River's Edge (24 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: River's Edge
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I blushed a little. “I don't know exactly. He was always so mean to me, and I wasn't any nicer to him, but one day, that day down by the river, everything changed. He kissed me. I didn't try to stop him. I kissed him back—”
“Why?” Mama asked flatly.
“Because I ... I couldn't help it. I loved him. Until that moment I hadn't known it, but then it seemed like I'd always known it.”
“Like it was meant to be?” Mama asked confidentially, and I was amazed at her ability to read my mind. Mama laughed. “Those old clichés sound so silly because we've heard them so often, but maybe the reason we have heard them so often is because they're true.
“Elise, in a way, love is a calling. You may not have been looking for it—maybe it didn't arrive at a convenient time, but when it does appear there is nothing else to be done. You love. It is part of who you are and what you are meant to do, even when it hurts,” she said a little sadly, “as it very often does.”
I knew what she meant. She loved Papa. That was her calling, and because she loved him, she had to let him follow his calling. To ask him not to would be to ask him to be someone different, and less than the man she loved. Oh, yes, I understood.
From behind Papa's closed study door we could hear the sound of male voices raised in conflict. I was pretty sure I knew what they were arguing about, and so did Mama.
“Papa is going to try to hold him to his promise to wait until summer to enlist,” Mama said. “He's worried about Junior and about how I will handle all the work when he leaves. Papa has already made arrangements for John Holbrook, a retired minister who lives in the next county, to come and preach on Sundays. I'll take over the pastoral duties as best I can—sick visitations and such. Then, of course, there is the house to run. It won't be easy, but I'll manage. Lots of women will be in the same boat, and we'll all manage. But Carl would feel better about going if he knew that Junior was here. He's trying to make him feel guilty about leaving, but I think it is mostly because he feels so guilty himself.” She sighed and shook her head.
“It won't work,” I said with resignation, wishing I were wrong. “Junior won't be able to stand back and let everyone else do the fighting.”
“I know,” Mama replied. “I told Carl that.”
We sat quietly on the floor for a minute, picking up the last bits of broken glass and listening to the muffled sounds of an argument going on between father and son. When the job was done, Mama made a soft, grumbling noise of frustration and started to get up. “They are too much alike, those two, and they don't even know it.”
I jumped up and held my hand out to Mama. She smiled gratefully as I pulled her to her feet.
Suddenly I was filled with a great sense of confidence and purpose. “We'll manage,” I said with certainty as I grabbed a mop and started cleaning the spilled water from the floor. “Don't worry about a thing, Mama. I'll help you. Together we'll manage.”
Chapter 16
March 1942
 
I
was setting the table for supper when Curt came running into the kitchen, having slammed the door so hard that I nearly dropped the tray of glasses I was carrying.
“Knock it off, Curt! Mama's trying to nap, and you're running around making enough noise to wake the dead,” Cookie hissed as she pushed a stray piece of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand.
Her face was sweaty with steam from the bowl of boiled potatoes she was mashing, and her eyes were ringed with fatigue. When Mama took over all Papa's visitation duties, Cookie and I volunteered to prepare all the evening meals. We were both proficient cooks, but I think we were both surprised by just how much work was involved in feeding a family of seven day after day. Mama had made it look so easy.
Curt's shoulders drooped at her rebuke, and his eyes began to well with tears.
Cookie immediately softened her tone. “Curt, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. Just try to be a little quieter, all right? Mrs. Taylor has pneumonia, and Mama was up half the night nursing her.”
“I'm sorry,” Curt mumbled guiltily. “I was just excited, that's all. I'll be quieter, Cookie.”
“It's okay. I'm not mad at you. Here,” she said, holding a basket out to him. “You want a pumpkin roll? Elise just this minute pulled them out of the oven, and they're still hot.”
Curt rubbed the cuff of his shirt across his eyes to sop up any remaining dampness, took a roll from the basket, and bit into it. “Mmmm,” he murmured. “These are good, Elise.”
“You can have another if you want,” I said. “So what were you so excited about?” Curt already had a second roll in his hand, but his mouth was stuffed so full from the first one that he had to chew for a long moment and swallow hard before answering me.
He got up from the stool and pulled an envelope from his back pocket. “Look!” he said, waving it at us with a delighted smile, “A letter from Papa!”
“A letter?” Cookie wiped her hands eagerly on her apron and snatched the envelope from Curt's outstretched hand. “Why in the world didn't you say so? I'll go tell Mama!” She trotted up the stairs happily, her fatigue momentarily forgotten.
