Hidden History (11 page)
Authors: Melody Carlson
Ethel smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”
For the first time, Alice tried to consider how it must have been for Ethel as a child, having a father like the one described in Daniel’s journal. It could not have been easy. No wonder Ethel could come across as prickly sometimes. She had probably learned those ways as a small child.
T
he sisters were happy to find themselves gathered in the library once again, eager to read more poignant memories from their father’s journal. Jane had made a lovely apple pie with a lattice top that smelled of cinnamon and brown sugar. An identical pie, along with hot soup and homemade bread, had long since been delivered to the Humbert household.
Louise carried a pot of Earl Grey tea into the room, complete with a flowery tea cozy to keep it hot. “Do not worry,” she assured them. “It is decaffeinated.” She set the porcelain pot on the tray and sat down in an easy chair. “That way it will not keep us awake until dawn.”
“I missed our little session the last two nights,” said Jane as she flopped down into the other easy chair.
“Yes,” agreed Louise. “I have been wondering if Father ever got to write an actual obituary.”
“Well, let’s find out.” Alice put on her reading glasses, and leaned back into the desk chair as she opened the precious book.
December 12, 1925. Mother is very sick. It started out as an ordinary cold, but now she has a bad cough that seems to get worse with each passing day. She is so weakened by it that she could not get out of bed today. I asked my father if I could go for the doctor, but he said we do not have money to pay for such luxuries. I think I will go to town tomorrow morning to see if I can trade some labor for a doctor’s visit and some medicine. I noticed the clouds were thick and gray as I walked home from school today. I think it will snow tonight. I am usually happy to see the snow come, but this year is different. Perhaps I am growing up. This year, I feel worried about Mother’s health as well as all the extra chores that come with the harsh winter weather. I do not enjoy getting out of bed while it is still dark out, and I do not enjoy going out into the freezing cold to crack the ice on the water troughs. However, I know better than to complain, for then I would give my father an excuse to tell me that I should quit going to school. He thinks that is the answer to every problem. Somehow I know that he is wrong, and sometimes I try to imagine how his life might have been different if he had gone on to school. He is not a
stupid man by any means. He can fix a harness or wagon wheel better than anyone, when he has a mind to anyway. Unfortunately he has no respect for books or Learning, and I believe this has contributed greatly to his general dissatisfaction with life.
Alice paused and reached for her teacup. “That’s the end of that entry.”
Louise sighed. “It is simply amazing the way that Father, even at such a young age, was attempting to understand his father better.”
“It is,” agreed Jane. “Most teenagers these days wouldn’t give a parent like that the time of day. If anyone had an excuse to rebel against his parents, it was our father.”
“Shall I continue?” asked Alice, and both sisters nodded eagerly. “Look at this,” said Alice as she turned the next page. She held it up so they could see the lovely sketch of a rose. “Look.” Alice pointed to a detail in the drawing. “He even included the thorns.”
“What does it say there?” asked Jane.
Alice read.
To Mother, December 21, 1925.
“How sweet. Do you suppose he gave it to her?” asked Louise.
Alice shook her head as the realization hit her. “No. Let me continue.” She adjusted her glasses and read.
“Mother died today—
”
“Oh dear,” said Louise.
“Poor Father,” said Jane.
The doctor was here two times in the last week, but it was no use and his medicine was of little help. He said that Mother had pneumonia and our only hope was to keep her warm and comfortable and to pray. I did not tell him that I had given up praying a few years ago. I did not think that he would have understood. Although I actually tried to pray last night, I felt dishonest. It is not that I was unwilling to become a hypocrite for the sake of Mother, but I was afraid my prayers might do her more harm than good. I figured if there really was a God, he would not be pleased with me for not believing in him until I became desperately in need. And I figured if there was no God, why should I waste my breath? The neighbors have been in and out of our house all day. I am amazed at how death draws people together, and I wonder why these women did not come to my mother’s assistance sooner. Perhaps it would have helped her to live. I do not know how to describe the
sadness I feel. It is like a heavy cloak that is encasing me. It is hard to think clearly and it is difficult to breathe. I have not cried. Indeed, I wonder if I am too old to cry now. Or perhaps I am just afraid that if I begin to cry I shall never be able to stop. My chest and throat ache from holding this pain inside of me. I think I shall go out into the fields and walk far enough away so that I can scream my pain into the darkness of the night.
“Oh my,” said Alice as she looked at her sisters. Both were wiping their eyes, and she now realized that she too had tears running down both cheeks. “Poor Father.”
“Keep reading,” gasped Jane. “Please, Alice.”
December 24, 1925. My sister Alice and her husband Asher were the only other family members to attend Mother’s funeral yesterday. My other two brothers both live too far away to make this trip in the winter. My father was surprisingly civilized during the funeral service, quite sober too. He even invited Alice and Asher to stay with us through the Christmas holidays. Not that we will have much of a Christmas without Mother. Alice went through some of Mother’s things this morning and found the blue
woolen scarf that was nearly finished. I told her that Mother was making it for me, and Alice sat right down and finished knitting it. Then she gently wrapped it around my neck and said “Merry Christmas.” She is a good soul. Father slipped out tonight after supper. We all knew where he was headed, and I do not think any of us cared. It is not that he has been terribly mean or awful lately. In fact, he has been quite subdued and perhaps even a bit sad. Even so, he is a difficult person to be around at best, and I think we were all relieved when he left. Alice turned the radio on to Christmas music and made a big rice pudding complete with fat raisins. All in all, it has not been such a horrible day. I am still very sad and I miss Mother more than I can say, but it did help me to go out into the snowy fields and cry. There is a big hole in my chest now. An emptiness that I fear shall never be filled again. Oh, how I miss my mother. Now, I shall write my first authentic obituary.
