Authors: Marie Bostwick
River's Edge (7 page)
“Oh no,” I breathed in wonder, “pretty isn't nearly word enough for it. It's ... it's ...” I searched my brain for just the right word, but every one I thought of seemed pale and colorless when laid against the scene below. “It's like ...”
“Heaven?” Papa offered.
“Is it?” I turned and asked hopefully, searching his face, wanting it to be true, wanting him to know the truth.
“I have read a great deal about it. Christ spoke of heaven as an exquisite place, a place of peace, in the very presence of God. A place of eternal satisfaction and ultimate fulfillment, lovely beyond imagining. I don't know what it will be like,” he admitted and lifted his eyes to the horizon. “No one does. But it must be an awful lot like this.”
Chapter 4
T
he summer seemed endless. The other children spoke to me only when it was absolutely necessary, which is to say just often enough to keep from being lectured by their parents. I am sure the Mullers were aware of the tension between us, but the children were perfectly polite to me in their presence, so they could hardly complain of their behavior. Once or twice Curt, who was really too little to understand what the disagreement was about and too sweet to hold a grudge for long, made a friendly overture to me, but whenever he would smile or try to speak with me, one of his siblings would glare at him and his face would freeze in a solemn, slightly perplexed expression.
he summer seemed endless. The other children spoke to me only when it was absolutely necessary, which is to say just often enough to keep from being lectured by their parents. I am sure the Mullers were aware of the tension between us, but the children were perfectly polite to me in their presence, so they could hardly complain of their behavior. Once or twice Curt, who was really too little to understand what the disagreement was about and too sweet to hold a grudge for long, made a friendly overture to me, but whenever he would smile or try to speak with me, one of his siblings would glare at him and his face would freeze in a solemn, slightly perplexed expression.
I was not invited to play in any more baseball games, which certainly didn't bother me. I much preferred taking long walks by the river. Sometimes I ran the whole way because I was so curious to see how much higher the fields had grown since the day before. When I got there I would strip off my shoes and socks to wade in the cool, welcoming water. When the wind moved through the trees, the whole valley was alive. The leaves of the trees lifted and fell in rhythm with the whistling wind, like breath rising and falling in the body of the earth. It was lovely and secret and awfully lonely.
Reverend and Mrs. Muller, whom I now called Mama and Papa, as they had requested, were very kind to me. Papa took me to Brightfield every Tuesday so I could go to the library. After selecting my books, I would walk across the green to the church and play piano until Papa emerged from his study and said it was time to go home. I played the songs my mother had taught me, all the pieces I had played to help her forget her pain, and while my fingers floated across the keys, I was able to forget, too.
I did everything I could think of to win my way back into Cookie's good graces, even trying to help with the household chores, but having grown up in a house run by servants, I was hopeless at anything domestic. When setting the table, I could never remember where the silverware went, so Cookie would have to redo the whole job. Wet dishes seemed to leap from my hands every time I tried to dry them. Once, after I'd broken yet another glass, Cookie glared at me and said, “Just leave them! If you keep helping, we won't have any left.”
After that I just sat in the parlor and read after supper. Mostly I read books that I had borrowed from the library and newspapers that seemed to be full of nothing but war and rumors of war. The papers presented Germany in such a completely different light than I was accustomed to that I sometimes wondered if I was mistranslating the words. They spoke of German aggression and of the German invasion of Austria and the occupation of Czechoslovakia, operations that my teachers at home had called liberations. I didn't understand how these American newspapers could be so ill informed. Still, I continued to read the papers because, as upsetting as they were, they provided me with some idea of what was going on at homeâcertainly more than Father's letters did.
His letters read like field reports, noting the date, followed by a vague but always positive assessment how his work was progressing, his health, the weather conditions, and closing with an admonition regarding my behavior, and the words, “Your Father, Herman C. Braun.”
The formality of his postscript always made me wonder if he was trying to remind himself or me of our paternal relationship. His letters left me disappointed and adrift. After reading them I would sit silently, staring out the parlor window, hearing the laughter of the children as they played “kick the can” in the evening shadows and wishing the sun would set so I would be through with one more day.
I was sitting just like that one evening in mid-August when Mama stuck her head around the parlor door frame looking for me. “There you are, Elise. What are you doing hiding in here? If you want to read, you should go outside on the porch where it's cool.”
“Oh ... I don't mind,” I stammered unconvincingly, folding up Papa's letter quickly and stuffing it into the pocket of my skirt. “I am more comfortable in here.”
