My name was Ruth. I lived to be 94 years old, and I took a secret to my grave—a secret I'm going to now tell you.
Father could swear with the best of them, but not in front of us children. He avoided our mother’s chastising scowl whenever possible. But when he would yell, “Old Man Kinney is a son of a bitch!” Mother let him get away with it because she thought so, too.
The Kinneys owned the 200-acre farm upon which we lived and worked. We owned the livestock, which included dairy cows, horses, pigs, and chickens, and we owned the machines and equipment. But the Kinneys owned our house, and our tobacco barns and other buildings, including our silo. In Rock County, Wisconsin, the Kinneys owned just about every farm’s land and buildings.
The Kinneys had settled on the Rock River during Territory times. Their ancestors had fought in the Black Hawk War of 1832, three generations in the past by the time I was born at the end of 1918. By that time, the Kinneys owned over 10,000 acres and were the wealthiest people this side of six counties. And they made sure everyone knew these things about them.
On those days when Old Man Kinney would come to collect the rent, Father would put on his Sunday clothes in preparation for the visit. Mother would make tea and her county fair award-winning pie crust with a seasonally befitting filling. Old Man Kinney would sit in the parlor in Father’s best chair, drink our tea, eat our pie, and then say, “Welp! Best be gettin’ on to the next farm.” He’d stand and hold his hand out, not to shake Father’s hand but expecting the envelope full of rent money to be placed in it. He’d then stand there and count it like he thought he might get cheated or something.
After he left, Mother would straighten up the parlor, and wash the dishes all the while clicking her tongue to keep herself from succumbing to the urge to swear like Father.
All us girls at Milton Academy knew who Calvin Kinney was—we’d seen him from afar plenty of times. Old Man Kinney’s oldest son was tall and handsome. He wore bespoke suits and fashionable hats. I always thought he looked like Errol Flynn, but my sisters thought he looked more like Clark Gable. When the announcement of Calvin’s engagement to Margaret Goodrich appeared in the Janesville Gazette in early 1938, you could almost hear the sound of hearts breaking.
The Goodriches were the second wealthiest family in the county. Margaret Goodrich was considered the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen. But, my sister, Irene, bragged, “Ruth is far more beautiful than Margaret.” I didn’t feel quite right about agreeing with her, but I sort of thought so, too.
It’s not that I thought I could steal Calvin away from Margaret or anything like that, but that same year of 1938, I finally actually met him while working as a receptionist at the Janesville Assembly Plant where they made the Chevrolet Master—a beaut of a car. Calvin was a line manager, which meant he never got his hands dirty. Old Man Kinney had made the connection for him through Margaret’s father, who had the tire contract for the Master.
The 5:00 PM shift whistle had just blown, so I unlocked the drawer where I kept my purse and gloves to get ready to leave for the day. Before I had a chance to put my coat on, however, a call came through on the switchboard. I stuck my headphones back on and reached over to the board to answer. At the same time, Calvin Kinney walked into the reception area.
“Janesville Assembly Plant, how may I direct your call?” I said.
My brother, Art, said, “Hey, Sis, can you get a ride home with anyone? Or maybe stay in town for a bit?” I must have frowned because Calvin, too, got a frown of concern on his face as he listened in on my side of the conversation.
“Uh, sure,” I said as my eyes met Calvin’s and we proceeded to stare at one another.
Art asked, “You got a nickel?”
“Yes,” I answered.
Art said, “There’s a payphone in Woolworth’s. You could go there and just give me a call in about an hour if you still haven’t found a ride home?”
I agreed without asking him what the problem was. He wouldn’t have told me anyway. When I unplugged the cord, apparently still looking worried, Calvin asked, “What’s the problem?”
I said, “My brother usually picks me up from work, but something has come up and he’s asked me to try and find another way home.”
“I can take you,” Calvin offered without even knowing who I was or where I lived. Or so I thought. “You’re one of the Anderson girls out near Lima Center, right? One of my Dad’s properties?”
It irked me to hear him say this as if the Anderson girls were his Dad’s property. Something sassy came to mind but I was never good at being rude, even when the occasion might warrant rudeness. I answered, “Yes, that’s right. I’m Ruth.”
“Yes, Ruth, I thought that was your name.” He continued to look at me—a bit too hungrily for someone who was engaged to Margaret Goodrich—but I ignored the look because I needed a ride. “So, may I drive you?” he asked again.
I picked up my purse, gloves, and coat and said, “Yes, that would be very nice.” I might have blushed as I suddenly felt a bit warm.
Calvin directed me to come with him to his office so he could get his coat, Fedora, driving gloves, and the keys to his car. He helped me with my coat, and, putting a slight pressure on the small of my back, guided me out the door to the dark parking lot.
“Do you have any pressing need to get right home?” he asked. I told him I didn’t but that if I wasn’t home within an hour my brother would be expecting me to call him from the Woolworth’s payphone. Calvin then asked, “Have you ever eaten Chinese food?” I didn’t even know what Chinese food was so I told him so and he smiled at me with the most beautifully straightened teeth I’d ever seen. “We’ll stop at Woolworth’s so you can call your brother to tell him you’re going to get something to eat with a friend who is also going to drive you home. Will your brother want to know who your friend is?” he asked looking just like Errol Flynn when he gave his most sardonic smile to Olivia de Havilland in Captain Blood. I nearly swooned in wide-eyed response but told him I didn’t think he’d ask. “Good,” he said as he tucked my arm in his and walked me out to his car.
His maroon 1938 Chevrolet Master must have been fresh off the assembly line because the moon was perfectly reflected in its paint. The air was cold. We could see our breath even after settling into the cushiony bench seat of the car. Woolworth’s was only a few blocks away. I jumped out of the car, made my phone call—Art did not ask who my friend was—and Calvin drove us to the Cozy Inn Chinese Restaurant.
He ordered for us both. “Egg Roll, WonTon Soup, Beef Chop Suey, Chicken Chow Mein, Shrimp Egg Foo Young, and Pork Fried Rice.” I thought it sounded like an enormous amount of food. He turned to me and asked, “Wine or beer?” I’d only ever had beer, but knowing wine to be a more sophisticated choice, I said wine. “White or red?” Red, I said with no notion as to what I was doing. “And two glasses of red wine,” Calvin told the waiter.
By the time we left the restaurant, we had spent two glorious hours talking about all manner of subjects. Most boys I’d been around, especially my brothers, made me feel like I wasn’t very smart, even though I always had gotten good grades in school. Calvin, on the other hand, seemed to hang on every word I said. It was pretty exhilarating. The wine might have helped. Not sure how many glasses he had drunk, but the two I had were definitely fogging up my head. I felt giddy and special.
“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” Calvin asked me after we got back into the car. I turned my gloved hands over and over in my lap and whispered no. “Well, you are,” he said as he turned the key and gave the car gas.
He headed out of town on East Milwaukee toward the County Road, which was the long way to the farm. I felt a little shy about asking but said, “Why are you taking the long way?”
Calvin said, “I’m going to open her up and show you what this baby can do.” I had no idea what he meant by that and it scared me a little. Calvin then started to tell me all sorts of things about the car: what its top speed was, what its range was, how much gas it held, how much horsepower it had. He explained what horsepower meant, and what a transmission was. When he made the turn onto the County Road, he said, “Are you ready?”
I looked at him and said, “I guess so,” but I did not know what I should be ready for. Calvin pushed hard on the accelerator. I was involuntarily pressed back into the seat. The old stalks from last year’s corn crops, covered in last week’s snow, whizzed by on both sides of the road. “Wow!” I shouted above the roar of the engine.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” Calvin asked, turning to see the look on my face. We smiled at each other. The turn for North Taran was ahead and approaching fast. The headlights of the Master illuminated more of the old stalks of corn. I pushed my hand against the dash because it didn’t seem like Calvin would be able to make the turn, but he pressed hard on the brake. The car screeched around the corner and my body slid toward him on the seat. My head touched his shoulder before I was able to right myself. He moved his foot back over to the accelerator and pressed down, which made my body surge backwards again. “I told you it was an amazing car,” he shouted with a euphoric edge to his voice. A few moments later he said, “Yes! Sixty-five miles per hour!” He was fixated on the road, his eyes wild with joy. My heart was racing in tune with the engine as I imagined the cylinders he had described pumping up and down. Yes, it was thrilling, but I was now scared. The wine, which had given me such a mellow feeling only minutes before, seemed to suddenly evaporate. My head cleared and I could see by the look on his face that Calvin was not thinking straight.
“Calvin, please slow down,” I said. He ignored me. The turn for US 59 was just ahead and coming on much faster than the last turn. Calvin wasn’t moving his foot over to the brake. “Calvin, please!” I begged. And that’s the last thing I remember of being in the Chevrolet Master.
