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Shame and ForgivenessDAY FOUR
By Staff Writer COLLINS CONNER Each night in bed, Linda Howe curled against three pillows, lined up like a fiberfill Milt to keep her from feeling alone. She slept dreamlessly and awoke more haggard than before. "Oh, I'm beat. I really am," she said. "I'll make it. I'm not worried about that. But I'm going to need some time to regroup myself back." She didn't regroup. She whittled away at a list of chores, then added more chores to the list. In these first weeks after Milton Howe's death, it was amazing how much work it took to close the ledger on their life together and open the ledger on hers alone.
Linda Kemp was barely 16 the day she met Milton Howe at her sister's house in Milwaukee, where this picture was taken in 1960.
Linda's daughter Ramona "Monie" Barnett tried to shepherd her bewildered mother and distract her own fidgety children. Kricket and Danny whined and squabbled; they'd been cooped up way too long in Linda's small mobile home or stuck in the car while the women ran errands. Through the pandemonium, Linda and Monie talked. About Monie's husband Joe and his Navy career. About the kids. About household stuff. Mostly, they talked about life with Milt. It wasn't a new topic. Milt unloaded onto his family what he'd borne as a child: too much punishment, too little joy. Ever since Monie's teens, she and Linda fortified each other against Milt's outbursts and demands. "According to Daddy, I did everything wrong," Monie said. "I didn't mean diddley to him. I was good for nothing. I would never amount to anything. I was stupid. I was fat. "He wasn't that mean if you left him alone, if you did everything right," Monie said, but he would hit her when she erred. "I was a kid. I know I messed up. I wasn't the greatest kid." Outside the family, Milt was known as a smart man, energetic and generous. A volunteer firefighter, he regularly helped his friends and his community. Linda wanted his attention, too. It seemed to her that Milt was all too willing to give to others, but never willing to spend time with her. She squawked when he left the house and when he came back. "Don't get all screamy," Milt would holler. To Linda, Milt's persistent fault-finding pounded a drumbeat of disappointment. By the time he died, she had incorporated his message. She knew, always, that there was something she was supposed to do, but hadn't. Or someone she was supposed to be, but wasn't. She now viewed her own behavior with Milt's judgmental eye. Every decision she made, every task she undertook, she thought, "Oh, I can hear him now: 'That was dumb, Linda.' " Late one Tuesday, after Monie ordered her children to sleep on the air mattress in the living room, she and Linda sat at the kitchen table, playing cribbage and talking about Milt. Monie dealt and quizzed: What was your most romantic time with Daddy? What was the funniest time? "What was the first time you thought you were in love with him. Was it Thanksgiving?" "No," Linda said. "That's when I first met him. . . . He called his mom and said, 'I'm marrying this gal.' " Linda hadn't dated anyone before she met Milt and didn't date anyone after him. She wouldn't let Milt kiss her until the eighth date. She never allowed heavy petting or touching below the waist. Monie teased her: Then why was Ray born 8 months and 3 weeks after your marriage? "Come on," Monie taunted, "He wasn't eight days early!" Then Linda spilled a secret she'd kept for 31 years.
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