“But I tried to tell you ...” Curt replied helplessly to his sister's retreating form.
I opened the oven door, letting the delicious smell of onions and roasted pork fill the kitchen. “This is just about done. Why don't you go outside and let the other boys know it's time to wash up for supper.” Curt grabbed another roll from the basket and headed outside to call his brothers, letting the door slam just as hard as he had when he came in.
Junior and the twins had been outside all afternoon staking out a large plot of ground on the south side of the house. It would be our victory garden. Cookie and I had bought seeds the previous Saturday, and now the gaily colored packets of carrots, squash, beans, and radishes were lying on the kitchen counter near the stove, looking like a pile of cheery greeting cards.
The night before, I sat next to Junior while he drew a plan for the garden. As he measured and penciled in lines to mark the spacing and placement of various crops, I fanned out the seed packets like a deck of cards, arranging them into graduated color suits, starting with the yellow wax beans and orange carrots, moving on through crimson strawberries and rhubarb, to varieties of lettuces in graduated shades of green, and finally ending with the deep blue-green of stalks of broccoli. Junior was amused by the intensity of my concentration on this task.
“What are you doing, Elise? We're raising vegetables, not painting a picture.”
“I know, but they're much prettier this way. Don't you think? There's something so wonderful about planting a garden... .”
Junior raised his eyebrows. “You mean the hoeing and sweating and hauling water?”
“No,” I protested. “I just think the whole process is so magical. You put one of these tiny seeds in the ground, and you wait, and one day you walk outside and all these tiny little shoots have appeared out of nowhere! It's breathtaking!”
Junior leaned over and kissed me—just a quick peck, but my heart glowed warm inside me, as it did whenever we touched. “Only you could find romance in digging hills of potatoes. I just like the fact that you get something to eat at the end of the process.” We laughed, but then his face became serious. “The tire rationing is just the first step, you know. Food rationing won't be far behind. Come fall you're going to be happy to have a good crop. You make the twins help you with this,” he instructed. “They've got to water every day and keep the weeds down. It's important.”
“I don't mind doing the gardening myself.”
“I know you don't, but you can't do everything. You and Cookie and Mama already have your hands full, and after ...”
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. I knew how it ended; after he left we would be even busier. He was doing everything he could now to make sure that we could shoulder the load in his absence. He wouldn't be with us much longer.
I leaned my head into his shoulder, wanting to be as close to him as possible, wanting him to realize how much he was going to miss me. “I read where the government has declared tobacco an essential crop,” I whispered. “Vital for the war effort. Farm workers on essential crops can get a deferment. You don't have to go.”
Junior sat up straighter, shrugged his shoulders as if he were shrugging off an annoying insect. His voice was cold and firm. “I'm staying until June. That's what I agreed to. That's what I promised Papa. But come June I'm leaving.”
I was instantly ashamed of myself. “I know, but I can't help wanting you to stay. I just can't.”
We made up, but the fun had gone out of the evening. I gathered up the seed packets and left them in a haphazard pile on the counter. Junior finished drawing the garden plan in silence, and I went into the parlor and played slow, lonely ballads.
Now the packets of seeds lay in a confused pile where I'd left them. I pushed them aside to make room for the roast to rest. The door burst open, and the kitchen was instantly full to bursting with Mullers all talking and laughing at once. The voices I had come to love blended in familial harmony: Cookie's flutey laughter with Mama's alto tones, as soothing and sure as sounding brass, the boys bickering cheerfully in the middle register, while Junior's manly timbre intoned in gentle, fatherly reminders to wipe their feet. My chest choked with a painful joy. They were so wonderful, this family—my family. The world was raging with war, but just at this moment it was hard to quite believe it. I felt so safe. I found myself not quite praying, but, rather, questioning God.
Surely You won't change this? Surely we'll always be as happy as we are right now?
Mama came over and put her hand on my shoulder. “Everything smells delicious!”
“The letter!” Curt shouted, “Mama! Read it right now!”
Mama smiled, looking more relaxed and refreshed than she had in days, and bent down slightly to speak to Curt. “We'll read it, but let's get ready for dinner first. Go on,” she said and patted him on the cheek. “Get washed.”
Cookie, Mama, and I brought the food to the table while the boys washed their hands. Then we all sat down in our usual places, Mama at the foot nearest the stove; Curt and the twins on one side; Cookie, Junior, and I on the other. Papa had been gone two weeks, but no one had thought to fill his vacant spot at the head of the table. We bowed our heads as Mama said grace. When she was finished, we passed platters and bowls while Mama slit the envelope open with her butter knife and read.
