I leaned forward in my chair. “What is it?” I asked.
“I believe Peter is in danger of losing his faith.”
Is that all? I wanted to respond.
As if she knew I did not take her seriously, Mrs. Howell said, “His faith means so much to him. It is the mainstay of his life. Without it, he would be lost, and I believe he could grow careless. You see, he believes God sent him to France for a purpose, that nothing good or bad happens without a reason. That purpose is helping others. He has told you, so I suspect.”
I nodded. I was ashamed that I had thought to dismiss Mrs. Howell’s concern about Peter’s faith. “What happened?” I asked.
Mrs. Howell turned toward a Bible sitting on the orange cloth, and I wondered if she was going to read a passage. Instead, she took an envelope from its pages. “This came a few days ago. I have not shown it to Judge Howell.” She removed a sheet of cheap paper from the envelope and handed it to me.
I unfolded the paper and smoothed it on my lap, then looked up at her.
“Read it,” she said.
Peter’s writing was precise, but the handwriting was sprawling, as if it had not been written against a hard surface. For a moment, I wondered if he wanted to break off our engagement and had asked his mother to tell me. I glanced at Mrs. Howell again, and she smiled at me. I turned the paper a little to catch the light and read.
Dearest Mother,
You know better than anyone that one of the reasons for my going off to be a soldier-boy was to help men who were shell-shocked, who’d lost their faith. I believed I could lead them back to God again. Wasn’t that arrogant of me? One man called me a holy Joe and told me to go to hell. Well, I have been in hell, and now who will help me find God? Mother, I believe I can turn to you in this crisis, for you have always been the one who answered my questions about faith. Now I have to ask you, where is God? How can this slaughter be the work of a loving God? I want nothing to do with a deity who burdens us with this torture.
Yesterday, I ran into Wilson Thode. You remember him. He was the pitcher for the East High School team when I was the first baseman, and he went on to play for the Denver team. He was sitting in an ambulance, waiting to be taken to a hospital, and when I passed by he called my name. Of course I knew he was hurt or he wouldn’t have been there. But I tried to be hearty, and before I could think I said, “Hello there, Wilson. How’s the throwing arm?” He held it up, and I could see that his hand had been shot off. What could I say after that? “Oh, sorry, fellow, God knows best.” I started to cry, and Wilson said, “That’s all right, old man. I’ve got another,” and he held up his left hand. Mother, he was the one who’d been maimed, and he was comforting me. What possible use could I be to him or to God or to anyone else?
I am sitting here in a trench—no, trench warfare is not done with—next to the body of a new soldier who was foolish enough to raise his head to look out at the German line and got a bullet through his eye. I’m wondering where God is and thinking I shall never study theology, for I don’t believe in it anymore. You know, Lutie didn’t wish to be a minister’s wife, and now, if I survive this war, she won’t have to worry about that. I wonder if she will accept such a broken spirit as I am now. She thinks she is frivolous, but she is stronger than she knows. I saw that the first time I talked to her, and it is one of the reasons I love her. Like you, she has the strength to get through any crisis. I hope she won’t throw me over, because I need her. I have not written to her about my despair, but you can show her this letter if you want to.
The fighting is starting, so I close. It is God’s affair now—if He cares. Where is His mercy? Where is man’s? Where is God, anyway?
The letter was unsigned. I handed it back to Mrs. Howell, then took a handkerchief from my pocketbook and wiped my eyes.
“I am so sorry to distress you,” Mrs. Howell said. “But I don’t know how to answer Peter. I thought that together we might find a way to help him.”
“Not the God part,” I told her. “I can’t help with that, because I don’t understand why God allows terrible things to happen. Peter was the one with real faith. He says I’m strong, but I’m really not.”
Mrs. Howell shook her head. “You underestimate yourself. Peter knows you better than you do yourself. He knew you were strong, and I do, too.” She took a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed at her eyes. “I thought that together, you and I might figure out a way to lift his spirits. I believe that when he returns home, he will be able to deal with all this, but my fear is that his despondency will make him careless. I want him to come back safely.”
“But what can I write?” I asked.
“I believe that if you tell him you love him no matter what, that you are waiting for him, and that together the two of you will work through this, it would help Peter a great deal. He loves you very much, you know.”
“I love him very much, too,” I said, and I did indeed, more than I had realized.
The sunroom door was flung open, and Dorothy rushed in. I was glad to end the conversation. I found it hard to think that something might happen to Peter. Mrs. Howell and I turned to the little girl.
“Look, Lutie,” she said, twirling around the room in a white dress with white tassels and a blue satin sash. She looked very like the girl in the painting over the mantel, and she was happy.
“The dress is a little dated, but you ought to be able to alter it, Lucretia,” Mrs. Howell said. “You are smartly dressed yourself and so good with your needle.”
Dorothy and I looked at each other, and she whispered, “You mean it’s mine to keep?”
