Bessie

I shut the tall office windows one by one. The chain and pulley systems groan as each sash settles with a satisfying clunk. The scent of fresh ditto copies rushes to fill the enclosed space. Damp purple pages sit in perfect piles on the long work table. “Ready for collating in the morning,” I say to the empty room. My new assistant, Doris, clocked out at five on the dot. I’m sure she has places to go and people to see. Assistants pass through the office machine room like a revolving door. Most work until they get married. Occasionally, one stays until the first baby comes along.

Securing the dust covers over each duplication machine and typewriter, I tuck the room in for the night.

Dear Lord, thank you for Phillips Petroleum and Bartlesville, Oklahoma, I pray. You have provided for my every need and I am truly grateful. Amen.

When I arrived at Phillips Petroleum more than a decade ago, I had limited experience with business machines—barely enough to garner a reference letter from my previous employer. I’ll be forever grateful for that letter. A fine reminder that a single act of kindness can change the course of someone’s life. Over the years, I’ve learned how to keep old equipment running up until its final breath and collected enough experience to operate new models in record time. I know the intimate details of every contraption in this room—their quirks and weaknesses, their sticky drums and messy trays. My sister teases that I’ve never married because I’m in love with my machines. She’s not completely off base. While the equipment in this room cannot return my affections, it is also incapable of breaking my heart.

“Hey, Miss B. You taking the bus home this evening?” Young Martha Williams’ voice rings from the doorway. She works down the hall in accounting.

“Hello, Martha. You know, I’m thinking about walking home. Doesn’t look like we’re going to get any rain.”

“Sure doesn’t. Well, I just want to thank you for your advice last week. I’ve been asking my mother-in-law tons of questions about Daniel—questions about when he was little, holiday traditions, and favorite foods. And then I’ve been listening to her. Just listening like you told me to. We’re getting along so much better, it’s like a miracle.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I say. Martha got married in March and her mother-in-law arrived last week to stay through Memorial Day. Being the wife of someone’s only beloved son can’t be easy. My sister, Florence, is raising a boy. Johnny is the apple of her eye. It’s not hard to imagine her making life difficult for a daughter-in-law someday.

“Have a pleasant walk home, and thanks again for your help. You’re the best,” Martha says.

“Anytime. Good night.” I say another prayer while tidying up my desk.

Dear Lord Jesus, spread your glorious blessings of love and faith on Martha Williams and her husband Daniel. Grant them wisdom and patience as they grow to know one another and grow in your love. Amen.

I push my eyeglasses back onto the bridge of my nose.

Oh, and help me get used to wearing these new glasses. Amen, again.

“Another satisfied customer?” My friend Anna Porter pops her head around the doorframe.

“Why do they come to me?” I shake my head.

“You give great romantic advice. Remember what you told me when I was worried Wyatt would never propose?” Anna asks, walking into the office.

“Sort of,” I say, trying to recall our conversation all those years ago. Anna and Wyatt celebrated their tenth anniversary last month.

“You told me to tell him the truth. To tell him how I was feeling and let him know I’d been thinking about the future and I couldn’t imagine it without him.”

“Sounds like something I’d say.”

“Worked like a charm.” Anna pauses. “Face it, counseling young lovers is in your blood. You’ve told me a million stories about growing up over that little store in Indian Territory and how your mother was constantly handing out advice to the lovelorn.”

“If only my mama could have saved some for herself,” I say. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my mama and wonder how things might have turned out differently for her, for all of us, if our family had been able to follow her simple rules. “As I recall, Mama’s advice usually fell into one of four categories,” I continue, “listen with love, tell the truth, don’t dwell, or forgive—oh, and sometimes the person you need to forgive is yourself.”

Anna chuckles and leans against my desk. “This is new information. So your advice to me about Wyatt came from the ‘tell the truth’ category?”

“Exactly. If my mother had charged as much for wisdom as she did for flour and sugar, we’d have been the richest family in Indian Territory.” I take my pocketbook and gloves out of the bottom desk drawer.

“And your recent advice to Martha Williams?”

“I encouraged Martha to ask her new mother-in-law questions and then listen with love. Just following my mother’s recipe.”

“Well, your family secrets are safe with me. Are you taking the bus home tonight?” Anna asks.

“Nope. Feel like walking,” I say, putting on my gloves.

“Care to join me?”

“Love to.”

“By the way, you’re quite the dish in those new specs,” Anna remarks as we walk to the door.

“My vision is going. Florence says that’s the way it is over forty. Everything starts to go.” I turn out the lights and head down the first-floor hallway with Anna by my side. It takes two of my quick, little steps to keep up with one of her long, effortless strides.

“Those glasses look great on you. I love the little gems in the pointy corners at the top.”

“In a thousand million years, I never would have bought these for myself,” I reply.

“Did Florence pick them out?”

