Chapter Thirty-Eight

JUNE 1945

Celia had been counting the hours as she and Chester weeded garden and cleaned house for the Widow Cramer, a job they’d been doing each week all summer and for several summers before. It wasn’t for the money —the elderly widow still paid in nickels meant to be spent on candy at the general store no matter how old they got or how much work they did —but because she was alone and in need of help.

Today her cow, Buttercup, was about to calve and the widow, though long experienced in midwifing livestock, was no longer strong enough to help Buttercup through what appeared to be a breech birth. So she coached Celia and Chester through all the messy, bloody, slimy birthing that in the end, after five hours, produced the smallest, most perfect miracle of a calf Celia or Chester had ever seen.

“He’s a wonder!” Chester marveled.

“She’s a wonder,” the widow corrected. “You can tell by —”

“She’s a wonder!” Celia repeated, not anxious to hear the widow’s anatomical explanation in front of her thirteen-year-old brother.

They waited until the calf struggled to her feet and on wobbly legs found her mother’s teats.

“Want us to see you back to the house, Widow?” Celia asked, loath to leave the newborn calf but anxious to get going.

“Believe I’ll stay right here and enjoy the bonding ’twixt Buttercup and Daisy.” The widow smiled her toothless smile. It was the happiest Celia had seen her in a month of Sundays. “You children go on and get your nickels by the counter. Don’t eat all that candy in one swallow. It’ll rot your teeth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Celia and Chester spoke respectfully. They loved the widow, even if she did consume days they wished she didn’t. Today of all days.

Joe was due to arrive, and Celia wanted to get home early to wash up and comb out her hair. She didn’t want to meet him with blood-soaked arms and shirt, or garden sweat streaking her face or her hair sticking out in frizzy braids. There was no way to know which train he’d catch, but she hoped with all her heart it would be the last one of the day. She fairly ran home. Chester easily kept pace.

“Where’s the fire, Celia?” Chester taunted, knowing full well why his sister was in such a hurry. “Off to meet the prince at the ball?”

She wanted to swat him but couldn’t afford the loss of energy.

“Don’t you know he’s gotta be a good five years older than you? He’s gonna think you’re a moonstruck kid, you keep acting this way. Oh, scuse me, I forgot —you are a moonstruck kid!” Chester laughed as if his observation were the most hilarious thing on earth.

Celia ignored him, or tried to. Past the church, past the cemetery, through the garden gate and around the back of the house, sweating profusely and stirring up clouds of dust with her dung-streaked shoes, she rushed through the back kitchen door only to stop on a dime when Joe looked up from his late lunch, coffee cup in hand.

Mortification. It was an amazing word Celia loved but had not, until this moment, found a way to legitimately use.

Chester, who’d been on her heels, stopped on a dime, too, but lost his balance and fell against his sister, who then sprawled across the floor and into Joe’s shoulder, spilling coffee all over his uniform.

“Celia Percy!” Gladys exclaimed, no matter that it wasn’t Celia’s fault, not altogether.

“Oh,” Celia groaned, humiliation in every breath. “Joe,” she summoned weakly.

Joe didn’t drop the cup, which Celia thought extraordinarily dexterous of him.

“Celia,” he said, setting the empty cup in its saucer. “Celia Percy. I’m pleased to meet you.” He held out a hand, seemed to realize it was still dripping coffee, and quickly wiped it on his shirt.

Celia caught her mother’s jerk of her head, indicating she needed to get out of the kitchen and clean up. She was pretty sure Joe caught it, too. At least that could account for the grin that spread across his face, or maybe it was just that Celia had made the most astounding and messy entrance into his life of any creature yet.

“Sorry about that,” Chester had the good sense to say. That helped Celia gather her wits.

“I’m sorry —so sorry.” Celia couldn’t think what else to do or say, so she fled through the kitchen door and up the main staircase, two stairs at a time, until she reached her room and slammed the door. She sank to the floor, covering her face with her hands.

