Hidden Secret

 

In Preacher’s Creek 

Secret in the Barn        S.E.Kane        May 8, 2014 

It was a story that begged the telling, but could not bear to be spoken.  Yet, seventy years after it came to pass, it was time.  It was released and so was the teller. 

 

They were old women now, the both of them, sitting at the kitchen table with coffee and pieces of apple pie.  Louise was the maker of the pie, it was her house, and it was her kitchen.  Her older sister Grace suddenly shrank into something heavy from within.  “Girl, I gotta tell you something.  Something that happened to me, and I must tell someone before I die.” 

 

Louise was stunned.  Grace was never a keeper of secrets, but this one weighed heavily upon her.  Louise leaned toward Grace, placing one old veined hand over another’s old veined hand.  Grace squeezed it and looked into Louise’s eyes, as her own eyes streamed quiet tears. 

 

“You went off with Ma to Quincy to buy new shoes, and she dropped me off at Uncle Lew’s house.  She said I could play with snotty cousin Velma while you all went off.” 

 

She paused and blew her nose into a hanky. 

 

“Well, me and Velma were playing in the barn when her three older brothers showed up.  Lyndle was holding a stick and a bread wrapper.  Velma giggled and said that we were gonna do something fun, really fun! 

 

“The brothers made me stretch out on the barn floor with Harold and Melvin holding my arms down.  Whatcha you doing?  Whatcha you doing?  I got real scared.   

 

“Lyndle grabbed my legs, spread ‘em wide apart, so Velma could kneel between ‘em.  Then Velma…” Grace gulped back tears, her voice turning ragged.  “Velma put the stick into the bag wrapper, and she told me this was gonna be real fun, ‘cause she’d seen her ma and pa do this all the time. 

 

“Velma put that stick in my woman parts.  She gave me a big grin.  Then she shoved it all the way in.  I screamed and screamed and screamed.  Aunt Lydia opened the kitchen door with a dish rag in her hand and she called out What you kids doing out there?  Come outta that barn! 

 

“The boys ran off as Velma pulled the stick out of my woman parts.  The bread wrapper was all bloody, and Velma turned white.  She said You wipe yourself off and go on home, now!  She threw a dirty rag at me, and ran to the horse trough to wash off. 

 

“I put that rag in my old bloomers and tucked it up as tight as I could.  Then I ran home.  ‘Member our old house, just down the road from Aunt Lydia’s house?  Well, I barely got there, I was so weak.  Ran up the stairs and filled the tub with water.  I soaked in it, and it turned pink.  Emptied the water, poured more water, emptied it, until the bath tub water was clean.” 

 

Louise was silent, the front of her apron wet with tears and her eyes opened wide.  OhGraceohGrace…. With hands over her mouth, Louise shook her head.  No..no..no..no… 

 

“I knew where Ma kept the pads for that time of the month and I put one on.  Took my bloody clothes out to the pump, rubbed them and rubbed them.  They would come clean.  So, took ‘em down to the creek and threw it all in the muddy water.  They rolled down the creek with the mud covering the blood. 

 

“When you and Ma come back, I told her I was bleeding, it was my time of the month for the first time.  She was happy, called me her my big girl.  I never told her, never told anyone ‘til now. 

 

“Something was tore inside, but it musta healed.  But that’s why I never had babies.  The doctor told me that the tear got infected and ruined my uterus. Ernest was just as happy, since he was a selfish son of a bitch who drank more than he did anything else. 

 

“So, that’s it.  That’s what I had ta tell you.”  Grace cleared the table, while Louise couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.  “I’ll do the dishes, you just go rest now.  You look darn tired.”  She paused and looked out the kitchen window.  “Looks like we got a storm coming.  Want me to bring in the laundry?”  And without waiting for an answer, Grace picked up the clothesbasket, going outside to bring in the underwear. 

 

 

 

 

Letters for Lewis

Postcards and letters from that era

When word went out from the Post Office about the letter, the town’s curiosity raised more than just an eyebrow.  

