The Jam Cellar, cont. (Part III)

 1928

“That was a nice little party now wasn’t it, maw?” asked Fred jovially, as he pulled the Model T into their driveway. He was in a good humor because he had bested his cousin in a highly competitive game of pinochle, and beating Cedric was a rare event among their group.

“Well, Fred,” replied Flora Belle, adding the slightest bit of emphasis to Fred’s name in vain hope that he’d someday stop calling her asinine nicknames like maw, “it certainly was lovely to catch up with all our friends, I’ll say that.”

“I certainly got the best of Cedric! Why, he was in a fine fettle – I’m not sure I’ll ever let him live that down,” bragged Fred as the car came to a neat stop exactly 8 feet from the garage, as usual, so that she could get out while he parked the car with the ridiculous compulsive precision that sent most people shrieking off into the night.

Flora replied through gritted teeth, as she opened the car door to get out. “I’m quite sure he’s forgotten about it already, dear, as it was only a card ga….EEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeck!” she screamed as she tumbled out of the car onto the hard ground. What the….what in the world had she just tripped over? Flora kicked a slippered foot out and came in contact with a hard surface. Wood. Of course.

As she lay there with her feet still entangled among the small woodpile, she wondered to herself – as she often did – if Fred were malicious or simply incompetent. Surely no one man could be that inept. And yet.

And yet.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

1925 - Three years earlier

Flora Belle was puttering around in the kitchen, enjoying the blessed silence that existed only when she had the space to herself. Whenever Fred was around, his 6’2 frame loomed over her as he bumbled his way about, somehow never managing to remember where anything was. Why, if she had her druthers, he’d never even make his way into the kitchen again, and it would be HER place alone, just as he had his shed to tinker around in. Did she go gallivanting about in there? No she did NOT, thank you very much. Of course, there was the fact that the shed was boring as sin, with nothing more for entertainment than Fred’s metalworking tools, and weren’t those a snooze. Yet somehow he could go on and on about them for hours. Literally hours, as Flora recalled the time she had watched the sun go down as Fred waxed on about some thin miter saw that he had special ordered from Elmira, all the way out east. He didn’t notice that she was falling asleep on her feet after canning the damn green beans all day, because of course he didn’t. Fred never noticed anything about her or what she needed, ever.

Flora idly contemplated what else a miter saw could be used for, as she opened the cabinet to get a teacup to make herself a large cup of tea. Now, why in the world was her favorite mug on the top shelf? As she reached for it, holding on to the cabinet door for balance, she reminded herself that gritting her teeth so much couldn’t possibly be good for her. There, she almost ha….. 

“EEEEEEeeeeeeeekkkk!” Flora screamed as the entire cabinet door came loose, and she went flying backwards, smashing into a kitchen chair and crashing to the floor.

As she tried to get her bearings, Fred walked into the kitchen, having completed his regular Saturday morning errand of getting 14 oz. of hamburger meat for that night’s dinner. (“I’ll tell you, maw, you can’t ask them to give you a pound! Then you get some old package from the back. This way they have to weigh out the fresh meat exactly.” Fred was so proud of the many ways he annoyed people.)

“Mother! What in the world happened here?!” exclaimed Fred, astonished at the sight before him.

“By God, I will kill you if you call me Mother one more time,” muttered Flora Belle darkly.

“What’s that you said?” Fred asked, as he continued to stand there gaping and made no motion to help Flora up or to see if she were okay.

“NOTHING! I said nothing!” screamed Flora. “The cabinet….it just came out…..I…..this house……it’s falling apart!”

“Oh,” chuckled Fred, “By golly I guess that’s my fault. I took the door off so that I could oil the hinges since they were squeaking, and I guess I forgot to tighten it when I put it back up.”

“You…you…….I…..wha…..” Flora was so astonished, she was sputtering. “You took it OFF? Instead of just…oiling…the hinges??” 

“Well now how was I going to do that?” admonished Fred, as a stern but tolerant look settled over his face. “The oil is in a big ol’ can in the shed, it must weigh a hundred pounds! Can you see me trying to lift that can up to the hinge and getting oil all over your pretty kitchen? And in the cabinet on your little jars of jelly? Tsk tsk.”

“I DO NOT MAKE JELLY, YOU BUFFOON!!” screamed Flora, who was going to kill this man just as sure as he stood there. “NO JELLY! NEVER! EVER!”