“Of course she did. When she found out I needed glasses, she bought five magazines and did research for a week.”

“Why do you let your sister handle these important decisions for you?” Anna asks.

“Oh, it makes her happy.”

“What else did she discover in her extensive research?”

“Turns out if you have a round face like I do, you should avoid round glasses, as they can make your face appear chubby,” I report. “The cat-eye style is the most flattering option for my facial shape.”

Anna’s shoulders shudder with silent laughter. “Did she share any other fashion tips with you?”

“Let’s see. I shouldn’t consider my eyeglasses a beauty handicap. Oh, no! I should embrace them as I would a fine piece of jewelry, employ them as a new tool to help augment my overall image.” We’re both giggling now. “I am also supposed to wear my hair pulled back low and loose around my shoulders whenever I need to create a glamorous effect.”

“Florence sure loves to boss you around. But you have to admit, those pink frames look dynamite,” she says, her laughter subsiding.

“Thank you. I get compliments on them every day.”

“You don’t sound happy about the attention.” Anna pushes one of the heavy entrance doors open and we step out into a beautiful May evening.

“Picking out eyeglasses may have been a fulfilling side project for my sister, but it’s left me feeling old.” We merge into the flow of people walking toward Johnstone Avenue. The sidewalk bustles with skirts and suits as people pour out of the downtown offices. “Now that I’m forty-three, I’ve decided I’m no longer going to think of myself as an old maid. Instead, I’m going to refer to myself as a spinster.”

“Hmm, yes, spinster certainly has a more glamorous effect,” Anna says with another laugh. She links her arm in mine. “Listen to me, my friend. You’re no spinster. You’re incredibly patient, that’s all. You’re still waiting for Mr. Right to come along and sweep you off your feet.”

“Ever the optimist.” I bump my hip into her thigh.

“One of these days, you’re going to plop down next to me in the cafeteria and say, ‘Anna, I’ve met someone.’ I’ll bet you two bits.”

I roll my eyes. “Trust me. If I meet Mr. Right at this late date, I’ll be happy to pay up.”

“You’d better,” Anna says with a huff. “How’s life at Henderson House?”

“Oh, fine and dandy. Mr. Clark moved out over the weekend, took a job in Texas. Mrs. Henderson asked Eddie if he wanted to switch rooms. Mr. Clark was in room number one, the big sunny one, but my brother said he was as ‘happy as a clam in high water’ in room number four. Mrs. H. already had an interview lined up for today—another engineer.”

“Let’s hope he has more personality than Mr. Clark.”

“At least the engineers are quiet. The salesmen are too chatty for my liking.” My stomach churns at the thought of stammering through polite conversation with a strange man at the dinner table tonight. The new engineer will probably ask me questions, if only to be polite, but chances are I’ll seize up and stutter when I try to answer. I didn’t start stuttering until I was a teenager. My daddy used to make fun of me at supper. He was merciless about peppering me with questions and mocking my halting responses. I can go weeks or months now without tripping over a word, but a strange man interrogating me over supper is the perfect setup for disaster. The churning in my stomach ties itself into a knot.

“A vacant room at swanky Henderson House won’t last for long. He’d be a fool not to take it,” Anna says.

“He’ll have to pass Mrs. H.’s rigorous interview process first. Maybe he doesn’t like cookies,” I say with a raised eye brow, secretly hoping this new engineer failed his interview this afternoon and won’t be at the table tonight.

 “Mildred Henderson is an odd duck. They broke the mold when they made her.” Anna shakes her head. “I’m crossing here—need to pick up something for Wyatt at the pharmacy. Hope to see you tomorrow, and really, you look fabulous.” Anna blows me a kiss and starts for the crosswalk. Anna and Wyatt never had children. It’s a shame. She would have been a wonderful mother.

I peek through the front door at Linn Brothers, the men’s clothing store where my sister works. No sign of Florence in action, but her talent shines in the new window displays. She’s arranged the lightweight men’s suits, casual wear, and summer hats in a picnic setting. A red and white checkered blanket, wicker basket, and a stack of books occupy the center, with fishing gear and canoe paddles framing either side. I admire the scene for a moment before continuing on my way. The walk from downtown to Henderson House takes less than thirty minutes and I must admit, these stack-heeled, lace-up oxfords Florence picked out are mighty comfortable. We’re practically the same size and can shop out of each other’s closets, mix and match. When we were children, people thought we were twins. Florence was quick to point out I was the older sister—if only by fourteen months, truth be told.

I walk one more block through town and head south. Almost immediately, the brick storefronts turn to houses and tree-lined streets. Rows of elms create a tunnel of shade this time of day. Flickering patterns of sunlight dance on the sidewalk. I take in a stray whiff of honeysuckle before the smell of peonies hits me. A mass of blooms erupts in front of the house on the corner every spring. The enormous blossoms are such a deep pink you could almost mistake them for red—the same dark, reddish-pink of an Oklahoma sky the morning before a storm.

