I've got a particularly difficult set of scenes at the end of my book--the climax and beginning of the falling action. A character has shown up that I've written for before, one that I knew would be there, one whose presence is crucial to resolving the conflict of the novel, one who I know fairly well.
The writing I've been doing this evening brought me to a realization: He's one hard-headed Texan. This character has very strong ideas about what he's going to say and what he steadfastly refuses to say, about what he will do and what he digs in and refuses to do. I have tried to force the issue, but the writing opened up and flowed smoothly when I stopped talking and started listening. He's more stubborn than other characters, and he's not in this story very much, but he still manages to teach me. Now, I just have to apply those lessons to the rest of the book.
Thank you, Adlai.
October 27, 2008
Conversing with Characters
October 26, 2008
My First Book--Scene Ten
Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Ten.
*******
December 1921
My mouth watered at the thought of tonight’s shepherd’s pie. The pound of minced lamb lay safely wrapped in butcher paper in the bag Ruth carried. I bundled my coat tighter against the stiff north wind and watched her as we walked. She had insisted on carrying the load for me and now struggled awkwardly with it. While my toes went numb in my shoes, I welcomed the deep chill of the December air—a prologue to the Christmas season. Maybe Ruth would not outgrow the sweater I had knit before she got a chance to wear it.
The remains of the smothered fire enveloped the front room of the house with a comfortable hint of its warmth as we walked into the house. Ruth carried her package to the kitchen as I added logs to the fire and stirred it back to life.
Finally, for the first time since Ruth’s birth, I had been able to assemble my nativity scene without worry that she would tear it apart. Her incessant questions, however, might drive me to pull out every last strand of my hair.
“Mommy, can I put the baby Jesus in now?” Ruth asked. “Please?”
I turned from the fire. “Sweetie, that’s not until Christmas Eve, remember?” I said.
“Maybe just for a little bit? No one will notice,” she asked, continuing the pattern established since we first set out the scene a week prior.
“Ruthie, we’ve been over this. Baby Jesus was born on Christmas. That’s why we set it out late on Christmas Eve night.” I pulled a stray bit of hair behind an ear.
“But Mommy, the wise men look so sad. And Mary looks like she’s crying because her baby isn’t with her. We don’t want Mary and Joseph to be sad, do we?” Why did she have to use her father’s big eyes when she begged?
I almost relented. Almost. Then, inspiration struck. “Why don’t you color me a picture? That would be really nice.” Fortunately, her attention span suffered this shift. I left her to coloring and began preparations for the meal.
Ruth sighed, pulled her box of eight crayons and Big Chief tablet out from under a chair, and set to her work. “Fine,” she said with a huff. I already knew not to wish away her childhood, as her attitude already told me we would butt heads.
The five foot spruce stood in the far corner of the living room, strung with popcorn—several kernels were missing, I noticed—red and green paper chains, and what few ornaments I had collected.
Minced lamb already browned with garlic and onions and with the potatoes cubed and set to boil, I had just begun grating cheese when I heard Ruth sneeze several times.
“Ruthie, you okay?” I called over my shoulder.
“Okay, Mommy,” she said.
Maybe she got too cold on the walk home. I wondered if we should eat our supper by the fire. I lit the oven and walked into the living room to check on her.
Ruth lay on her stomach on the floor, exactly where I had left her, coloring a picture of the two of us standing in front of our Christmas tree. “Whatcha got there, punkin?”
“I drew it my own self,” she said as she kicked her feet back and forth.
“It’s very pretty. Can Mommy put this put on the wall?” I asked.
She laid her green crayon next to the paper and tapped her lips with an index finger, considering. “Can I choose where?” she asked.
I took the picture and led her by the hand. “Where would you like to hang it?”
She walked into my bedroom and pointed to the wall above my nightstand—a spot right behind my picture of Adlai in his uniform.
She nodded vigorously, and as I tacked the picture to the wall, she sneezed several more times. Now, I began to worry. Ruth had no allergies and was rarely sick. Why did I have to let her traipse through town when it was so cold outside? Clearly, the frigid temperature had made her sick. I dug a handkerchief from my pocket. “Blow,” I said, applying it to her nose, and she obliged.
“Supper will be ready soon,” I said, wiping her nose and stuffing the handkerchief back into the pocket on my apron.
Ruth shrugged and went off in search of Herman.
