When the Clouds Roll By (7 page)

“
Yes, thank you, Mr. Jones. You have a merry Christmas, too.” Annemarie disconnected the call and jotted a note on the order form. They’d be hard pressed to fulfill the request before the first of the year, what with several employees taking time off for Christmas, but Jones Restaurant Supply was one of their largest accounts, and Annemarie had no doubt her father would find a way. They couldn’t afford for Mr. Jones to take his business to Ouachita Pottery, a much larger operation.

Which, naturally, meant even less time for Annemarie to spend on her own projects. Thanks to the display Thomas had arranged for her at the Arlington, she’d received several requests for her one-of-a-kind ceramics as Christmas gifts. At least most of the pieces had already been fired and glazed.

If only Papa could see the merit of artistry in ceramics. Ouachita Pottery already employed talented women to decorate their ceramic ware with artistic glazes and designs. Though the specialty items sold for a higher price, by their very nature they took more time and personnel to produce, and Papa was all about mass production and the bottom line.

The workroom door banged shut, and moments later Papa ambled into the front office. “Still at your desk, Annie-girl? It’s after six o’clock. Your mother will have supper on the table soon.”

“Mr. Jones called with a last-minute order.” She handed the sheet to her father. While he looked it over, she tidied up her desk, then bolted the front door and shut off the steam heat.

“Hmm, looks doable—if Ben and Bryan are willing to put in some overtime.”

Annemarie slipped on her coat, scarf, and gloves. “For a little extra income at Christmas, I’m sure they will be.”

“Naturally.” Papa set the order under a paperweight and retrieved his coat. He switched off the electric lights, and Annemarie followed him out the back door.

Crossing the alley behind the factory, they trudged up a long hill toward home, a brisk north wind whipping at their coattails. Papa held open the gate of their backyard picket fence, and Annemarie darted across the lawn and into the warmth of the kitchen.

“Just in time, you two.” Mama ladled steaming mashed potatoes into a serving bowl. “Five minutes more and my gravy would have turned to glue.”

Annemarie laughed as she slid her arms out of her coat sleeves. “You couldn’t ruin gravy if you tried, Mama. Someday you’ll have to teach me your secret.”

Mama tweaked her cheek. “I’ve tried, dearest, I’ve tried. But a certain young lady seems to care not a whit for learning to cook.”

“Well, she’d better learn mighty quick.” Papa draped his coat on a hook by the back door. “Otherwise her husband-to-be will soon be thin as a broomstick.”

At the mention of Gilbert, Annemarie turned away with a sniff. Late this afternoon she’d telephoned the hospital to ask about him, only to be told there’d been an “incident” and he was under sedation. Since she wasn’t a family member, they wouldn’t offer details. Thinking perhaps Chaplain Vickary would know more, she’d asked to speak with him but was told he was conferring with patients.

Annemarie couldn’t shake her concern that “conferring with patients” meant one patient in particular.

The family sat down to supper, but Annemarie had lost her appetite. After forcing down as much as she could of her mother’s savory pot roast and vegetables, she excused herself and carried her dishes to the sink. “Mama, would you mind if I went over to the Ballards’ for a short visit?”

Mama reached for Annemarie’s hand and gave it an understanding squeeze. “We’re all concerned about Gilbert. Perhaps Evelyn has some news that will ease your mind.”

“Let me drive you, darling.” Papa eased back from the table and tossed his napkin next to his plate. “You don’t need to be walking alone after dark, especially on a cold night like this.”

While Papa went to bring the car around, Annemarie bundled up once more. Mama walked her to the front door and made sure her scarf was tucked snugly around her ears. “Tell Evelyn we’re praying every day for her dear boy.”

“I will, Mama.” Annemarie tugged on her gloves, recalling that day at the depot. How she longed for the touch of Gilbert’s strong, firm hand. How she hungered for a tender kiss from his sweet lips.

