From the Relief Society Magazine, July 1941 –

Not What You Get

By Mary Ek Knowles

Rachel Andrews’ small veined hand, with the wide gold wedding ring on the third finger, held tight to the carved bedpost, and a feeling of anger, indignation and helplessness welled up inside of her.

“Charles, you can not back out at the last minute. You just can’t!”

Charles Andrews did not look at his wife, but stood by the bedroom window, a picture of obstinacy, his strong-featured profile clear cut against the background of white lace curtain, his feet wide apart, his tall form stooped. He thrust his lower lip out, and an exasperated, “Oh, dear!” escaped Rachel’s lips.

“I’m dressing up in no wedding suit,” he told her, “and waiting at the foot of no stairs for you to come parading down in your wedding dress while the Harbishaw trio plays ‘Here comes the Bride,’ and a couple of hundred people stand and gawk.’

“Oh, Charles, they’re not just a ‘couple of hundred people.’ They’re our children – ten of them – and our grandchildren and our great-grandchildren and our relatives and our friends, friends who love us. They’re coming to help us celebrate our –” there was a tightening in her throat, “our fiftieth wedding anniversary.”

Charles put his straw hat on his unruly mop of white hair. He wore no coat, for the summer day was warm, and the thin lines of his tall body shown through the white shirt.

“It’s a pack of foolishness,” he said, “and I’ll have no part in it!” He picked up his cane and strode majestically out of the room, the dignity of his departure somewhat marred by the fact that his suspenders were twisted and a piece of shirt-tail flapped above his trousers.

From force of habit, Rachel said, “Charles, your shirt, let me straighten your suspenders.” But the door shut with a sharp little bang, and Rachel was alone in the high-ceilinged bedroom.

She sank down weakly on the edge of the bed and gazed at her reflection in the mirror of the marble-topped dressing table.

“Well,” the woman in the mirror said, “what did you expect! It’s just like Charles to balk at the last minute and throw everything into confusion. He’s always been like that.” She was a slender, small-boned woman with delicate, finely-chiseled features and white wavy hair. The flowered lavender voile dress she was wearing made her eyes look very brown, her cheeks pink. “You shouldn’t,” she told Rachel, “have let Millie go ahead with such elaborate plans, working herself to death.”

Rachel looked away, and her finger thoughtfully traced the popcorn pattern in the crocheted bedspread. It was really Charles who had started the whole thing, she defended. One evening in the early spring he had remarked to Millie, “Life’s a funny thing, Millie. Who’d ever have thought fifty years ago that your mother and I would be livin’ in her old home now! Yes, sir, fifty years ago this June your mother and I were married. I remember how we came walkin’ down those very stairs, and how we stood right in front of that fireplace over there.” That had been enough to set Millie’s romantic mind at work. It had all seemed such a lovely idea. Rachel’s original bridal party was coming, even Annie Hawkins from California. Perry, Opal’s husband, was going to take movies, and their pictures would be in the Sunday papers. Charles had seemed so agreeable, too, even to giving Millie a list of people he wanted invited.

The door opened and Millie came in. Her face was flushed, and there was a dab of flour on her cheek. “Two hours before the guests are to arrive,” she told her mother, “and Father announces that he might not even be here, and that he certainly won’t dress up.” She was a tall solidly-built woman with Charles’ strong features and Rachel’s brown eyes that right now were snapping with indignation. “you and Father in your wedding clothes were to be the highlight of the whole affair. Of all the stubborn, inconsiderate … Frankly, Mother, I can’t understand how you’ve lived with him for fifty years!”

