No. 15

Mrs. Lafayette to Mrs. Quinn (The Way)

Mrs. Quinn

908 E Jefferson

Louisville, Kentucky

July 11, 1940

Dear Mrs. Quinn,

I will keep writing to you about what happened with my visit to Julien’s farm, but please do write to me from time to time to let me know you are still interested in what I have to say. It is troubling that you do not write back, for as I told you before, I must trust you when it comes to me telling you about Win.

But maybe you are not well, yourself? I am sorry for losing my temper, and it was only for a fleeting moment, and from now on will blame the postal clerks.

Well, back to the story. After two long days without her, and still no word, I was restless and hungry, thinking I had made a mistake to promise her I’d stay at the farm. I was running out of candles. And matches.

I was afraid that if I walked into town and they delivered her, and missed me, well, she would break and think I lied. So, I moved things around, raiding the pantry and burning debris.

But with supplies depleted, I took some of Julien’s money and walked down the long drive way and headed into town, going the right way I could only guess, but it worked out. I found the grocery store, Presbyterian church, and post office. Found out from a church lady that Win did indeed have to have her arm amputated. I asked the lady if she would mind driving me back to the farm, but first I wanted to get to the post office to send a postcard to employer, my daughter, and one to Win.

On the drive home, the church lady asked me if I would like a ride to church on Sunday. I told her no, that I was Catholic, and that I would wait for Win. She dropped me off at the end of the driveway.
“Is this far enough?” she asked? I said yes, it was far enough.

The next day I took out all her old letters and put them in order by date. Would she mind? I didn’t care at this point. I had to find out what I was dealing with. For if she was a nut case, I couldn’t go with her on the train. If she was of sound mind, of creativity or faith or family back in Iowa, maybe this Stewart guy, or her own cleverness, then I would know that she would be Okay, and I could leave her. I had to be able to get rid of her.

So, I wanted read the letters but was going to have a heavy lift.

It looked to me that they were written, mailed, but returned in one bulk mailer to her unopened with a note that Stewart was not living there, where she sent the letters, and the person writing the letter said that Stewart left the country on business and wasn’t coming back, to their knowledge.

So, if I was going to read the letters, I would have to unseal them. And Win would know that I betrayed her. But I needed to know who might be able to care for Win, now that her arm was severed. Her sister dead. And I just wanted to go home. Could she manage alone or was I now somehow responsible for her recovery?

Win would be gone for weeks. And as far as I could tell, based on my discussions with the auditor’s office, on days when someone was there with expertise in this matter, that a postponement of the tax sale was only going to be thirty days, due to the tornado and the general upheaval of county paperwork and communications in the township. The tax sale was not a priority right now, or so I was told, even though it was also said, quite plainly, that it was none of by beeswax.

I opened the letters by Win, or as she signed them, “Minnie,” and began to settle in for her return.

The man who was the railroad postal clerk, well, she did not name him, only calling him, “Your uncle.” And I figured out that these letters to Stewart, a young man who lived in the house where Win was a domestic servant. Obviously, from the tone, I could tell that Win was fond of Stewart. But it was not returned. And he would probably not know of her affection, although motherly, of him.

Stewart’s mother, Ruth, was Win’s employer and, as it was turning out in my head, it became clear to me that Win had some difficulty with Ruth, as an employer, perhaps, maybe over the topic of taking medications, I’m not sure. And the clerk, her love interest, from what I could pick up, was Ruth’s brother. Only I could not find much about him, the clerk.

Now at this point I remembered that Win told me that it was about the time of Julien’s death—near Christmas—that she got word that her sister was overwhelmed, not by Julien’s death, which must have been expected, for he was sent to the poor farm north of Oxford, and Win said that her sister was going to have to clear out the farm for the tax sale. So her sister was overwhelmed about being kicked out off the farm. Where was she to go?

Win got news of Julien, and the tax sale, about the same time she was getting news about Stewart, or the dead letter notice.

I remembered that Win said that, after she arrived to comfort her sister, that they got to scheming and talking about certain relatives that might take her in, and she and her sister, however, never got around to making the firepit.

Win told me, “My sister had discovered some papers in Julien’s collection that didn’t make sense to her, showing original musical compositions by someone else’s name. We were starting to think that Julien had another life or was playing another part,” and so when you showed up, we of course took you in as we were thinking it was going to solve a mystery for us.”   

Now, Mrs. Quinn, I confess to you that I still did not – How could I?—tell Win the truth that I was once married to Julien, when he was going by another name, or George, or John, or whatever. I thought, “What’s the point? The other wife is dead now. There is no money. This is none of anyone’s business now. Focus! I needed only to focus: clearly God was telling me that my only assignment was to just get home and pay for the car.”

But there was money. And I found it. It came to me, like grace. Why sure, it was grace, of course it was! And I could use it, and I did. I had to, to get out. And if Win’s arm could be healed and she could be reunited with kin in Iowa, no one needs to know about Julien and me, or how confident I became that the money I found would be, of course, rightly mine.

And while I waited for Win to return, I broke into the stash of money and her stash of letters. I thought I was doing good, waiting for her and fighting off any tax sale with my pleadings for more grace. I was become an actress all over again, and it was a nice change of pace, to return to my old ways, if you really want to know. It was a pace I could walk, and the way—my way.

Please write back.

Mrs. Laura Lafayette

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel