CHAPTER 1
Secrets
(November 1932, Lincoln County, Nebraska)
Shirley hadn't expected to hear rain pelting the house this morning. Yesterday's forecast had called for a blizzard. Expecting a foot or more of snow, folks had gone about preparing for a big one. Farmers and ranchers had checked on fuel, feed, and other various concerns while the women busied themselves with groceries, canned goods from the cellar, and warm outerwear. Shirley had driven into Brady to go shopping for flour, oatmeal, and other sundry items. She'd stopped in at Edward's Drugstore for a jar of Vanco rub and hand lotion. The vapors would help with four-year-old Howie's croup. Al, her husband, needed the lotion for the cracks in his dry, leathery hands.
This morning, the four-year-old was bright eyed and begging to help get the mail.
Wanting him warm and dry, Shirley lectured Howie as she knelt to button his corduroy coat and buckle his black over shoes. "Howie, do you promise you'll stay out of the water?"
Slipping on Al's everyday coat, Shirley grabbed the umbrella she'd found in a shed out behind the house. Old and scraggly, it was good for keeping Howie dry while she preferred the rain in her face. Walking along, holding the parasol over Howie, it didn't take long for her to become soaked. Meanwhile, mud puddles were sprouting, like magic, all over the driveway, while overhead, huge cottonwoods swayed under the darkened sky.
Fascinated by these mini-lakes, Howie said, "Look," pointing at a puddle. "Mommy, can I go swimming in one of them?"
"Howie, we don't swim in mud puddles. It's too cold. Besides, the lightening is close. Look up ahead." Sitting on a post, alongside a country road, going east and west, the mailbox wasn't far away. Tugging on the boy, while trying to distract him from the mini lakes, they arrived at their destination. Just then, a streak of nearby lightening flashed, startling Shirley, causing her to screech. Alarmed by her reaction, Howie whimpered, "Mommy, you scared me," as tears rolled down his plumpish cheeks.
"We're fine sweetie," Shirley said, wanting to get Howie back inside ... Hurrying to open the mailbox, she gasped. — A "violet" envelope jumped out at her— Breathless, she grabbed it, shoving it in one of the coat pockets, and half-way wishing the letter would float away with the rain. Only one person used violet envelopes ... Or maybe? Taking a few steps, Shirley stopped, as her fingers reached in her pocket. Pulling the letter out, she dared her eyes to read the name on the return address ... Taking a deep breath, she saw that it was Bonnie Jo who'd sent the letter and not the other person. Relieved, she picked Howie up, swinging him back and forth, while the two of them laughed in the pouring rain.
Bonnie, a stunning beauty with wavy black hair, and the oldest of three children, had married this past summer and was living 150 miles east in York, Nebraska. Close to genius, she'd foregone scholarships to two different schools. She'd done this, despite knowing it was an unusual privilege for a girl to attend college. Instead, Bonnie had married Bob Way, her boyfriend, who'd accepted a job at his uncle's neighborhood market in York. Shirley still hadn't gotten over Bonnie's decision. It hurt to think that, instead of building a career, Bonnie was stuck in a mini Airstream trailer. Good heavens! Would there be room to breathe?
Shirley knew it wasn't her business what Bonnie did; nevertheless.... That and the fact that, a week ago, Bonnie had missed Thanksgiving Day. Without her coming home, the holiday had been disillusionment. Bonnie's humor and vitality made even a badly burned turkey taste good. It wasn't that Shirley didn't love all her children equally. Instead, her rapport with this eldest was unusual. An extreme extrovert, Bonnie had a liveliness that touched on Shirley's introversion and reserve.
Al had suggested that Shirley stop living vicariously through this daughter. While Bonnie's marriage diminished this tendency, it remained an issue. However, thanks to Bev Temple, Shirley was finding a life of her own. Bev was the wife of Clark, the landowner for whom Al worked as a hired hand. Not having siblings, the energetic Bev tucked Shirley under her wing, making her a sister. The Dustys and the Temples lived in the same farmyard not five minutes apart, and Bev invited Shirley over each morning; they would sit in the sunroom doing crafts. Bev did enamel paintings called wicker ware. A dab of enamel made vibrant flowers, their favorite decoration. Bev provided the wicker items, such as sandals, little baskets, and purses. Shirley provided the skill and ideas. A far better painter, Shirley could turn out exquisite work in amazing color schemes. Both houses were filled with enamel items. This sort of fun was new for Shirley.
Not long ago, she and Bev had tried millinery. While Shirley looked splendid in any hat she made, Bev wore boxy male-style hats worn way down. Her children teased her, insisting she toss these head coverings away. Shirley silently agreed, thinking they made Bev look like a turtle.
Celeste and Shirley had shared some of their first woman-to-daughter laughs over this "turtle look"—laughs of warmth and intimacy.
Turning to Howie, Shirley asked, "Guess who wrote us? We got a letter from your big sister. We'll read her letter together."
