Etta ran the quiet streets of Beaumont on a beautiful, crisp, clear day in May. Summer arrived quite a bit earlier in Northern Iowa than Marquette. The lilacs were in full bloom and their exquisite, gentle scent wafted through the air from pretty much every house in town. The tulips had died back long ago to be replaced, at many homes, by peonies and petunias. This was such a peaceful, well-kept town. There must be an ordinance that required everyone to freshen up their paint job every few years to keep things from being unseemly. The air was sweet with the smell of fresh-mown lawns. Most importantly, the corn was growing inches per day with the soaking warm spring sun pouring down on this fresh, bright morning.
To get her four miles in she was pretty much going to need to run literally all the way around the burg. It was the quintessential small-town in Iowa with all the required elements: a wide, broad Main street with neatly uniform buildings and a city-provided street light on every corner. Beaumont was somewhat unusual because it had been rebuilt about fifty years earlier after a devastating tornado, so the downtown area was completely modern and relatively new, with each store having the same lettering on their façade. It unified the town: the bakery, the bank, the café, the general goods store, the dentist and eye doctor. They all had the same signage and nothing much stuck out. In a way, that was somewhat comforting. And, as always, the small town culture was consistently there: two men discussing the weather or politics standing on the sidewalk not really facing one another. You could almost see them chewing on a weed in their mouth. Those small-town touches were a mainstay of rural life.
Main Street emptied out onto the main highway that ran through town. That highway had more of the “bigger” businesses in town: the farm implement dealership, which was the lifeblood of every farm town, the grocery store and the all-too convenient gas station. There was an ice cream shop next to the gas station which was only open seasonally. They both were bordered at the back of their property by Riverside Park. The park ran lengthways parallel to the highway, alongside the Iowa River which crisscrossed the highway in several spots through the region, meandering through the little town. The furthest spot along the river was next to the Catholic cemetery at the edge of town where most of Etta’s ancestors were buried. She decided that she would make that her main course, at least for the time being, through town, as it most closely resembled something like her daily run in Marquette. From the cemetery she would work her way back through town then eventually make it back to her grandmother’s home.
When she came up to St. Timothy’s Catholic cemetery, she walked reverently through the idyllic setting. The river wasn’t very wide at this point, something you could probably jump across if you gave it a try. It ran along the back of the cemetery with deep dark untouched woods surrounding it in this spot. There was earthy moss on rocks and fallen tree limbs through the woods along the river here, as the sunlight speckled sparingly along the silvery edges of the flowing water. The gentle babbling of the river could be heard from nearly every corner of the graveyard on this perfect day approaching summer. The heat of the sun in the open areas felt warm and comforting on your skin. All too soon, that sun would become baking and harsh with a sticky depth to the air that would make the air ooze heat and humidity. That’s what summers were always like in Iowa and part of why the corn grew so well.
This was obviously a very Irish-Catholic cemetery with many names like McMahon, Quigley, O’Connor and O’Leary. There were large statuary dedicated to several of the priests of the parish and one larger stone dedicated to the Monahan family, which she knew was part of Peggy’s ancestry. Eventually she came to her greatgrandparents’ stone, Leo and Henrietta. He had died in 1919 at the age of 24. She had died in 1974 at the age of 80. Etta sat down cross-legged next to the stone over the bones of the woman after whom she’d been named. She pulled a leaf off a weed in the grass and played with it between her fingers.
What had her life been like? What would she think of her great-granddaughter sitting before her? She had, of course, met her when she was small, but she didn’t have a very clear memory of her face, her hands or her ways. She’d been married to him for less than two years and yet the days of those months had changed her life forever.