This is not the impression I wanted to make! She groaned again, this time more softly. If she could crawl beneath her covers, even on this hot day, and disappear for the century, she would.

She’d nurtured such dreams of making the perfect entrance, shining hair flowing about her shoulders —never mind that her hair rarely flowed —and wearing an actual summer dress, something reserved for Sunday church, and presenting Joe with a plate of her home-baked cookies —something she hadn’t burned while reading.

Celia shook her head. Ruined. You only get one chance at making an entrance or first impression and I blew it —right out of the water.

Celia allowed herself a silent tear before crawling across the floor and onto her bed. She couldn’t imagine going downstairs again, clean or dirty.

Five minutes later she heard a gentle knock at her door. She figured it was her mother, come to read her the riot act. Well, I won’t answer. It wasn’t my fault and I know what you’re going to say. If I don’t answer, you’ll go away.

But the door opened quietly. Celia closed her eyes, pretending sleep, which even she knew would never fly.

“Celia.” It was Chester who sat down quietly on the bedside. “Come on, get yourself together, Sis. He barely got a look at you, it was all so quick. Mama said to give you the bathroom first and we should come on back downstairs and visit with Joe.”

Celia rolled over, facing the wall.

“He’s a nice guy. I told him what we’d been doing, and he was impressed that you’d helped deliver a calf. He’s a medic —gonna be a doctor one day. To him, that stuff is great.”

Celia considered that. Mollification. Amazing new words flowed through Celia’s mind like water over brook stones.

“Besides, Janice Richards is downstairs, talking to him now.”

“Janice Richards?” Celia sat up, the blood in her veins suddenly rising.

“Says she came by to check out a book from the library. But she’s not dressed like she came for a book. Better get down there. Just sayin’.”

Chester might be a pain-in-the-neck younger brother sometimes, but Celia knew he was also her greatest ally when the fat hit the fire, and Janice on the prowl was like lard on a cast iron skillet. All sizzle, no substance, but liable to smoke.

Celia couldn’t bring herself to look in her brother’s eyes, but she squeezed his forearm and got herself off the bed in record time. “I’ll be quick in the bathroom.”

“Ha! Believe it when I see it.” Chester stretched out on the vacated bed. “Wake me up when you’re done.”

“Get your boots off my bed. Mama’ll have a fit.”

“You had your shoes on the bed!”

But Celia had regained her spirit and with it some semblance of order. She knocked her brother’s feet from her quilt.

Chester grinned, stretching his arms behind his head. “That’s the sister I know.”

Celia tossed her dung-coated shoes out the window, landing them on top of the woodpile below. She’d deal with them later. It would take a good amount of scrubbing to get the smell of blood and calf from her hair and skin. The dirt- and blood-streaked clothes would have to wait. Her mama would understand that.

Celia scrubbed her arms until her skin shone pink. She washed her hair until her scalp tingled.

By the time she was dressed and had found the tube of pale rose lipstick her mother had given her on her last birthday —the lipstick she’d never bothered to use —and brushed her still-wet brown hair back behind her ears, nearly an hour had passed.

She hoped that was enough time for Janice to come, do her flirting, and leave. She didn’t want to be compared to Janice Richards with her store-bought dress and kitten heels and the upswept chignon her mother had started doing in her sixteen-year-old daughter’s hair. It all made Janice look three to five years older, what with her blooming figure and all. Celia knew she couldn’t match up to any of that. It wasn’t that Celia was ugly, more that she was not noticeable and a late bloomer —at least that was Celia’s estimation of herself, and she thought it fair.

Celia left the bathroom in decent order for her brother and walked quietly down the stairs. It wasn’t until she’d reached the bottom that she heard Janice’s simpering.

“I just can’t tell you how much I admire the work you do, Sergeant Joe. GI Joe —I bet they all called you that, didn’t they?”

