Morning Glory (54 page)
His look grew pensive, fixed on a distant hive. "Everybody in that war is a hero. They oughta give a Purple Heart to every GI out there."
"Did you shoot anybody, Will?" Donald Wade inquired.
"Now, Donald Wade, you mustn't—"
"Yes, I did, son, and it's a pretty awful thing."
"But they were bad guys, weren't they?"
Will's haunted gaze fixed on Elly, but instead of her he saw a foxhole and in it six inches of water and his buddy, Red, and a bomb whistling down out of the sky turning everything before him scarlet.
"Now, Donald Wade, Will just got back and you're pepperin' him with questions already."
"No, it's okay, Elly." To the child he said, "They were people, just like you and me."
"Oh."
Donald Wade grew solemn, contemplating the fact. Elly rose from her knees and said, "I have to finish filling the water pans. It won't take me long."
She kissed Will's left eyebrow, drew on her farmer gloves and left the children with Will while she headed back to work, turning once to study her husband again, trying to grasp the fact that he was back for good.
"I love you!" she called from beside a gnarled pear tree.
"I love you, too!"
She smiled and spun away.
The children examined Will's uniform—buttons, chevrons, pins. Lizzy grew less cautious, toddling around in the grass. The sun beat down and Will removed his blouse, laid it aside and stretched out supine, shutting his eyes against the brightness. But the sun on his closed eyelids became scarlet. Blood scarlet. And he saw it happen all over again—Red, scrambling on his belly across a stretch of kunai grass beside the Matanikau River, suddenly freezing in the open while from the opposite shore enemy .25 calibers cracked like oxwhips, submachine guns thundered, and a ranging grenade launcher sent its deadly missiles closer and closer. And there lay poor Red, stretched flat with no cover, facedown, shaking, biting the grass, halted by an unholy terror such as a lucky Marine never knows. Will saw himself scrambling back out amid the strafing, heard the bullets' deceptively soft sigh as they sailed over his head, the dull thud as they struck behind him, left, right. The earth rained dirt upward as a grenade hit fifteen feet away. "Christ, man, you gotta get outta here!" Red lay unmoving, unable. Will felt again his own panic, the surge of adrenaline as he grabbed Red and hauled him backward through mud and tufts of uprooted grass into a foxhole with six inches of muddy water—"Stay here, buddy. I'm going to get them sonsabitches!"—then going over the top again, teeth clenched, crawling on his elbows while the tip of his bayonet swung left and right. Then, overhead, the planes wheeling out of nowhere, the warning whistle, dropping, and behind him, Red, in the foxhole where the bomb fell.
Will shuddered, opened his eyes wide, sat up. Beside him the children still played. At the hive openings bees landed with their gatherings. Elly was returning with the wagon in tow, the two empty metal buckets clanging like glockenspiels as the wheels bumped over the rough turf. He blinked away the memory and watched his wife come on in her masculine apparel. Don't think about Red, think about Elly. He watched until her shadow slipped across his lap, then raised a hand and requested quietly, "Come here," and when she fell to her knees, held her. Just held her. And hoped she'd be enough to heal him.
* * *
Their lovemaking that night was golden.
But when it was over Elly sensed Will's withdrawal from more than her body.
"What's wrong?"
"Hm?"
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Your leg hurt?"
"Not bad."
She didn't believe him, but he wasn't a complainer, never had been. He reached for his Lucky Strikes, lit one and lay smoking in the dark. She watched the red coal brighten, listened to him inhale.
"You want to talk about it?"
"About what?"
"Anything—your leg ... the war. I think you purposely kept the bad stuff out of your letters for my sake. Maybe you wanna talk about it now."
The red arc of the cigarette going to his mouth created a barrier more palpable than barbed wire.
"What's the sense in talking about it? I went to war, not an ice cream social. I knew that when I joined up."
She felt shut out and hurt. She had to give him time to open up, but tonight wouldn't be the night, that was certain. So she searched for subjects to bring him close again.
"I'll bet Miss Beasley was surprised when she saw you."
He chuckled. "Yeah."
"Did she show you the scrapbook of newspaper clippings she kept about all the action in the South Pacific?"
"No, she didn't mention that."
"She clipped articles only about the areas where she thought you might be fighting."
He chuckled soundlessly.
"You know what?"
"Hm?"
"I think she's sweet on you."
"Oh, come on, she's old enough to be my grandma."
"Grandmas got feelings, too."
"Lord."
"And you know what else? I think you kind of feel the same."
He felt himself blush in the dark, recalling times when he'd purposely charmed the librarian. "Elly, you're crazy."
"Yeah, I know, but it's perfectly okay with me. After all, you never had a grandma, and if you wanna love her a little bit it don't take nothin' away from me."
He tamped out his cigarette, drew her against his side and kissed the top of her head. "You're some woman, Elly."
"Yeah, I know."
He pulled back and looked down into her face, forgetting momentarily the haunting visions that sprang into his mind uninvited. He laughed, then Elly snuggled her cheek against his chest once more, and went on distracting him. "Anyway, Miss Beasley was wonderful while you were gone, Will. I don't know what I would've done without her—and
Lydia
, too.
