A man called smith, p.11
A Man Called Smith, page 11
The chill was settling into the living room as the sun sank into the horizon, casting its shadowy veil across the afternoon sky. The coal bucket was picked empty by the time we arrived home from school that afternoon, and despite the chilling air, Mother didn’t seem inclined to fetch any more. Upon removing my winter jacket and watching my cloud of breath stamp the air, I ushered Jarred, Mark, and Jamie past the darkening living room, making a beeline for the bedrooms in search of heavier sweaters.
When our sweaters were on, Jarred stayed to play with Mark and Jamie in their shared bedroom while I headed to the kitchen to scrub the vegetables for dinner.
After he woke from his afternoon nap atop a blanket on the chilled living room floor, little Daniel attempted to climb onto the sofa and into the warmth of Mother’s napping embrace. His cold hands ignited a screech from Mother. I first heard the screech, then the thud of Daniel’s two-year-old body tumbling to the floor, before a wail erupted. Though his wails were louder, it was the thud that had me running into the living room, a freshly scrubbed carrot in one hand.
Scooping Daniel into my arms as Mother got her bearings, I shivered as his little hands wrapped around my neck. Cooing to him and rubbing his back, I bounced up and down as I wiped his tears. Having found the source of warmth he had been seeking, Daniel cuddled into my embrace before reaching for the carrot to gnaw.
Mother staggered to her feet, looking more angry than concerned. “Why the hell is it so cold in here?” Her complaint echoed throughout the house. I felt the presence of the other three boys as they stood close enough to hear while remaining in the shadows so as not to bear the brunt of Mother’s temper.
I kissed Daniel’s cheek and held him even closer as Mother moved past us. Using the furniture for support, she walked toward the stove, which was barely emitting heat enough to fill a mouse’s house. The darkness must have tested her vision, as she peered into the coal bucket for longer than should have been necessary to determine its state of emptiness. Snapping her head up, Mother glared in my direction. “Mandy, why is it so bloody cold in here?”
Instinctively, I took one step backward, shielding Daniel with my arms. “The bucket is out of coal.” My whispered words felt overstated in the dark, silent room.
Grabbing the coal bucket, Mother took two slow steps toward us. Her footing appeared unsteady, but her pointed and accusing finger was ready to be thrust into my face. “Then go and get some!” Her slurred words hit me in the face at about the same time as the wretched and overwhelming smell of alcohol.
I had never been permitted into the basement before, and I certainly did not have any interest in going there now. I looked at her, buying time for reason to set in or for Daddy to appear and settle the matter.
Mother wrenched Daniel from my arms before shoving me with her pail-carrying hand toward the forbidden rug and the trapdoor entrance. I walked with slow, steady steps, holding my breath to control the terror that was building in my chest. I passed Jarred’s room. His silhouette stared back at me from the shadows of his darkened sanctuary, the only movement a discreet shake of his head, his indication that I shouldn’t go to the basement. Mother stalked behind me, nudging me forward with her alcohol-infused breath. “Hurry up, Mandy. It isn’t getting any warmer in here with you dawdling.”
I bent to the floor, my knees feeling the hard wood. With reluctant movements, I rolled the rug and placed it to the side of the trapdoor. Lifting the latch, I pulled the wooden door free and slid it along the floorboards to reveal the frightful basement opening. A shiver ran the length of my spine as the dank scent of earth rose up to greet me.
“Go on, then.” Mother prodded my back with the coal bucket.
I glanced back over my shoulder, the cold from the basement assaulting my body. Mother’s face was hidden by the bucket she held out, waiting for me to take. She gave another nudge with the bucket, and my foot touched the first step toward the bowels of our home. The dark space fueled my imagination as I thought of what was waiting below the trapdoor and what would happen should I refuse to enter the horrifying space. I considered the ramifications of not fetching coal. Would Mother yell at me? Would she strike me? Would I be sent to bed without dinner? All of these I could handle. But what if it was worse? What if she could hurt me more than I knew? As the options percolated in my mind, Mother’s patience ran out.