“Of course. What will I do with a child’s dress? I’ve been meaning to clean out the trunks and send the contents to the Presbyterian orphan’s home,” Mrs. Howell told her.
“Mine, Lutie?” Dorothy asked again. “I never had such a pretty dress.”
“There are others,” Mrs. Howell said, waving her hand as though she were giving away a trifle. “I shall sort through the trunks and have them delivered to you.” She smiled at Dorothy. “Did you see the dollhouse in the attic?”
Dorothy looked up.
“It belonged to my daughters and has not been used in a very long time. I thought perhaps if you would come and see me, you could play with it. I would be glad to see you alone but would like it even better if you would bring Lucretia, so that I may visit with her.”
Dorothy looked at me for approval, and I said, “That would be lovely. Would you like that, Dorothy?”
She nodded.
“I have a doll,” she said, and I knew she meant the rag doll I had made for her in the summer, after I discovered she had no playthings. “But it’s too big to fit inside the house.”
“That doesn’t matter. There are dolls who live there already. But they are dirty. They need to have their clothes washed after all these years. And the dollhouse itself needs a good scrubbing. Would you do that for me? Perhaps if Lucretia is busy, you would agree to spend a few days with me. I would find it very like having my own daughter again.”
Dorothy nodded, then grinned at me, and I knew the visit had taken her out of the bad place that often engulfed her. I stood, and Dorothy and I thanked Mrs. Howell for the tea. She said we had brightened her day. “Please come again. Come often. When I am with you, I do not miss Peter as much.”
I told her we would, and I told her I would write to Peter that night.
Helen was waiting for us when the chauffeur stopped in front of our house. It was later than I’d thought, and the street was gloomy. An automobile I didn’t recognize was parked down the block, and I saw the tip of a lighted cigarette, but when I looked at it again the light was gone, and I wasn’t sure that I’d really seen anyone in the auto. I was still on edge. I wondered how long that would last.
“I thought you’d never get home,” Helen told me. “Gil telephoned.” She caught herself as she glanced at Dorothy. “Well, don’t you look like a princess! Wherever did you get such a fine dress?”
Dorothy had removed her coat and was twirling around in the new dress. “From Mr. Howell’s mother.” I knew that Helen wanted to tell me something, so I suggested to Dorothy that she change her dress so the white one wouldn’t get dirty.
“This came off it,” Dorothy said, showing Helen a white tassel.
“I’ll sew it back on for you,” I said.
“No. I’ll put it in my treasure box.”
Dorothy went into her bedroom and closed the door. She always closed doors. Perhaps she felt safer in a closed-up room.
“I don’t know how, with the sordid life she’s led, she can be such an unspoiled child,” I said. “She was a delight at the Howells’.”
“And then sometimes she is almost in a trance,” Helen said.
“Like that night in the kitchen.”
Helen nodded. “You heard her crying last night. I was going to go to her, but then I heard you get up.”
“How long will that last?”
“I don’t know. Maybe forever.”
“You used to have nightmares. Do you still?”
Helen didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “Should we fix her supper?”
“I doubt that she’s hungry. She filled up on sweets at the Howells’.”
“Let’s leave her alone then. She can play with the things in her treasure box. That seems to make her happy.”
Helen was right. Dorothy liked to sit on the cot in her room and examine the items. She’d become secretive about the box, however, and would shut the lid whenever I went into her room.
The house was warm, and Helen said she wanted fresh air. So we went outside and sat on the porch swing. The automobile down the block was gone, and I told myself I had been silly to notice it.
“Gil telephoned. He has to be careful about what he says in case the operator is listening in. He said he was at the morgue but didn’t recognize any influenza victims.”
“Still, the body’s gone. Maybe he’s already been interred.”
I pushed us back and forth on the swing. Although the weather was chill, I loved sitting there. A leaf fell onto the porch, a crimson leaf from the vine growing on the house. I picked it up and pressed it between my fingers. It was perfect, with veins like fine embroidery. “I’ll send it to Peter.”
Helen didn’t reply, and I turned to her. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“Yes.” Helen was silent a moment. “A man was here looking for Mr. Streeter. It was not long before you got home. He came around to the back and I heard him rattle the doorknob. Fortunately, the door was locked.”
“Did you open it?”
Helen shook her head. “I don’t know why I didn’t. It could have been the knife grinder or the ragman or even one of the neighbors, but after Mr. Streeter, I’ve become cautious.” She looked down at her hands. “He came around to the front door. I saw him walk up the steps to the porch, and he spotted me through the window, so I couldn’t pretend no one was home. I opened the door and he asked for Mr. Streeter.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That he had moved out weeks ago, and I didn’t know where he’d gone.”
I smiled. “Oh, Helen, that could have been a bill collector. Or somebody selling the Saturday Evening Post.”
“But he wasn’t. He asked about Dorothy. He asked if she was here. He had a look about him…” Helen’s voice trailed off. Then she asked, “Do you have a cigarette, Lute?”