After supper, of which I ate too much by half, I bathed Ruth and dressed her hair in pin curls. We read a story, and when I kissed her goodnight, her skin was warm to the touch. Maybe she was still warm from the bath. Please, I thought, please let that be the problem.
I half listened for Ruth’s stirrings and sat down to read the day’s mail. My mother’s letter caught me up on the latest goings-on with the family farm—good soil, favorable weather that brought a harvest sizable enough to pay their debts, thank goodness, and a church social. Mabel’s letter shared stories of her children. Emily let me know in her own letter that she would come through town on her way back to college in Austin after her Christmas break.
The real surprise, though, was the letter from Max Whitman. Since our meeting at Mabel and Joshua’s house, I found myself wondering about him and seriously considering the option of writing a letter to him. Maybe this would be my incentive to write a return letter. He said, "Chloe, I hope you do not find me presumptuous in the writing of this letter, but you have lately been on my mind.” I had to admit that he’d been on my mind as well. “Since we met those weeks ago, I have remembered our conversations and have wanted so much to get to know you better. Your emerald green eyes have captivated my heart, and were my eternal soul not already spoken for, you would have that, too, should you but ask.”
Wow. The tone of the letter, certainly more zealous than I would have expected, shook me slightly. I continued reading. After all, his words could simply be written up to a passionate nature. “How often I find myself neglecting my studies to remember our all-too-brief encounter. Your words are like honey, your visage a priceless treasure.”
Okay, now that was completely over the edge. My words were like honey? My visage was a—what was a visage, anyway? I might laugh at it all, the sheer absurdity of his words, were they not somehow so completely unsettling. They were unsettling, and yet, there was more.
“Should you share the desire for more, I beg that you would write back to me. I truly believe we could develop a friendship, or dare I hope, even more. I shall eagerly await hearing from you. Hopefully, Max Whitman.”
More? I didn’t even want to contemplate what he might mean from that. This letter certainly sounded like nothing I would expect from someone in school to make a preacher, that’s for sure.
His neat handwriting with its bold strokes emphasized his emotion and the passionate plea. I could not deny some initial interest in him, in getting to know him better. Truth be told, our first conversation—really, our only conversation, left me with feelings I had believed long since extinguished. What he said in this letter, though, these words frightened me. He sounded too interested.
I already fought feeling a certain amount of disloyalty towards Adlai in my thoughts for Max; this new discomfort, though, coupled with not relishing the idea of becoming involved with a career military officer, made my decision for me. I would write a polite but firm letter disabusing him of any notion of my interest in him.
October 25, 2008
Six Words
As much as I love the novel-writing process, what with the opportunities for building characterization, plot twists, the longer narrative structure, and what not, there's just something about a miniature story that has captured my interest. The way an author can introduce characters, imply a conflict and plot, and leave the reader with an opportunity to infer a resolution in such a short space is incredibly intriguing.
Now, I'm not talking about a run-of-the-mill short story (though I do have one that I'm working on right now). I'm referring to something like Hemingway's Six Word Story, which he reportedly thought was his best work. I've had my own issues with Hemingway's longer works, but I'm still willing to learn, still willing to try. (By the way, I couldn't finish To Have and Have Not--got farther into it than Old Man and the Sea, but still...)
I've written some one sentence stories here before, but never anything this short. If nothing else, trimming down significantly forces me to surgically remove excessive verbosity, to ruthlessly excise anything not absolutely necessary and to polish what's left.
So many blogs have theme days, Wordless Wednesday, Thursday Thirteen, & etc. You get the idea. I'm gonna try my own: Saturday Sixers. A six-word story on Saturday. Only Saturday. After all, it can't be a Saturday Sixer if it's on Tuesday, now, can it? No, I didn't think so.
October 22, 2008
My First Book--Scene Nine
Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Nine.
*******
I relaxed in Mabel’s rocking chair after supper, a battered Zane Grey mystery resting on my knee. Clyde dozed in a chair with Ruth curled in his lap. A knock at the door startled him awake.
“Wonder who that could be?” Joshua said, already crossing the room to open the door.
“Anyone here taking in wayward travelers, kind sir?” the man at the door asked quietly.
“You get right in here!” Joshua said, grabbing him by the arm. “Look who’s here!” he exclaimed as Jake followed him into the house.
A man none of us knew walked in behind Max. He stepped tentatively through the door and stood near the wall. We all jumped and hurried to greet the youngest Turner son and his friend.
“This is Max Whitman,” Jake said, throwing an arm around his friend. “He and I room together at seminary. Max, this is my family. Part of them, at least.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet y’all. Jake speaks very highly of you,” Max said. His hair was an unruly, mousy brown mop, and freckles painted his face in giant blotches. Even still, I thought he was cute—in a highly unconventional way.
With hands shaken and introductions made all around, Mabel disappeared into the kitchen to fix the two men a late supper. The children climbed all over their Uncle Jake, who collapsed onto the floor in a laughing, wrestling heap, like a troop of wild monkeys. Much later, after Ruth and Mabel’s son Michael were falling asleep on the floor, I took them upstairs, put them to bed, and quickly fell asleep myself.
Morning coffee with the rest of the house still tucked safely in bed and children quietly tucked away upstairs brought a relaxed smile to my face. I poured a steaming cup and stepped outside to watch the sun rise.
As the palette of the new day exploded across the eastern sky, Max strolled around from behind the house. “One of the Creator’s great masterpieces, don’t you think?” he asked, leaning his forearms across the railing.
I turned, startled from my reverie. “I had no idea you’d stayed the night,” I said. I had sought solitude to gather my thoughts before the day’s start. Less than a full dose of caffeine? Not a good start to my day. Still, manners required polite conversation.
“Slept on the couch.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair.
I sipped my coffee. “How long are you on break, Mr. Whitman?”
He smiled simply and vaulted onto the porch. “Please, call me Max,” he said.
I watched him, stunned into momentary silence. Mabel would have boxed Jake’s ears for such a stunt, but this man, this Max, thought nothing of it. What kind of man was this, anyway? “Since we’re obviously not standing on formality,” I said, offering my hand, “then you may call me Chloe.”
He took my hand and brushed a kiss across my knuckles. My breath caught in my throat. “We must return for classes by Wednesday. We visited my home church last term, so Jake insisted on bringing me to meet his family. I must say, I am certainly glad of it.”
“Where are you from, originally?” I asked, determined to refocus his attention.
Max seemed to still not understand my lack of interest, choosing instead to sit on the glider and pat the space next to him. I stood and leaned against a nearby post. “A tiny little town in Hansford County called Spearman. It’s in the panhandle.” He pointed a finger straight toward the horizon. “As the crows flies, it’s about twenty miles south of Oklahoma. What about you?”
What could it hurt? “I grew up on a farm outside of Mayville, only a little over two hours on horseback from here. My parents are in Arkansas now, though. They moved about three years ago.”
Max stood and walked towards me. “You must really miss them,” he said.
I sipped again from my cup. The coffee was cooler now, not as likely to burn my mouth. “Yes, I do. My father was from there, and when their farm hit hard times, they sold out and moved back there with my sisters.”
“Three years ago?” he asked.
“Mmm hmm. Not long after my husband died.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, moving away, “I shouldn’t have pried.”
I shook my head. “You have nothing to apologize for. It was an innocent question.”
“It wasn’t right for me to stir up painful memories. That’s all,” he said. Max moved in, laying a hand on mine.
That my response lacked the sorrow that had always accompanied most discussions about Adlai surprised me. “It’s just part of who I am.” I smiled at him. “But I’m also the mother of a wonderful, vivacious three-year-old little girl named Ruth.”
He smiled in return. “The one I met last night?”
“The sleepy little one, yes.” My gaze turned to the rising sun, where hues of pink, lavender, and traces of orange painted the clouds. The beauty and palette of early morning never failed to amaze me and had always been my favorite time of day.
“She’s precious, that’s for sure.”
I laughed. “You haven’t caught her going at full speed yet. Thank you, though. I’m quite proud of her.” Enough about me. “What’s your story?” I asked, turning the conversation to him.
“I beg your pardon?” He seemed genuinely caught off guard.
“All I know about you is that you are Jake’s roommate, and you’re from Spearman. What else is there to know about you?”
Max blushed. “Well, let’s see. This is my final year in seminary. I’ll graduate in the spring. I’m not as young as Jake, either. I, uh, I worked in a lumberyard for a while, and I did a stint in the Marine Corps during the war.”
“My husband was in the army,” I said, volunteering information he might not have wanted to know.
“Was he? Yeah, I was a sergeant. In fact, I still am. I’m in the reserves right now. My plan is to be a chaplain. After graduating from seminary, I’ll go to officer’s training.”
“Sounds like you’ve had an interesting life,” I said. He’d already said too much. After Adlai, I could not bear taking a risk on another man in uniform—too much pain, too much uncertainty. Forget it.
“Not so much. Just more than what you might expect out of a country boy from the panhandle. Never been married, either. I was engaged once, for a short time, but that didn’t last long.”
Why he added that last bit, I was not entirely certain. I simply nodded. I knew nothing else to say. The sun continued on its well-established westerly track, and we walked back inside.
Others in the house had begun stirring to greet the day, and Mabel, usually the first in her family to rise, quirked an eyebrow at me and smiled. I simply rolled my eyes and kept walking.
Well-meaning people never hesitated to offer advice after Adlai’s death, especially with what they thought Adlai would have wanted for my future. I accepted their words with as much graciousness as possible, but Adlai’s own words in my dream brought the most comfort.
October 20, 2008
Grammar Nerdgasm
I found this article, completely amazing despite your politics if you're a grammar nerd like me. Original credit for finding the article belongs here, since I'm not a regular reader of Slate--though that may have to change.
Amazing though the article may be, look at the title of the author's related book (it's at the end of the article): Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog--already an interesting title because of the apparent canine connection. It's going on my Christmas list (if I can wait that long to get it!) because it looks like the perfect companion to my other favorite grammar book. How cool is that? A whole book about diagramming sentences! Squeeee!!!
My First Book--Scene Eight
Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Eight.
*******
We lurched up Mabel’s long driveway, dust swirling in clouds around the Model T, and I saw Ruth leaning against a maple tree, an arm shielding her eyes.
“Ruthie, honey, what’s wrong?” I asked, stepping down from the car and walking to her.
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!” she exclaimed. “Hi, Mommy. We’re playing.” Ruth looked past me, craning her neck. Clearly, I provided only a distraction in such an important endeavor.
“Where’s Uncle Joshua?” I asked.
She shrugged, barely sparing time for me as she darted around the yard.
I looked at Mabel, who quirked an eyebrow. Joshua had volunteered to watch the children but was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Maude and Jane?” Mabel asked. “And what about Michael?”
Ruth sighed and put her hands on her hips, squaring her shoulders at her aunt. “I don’t know! I has to find them.”
A muffled giggle emanated from somewhere behind the crepe myrtle near the porch. Mabel, hearing her younger daughter, smiled. “You’re playing Hide and Seek, hmm?” she asked Ruth.
“Yes!” she said, exasperation clear in her voice, “and I has to find they before they tag base!” She danced around, her eyes still darting around the yard and finally resting on a suspicious glimmer behind the half-opened barn door.
I kissed her on top of her head and left her to the game. I relaxed in the porch swing, processing our conversation with the Wyatts, while Mabel went in search of hot tea. We sat on the porch, watching Ruth flush most of her quarry out of their hiding spots.
“You know,” Mabel said, sipping her tea as we sat in the porch swing, “Papa never played with his own kids like he does with these grandkids. Would you believe he even sat on the floor and for tea parties with Maude and Jane when they were little?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I remembered Adlai’s few stories of life before Mabel took him and their younger brother Jake to raise. To call their father distant would have been a dramatic understatement.
She shook her head. “You know, I think I understand why Emily sometimes finds Papa so frustrating,” Mabel said. Emily, the youngest of the Turner children, had only ever known her sister Jewel as a mother figure.
Any time I thought of their early life and looked at my own little Ruth, my eyes filled with tears. “How so?” I asked.
“Well, don’t get me wrong. He loves Emily. He’s just not that kind of father anymore. Not since Mama died. He’s certainly not been playful. When she was little, and even as she got older, Emily’d see him play with Jewel’s kids. If she tried to do the same sort of thing with him, he wasn’t interested.” She smiled wistfully as Clyde tossed Ruthie over his head.
“Do you think that has anything to do with why she hasn’t married? I mean, she’s going to college and hasn’t even mentioned a special guy, that I know of.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mabel sighed. “I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t think Jewel’s given up on that just yet.”
October 16, 2008
My First Book--Scene Seven
Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.
Go on. We'll wait for you.
Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Seven.
*******
“We out of gas?” I asked.
Mabel smiled and said, “It’s high time you learned how to drive. I told you that you’d get your turn.” She pulled the brake lever and opened her door.
“Out of the blue?” I asked. “Just like that?” Who was I kidding, thinking she’d fall for my Sweet Innocents routine? I had no desire to learn how to drive, and I had no car to drive. The last little bit of hope of getting out of my driving lesson slipped through my fingers.
Mabel stepped out of the car walked around the front, and opened my door. “Shove over,” she said. She spoke, not as a friend, not as a sister-in-law, but as a drill instructor.
Knowing I had clearly lost this contest without even truly starting, I gave in and scooted into the driver’s seat.
“Chloe, you need to know how to drive a car. I know you don’t have a car, but you need to know this Just in case. D’you know, Joshua refused to buy this car unless I’d let him teach me how to drive.”
I knew better than to argue. I still saw no need, but I resigned myself to a lesson. “Okay.”
She proceeded to point out the throttle lever, the three pedals on the floor and the use for each.
Releasing the brake, I turned the wheel toward the road and started into the road. The car lurched ahead, snapping my neck painfully. I screamed and let go of the throttle lever in response.
Ever patient, Mabel gently corrected me and insisted I should try again. She likely would have continued the lesson, had I not hit the reverse pedal instead of second gear about one hundred yards down the road—at my third attempt to shift gears. The engine made a horrible, painful, grinding noise, and Mabel reached across me and jerked the brake lever in place.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, falling all over myself in apology and hoping desperately that I had not just killed the car. I massaged my hands, just realizing that I had been white-knuckle gripping the wheel. Somehow, driving a team of horses scared me less.
“I think it’ll be okay,” Mabel said. “It happened to me too. He about jumped down my throat—probably because I did it several times,” she said as a smile bloomed, “but I don’t think you’ve done any lasting damage.”
Adrenaline coursed through my system. Shaking set in. Driving for the first time in my life stressed me more than I had imagined possible. Mabel laid a hand on my arm. “I don’t think I could handle any more today,” I said. “Please take over.”
“You’re off the hook for now, but we’re not finished. You’re gonna learn how to drive!” she said with a sigh.
I nodded, willing to say or do just about anything to slide back into my spot on the passenger side.
Mercifully, we switched seats, and Mabel once again took the wheel. I spent most of the rest of the trip trying to both erase the memory of the fiasco of my first time behind the wheel and master the pattern of movements I saw Mabel using. My thought was that if I could mimic her, I ought to be able to drive just fine. Ought to. I just hoped it’d be a long while until I had to try again.
October 15, 2008
My Muse Has a Twisted Sense of Humor
I've got a scene in a short story, related to how the book wraps up, that has been stumping me for the past couple of days. The weekend was productive on the writing front, don't get me wrong, but that's been a stumper. So last night, after two evenings of banging my head against my the computer keyboard, I went to bed.
Now, I've known for some time that my muse likes to mess with me. She likes to wait until I'm driving somewhere or in the shower to reveal ways to work out literary tangles, knowing full well I had no paper to hand to jot down these tidbits. Well, I outsmarted her last night (she says as she knocks on wood, tosses salt over her shoulder, and looks for a four-leaf clover).
Can I just say, Dearest Muse, that I'd like to interrupt this story to issue an apology. While I was typing that last sentence, Blogger went wonky on me. I was afraid I'd lost the post. I love you, Dear Muse. Really, I do. Kissy, kissy.
Okay, so last night, I laid in bed, tossing and turning. Suddenly, a Bright Idea came to me. I thanked Muse and agreed to make appropriate note the next morning. The idea returned, I acknowledged it, promised to note it the next morning, and snuggled up with my pillow. Having to get up so far before dawn makes me want to get as much quality time with that lovely little bit of heaven as possible.
No go. This time, Dearest Muse practically screamed in my ear. I gave up, stumbled to the computer, and sat down to type a few paragraphs of notes. When I was done, I made my way back down the hall and crawled back in bed, where I promptly fell asleep. Dearest Muse was happy, so I got to sleep.
Maybe one day she'll strike while I'm getting my teeth cleaned. Or at THAT doctor. Grrr.
Personal Note to my Dearest Muse: Sweetie, I do love you. Really. Pay no attention to my venting.
October 8, 2008
My First Book--Scene Six
As I've said on previous scenes, in order to best understand this scene, please make sure you've read the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth scenes. Go on. We'll wait for you here. The list is getting crazy long. Next time, just look for the "my book--scenes" link in the sidebar.
You're back? Okay, without further ado, here's scene 6. It immediately follows scene 5. Let me know what you think about this scene or any others.
