hammering, child’s high-pitched voice, door closing, an occasional car driving by, the percolating coffee pot. Vivian was silent. Without directly looking at her mother, the younger woman was watching every movement, holding a fixed, closed expression.

Leta tried to remain composed, even stoic. Her heart beat slowly, her breath faint and her mind empty. She wanted the comfort of a steaming cup of coffee, so she listened to it gurgling and gasping on the stove, letting it breathe for her.

It went on like this for several more minutes. As the coffee neared the end of its cycle, Vivian stood, retrieved two cups and saucers and the matching sugar bowl from the cupboard, two spoons from the drawer and the cream from the refrigerator. She set the table and then turned to pour the coffee.

“No cream for me,” Leta said faintly.

“What?” Vivian asked, turning with the pot in her hand.

“I said, no cream for me. I like mine the same way you do. Black with sugar. Ed likes cream,” Leta said in a monotone.

“Of course,” Vivian noted. She poured the coffee, grabbed the creamer, put the coffee pot back on the stove and returned the creamer to its fixed place in the refrigerator.

Suddenly she became tense and froze in front of the refrigerator, facing away from her mother.

Leta had placed one teaspoon of sugar in her coffee, but sensing a change, looked up at her immobile daughter. She wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what she could say. How could she even start?

Finally, Vivian exhaled, turned and focused her gaze on her mother.

Leta choked back a tear, squeezed her hands into fists and then released them when she began to dig into her own flesh with her fingernails.

“Mom—“ Vivian began.

“—No,” Leta interrupted, “I know.”

But that’s all she could get out. Vivian waited a few moments for her mother to continue before speaking again.

“How did this happen?”

To be continued.

World War II - Dale Enlists

Leta was always proud of her children, even if she didn’t show it. And she was especially proud of her son Dale when he telephoned to inform her that he had registered to serve their country. It was 1941, and the war in Europe was increasing in intensity. Already American boys were fighting on behalf of England and France. While the Japanese and Germans were expanding their conquests, the concern that the United States was also on the list of nations to be conquered weighed heavily on everyone’s mind.

Even Leta’s husband Bob was talking about how he could help. “You’re 47 years old!” Leta scolded. “Enlisting is for young people.”

With Dale, it was a different story. Ever since he had graduated from high school in 1935, Dale had been restless. In fact, for two years, he rode the rails throughout the Midwest and West, earning the family moniker “the vagabond.” Leta founded the nickname to be condescending and insulting, but like such things, it stuck.

Before he left, he sat her down for a chat.

“Ma, I want to have adventures,” he said. “I want to get out and see things. I want to be like Uncle Aaron and Uncle Fred. I hear California is beautiful.”

“But how will you get there? How will you eat?” Leta inquired, the desperation rising in her voice.

“I’m young, I’m healthy, I’ll figure it out,” he said.

“But we’re still in the Depression,” she protested. “You’ve read the papers. There’s not a lot of work out there. It’s just a myth.”

“Ma, come on,” he scolded gently. “The Depression is practically over, I’m not ready to settle down yet, and I feel an itch.”

Leta sighed. She understood what he meant, for she herself had at times been overwhelmed by an urge to make a change in her life. How could she reject the same trait in her son?

She gave him $100 from her secret money, and he went. She heard from him on occasion for a little over a year before he returned, worn, pale and thin and ready to settle down. Or so she thought. Work was still hard to get in Toledo, and although her husband Bob wanted to get him a position at the factory where he worked, the company wasn’t hiring.  Dale was regularly seen running with a crowd of unsettled young men, spending long hours in bars or downtown until early in the morning. Leta worried about him.

Until he told her that he was enlisting in the Navy.

He seemed excited about it. The military seemed an appropriate outlet. He could benefit from the discipline, and finally, she hoped, settle down.

“Ma,” Dale told her, “It’s my chance to be a part of something important, to do something worthwhile, to serve my country.”

Although she feared for him, but she knew that all she could do was wish him well, pray for him and hope that if the United States did enter into the expanding War, he would be stationed in some safe place.

So Dale enlisted.

Unmarried

Leta had basically decided that she would never marry again. Her divorce and separation from Leech Hoose in 1931, her extended stay in the home of her brother Aaron and sister-in-law Florence, sporadic employment during the height of the Great Depression, the repeal of Prohibition and the liberation it brought to men and women alike, and most significantly, depositing her children with their father—her first husband Ralph Chetister—and their grandmother Ida seemed to conspire against any opportunity for domesticity.

In fact, Leta wasn’t sure she even wanted to be married again. Could anything compete with the vivid memories of her life with her second husband Albert Mohr and the terrible loss she suffered when he was so abruptly and ruthlessly taken from her? She wouldn’t say that she had a hard heart. She loved her children, and adored her nieces Florence and June, who she shower with attention. Next to her niece Leta (whom they called Junior to differentiate the two), she was principal nurse to her sister Louise, who was recuperating slowly from a bacterial infection.