My pocketbook was still in my hands, and I took out the ebony case and handed Helen a cigarette. Then I took one for myself and struck a match and lighted both. “He must have been a family friend.”
Helen didn’t smoke much, and she held the cigarette between her lips the way Mrs. Howell had. “There’s something you should know, Lutie. I didn’t tell you before because it’s so awful and there wasn’t any reason for you to know.”
“Something about Dorothy?”
“And Mr. Streeter.”
I dug my heels into the porch to stop the swing and stared at Helen, who wouldn’t look at me. A newspaper page blew across the yard, startling me, but Helen didn’t notice it. Finally she said, “Mr. Streeter might not have been the only one.”
I didn’t understand. “Only one what?”
“Who used her.” Helen took a pull on her cigarette, then coughed.
At first I was confused, and then suddenly I understood. “You mean there was another man who…?” I couldn’t put it into words.
“I don’t know, but I can’t help wondering. If I’m right, maybe the man who came here was one of them.”
I put my head in my hands and felt tears in my eyes. “Oh, Helen, how horrible. I thought what Mr. Streeter did to her was the most awful thing I’d ever heard, but this is ever so much worse. It explains what happened at Baur’s. Remember? I told you about it. How did she stand it?”
“I think she has a special place where she hides. In her mind, I mean.”
I stood and went to the porch railing. For a minute I feared I might vomit as Dorothy had that day we went to Baur’s.
“Mr. Streeter even offered Dorothy to Gil.”
“What!”
Helen wrapped her arms about herself as if she were cold. “Mr. Streeter might have been joking. You know he made outrageous remarks. Still, Gil was shocked. In fact, he slugged Mr. Streeter. That was when we told him to get out.”
“Too bad he didn’t kill him.” When I realized what I’d said, I added, “I mean…”
Helen sighed. “You’re right, of course.”
“Well, thank God you did,” I said hotly. “What did the man who came here tonight say?”
“He only asked about Dorothy. I told him that she was gone, and I didn’t know where she was.”
“There was a man in an automobile down the street when we came home. It must have been the same man, and he would have seen her. We ought to go to the police.”
“No!” Helen said. She sat up and looked at me. “We can’t go to the police. We can’t tell them anything. It’s too late. Besides, they’d question Dorothy.”
Helen’s fierceness moved me. I wasn’t sure she was right. We should have called the police the night Mr. Streeter was killed. And it wasn’t too late now to explain what had happened. But Helen was adamant. Dorothy should never talk to the police. Helen began to shake.
“Oh, Lutie, the world is so evil. I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to protect you.”
I put my arms around her as we rocked back and forth in the swing. When it grew too cold to sit there, we went inside, and I wrote the letter to Peter.
A few nights later, after turning the jump rope for Dorothy, Helen and I sat on the front steps. Dorothy was in her room, sitting with her treasure box, and since the night was nice, with the smell of burning leaves, we decided to stay outside. We watched the boy down the street speed past in his auto, and I suppose we were both looking for the one that had parked in the street the night Helen told me about Mr. Streeter offering Dorothy to other men. We hadn’t seen it since.
The streetlamps came on and then people began turning on their porch lights, sending yellow circles onto the pavement. A mother came out and called her son home for supper. From far away came the sound of a whistle—another mother calling a child home. There was the scratchy sound of “Red Wing” on a Victrola again. The record ended, and I heard the needle going round and round on the record until somebody lifted the arm, and the night was still.
We didn’t feel the need to talk. Helen was worn-out, and I knew we should go into the house and fix supper. But I stayed on the wooden steps, and after a time Helen reached for my hand and held it.
I watched a big touring car glide down the street, thinking it looked like the Howells’ auto. Then it stopped in front of our house and the chauffeur got out. Perhaps he’d brought the trunk of clothes Mrs. Howell had mentioned. I stood and started walking toward it but stopped when I saw the chauffeur open the back door and Judge Howell step out. Helen had risen, and I grabbed her arm. I should have gone to greet him, but I couldn’t move. There was only one reason the judge would come calling unannounced, and I prayed, please let him be only injured, please, God, don’t let Peter be dead.
My knees felt weak and I could barely stand, but finally I forced myself to walk toward him. “Judge Howell…,” I said.
He removed his hat and stopped, his shoulders stooped. “Mrs. Howell sent me. She said you should know right away, that I should tell you in person.”
Helen came up behind me and put her arms around me in support.
“Peter?” she asked.
“I wrote to him Sunday night,” I said, as if that would mean something.
The judge opened his mouth to speak, but for a time no words came out. Then he said in a strangled voice, “Lucretia…”
“Dead?” I whispered.
He nodded. He began to cry, huge convulsing sobs, and at that the chauffeur came and led him away. Helen held on to me as the auto pulled out, and I stared at it until it turned the corner when I began to wail.