Mother’s foot, placed on the small of my back, forced me down the pitch in a rush of air and tumbling stairs. “Get down there this instant, or I’ll lock you down there all night.” The coal bucket collided with my entangled legs as I lay sprawled halfway down the stairs in the scariest place I’d ever ventured. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I righted myself in pitch darkness. Scrambling down the rest of the stairs, I grappled for a railing, a wall, anything to steady myself. There was none to be found.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the edge of the stair tread came into formation and I realized how close I had come to falling off the top steps, unprotected from the sharp edges of the coal pile below. Using my hands to guide me down each tread, I crawled to the bottom stair, slow and steady, before attempting to stand on the uneven dirt ground that was our basement. The narrow beam of light from the kitchen cast around the stale room.
My socked foot bumped into the low-lying coal. Taking the bucket with me, I bent down to feel the coal with my hands. With tears running from my eyes and snot running from my nose, I scavenged at the coal like a hungry animal. The first few plunks of coal hitting the bottom of the bucket fanned my desire for a speedy completion of the hateful task.
I hurriedly grabbed at the black, sharp-edged morsels, eager to remove myself from this vile place. Ignoring the cold of the basement seeping through my heavy sweater and the sting of something slicing my hands, I filled the bucket to the brim before dragging it toward the light of the kitchen. Heaving the bucket up each step took more effort than I had anticipated, slowing my progress and my tears.
As I ascended out of the cave of terror, Mother met me at the opening. She loomed large and ominous over me as I cowered below her on the step. She yanked the bucket out of my hand and turned toward the living room. “Now, that wasn’t that hard, was it?”
I climbed the remaining two stairs and turned to cover the trapdoor and unroll the magical rug that guarded our family from the nastiness below. As I moved the rug back in place, I noticed my hands were covered in black and striped with red. Small droplets of blood hit the wooden floor, narrowly missing the righted rug. Stumbling to the sink, I poured water from the wash bucket over my hands and cried out in pain.
Returning from the living room, Mother took one look at me and, in a voice laced with disgust, declared, “You stupid girl, why didn’t you use the shovel?”
I washed my hands, removed my black-sodden socks, washed the coal and blood from the floor, and was promptly sent to bed without dinner. Mother chided me all the way to my room. “Put salve on those cuts, and don’t you say a word about this to your father.” Her next words made my heart sink even more. “I suppose I will have to finish the vegetables, then. Just remember this, Mandy. Just remember what I’ve done for you.”
I pretended to be asleep that night when Daddy came in to check on me. Lying to Daddy was something I had never done before, and I was determined that Mother would not make me start.
Chapter 20
June 1958
Cedar Springs, South Dakota
* * *
John
* * *
I wedge the sofa cushions between the kitchen table, made with my own two hands, and the bedroom dresser to keep them from rubbing against each in other in transit. I survey the contents of the little U-Haul trailer, which holds our life. A fresh start, she said, was what it would take for us to be a real family. That was a few months back, after my discovery of her daytime shenanigans at the local hotel and the infidelity that almost broke us completely. How much should one man be required to take? I asked myself that question when I discovered her, and I spoke those same words out loud after hauling her sorry, philandering butt home.
The most disturbing thought I have is how long it would have gone on, if I hadn’t found her out. Bernice excels at making me look like a fool, by way of the ludicrous and embarrassing display that took place in broad daylight outside the hotel’s front entrance and with the rumors that are sure to fly around Cedar Springs and make their way to my God-fearing parents. My neck warms at the notion.
Perhaps if I cared less about what others thought, I would be more inclined to stick it out here in my hometown, make Bernice the one to blame, and shatter her already fractured reputation with the news of her latest shenanigans. It was unusual for me to be near the hotel, but that afternoon I had run out to retrieve a backordered supply of hardware when I happened by the hotel’s entrance. I barely glanced up as I passed. It was her laugh that caught my attention, the one I’ve heard less often as the years trudge by, but it was distinguishable all the same.
