Curtis, part thirty-three

Leta's husband Curtis and his eldest son stood simultaneously and glared at her, their arms crossed the exact same way, their chests pushed out and their backs arched in unison. They were of similar height and shared the same build and apparel—cotton work shirts, suspenders and dungarees, everything worn and dusty. And they both wore frayed mountain straw hats with wide brims.

She stepped back instinctively.

All she had done was invite her husband to get a beer with her. In her estimation, it was a fair and innocent request. After all, throughout their courtship, she and Curtis enjoyed a beer or cocktail, and he even told her that beer was his preferred beverage. But apparently, by her husband’s disapproving glare, she had said something incorrectly. Or perhaps she should not have mentioned in front of the boy that his father imbibed. The boy was nearly a grown man himself, older than she was when she married her first husband. He could not have been so naive about alcohol.

After a few moments of silence, she opened her arms engagingly, shrugging her shoulders and raising her eyebrows simultaneously.

The boy looked at his father, turned, and then sauntered away to leave the married couple alone. After the boy was out of earshot, Leta and Curtis turned toward each other, but still Curtis said nothing.

Finally, Leta spoke. She had no interest in these sorts of challenges, and frankly, she still wasn’t positive she understood why Curtis was acting so alarmed or startled or however he was behaving. After dozens of years of relationships with brother, father, cousins, husbands, boyfriends, lovers and friends, Leta refused to be humbled or unsettled by any disrespectful treatment.

“Curtis,” she said.

“Be quiet,” he hissed, and she saw his body tense again.

She gave him a few moments to continue, but all he did was scowl at her.

“Don’t you think—“ she began, but he interrupted her, unleashing his full fury.

“—Let me be very clear about this, Mrs. Curtis,” he snarled. “There has never been nor will there ever be any partaking of demon drink in this household.”

“But, Curtis—“

“—Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking, woman!” he ordered viciously. “I am the master of this house, and I have spoken. No devil’s brew of any kind, not here on the premises, not while we’re out.”

“Curtis,” she said, gritting her teeth, “it was you yourself that told me you liked beer, and didn’t we have a lovely time at the Stony Ridge Inn last week?”

“We’ll speak of that no more. You’re a married woman. You live in a Christian house. You have children to raise. A bar is no place for you. End of discussion.”

Then he turned away from, heading toward the barn.

“At least drive me to town so I can telephone my daughter,” Leta said, following after him.

He turned so quickly that Leta jumped back self-protectively.

“This is your life now,” he said, then just as abruptly turned back toward the barn and walked away.

To be continued.