Curtis, part thirty-five

Fortunately, Mr. Wilcox was at home on Tuesday afternoon when Leta arrived to use his telephone. She was so determined in her quest that she had not anticipated he would not be there, although anyone with sense, she would note later, would not expect a farmer to be in his house on a spring afternoon. Even though the air was cool and a breeze coaxed her along, she was perspiring from a combination of exertion and anxiety.

“Mrs. Curtis!” Mr. Wilcox exclaimed in surprise when he answered her light tapping at the front door. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Good morning, Mr. Wilcox,” Leta said pleasantly. “I am calling on you, because I—“

“—My goodness, you must come in for a glass of cold water,” he continued, almost without hearing her. With that he opened the screen door and beckoned her inside.

His small farmhouse had a vestibule with a closet and hat rack on the wall beside it. She could see down a long, narrow hallway to a closed door that she presumed must be the kitchen. Several feet ahead to the left were two steps that led to the upstairs. He gently took her elbow and guided her into a living room directly on the right. Through a large arch, she could see the dining room table, and another doorway beyond, to the kitchen. A large fireplace centered the outside wall, and the dining room held another. The house had a light, open feel, owing to windows being opened, and a cross breeze from front to back. While the furniture was neither old nor new, it was clean and well kept.

“How about a glass of iced tea?” he suggested. “Do you take sugar and lemon?”

“Why, both, please,” she stammered. “Thank you.”

“Please, sit, Mrs. Curtis,” Mr. Wilcox gestured politely, and I will fetch it for you.”

“No, thank you, I’m sorry,” Leta continued, startled by his kindness and holding up her hand. “I don’t have much time. The children will arrive home from school soon, and I must get back to prepare Curtis’s supper.”

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Wilcox agreed. He led her into the dining room, where a small telephone table stood in the front corner of the room. “Here is the telephone. You know how to use it, yes?”

“Yes,” she answered. Initially, she was surprised by the question, but then realized that Mr. Wilcox knew little about her and that it would be likely for those in Curtis’s household to be inexperienced.

“So you can see,” he added kindly, flicking the switch of an electric lamp on the stand. “While you make your call, I will fetch your drink. That will give you some privacy.”

“Thank you,” she said, and watched him walk into the kitchen.

The house was simple, but everything was clean, polished, in good repair, neat and modern. He had a telephone and electricity, and most likely indoor plumbing, although she didn’t ask. Leta wanted to relax into the simple luxuriousness of it, but realized that time was of the essence. Curtis might return home at any moment, and there was no telling how he would react to her being packed to leave, or more disturbingly, at the Wilcox farm.

Her daughter Vivian, as she hoped, was at home, and had possession of the car for the day. Usually, Vivian’s husband Ed drove to work, but Leta recalled that this was Vivian’s month to host her ladies’ auxiliary and needed to prepare for the Wednesday event.

“Hello?”

Leta almost started to cry at hearing her daughter’s rich, musical voice on the other end of the telephone line. A door opened in her life.

“Vivian,” Leta choked, “it’s mother. Come, get me.”

To be continued.