Leta could have argued. She wanted to argue. Nearly every word
that her husband Curtis had just snarled at her felt like a jab into her soul.
Her natural and well-practiced inclination was to respond in kind. However,
they were in a public place—a grocery store—and although he attempted to be subtle,
his comments were noticeably overheard by the other patrons.
They were early in their marriage, one day to be exact, and
she had dedicated herself to making this situation work. She had selected
Curtis because he was different than many of the men she dated and even her
several husbands over her long adult life. Many of these men were softened by
sloth or hardened by drink. Their relationships were boisterous and tumultuous,
and sometimes vicious. She wanted a gentler, quieter life. After all, she was
nearly 50 years old.
“Certainly, darling,” she said as calmly and agreeably as she
could. She heard him tell her that the icebox would not keep the ice cream she
wanted cold and that he was concerned about the number of purchases she was
making without having really evaluated everything he already had at his farm,
her new home. Then she smiled.
“And as for that pork roast,” he continued.
“Oh, Curtis,” she interrupted gently, “won’t you let me make
you my breaded pepper pork specialty tonight? This is, after all, our first day
as a married couple, and I want the first supper I make for you as your wife to
be something I know will be marvelous. And then you will have your berry pie.”
She touched him gently on his arm.
“Well,” he stammered and then, as she anticipated, acquiesced,
“Of course, that sounds delicious.”
A few minutes later, they were loading the groceries into the
car and chatting about their future. Leta felt flattered by the energy her
presence drew out of her new husband. And they enjoyed the rest of the
afternoon and evening together. They gathered berries, enough for three pies,
and Leta made a mental note to add making jam to her list of her immediate
tasks. She cleaned several more pots, pans and dishes while preparing supper
and then milked the cows again. Curtis checked on the chicken wire they had
repaired that morning and removed a dead cat from the barn.
After they feasted on their supper, they relaxed in the living
room while the sun slowly set. Having no electricity, the room grew dark rather
quickly, and Curtis lit one of three oil lamps.
Both were fairly drained, partly from their busy day and
partly because they were still recovering from their prior long evening of
dining and celebrating their marriage at a bar. In the dim light, Leta could
see her husband’s head droop, and she finally suggested that they retire.
“Yes, absolutely,” he agreed. “Tomorrow morning is going to
come awful early.”
He led her back to the bedroom, where her suitcase and boxes
of clothes and personal items were exactly where she left it, and she
remembered that the rest of her things were still in the trunk of the car. She
sighed; unpacking, cleaning and then rearranging the bedroom were added to her
task list. They went right to sleep.
At five in the morning, Curtis nudged her.
“Time to get up sleepyhead,” he said, his voice dry and
cracking. “Them cows ain’t gonna milk themselves.”
To be continued.
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