No one received actual letters in Lewis and Marie’s town.  Bills were natural and expected, but a true letter?  Postcards which were passed from hand to hand before reaching the addressed house were common.  

But a letter with a stamp and postmark?

The town women flocked to the post office, cackling all the way with speculation.

When Postman Harold Sims swung the bag over saddle back and then mounted, he turned to the brood.  “Y’all old hens go on about your business.  If’n I see one of yous, I’ll tattle to the preacher aboutcha.”  

Then Sims clicked to the horse who began the memorized mail route.

Grumbling and clucking, women dispersed to their own cozy coops.  We’ve never gotten a letter…Why’d they get a letter?...speculation lingered unanswered.

Marie swept dust off the porch, watched Minerva and Rosemary with a sense on contentment.  My children!  Our babies!  She placed a gentle hand on the rounding belly, anticipating a January birth.  It was a chilly November now with Lewis and other farmers bringing in the corn and bean crops.  A smile of joy lit her face.

Sims rode and stopped at her home, with Marie ambling to meet him. Her smile dropped like a bushel of rocks as he handed her the letter addressed to Lewis.  The postmark and two-cent stamp brought a shiver across her.  Minnesota?  October 30, 1927?  Lewis Cardiff?

Marie shushed the girls inside, with the letter in her deepest apron pocket.  What to do?  What to do?  Marie carried the letter and shoved it into an old shoe box way back in the closet.  I’ll think about it later.

Breakfasts, dinners, and supers passed over the kitchen table day after day.  January came, and with it a little girl.  Lewis attempted to hold back his disappointment about it not being a boy, but Marie knew with all her heart that the girl she held in her arms was another child who would not replace Bobbie.  They named her Irma after Marie’s best friend, loving the girl each day.

Marie Cardiff on the farm

In March during planting time, when Lewis would work sunrise to sunset, Hal Martin’s wagon from the train station drew up in front of the porch, with an unknown woman and her son descending.  Marie peered through her starched lace curtains as the two walked hand in hand to knock on the door.

Marie cautiously and slowly opened the door.

“Miz Cardiff?  My name is Norma Swenson and this here boy is my son Billy.  He’s only twelve, and a might shy.”  She shoved Billy forward where Marie could view him.  Brown hair…tall…and blue eyes just like Lewis…

Norma Swenson rambled on about Billy being Lewis Cardiff’s son and could Lewis take Billy for a bit as she was getting work down in St. Louis through the summer and---

Marie saw red, blood red as she grabbed her broom and batted the two off the porch, shouting words she didn’t think she knew.  “If you EVER come back, I will shoot you myself!  You and your bastard son.  You go to St. Louis and do what do best… lying on your back with your legs in the air!”

She hit them with all the force a strong woman could.  Hal Martin tipped his hat to Marie, whispering, “Them whores! They picked up soldiers like yer Lewis just as gold pieces back then. Don’t you worry about this’n.  You’re a good woman.  No one won’t hear a word about ‘er.”  Hal and his wagon of huffing lady and confused boy disappeared.

Lewis, on his way to The Front

Marie hurried to retrieve the shoe box and its hidden secret. And to read it, anger growing and creeping, until it reached her heart. 

When Lewis came in the kitchen the door, Marie shoved the letter into his face, shouting for him to read it, read it right now.  His face turned ashen white and then crimson as he read.  

All the stuttering excuses did not save him as Marie swatted him as if he were a blue bottle fly.  Lewis stumbled backwards, sprawling on the dusty ground.

Marie volleyed his dinner at his face.  Then she shut and locked the door.  Lewis would eat pig slop for the next week all the while wondering if there were any more bastards up north.  

What will I do?  What will Marie do? Those questions would linger for some time.

Going On, Going Forward

Marie and Lewis; Left to right Rose Mary, Irma (my mother), and Minerva
about 1928

Oh, Bobby!  My Bobby!