By the time I awoke, ten days had passed.
My eyes fluttered open to the blurred sight of my sisters, Irene and Bea, standing on either side of me. I looked from one to the other, blinking away the fuzz.
“Ruth, Honey?” Irene said, staring down at me. Bea squeezed my hand and I turned to look at her.
I concentrated hard, forcing my eyes to come into focus. “What happened?” I asked.
Over the next hour, so many things happened I can hardly recall it all. I was asked a bunch of questions like the date, the year, the president’s name, my address, my age, my birth date, my full name, and what was the last thing I remembered. Several different doctors came in. One tested my vision, another my hearing, one examined my head, and the last one explained why my leg was elevated and hanging from a contraption attached to the ceiling of my hospital room.
Mother and Father arrived looking more stern than relieved to see that I had regained consciousness. Mother placed her hand on my forehead and ran her thumb across the 27 stitches just below my shaved hairline. “It’ll grow back, you’ll see,” she said with a hint of tenderness in her voice.
Nodding his chin toward my leg, Father said, “You’ll have to stay here until you’re able to use crutches. Doctor thinks that should be in another two weeks.”
“Two weeks,” I whined.
“Look girl, you’re lucky to be alive,” he said as the creases in his forehead deepened into a scowl. He wasn’t angry. Anger was a familiar emotion for Father, and we all knew it when we saw it, though I have to add that we girls were never on the receiving end of it. No, it wasn’t anger, it was something I didn’t recognize.
During my convalescence, one or more of my sisters came to visit me every day. Mother came twice each week, and each of my brothers came once. Father didn’t come back after that first time. The land didn’t need much attention in winter, but the livestock did. Winter was also the time for preparing and fixing all the machines and equipment, which is what kept all the menfolk in our family too busy for more trips into Janesville to see me.
A few days before I was going to go home, my oldest brother’s wife, Maxine, came to visit. She worked full-time at the Ford garage in Edgerton. She and Marv had a six-year-old son and she apologized for not being able to visit sooner. Mac, as we called her, sat down next to my bed and took my hand in hers. “What in the hell happened?” she asked. I smiled because Mac didn’t think a thing about adding a swear word here and there to pepper her vocabulary.
I told her everything I could remember up to the moment when I couldn’t remember anything else. “Do you know what happened after that?” I asked her. She explained that what Marv had told her was that Kinney had missed the turn on US 59 and run the car straight into the Jansen’s cornfield.
Maxine said, “Your head hit the dash, which is where you got that big gash, and then when the car finally came to a stop some 20 rows into the field, your whole body must have slid forward because they found you all crumpled up under the glove compartment in the area where your feet are supposed to be.”
I was sure glad I couldn’t remember any of that. “Is Calvin okay?” I ventured to ask.
“Bumps, bruises, a broken hand, I think,” she said. She then looked over her shoulder to check to make sure no one else was coming into the room, and leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “He and Margaret Goodrich have moved their wedding up to next Saturday. They say it’s because with a scare like this accident, Margaret wanted to marry as soon as possible so she could be the one to take care of him.” Still leaning in close, Mac turned to look behind her again before she added, “The story is that he was in the car alone.” She waited while that sunk in for a moment and then continued, “He says that he must have hit a patch of ice just before the turn, which is why he slid off the road into the field.” Mac then sat back into her chair and waited. She tilted her head to the left, and waited. She tilted her head to the right, and waited. “Well, what do you have to say about that?” she asked with an urgency creeping into her voice.
It suddenly occurred to me that I’d better keep my mouth shut until I had a chance to talk to Father. Remembering how he had behaved when he came to visit me, I knew something was going on. So I let Mac wait and said nothing.
“Well, I understand if you don’t want to say anything,” she finally said in a contrite tone because she knew she’d been prying.
Father was the one to come pick me up when I was released from the hospital. He came alone, which was unusual in itself. He was very solicitous of me, another clue that something unusual was afoot. After he helped me into the front seat of the farm truck, he reached into a canvas bag lying on the bed of the truck and pulled out two goose down pillows. He then used these to pad around my leg to keep it from jostling around too much. I stared straight ahead out the windshield not wanting to make eye contact with him. Something was definitely up.
