Curtis, part eighteen

Leta had been married to Curtis for three days before she learned why he had such a large kitchen table. After supper, she sat at the end nearest the wood stove, her unfinished coffee before her, now cold.

How could she not have known? How could he have failed to tell her? He courted her for three months, talking continuously about his chicken farm and his recently deceased wife. When she accepted his marriage proposal, he began to talk of future plans for them, of expanding the farm, increasing the number of fowl, buying an adjacent property to grow more corn.

What he failed to mention was that he had children. She told him about hers—Vivian and Dale, both adults with their own families—how she liked being a grandmother to Don and Connie, how she looked forward to more grandchildren. It wasn’t as though the subject never came up.

But he never said. Even earlier that day, the two boys he introduced her to, both teenagers, were treated more as if they were hired hands to assist them. Then the girl arrived late in the morning while she was doing the washing, with two little ones clinging to her. Again, her husband told her that the girl, about 15, was there to assist her with the washing, cleaning and cooking. She was awfully young to be a mother, Leta thought, but felt it was too soon to ask. And unfortunately, the girl wasn’t much help. The four-year-old and three-year-old hung on her like weights, and despite Leta’s friendliness, refused to warm to her. Neither would nap, even though Leta offered her freshly laundered bed.

Then, at three o’clock in the afternoon, the boys brought her three slaughtered chickens. Three chickens, she thought, was a bit much, but the boys, the girl and the little ones were all pretty scrawny. She had sent the girl and increasingly irritable young ones to pick berries, carrots and peas, and they returned shortly after the boys, their hands stained and baskets filled.

“I suppose you’d like some potatoes, too,” Leta said with a smile.

Leaving the tykes with the younger boy, the girl went to the vegetable cellar and returned with it overflowing. While she was gone, Leta noted that the little ones were very comfortable with both older boys, although the older one continued to whimper.

At three-fifteen, after she took all of the food into the kitchen to start supper, Leta heard a bus stop in front of the house. Three minutes later, Curtis called her from the front door.

“Mrs. Curtis, come out here.”

She rinsed off her hands, wiped them on her clean apron and followed his voice to the side of the house. He was standing with the boys, the girl, the little ones, and several other children, all in a row, just as scrawny and dirty as the other four.

“I want you to meet your children,” Curtis said matter-of-factly.

Leta was too stunned to speak.

“You already met the John. He’s seventeen. Next is our oldest girl Betsy, sixteen. Then Roscoe, fourteen. They’re all out of school, a course and work here on the farm. John also works for Granger, the next farm over. These others are all still in school. Jane Ann is thirteen, so she’ll be finishing up in a couple weeks. Marty is eleven. Ben, ten. Next are the twins, Pammy and Penny, eight. Ned is seven. Joey, six. Then you’ve already meet our youngest two, not yet in school, Mark, four, and Willa, three.

She counted them. There were twelve. Curtis had twelve children that she not only met, but also learned about for the first time when they arrived at the house. While Twelve children? Twelve children! kept ringing in her ears, Curtis continued.

“This is your new mama.”

She smiled as pleasantly as she could. “You can call me Leta,” she said.

“You’ll call her mama,” Curtis said strictly, making sure every child heard and understood.

Then he dismissed them all, and they scattered, except for Betsy, Mark and Willa, who huddled together and stared at her.

“You best get supper,” Curtis said, as he turned and walked away.

To be continued.