Those words were never spoken aloud, by Lewis and Marie Cardiff.  They knew if they did, they would never stop crying.  And all the parents in their small town, who had lost babies and children to diphtheria, would never stop either.  The streets would run with tears.

Minerva was a baby when Bobby died in 1922.  Marie hugged her tighter than a tick, afraid to let her go.  Lewis took her and rocked her through the late hours at night.

Another child was born in 1925, Rose Mary.  Marie and Lewis had silently prayed for a boy, but those words also were never spoken aloud.

Life on a farm is about life and living.  Crops were planted in spring, harvested in early fall.  Cows birthed calves, giving milk for them and the Cardiff family alike.  Horses, hogs, gardens:  all were life and living.  Going on, going forward.

Cars were now on the streets, “…dirty nasty things,” Marie Cardiff said some seventy years later.  Electric lines were appearing and some folks had phones.  Going on....

Lewis and Marie with last child,
Vada 1940

From his field south of the town, Lewis heard a sound, one that he prayed he would never hear again.  World War…bombs…planes…sounds that still froze his being.  

A plane wobbled from the south, its wings near to breaking off.  The nose dipped down and landed in Lewis Cardiff’s field.

Marie carried Rose and dragged Minerva to the field. What is that?  A plane? 

The entire town poured into the field and surrounded the plane.  They had never seen one, read about them, but now, here it was.  A plane in Lewis Cardiff’s field.

Robertson Aircraft Company lettered the side of the crumpled plane.  The nose was in the mud and the tail was up in the air.  One wing was punctured and the rudder was askew.

Next thing people knew, the pilot leaped out of the plane with Don Robertson, the owner’s son.  “I tol’ you this heap was a piece of shit, you knew it and I knew it.  You bastard!  Coulda killed us both!”  He stomped to the road and roared, “Where’s the goddam train!” 

In unison the silent townspeople pointed to the station a mile away, and the pilot stomped all the way there, raising his fist at the plane and shouting a variety of obscenities.  Some gasped, some roared with laughter, and the more holy ones smirked inwardly.

Mr. Robertson waited for a second train heading to St. Louis, Missouri, pulled into the station.  The tightly packed crowd moved with him, over one hundred souls.  Like yellow ducklings with their mama, they followed the poor man, who was wondering what the hell his pa would say when he heard about this.

A day later another plane circled the field, where the crumpled wreck sat.  The new plane chose to land in the Cardiff pasture next to the house.  A pale and defeated Don Robertson exited the plane, followed by the new pilot, Charles Lindbergh. 

His name whispered through the re-gathered town.  Daredevil Lindbergh? Air mail?  

early flying years

The town had foreseen that Don Robertson would drag his tail back to the damaged plane. En mass the ladies brought out boxes of fried chicken, pies, more fried chicken and more pies.  Tables were lugged by the men unwillingly straggling after them. The men also set a rusty table up around the crumpled plane. The tables would later be moved to the replacement plane.

Don Robertson and Chas. Lindbergh examined the plane wreck, determining that it was useless. 

Then Robertson shouted to Lewis Cardiff so that all could hear, “This here plane is simply broke.  But,” and he looked at the chicken-eating crowd, “We’re fixing it up.  And, there’d better be every last piece o’ metal and the like.”

Actually, a family reunion photo, but still
fried chicken and pie.

The silent pie eating group nodded in agreement.  Who would do such a thing?  Why, no one we know would do that.

It was determined that Robertson and Lindbergh would fly the plane from the pasture and head to St. Louis.  A mechanic from the company would join them, after Robertson had a meaningful talk with his pa.

When the three returned it was already dusk.  Marie hustled the three men into her house and made up the rooms for the night.  She handed Rose Mary to Don Robertson, a desperate looking Robertson, who seemed glad to hold an infant who would not say one single word to him.

Minerva climbed onto Lindbergh’s lap and played with his collar. 