Mama used her thumb to brush away a tear that escaped the corner of Annemarie’s eye. “Cling to your faith, my girl. The Lord holds Gilbert firmly in His arms. You’ll both come through this time of trial and be the stronger for it.”

Offering a weak smile, Annemarie pulled her mother into a hug. “Faith is all I have right now. If only I could give some of it to Gilbert.”

8

A
nnemarie shivered on the Ballards’ broad front porch as she waited for someone to answer the bell. A full moon crept slowly up from the east, casting silvery beams across the windows. Wood smoke and evergreens scented the crisp night air, reminding Annemarie that Christmas was only a few days away.

A shadowy form appeared on the other side of the beveled-glass door, and Marguerite peeked through the filmy curtain. The door swung open. “Get yourself in here, Miss Annie, before you turn into an icicle.”

Annemarie bustled inside and greeted the servant with a grateful hug. “Is Mrs. Ballard in? I hope she won’t mind my stopping by unannounced.”

“Don’t be silly. You know you’re always welcome here.” Marguerite helped Annemarie out of her coat and hung it in the entryway closet. “Everyone’s in the parlor by the fireplace. Mrs. B’s doing some sewing, and Thomas and that nice chaplain just started a game of cribbage. You go on in, and I’ll fetch you a cup of hot cocoa to warm you up.”

While Marguerite trotted off to the kitchen, Annemarie marched down the hall to the parlor. She gave a polite rap on the partially open door and peeked inside. “Mrs. Ballard?”

“Annemarie!” The plump woman tossed her handwork to the other end of the settee. “Come in, dear. I’ve just been sewing some buttons on pajamas for the Red Cross effort.”

Both Thomas and Chaplain Vickary rose from their seats. The chaplain looked much different in civilian clothes, more relaxed and comfortable. Annemarie recognized the pale gray argyle sweater as one of Gilbert’s, and it brought a pang of nostalgia to her throat.

She drew a quick breath and stepped into the room. “Please don’t let me interrupt your game, gentlemen.”

“Yes, boys, do continue.” Mrs. Ballard patted the seat next to her. “Come and sit, my dear, and let’s have a nice long chat.”

Annemarie lowered herself onto the settee and picked up the pajama top Mrs. Ballard had been working on. The soft, blue-striped flannel smelled faintly of talcum powder. Nerves on edge, Annemarie decided busy hands might ease the tension. “Do you have another needle handy? I could help with these.”

“That would be lovely.” Rummaging through the cherry-wood sewing kit at her feet, Mrs. Ballard found a needle, thread, and packet of buttons. She handed Annemarie another set of pajamas from a stack on a nearby chair. Taking up her own work again, Mrs. Ballard released a noisy sigh. “I can guess why you’re here. You must have heard about Gilbert’s little setback.”

From what Annemarie could gather, it wasn’t a
little
setback by any means. She snipped off a length of thread and worked it through the eye of the needle. “I tried to visit him earlier today, but he still wouldn’t see me.”

“Small consolation, I’m sure, but he has refused my visits as well.” Mrs. Ballard nodded toward the chaplain. “If not for Samuel being such a good friend of Gilbert’s, we’d know little more than what we can wheedle from those closed-mouth doctors and nurses.”

Annemarie sensed more than saw the chaplain’s sudden tensing. She glanced his way, and he offered a concerned half-smile.

Thomas tapped his cards on the edge of the table. “Your play, Sam.”

“Right. Let’s see. Here are fifteen for two, fifteen for four . . .” He ran his thumb along the side of a card and stared at his hand.

“You missed a run. That’s three more points.”

“So it is.” Samuel moved his peg along the game board.

Annemarie stabbed the needle through the fabric and straight into her finger. She let out a startled gasp and inspected the injury. A single drop of blood appeared on her fingertip.

“Oh, dear, a war wound.” Mrs. Ballard gave a humorless chuckle. “And in peace time, no less. Marguerite!”