Leta particularly loved hearing about Junior’s accomplishments as a high school athlete and scholar, who was studying to be a teacher. Her own daughter Vivian was also a superb student, and Leta sometimes forlornly wished she had the financial capability to secure her own daughter the ability to continue her studies at a university.

Leta had recently gotten a job as a secretary and moved into a boarding house in East Toledo. It was quite a change from living with her brother and his family—both in style and location—but she was managing. In both cases, she spent most of her time in her bedroom. Her room in the boarding house was slightly larger than the one in Aaron and Florence’s home. But it also contained everything she needed for living: bed, closet, chest of drawers, sink and small counter with a hot plate, window facing the south, chair and side table. She shared a bathroom and a telephone with the other women on the floor.

She particularly liked the view of the street from her window, and the great amount of daylight facing South afforded her, especially now that it was summer. The transom above the door leading into her room provided some cross ventilation, which she appreciated, particularly when the heat remained consistent throughout the night.

Not that she didn’t sleep well, Leta always slept well. Even now, with so much on her mind, she could lie down at night and count on her mind and body to relax quickly. After all, she had been divorced from her fourth husband for nearly five years. When her daughter Vivian married the previous autumn, she entertained the possibility of marrying again—she actually liked to be married—but observing her daughter’s happiness awakened in her the great wealth of feeling she had been avoiding since the untimely and horrible death of her beloved Albert. Her sense of loss weighed on her, even when she was in conversation with potential suitors. She enjoyed talking to them, even turning on her great charm, but always on her mind was her Albert.

She was beginning to accept this life—work, a drink or two at the local bar, Saturday with her brother and sister-in-law, church on Sunday followed by spending the afternoon or evening with one of her children, dinner at the nearby diner two nights a week, an occasional visit with one of her sisters. She was 43 years old. She had had enough adventures for one person. Before too long, she would have grandchildren.

She didn’t need to be married.

Meeting the future son-in-law, part two

Leta looked at her bedside alarm clock. She still had an hour before she needed to leave. The sun had descended behind the building across the street, and her room was growing dark. The younger women who lived down the hall were catching up with each other, as they made their way to the nearby automat for supper before going to a blind pig to meet boys. Their light, happy voices further unnerved her. She sipped her gin.

While she was only 42 years old, the younger women treated her like she was much older. They were also very curious about her, but never pushed. She overheard a couple of them talking about her—she always overheard people talking about her. Their whispers easily shot right to her ears, so she listened. The girls seemed fascinated that she was divorced, had children their own age, was living on her own and had a job like theirs. Her state in life conflicted with everything they had been taught. This made them overly polite in such a way that noted to Leta how much the conservative morality of their upbringing separated them from her.

The auspicious occasion of the evening was that she was going to meet her 22-year-old daughter’s gentleman, and she was nervous. Vivian had been dating Edward Metzker for several months and all agreed that it was about time for the two to meet. For the past eight years, Vivian had been living with her father and grandparents, except for a recent nine-month period in which she served as a housekeeper with a family that moved to Michigan. Now, Leta’s daughter was looking into her own future of marriage and children. While Ed had not officially proposed to Vivian, their relationship was growing such that it was important for him to meet her wayward mother.

Leta called herself the wayward mother. Vivian never would; she was too respectful. But she thought it, anyway. Leta remembered this, nodded and emptied her glass. She was feeling much more relaxed. The bottle on the small table beside her chair was also empty, but it was nearly empty when she had the first drink to calm her nerves nearly two hours earlier. She looked at the alarm clock. She had ten minutes before the young couple was scheduled to arrive at the boarding house where she was living.

Fortunately, she was nearly ready. She hurriedly adjusted her hair, put on her hat, applied a little more powder and lipstick, changed her earrings and necklace, and added a matching broach to her rather plain-looking dress. Finally satisfied, she retrieved her purse and jacket from the bed and made her way down the two flights of stairs to the sitting room.

Vivian and Ed were just arriving. Leta practically pushed the welcoming landlady aside to greet her future son-in-law. The first thing she noticed was that he was quite tall—about six feet—trim and lithe. Wearing a long suit jacket, his body from shoulder to foot seemed to be a long magic wand, barely broken at the point just below his hip where the jacket ended and the matching slacks began. He was clear-skinned and slightly pale, with a thick mass of dark brown hair atop his head that was trimmed short around his slightly protruding ears. His eyes were bright blue, his nose long and shadowing a slight philtrum. His lips were full and rounded, and instantly, Leta knew she had to kiss him.

So she did.

She pushed herself into him, stretched to her fullest height and smeared her own lips across his. He immediately backed away from her, his face registering the shock of the moment. The landlady had raised her hands to cover her own gaping mouth. And Vivian became stiff with shock, but only for a moment. Then she grabbed Leta’s arm, gently pulled her away from Ed, exhaled loudly and then smiled slightly.

“Mom,” she said, “I want to introduce you to Edward Metzker. Ed, this is my mother Leta Hoose.”

Instinctively, Ed held out his hand. “How do you do?” he said.