The next morning while the mechanic worked on the broken plane, Lindbergh remained in the parlor, quietly reading magazines.  

Source

By mid-afternoon, the broken plane had been repaired and they all flew back in the two planes to St. Louis.  

Lewis, Marie, and their children were planting corn in the field, as they looked to the sky.  Lindbergh dipped down his wing to them.

After Lindbergh had flown across the Atlantic and was in Paris, he sent to the Cardiff family
a postcard with his photograph printed upon it.  They both read it many times. Well, then.  He made it.  Sure was a nice man.

Nearly seventy years later, Marie said this about Lindbergh:

“He was a quiet man, a gentleman.  Yet he talked about his childhood on a farm, and about his father, who was a Senator.  His mother was a teacher, he said.”

Somewhere in our family history, the postcard was stolen. Who would do such a thing?  Why, no one we know would do that.

For Lewis and Marie, life and living is about going on, going forward.

Hell Freezes Over

Oh, how we loved you!

February removes any doubt some may have about the beauty of snowfall and ice-covered bare branches.  White pure white snow from December had disappeared with Santa, as did the joy of making snow angels. Now white snow was a brown slush that froze at night and then became cold slush in the morning.

We sat on the back steps with cold butts and red noses because Mom had had enough of us.  She threw us out the door and told us stay out here until I let you come in. We understood why.  We had had ‘flu for a week and puked and puked and puked some more.  When we finally stopped puking, we started fightin’ and racin’ around the house, screamin’ and laughin’.

That was when the back door opened, and Mom tossed us out. So, there we sat with ice covering our sockless shoes, since Mom didn’t give us enough time to put socks on. Mitten less fingers and frozen butts, we were in a world of misery.    We were lucky enough to have coats on.

Robert said, “We’re gonna die, ‘cause I heard Mom tell Dad that she could not. stand. us. anymore.” I nodded solidly, mouth turned down and an icy tear or two on my cheeks. I had heard the same words.

That was when we saw wisps of smoke rising from the garden. Smoke rose and then disappeared. Surely it had frozen in mid-flight.  We saw our salvation there, right there!

Mom had burned trash that day out in the garden.  Everyone burned trash in their frozen gardens.  During summer the gardens were sacred grounds, ‘cause no one, not no one went into a neighbors’ gardens. 

Moms would stand on edges and chat about tomatoes and green beans, pointing out plants. Then they talked about other neighbors and husbands, who was doing what and where they were going and what they were wearing.  We never stuck around but we did not ever step foot in the gardens. 

But today, we were gonna step foot in the garden. Yup.  That’s what we were doin’. We would not die.

A garden in winter was a bunch of twisted brown plants stuck in their own hell of frozen ground. There were frozen tomatoes hanging onto those vines, tassels of corn and twisted plants that died back in November but wouldn’t give up. But there in the garden were the embers of burning trash. We were saved. Thank you, Jesus, we were saved! We wouldn't freeze to death.

Squatting down close to the smoking blackness dotted with glowing embers, we saw in the center of it all, a treasure: Monkey Ward Christmas Catalog.  The stuff of dreams fulfilled, and dreams not fulfilled, the Monkey Ward was there in among the embers.

Burning that catalog is sacrilege to any child, for each page held the magic of a child’s dreams, hopes that someday those toys would leap from the page and find a way to be in their hands.  But there it lay in smoke and glowing sparks with all its promises. 

With a rusted and burnt coat hanger, Robert snagged it and pulled it to our feet.  Oh, to live and hope again for those treasures! We flipped through the gift-laden pages, gasping in delight and joy. This, this one!! See! Oh, there’s one like Santa gave you!  Page after page, quickly then even more so, we fanned those pages giggling.  All our wishes, maybe for another Christmas!

Then, disaster turned Catalog from sparkling embers to a full fire.  Jesus! Help us!

We did what any four- and five-year child would do. Robert used the coat hanger to flip the fiery catalog out away from us, into the brown garden.