She knew some of Henrietta’s story: Leo had died of pneumonia when she was eight-months’ pregnant with her grandmother’s sister, Lenore. Her grandmother was only an infant at the time. She’d had to give birth alone, knowing that her child would never know a father’s love and there would never be another shoulder to carry the burden of raising those children. How had she handled that excruciating loss? She’d raised her children by herself in a very small town, had become one of the area’s first telephone operators, working the phones in her own home while she cared for her young children. She was, in essence, one of the first work-from-home mothers in America. And she played a vital role in the community: connecting people, making sure there was appropriate medical care in cases of emergencies like fires, tornadoes, blizzards and God knew what else. She was a critical lifeline in a rural and isolated area. And she had lived a long, healthy life. But what had that life been like? Perhaps this was what she was meant to do this summer. She would talk to her grandmother and find out more about her namesake. She’d study those journals she’d found last night. Enough of sitting around feeling sorry for herself. She needed to find her passion. Maybe Henrietta was pointing her in that direction. It wouldn’t hurt to do some looking. She rose from her spot in the cemetery and took her time jogging back to the house, appreciating the town and farm community that would be her home for the summer. This was, after all, the town Henrietta had helped build.
* * *
A brand-new dark blue Mercedes pulled into the abandoned parking lot of a fast-food burger joint on Highway 41 just outside of downtown Marquette, pulling up alongside Joe Peabody’s nine-year-old Chevy Chevette with its hull pitted by rust spots. Both men rolled down their driver’s windows. Marshall called out to the other man, “Get in and be quick.”
Joe rolled up his window. There was the sound of metal against metal as he opened the driver door of his beater, then slammed it hard to get it to shut. He walked around the back end of the elite German car and got in. “Nice digs.”
“Yeah, whatever. Did you get what I need?”
“Yeah, I got it. Here’s a little prize for you,” Peabody said, handing over a box with the silk scarf he’d taken from Etta’s room. “This was on her desk. There’s a note in there from her boyfriend. She’s been living with several other girls. At least some of them are named Donato. There was a bag in her room with the name Tom Donato on the tag and the name on the note is Tom. That must be the schmuck she’s been seeing.”
“God dammit. Why’d it have to be that asshole?” Owen Marshall tapped his nervous fingers against the steering wheel of his new car. He needed some time to think. “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for days. No sign of her car either. And the guy is gone too. Only the two dark-haired girls are around now that school is out, which I assume are his sisters.”
“Yeah, I know he’s gone. He’s off to Isle Royale for the summer. I’ve got friends around here too, ya know.” The fingers of Owen’s hand pulled against his chin as if he were pulling a non-existent goatee to a fine point.
“Okay, so what next?” Joe asked.
Glancing in Joe’s direction, nodding as if he finally had all the answers, Owen said, “Find out where she is. If he’s out on Isle Royale, then he’ll write her wherever she goes. Get over to Houghton, where the mail goes out to the park and intercept it. Find something he’s mailing either to or from her.”
“Hey, hey, now. Mail’s a big f’ing deal, man.” He raised both hands in the air to emphasize his point. “Messing with the mail’s a federal gig, dude. That’s gonna cost you a hell of a lot more than the small time B&E shit I’ve done so far. I ain’t going to the federal pen for your ass.”
With narrowed eyes, Owen stared right at Joe, speaking with a tight, clenched jaw. “I know that. So find a stooge and get the information I need. Then, wherever she’s gone to, get your ass there and do the grab, neat and clean without complications.” He rolled his head, trying to work out the kinks in his stiff neck. “Once you’ve got her, give me a ring and I’ll take care of the rest. It’s not much more than what you previously agreed to.”
“The hell it isn’t. Tampering with mail is a serious fucking offense. It’ll cost at least another 15 large.” Joe knew he was pushing his luck, but he had to make this worth his while or he’d be doing hard time for no damned reason at all.
“Fine.” The extra charge really stuck in Owen’s craw, since he was going to have to do the ultimate dirty work himself. Why was it so damned hard to find somebody to take on his kind of crappy work? Weren’t there professionals around who could take care of this for him? “Here’s three for the B&E and another five down for the mail work,” he said, shoving an envelope at Joe with cash inside. “Make this happen in a nice, smooth fashion and there’s another five in it as a bonus.”
“Oh, believe me, it’ll be smooth. I want nothing to do with it after the grab though. You don’t touch a hair on her head until I’m free and clear. I’ll make it clean and she’ll be healthy when I leave. Got me?”
Owen nodded his head and stared off at a point on the horizon. “Yeah, I got you. Just make sure nothing goes wrong. And I never want to see your face again. Understand? One phone call to find out where to take her and another that you’ve got her and then not another peep.”
