In that first week, the letters from Ed went from bad to worse. Papa saw adventures such as these as highly invigorating, just like his adventures with Uncle Cal back in their boyhoods; he found the spontaneity to be part of the thrill, and so he did not fixate too much on the minutia of the planning or itinerary. As they made their way west, Ed and Papa were staying each night wherever they had shelter at sundown—in rustic rancher camps, in flimsy canvas tents, in rock caves filled with the sounds of dripping water and other mysterious noises. Within a few days, Eddie found himself sick from the drinking water. The next day he accidentally sat on a barrel cactus, having never before seen such a plant, and having refused to wear the sturdy leather chaps that my father had offered him. Papa had hooted with laughter as he plucked the needles out of Eddie’s backside, and Eddie lamented to me in his letter: “My God, why did I ever agree to this?”
But then Ed’s letters grew even more dismal. One night, while they were making camp in a rickety cabin, a sky-blackening dust storm began to churn as a sudden cold front swept down the plains. As Papa and Eddie prepared to bed down for the night under a musty stack of woven wool blankets, the roof rattled under a clap of lightning. My stomach dipped as I read on: Just when my husband thought things could not possibly get worse, another spike of lightning hit nearby, and their terrified mules bolted. A minute later they heard shrieks—the mules?—followed by the yips of encircling coyotes. “I barely slept the entire night,” Ed wrote, the outrage seeping from his primly written words. “Not until I saw the purple light of dawn did I feel sufficiently at ease to allow myself a brief doze.” He awoke from those few hours of sleep to find that small vermin had chewed through his chow bag.
* * *
—
At last their tired party returned, lumbering dust-caked and ragged down the wide streets of Fort Worth. I’d never imagined my husband would be so relieved to be back in that cattle town, but after where he’d been, Fort Worth was a veritable metropolis.
I could tell as soon as I greeted the two men how drastically different their moods were: Papa sauntered into the lobby of the hotel appearing lively and invigorated—the sun and the adventure had colored his cheeks, and his blue eyes shone bright. It had all been a grand adventure, a reminder of the treks he’d enjoyed across the California mountains and the Great Divide. Eddie, who marched right to the lobby bar, appeared windburned and about ten pounds thinner, having spent much of the time sick from the water and the camp food. “Come with me,” I said, looping my arm through his, noting how his hands trembled. “I’ll draw you a warm bath.”
“And a large glass of whiskey,” he said, eagerly following me away from Papa and Leila and toward the privacy of our suite.
As my husband scrubbed off layers of dust in the big claw-foot tub, he downed glass after glass of the amber liquor, the sole Texan product that he seemed to appreciate. Afterward, we ordered supper to our suite and turned in early. He was too weary to make love, but we lay in bed talking. Having seen his face upon his return, I was not surprised to hear his words: “Good God, Marjorie, there is no way. I am never going back out there, let alone moving us there. It would be no place to raise a family.”
I sighed, remaining close to Ed’s body in the massive bed. I knew that Papa wanted my husband to be a part of his business ventures. That he had always wished for a son-in-law who felt like an obvious successor, even a surrogate son. But how could Eddie be that when he and Papa were so unlike each other? How could Eddie someday take over Papa’s operations in Texas, all the way from Greenwich, Connecticut? I could not see it. But perhaps there was a middle road, and I tried to tread gently toward that. “Texas is not for us, Eddie. I agree with you. I was a little girl when we left here. I hardly think of it as home.”
I could feel his body’s exhale, could hear his lungs emptying in relief. I pressed on. “But what about…What would you think of being in Battle Creek?”
Eddie turned and faced me, his features draining of color. “Marjorie, you cannot be serious.”
But I was entirely serious. I did not like Greenwich. I had finally admitted that to myself. After all, I’d had enough time alone in Fort Worth to think these things over, knowing before he’d even returned from the West that Eddie would never sanction a move out there. But I felt equally unenthusiastic about our staid Connecticut community; it was not my home. Battle Creek was. We could have a wonderful life there. Papa was driving as hard as ever, and his newest cereal, Post Toasties, had just been released, and it had been an instant sensation, clearing earnings of nearly $3 million in its first year. On top of that, our Grape-Nuts cereal and our Postum drink, both objects of Eddie’s derision, were also bringing in millions. Everyone in America, it seemed, loved the Post name and wanted the Post products. We were far more popular than even the Kelloggs.