Celia was turning to creep back up the stairs when her mother called her name.

“Celia, there you are. Come on in, dear, and help Janice with a book. She needs to check it out and be on her way, and I need to get back to the kitchen.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry, Mrs. Percy. Joe is just so fascinating. Not many of our men have returned home yet, so it’s a pleasure to talk to a real man of the world.”

Celia thought she might throw up but knew that wouldn’t be ladylike. She wished with all her heart that she didn’t need to make an entrance at that moment, but her mama stood in the library doorway and she’d brook no disobedience no matter how old a person got to be.

“Janice!” Celia put on her game face. “Ready with that book?”

Janice, turned out for more than a Sunday church picnic, took Celia in from head to toe and back again. “Why, Celia Percy, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in that dress except for church on Sunday, or in any dress since . . . well, since school let out. Don’t you look sweet?”

Celia felt her face flame. “You look nice, too, Janice.” She’d meant to point out that this was unusual for a weekday but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“You really ought to let your mama put your hair up. You’re nearly as old as me and it wouldn’t be such flyaway —especially helpful for mucking stalls and birthing calves.” Janice flicked at Celia’s hair, not half dry. She kept smiling with her mouth but laughing with her eyes.

Joe, on the other hand, looked impressed, and Celia didn’t know what to do with that, either.

How the next two hours passed Celia could never remember, but she was glad to set the table for supper. Joe wanted to help and didn’t seem to mind whatever her mother asked him to do, even peeling vegetables.

“We all got to peel potatoes from time to time —KP —for the smallest infraction. The guys all figured they were just short of kitchen help. But I used to help Nonni —my grandmother —in the kitchen. It was nice, working with her. I miss it, so ask me anytime.”

Celia’s mama was duly impressed with that. “I wish you’d pass that on to my children, Joe. We could use a little more cheerfulness in the kitchen.”

Celia groaned inside. Chester groaned audibly. But it was all good-natured and Joe seemed to fit right into the family.

By the time the dishes were done and the table set again for breakfast, Celia’s mama was worn. “I’ve got to get off my feet. Don’t you kids keep Joe up talking too late. He’s had a long day.”

“Good night, Mrs. Percy.” Joe stood, though Celia saw it pained him. “Thank you again for having me. That was the best meal I’ve eaten since I enlisted.”

Celia’s mama smiled. “You’re most welcome, Joe. We’re glad to have you. You need anything in the night, just ask Chester.”

“Yes, ma’am. I can’t think of another thing.”

“Well, then. Good night, you all.”

“Good night, Mama,” Celia called, and Chester echoed.

The silence in the parlor lengthened, awkward in Celia’s estimation. There’d been so much she wanted to ask, to say to Joe, so much that had connected them through letters. Now, with him sitting there in the living, breathing flesh, she couldn’t think of a thing.

“So, Joe,” Chester began, “Celia says you’re Italian.”

“My grandparents came from Italy —Naples. My parents and I were born here —well, in Philadelphia.”

Celia had told Chester about the death of Joe’s parents. She hoped he wouldn’t forget and ask again.

“What was it you called your grandmother?”

Joe half-smiled. “Nonni. It’s Italian for little grandma —nonna.”

“I was sorry she passed.” Celia needed to say that. There was nothing worse than losing someone you loved and people not saying anything, never mind if it was awkward.

Joe looked fully in Celia’s eyes and she did not look away. She wanted him to know she meant it. How long that lasted, Celia wasn’t sure, but Chester stood up from the rug he’d been stretched out on.

“Think I’ll check on the hens and then turn in. Some critter’s come off the mountain to worry them at night.”

Celia could have hugged Chester, but once he’d gone, she still didn’t know what to say to Joe, this first time alone. Thankfully, Joe took up the mantle.

“Your letters meant a lot to me, all those months. Years. Helped me get through the war. Helped me get through losing Nonni. Thank you, Celia.”