Uninterested, Howie pointed over to the barn where a '25 Ford truck sat parked. "There's Daddy's truck." The truck belonged to Clark; however, Al used it for his work. Throughout the Dustys' married life, Al had worked for as many as three farmers. Shirley, originally a city girl, and Al, a Sandhills boy, had attended the same high school in Lincoln. Ironically, they'd met for the first time two nights before graduation. Until four years ago, they'd lived in the Sandhills.
Hurrying along, Shirley rushed inside the tenant house. One of two homes in the same farmyard, the Dustys' place sat at the west end. The Temples, whose farm was larger than that of average farmers, lived at the east end. Their charming home, a big, three-story with a large front porch, was the nicest place in the neighboring countryside. By comparison, the Dustys lived in a modest, two-story house. A white picket fence with a swinging gate enclosed the yard. Enormous old trees and a large red barn separated the two places. With the farm and ranch set against the south hills, the Dustys had never known such contentment.
Stepping into the kitchen, Shirley laid her wet coat over the back of a chair. Howie, who was in a hurry to go play, dropped his jacket on the floor. A baby at the time of the move, Howie had been a "late" child. Unsure of having another, Shirley had been elated by his arrival. Except for his brown hair, Howie was the image of his father. Only thirty-eight, Shirley longed for another child—a girl or a boy to help with the work. Picturing herself bathing a baby and rocking and nursing the small infant, Shirley had no choice but to squelch this strong maternal desire. This was partially because of her spells with worry and anxiety. The biggest reason—her thought were interrupted. Remembering Howie, Shirley turned to help him with his muddy overshoes; instead, Howie charged off to the living room, refusing to wait for her help. Pretending she didn't see this, Shirley poured another cup of coffee. Taking a seat at the table, her work-worn fingers tore at the envelope.
Dearest Folks,
I thought I would die Thanksgiving Day. I sat here alone thinking about my mother's mincemeat pie. Bob's uncle made him work until three in the afternoon. He was tired and hungry by the time he came home. Thanks to our economy and this unrelenting Depression, I didn't even have a turkey to fix him. As you can see, I'm in need of cheer. Please, can you come for a visit? Bring yourselves and some of that delicious pie. My homesickness makes me fear losing this baby. With Bob working all the time, this minuscule tin trailer drives me nutty. You have to see it, in order to understand what I am saying.
(Reading ahead, Shirley's fingers began drumming a rhythm on the table.)
My idleness has led to daydreaming. Incredibly, my fantasies have become a reality. They go way back to that day when I was five. Remember us borrowing the neighbor's car, so we could go to Lincoln to visit your sister? When we finally got to A Street, Sylvie was busy, fixing lemonade for her guests. Instead, we visited with Uncle Mack— Mom, I felt so bad for you, but I never told you. Even then, it seemed like our discussing HER was prohibited.
Dad, this part is to you. Even though you won't discuss Sylvie, I'm going to anyway. You know me! I need to express my thoughts; as a married woman it's my right. Instead of going to Sylvie's door with Mom and me, you sat in the car, refusing to budge. Even today, you scowl every time her name comes up. I don't understand the reason for that. You've never met her. How can you dislike someone you don't know? She's Mother's sister — and in case you forgot, she's your sister-in-law.
Would it help you if you knew how congenial she really was—and is? You won't remember this, but when I forgot my purse and ran back, Sylvie came out and took my picture. She was drenched in 'lavender' and smelled of 'lavender lilac bushes.' She told me that she wanted to drop me in her pocket and keep me forever. That's how my "Sylvie Star" scrapbook began. Every week, I would sneak the newspaper and cut out those society column pictures and articles. It made you so mad, but as I already said, marriage opened up my mouth!
So now to my plan. York is close to Lincoln. Once the baby is born, I'm looking her up. I think she might be interested in having the baby and me in a society page "picture special" with her. We'd call it Sylvie, Niece and 'Grandbaby. I remember you saying that Sylvie's only child died. My baby could be a "sort of grandchild" shared by all of you. That way, we'd become a close circle. Mom, it's too bad that you and Sylvie were separated in high school and lost touch. It's time for your reunion and long afternoon talks.
Homesick, Bonnie
* * *
At least our daughter misses us, Shirley thought, setting the emotionally laden (explosive) topic of Sylvie on top of the icebox. It was just that Bonnie Jo had always been so independent. She'd even refused to nurse as a baby. For once, she was in need of her parents. Getting up for more coffee, Shirley speculated on when they would be able to leave. This would be their first visit with Bonnie since her wedding and here she was pregnant. Sitting there, Shirley imagined two things—Bonnie sitting in a college classroom using her brilliant mind and Bonnie, at home with an adorable baby—one that had endless colic, like Celeste when she was a baby.
She was imagining both scenarios when the demons, her secrets, like the flash of lightening, began taunting her. Shirley wished she could put these skeletons in the trash and burn them. Better yet, she wanted to beat them to death. After all, they beat on her day in and day out the way they'd done out at the mailbox.
