By Greg Venne

Copyright © 2016 by Greg Venne

CHAPTER 1

            A German artillery shell landed close to Auggie Bedell. So we were told. I could imagine it killed him right there and then. For a while I did think of his torn body, but I put that aside in time. His remains lie in a field near Verdun, but a gravestone out in St. Catherine’s Cemetery here in Twin Pines notes the span of his life: 1896 to 1918. Our courtship started when he turned 20, but we kept our eyes on each other before that.

Auggie’s father, Ernest, came over to our house on the Wisconsin River and told my father. Father told Mother. Mother and Father told me. With a quiet knock on my bedroom door, they took no more than one or two steps in and seemed to freeze. My father said, “We’ve heard some sad news today. Auggie was…didn’t survive an artillery attack. His father just stopped by.”

            Now, almost 70 years past, my father’s face appears clearly. He tried to show strength as expected of a man, but he carried his hurt for me. Just in how he tried to hold his lips…his hesitation in drawing closer…the slight turn and tilt of his head toward Mother, hoping for her to say something soothing.

            “August served his country. That’s something to be proud of. I’m sure he died with grace on his soul,” she said. She did not show Father’s hesitation in drawing close. Rather, she stood back. Giving a slight grimace that also seemed like a small smile, Mother’s face looked like she was thinking, and before they left me alone in my room, she looked serene. To be honest with myself, I have always wanted her to be sad, at least as sad as Father. Both were always reserved. Most all Prevetts are. Father returned in less than five minutes and sat by my bed as I curled deep into the bedspread. When my shoulders jerked, I felt his hand rest on my back. In small strokes, he rubbed gently. Once he got up and closed the door, but he returned and continued. At supper, Mother served us as usual, but Father drew his chair close to me.

            Before bedtime, Mother said to me, “Take strength in your prayers to Mary, Mother of God. Let her virtue lead you now.” She walked into her bedroom and as she closed the door, I heard a soft, “Goodnight.” I could not tell if she was addressing me. That night Corrine slept on one side of me, Edna on the other. Julia and Lydia curled up at the foot of the bed. That’s how deeply sisters can love. A year younger than me, my sister Claudia stayed in her room.

            In the morning, Edna dressed and walked downstairs first. Julia and Lydia had already retreated to their room. Corrine stayed by my side and waited to walk down the stairs with me. When we entered the kitchen, mother sat in the rocking chair she kept in the large kitchen, already mending some piece of clothing for one of us. Recognizing her short stature, Father had refashioned the wooden rocker so Mother’s feet could touch the floor. The chair became distinctly hers, and anyone else sitting in it had to exert an extra effort to sit down or rise up. Corrine made a move to set two places at the kitchen table, and she brought the pot of oatmeal to spoon out a portion for both of us.

            “Corrine, Helen got her breakfast for herself yesterday. Today’s no different, nor is tomorrow,” Mother said. Corrine held the pot in midair until I reached up, and taking the pot, spooned a small portion for myself. Then I passed the pot back to Corrine.

            “I just wanted to help her,” Corrine spoke softly.

            “The morning came. It’s another day,” Mother said. Her hands moved in short and accurate stiches as she mended the tear in an apron. At the time I imagined she wanted to reach up and pull the frown from my face with the same strong and precise motions. I felt that threat, and I admit it hardened my frown, my grimace at that moment. Of course, she never said that she did not grieve for Auggie or for me. “Follow my example,” I assumed she thought, “Follow my example. This is a little thing. This we put out of our mind.” And she moved through her basket of mending as my sisters and I tried to eat our oatmeal. In an act that I’m sure pleased her, I moved first to the sink to begin the morning dishes.

            Hearing Father’s hard step, I turned from the sink to see him standing in the kitchen doorway. Already dressed for work in his coat and tie, he paused and returned my stare. Not taking his eyes from me, he advanced the few steps to my side.

            “Did you sleep last night?” he asked quietly, coming close to my face.

            “Some,” I said.

            “I’ll see you tonight,” he said. Then he drew close enough to settle the side of his face to mine. He smelled of Bay Rum and the whiskers of his mustache brushed softly against my cheek. Scraping her chair on the linoleum floor, Mother turned away from us. I heard the scrape and imagined the slight. I say that to be honest.

            Once Father had left, Mother said, “Now don’t spend the day locked away in your bedroom. We have to get on.” Following her steady instructions, I emptied the hutch in the dining room and washed each piece of cut glass and polished our silver service. The banister received a fresh rubbing of lemon oil, and when I finished, Mother advised me to wipe down the door and window trim.

            I did not retreat to my bedroom until nighttime. As I ascended the stairs, I heard her tell Edna, “She can sleep alone tonight.” Edna gave no response I could hear. Some minutes later, my door opened and Edna walked into my room carrying her pillow. She drew close and I allowed her to hold me. Mother scolded her in the morning, but again I could not hear any response from Edna. Upstairs, above my mother’s head, my sisters came to my side in some form or another. Even Claudia peaked in once or twice during that week, and although she said nothing, she came close for a moment before she retreated to her room.

            Father stayed attentive for several days, mostly out of sight of Mother. In a couple of weeks, I would lighten my face when he approached. It was easy to see that he found comfort in my expression. For Mother, I kept my face still. She, I assumed, could judge it to be sad or happy. But I did not want to send any signal of comfort or resolve toward her. That stillness became fixed, and others judged it as a manifestation of deep sadness.

            I can tell more of the story about Auggie, and I will. But to avoid simplifying the story and simplifying me, I will need to tell even more, to explain why most folks and even the members of my family misjudged the still face I carried for most of the decades of my life, for too many decades.

The folks of Twin Pines, and some of the Prevett family look at this old house we live in and see a handful of old maids living dry and bloodless lives. The turn of the millennium occurs in a little more than a decade. But our inert faces, and I speak mostly for my own face, are held steady for a variety of reasons. Father wanted me to empty my sadness into his arms. Mother did not want to see my sadness or endure my tears, and she offered no open arms. She seemed to make her hands busier, to pull her arms tighter to her side.

            But I need to insist: if that alone caused me to become expressionless, then my story is spent in one chapter, this chapter. For six of my eight decades of life, I appeared to be a sad woman, struck with the brutal news from a battlefield almost halfway across the world. And for six decades, I think I have known that the news alone didn’t turn my smile upside down. Of course I brushed my hair and stared into the mirror.  And I knew that my face lied, became a mask that simplified how others judged me. I want people to know that behind my still face, I was not and am not empty.