Helen limped down Main Street clutching a tin lunch pail. The walk from her dad's house to Mabel's Penny Store was four blocks, but the pregnancy made her ankles swell. Iowa's hot August weather, heavy with humidity, made matters worse. Folded white socks hid fat ankles but the leather saddle shoes were unforgiving and left deep, red grooves that itched at night. Pretty soon, she'd told her dad, Helen would need to work in his slippers.
"Over my dead body," he'd said, smoking a pipe in the dining room. He shut the Home Workshop Manual he was reading and let it clatter onto the walnut table. The table was a wedding gift 25 years earlier for his bride only because his neighbor needed someone to take the tree and dispose of it. He had only just started at B & A Lumber back then, but they lent him the equipment to fell the tree and haul it to his workshop across town where he spent the last weeks leading up to their nuptials bent over large slabs of dark wood, smoothing edges and planing wooden curlicues—as delicate looking as if they were made from chocolate shavings. Like they'd melt at the slightest touch of a warm finger.
He pointed his pipe toward the door. "You got yourself into this mess. You get yourself out."
Main Street was empty except for store owners sweeping the sidewalks, getting ready to unlock their doors. Helen basked in the shade of the overhang to catch her breath before opening the heavy wooden door that jangled the bell. Mabel's Penny Store had the largest store front in Rolling Rock, population 650. Helen considered herself lucky to have a job right after high school, and her father depended on her paycheck even more after Helen's mother died suddenly from a brain aneurysm a little over a year ago. Shortly after her mother passed away, Helen found out she was pregnant and married Wayne in late November during a rushed ceremony with cake and punch in the church basement. She had quit her job the very next day.
The newly-married couple moved in with Wayne's family until they could find a place of their own, but a few weeks later, Pearl Harbor was bombed. Wayne enlisted, citing it his duty, and was now overseas somewhere, machining metal. He would miss the birth of his child. It took some convincing, but Mabel did hire Helen back, and Helen moved back in with her father and brother.
"Morning," Helen called. She slid her lunch pail behind the counter and sat on the stool Mabel had brought up for her to rest while she managed the register.
"Morning," Mabel emerged from the back and handed her a stack of handkerchiefs to set out in the window display. "Traffic heavy?" she asked.
Helen heaved herself up and limped over to the window. "Awful," she said, playing into the joke. She saw three cars, and Rolling Rock only had four stop signs in the whole town. At least they didn't have horses and buggies anymore, Helen thought, or she'd have to watch out for horse manure each morning. She had ruined a pair of shoelaces once after the Fourth of July parade because the street cleaner let the horse droppings sit for a day. The manure wouldn't wash out no matter how much elbow grease, castile soap, and Ajax she used.
"New treatment?" Helen asked, referring to Mabel's hair.
Ever since they were little girls, Mabel always had the most recent hair styles and visited Miss Cora's Salon whenever she fancied because it was right next to her father's store. Mabel's father would do anything for his only daughter—even change the name of his family store upon her birth. From G.H. Pullman's General Store to Mabel's Penny Store. He argued it was strictly a business decision to drum up new customers and draw in out-of-towners. But everyone knew it was because of her.
"Oh, yes," Mabel touched her hair and looked out the window. Mr. Jacobs held the door open for Mrs. Harold Hansen to walk into the bank. Little Johnnie Johnson raced by on his bike, cutoff jeans shorts, no shirt, and a raccoon tail hat. The summer sun had already risen to 'It's too hot out for that.'
"Now how can that boy wear a hat like that on a day like today?" Mabel asked.
Helen watched the boy slow down at the intersection, look both ways, and pedal on his merry way toward the creek and the old railroad track. All the kids went down there to catch crawdads despite Sheriff Pals' continuous warnings about how dangerous it was.
"Then take it out," the townspeople had said. "It's county-owned."
Pals countered, "We've got more important things to focus on at the moment." Knowing there were no funds or staff to dismantle it.
Helen smoothed out the last handkerchief and rested her hands on the back of the display case. She left Mabel's comment hanging in the air, like a loosened spider web untethered on one end.