Mama sat down next to me on the sofa and laid her hand on my shoulder. “Elise, I know it must be terribly hard for you, being so far away from your family and having to adjust to a whole new culture. I want you to know that I'm glad you're here, and if you ever want to talk, I'll always be ready to listen. And if the other children are giving you a hard time, you should come to me and tell me. All right?”
“Thank you, but I'm fine. Really. Everyone has been very kind to me.” Mama was well intentioned, but the last thing I was going to do was tattle on the other children. That would only make things worse.
Mama drew her brows together for a moment, not believing me, but then she smiled, looking suddenly younger. I could see that once she had been as pretty as Cookie, even prettier. “Oh, I almost forgot what I came in to tell you!” she said excitedly. “Run get your hat. We're all going to the movies!”
The theater was like a cathedral. The walls were decorated with murals of angelic creatures floating in a sky that was bluer and more brilliant than any sky could be. Nymphs danced with arms upraised toward a celestial ceiling that soared forty feet overhead, pricked with stars that glinted gold and silver on a field of midnight. The front of the theater was a large proscenium arch carved with serpentine waves and flanked on either side by more angels, carved from wood and painted with what looked like layers of melted gold, their necks straining forward as if to catch the wind on their faces, as though they were leading the prow of a great ship.
The lobby was filled with laughter and conversation as people worked out the arrangements of who was to sit where or decided what candy to buy, but a hush came over the crowd when they entered the splendor of the auditorium. They passed quietly through the aisles that parted the sea of red velvet upholstery and meekly chose their seats.
We wore our Sunday clothes and manners. Even Chip and Chuck were perfectly well behaved and settled quietly in their seats, waiting for something wonderful to happen. The scent of hot butter and popcorn seemed incongruous in the semi-sacred surroundings, but the smell was irresistible. People quietly munched stolen bites from the paper boxes of popcorn and held whispered conversations with their neighbors as they waited for the picture to begin.
There must have been a thousand people in the theater and all the seats were filled, but even the whispering ceased and the audience became dead silent when the lights dimmed. Then the spots in front warmed the red velvet and gold braid of the proscenium curtain, which levitated smoothly from the stage in heavy scallops to display still another curtain, this one of white silk, which parted to reveal the opening scene of the film. The screen was filled by a breathtaking cloud-swept sky stretching twenty feet high and twice as wide, made even more splendid by the music of the orchestra that swelled and ebbed like winds across a plain. I was entranced.
I've since heard people say that the
Wizard of Oz
was about the Depression, or populism, or American isolationism in the face of war. Maybe it was. For me, it was about Dorothy.
Wizard of Oz
was about the Depression, or populism, or American isolationism in the face of war. Maybe it was. For me, it was about Dorothy.
She had been carried away from everything she knew by forces she couldn't control. She wanted to go home, yet was trapped in a world full of people and customs she didn't understand. Dorothy was alone and lost, just like me. She sang about the world that she came from, the past she couldn't recapture, in a land so far away that its only address was “over a rainbow.” She sang the song I couldn't sing for myself. Instead, I wept the tears that my celluloid soul mate was too brave to shed. I could, because it was dark in the theater, and I didn't have to be brave if no one was watching. I cried silently so no one would know what I was feeling.
I reached up carefully to lay my hand against my wet cheek in a gesture that I hoped would seem casual and unrelated to the scene on the screen. I saw a teardrop seeping from Cookie's eyes, too.
Chapter 5
T
hat year it seemed as if nature itself shared my confusion. It wavered between hot and cold, unable to settle on a plan and stick to it. One August night we went to bed sweltering and woke up shivering. It was still dark when an urgent knock sounded on the door of the room where Cookie and I were sleeping. Mama handed us sweaters thick with the smell of mothballs and in a voice that was brusque and worried, told us to put them on quickly.
hat year it seemed as if nature itself shared my confusion. It wavered between hot and cold, unable to settle on a plan and stick to it. One August night we went to bed sweltering and woke up shivering. It was still dark when an urgent knock sounded on the door of the room where Cookie and I were sleeping. Mama handed us sweaters thick with the smell of mothballs and in a voice that was brusque and worried, told us to put them on quickly.
“Hurry downstairs and eat your breakfast, girls. Papa and the boys are already up and dressed. We're all going over to the Schollers' farm to see if we can't help bring in some of the tobacco before it's too late.” The darkness and cold left us dazed, and we moved slowly, still not quite understanding why we were being roused from sleep. Mama turned sharply and snapped urgently, “Hurry, girls! We need every set of hands. The Schollers took out a mortgage to build shade tents. If they lose their crop, they could lose the farm, too.” She rushed out of the room and down the stairs. We pulled on our warm clothes and followed behind.
