The Painted Table(66)

“Yes, really.”

Jack is all for it. They duck out a side entrance.




In the bridal suite at the Holiday Inn, Saffee reaches to turn back the sheets. Jack takes her hand.

“We told Reverend Price that we’d pray,” he says. Saffee has forgotten. She is amazed and impressed that Jack has not. They kneel, as self-conscious as they will ever be.

“Lord Jesus, thank You for Saffee, my wonderful, beautiful wife. May we always love each other and please You in our marriage.”

Her heart swells. All she can say is, “Thank You, God.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE



LEGACY





Jack guides the borrowed pickup through countryside dotted with tidy farms. God has gone before them, embroidering His early-morning beauty all around. Diaphanous ribbons of fog silently disperse to reveal a rosy dawn. Their spirits are high and banter comes easily. Jack’s laughter is Saffee’s favorite sound.

Although she has dreaded this trip back to Miller’s Ford, here she is, sitting next to her husband of one week, wishing the drive would never end. She’d watched the clock most of the night. At 5:00 a.m. she woke him. “Let’s go,” she said. “If we get an early start, we can get back and still enjoy the afternoon. It’s a three-hour trip each way.”

Thirty minutes later they left the modest duplex that became their home after a brief honeymoon at the Dells. At first, Saffee was doubtful about renting a duplex. Would she like sharing a house with neighbors? Because the two single garages make a separation between the units, and the rent is reasonable for a two-bedroom place, she agreed.

She had looked forward to shopping with Jack for furniture, but, as keeper of the budget, he sees no possibility of that for some time. They will get by with basics from his parents’ attic until there is some reserve in the bank, he says. There they found a double bed frame, a love seat in need of a slipcover, two mismatched Danish modern chairs, and a small Formica table with tubular aluminum legs. Their only major purchase was a mattress for the bed. Various household items from Kmart filled in where the attic and wedding gifts left off.

“I don’t think my parents left much in the house,” she says as they draw near the town she has avoided for four years. “We can probably check it out pretty quickly.” Maybe there are some dishes, she says. They could use cereal bowls and maybe a chair for the bedroom. She wants to sound as if she’s open to taking away something. After all, Jack borrowed the truck.

When the Miller’s Ford water tower appears on the horizon, Jack is more eager than Saffee. “I want to see where my wife grew up,” he says.

As they cross the bridge over Blue River, she tells him it is where she used to roller-skate in summer and ice-skate below in winter. She directs him to turn right, then left onto Second Street, and points out a large white house on the corner.

“That’s where we lived until I was in ninth grade.” Any number of memories could have come to Saffee as they drive by the house, but the one that comes is of her mother vigorously sanding the Norway table. Saffee’s been trying to figure out how they can avoid seeing it when they get to the “new” house.

The pickup ascends Second Street hill—she marvels that it no longer seems particularly steep. She guides him through the uptown business district, with its familiar storefronts she hurried by for years on her way to school, yet felt like a stranger if ever she entered. She points out the library and, around the corner, the aging Methodist church with its splendid pipe organ. The church where her family no longer holds membership. This guided tour has been a delaying tactic.

They drive along Cottonwood Point Road and turn into the small subdivision with its valley view that so captivated Joann years ago. Saffee eyes the Peterson house. It appears to have a new coat of blue paint. Carefree daffodils bloom along the foundation.

On the adjacent lot, leaves on the ancient apple trees are sparse. Beyond, the redbrick house and yard her parents had once taken pride in looks unkempt. They pull into the driveway. Saffee can’t name her emotion, but it is not a sense of homeness. The garage door needs paint. Nels had been so meticulous. She is glad the house has sold.

“Looks like the new owners will have some work to do,” she says as they walk toward the back entry door. She takes a deep breath and turns the key. Inside, the air is stale and chilly. Saffee pulls back the faded, sun-damaged kitchen curtains to let in light. She remembers Joann sewing them, red-checkered with rickrack trim.

They open cupboards and find most of them empty, other than a dozen or more jelly jars.

She explains that they were used for “everyday” drinking and that, of course, her mother also had nice goblets for guests. Meaning the jelly jars were used every day.