"There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about," Mabel changed the subject.
Helen crossed her arms and looked out the large glass window, past Mabel, to see her brother, Otto, come around the corner and head for the door. It was morning, and he would be sober but in a hungover, nasty mood. Helen held up a hand to pause Mabel's next words and pointed to the door.
Otto pushed open the door, barely missing Mabel who scooted out of the way at the last second. He glared at the counter and then scanned the store, hardly taking in the greeting cards, two different men's leather shoes—one black, one brown—and the tins of shoe polish to go along with them. Otto's eyes settled on his very pregnant sister. He let the door close, jangling the bell.
"Hi," Helen said, trying to lighten the mood. She glanced at Mabel whose jaw tightened.
"Where'd you put 'em?" he asked, not bothering to look at his sister's boss. During their school days, Otto was sweet on Mabel: the most beautiful girl in town. It took him a whole year to work up the courage to ask her to the Homecoming dance, and it took her thirty seconds to laugh in his face in the cafeteria. Others pointed and laughed along with her. At that moment, he stopped liking her for looks. He started hating the person she was.
"Put what?" Helen swished her hands on either side of her dress, feeling the light cotton fabric she picked out to make maternity clothes—a beautiful yellow. Wayne's favorite color.
"The keys," Otto said.
"Should be in the ignition," Helen shrugged and stuck out her bottom lip.
"They're not," her brother said, a mist of spit made a rainbow that hung briefly in the morning light, sprinkling the wooden floor boards, some landing on his dusty work boots. "God damn it. You know God damn well where they are. You're costing me my job." Otto took two steps forward and poked his index finger at her belly.
Helen stepped back. Her heel caught on a ripple in the floorboard seam, which sent her falling, slamming into the shelf of canned saltine crackers. Her hands reached out for her brother. He did not move.
"Oh, my God," Mabel bent down and said to Otto, "Help me."
Otto hooked a hand under Helen's armpit. Mabel did the same on the other side. Together, they lifted Helen and guided her over to the stool by the counter.
"I didn't take your keys," Helen said, clutching her belly. "Maybe they're under the seat."
Otto stormed out the door and shoved his hands deep in his jean pockets, heading toward Tally's Grill.
"Can I get you water?" Mabel wrung her hands and fiddled with her necklace. An opal she had received for their high school graduation from her parents. It was the same opal Helen had eyed each time she worked after school stocking shelves. The late-afternoon sun always glinted off the gold chain from across the hazy store, sometimes blinding Helen as she counted back change for hair nets and Spam. During breaks, she dusted the jewelry case just to get a glimpse of the creamy white with light pink swirls. According to the latest Woman's Day, light pink complements fair skin with warm undertones, which described Helen best. There weren't enough hours in the work week for Helen to earn it herself, and there was no way her parents could afford such a luxury—even for a celebration such as graduation.
Instead, Helen got a sweet card with purple flowers and a leather-bound journal from her mother. Both of which stayed tucked under Helen's mattress. The last entry was dated June 27, 1941.
Mother died.
The page was smudged from Helen's tears as they dripped. She hadn't the strength to wipe them away.
"Here," Mabel handed Helen a coffee mug. "Water. Not coffee."
"Thanks," Helen took a sip even though she wasn't thirsty. She knew Mabel liked to feel useful.
A customer walked in, took one look at the cans littering the floor, and said, "What happened?"
Mabel giggled nervously. "Don't mind the mess. Just a small slip. Please," she came out from behind the counter and let her hand, palm up, showcase the rest of the store. "Feel free to look around. We'll get that cleaned up soon. Just watch your step."
The customer, a person neither of them had ever seen before, gave them a small smile and turned to leave. "I'll come back."
Mabel pinched her lips together and crossed her arms. She turned back toward the counter. "You're sure you're alright?"
Helen nodded. "Just need to rest."
Mabel looked up at the ceiling. "Maybe this is the perfect segue then. There's never a good time to do this, so why not now? Of all days?
