Chapter Thirty-Seven

MAY 1945

Joe couldn’t complain about the hospital care or physical therapy he’d received Stateside, but by the time they were ready to let him out, honorable discharge papers in hand, he was champing at the bit to take advantage of the new GI Bill President Roosevelt had signed the year before. By getting out of the service before the glut of returning GIs, Joe figured he stood a pretty good chance of getting into medical school somewhere. He was just sorry it wasn’t that easy for Marshall.

Once Marshall was released, Joe, the Willards, and Celia had all urged him to grit his teeth, stuff his anger at the military’s unfair treatment and his terrible grief for Ivy, and forge ahead. Now he was determined to build a future stable enough to convince the British government to let him have his daughter. It needed to be done, but not taking the time to mourn the love of his life was something Joe knew would come back to bite his friend in earnest. Still, Joe wanted to encourage Marshall. Looking forward was the thing he needed now.

“Medical school,” Joe told his friend over the telephone, two days after Victory in Europe —VE Day —had been declared. “With all we took before we enlisted there’s enough summer courses for us to finish out and graduate college, then enroll in medical school in the fall. Who knows? Maybe they’ll count some of our Army time as medics. Can’t hurt to ask.”

“You know I looked into medical schools before I enlisted. The best ones only take whites or some token number of coloreds. My service record’s not stellar, thanks to my CO’s lies. I know he thought he was saving my life, but I lost that time with Ivy. I lost Ivy.” He choked up. “I don’t see how —”

Joe knew they both had to push past Marshall’s unfair treatment and his grief to keep going. “Then go where you can and get what you can. That’s what I’m going to do. You always said you planned to practice in No Creek —that’s where your family is, where you know you’re needed. You won’t need a degree from Harvard.”

“That was before Violet —before Ivy.”

Joe heard what that cost Marshall, just saying her name. He spoke lower, quieter. “Ivy’s not here now, Marshall. There’s nothing to stop you bringing Violet back to No Creek once the Brits cut their red tape. You have family in No Creek, friends. That’ll be good for Violet. And your Doc Vishnevsky’s counting on you to take over in No Creek —that’s what Celia wrote.”

“That won’t happen, not with the white folks. But my people need a doctor. There’s not even a hospital for coloreds less than sixty miles away.”

“There’s your reason to get going. Get your medical degree, set up a practice, become the doctor in your community. How are those Brits gonna turn you down then? Violet’s daddy’ll be the best doctor in No Creek.”

Marshall gave a grunt, the first time Joe’d heard anything akin to mirth in his friend’s voice. “The only colored doctor in No Creek. Maybe you can take on the white folks along with the doc. There’s more of them.”

“Maybe I can,” Joe wished with every breath. “Maybe I can.”

Joe knew he’d probably painted No Creek in rosy strokes. He figured it couldn’t be as idyllic as in his imagination, but he wasn’t prepared for the reception at the general store the June day he showed up in uniform, still relying on a cane.

“Well, well, well, how can we help you, soldier?” The woman behind the counter, hand on hip, maybe on the far side of middle age, flirted a little.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m hoping you can tell me the way to a place called Garden’s Gate or the Tate home, whichever comes first on the road.”

The woman straightened, the curve of her lips turning into a straight line. “Those are two different places entirely, soldier.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Joe knew from Celia’s letters that it was best to agree with Ida Mae —for that was surely who the woman was —whenever possible.

“Home from the war, are you? Looks like you found your fight all right.”

“The foot came courtesy of Normandy. Medic, 101st.” Joe figured that was what she wanted to know. That, and about Marshall and the Willards. He knew better than to mention Celia and create fodder for gossip. “You must be Mrs. Mae. Chaplain and Mrs. Willard told me you’re the center of town —the store, the post office. I’m Joe, Joe Rossetti. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

The “ma’am” and the “center of town” seemed to smooth the woman’s ruffled feathers.

“Call me Ida Mae, everybody does. Well, we appreciate your service, soldier.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“So, you know the Willards?”

“Fine people. I met them in England.”

“How is it you know the Tates?”

If Joe hadn’t been forewarned about Ida Mae, he’d have felt insulted by the woman’s prying. As it was, he felt annoyed. “Marshall’s a good friend. I’m looking forward to meeting the rest of the family.” From what Joe knew of the Willards and Marshall and Celia Percy, he figured it one big family. Ida Mae apparently didn’t agree.

“You staying up to Garden’s Gate, then?”

“Yes, ma’am, for a while. The Willards invited me.”

“That’s mighty neighborly of them, not being here. Gladys Percy know you’re coming? She was just in here this morning and never said a word.”