It was on the tip of Rachel’s tongue to say, “The same way you’ve lived with Henry and his fussy, persnickety ways for twenty years!” but she checked the words. Henry Macabee was good as he could be, even consenting to live in the big house on Plum Street so that Millie could take care of her and Charles. Millie looked hot and tired and upset. The last few days had been especially trying ones for her – guests arriving from all over the country, extra beds to be made, extra meals to be fixed, and the big house in a general state of confusion. Charles might have given some thought to all of that! Suddenly all the sunshine and gladness of the day went out of Rachel’s heart. She wanted to bury her face in the pillow and burst into tears; she wanted to run after Charles and shake him good. Instead she got to her feet and smoothed the bedspread.

“Now, Millie,” she said in a calm voice, “you know how your father is. He’ll probably come back from his walk gentle as a lamb.” He might not, too! There was that time when he left her and the children stranded at the Sunday School picnic at Smither’s Lake and didn’t show up until everyone else had gone and the children had fallen asleep on the hard benches. “You go ahead with the plans, and I’ll go up to the attic and get our clothes out of the trunk. You just see, everything’s going to be all right!”

The long hall was quite deserted when Rachel came out of her room, and she was glad. Right now she did not care to meet or talk to anyone. She was more hurt by Charles’ actions than she cared to admit. Somehow she had thought that this day would mean so much to him that he would be agreeable. Yesterday, even this morning when she awakened, she had thought, “It will be fun talking over old times with Annie Hawkins and Beth Allenbright.” Now she felt if anyone said, “Congratulations!” to her, she would burst into tears.

The large window at the end of the hall was open. There was the sound of voices, young laughing voices, and the fragrance of roses and honeysuckle and green things growing.

Rachel looked down into the garden below. Her granddaughter, Rachel Ann, and her sweetheart, Johnny, were sitting side by side in the wooden swing beneath the big maple tree. Dreamily they swung back and forth, Rachel Ann’s dark head on Johnny’s broad shoulder, their fingers entwined. Then Rachel Ann lifted her head, and her radiant face was like a flower turned toward the sun as Johnny bent his blond head and kissed her.

Suddenly the familiar noises of the household, the slam of the front screen, voices in the room below, the sound of running water and the clatter of dishes and pans in the kitchen faded, and Rachel found herself going back half a century to another boy and girl who had laughed and loved in that same garden. She knew a sudden mad desire to check time in its flight, to hold that precious moment forever in her heart. Rachel’s children often teased her, saying that Rachel Ann was her favorite grandchild. That was not so! Each of her grandchildren held the same warm spot in her heart. It was just that Rachel Ann was almost a reproduction of herself, and through Rachel Ann she lived her life again. “Stay like that, Rachel Ann,” she whispered, “just like that!”

As if in answer to her plea, Rachel Ann and Johnny stepped out of the swing and walked arm in arm across the velvety lawn and up the rough graveled path out of sight.

Rachel came back to the present with a start. She must go to the attic, she told herself practically, and get the clothes. With a sudden burst of energy, she turned from the window and opened the door to the attic. But the moment had left her shaken, and her steps were weary as she climbed the stairs.

The close hot air of the attic struck Rachel like the blast from a furnace, and she knew a faintness as she hurried to the window and opened it wide. A moment she stood there until the dizziness left, until her vision cleared and familiar objects took on form – a rocking chair with a broken rocker, the thick legged wooden kitchen table, banned to the attic since the arrival of Millie and her family, “Polly’s” empty cage, large family portraits in heavy gold frames, a broken guitar, a stack of newspapers, a wooden trunk beneath the eaves.

It was to the trunk, Rachel went. With a scraping sound she pulled it out into the middle of the floor. She spread newspapers all around and then sank to her knees. The lid opened with a squeak, and there was the clean spicy fragrance of lavender. With swift movements of her small hands she took out a pair of hand-embroidered pillowcases, a thick linen tablecloth – both yellowed with age – a picture album, and numerous bundles of letters tied with a pink ribbon. She placed them all neatly on a piece of newspaper. Then came Charles’ black wedding suit. This she examined carefully and a bit fearfully for signs of moth holes. Then there was a silky rustle, and her wedding dress billowed over her lap to the floor.