"Listen, you're a smart girl, and you should know this has been coming for some time. Sales have slowed," she motioned toward the door and guffawed. "And with your condition, I think it's best if you focus on your family for now."
"You're letting me go?" Crystal asked.
"Unfortunately, yes. And I want you to know that I would keep you on if we needed you, but daddy's been doing the books, and business-wise, it just doesn't make sense. Gotta trim the fat." Mabel smoothed her skirt and examined her nails for a long, pregnant pause.
"Could you at least wait until the baby comes?"
"That could be any moment, and we can't have any more damage done to our merchandise. It's not just the damage to the store," Mabel made eye contact and shrugged matter-of-factly. "You could get seriously hurt. There's no place here for a soon-to-be-mother. You're better off at home for both of your sakes."
###
Helen wobbled down the road back to her empty house. Once she got inside and unpacked the lunch pail, put away the food and tucked the container under the sink, letting the homemade cloth curtain she sewed out of a torn bed sheet fall back into perfectly pleated place, she sat down at the dining room table.
Ever since her mother died, Helen did her best to keep the house picked up for her dad and brother. The other three sisters were married and lived on farms in the surrounding area and helped when they could, but Rose, Muriel, and Eileen had their hands full with their own babies and laundry and meals to cook and curtains to wash and beds to make and faces to wipe and husbands to serve. One of the battles Helen stopped fighting was keeping the mail stacked on one side of the walnut table. Along with the yellow and white envelopes, there were fresh pieces of stationary and a fountain pen. She licked a finger and laid it on the top sheet which pulled away from the stack without effort. Next, she took up the pen and went to writing, head bent and foot shaking up and down.
Dear Wayne, she wrote. I miss you more today than yesterday. And I hope this finds you well and in good spirits. Baby is fine and dropped even more. How is that possible? Ready any day now. I was fired from Mabel's this morning, but you shouldn't worry. We've got enough food to eat and the house is paid for. Rain yesterday but bright and sunny skies today. They say we're supposed to get rain the next seven days, and we need it. You said you thought you'd see a lot of rain. Is that true? Are you getting enough to eat? With all my love, Helen
Helen creased the letter with one quick swipe of her thumb and licked the envelope, hoping the news wouldn't worry Wayne. She only told him because she never wanted to keep secrets from the man she married. With a deep breath to steady her shaking hand, Helen addressed it in her best penmanship. Wayne always replied, but the last letter went without a response. This time she was going to make sure they could read her handwriting and get this letter to her husband. She knew he was safe since she hadn't gotten a death notification telegram.
With no plans for the rest of the day, she went about making a list of the baby things she still needed and made sure the bassinet's sheets were still spotless—no dust in sight. It was set up right next to her bed. On the dresser, in a neat row, were a soft hairbrush, a rattle with a silky green ribbon tied just so, and a stack of cloth diapers. All borrowed from Rose who had twin girls who were 20 months.
"If I hear that rattle one more time, I may go insane," Rose guffawed over church coffee earlier that spring, urging Helen to take them from her home.
Helen picked up the rattle and shook it. Must be dried rice inside, she thought.
Heaving herself onto her bed, she promptly fell asleep, letting her fingers touch the wooden rails of the bassinet, imagining a little girl or boy sleeping next to her, keeping her company.
It wasn't until her father came home early from the lumberyard that she woke up. It was half past one o'clock in the afternoon. Her stomach rumbled.
"What're you doing here?" her father asked. He stood by the back door lighting his pipe.
"You're not going to believe this. I got fired this morning," she dug out her peanut butter sandwich that was wrapped in parchment paper from earlier and took a bite.
Her father's voice stayed steady. "What in the hell'd that happen for?" He puffed and waved the lit match back and forth to extinguish the flame, smoke tendrils created dragon's tails and the smoke clouds of her youth. Helen stayed put and let the cherry flavored-tobacco wash over her large belly and breathed deep. She loved the smell and could finally tolerate it again late in pregnancy. During the first trimester, she practically locked herself in her room to get away from it wafting throughout the whole house.