Marguerite entered just then with a tray of hot drinks. Seeing Annemarie’s bleeding finger, she placed the tray on the table in front of the settee and reached into her apron pocket. “Now where did I put my hanky?”

“Allow me.” Samuel stood at Annemarie’s side and tenderly wrapped her finger in his own pristine white handkerchief. “Better?”

Annemarie lifted her gaze to Samuel’s and then quickly dropped it again, before those penetrating gray eyes read more into her expression than the gratitude she intended. “Obviously my domestic skills leave much to be desired.”

“Which you more than make up for with your ceramic artistry.”

Her cheeks flamed. “You’re kind to say so, but there are times when practicality must take precedence over art.”

Samuel slid his hands into his pants pockets. “If that’s in a rule book somewhere, I’ve yet to come across it.”

Mrs. Ballard waved her hand toward the cribbage table. “Did you finish playing your hand? Then pull a chair over, Samuel, and sit with us. You can explain much better than I what happened with Gilbert this afternoon. I know Annemarie is anxious to hear.”

“Please, that’s really why I came.” Holding the handkerchief around her throbbing finger, Annemarie leaned forward. “They won’t tell me anything because I’m not family, but I’m going absolutely crazy with not knowing.”

Samuel’s brows drew together. His lips flattened into a worried frown, and for a moment Annemarie feared he’d plead patient confidentiality or whatever you called it between a pastor and penitent. Then he gave a single nod. He drew his chair away from the game table and settled it near the end of the settee. Taking one of the steaming cups of cocoa, he sat back with a thoughtful sigh.

Mrs. Ballard handed a cup and saucer to Annemarie. “Now, Samuel, about Gilbert . . .”

About Gilbert.

True, Annemarie deserved to be told, but Samuel dreaded bringing more tears to those soulful brown eyes. He stalled for time by taking a couple of tentative sips from the hot drink—not as sweet as he usually liked his cocoa, nor as strong, what with the Ballard family still doing their part to conserve.

Thomas took a cup from the tray, then propped a hip on the arm of the settee next to his mother. “For pity’s sake, the man’s just returned from war. Gilbert’s never had a violent streak, but after what he’s been through, who wouldn’t be a little unhinged? If you ask me, I’d say they went a little overboard with the whole straitjacket business.”

Annemarie gave a stunned gasp. She turned an open-mouthed stare upon Samuel. “Straitjacket! What happened?”

“Thomas is exaggerating. It wasn’t an actual straitjacket, but—” Samuel set down his cup and scoured his palms up and down his pant legs, as if he could wipe away the memory of this afternoon. “A nurse startled Gilbert out of a nightmare, and he hit her in the jaw. When they couldn’t quiet him, they had no choice but to restrain him.”

“That is utterly ridiculous.” Annemarie’s cocoa sloshed onto her saucer. “Gilbert would never hurt anyone—” She stopped herself with a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shut, and Samuel didn’t have to guess what she was thinking. The war had turned them all into killers.

All of them, one way or another.

Samuel clamped down on the fragment of memory and stuffed it away in the darkest corner of his mind. He relieved Annemarie of her cocoa before she spilled anymore and used the handkerchief he’d given her to soak up the hot liquid filling the saucer.

Annemarie’s face crumpled. She heaved a regretful moan. “Oh, dear, you’ll never get the stains out of it now.”

“Not to worry. It was an old one anyway.” Samuel resisted the urge to take her hand and soothe away the anguish distorting that lovely face.

She straightened her spine, and while she fought for composure it seemed as if Samuel watched a different kind of war. Quiet, artistic, but such a strong, determined woman. He had no doubt she’d win this battle. She coughed softly. “The nurse—was she hurt badly?”

“She’s fine, more surprised than anything.” As tactfully as possible, Samuel tried to explain the reasons for keeping Gilbert restrained and sedated. “It’s as much for his own protection as for the hospital personnel. You’ve heard the term
shell shock
, I’m sure.”