*******
October 1921
“I do believe you’ve jarred a couple of my teeth loose!” I said to Mabel. Smiling, she looked at me from behind the steering wheel of the Model T. I swear, she managed to find every last pothole in that stretch of road. “You’re gonna tear this car up, Mabel.” I grasped the seat back with one hand and the side of the car with the other.
“I’ve done no such thing,” she said. The gradual slowing of the car told me belied her cavalier attitude, ever. “You better be paying attention, you know. You’ll be driving us home.”
“Here, at this tree,” I said, pointing to a towering oak on our left. “The map says we’re supposed to turn right here.” Choosing to ignore her assertion, I instead watched the scenery. Mabel pulled her foot from the accelerator pedal, we slowed to a crawl, and the car lurched around the corner.
I had only to mention the letter Jeremiah Wyatt sent me, and she couldn’t volunteer fast enough to come with me. Even if she ended up making me drive back, I was still glad of it.
“Did you see how I didn’t use the brake pedal?” she asked, continuing her unwanted lesson. “I still get it confused with the reverse pedal, so it’s best to be gradual like on it.”
She was right. This could all go horribly wrong if she stomped on the reverse pedal while going forward at almost thirty miles an hour. We bickered back and forth, but she continued with the step-by-step directions. I couldn’t convince her how much I did not want to learn how to drive.
She’d hear none of it.
“You are driving on the way back, stubborn woman,” she said finally, with more determination than I was comfortable hearing. She turned once again, and we headed due north through the tiny hamlet of Barn Swallow.
Actually, to grace it with the title of hamlet, even, was a gift. Following the map scrawled out by Jeremiah Wyatt, I directed Mabel down a series of tiny dirt roads (who knew such a small town could have so many little goat paths?) until we finally stopped in front of a dilapidated cabin. Cabin? More like a shack—a shanty with dirty, faded whitewash on broken clapboards and oilskin over a broken out window. It rested on a barren plot of land just past a green house with a swayback mule tied to a post—just like the directions on the map promised.
A friendly mutt loped up to me, his tail thumping against my leg, as I cautiously stepped out of the car.
“Won’t hurt nary a flea,” I heard a child call from some anonymous location.
I rubbed the tired, old dog—part Shepard, part terrier, 100% love-child—behind the ears. He licked my hand, perhaps grateful for the attention.
“Hello?” Mabel called.
A wizened old woman stuck her head out from behind a screen door at the front of the house. “Ain’t buyin’ none,” she said, disappearing back into the house.
I stepped forward. “Ma’am, we’re not selling anything. I’m here to see Jeremiah Wyatt. He wrote a letter to my husband, Adlai Turner,” I said.
The woman stepped onto the porch and wiped her hands on her much-mended apron. “That be the same Adlai Turner that was friends with my boy Floyd over in France?”
I smiled, hoping to disarm the woman of any lingering suspicions she may have still held. “Yes, ma’am. Your son Jeremiah said something to that effect in his letter.”
“You come right on in here, then,” she said, her demeanor suddenly warming. “Jeremiah’s off fishing, but Buddy’ll go fetch him.” She whistled and waved in the direction of the tree at the edge of the lot. “I’m Eula Wyatt. That there,” she said, pointing to the rapidly departing boy, “is my youngest, Buddy.” The dog loped after him. We continued our introductions and followed her through the open door.
Mrs. Wyatt led us into her home and motioned that we should sit on the settee. Its split cane back and frayed fabric testified to many years of use—or abuse, if she had raised three boys—and left me seriously concerned about it’s ability to hold both Mabel and me. We sat politely and engaged in idle chat. I was thankful of it, too, because I had absolutely no desire to explain more than once why I had arrived without Adlai.
Fewer than ten minutes later, a tall, bearded man emerged through the door. He swept his broad-brimmed hat from his head as he looked at us. We stood to greet him.
“Mr. Wyatt, my name is Chloe Turner. I’m Adlai’s wife. This,” I said gripping Mabel’s arm for support, “is his sister, Mrs. Mabel Jacobs.”
He looked at each of us in turn, swept a quizzical glance to his mother, and looked back at us again, his face once again polite. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m right glad your husband got my letter,” he said. He sat in a nearby chair and motioned for us to once again take our seats.
Now came the moment I had dreaded. I breathed deeply. “Mr. Wyatt, your letter arrived a couple of days ago. I regret to tell you, though, that—” I took a deep breath. Mabel squeezed my hand. “that my husband died more than three years ago.”