He took the same route out of town that Calvin had taken—the long way home. “This is the way he went that night isn’t it?” I nodded but still kept my eyes on the road ahead. A few tense minutes ticked by and then Father said, “I’m going to tell you something, Ruth, and then you’re going to know something that no one else but me and your mother knows. Even if your brothers suspect, and I don’t think they do, they don’t know any of what I’m about to say.” As he made the turn onto North Taran—I remembered how my head had bumped against Calvin’s shoulder. Father looked over at me and I met his gaze. “And you’re never going to tell anyone what you know, understand?” I nodded my head yes.
Father explained that the Kinneys wanted to cover up the fact that Calvin had been galavanting around with another girl the night of the accident. If Margaret’s father ever got wind of such a thing, he would never let Margaret marry “that good for nothing son of a bitch,” Father said. “Old Man Kinney thought I’d just quietly obey his wishes seein’ as he practically owns our family. But I told him that his son had nearly killed my girl, and if he thought I was going to be quiet about it, he was sorely mistaken.”
Father slowed down at the turn for US 59 and pulled over to the side of the road. “See that swath of mowed down corn stalks?” I nodded again. “I thought you was dead,” Father said. Tears welled up in his eyes and I felt my bottom lip start to quiver. “But everything’s all going to be just fine,” he said, letting out a big sigh. “When Old Man Kinney asked me what it would take, I knew I better go big or go home. He stood to lose a lot more than I did with his plans for merging those two fancy empires together through that marriage.”
Father looked over his left shoulder and pulled back onto the road, signaled, and turned right on US 59. “So I told him he could deed the land and buildings over to me and that would be the last he or anyone else ever heard from me or my kin on the matter.” I turned my head and stared at my father. “That’s right, Ruth. We are landowners now. All because that stupid Kinney boy couldn’t take his eyes off my beautiful daughter, got drunk, and ran a perfectly fine car into a god damn cornfield.”
We were silent the rest of the way back to the farm. Father parked the truck on the side of the barn in its usual place. He got out and came around to my side to help me out. He made sure my crutches were properly placed under my armpits. But, before taking even one step I asked, “Why did you tell me?”
Father looked down at the frozen dirt driveway for a moment before bringing his head back up to meet my eyes. I could tell he was struggling to find the right words. I expected him to tell me it was none of my business and all I needed to know was that I wasn’t to speak a word about it but, instead, he said, “As terrible as this has been, worrying for days about whether you would ever wake up, wondering...if you did...whether you’d be able to walk, talk, or have a notion of any kind still left in your head...you’ve given your family a great gift. We own this land, Ruth. It’s a legacy Mother and I will be able to pass on to Art, Bob, and Harold. Being able to do that is something I wanted you to know about, and feel proud about, even though it’ll always just be between the three of us.”
I did feel proud. Father put his arm around my waist to help steady me as I maneuvered the crutches to move forward toward the house. I suddenly thought of something. It didn’t even occur to me to ask about why us girls weren’t included in that legacy. Women just weren’t in those days. They didn’t inherit. They were expected to marry. But I did wonder about my other brother. “Why isn’t Marv included in the legacy?”
Father was matter-of-fact. “Marv chose a town life. He no longer lives on the farm.”
Usually I wouldn’t question my father’s way of thinking, but I was feeling imbued with a small bit of power so I pressed him. “But, he still works the farm all the time.”
Gruffly, Father said, “He chose a town life, Ruth. That’s all there is to it. And no one is going to know about the legacy until the day I die, ’ya here?” I knew better than to pursue the topic any further. I knew that by the time Father passed, this accident would be so far in the past that no one would put two and two together even though the date would be right there on the deed.
After Father and Mother were gone, and for the rest of my days, I had to listen to my brothers mythologize about how Father had saved and saved and eventually had purchased the farm. And I had to listen to my sister-in-law, Maxine, grouse about how much work she and Marv, and later my nephew, Lennie, had put into the farm “without so much as a small token of appreciation.”
Calvin and Margaret were always appearing in the newspaper for one thing or another. If it wasn’t the birth of another child, it was a ribbon cutting for something or other. Once Calvin was serving in the Wisconsin State Assembly, articles about him even ran in the Chicago Tribune. I saw Calvin just one time in the years after the accident. It was in 1947 when I traveled back home with my two-year-old daughter for Mother’s funeral. We were waiting for Father to pick us up at the train station when I saw Calvin come out of the First National. I know he saw me. I almost waved. But he thrust his chin higher and hurried off without acknowledging me at all.
My name was Ruth. I lived to be 94 years old, and I took a secret to my grave.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2021