As I get closer to Henderson House, I hear the thump of a baseball landing in a glove, a pause, and the thud of the ball landing in another glove. The front section of the yard comes into view and I see my tall, skinny nephew. Johnny is nothing but legs and elbows all of a sudden. He’s in such an awkward phase. “No longer grass and not quite hay,” my mama used to say. I’m still on the fence about his new haircut. It’s clipped short on the sides and longer on the top so he can part it and comb the center section over. It’s a complicated haircut for a thirteen-year-old boy, but Florence likes Johnny to appear fashionable and with this style, I suppose he does. Johnny’s high cheekbones and strong nose make him look far more Cherokee than the rest of the family, which is the other reason for his fancy hair; Florence doesn’t want Johnny to look like an Indian.

Somewhat eager to discover who Johnny’s roped into playing with him, I quicken my pace. I doubt Tommy Westfeldt would be over on a Monday evening, though Johnny and Tommy have been thick as thieves lately. Florence constantly tries to connect Johnny with the top families in Bartlesville, and she’s hit a home run with the Westfeldts.

I walk around the neighbor’s large privet hedge and the man at the far end of the yard comes into view. He’s a stranger, yet there’s something familiar about him. Is it the tilt of his head? The way he leans forward as he throws the ball?

“Nice catch,” the stranger says to Johnny.

“You’ve got a natural slider working there,” Johnny replies.

“I’m just happy the ball made it to you,” the man jokes. “It’s been a long time since I threw a baseball. Now, how about you give me another one of your Danny MacFayden specials,” the man says crouching down into a catcher’s stance.

“One Deacon Danny side-arm surprise coming up, Mr. Davis,” Johnny says as he prepares to throw. The ball zings through the air and lands in the man’s glove with a loud smack.

Mr. Davis. This must be the new engineer. Guess he passed the cookie test. Suit coat draped over the porch railing, shirt sleeves pushed up, and tie flapping in the wind, he appears to be a young man in his thirties. His gray fedora teeters on top of his wavy brown hair as if it’s ready to take flight.

“Ooh, wee! That’s quite an arm you’ve got there young man.” Mr. Davis stands, fans his gloved hand back and forth, and blows on it as if it’s on fire. His overacting makes me smile and Johnny laughs.

“Good evening,” I say, coming up the walk and interrupting their game.

“Aunt Bessie!” Johnny puts down his glove, grabs my hand, and drags me across the yard to meet Mr. Davis. “Aunt Bessie, this is Mr. Davis. He moved in today—all the way from San Francisco. Mr. Davis, this is my Aunt Be… my Aunt, Miss Elizabeth Blackwell.” I sure love it when my boy uses his good manners.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Davis,” I say. Now that I’m standing close to him, I see wrinkles around his eyes and the slightest hint of gray at his temples. Mr. Davis is at least my age, maybe a little older. His compact stature and athletic build make him seem younger than he really is.

“And it’s nice to meet you,” he says. “Johnny’s been giving me the full rundown on the family.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” I glance sideways at Johnny.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Mr. Davis offers in Johnny’s defense.

“I’m sure it didn’t take much prying,” I say and Mr. Davis chuckles. It’s a sweet, melodic laugh, like water bouncing off stones in a stream.

“I’m genuinely interested in the backstory on how your whole family ended up at Henderson House,” he says.

I wait for the familiar apprehension to settle in my stomach with his line of inquiry, but it doesn’t come. No nausea. No jitters. Nothing.

“I leave the family storytelling to my brother, Eddie. I’m afraid your curiosity will have to wait until supper, Mr. Davis.” I don’t stumble over any of the words or stutter like I usually do in front of a man I’ve just met.

Mr. Davis smiles at me, and I smile back. I like his round wire-rim glasses. They don’t make his kind, round face look chubby at all. They suit him perfectly. I can’t say if his eyes are brown or green. They must be hazel. Realizing I’m staring, I turn my attention to my nephew.

“I’m going upstairs to change out of my office clothes, and then I want to check on the flower project before supper. Will you join me, Johnny?”

“Sure, Aunt Bessie. Can Mr. Davis come too?

“Mr. Davis, you are welcome to join us if you’re interested, but please don’t feel obligated,” I say.

The breeze kicks up and blows Mr. Davis’s fedora off his head. “Whoa!” he exclaims, stretching out to catch his hat with a flourish of his right hand. He runs his other hand through his curls and I notice a long, faded scar below his hairline. Mr. Davis fluffs his hair back over his forehead and replaces his hat firmly with an exaggerated grimace of determination.

As Johnny and I laugh, the word adorable pops into my mind. This man is one hundred percent adorable. My belly quivers, only it’s not my customary discomfort around a stranger. It’s something I haven’t felt for a long time. This flutter is deep and warm. And that’s even more terrifying.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three: Florence