Mrs. Ballard gave a haughty sniff. “Call it what you may, my son is
not
insane. He needs tender attention, not to be treated like a rabid animal.”

“They’re doing all they can, I’m certain.” Samuel’s stomach knotted as he recalled the crazed look behind Gilbert’s eyes this afternoon. “The problem is this hospital doesn’t have the psychiatric resources of a military facility like Walter Reed or Fort McHenry, which is where many of the returning wounded are being sent.”

Thomas stood and paced, his cup rattling against the saucer. “I’ll fight them tooth and nail if they push the issue about transferring him to another hospital.”

“Is that a possibility?” Again, Annemarie looked to Samuel.

He tried to reassure her with a smile. “I promise you, I intend to do everything in my power to make sure Gilbert can continue to be treated right here in Hot Springs.” He went on to explain about the additional surgery Gilbert required. “It’s all taking its toll—the pain, the fear of being permanently incapacitated. But as he begins to recover physically, I have every hope he’ll find relief from the mental trauma as well.”

“I pray you’re right.” Annemarie examined the pajama top in her lap. “I suppose they’ll still be needing these, as long as there are wounded soldiers to care for.” She drew a shaky breath and finished sewing on the button she’d started on earlier. “War is a wretched, evil thing.”

Samuel couldn’t agree more.

While the ladies returned to their handwork, Samuel took it upon himself to carry the tray of empty cocoa cups back to the kitchen. One dim light glowed over the sink, and a thin strip of amber shone beneath the door to the servants’ quarters. As soundlessly as possible, he washed and dried each cup and saucer. As he placed them in the cupboard, it occurred to him how natural it felt, a normal, everyday chore that might be happening in any ordinary household anywhere in the world. As a boy he would help his mother clean up the kitchen after meals—and complain about it the entire time.

Washing dishes, sweeping floors, raking leaves, chopping wood.

Hot showers, hot meals, clean clothes, dry socks.

Soft mattresses, downy pillows, warm blankets, a fire in the hearth.

So much he’d taken for granted, until the war. Standing at the sink, he stared into his own face, reflected back by the darkness beyond the window. Where his eyes should be, he saw only black, hollow spheres, ghostlike, haunting.

Would he ever feel normal again?

Annemarie folded the last pair of pajamas and rose to lay them on the chair with the others. “A productive evening’s work. I’m glad I could help.”

“I’m delighted you decided to visit.” Mrs. Ballard packed up the needles, spools, and leftover buttons into her sewing box. “You know, dear, I still think we should be moving ahead with wedding plans. I realize it would be premature to set a date quite yet, but—”

“
Quite
premature.” Annemarie stifled an angry rebuff, thankful she and Mrs. Ballard were alone in the parlor. She couldn’t fathom how Gilbert’s mother could still be so adamant about this. Was she completely oblivious to the long and difficult recovery that lay ahead for her son?

“I know it will take time.” Mrs. Ballard crossed to Annemarie’s side and rested a hand on her arm. “But Gilbert
will
get better. Once he has his surgery and can be up and around again, why, I just know he’ll cheer up even faster with something to look forward to.”

Annemarie glanced down at Mrs. Ballard’s hand, where a bejeweled ring glittered beneath the lamplight and reminded her all over again of the differences in their stature. The Kendalls were a working-class family, while Mrs. Ballard, who could trace her ancestry back to Virginia plantation owners, had known nothing but wealth and ease.

It wasn’t that Mrs. Ballard was incorrigibly snobbish—she’d welcomed Annemarie into her heart without reserve. No, the woman’s greatest fault was an arrogant blind spot when anyone suggested a course of action other than her predetermined plans.

“Mrs. Ballard—”

“
Mother
Ballard.”

Annemarie dipped her chin. “Not yet, Mrs. Ballard. And perhaps not ever.” At the woman’s surprised intake of breath, Annemarie faced her directly and clutched her hands. “Please understand. I love Gilbert with all my heart. But we must both accept the fact that the war has changed him, probably forever.”