“Message received. I’ll make it happen.”
“Now, scram.” Owen gestured with his hand as if he were swiping at a pesky fly.
Joe got out of the high-end car and walked back to his wreck of a car, opening the driver’s door, pulling it, screeching again, as he slammed it shut behind him. Finally he’d have enough for a new ride if he could just get this over and done. This was nasty business, but business is business.
* * *
Genevieve Heller was resting soundly for an afternoon nap in what she had always used as a dining room in the house she’d inherited from her mother. The hospital bed Etta and her father had rented for her was really quite comfortable, with her favorite quilt spread over her legs. They had given her all the comforts of home, with her favorite bed jacket and pillow from her room. Etta had drawn the curtains to block out the afternoon sun but opened all the windows to let a lovely breeze drift through the old house.
Etta sat in the Queen Anne side chair she’d pulled in from the living room to act as a guest chair while her grandmother was recuperating. Tomorrow they’d need to make the trip to the rehab center for physical therapy, so it was good that Gen could get some rest on a quiet Sunday before the hard work of trying to build back muscle tone and strengthen her weak arm and leg began. She’d need good food, plenty of protein and lots of rest to get back to her old self. It would never be quite the same but she could get enough strength to make it upstairs on her own.
Gen had always been a strong woman, in Etta’s eyes. She was tall, about five feet and nine inches tall and athletically built. Considering she was a 78-year-old woman, her face had very few wrinkles, just some around her eyes. This bode well for Etta’s future. And since she’d spent most of her adult years as a beautician in this small town, Gen’s hair had always been the epitome of loveliness, with a vibrant dishwater blond hue that belied her age. Not one gray hair would get past grandma. How could she look people in the face if she let herself go like that? And that is how Etta would always remember her, with her lovely full head of persistently blond hair and a smile that could make your day. She was such a happy person.
She knew that life hadn’t always been kind to her grandmother, but there was rarely a day, even after her grandfather had passed away, that Etta hadn’t seen a smile on her grandmother’s face. When Grandpa Otto had died, when Etta was only a child, Gen’s only response was contentment that at least he would no longer be in pain. Watching her husband suffer the agonies of his quick bout of lung cancer had been difficult, so the fact that he’d passed on to the next life she’d actually found as a relief. Always content no matter the circumstances.
The only time she could remember her grandmother’s gentle repose breaking was when her own mother had suddenly passed. Then, it wasn’t only her own heart that was broken to keep her from her usual good humor, but the pain she knew was in Etta’s heart that was breaking her own. She couldn’t find a way to spare her the tragedy of losing a parent. After all, she knew what it was like and knew that they must bear it together. And for that, Etta would never forget the love she’d shown her. It was something only she knew how to share. It was a quiet, simple, unconditional love without bounds or, much of the time, words. It just was.
Etta sat in the guest chair reading her great-grandmother’s journal from 1916. There were people and things in the journal that she didn’t know about and more questions than answers. When her grandmother awoke she was going to need to ask about them. She continued reading.
“May 18, 1916 – Went with Nellie and Maude to the chivalry for Willy Knipp and Evelyn Boyd. It was a lovely time. The music and dancing was great fun. The men had moonshine, which I’m sure Papa would not have liked. It was good to be out again and smile. There hasn’t been much to smile about since Papa died and Ma is not doing well now. Anna says we may get to go to Mankato to see her in a week or two if she can find a man to drive us and bring us back. Bernard cannot take time away from the farm for such a long trip. I had the nicest time tonite. Leo was matched with me for dancing and he is ever such a good dancer. He led me around and I didn’t have to do a thing. His laugh is so good-natured. I know I see him every day on the ride to the work, but tonite seemed different. He kissed me beneath the willow tree and told me that he cares for me. I know he intends to go to Chicago when he’s done with working for Helmuth so I maybe shouldn’t have let him kiss me. He’s just so kind, I didn’t have the heart to say no.”
“What are you doing there, Etta? Always with your nose in a book,” Gen said, as she woke softly from her nap.
“Oh, I’m just reading something. I found these journals in your desk when I cleaned it out so it could be moved, Grandma. These are your mother’s, aren’t they? I’m trying to be very careful with the pages.” Etta had totally lost track of time as she’d read through the diary.