Rachel leaned back against the trunk and held up the dress. In that moment, she looked young and excited, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink. It was still the most beautiful wedding dress Rachel had ever seen. The white taffeta skirt was very full; the tight-fitting basque waist boasted huge pleated sleeves, tight cuffs trimmed with cobwebby lace, and wide lapels exquisitely embroidered with tiny seed pearls. Rachel and her mother had made the dress, every stitch of it by hand.

There were her own stitches, uneven, a bit unsure, and her mother’s tiny steady stitches. Inside the bodice near the armhole there was a tiny brownish stain. Rachel ran her finger over it, puzzling, and then remembered a June afternoon fifty years ago. She and her mother were putting the finishing touches on the wedding dress. Her mother was bent quietly over her work, and she was humming a gay song as she thought of Charles and the wedding and the presents and the trousseau and the honeymoon. Suddenly a fearful thought came to her, and the song died on her lips. What if their marriage shouldn’t be a success. What if this beautiful, exquisite happiness didn’t last!

She moved closer to her mother and put a hand on her arm. “Mother,” she said, “This love Charles and I have for each other … it will last, won’t it? Our marriage will be a success, won’t it, Mother?”

Her mother pricked her finger with the sharp needle, and a spot of blood stained the glistening white. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it tight and bowed her head over her work. “Remember, Rachel,” she told her, “it’s not what you get out of marriage that makes it a success; it’s what you put into it.”

Now, in the quiet of the attic, Rachel remembered that she had been disappointed by the answer. Somehow, she thought, as she put the waist down, she had expected an altogether different one.

She picked up a bundle of letters, and as she placed it in the corner of the trunk a black and red object caught her eye. Joey’s “Sambo” as she lived and breathed! She took the black-stocking doll out of the trunk and straightened the red gingham overalls. How Joey had loved his “Sambo”! What an adorable baby Joey had been with his brown curls and his dimples! And how very near she had come to losing him!

Vividly she remembered the poverty and cold of a winter long ago, and the agony of one endless day when she watched the road for Charles and Dr. Dutton.

For three years there had been hard times for the wheat farmers of Deep Valley, and the past summer had been the most disastrous of all. Every cent they had saved, every cent they could borrow, had been put into their wheat fields only to have the merciless sun burn them to the ground. After that, Charles had been like a man in a daze. His trips to town had become more and more frequent, and too often it was old Ned who brought wagon and driver safely home and waited patiently until Charles climbed down and walked unsteadily into the house.

This particular day, Rachel had begged Charles as he was leaving: “Go and get Dr. Dutton, Charles. I’ve done everything I can for Joey, and he’s not getting any better. I’m frightened, Charles!”

Charles’ only answer had been to shrug her hand off his arm as he went out of the door. All that long day she had waited while Joey tossed in delirium, and his pulse grew weak. Just as she had given up hope, when she was certain her baby was dying, Charles had arrived with Dr. Dutton. After a hard battle with death, Dr. Dutton had saved Joey, but his constant, “Man, why wasn’t I called sooner while there was an even chance?” still haunted Rachel.

Remembering now, Rachel’s mouth closed in a tight line, and bitterness, like acid, ate into her heart. Another few minutes and Joey would have been dead. True, the scare had snapped Charles out of his daze, but he should have come sooner! Her marriage with Charles had been an endless series of upsets caused by Charles’ childish habit of keeping everyone in hot water. And even now, on their fiftieth wedding anniversary, he had taken all the joy out of the day by being obstinate!

Angrily Rachel threw the things back into the trunk – the pillowcases, the tablecloth, and the picture album. Why, she thought tearfully, her mother had known those things about marriage – that once Charles won her he would forget the little niceties of courtship, even to such things as giving a word of praise. “Mrs. Whitlock hangs out a pretty wash, and a big one,” Charles used to say, with no word for her own lines of white clothes glistening in the sun. Her mother had known that Charles would sulk in a corner when things went against him; that she would be tied to the children day in and day out while he was free to come and go as he pleased!

