Curtis, part sixteen

Leta's face flushed with anger. It was nearly seven in the evening. She had already started the coffee, and actually held one of the bowls in her hand to ladle the vegetable stew into. Her husband Curtis was seated and had even sipped the water she poured for him. They were in conversation about selling some of their farm products, and then he abruptly asked her to make biscuits and walked out the door. Making biscuits would take another thirty minutes.

His behavior startled and infuriated her, so she started to follow him. After spending her entire afternoon cleaning the cellar and sorting the edible from the rotten produce stored there, she was tired and hungry. She was ready to eat right then. But Curtis didn’t go very far. He gave a cursory glance toward the makeshift worktable she created in the backyard and then sat on an old stump.

She growled in frustration, took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen. She quickly pulled the coffee pot off the burner. It had not started to perk yet. Fortunately, among the crusty and mold-filled dishes and cooking pans scattered around the kitchen and living room, she had already located and cleaned all of the items she would need to make biscuits for her new husband.

As she made the dough, she reluctantly agreed that he was right. They had purchased only one loaf of bread at the market on the previous day, and would be better served to enjoy it for toast or sandwiches. Besides, waiting for the biscuits to bake, she could wash a few more of the dishes. Although she was making some headway—Curtis had an inordinate number of plates, bowls, silverware, cups and glasses for one person—she had already filled one of the cabinets with clean ones.

Thirty minutes later, they ate warm biscuits smothered in butter with their stew.

“And there’s still pie for dessert,” she said cheerfully. “If I have time tomorrow, I’ll get some more berries and make another one. Or I could make strawberry shortcake.”

“Won’t have time, I suspect,” Curtis responded curtly and then continued eating in silence.

When he finished, he burped loudly and rose from the table. The sun was setting, and the house was growing dark.

“Time for bed,” he announced, stretched and patted the bulge of his tummy.

Leta smiled; she took his gesture as a sign that he enjoyed his meal, even though she had not the time or inclination to tackle the killing and cleaning of the chicken he suggested.

“Would you please light the lamp for me, so I can get these dishes done up?” she asked as she cleared the table.

She was standing at the sink, which she filled with the water she had been boiling, and when she didn’t hear a response or note her husband moving, she turned back to where he had been standing. He was gone, and so was the lantern that had been sitting on the table.

“Curtis?” she called lightly, and walked through the house and up the stairs to their bedroom, where he was stripping off his work clothes.

“I’m taking the lamp to do up the dishes,” she said. “There’s not enough light left for me to see what I’m doing down there.”

“Leave them and come to bed,” he urged. “Tomorra’s gonna to be a busy day.”

To be continued.