The laugh stopped me in my tracks, and I pivoted to see my wife, dressed in heels, a plunging V-neck sweater, and a hip-hugging pencil skirt—all red, of course, her signature color. She was hanging off the arm of man several years my junior, unknown to me. His cheek and lips displayed an array of smudged red lipstick as his gaze lingered just above the sweater’s neckline.
“Bernice?” Her name uttered from my lips made me sound as weak as I felt, with my knees buckling beneath the weight of this discovery. She had little to say, surprise written across her face. The shrug of her shoulders indicated a disregard for her actions and my knowledge of them. I gathered what was left of my composure and yanked her arm away from her gentleman caller. As I dragged her down the street, she waggled her hips in the overly snug skirt, desperately trying to keep up with my hurried pace the entire way to our family sedan, parked a few blocks away.
Once within the confines of the car, I let out a whoosh of air along with a litany of heated words, none of them flattering to my wife, many of them never before uttered from my lips. The argument continued all the way home, into the living room, and for several days after. Bernice did little to ease my anger. Instead, she flung accusations. Of course, my transgressions, according to Bernice, revolved around the life I covet. The one I longed for but could not have. The one that died when Violet left this earth.
Disgust, toward Bernice or myself, colored my every decision in its ugly light as I pondered my options. Escaping the prying eyes of the small town had its appeal, and the shadows of the town reminded me what a fool I’d been.
Finally, after days of hostility and slamming doors, she came to me with a tear-stained face and an apology. The damage was done. Any love I might have had for her had vanished with her lipstick-stained kisses on another man’s lips. A fresh start was what we needed, she pleaded, as she extolled the virtues and the beauty of Tacoma.
Washington State feels a million miles away. The distance is both a relief and an uncertain adventure. On the one hand, I am eager to leave behind the embarrassment and shame that dogs me in Cedar Springs, caused by my wife’s perverse actions, both long ago and recent. On the other hand, leaving the only home our children have known and starting from scratch in a new town has few guarantees. For me, this is a final attempt at keeping our family together.
Though Ferngrove is not the part of Tacoma Bernice would have chosen, it has the most employment opportunities and a piece of affordable land to build a house on. Located only a few hours north of her beloved city, Ferngrove is a concession on Bernice’s part, while Washington State is one on mine. After countless discussions on the topic, I refused to argue with her any further and decided Ferngrove would indeed be our new home.
If the move to Ferngrove is a success, it will have been worth uprooting the children from the familiarity and comfort of their friends and school in Cedar Springs. Should the relocation fail to right the rift and distance between Bernice and me, I’ve no idea what will become of us. That thought alone is enough to motivate me to act. We can’t stay here, yet moving is no guarantee of a solution.
Perhaps Bernice is right. Perhaps, setting out on our own and leaving our past behind is the only way to move forward. The thought of saying goodbye to Mother, Father, the girls, and Edward only a few years ago would have shattered my heart. Today, though, the emotional distance between us is far greater than any move across the country could create. That somehow makes leaving Cedar Springs a little easier. The thought saddens me to the core, and I push it to the back of my mind where it can trouble me less.
I’ve thought about Violet something fierce since the idea of moving from Cedar Springs was first floated. My reluctance to leave the place that was ours wiggles into my conscious mind. The Fountain, where we used to dine together on burgers and milkshakes, always brings a smile to my face. It feels like only yesterday she was sitting across the booth, sipping sweet tea and telling me about her day. It is only a short drive from the edge of town to the fields where we used to spend Sunday afternoons, walking and talking for hours, never running out of conversation. Then there is home. Our home. The little blue house that has never felt quite right since she vanished from our lives.