Lydia
and I got to be such good friends. And you know what? I never really had a friend before." She mused before continuing. "We could talk about anything..." She ruffled the hair on his chest and added, "I'd like to have her and the kids out sometime so you can get to know her better. Would that be all right with you, Will?"
She waited, but he didn't answer. "Will?"
Silence.
"Will?"
"What?"
"Haven't you been listening?"
He removed his arm and reached for another cigarette. She'd lost him again.
* * *
There was no doubt about it, Will was different. Not only the limp, but the lapses. They happened often in the days that followed, lengthy silences when he became preoccupied with thoughts he refused to share. An exchange would become a monologue and Elly would turn to find his eyes fixed on the middle distance, his thoughts troubled, miles away. There were other changes, too. At night, insomnia. Often she'd awaken to find him sitting up, smoking in the dark. Sometimes he dreamed and talked in his sleep, swore, called out and thrashed. But when she'd awaken him and encourage, "What is it, Will? Tell me," he'd only reply, "Nothing. Just a dream." Afterward he'd cling to her until sleep reclaimed him and his palms would be damp even after they finally fell open.
He needed time alone. Often he went down to the orchard to ruminate, to sit watching the hives and work through whatever was haunting him.
The smallest sounds set him off. Lizzy knocked her milk glass off the high chair one day and he rocketed from his chair, exploded and left the house without finishing his meal. He returned thirty minutes later, apologetic, hugging and kissing Lizzy as if he'd struck her, bringing by way of apology a simple homemade toy called a bull-roarer which he'd made himself.
He spent a full hour with the three children that afternoon, out in the yard, spinning the simple wooden blade on the end of the long string until it whirled and made a sound like an engine revving up. And, as always, after being with the children, he seemed calmer.
Until the night they had a thunderstorm at
An immense clap of thunder shook the house, and Will sprang up, yelling as if to be heard above shelling, "Red!
Jesus Christ, R-e-e-e-e-e-d!"
"Will, what is it?"
"Elly, oh God, hold me!"
Again, she became his lifeline, but though he trembled violently and sweated as if with a tropical fever, he held his horrors inside.
Physically, he continued healing. Within a week after his return he was restless to walk without crutches, and within a month, he followed his inclination. He loved the bathtub, took long epsom salts soaks that hastened the healing, and always eagerly accepted Elly's offers to scrub his back. Though he'd been ordered by Navy doctors to have checkups biweekly, he shunned the order and took over tending the bees even before he discarded the crutches, and went back to his library job in his sixth week home, without consulting a medic. His hours there were the same as before, leaving his days free, so he painted and posted a sign at the bottom of their driveway—USED AUTO PARTS & TIRES—and went into the junk business, which brought in a surprising amount of steady money. Coupled with his library salary, government disability check and the profit from the sale of eggs, milk and honey, which was constantly in demand now that sugar was heavily rationed, it brought their income up to a level previously unheard of in either Will's or Elly's life.
The money was, for the most part, saved, for even though Will still dreamed of buying Elly luxuries, the production of most domestic commodities had been halted long ago by the War Production Board. Necessities—clothing, food, household goods—were strictly rationed, at Purdy's store, their point values posted on the shelves beside the prices. The same at the gas station, though Will and Elly were classified as farmers, so given more gas rationing coupons than they needed.
The one place they could enjoy their money was at the theater in Calhoun. They went every Saturday night, though Will refused to go if a war movie was showing.
Then one day a letter arrived from
Lexington
,
"Somethin' for you," she said simply, turning away.
"Oh..." He picked it up, read the return address and repeated, quieter, "Oh."
After a full minute of silence she turned to face him. "Aren't you going to open it?"
"Sure." But he didn't, only stood rubbing his thumb over the writing, staring at it.
"Why don't you take it down to the orchard and open it, Will?"
He looked up with pain in his deep, dark eyes, swallowed and said in a thick voice, "Yeah, I think I'll do that."
When he was gone, Elly sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and covered her face with her hand, grieving for him, for the death of his friend whom he couldn't forget. She remembered long ago how he'd told her of the only other friend he'd ever had, the one who'd betrayed him and had testified against him. How alone he must feel now, as if every time he reached out toward another man, that friendship was snatched away. Before the war she would not have guessed the value of a friend. But now she had two—Miss Beasley and
Lydia
. So she knew Will's pain at losing his buddy.
She gave him half an hour before going out to find him. He was sitting beneath an aged, gnarled apple tree heavy with unripe fruit, the letter on the ground at his hip. Knees up, arms crossed, head lowered, he was the picture of dejection. She approached silently on the soft grass and dropped to her knees, putting her palms on his forearms, her face against his shoulder. In ragged sobs, he wept. She moved her hands to his heaving back and held him lovingly while he purged himself. At last he railed, "Jesus, Elly. I k-killed him. I d-dragged him back to that f-foxhole and left him th-there and the n-next thing I knew a b-bomb hit it d-dead center and I t-t-turned around and s-saw his r-red h-hair flyin' in ch-chunks and—"