Jeremiah hung his head and ran his fingers through his chestnut hair. “I’m right sorry to hear that, ma’am.” From the corner of my eye, I noticed his mother draw a simple handkerchief from her sleeve and cover her mouth. She drew a sharp breath.
“Thank you,” I whispered. Mabel still clasped my hand, her support never wavering. I most certainly could not have come here without her. “My husband wrote often about Floyd. I understand they were great friends.”
“Mrs. Turner, my brother didn’t write much, but when he did, he’d talk about how friendly your husband was, even back to when they was in training,” he said. “See, Floyd was real shy, and he didn’t talk much. Your husband went out of his way to talk to him, to make friends.”
I smiled. Adlai never met a stranger.
“It’s terrible that it takes circumstances like war to make such strong friendships,” Mabel said quietly.
We all nodded in silent agreement.
After a moment of increasingly awkward silence, Jeremiah Wyatt said, “It weren’t necessary for you to drive all this way just to tell me your husband had passed,” Jeremiah said. “But it’s good to meet you.”
“I didn’t think it was the sort of thing I could tell you in a letter. Besides, you went to a great deal of trouble to hunt for our address. What Adlai did meant a great deal to your brother and then to you. It was the least I could do to honor the memory of both of them.”
He scratched his brow, and I could see a question forming in his mind. “So, he died not long after he got home, then? You did say he died three years ago.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid he died in France. I suppose not long after your brother. From what I could understand from the letter Adlai’s captain sent me, they were attacked during a march outside Champagne.” Nightmares imagining his last moments, each more terrifying than the last, had plagued me for years, but I shared little of that dark corner of my life with anyone.
Even—especially—Lela and Mabel, who knew most everything else about me, might only guess about his death.
At moments like this, when the pain crept too close but I had to keep a semblance of control, I stared a hole in the floor until I could trust myself to speak again.
“Is that so?” Jeremiah asked. “I was led to understand that, well, when I talked to some other guys that was in Floyd’s group, they seemed to act like…” His voice trailed off.
What was this about? What did he mean? “Did someone lead you to believe otherwise?” I asked.
He looked sharply up at me, his eyes dark with pain. “No, ma’am. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that, well, when they talked about Floyd and some of the other guys that didn’t make it back, they was…” He rubbed the back of his neck with a broad palm. “They was all sad-like. When they talked about your husband, about Adlai, they was more upbeat. That’s all. I just figured that meant he was still alive.”
I nodded, as though I understood.
He glanced first at his mother and then back at me. “I didn’t mean no harm. I’m sorry,” he said.
“You had no way of knowing, Mr. Floyd. No harm done.” For the next hour, we shared stories about Floyd and about Adlai, taking laughs where we could, and I told them about Ruth.
Nearly an hour later, I noticed dark storm clouds rolling in, hiding the sun. Mabel saw them too, I noticed, and she said, “We should head for home.” Neither of us wanted to end up in a driving rainstorm stuck axle-deep in mud on a back road halfway back to her farm.
We stood to leave, and for the first time, I noticed the simple oak frame around the shadow box hanging near the door. I turned to Mrs. Wyatt and said, “That’s a wonderful arrangement.” I admired the Purple Heart mounted next to a crisp-edged photograph of a young man—Floyd, I assumed—in uniform.
“They buried my Floyd over in France, but they sent me this Purple Heart,” she said, pride filling her voice.
Jeremiah Wyatt pointed to the frame. “I made this to put it all in,” he said with a similar amount of pride.
I took Mrs. Wyatt’s hands in my own, and as my voice tightened, I said, “Words can never express the pain I know you feel,” I squeezed her hands tightly and continued, “but I also know just how proud you must also be.”
Mrs. Wyatt’s eyes watered, and she dabbed at them with her handkerchief. “Burying a child and burying a husband is the two hardest things a woman can do, and I’ve done both,” she said. She drew me into a hug and seemed reluctant to let go. “I thank you for coming today. Your company’s been a treasure,” she whispered as she finally withdrew.
I turned to Jeremiah. “I want you to know, Mr. Wyatt, that although your letter did not reach its intended target, your thoughtfulness for myself and my daughter will never be forgotten,” I said.
He shook my hand.
Mabel and I climbed into the Model T and left for her farm. Neither of us spoke for almost five miles until she abruptly pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car.