Helen shrugged and poured herself some whole milk, holding the glass milk bottle out to her dad who shook his head. She replaced the cap and put it back in the olive green Frigidaire.
"She never liked me anyway."
"Why's that?"
"Who knows. Could be anything."
"Now what're ya gonna do?" He put his hand on the doorknob.
"I don't know."
###
Later that evening, Otto came home singing Navy songs that washed Helen in whiskey breath at the stove.
"Dance with me," he'd said, taking up her hand and wrapping an arm around her waist. Helen almost lost her balance and pushed him away.
"Don't knock me over," she said.
He fell asleep over his dinner plate, and she helped her dad carry him to the couch. There was no way anyone would get that big guy upstairs to his bed.
After the dishes sat in the drying rack and the table wiped clean of crumbs, Helen finally sat in the living room. She sketched out her to-do list:
Eggs/feed chickens
Mail letter to Wayne
Mend pile of pants
Scrub floors
Sweep upstairs
Dust the China cabinet
Make bread
Start kringla dough
Visit Mabel - change mind?
As a pregnant lady does, Helen collapsed in her bed but woke two hours later to pee. Or—what was that? It sounded like it came from the kitchen. Probably just Otto, she told herself. She descended the stairs, quietly, avoiding the creaky spots. The front door was open, and splayed out on the rug was the hall tree, knocked over and leaning against the opposite wall. A hole in the plaster her father would be none too pleased to fix.
She quickly checked the couch. Otto was gone. She lifted the hall tree back up. Her dad came down the stairs.
"What happened?" he asked, securing an overall strap with a click.
"Otto's gone," she closed the door. "I gotta go to the bathroom."
The night was stifling, and the air was still. With all the windows open in the house, Helen could smell the Lily of the Valley just outside the bathroom, by the back door steps. Their white bells were best in the early morning dew that made them sparkle in the sunlight, like the small diamond she wore that Wayne scraped together for their shotgun wedding right before he left for the war. The same war that she prayed each night wouldn't take him away from her.
The baby kicked. Helen paused and wondered when she'd get to meet the little one.
"Hey, little guy," she cooed. There was no doubt in her mind it was a boy. Without proof, it was easy to get her hopes up. And she hated to agree with Mabel, but it could be any day now. What was she thinking continuing to work this close to her due date? Helen wiped and stood, pulling her underwear up under her pillowy nightgown. Her large breasts were almost visible through the white linen. Funny she didn't think anything of it when her dad came down the stairs. Just as she reached around to flush, faintly, through the window, she heard glass shattering.
She flicked the light switch off and peered out into the dark corn field, half expecting to see Otto passed out in the grass. Maybe chicken feed was pressed against his face or a puddle of vomit would reflect the bright moonlight.
"Did you hear that?" Helen didn't bother washing hands but crossed her arms across the thin nightgown and sat on the couch. Her dad sat in the rocking chair. In the dark.
"Yeah," he stuck a pinkie finger in his ear and wiggled, yawning and stretching his jaw to reach deeper into the ear canal. Finally, after it seemed he found what he was after, he wiped the pinkie on the thigh of his overalls.
A bad taste developed in Helen's throat. The thought of earwax made her stomach feel like a washing machine stuck on agitate. She swallowed and looked out the window.
"'Spose it's Otto?" she asked.
"Could be."
"Think he's hurt?"
"Naw," he said. "He's fine. Go back to bed."
"Think he's outside?"
"I'll check it out."
Helen did as she was told and got to bed but could not find a comfortable position. She peeled her sweaty thighs apart and stuffed the extra pillow between her knees. The air was so stale in her room, she thought she might stop breathing when she did finally fall asleep. The curtains were still. Crickets deafening in their crescendo. Through the window screen, her dad's feet swished through the grass. She heard him lift the old canoe by the shed. He slammed the shed door. It bounced a few times before resting in a half-open fashion, Helen imagined. Chickens clucked, roused from their slumber.