These "old bones in the closet" were about the unspeakable—about something Shirley had done to Sylvie. Bonnie's letter was right. Sylvie and Shirley were totally cut off from each other. The last time they'd spoken was right before high school graduation. Shirley got up, reaching for the envelope and reading the letter a second time. Despite what Bonnie wrote, Shirley knew it wasn't that simple. Al would read the letter and want her to warn Bonnie about Sylvie. Growing anxious, she laid the letter on the table, telling herself this really wasn't a problem—at least nothing she hadn't handled before. As soon as Al read the letter, she would put it away—out of sight, out of mind. With his heavy workload, Al would forget.
Picking up the dishes, Shirley stood at the sink. Busy scrubbing them, she began fretting about something else—the trip. Though she desperately wanted to go to Bonnie's, the issue was affordability. The gas would cost too much. Depression or not, for the Dustys, who lived on a fixed salary, going that far was a problem. With Al's pay, their income left them making the most of every penny. Shirley had her egg and cream money, but that went for necessities. There was never enough left over for fun and frivolities. The exception was their Sunday picnics to the small town parks. With the Depression on, neighborhood gatherings were an added bonus.
Shirley smiled; thinking about how much getting together meant to Celeste, her middle child, who expressed herself in the cutest ways. "I don't see why everyone complains. Rich or poor, we neighbors all get together. For once, people are staying home, and we're all in the same boat."
Celeste, age twelve and naïve, could put almost anyone into fits of laughter. Bonnie, who'd known "all of it" by age eight, told Shirley, "Celeste will get married and have to ask her husband how she got pregnant!"
Moving to the living room and seeing muddy overshoe prints all over the floor, Shirley sighed, bending down to wipe Howie's nose.
"Don't," he said, shaking his head, asking if he could go see his dad, whining when she told him no. Had the day not turned gloomy and anxious, she would have said yes. Darn it, she wanted to go to Bonnie's. How did parents tell a lonely, pregnant daughter they couldn't come? Walking over to the floor lamp, Shirley turned on the light. Taking a seat in the worn out easy chair, she stared absentmindedly at the RCA console. She'd won the console at a carnival drawing up in Broken Bow. The family was thrilled about having a radio. Winter Sundays, after eating Al's chili and playing board games, they listened to radio shows. Amos 'n' Andy and Buck Rogers, as well as the great dance bands— Duke Ellington and Glen Miller— were among their favorites.
Wishing the music was playing now, she got up and went to the window. Gazing absentmindedly at the nearby hills and cattle, she saw Clark Temple's pickup in the pasture. That was when an idea began to emerge. Yes!
Certain she'd found the solution to the gas problem, Shirley scurried over to Howie. Scooping him up, she kissed him, convinced her answer was just across the way. Incredibly generous people, the Temples didn't owe the Dustys anything extra. Nevertheless, they would insist on their going to Bonnie's. For one thing, Bev adored Bonnie and couldn't stand to see the young wife, her "sparring partner," suffer. Both of them were outspoken and opinionated, arguing over promiscuity (sex), religion, and politics—things they wouldn't have dared discuss in public. In shy Shirley's opinion, these were issues every woman wanted to discuss but put aside as improper fodder for the mind.
Shirley left the room with a lilt in her step and far more vigor than she'd had when she'd entered it. Going to the kitchen, she decided to make an applesauce cake. She and Al would make it up to their landlords. Laughing at herself, for being certain of the Temple's generosity, she danced over to her recipe book on the counter. The potluck at Banner, the country church where they worshiped, was tomorrow. Though still uncertain of herself and bearing the scars of a deficient childhood, the change from the Sandhills, where Al had spent most his life, to here in the Platte Valley, had been a good one. Thanks to Clark and Bev, she was finally overcoming some of her shyness in exchange for friends. The same was true for her daughter Celeste.
Long and gangly, and as thin as a sideways ruler, Celeste was over at the Temples—another overnight. She'd become Ginny Temple's best friend when the family had moved onto the place four years ago. Ginny was also Celeste's first friend. Now eighth-graders, both of them had skipped seventh grade as advised by Miss England, the country school teacher at Union, a mile down the road. Celeste was particularly young, having started school at age four.
Always together, Ginny and Celeste made quite a pair. Ginny, a petite, whirlwind of a girl, with chocolate hair and freckles, owned the stronger, more willful personality. By contrast, Celeste, tall and skinny, with a waif's face, a thick mop of hair, and a layer of baby fat amiably about her face, was the reticent follower. Ginny took it upon herself to lead Celeste around. It seemed Ginny tied an invisible rope to Celeste—the same rope that Bev tied to Shirley. Were folks to say what stood out in Shirley's youngest daughter, they'd mention three things—a slightly jumbled look, her striking auburn hair, and those long, dangly legs. The continuous blushing was almost as noticeable. Ginny, on the other hand, was more of a traditional beauty, without unusual traits.