Fred looked confused. “Then what in tarnation is that fruity stuff you mix up, mothe….”

“JAM! JAM! I ONLY MAKE JAM! MY PERFECT LITTLE ELIXIRS! OF JAM!”

“But is there really a diff…..” Fred started to get the forbidden words out but stopped abruptly as a cast-iron cherry pitter went flying past his head and bounced off the wall. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It had to be said: she had married Fred in a fit of pique.

Oh there was nothing wrong with Fred per se; it was just that he was so damn boring. And not in the “Oh I only like bad boys!” kind of way. No, that was boring unto itself, these so-called rebels acting rude, disagreeing for the sake of it, breaking the laws, all while refusing to grow up and be a responsible citizen. No, it was more that Fred and his type were so earnest, so bland, so agreeable. SUCH rule-followers that it was ridiculous. Fred couldn’t get worked up about anything! There were so many examples.

Flora ranting about the abomination that the new neighbors from California had created from the beautiful old Granville mansion. Gold leaf! Painted beige! REMOVING THE OLD OAK TREE!

Fred’s response: “Oh it’ll be fine, Mother. It’ll give a different look to our charming little Iowa town.”

Flora ready to march on City Hall, alone if need be, upon finding out that the town planned to destroy a historic oak grove in order to put in another drive-in movie theater.

Fred: “They’re trees, they’ll grow back. That’s what they do! Progress is progress.” (That was one of Fred’s favorite sayings, and Flora often wanted to shiv him just for that inanity alone.)

Flora seeing a field of neglected and forgotten plum trees, thinking that it would be only right if she went and rescued those poor plums from their pernicious fate as fertilizer fodder, dropping to the ground as they were.

Fred: “That’s trespassing, why that for sure can’t be done! Whether they go to waste is none of our business.”

And so on. 

And yet, a year earlier, when Flora had heard that her desired beau Phillip was supposedly dating that strumpet Clarissa, and her own mother was constantly harping about her being “not married yet and what will the neighbors think and you are just too fussy for your own good Flora Belle!” and her father was mumbling about some people in the house being “long in the tooth” and “not getting any younger now are we” – well. All that….and there was Fred, mooning about as always, chatting with her parents and helping them around the house, to the point that he became “that nice young man Fred, quite a catch” in every sentence uttered.  “Now these lovely potatoes were provided by that nice young man Fred, from his own garden. He’s quite a catch, Flora Belle,” was a constant refrain at the dinner table, to the point that Flora thought she might simply go mad if she had to listen to it any longer.

She also realized that Fred was likely to be a lot more….malleable, so to speak, than someone like Phillip. Easier to cajole into doing her bidding. To get him to embrace her point of view. To wrap around her finger, if truth be told. Oh, she would make a perfect wife, there was no doubt about that. She was pretty, smart, and not afraid of hard work. But Flora also knew her “shortcomings,” if one could call them that: stubborn, mercurial, clever to a fault, slightly quick-tempered, the opposite of complacent, certain she was always right (because she generally was, quite frankly). She had no patience for fools, but while Fred was affable and a man of seemingly simple tastes, surely he wasn’t a complete idiot, was he?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

As she reached for another projectile (being a jam maker was helpful when one was looking for sharp objects to throw), Flora recalled those thoughts from a year ago when she had decided to marry Fred. Ha, who was the fool now! She should have listened to Coreen, who tried to warn her that Fred would try her very soul. If she could go back….wait, what was the knucklehead blathering on about?

“….and so it’s finally for sale! No one knows where those Californians high-tailed it off to, but I thought we might go over and have a look-see after you’re done fretting like this,” finished Fred.

“What house is for sale?” Flora asked. “I missed what you said.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” said Fred in his loping, meandering way. “See, when I was at the market picking up my 14 oz. of ground beef, I got to talking to Stan. You remember Stan, we met him that one day when we were out driving past their farmhouse on the corner with the white chicken coop that looks like a….”

“JUST TELL ME WHAT HOUSE!”

“That’s what I’m getting to, maw – the Granville house is for sale,” proclaimed Fred with a grand flourish. “That big rattling house, with plenty of room for you to can those green beans I love and even to make your little jel….” The rest of his thought was fortunately lost to time and space, as Flora Belle suddenly leapt up from the floor, tea forgotten, and grabbed Fred by the hand to drag him out the door.

The Granville house would be hers.