Heartburn creeped up Helen's throat. She swallowed spice. Swallowed twice. A third time, wishing it away. Her dad came back inside. She sat up and stuffed more blankets behind her pillow and leaned it against the headboard so she could prop herself up. But it was no use. She needed water.
As she sat all the way up, she looked out the south-facing window. The same window she could see across the street and into their neighbor's house. It was also the direction she walked to work. There was no need to notice the bright night sky or the moon glinting off the neighbor's wind chime. It was too big to ignore and too unusual to place. A small glow coming from Main Street. A glow too orange to be headlights. Too large to be a flashlight or a streetlamp or anything other than a fire.
A fire truck whirred, growing louder as it got closer to the fire.
Helen tumbled out of bed and pulled on her silky robe, conscious of anyone glimpsing her dark nipples through her nightgown. She slid into a spare pair of her brother's work boots and clobbered down the front steps, holding the railing with shaking hands, her father on her heels.
He raced ahead as she fast-walked as hard as she could, stopping twice to ease the babies' foot out of her ribcage. Porch lights and neighbors flooded the streets, asking each other questions that no one could answer.
"Is there a fire?"
"Is it a drill?"
"'Spose it's the bank?"
The most news-worthy thing to happen in all of Rolling Rock, ever, was a freak airplane landing in Fred Cummings' corn field in the summer of '34. The pilot had gotten such a bad migraine, he couldn't tell where his landing strip was, so he gave a Hail Mary and got out of the sky as fast as he could, landing the plane without bursting into flames, but taking out acres of corn. It was still the talk of the town.
With just one block to go, Helen heard the yells. She knew that shout. When she rounded the corner, there were more than firefighters putting out the fire at Mabel's. Police officers were cuffing Otto and shoving him into their cruiser. Her dad stood on the sidewalk, across the street from Mabel's and lit a cigarette. He waved good-bye to his son who silently yelled from the back of the police car behind closed windows. He was going to the county jail.
"What happened?" she asked her dad.
He turned and pointed a finger at her. "What'd you do?"
Firemen came over to the small crowd that had gathered and waved their arms, pushing them back from the heat of the flames.
Helen looked at the large orange monster. Heat from the building licked her legs and burned her cheeks, already rosy from the walk. Her nose tingled and tears formed. She blinked them back when she saw Mabel get out of a car and scream as she fell to her knees. Mabel's dad ran over and tried to take over the water hose, as if the firefighter was missing all the spots that should be put out. Like watching a toddler color and knowing you'd do it differently. You'd fill in the tips of the birds' wings before the chest and the tail before the head.
"This is your fault," Helen's father said and flicked his cigarette.
Braille bumps of sweat decorated her father's forehead, and his tanned face looked black against the midnight glow.
"What?" Helen grabbed a lapel of the robe and gathered the neck closed.
A calloused finger hovered before the tip of her nose.
"Don't lie," he hissed. "You said something to him."
"I didn't say anything," Helen said, "nothing."
People closest to them looked their way, backing away from her father who had gotten right up next to Helen, puffing up his chest and looming over her.
"First that," he aimed his finger at the baby. "And now this," he pointed at the flames that had reached the top of the building—which was almost halfway up the water tower just two blocks away.
"You'd better call a sister tomorrow because you're out of my house. For good," he said.
Orange flames whipped back and forth in her father's eyes. He walked away. Helen could not move. She could not speak. She could not cry. All she heard was the crackling of the wooden beams collapsing as the ceiling fell in chunks. Mabel's father yelled. The crowd gasped. And now that the roof was gone, new pockets of air fueled the fire into unpredictable waves that reached for the sky and the stars—themselves fireballs.
Helen looked at the moon and wondered if Wayne was seeing the same sky. Was he asleep or awake? Alone or with a friend. Thinking of her. Of the baby. Making plans for his return. Helen wondered if they'd have more babies. She hoped so. And if they had a bastard grandson, it would never know it. They would be loved and welcome and get just as many Christmas gifts as all the other grandbabies.
Helen felt a quick, dull pop deep in her belly. Water trickled down her leg and into Otto's boot.
"He's coming," she said to the woman next to her.
THE END