Glowing then flaming, it landed smack dab in the middle of the sacred ground, bursting and sending flames.  Fire crawled up the tomato vines toward the round red globes. They exploded, yup, they exploded! Red goo burst and splattered! We jumped and laughed, so glorious, so spectacular!

The fire became a snake, a red snake that curled around green beans. It grasped the corn stalks and wormed its way up to the tassels where they were fourth-of-July fireworks!  We watched with joy, and then it became horror. The fire was embedded in the center and was working its ways to the edges.

Screaming. That’s what we did. Lots of screaming.  What? Where? We are in biiiig trouble!

Robert was an expert in big trouble, he knew it well, being a five-year-old. But, me? What did I, a four-year-old, know about big trouble? He took off to the garage with me in tow. Robert scurried to a place he knew well, the work bench. There was a hole he had made over time, one that could be hidden by buckets and paint cans.  He scooted over just enough for a little girl with a skinny butt just big enough to fit. Our butts were now warm, but the rest of us shivered in fear.

The fire engine siren rang, at first blocks away and then in the garden.  Voices, we heard shouting and more shouting.

Over there, it started over there…Hey, hey…cut the stalks down…bastards, don’t you see that…water, we need more water…grab the hose by the porch…WATCH…it’s heading to the propane tank…dammit! Didn’t hear what I said...That man’s shed, hose it down…Grab that…

The neighbors were there. Every person in the whole town was there.  Some brought buckets and filled from their own houses.  One to another, one to another, they threw water onto the spots that still burned.

We peered through a hole under the work bench. Even Grandma was there with Mom, both watching the fire as it was extinguished. Grandma had that kind of clenched mouth look that meant she was, well, she was, I don’t know what.  But Mom? Mom looked scared, even though her fists were clenched.

One of the men held up the remaining pieces of Monkey Ward catalog and showed it to Mom, who immediately saw what had happened. Her face crumpled with tears. Where are they?  Has anyone see Robert and Susie? 

Neighbors scattered, each heading to places they knew where we would, could be. We were never shy about invading our neighbors’ yards, garages, outhouses, their back porches, bushes, trees, even churches.  Nothing was holy, nothing was sacred, nothing was just theirs. After all, this town had been our kingdom

They called our names, shouted out our names, screamed out our names.

I rested my forehead on my knees and started weeping.  Robert cried in hiccups. We had no where to go, to hide. We’re gonna have t’ leave forever.  

Robert nodded. We can catch the train when it goes through town. They  were kinda slow, and we can jump on one and hide.  I nodded.  But we both knew we were doomed.

Dad’s truck rumbled, we heard the door slam and wrapped his big arms around Mom.  The blackened catalog crumbled into his hands, and he knew immediately what had happened.

That half smile he had when he wasn’t exactly mad showed on his mouth. Robert always hid in that same spot, so Dad walked straight to the garage, pulled the barrier apart, then pulled us out. He scooped us up and carried us to Mom.

I don’t remember much after that.  One moment we were in the kitchen, the next in the tub, and then Grandma was toweling us dry.  We ate hot dogs and corn, and then were in bed. We were worn to a rag.

I heard Dad reminding Grandma about some of his stupid adventures.

Grandma harrumphed and Dad hawed.  Mom said some words we never heard her say before.

Doing something so magnificent is exhausting.

Gift, Freely Given

Bud and Helen's house

Heat surrounded and invaded the house as July dragged on and on.  Windows were thrown open, front and back doors begging for some sort of breeze, but all was denied. Cicadas screamed a non-stop song, as if they were complaining to God Himself. 


Laundry had hung limp and still damp since morning. Cats flattened themselves on grass in the shade with the largest canopy. There was no joy to be found, none whatsoever.  

Bud and Helen lay around on the same grass and neither cats nor humans found relief under drooping leaves. 

Helen at age 5 and Bud at age 3; Helen was always tall.

He stared through patches of leaves and asked of God: Why, oh why did you create such torture?  