Gen’s eyes brightened at the thought of her mother’s diaries and that Etta had been interested enough to read them on her own. “Yes, they were hers. She was very good about writing in a journal for about ten years or so. I suppose after that, she was too busy with teenage girls to keep it going for long. The later years are really more of a weather report than a journal.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.” Etta smiled a quick, knowing grin. “You could probably have grown up to be a meteorologist, from the way she kept records. She even noted how much rain you got every day. Was there a reason for that?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose so. Just the drudgery of the day-to-day. Life in a small town when you are tied down with two small children couldn’t have held much excitement. Although, she did have house guests from time to time. My Uncle Ira, Peggy’s grandfather, lived with us for a time, when I was around eight or so. He lived with us for quite a while, I suppose, acting as a kind of father-figure to us. That was until he met Gertie across the yard. She was married to a trucker who was gone all week and only came home on weekends. Everything was fine until one day Gertie found out she was pregnant and told her husband. Well, then the fur was flying because he couldn’t have children. There was a big scandal. She had to go to South Dakota to get a quick divorce and she and Uncle Ira got married there. The next thing you know, my cousins were born, and twins! That’s Peggy’s mother and her sister.”
Etta’s eyes sparkled with humor as she released a throaty laugh. “Oh, grandma! Such excitement and here in Beaumont! I bet that was all anyone could talk about.”
“You better believe it. Anyway, her ex-husband still lived across the yard from us, so Uncle Ira couldn’t really come by much. We had to go see them out on the farm.”
“How totally disgraceful. And when was that?” Etta gave her grandma a rueful smile. She was getting a kick out of this.
“Well, Martha and Margaret were born in 1932, so it was about nine months before that.”
“And how did your mother handle all of that excitement?”
“She was beside herself. She didn’t like Gertie much. She thought she was kind of a floosy. You know, one of those flapper girls who liked dirty talk and cigarettes. Mother tolerated her for the sake of the children.”
“What a hussy.”
“Well, things were different then, Etta. Ladies were expected to be more, well, lady-like.”
“I suppose. Of course, I can’t really relate.”
“What’s the matter, Etta? You haven’t said anything since you’ve gotten here. There’s just a sadness in your eyes.” There was a pregnant pause in the conversation while Etta thought of how much would be healthy to tell her grandmother. “It’s a man, isn’t it? Is it that same young man who hurt you?”
“Did Dad tell you about that?” Suddenly the mirth was gone.
“Yes, of course he did. He didn’t have a clue what to do about it. He’s always come to me for advice where you were concerned because …. Well, he hasn’t known what to do with things about women. How could he?”
“I suppose,” she answered quietly. Etta’s shoulders slumped, resigned to the thought that her father had taken on so much for her.
“So he told me. And I told him he just needed to make sure you knew he loved you and he would be there for you. He did that, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.” Etta drew in a deep breath and heaved out a heavy sigh. “Oh, grandma. I’ve screwed things up, only this time with my heart.”
“You’re in love, aren’t you?”
“How’d you know?”
“Oh, Etta. You’ve got a lot to learn about love.” Gen pulled herself up in her bed, using the mechanics of the hospital bed to get her in a more sitting position. She gently laid her folded hands on her lap. “Love shows on the outside just as it does on the inside. Love is a mix of joy and sadness that lasts as long as the love lasts. If you love a man forever, then you’ll have doses of both joy and sadness for the rest of your life.”
“Is that how it was with you and grandpa?”
“Yes, and the same with Lenore and her husband. And with my mother. She’s the one who told me that. I’m certain she knew all about the sadness.”
“I’m sure.”
Gen looked up, scanning the room in the house she’s inherited, wistfully remembering older times. “She always told me and Lenore that we were the joy that came from her love. How can a girl be mad at a mother who considers you her joy in life? There was rarely a time when I was ever upset with her, because she made sure we knew we were her joy.”
Etta came to sit at her grandmother’s side and took her hand gently. “Oh, grandma. I’m so sorry. It had to be hard.”