Dear Ones,
 
Forgive me for not writing a longer letter last time, but there really wasn't much to write beyond informing you that I had passed my physical examination and had arrived safely at chaplain school. If all goes well, in three more weeks I will be given the rank of first lieutenant and a posting.
I was hoping to be given an assignment in the Pacific, but I have been informed that because of my age, I will be sent to a base in the states. Boy! They sure know how to hurt a guy! All kidding aside, I am a bit disappointed. I had always pictured myself as ministering to our soldiers on the battlefield, which I feel will be their time of greatest need. Well, God knows best and I will go where I am called and serve anyone who has a need.
Junior and Cookie, I forgot to mention in my last letter that I saw Mark Woodward in line at the induction center. He said to send you all his greetings. Cookie, I think he wanted to send more than just a greeting to you, but he was smart enough to realize that there are some salutations that can't be sent via messenger, especially if that messenger is a father.
I felt pretty odd when I got to the induction center and found myself surrounded by all those strapping young warriors but they looked just as uncomfortable having an old preacher in their midst. I noticed that one or two of them who seemed given to somewhat colorful language clammed up when they caught sight of my collar. There was another one, kind of a joker, who got halfway through a story, spotted me in the crowd, and was suddenly struck mute. He didn't say a word after that. I guess he'd gotten so accustomed to using expletives to express himself that not using them seriously depleted his store of adjectives.
“What's ‘expletives' mean?” Curt inquired. The twins guffawed, and Cookie shushed them. Junior said he'd explain it to him later. Mama just continued reading the letter as though she hadn't heard the question.
Well, it was all pretty uncomfortable, but that didn't last long. Standing in long lines wearing nothing but your jockey shorts is a great equalizer among men. Before we were through, the boys were joking with me and calling me ‘padre.' They were all fine young men. I hope that at least a few of them might be stationed at whatever base I am eventually sent to, but I suppose most of them will be sent into combat. May God bless them.
By the way, sorry to disappoint you, Chip, but as I had thought, chaplains do not carry weapons.
Chip clicked his tongue in disgust, and Chuck drawled a nasal groan of disappointment.
I'll be assigned a chaplain's assistant whose job it would be to protect me in combat situations, but since, at least for now, it seems that I will be far away from the fighting, I imagine my assistant will do more typing and filing than shooting.
Except for missing you all so much, I am enjoying my time at chaplains' school more than I could have imagined. The best part of the experience is the camaraderie that has developed between me and my fellow chaplains-in-training.
Everywhere you look there are rabbis, priests, and ministers huddled together in groups, living opening lines to a hundred jokes, talking and debating and enjoying themselves immensely. There is no denominational bickering here, only deep theological discussion and shared devotion to God. I have not taken part in such profound conversations since seminary, and if my purpose for being here were not so solemn, I could say I was truly happy here. However, my separation from all of you, and the knowledge that in just a few weeks I and my fellow chaplains will be personally involved in the hellishly real business of war casts a shadow over this brief, heavenly sojourn.
I miss you all very much and pray for you daily. Children, make sure you keep your noses to the grindstone at school. Junior, keep helping your Mama. I know I don't have to remind you about your promise....
“Funny,” Junior grumbled under his breath. “You just did.” I reached my hand under the table and squeezed his sympathetically.
“He asks us to write when we can,” Mama continued, pointedly ignoring Junior's comment. Then she stopped reading, though her eyes continued to scan down the page. She raised her hand to her breast and laid it flat at the base of her throat. Her eyes shimmered wet as they moved higher on the page so she could read it again. Papa's private message brought a smile to her lips. She looked up and, for just an instant, seemed a bit surprised to see six intent pairs of eyes watching her.
“And he closes with ‘my very dearest love to you all, Papa,' ” she finished with determined brightness.
Everyone was silent for a moment, our previously festive mood now as flat and useless as a deflated balloon. Mama took in a deep breath and let it out. “Well,” she said, looking down at her untouched plate, “this looks good.” She took a bite of the pork roast and nodded approvingly in my direction, but I bet she didn't taste a thing.
We all dutifully picked up our forks and started picking at our food. Only Junior didn't move. I shot him a nudging glance, but he just kept glaring darkly into space. Mama took a drink of water and cleared her throat.
“Junior, you haven't eaten anything. Are you feeling all right?”

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