There was a sound of a door opening, of excited feet running upstairs. Rachel hurriedly brushed the tears away and straightened up as Rachel Ann burst into the room.

“Grandmother! Grandmother!” she cried excitedly. “Look!” She held a slim trembling hand out to Rachel, a hand on which a diamond ring sparkled. “Johnny … just now in the garden!”

She threw her arms around her grandmother and hugged her. “We’re going to be married in August, and Mother says I’m to have a big wedding with all the trimmings and … Johnny’s father is giving us a lot, and we’ll build next spring. Oh, I love him … Johnny, I mean, and … oh, grandmother!” she clasped her hands together and looked searchingly into the older woman’s eyes. “Oh, we will love each other forever and ever, won’t we? Our marriage will be a success, won’t it, Grandmother? So many aren’t, you know. I just couldn’t bear it if it were not!”

Rachel looked into the radiant face of her beloved granddaughter. For a moment she was tempted: “Tell her the whole truth about marriage. Tell her the hard, trying side that no one ever mentions. Tell her!”

But she could not do it. She could not watch the light in Rachel Ann’s eyes die. She took the girl into her arms so that she could not see her face.

“Remember only this, Rachel Ann. It’s not what you get out of marriage that makes it a success; it’s what you put into it.” She bent quickly and picked up the wedding clothes, fully aware of the fact that Rachel Ann was disappointed by her answer. “Take these down to your mother, dear. They’ll need a bit of pressing. Then put them on my bed.”

When Rachel came down to her bedroom a short time later she found her wedding dress spread on the bed, but Charles’ suit was not there.

Millie poked her head in the door. Gone was the tired look, and she was smiling. “Father’s all ready and pleased as punch,” she whispered, “although he wouldn’t admit it for the world. Get your dress on, and in about fifteen minutes, when you hear the music, come down the stairs. Hurry, darling!” And she was gone.

Rachel’s first feeling was one of relief – relief for Millie and all her plans. But it was quickly followed by one of anger – anger against Charles. Now why couldn’t he have been pleasant about it in the first place instead of upsetting them all and spoiling the day?

She dressed hurriedly, then stood before the mirror. The years had been kind to Rachel. Her figure was still straight and slender, her skin was unwrinkled, and her brown eyes were bright. She looked at her veined hands and the wide gold wedding ring. “Fifty years, Rachel,” she whispered. “Fifty years!” There was unrest in her heart.

The strains of Lohengrin’s “Wedding March” came to her ears, and Rachel gave a final pat to her clothes, then walked down the carpeted hall to the head of the wide curved stairway.

As she put her hand on the banister and looked down, a sudden hush fell on the people assembled below, and every face was lifted to greet her. A thrill shot through Rachel, a thrill as sweet and comforting as an evening prayer. These were her children and her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren. How very, very much she had got out of her marriage – far more than she had ever put into it!

She saw Rachel Ann and Johnny standing side by side smiling up at her. She was glad she had not told Rachel Ann what was in her heart. Each woman must learn for herself that marriage is not just orange blossoms and white taffeta wedding dresses and new cottages with green shutters and the thrill of being called “Mrs.”; but it’s sometimes grumpy husbands and whiny children and fault finding and pride and envy – yes, and love all mixed together. It was the big thing, the feeling of a job well done that marked a marriage a success.

Slowly she walked down the stairs. Her eyes met Charles’ eyes. there was a sheepish look in his, a humble, adoring look. He can’t help being Charles,” Rachel thought, “anymore than I can help being Rachel … he certainly has his good qualities … he’s always been a good provider … he doesn’t drink … he’s honest as the day is long … he’s never looked at another woman … I know the best of Charles and the worst of him and I still love him!”

Her steps became quick and sure as she walked down the stairs into Charles’ arms.