“It was. But she was a tremendously strong woman. She didn’t let us see her sadness. And I suppose over the years, it faded. But she never got over him. She never saw other men and I don’t think she wanted to. He was that love that lasted forever.” Gen gently rubbed the back of Etta’s hand. “Is this young man a forever love, Etta?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Well, can I at least know his name?”
A gentle smile crossed Etta’s face. “Of course. It’s Tom. Thomas Donato.”
“It sounds like a good, strong Italian name. He has a big family?”
“He does. They’re Catholic. They own a chain of pizzerias in Duluth. He used to play hockey, but he’s been injured. I’ve been living with his sisters. I’m very good friends with his sisters; Izzy, who is his twin, Sophia and Gabby. Gabby thinks she wants to be a nun.”
Gen quietly gasped. “Oh, my. It’s so much like mother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hmmm …. The world is a mystery, Etta. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Have I never told you about my father’s family?”
Etta’s brow furrowed. “No, I don’t think you have. In fact, I have a lot of questions just from the first few months of her journals. Do you feel up to talking about them?”
“Of course. I’m feeling much better after my nap.”
“Well, I suppose, first of all, what’s a chivalry?”
Gen let out a hearty belly laugh. “Oh, I suppose you don’t know what those are, do you? They’re a thing of the past really. In the old days, when a couple got married, it was common for everyone who knew them, well, more the younger folks than the older people, I suppose, to throw a kind of soiree for their return from their honeymoon. Well, back when things were tight, during the Depression, couples didn’t go on a honeymoon. There wasn’t enough money to get away, so then the chivalry would be on their wedding night. It was what I suppose became a reception. The idea was … well, it was kind of nasty really …. The thing was to make enough noise and music and such that the couple wouldn’t have time to …. Hmmm … how do I say this … consummate their marriage.”
Etta threw her head back, roaring with laughter. “Are you kidding me? People really did that? Try to keep them from getting it on?”
“Well, I suppose that’s how you’d say it now. That was the purpose, yes. Just for that first night.” Gen’s eyes were glinting with memories of days gone by and the fun of the old ways things were done. “It was a raucous kind of party really. There was a lot of drinking and dancing. People would bring ukuleles or kazoos or a squeeze box and dance around the couple’s house banging on pots and pans and the like until they came out to greet them. The couple was supposed to feed them, usually left-over wedding cake, as a sort of peace offering to entice them to stay away. But the party usually lasted into the wee hours of the morning.”
“I read in this journal that Leo kissed her there.”
“Yes, they met at Leo’s cousin’s chivalry. Well, he’d been working as an apprentice carpenter with Helmuth Schoenfelder. He was Peggy’s father’s uncle. You knew that my mother worked for Peggy’s grandmother, didn’t you? She was one of her cooks.”
“No, I didn’t.” Peggy wiggled just slightly in her seat on the bed.
“Oh, yes. She was a German woman who didn’t speak English well. They were quite wealthy and hired farm hands and hired girls. My mother had been working as a cook there, since she was German, and dad was giving her a ride every day. Dad’s aunt, Lula, was the old-maid schoolteacher at that time in Keewanee. My aunt Nellie and Maude were also working for a different Schoenfelder across the road, so they all rode together every day.”
“Oh, so that’s who Nellie and Maude were. They were Leo’s sisters.”
“Yes. She was very good friends with the aunties. Aunt Nellie had wanted to be a nun too. There were twelve of them. Twelve girls and three boys. My father was one of the three. Peggy’s grandfather was another.”
“Oh, I get it.” Etta was amazed that what her grandma said was true. Tom’s family was very similar. “It would be so nice to put faces to the names.”
“We can do that. They all lived as a clan, you know. My grandmother took care of the little ones. Another of the women was in the kitchen and another was in charge of gardening and cleaning. They all worked together to make life work. Peggy’s mother just sent me copies of several pictures she got from the third brother’s wife, Lena. She just passed away not long ago and her things went to Martha. They’re in a small stationary box wrapped in Christmas wrapping on the top shelf of the closet in the guest room. You go get them.”
