The Painted Table(10)

Joann trembles. A fiery attack in the same waters traversed by her Nels. The Alamosa could just as easily be hit and burned. Is the whole world ablaze?

Impulsively, she tells Dorothy scenes from her troubled nightmares. “It’s that prairie fire. It still haunts me,” she says, steadying her hands.

“Oh, Joann, it was such a long time ago,” Dorothy scoffs. “We all have to move on, you know.”

Joann bristles. How can her sister dismiss the horrific event? She will not mention to Dorothy that sometimes, even in daydreams, the fire still burns within her, visions of flames rushing over their mother’s grave. What good would it do? Dorothy too is a daughter of hardship, a motherless sibling. Joann came to the conclusion some time ago that none of her siblings emerged from their needy upbringing unscathed. All of them, but less so Dorothy, were difficult people. It was with relief that Joann had left home after high school, with no desire to see any of them again.

Their conversation moves on. Dorothy speaks with sadness of their mother’s death. “Can you imagine birthing nine babies at home with no medical assistance?” She recalls how weak Clara had been as she lay in bed and how they had all seen the blood. How their father, beside himself, made a pallet for her in the wagon and carried her, and then the baby, out of the house. “And then Pa wasn’t able to tell us that she had bled to death, had Evelyn tell us.”

Hysteria. Acute mania. Hospital for the Insane. It seems clear that Dorothy does not associate these words with their mother. Does not know the cause of her death. Just as well. They would have little impact on self-assured Dorothy. She would not relate.

“Back then,” Dorothy says, “the mysteries surrounding the whole matter of giving birth prevented us from asking very many questions.” Joann tries to change the subject, but her sister muses on, speculating how their lives might be different had Clara survived.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dorothy says, “tragic as it was, in some ways I think her early death made me a stronger person. I became independent, and that was good.”

Joann says nothing. Clearly Dorothy is contrasting herself with Joann’s inadequacies. To Dorothy, she must still be the frightened girl whimpering under the table, aching for her mother’s attention. Childhood emptiness rushes back and stabs her. Joann knows that she still is that little girl.

When Dorothy leaves, Joann makes a few changes. She arranges for weekly grocery delivery, and each evening she makes a bed for Saffee on the sofa. Baby April shares the Murphy bed with her mother.

As Joann strokes the downy head of her nursing baby, pleasant maternal feelings rise within her. She anticipates that this child will bring her comfort, make life good again. These are not the feelings she experienced with her firstborn, the one standing before her now, watching with her usual soberness. The newness of marriage and first motherhood, the war that made them move across the country, the months spent washing Grandma Pearlman’s soiled sheets—all these had hindered closeness with the first child. But now, this new one brings hope for happier days. The war will end. Nels will come home. They will return to Minnesota.

Saffee watches her mother cuddle baby April and sing soft lullabies. She watches Joann kneel at the bathtub every day to scrub diapers, then hang them on a rack to dry. She watches her bathe April in a metal tub on the kitchen table. They no longer bounce on the bed and sing “Mairzy Doats.” As April grows, Joann frequently comments that she is the “spittin’ image” of Nels.

Joann is worried, then frantic, when no letter comes from Nels for four weeks, then five. Has his ship gone down and no one has told her? Finally, an envelope arrives containing an astonishing message.

Dear Joann,

I got yer letter. So the baby was born April 11th! Swell! Wasn’t it sposed to be near the end of May?

Please don’t tell me Tokyo Rose is right. When I hear that woman, I can’t help having doubts—even about you. Some men out here have gotten walking papers from girlfriends back home—and there’s even been a few divorce papers. How low. Its hard enuf just being out here and not knowing if I’ll live thru it.

Your all I have to live for, Joann. Thinking about some other man holding you is driving me crazy. I’m sorry to write this. I hope I’m just brainwashed and it aint true. It’s hard to think straight out here.

I still love you,

Nels

P.S. Some nerve to name her after the month!!!





Joann is devastated, hurt, and angry. She expected him to be happy. Disregarding that he has the highest morals of any man she’s ever met, and disregarding that he’s written that he never takes island shore leave with the other sailors because he wants no part of their “carouzing,” she retaliates.