As the Mullers' truck made the turn down the dirt road to the Scholler farm, I felt nervous, afraid I was about to embark on yet another occupation that would make me look foolish. If I couldn't manage to dry a dish without dropping it, I could only imagine what a disaster I'd be at tobacco harvesting.
We arrived at the Schollers'. It was decided that everyone should work on the broadleaf fields first, trying to harvest what we could before the frost ruined the leaves, and then tackle the job of harvesting the shade-grown tobacco, which was only about a quarter of the total crop.
Papa gathered us around him to explain the plan while Mr. Scholler, who wore a dirty plaid shirt and a worried expression, began bringing tobacco carts into the fields.
“It's warmer under those shade tents than out in the open. That should protect the plants from the cold for a while at least. We can tackle that tomorrow or the next day, after we finish working in the open field. If we can salvage a good portion of the broadleaf and then safely get in the shade-grown, which will bring in more money, the Schollers should make enough to pay back their loan. A fair amount of the crop is already lost, but if we're quick enough, we might be able to help them save enough to pay back the bank, plus a little extra.”
Junior listened to his father and then measured the field with a critical eye. “He's got at least forty acres here, Papa. There's only eight of us, plus the Schollers. Shouldn't we try to get more help?”
“There is no one else to help,” Papa answered. “The Schoellers' sons are grown and have crops of their own to tend. All the farmers have the same problem, and those that don't farm are helping their neighbors that do. We're racing against time and the odds, I know, but it's all we can do. Let's give it our best. Are you ready?”
We went to work. Mama showed Cookie and me how to spear cut tobacco plants onto long wooden lathes and then place the lathes loaded with tobacco onto carts, which, when full, were driven to the drying sheds. Then Papa and Junior unloaded the prepared lathes and climbed ladders that reached into the rafters and hung them, row upon row, with as much tobacco as the shed would hold.
Mama, Cookie, and I started spearing the pile of plants that Mr. Scholler had cut before we arrived. Chip and Chuck, who were smaller and better able to move through the rows of tobacco without bruising the tender leaves, worked at harvesting the standing crop, cutting the grown plants off at the base, then tossing then into a flat box with a long rope handle.
Little Curt's job was to drag the loaded boxes over to where Mama, Cookie, and I were working, but he was really too small to haul the big boxes. I saw him struggling and straining to pull a heavy box across a field, and making progress, but slowly. I jumped off the cart, ran to Curt, put my hands next to his on the rope handle and pulled. Together we were able to haul the box much more quickly. After we reached the carts, Curt grinned up at me. “Th-th-thanks, Elise. Th-those boxes are heavier than they l-l-look.”
“That's all right, Curt. I'm sure you could have done it without me, but it goes more quickly with two, doesn't it?” Curt grinned wider with pride and set to unloading the boxes while I returned to my job of spearing leaves onto the lathes.
We worked from dawn until dark, only taking a short break in the middle of the day to eat the sandwiches and drink the coffee that Mrs. Scholler brought out into the field. My earlier worries about my potential ineptitude were unfounded. Though hopeless and clumsy around the house, when it came to working the land, I was suddenly able and confident. I found the earthy smell of the soil and the serenity of the field calming. The cold snap in the air made me feel sharp, quick, and wonderfully alive, although as the day wore on, the temperature rose steadily. By the time we'd finished our lunch it was hot enough that we took off our sweaters and ate in our shirtsleeves, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on our skin.
“The weather has certainly turned,” Mama commented. “It feels downright humid. Maybe we'll beat the frost after all.”
Papa squinted up at the sun, now sitting high above our heads. “You might be right,” he said through a mouthful of sandwich, “but we'd better keep up the pace. The temperature could drop just as quickly as it rose. You never can tell.”
As the afternoon wore on, it got hotter and stickier. The boys took off their shirts entirely. I had never seen a man's bare chest before; I had rarely ever seen my own father wearing anything more revealing than a shirt, vest, and tie. Seeing the Muller boys shirtless was somewhat shocking, but it was impossible not to notice how muscular Junior's shoulders were. I blushed, lowered my head, and tried to concentrate on my work.
I quickly picked up the knack of spearing leaves without damaging them. It wasn't long before I was hanging five finished lathes to Cookie's three in spite of the fact that I took regular breaks from my work to help Curt with the hauling. Not that I was counting exactly, but I could see that for the first time since coming to Brightfield, I was more a help than a hindrance. Mr. Scholler, who passed by as he was getting ready to take a full cart to the shed, noticed my work.
“Hey, she's a quick one, ain't she?” Mr. Scholler remarked to Mama, who smiled in agreement. Then, turning his attention to me, he said, “You sure you han't worked tobacco before, girlie?”
