Curtis, part eleven

If she had known that her first day of marriage to Curtis would be a portent of what was to come, Leta might have reconsidered before she said, “I do.” She had started her day in a house she had never seen with a hangover from a night of celebrating. The kitchen was filthy, and all they had to eat were eggs from his hens and some peas they had gathered from a weed-filled garden. Everything he showed her or she saw for herself was neglected or terribly worn, including the livestock—200 chickens and two undermilked cows.

From morning until mid-afternoon, Curtis showed her the farm, shared his dreams, and they worked. But then she engineered a slight change of pace by insisting that he take her to the market for several necessities she had not seen in the kitchen. So he drove her to the market in Genoa.

Leta disliked Genoa. Once she had a dalliance with a fellow who ended up being the married mayor of the village and a deacon in the Baptist Church there. She learned this shortly after their two days together when they were formally introduced at a church picnic that she attended with her sister-in-law Florence. The mayor was with his four children and very pregnant wife. While Leta had a policy never to consort with married men, she never asked. But this particular fellow, upon their unplanned meeting, instead of ignoring their prior connection, made several particularly insulting statements about her, as if to covertly inform her that he would retaliate against any hint by her of their prior liaison. Then he seemed to pass the word about her reputation, because she heard whisperings and recognized judgmental glances. This made the rest of the afternoon very uncomfortable for her.

With Curtis hovering over her like a pesky fly, Leta quickly made her purchases at the market. She had a slight craving for ice cream and also purchased a quart of the treat.

“You don’t want that,” her husband stated.

“But I like ice cream, don’t you?”

“It’s extravagant, don’t you think?”

“It’s just ice cream. We’ve worked hard today. It will go well with the pie.”

“I don’t think you should get it.”

“I like ice cream.”

“And I said ‘No.’ I’m not made of money.”

“It’s my money.”

“Well, we’ll talk about that later,” he snapped, “but for now, no ice cream.”

“I can’t believe we’re arguing about this,” she protested. “It’s just ice cream.”

“Leta, how are you going to keep it frozen?”

“In the icebox, of course.”

As they started drawing attention to themselves, Curtis pulled her to a corner of the store, but whispered so loudly and ferociously that everyone could still hear him.

“That old icebox isn’t worth a damn!” he hissed. “Instead of ice cream, you’re going to have cream soup. And I don’t appreciate your contradicting me in public like this. I work hard taking care of all that I have, and for you to flaunt that you have your own money in front of the people I live and work with, just ain’t right, Leta. So I’m telling you that I don’t want to hear any more about ice cream or how you’re paying for the rest of this.”

To be continued.