Celia’s breath almost caught. It was his letters that had helped her, changed her. Didn’t he know? “That’s mutual, then. I’m glad.”

Joe smiled and, after a time, looked away. “Marshall’s anxious to get home. I’m looking forward to seeing him.”

“Me, too.” Celia meant it. “But I think it will be hard for him.”

“Without Ivy, you mean. Without Violet.”

“That, and just how things are here. He wrote several times how much better the colored troops were treated in England.”

“Not by our own Army.”

“No, but I think he expects, at least hopes, things will be better here than they were before the war.”

“Double V for Double Victory —it’s the hope of every colored soldier. ‘Victory abroad and victory at home’ —victory against fascism overseas, and race equality at home. They’ve more than earned those rights.”

“I agree, but I don’t reckon No Creek’s got the message . . . any more than anyplace else in the South.” Celia saw Joe’s jaw tighten. She didn’t make or shape the community’s attitude. It was better Joe understood what Marshall was bound to face.

“Marshall’s hoping to set up practice here after medical school. I convinced him he needs to be around family for his sake, for Violet’s.”

“Family’s one thing; the Klan’s another.”

“He told me everything.” Joe sounded impatient, and tired. A minute passed.

“What happened? Why did they bring him up on charges, put him on trial?”

Joe didn’t answer.

“Maybe it’s none of my business.” Celia hesitated. But Marshall was her friend, too. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Joe sighed, the weight of whatever it was pressing down his shoulders. “Evidently somebody in his battalion caught wind of his relationship with Ivy. Somebody who thought well of Marshall, ironically.”

“Call that a friend?” Celia figured with friends like that Marshall didn’t need enemies.

“If Marshall had been caught, if his and Ivy’s marriage or Ivy’s pregnancy had been made public, the Army would have brought him up on charges of rape. That’s an offense for capital punishment.”

“Death?” Celia couldn’t believe it. “But they were married!”

“Not in the Army’s eyes. He’d already applied for permission to marry and been denied. Best Marshall can figure is that his CO thought he was saving his life by picking a fight, then charging him with disorderly conduct and getting him shipped Stateside for trial. The trial was minor in comparison, and the officer who picked the fight dropped the charges once Marshall was shipped back. They both suffered a demotion. That’s why Marshall exited the Army a private. He’d been promoted to corporal after D-Day. He saved a lot of lives.”

“So, the guy saved Marshall’s life but destroyed his marriage.”

Joe looked up but only shrugged.

“Wow.” It was all Celia knew to say. “It’s all so unbelievable, so unfair. But if Marshall thinks things have changed here in No Creek, he’s going to be disappointed.”

“Then why should he come back here? Why not go north —to Philadelphia, New York, or maybe even Canada? Maybe we both should.”

Celia’s heart caught in her throat. She stood. This wasn’t how she’d meant the conversation to go. “Best I turn in, Joe. I’ll see you in the mornin’. Just flick off the lights when you go up, please.”

Joe pushed to his feet, getting his cane beneath his hand. “Celia, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just . . . so hard, is all, and I’m sick of life being unfair. You’re the last person I want to hurt.”

That warmed Celia through. “You don’t need to apologize. I get it. It is absolutely unfair.”

“If there’s really nothing for Marshall here, then —”

“But there is. There’s so much, more than he knows, and there are so many possibilities.” She wanted to reach out, to catch his hand, to tell him all she’d discovered. But it wasn’t Celia’s place to tell Joe —certainly not before she talked with Marshall, before she showed him the diary, the deed. If she followed Olney’s directive, she’d never tell Marshall anything, but that wasn’t fair, either. If she stayed another minute, she’d spill the beans, every last one of them. “I best go up. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

Joe caught her hand, taking her by surprise. “Good night, Celia Percy. You sleep well.”

Celia felt her face flame, but she didn’t pull back, not right away. When she did, she walked out of the room without looking back, thinking she might never wash that hand.