“I believe the Percys are expecting me.” Lilliana Willard had written that everything was arranged. He hoped that was true, but he didn’t know what business it was of Ida Mae’s or why he gave her so much information. “How far?”

“How far?”

“To Garden’s Gate or the Tates’?” Joe figured he’d spent enough time chewing the fat with Ida Mae.

“Just up the hill to Garden’s Gate, the other side of the church cemetery. The Tates are a bit farther on, but you might need help finding it —off the road, don’t you know.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Joe touched his cap and hefted his duffel, glad to have come and seen, glad to be on his way.

“You tell Gladys Percy I can send up some extra groceries if she’s not prepared for company,” Ida Mae called to the accompaniment of the bell jingling over her store’s door.

Joe didn’t turn or reply but raised a hand in acknowledgment. He snorted as he limped up the hill. Celia wasn’t kidding about Ida Mae. She’d described the nosy woman and the store to a T.

Now he couldn’t wait to meet Celia, her brother, and her parents, though truth be told, he was a little nervous. It was one thing to write letters as friends, another to meet a real girl —a girl who, though smart and full of big ideas, was only fifteen. He imagined braids, bobby socks, and saddle oxfords. Still, her letters had revealed a heart of gold and a love for family that Joe needed more than anything else.

He paused when he reached the church, the ache in his leg pronounced, and took a seat on the steps. Given a breeze off the mountain it wasn’t hot, but Joe wiped the sweat from his brow. He’d done well in physical therapy, but the residual pain from the surgery and walking more than the hospital grounds was effort he wasn’t used to. He could have stayed another two weeks before being discharged, but he’d assured the doctor he’d keep up the exercises, could work through the routines and get enough rest on his own. Besides, hospital beds for returning injured veterans were in demand. So he’d pushed it —something that had seemed a good idea at the time. Now that he was on the cusp of meeting Celia and her family in person, he wasn’t so sure.

Working up his courage to finish the last leg of the journey, Joe prayed he hadn’t made a mistake, hadn’t been too presumptuous in taking up the Willards’ offer of hospitality, especially since they were still in England.

Joe struggled to his feet as a man appeared around the corner of the church, carrying a basket of peaches. Except for being shorter, he could be the spitting image of Marshall in fifteen or twenty years. For two seconds Joe actually thought the man might be an angel.

“Joe? Sergeant Joe Rossetti?” The man seemed just as surprised to see Joe, but not tongue-tied in the same way.

“Mr. Tate —Olney Tate —Marshall’s uncle?” It had to be. No two people could look that much alike otherwise. “Glad to meet you. I’ve heard everything about you and your family.”

“Marshall said you’d show up here this week, just didn’t know which day.” Olney set down the basket and grabbed Joe’s hand. “You shore are a sight for sore eyes. Marshall’s been mighty worried about you. He’ll be glad to know you’re here.”

“Is he home already? I thought he wouldn’t be discharged for another week or two.”

“On his way. Ought to get here by tomorrow evening. I just came up to pick these peaches off the far end of the church property before they go to spoil. Nothing Marshall likes better than his Aunt Mercy’s peach pie.”

“I’ve heard all about her blackberry cake and her pies —peach, blackberry, apple, sweet potato —”

“Ha! You gonna have to stay awhile to get through all those seasons. And I hope you do.”

“As long as No Creek will have me, at least for now.”

“I understand. You and Marshall got big plans. He told me all about it —about Ivy, everything. It’s a sad and sorry business for our boy, that and the way the Army treated him. You been a mighty good friend to him, and we won’t forget it.”

“Marshall’s been a mighty good friend to me, Mr. Tate.”

“You call me Olney.”

“Joe.” They shook hands again.

“You’re welcome in our home, you know that?” Olney seemed a little cautious.

“I’d be honored to stay with you and your family, but I figured you’d be busting at the seams with Marshall coming home. Chaplain and Mrs. Willard invited me to stay at Garden’s Gate.” Joe hesitated. He knew from Marshall he could be straight with his uncle. “Marshall told me how it is here in No Creek. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

Olney sighed. “Yes, oh, yes. That’s how it is here, I’m sorry to say.”

“Me, too.” Joe meant it.

“But you come on down to the house for supper soon as Marshall gets here. You fellas will have a lot to catch up on. We’ll fix up a mess o’ greens, some country ham, a little spoon bread, top it off with Mercy’s peach pie. Won’t take no for an answer.”

Joe grinned from ear to ear. “I’ll come hungry.”

