Curtis, part ten

Frankly, all Leta wanted to do was lie down. Over the past twenty-four hours, she had gotten married, enjoyed a celebration dinner with her new husband followed by an evening of imbibing, collapsed into her marriage bed in a house she had never seen, wakened to a disaster of filth and deterioration, done more farm chores than she had in years, and scrubbed dishes with her favorite lace handkerchief. Now her husband was telling her that if she wanted meat for supper she would have to kill and clean one of the 200 laying hens he kept in a dilapidated coop out back.

Throughout the morning, she had been making a list of necessary items they would need to purchase at the market, including soap, ammonia, toilet tissue, sugar, coffee, bread and a pork steak or some other meat. She had eggs for breakfast and lunch and wasn’t about to eat them again for supper.

Her husband Curtis had other ideas to occupy the rest of their afternoon, however, and he strongly objected to traveling to the market.

“Leta, there is so much to do around here this afternoon,” Curtis said. “Besides, we have plenty to eat right here on the farm—eggs, milk, more peas, some turnips and carrots ready for the picking, and I can give you a hen for supper.”

“But Curtis, that’s not all we need around here,” she protested. “I couldn’t even find soap.”

“Soap? Really?” he questioned. “It’s right there near the sink.”

“Where?” she asked, as she rose from the table and shuffled some of the dirty dishes in and around the kitchen sink.

“Lordy,” he grumbled, getting up himself and joining her. He moved a few soup bowls and flipped over a serving bowl to reveal a glob of dirty goop. “Right here! Soap.”

The stench nearly made Leta heave, and she stepped back. Then she glared at her husband. She was not going to use the semi-congealed puddle of slime to clean anything.

“Problem solved,” he continued. “Soap, chicken, veggies in the garden. No need to go to the store.”

If she could drive, she would have gone herself, but she needed him to take her.

“Now while you do up these dishes, I’m going to check on the fields and fetch you a chicken. Unless you want to pick the berries first.”

“Wait a minute,” Leta instructed. She was flustered and stalling. Her head was pounding and a rage was building inside her. At first, all she heard was “chicken,” but as she caught up to her husband’s words, she had an idea. “All I’m saying is that if you want that berry pie, I’m going to need flour and lard.”

“Woman,” he said definitively, as if his assertion of her gender would halt all further communication. In this instance, however, it was a call of defeat. He had been tense, but softened. “All right,” he agreed. “For pie.” But in order to remind her of the seriousness of this decision, he added, “But I’m telling you, yesterday about broke me. I only have a couple of dollars… for flour and lard.”

“I’ll pay,” she said.

To be continued.