Etta went to the guest room, found the box Gen had described and brought it back to her. They sat together on Gen’s bed, looking through old photos from the early 1900s. There were individual pictures of each of the girls, one of Maude and Nellie when they’d gotten their teaching certificates. They were lovely young women with bright eyes and serious faces, dressed in all black, with tight waistlines and high necklines. Each woman wore a golden amulet on a chain that hung just slightly above their breasts. That must’ve been an insignia of becoming a teacher. They had gone on from being cooks to become one-room schoolhouse teachers, much as their Aunt Lula had done. There was a picture of Leo with his brother-in-law dressed in their Sunday best riding in a wagon behind two beautiful black horses. They wore dark armbands, so someone in the family must’ve recently passed away.
There was a picture of her grandmother as a baby and one of her great-grandfather wearing a silly grin and a hat that showed off his ears which were a bit like Dumbo in the picture. He was young and happy and full of life. It really was heartbreaking that he had passed probably only a year or two after that picture had been taken. He would’ve been a good father and she wished her grandmother’d had him in her life and that any of them had got to know him. He would’ve been proud of all of them and the family his wife raised without him.
“Oh, here, Etta. Martha told me there was a letter in here. It’s a letter from dad to mother before they were married.” She took the old letter and placed it in Etta’s palm. The paper had was weathered and stained with age. “I’ve read it before. I want you to have it.”
“Oh Grandma, I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you can. You read it and see if it doesn’t sound like things you’ve heard lately from a young man named, Thomas.” She patted her hand softly. “Some things never change.”
Etta leaned in and gave her mother a heartfelt hug, her eyes welling with tears. “I’ll treasure this always. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby.”
Glen walked into the make-shift bedroom, clearing his throat as he began to speak. “Hey, what’s all this love business? And none for me?”
Etta rose from the bed, walked over to her father and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, Dad. You’re loved too.” She gave him a big hug. “I’m going to go up to my room for a bit. You got things covered?”
“Yes, we’ll be fine. You rest a while honey.”
Etta walked up the stairway between the kitchen and dining room, went into the guest room and laid down. She’d take a little nap, then read the letter later.
* * *
There was a gentle whooshing that came from the lake so early on this June morning, the lapping on the rocky shoreline of water tenderly caressing the water’s edge of granite and limestone. It was finally quiet and calm, a rest from the storm that had crashed so fervently throughout the night. Tom hadn’t really slept well throughout the night, having frequently awoken from the noise level that the Lake had kept up and the crashing of thunder and lightning.
Although he’d lived in the backyard of Lake Superior for most of his life, he’d never lived so close to it. He’d never known the violent clashing cavernous reverberations of a storm over the mighty lake. Was it really any wonder that the Indians held the lake in such reverence, with its enormous power, the dominion to give and take life? Their futures depended on the fish that they took from the lake, but, like all that had passed through the waters before and after, they also knew the ease with which one could lose your life on the lake was astonishing. The icy waters had taken so many lives and after the violence of the tempest last night, it was little wonder really.
On this bright and crisp clear morning, the morning after, Tom sat with his tin of coffee, leaning his back against a felled log he was using as a “sofa”. He wrote a letter to Etta, which he hoped to mail tomorrow on his lieu day:
“Hello beautiful,
I know I say that every time I see you, so maybe it’s come to mean less to you than if I only said it once in a while, but I truly wish I could say it to you now and see the face I’ve come to find so breathtakingly beautiful, my darling, Etta. I know you don’t see yourself as beautiful, but that’s just one more thing that makes you more beautiful in my eyes. I miss you so much my heart aches with it. I miss the sight of your face, the smell of your hair, the sound of your gentle sigh or laugh, the touch of your skin. I miss every little achingly beautiful thing about you. The thought of you brings me up short whenever I’m doing anything that reminds me of you. Every time I sit and look out at the lake, my mind wanders to all the times we sat at the park holding hands and looking out at this same water together. And it only makes me miss you more.
I’m not a man of words. You know that I’m not. That’s your thing, my dear, but I will try to tell you how I’m feeling in words. That’s all that I have right here right now. I have words to give you and nothing else. And I wish I could give you the world. I’m less of a man for finding myself so far from you, with so little to offer.
All I can bring to your feet is a promise: a promise that I will love and cherish you until the day I die. You have that promise