“Best way, Joe, best way.” Olney hefted the basket of peaches. “Come on with me. Garden’s Gate’s on my way home. I reckon Celia’ll be mighty glad to set eyes on you. Your letters mean the world to that girl, and it’s been good of you to be the go-between for her and Marshall to write. I know that’s meant a lot to Marshall, letters from home. Celia’s a good girl.”

Joe tried to keep his grin in place. He just wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure if Olney was giving him a gentle warning or making conversation.

The house on the other side of the cemetery took Joe by surprise. Three stories with white columns rising from a front porch. He could see why it was called Garden’s Gate —flowers and shrubs and trees and things he didn’t know the names of ran rampant to create a storybook-cottage garden in the front yard, surrounded by a white picket fence. If this was where Celia lived, she’d be expecting much more from life than Joe had any idea of. He didn’t realize he’d stopped in the middle of the road till Olney spoke.

“More’n you expected?”

Joe nodded, not quite able to take it all in. “It’s a lot more than I grew up with in Philadelphia. Wrong side of the tracks, I guess.”

“Don’t you mind that. Percy family’s quality but didn’t come by any of this on their own. All of it belongs to Miss Lilliana —Mrs. Willard now. Miss Lilliana and her great-aunt, Miz Hyacinth, God rest her soul, took the Percy family in when things got too bad for them. They’ve never forgotten who they are or where they came from. Best of all, they’ve never forgotten whose they are.”

“Whose they are?” Joe didn’t understand.

Olney looked up to the sky and nodded. “Who we all belong to, if we got the sense we were born with.”

Joe nodded in return. He was beginning to understand that.

“You go on in now, make your acquaintance. You’ll be all right. They’ll look after you.” Olney chuckled. “Celia’s a handful, but she won’t bite.”

Joe drew a deep breath. He’d faced life and death and Omaha Beach. He’d set broken bones and amputated arms and stuffed the insides back in men’s chests and abdomens. Why was he so afraid of a big house and a teenage girl in bobby socks?

He made it up to the door, set down his duffel, and knocked, though the sign on the door said, “Come Right In During Library Hours.” How’s a person to know what library hours are when they’re not posted? Joe waited, not sure what to do. After a minute he knocked again and tried the latch. Just as he pushed the door open and a bell over the top jingled, a woman pulled it wide.

“Hello!” The woman stepped back. “You must be Joe —Sergeant Rossetti.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Joe removed his cap.

The woman laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. Ida Mae telephoned from the store that you were on your way. We’re expecting you. Do come in. I’m Gladys Percy.” The woman barely caught her breath.

Celia’s mom, younger than I thought. Joe was more used to his nonna’s generation.

“Joe Rossetti —Joe —oh, you said that, knew that already.” Joe felt heat creep up his neck as he stepped into the wide foyer. He didn’t know why he was fumbling but couldn’t seem to stop.

“Welcome to Garden’s Gate. Reverend Willard and Lilliana wrote fine things about you. We’re glad to have you.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m glad to be here, and I appreciate you taking me in, a stranger and all.”

She laughed again. “Well, you’re no stranger to Marshall or Celia or even the Willards, so you’re no stranger at all. I’m sure we’ll get to know one another. Let me show you to your room and you can get settled.” She looked at his leg, a shadow of concern crossing her face. “Are you all right with stairs? If not —”

“Stairs are no problem, ma’am, best therapy in the world just now. Just takes me a little longer than some.”

She smiled. “Well, then, let’s get you settled and with a bite to eat before the children get home. Celia and Chester will talk your ear off.”

Joe followed her up the stairs. Leaving his cane against the banister, he refused to let Gladys Percy carry his duffel. A guy has some pride.

She was like a mother hen, showing him his room and the lavatory and telling him the whereabouts of the downstairs phone. “Anything you need, anything at all, you just ask. Chester’s room is next to yours so even in the night he’ll be handy if you need him.”

Joe nodded. All the attention and potential worry over his bum leg and foot was overwhelming, stifling. He’d planned to stay two weeks. Two weeks sounded longer now than it had before he’d stepped off the train.

“I’ll see you downstairs, Sergeant.”

“Joe, please.”

“Joe, then. I’ll whip you up a little lunch.”

“Please, Mrs. Percy, don’t go to any tro —”

“It’s no trouble at all, and you can call me Gladys.” She smiled again and was gone.

Joe sat on the quilted bed —a quilt too hot for summer nights, surely, made up in an intricate pattern Joe had never seen. A sudden weariness came over him, as if he’d just run the first leg of a marathon. Trouble was, there were more legs of that marathon to come.