I ducked my head and my cheeks colored. “No sir. Never.”
Mr. Scholler cocked his head and made a clicking noise with his tongue as though he couldn't quite believe it. “Well, I never saw a girl pick it up so quick. Listen, if the reverend an' Mrs. don't treat you right, you can move over here with us. The wife and I could use some help. Bet you're quick in the kitchen, too, eh?”
Cookie let out a derisive little “Ha!” My cheeks flushed a deeper shade of scarlet, and Mama raised a warning eyebrow that Cookie would be sure to notice.
“Elise is more of an outdoor girl, “ Mama said.
“Yeah, she is that,” agreed Mr. Scholler, nodding approvingly. “Never saw a girl take to the tobacco so quick. Well, we'd better get back to it, eh? Sure appreciate your help, Mrs. Muller. You too, girls. Seems like now the weather has turned warm again that we'll have plenty of time to finish this up. If it keeps up like this, we probably won't need you tomorrow, but if the frost had come we'd 'a been in a fix without you folks.”
“We're always glad to help a neighbor, Mr. Scholler. It's our pleasure,” said Mama, and she was right, at least as far as I was concerned. We worked outdoors as long as there was light, and then we worked by lamplight in the shed until we hung the last of the prepared lathes. Arriving home under a night that was blanketed with a gray coverlet of fat clouds, we ate cold chicken and potatoes. Cookie and I stumbled up the stairs, stupid with fatigue. I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, but not before I had a chance to remember Mr. Scholler's kind words and approving expression. I slept fitfully, dreaming of giants drumming on the roof, trying to get inside.
I expected to wake in darkness to the sound of Mama's knock at the bedroom door, but instead I was stirred from sleep by a beam of sunlight in my face. Cookie was still asleep in the bed next to mine. I leapt into my clothes and ran down the stairs to the kitchen, still buttoning my blouse as I went, afraid that Mama had been unable to waken me and had left for the Schollers' farm without me. Instead I found Mama, Papa, and Junior sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating breakfast. The room was heavy with silence and the smell of baking apple pie.
“Where is everyone?” I asked. “Shouldn't we be getting ready to go to the Schollers'?”
“They're sleeping,” Junior replied. “Look outside. There's no point going now. There never was,” he said, shooting his father a slightly accusing look.
For the first time that day I looked out the window and realized why the sun had been so bright on my eyes. The earth was covered in white, and the sunbeams reflected brightly off the surface of the ground.
“Is it snow?” I asked. “How can that be? It's so warm outside.”
“It's hail,” Papa said. “Big as golf balls. All the shade tents fell under the weight of it and crushed the plants inside. The broadleaf was beaten flat and bruised. Anything that was standing in the fields is lost.”
“What about Mr. and Mrs. Scholler?” I asked quietly. “What about their mortgage? Are they going to lose their farm?”
Papa sighed and smiled doubtfully. “Maybe not,” he said. “We'll see. At least we helped them get some of the crop in. Maybe they can pay part of the loan now and the bank will give them another year to make up the rest.” But I could tell from his tone that this was not likely. He reached for the sugar and stirred it into his coffee with an air of defeat.
“Isn't there something we can do?” I asked quietly, looking first to Papa and then, when he offered no response, to Junior, who seemed to eye me with curiosity.
“There's always something we can do,” said Mama definitively, who had gotten up from the table to pull a freshly baked pie from the oven. “Carl,” she said to Papa, “this pie should be cool by the time you shovel the snow off the car. I'll drive to the Schollers' and help you deliver it, if you want.”
Papa raised his head up and smiled at his wife. The look they exchanged was so filled with unspoken understanding of one another and the certainty of two lives shared as one that it was almost too intimate to watch, but I couldn't help myself. I wondered if my own mother and father had ever looked at each other like that, or if anyone would ever look at me that way.
“I'll get my coat,” Papa said with a renewed energy in his voice. “But we're going to need more than one pie,” he mused. “Just about everybody lost their crop last night, or a good part of it. We've got lots of visits to make.”
“I already put together a hamper of the peaches we canned last week,” said Mama, pointing to a basket that was sitting by the back door. “That should be enough.”
“Junior, bring that out to the truck for me, would you, please?” asked Papa. Junior got up from his place at the table and carried the peaches out the door. I offered to clear the table for Mama, who was already standing at the sink getting ready to scrub the breakfast skillet.
Papa pulled on his coat and headed toward the door but then, thinking no one was looking, he turned back to his wife and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “Sophia, you are a wonder,” he said.
Mama just smiled and wrung the water from her dishrag.
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