Helen said nothing so innocent: Damn it! Haven't You done enough today? Shit, we need some wind. Dammit! Some snow, even.  Shit!

Despite the torture that only July can give, down came skipping their cousin, Margaret, from her house high up on a hill. Wind blows up there. We sit in a sink hole of flames and she skips. Damn her. Helen grimaced and lay back to await the cuteness that was Margaret's all alone.

"I got a new dress! Papa bought it for me! From the Sears and Roebuck catalog! It cost 50 cents, 50 cents! Why, that could buy two dresses for you, Helen."  

Margaret twirled and the skirt swung out, a pink deliciousness.  "See what it can do when I swing around!"

"I can see your panties. You got a hole in 'em.  What did you do? Poop through that hole??" Helen spit out, staring up at the wafting skirt. "I can see your butt through it. That hole is so huge, a mosquito could fly into it and bite your butt at least a dozen times. Then you'd have red bites and you'd scratch at 'em all the time." Helen smiled outwardly. Inwardly, Helen used her newly found rich cussing words. "Why, you'd be awake all night!" 

The thought filled Helen with indescribable glee.

Margaret twirled, trying to see her butt and her skirt floated around. When she felt there was no hole, she sniffed with all the superiority only a cousin named Margaret could summon. "You're joking me. I'm gonna tell Papa and he'll send my brothers to beat you up.  Beat you up bad!" 

Bud and Helen smirked, this time openly as Margaret turned to stomp home. Ma opened the screen door and called out, "You two come get these and feed the lambs. And make sure you fill the water tank. Poor things, in the heat."  She held two nipple bottles."

Bud

Bud dragged himself up, but Margaret raced to the bottles first. "See, I beat you. I'm faster than you. You're just lazy, too lazy to run." She held the bottles up over her head, trophies of her superiority. "Ha!" She skipped to the pen, where two orphaned lambs waited.

Bud trudged behind her and Helen placed one foot after the other. Dust billowed up around her, then dropped with finality. What a bitch. Even the dust can't take it. 

Margaret giggled, holding a bottle in each hand. "See! I can feed them both at the same time! You can fill the water tank!  I have to finish feeding them!" She smiled her dripping honey smile and turned away.

Helen swore a stream of new words and they both walked away, quite happy they did not have to stand in the sun.  Bud exclaimed, "I got me an idea..."

Moments later, Bud emerged from the privy with a steaming log about the size of a cigar, all wrapped up in a page from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. It was a page of cute dresses for 50 cents each. Helen tore zinnias and tied a bow around the cigar-sized feces and waited.

Margaret skipped back. "See, the lambs like me! They drank the whole bottles. I'll come down and do this again!"

Helen held out the wrapped excrement. "Here. We made this for you. You always help us, and we wanted to give this to you!" Take it, you goddamn girl in your 50 cent dress!

From Pike County, Illinois

Margaret squealed in delight. "For me? And it's all wrapped up!" She reached for it.


Bud carefully laid it on her palm. Then he and Helen waited.

Margaret did exactly as they knew she would. She screamed, dropped her gift in horror, then ran crying the entire way home. They could hear her.

Helen smiled at Bud and Bud smiled at Helen. "Well, then." The scream died in the distance. "That was a hell of a thing."

They picked up buckets by the pump and filled them to pour into the water tank.  Time and time again, water was poured until filling the tank almost to the rim. There was still water in the buckets. Then they did what any child would do on a God-awful hot day. 

Dumping buckets of water, throwing buckets of water, squealing as water trickled down ,pouring over their heads, cooling them down--it seemed to be the best thing to do.  As they listened to Margaret, the air became noticeably cooler. 


My apologies for profanity used in this post. Aunt Helen (as part of her character's persona) has begun to swear/curse. The death of Bud and Helen's father in 1932 affected them both in different ways. My father became moody and depressed, while Aunt Helen developed inward dialogue, which at times became verbal.