Belle of the Ball

Ernst opened the large wooden door. It creaked. He glanced at the corrosion that was swallowing the once-shiny hinges as the dancing glow of the lantern spilled out into the dusk. He took off his wool cap and absentmindedly ran his stubby fingers through his hair.

“You’re lettin’ fleas in,” the woman seated in the kitchen scolded. “Shut the door.”

Ernst replaced his weathered hat. “Sorry Matilda,” he said, limping into the doorway. He closed the door behind him, then stomped the snow from his boots.

“You brought the darn fleas in with you,” the woman in the chair said. She looked at Ernst. “You hear me, Gus? Fleas. But they ain’t gettin’ my blood. They ain’t.” She slapped at her arms.

“It’s winter,” Ernst said, dropping a dead rabbit on the wooden table in front of his wife. “The fleas are all dead and gone till summer.” He retreated to the corner of the kitchen where coats were kept in the winter and muddy clothes from working the fields were hung the rest of the year. Matilda stared at the dead animal lying in front of her.

“Look what you done, Gus. Gone and killed another helpless bunny.”

“It’s our supper.” Ernst placed the .22-rifle against the wall, then removed his defrosting boots. “I know the Good Lord don’t want us workin’ on Sunday, even huntin’, but it’s been four days since we had any meat and we can’t live on just potatoes and biscuits.” He returned to the center of the room and lifted the carcass from the table. He looked at the crucifix hanging on the wall behind Matilda’s right shoulder. “I’ll say an extra Hail Mary ‘fore I get to sleep tonight.” He smiled at his wife, then walked over to the sink.

“Ernst was here again today, Poppa. Him and that ugly dog of his. I think he’s fetchin’ to ask me to the dance.” She cocked her head to one side, fluttered her eyelashes, and smiled. “Do you think I should go with him, Poppa? I mean, if he asks me to go and all?”

Ernst took a knife from the drawer and sliced the dead rabbit’s throat. He raised it so its blood could drip into the drain. “Yes, Millie. You should go. You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Matilda stood. “You think, Poppa?” She nodded in agreement. “I’ll be the belle of the ball.” She took a step and curtsied. “Yes, I would love this dance, thank you.” She stood up straight and wagged her finger at Ernst. “But I’ll refuse to go with him, Poppa, if he insists on bringin’ that flea-ridden dog of his. I’ll be Ernst’s date, but I’m not wearin’ my dress just so that gosh-darn dog can ruin it.”

“I’m sure he won’t bring the dog to the dance, Millie.” Ernst turned to look at his wife, as beautiful as ever in the flickering glow of the oil lamp. Even prettier than this morning, he thought. He turned back to the rabbit. “Only a fool would wreck a chance at keepin’ your heart.”

“Well, I sure don’t think Ernst is a fool.” She smiled. “At least I hope he ain’t. I think I really like him, Poppa.”

“He likes you too, Millie.”

“What’re you doin’, Poppa?” The old woman took a step toward Ernst, but the heavy rope tied around her ankle stopped her journey across the kitchen. She stared down at the secure knot as if seeing it for the first time, her eyes tracing the winding flax line back to the other knot affixed to a leg of the heavy oak table.

“You just stay put now,” Ernst said. “I don’t need you wanderin’ off on me again.” Matilda tugged at the rope, sighed, then collapsed back in her chair, pouting.

“But I wanna’ dance.”

“You can dance later,” Ernst replied, “after I fix us some stew.” He had already skinned the rabbit and cut most of the meat from its scrawny body. Matilda grew quiet, and Ernst knew that when she wasn’t speaking, her mind was busy switching between memories, between moments long past. He waited to see which role he would have to play. The sound of Matilda slapping at her arms now filled the room.

“Gus, the fleas are back.” She was now confusing her husband with their old hound dog, as she often did, a dog who died in the fall of ‘17 and was buried near the stone wall guarding the maples just beyond the south fields.

“Whatever you say,” replied Ernst. He licked his chapped lips, then smiled. “Whatever you say.”

After supper, Ernst helped Matilda take off her blue housecoat, the one with the tattered collar and white stripes, and he bathed his wife. He dressed her in her yellow nightgown, then marveled in silence as she brushed her stringy silver hair. “No matter what,” she kept repeating. Ernst knew she was reliving the night of the dance nearly forty-two years earlier, when he stole a kiss from his future wife while her father wasn’t looking, and then whispered in her warm ear, “I’ll always to be there for you, no matter what.”

When Ernst was done guiding Matilda through her evening rituals, he put her to bed, making certain to securely fasten the rope around her ankle to one of the bedposts. He always made sure she had enough room to make it to the chamber pot. It was after she wandered off in June when Ernst realized he had to find a way to make sure his wife wouldn’t disappear again. Doc Riley had suggested putting her in a home over in Springfield, said the staff there was equipped to “handle a case like hers,” but Matilda wasn’t a “case” Ernst protested, “she’s my wife. Besides,” he continued, “ever since our poor harvest, I can’t afford to pay others to care for her, and I won’t take a handout from anyone.” So he came up with the rope idea, which was good enough.

Ernst sat at the table rolling a cigarette. He heard a murmur from the bedroom. His muscles tensed. So far, her patchwork quilt of memories hadn’t led him to any of the horrendous times they’d endured, like the first year the drought hit and not even weeds would grow and Ernst had to shoot their plow horse just to put food on the table. Or when they received word their only child, Orville, named after Ernst’s father, drowned in an ocean of mustard gas in the trenches of France. She hadn’t mentioned the winter the roof collapsed under the weight of three days of snow, or the day escaped convicts appeared on their doorstep, shot Ernst in the leg, and stole their pickup truck, nor when they had to sell half the land to keep the bank from taking the farm. In all the time she was living in the moments behind them, Matilda hadn’t conjured up the dreadful events that were rooted deep in her husband’s mind.

Ernst realized that Matilda was just muttering in her sleep again. He relaxed, put the cigarette in his mouth, and lit it. Matilda always hated his smoking and still would, he was certain, if she caught him.

“It’s a miracle that she hasn’t remembered anything really awful,” he said to the doc when told that Matilda’s mind and memory were only going to get worse. Doc Riley peered at Ernst through his wire-rimmed bifocals and nodded.

“So far,” he replied, a thin, sad smile brushing against his face. "So far." He patted Ernst on the shoulder, then exited through the squeaking door.