Rose Mary Bergstrom Howard, came into the world on June 5, 1879 and passed on to her eternal reward on December 21, 1925. The beloved mother of six children, Mrs. Howard is survived by sons John
,
Charles, and Daniel, as well as her daughter Alice. Preceding her in death were her other two children, Martha and Adam. Mrs. Howard enjoyed the rural life of agriculture and was quite skilled at cooking, sewing, knitting, preserving and gardening. Her delectable rasp-berry jam often won first place at the Crawford County Fair, and her tea roses were surpassed by none. A good-hearted and generous woman, she will be greatly missed by her family and friends.
“That poor woman was only forty-six years old,” said Jane. “What a short and sad life.”
“What a sweet obituary,” said Louise. “Do you think it was printed in the newspaper?”
“I don’t know,” said Alice. “The next entry isn’t until after the New Year. Shall we save it for next time?”
“Yes,” said Louise. “I am ready to call it a night.”
“I like our grandmother,” said Jane. “I think, despite her inability to stand up to her husband, she was a good woman.”
“Father surely seemed to love her,” said Alice as she placed a bookmark in the journal.
“It was hard for a lot of women back in the old days,” continued Jane. “I’m sure if our grandmother lived today, her life would’ve turned out quite differently.”
They sat quietly in thought, and then jumped at the sound of someone’s knocking at the door to the library. Louise got up to open it.
“Is this where you keep the books?” asked Mr. Parker. He had on a dark blue velour bathrobe and matching bedroom slippers.
“Why, yes.” Louise blinked. “This is the library. We were, uh, just leaving.”
“Well, I need something to help get me to sleep,” he said in a grumpy voice. “Don’t know why you folks don’t have any TV in the rooms. What kind of a place you running here anyway? Trying to haul us all back into the nineteenth century whether we like it or not?”
“I hope you can find something you like,” said Louise in a stiff voice as the three sisters gathered their things and filed past him and into the hallway.
“Don’t you have any westerns in here?” he called as they slipped away.
“That man,”
said Louise in a hushed voice.
“Take a deep breath,” whispered Jane. “Count to ten if you need to.”
Alice giggled as she, not for the first time, considered how fortunate she was to be a single woman. “You might want to count your blessings while you’re at it.”
Alice did thank God later on that night. She sincerely
offered thanks for being blissfully unmarried as she took her time to prepare for bed. First she slathered herself in a new rich moisturizer that a friend from the hospital had introduced her to. Then she took the time to file her nails, getting each one just so. She loved the sweet simplicity of her single life, her ability to come and go mostly as she pleased, to read late into the night if she liked, or to sleep in occasionally when she did not have to work. She liked the luxury of not sharing her closet or her bathroom or even her private thoughts if she did not want to. Yes, it was definitely a very good life—preferable to that poor woman’s downstairs. How could she endure such endless harassment? Alice felt that she herself had much to be thankful for as she turned on her reading light and picked up the latest mystery book that Jane had lent to her.
She looked down at the floor where Wendell, as usual, seemed to be waiting for her to finish her bedtime preparations. He patiently sat on her braided rug, his tail switching back and forth as if counting down the seconds until she would finally retire. Then, in the same instant that she got into bed, Wendell hopped up. He circled around on her fluffy quilt a couple of times until he found the perfect spot and curled into a pudgy ball right beside her. He closed his eyes and happily purred as she scratched the top of his head.
“You’re the perfect companion, Wendell,” she told the fat tabby. “You never talk too much and you never ask nosy questions. You’re not rude or touchy or bossy. Okay, you’re a little bit bossy sometimes. But really, you are much nicer than a lot of people.”
Then she opened her book and sighed and, completely content with her quiet little life, she began to read.
W
e were so busy yesterday that I forgot to ask how Vera’s tests went,” Louise said to Alice as they tidied up the front hall.
“The results won’t be back until next week. But at least Vera was feeling a little better. We stopped at a new lunch spot in Potterston, and she was able to eat almost a whole bowl of soup.”
“Well, that is good news,” said Louise. “Maybe she just had a bad case of one of those foreign flu viruses that are always going around. Probably caught it from one of her students at school.”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, Alice,” said Susan as she came down the stairs.
“Hi, Susan. How are you?”
“Great, actually. I was just thinking about taking a little walk to town.”
“It’s a nice day for it.”
“Do you want to join me?”
“As a matter of fact, I wanted to run into Sylvia’s Buttons
and look at fabric. I was trying to talk my friend Vera into making a braided rug. She is the one who has been ill. I thought it might help her to get her mind off of her troubles.”