Time Enough

Beatrice Ketzbeck picked up the iron poker that leaned against the stone fireplace. The metal dustpan resting next to it, clattered to the brick hearth, but she barely noticed. Her four year old son, Clarence, was curled up in a ball on the davenport with a pillow clutched to his head. Beatrice held the poker in both hands and stared out the window into the darkness.

It had been snowing for the last five days, completely covering the woodpile and path to the outhouse.  Drifts were piled against the north side of the clapboard house as high as the window sills.  The winter of 1919 had been exceptionally cold, even by northern Michigan standards.The snow was waist deep and made normal tasks difficult and difficult tasks impossible.

Beatrice turned from the window toward her son Clarence who was now sitting  on the on the horsehair settee wrapped in his quilt, crying softly.  An angry, red welt in the shape of a hand, marred his pale cheek.  She sat down next to him and drew him into her arms and brushed his blond hair back from his forehead.

“Clare, shush now, and listen to me. There’s something momma’s got to do.“  Her voice, low and calm.

“Go on to bed and lock your door and don’t come out no matter what. Clare, are you listening to me?”

A muffled sob was her only answer as Clarence shuffled out of the room dragging the  woolen quilt behind him. The treds creaked as he climbed the narrow stairs to the loft.

Beatrice returned to the window. A kerosene lamp on the mantle illuminated her reflection, softening her features and easing the hard line of her mouth. The golden light did not disguise the bruised and swollen side of her face. Blood from the gash on her forehead had dried but the many colored splendor that would be her left eye had yet to begin. Time enough for that she thought. Time enough to think up a story to tell the neighbors. Time enough.


Beatrice Ketzbech had come into the world on September 9, 1899, but she claimed that nine was not her lucky number. The only daughter of Genevieve and Fredricke Schmidt, family members joked that she must be a changeling.  The family portrait above the mantle  featured four strapping, blond haired boys standing behind their equally stout, light-haired parents and dark-haired, elfin Bea sat perched on a stool at their feet.

Standing only four foot eleven inches tall and weighing barely 90 pounds soaking wet, Beatrice had been popular with the neighborhood girls and boys alike. Her smile was infectious and her laugh irresistible but it was her eyes that everyone remembered. Black as coal, they twinkled when she played a prank and smoldered when she was vexed.

Everyone that knew her agreed on one thing. If Bea set her mind to something, nothing in heaven or on earth would keep her from getting it. In 1915 she met Joseph Ketzbeck,  a quiet and dull sort of fellow, who immigrated from Poland to Gaylord, Michign to work on an uncle‘s potato farm.

Her father threatened to send her to her aunts in Detroit.  Her mother cried long hours over her, but in the end, nothing would do, but to give in and allow the marriage.

Beatrice adapted easily to married life. She and Joe built a small, clapboard house on forty acres that had been a wedding present from her parents.  She worked tirelessly, organizing the kitchen, planting a large garden and making the house a home. She enjoyed creating a sense of order.  Joe was sometimes gruff and moody, but she thought that the fault must somehow lie with her and she just needed to work harder to earn his regard. 

The first time that Joe hit her, she was so shocked she didn’t even cry.  It was just a slap after all, and he had been drinking.  It was easier just to forget it and go on with day to day life.  But, the incident was the first in a long string of  altercations.  She was too embarrassed to mention a word about the fights to anyone, not even her family.  Instead, she became an expert at fabricating stories to account for the bruises and cuts.  As time passed, she slowly withdrew, like a snapping turtle, further and further inside her shell.

A loud snore erupted from the bedroom behind the kitchen, startling her.  She looked down at the poker in her hands, and made up her mind.  She walked to the bedroom door, paused a moment, and went in.

Early the next morning, Bea was at the huge black cook stove just as she was every morning. Potatoes and onions were frying in a cast iron skillet and fat strips of bacon sizzled in a pan. She pulled a tin which held cornmeal mush from the icebox.

Clare came into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sat in his chair

“Clare, get your coat and boots on and bring in some wood for the stove, and feed the chickens while you’re at it.”


She hummed a little tune as she put another heavy skillet on the stove and spooned in some bacon fat from an old coffee can.

A knock on the back screen door announced Floyd, her eldest brother who lived just down the road and was a frequent visitor. He knocked the snow off his boots on the back porch then slid into the warm kitchen.  He hung his heavy wool Mackinaw on a hook behind the cook stove.

“ Beatrice! What happened to your eye?”

“Oh nothing much. It looks worse than it is. I just slipped on the porch steps and hit my head on the railing. It’s nothing”. She turned back to the stove.

“Where’s Joe? Out milking already?” Floyd tousled Clare’s head then poured himself a cup of coffee from the graniteware percolator on the back of the stove.

“Joe’s not feeling very good. He had an accident yesterday on the way home from town. The sleigh slipped off the road and turned over on top of him.  He’s banged up pretty good." A groan came from the bedroom behind the kitchen. “I told him to just stay in bed. Clare and I’ll take care of the milking.” She cut the cornmeal into squares and  placed them in the hot grease. “Stay for breakfast Floyd, I’m making your favorite, fried cornmeal mush with maple syrup.”

“Thanks Bea, but I’ve already eaten.  How about me and Clare take care of that milking for you?  I’ll just take another cup of coffee and we’ll head out and get those chores done.”

“Thanks.  That would be fine. Relax and warm up while I take a tray to Joe.”

She set a plate of food, a cup of coffee and a glass of milk on a tray and took it into the darkened bedroom.

“Here you go, do you feel up to eating?”  Joe groaned as he rolled over to face her.  His back and chest were neatly crisscrossed with lines of blue and purple bruises.  His upper lip was split and one eye was nearly swollen shut.

“No?  Well, I’ll leave it right here by the bed.”  She set the tray on the nightstand.  “I wanted to make sure that you remember what I said last night.”  Joe grunted. 

“No?  I’ll be happy to repeat it.  If you ever touch Clare or me again, I swear, in the name of Jesus Christ that I’ll kill you."  She stood next to the bed, her hands planted on her hips and her eyes black with anger.

“Good.  That’s settled.  We won't say another word about it..“  She stepped to the window and opened the curtains.  It was snowing again, the flakes big and soft, falling endlessly out of the sky. 

“Just let me know if you need anything.” She turned to the door then stopped,and looked down at her feet.  She bent over and picked up the iron poker that had been laying on the floor at the foot of the bed.  Tapping it against her leg, she left the room.