Before picking up the U-Haul from town this morning, I stopped off one last time to say goodbye. The cemetery was empty, allowing me the privacy needed to explain myself to her. I told her of Calla and Jarred and how the move to Ferngrove would provide them with a fresh start. Leaving out the details of my failing marriage to Bernice, I told her how sorry I was to have let her down, how I knew I needed to do better for my children. The move, though suggested by Bernice in a desperate attempt to right her wrong, was coaxed on by the growing inconsistency of work at the cabinet shop. Cedar Springs had done its growing, and new houses with the need for cabinets was on the decline. The writing was on the wall, financially as well as emotionally. Moving towns was a good idea on many fronts.
Calla’s somber face appears before me as I exit the trailer. “Hey there, pumpkin. Whatcha got for me?”
“Mother said to keep this near the back so it can be grabbed if needed.” Calla hands me another ill-packed and overflowing box, a sour expression on her face.
I shake my head and smile. “Mother can’t keep everything near the back. Eventually something will have to find a place at the front of the trailer.” I take the box from her arms and place it on the lawn beside the other boxes, also too precious to be nestled out of reach.
Calla turns to walk away. Her displeasure with the move has remained constant since we told the children. “Hey, Calla.” I catch her attention and her arm, coaxing her back to face me. “It is going to work out. I hear Ferngrove is a lush and beautiful place to call home.” Her shrug tells me she isn’t buying what I am selling. “We’ll need to build a new house when we get there. What do you say? You want to help me with that?” Her cornflower blue eyes flicker before an almost indiscernible smile curves her lips. She nods her head one time, and I squeeze her arm to let her know I understand.
Before long, the trailer is crammed full of the contents of our little blue house. Piling into our recently acquired, pale green 1953 four-door Ford, we take one final look at Cedar Springs on our way out of town. Despite the car’s bench seating being filled to capacity with the seven of us, the ride through town is silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I wipe a tear from my eye as we pass the Fountain, and I give it a nod in appreciation for all the memories it holds.
After four and half days of driving, each of us is tired, cranky, and eager to extract ourself from the confines of the car. We pull into the town of Ferngrove just after four o’clock in the afternoon. The outlying areas are lush with towering trees, and a carpet of green lines the landscape for miles on end. Cruising down Main Street with the windows down, we pass a gas station, a community hall, and a grocery store. I chuckle watching the kids in the rearview mirror as they lean over one another to gain a better view of their new hometown, craning their necks to see beyond the open windows.
Daniel, seated in the front between Bernice and myself, peers out the front window with saucer-sized eyes and an adorable, wide grin. At almost four years old, his toddler days are now behind him, replaced by a keen interest in learning about everything he can. His attention to detail and his curious questions indicate his blooming intelligence, and his sweet and gentle personality makes him a joy to be around. I pat his knee as his face grows with excitement at the scenery.
The boys in the back chatter about the apple orchards, the fields of green, and the outdoor swimming pool at the center of town. None of them can swim, but their excitement about the possibilities is contagious, bringing a smile to my lips.
We pass another row of shops. Bernice, with a poor disposition from days spent traveling, along with a poor sense of humor, thrusts her arm out the open window to point toward a shop. “Look, Calla, they have a store named just for you.”
I glimpse Calla’s face in the mirror as the shop’s sign comes into view of the backseat window. The shop’s name registers and hits her like a physical slap to the face. She shrinks back into the seat, silent, as her face glows red.
“Mother, please.” I give Bernice a pleading look before returning my gaze to the rearview mirror to find Calla’s face turned away from mine, tears snaking down her cheek.
“What?” Bernice whines. “It’s called the Hefty Mart.” Bernice shrugs her shoulders, unaware or unconcerned how her words have hurt the child seated directly behind her.
I hold my tongue, not willing to engage her about such an uncalled-for and ridiculous assault with a car full of cranky travelers. Instead, I press on, forcing the ball of my foot a little more heavily on top of the gas pedal, suddenly eager to locate our temporary accommodations and remove myself from this car.
