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IN HIS USUAL STRAIGHTFORWARD manner, Uncle Marvin neglected to knock. His shuffle on the back steps alerted Twila, so she hurried to let him in. When she saw his load, she gave him leeway—he couldn’t have knocked on the door if he had tried.
The unmistakable bulge of a plucked Thanksgiving turkey rose from an enamel roasting pan. He set his burden down on the wood box and wiped his forehead.
“Best o’ the flock. With your dad gone, you ‘n your mom deserve a good ‘un.”
“Thanks. Mom’ll be really grateful.”
He scratched under his cap. “Well, I’d better get goin’.”
“Don’t you want your pan?”
“I’ll pick it up sometime.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee? I’ve just baked some cookies, and we sent a box to Butch. Have you heard anything from him lately?”
“Not for a while.” He peered around the porch as if looking for something. “Well, I got some more deliverin’ to do.”
Still he stood there, rubbing his calloused fingers together. Must be enough dirt in those deep cracks to plant a potato.
Expecting a final pronouncement before he backed out the doorway, Twila waited, but he took his time. She’d never known him to hurry, except that night when Mom threw china at him.
“Things goin’ all right for you two here?”
“Yes. Mom’s awful tired—she’s been working lots of extra hours up at the plant.”
“Well. Good then.” He lowered his eyes and backed out, but wavered on the top step with the door open. “Be sure to keep this bird cool till morning.”
“We will.” At about twenty degrees out here, that would be no problem.
The peculiar set of her uncle’s shoulders, one lower than the other, and the way his left leg bowed out a little as he headed to his truck caught her attention. A lot like Mom’s.
Could he be double-jointed, too? Out of nowhere came the impossible image of Mom with her legs and arms wrapped like pretzels around her torso. Were Uncle Marvin and Aunt Margaret able to contort bodies, too?
Bracing in the cold air, she shut the back porch door. As far as she knew, he hadn’t been here since last fall. Probably Mom’s plea for help had left him with no idea how to proceed, and now, Thanksgiving gave him an opportunity to give them this turkey.
From the gaping neck hole, she pulled out the giblets. Better get these boiled with a cup of raisins and some walnuts for the dressing. Mom would be so tired when she got home.
Even though Sharon offered to bake the pies for tomorrow and Mom’s widow friend was bringing scalloped corn, so much work lay ahead. By nine o’clock, peeled potatoes sat in salted water, the turkey lay in its roaster stuffed for baking, and homemade buns rested on the counter, glossy-topped in the lamplight. The house smelled of yeast and sage, melted butter and black pepper.
Dark circles under Mom’s eyes testified to her exhaustion, so Twila offered to clean up the kitchen.
“Thanks. Your dad always enjoys stuffing the turkey—sure wish he could be here, especially with the new baby. I haven’t held little Luke for a week now.” Her voice softened. “But your dad hasn’t even gotten to meet him yet.”
“Go on up to bed, Mom. Sleep in tomorrow if you can—I’ll get up early to put the turkey in the oven.”
“You really want to?”
“Sure. Makes me feel grown-up—I think now I could make the whole dinner by myself. Well, except the gravy. Mine always has lumps.”
“I’ll show you how tomorrow.” Myra faded into the living room as Twila shook the tablecloth over the porch railing. Such a crisp, clear night—her breath came sharp, but the air held promise.
Soon, she’d be in Algona. Who knew if she’d even get home for Thanksgiving next year? Something stirred out in the plowed garden, maybe a raccoon seeking one last kernel of sweet corn.
Down the alley, someone pulled a back door shut. Elmer and Shirley had buttoned up place for the night, and the only light came from a three-quarters moon outlining the lightning rods on the shed roof.
Not long before Grandpa Brunner died, on a similar night, Dad had taken her along when he went across town to check on him. With a storm brewing, they had to hurry, but the sensation of walking through town hand-in-hand to Grandpa’s tiny house near the railroad tracks came back to her in full force.
Nothing special happened that night, but the memory made her miss Dad even more. He had a way of knowing what she needed, and that night, she’d felt so important being included.
The moon disappeared behind a cloud, and she sent up a prayer—this was getting to be a habit. Then she hurried inside to tidy the kitchen, but when she headed through the living room to go upstairs, Mom lay on the couch.
Normally, she could only fall asleep in her own bed. A little closer, at exactly the right moment, the moonlight strengthened, giving a clearer view.
Mom hadn’t even bothered to pull the drapes, usually her first action when she entered a room. Twila leaned in to study her face. Such clear-cut cheekbones, a little up-turn at the end of her nose, a few freckles, and that birthmark.
As a child, she’d often asked about it, and Mom’s answer varied.
“It says I’m me. It’s been there since I was born. Pa said if it had been on my right foot, I’d be destined to travel. On my left, it would mean extra intelligence.”
“So what does it mean on your neck?”
Mom laughed. “It’s either the devil’s signature or an angel’s kiss, baby. Take your pick.”
Both alternatives piqued Twila’s overactive imagination, but when she rehearsed the conversation with Dad, he chuckled. “Lots of people have birthmarks. Nothing but an oversized freckle, kiddo.” That put her curiosity to rest.
Mom shifted positions. The lift of her chin, even in sleep, showed determination. She was holding things together, doing her best for Dad.
Into the moonlight, Twila breathed her thoughts. “Even though you seem so far away sometimes, at least our longing for him binds us together.”
Those weary emerald eyes shuttered open. “Wha...?”
“Come on, Mom. Let’s get you up to bed.”
***
DECEMBER 1943
Crash. Thwack. Zrring... zriing! When all was said and done, Stan hoped the crashes and thwacks outnumbered the Nip bullets whizzing through the air. So far, that’s how it had gone, but nine months into guerilla exploits was no time to get cocky.
Beside him, Cap smashed an enemy’s temple with a rock. But from the left flank, the shooting continued. Panic needled Stan—where had Carlos gone? It had been a few minutes—or was it hours—since he’d spotted him among a new group of Filipinos that joined them a week ago.
Exuberant and carefree, Carlos knew how to obey, but still followed his own instincts. And with Cap fading in and out, responsibility for him weighed on Stan. If anything happened to that California lad...
Zrring... a bullet ricocheted close to his ear. He shook his head like a steer ridding himself of flies. Another shot dodged, but far too close for comfort.
Help us... help us now...
Cap scanned the side of Stan’s head and grinned. “That one took a bite out of your helmet, man. I’m going to get him.” He darted through a stand of bamboo before Stan could protest.
Before this new band of Filipinos came upon them, Cap had fallen into a depression, but now he rallied. A sour-smelling liquid the natives poured down his throat probably had a lot to do with this change, although last night Cap thrashed and screamed in his sleep again.
As usual, his subconscious had transported him back to the surrender on Corregidor, and Stan tried to talk him back into the present.
“General Lough’s been cut off—this is terrible. Sir, what shall we do?”
“There, there. Calm down Cap. That was a long time ago, before the surrender.” Cap stared at him wild-eyed, so Stan repeated himself.
“Surrender—what’re you talking about?”
Stan added, “Our whole army surrendered back in May. But we’re up in the mountains now, don’t you remember?”
“You’re crazy, man. That’s fool’s talk.”
“No, it’s the truth. You and I found that raft, the Japs shot at us, and we swam to shore. We found Carlos...”
“Carlos?” Cap stayed quit for a while after that—blessed silence. But then he spurted, “A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
“Shakespeare?”
“Right. You’re a smart guy.”
“But you’re calling me a fool?”
Cap ignored the question, and threw more dire memories at Stan instead. Everything they’d done here would be wasted—they’d be allowing the Japs to kill so many more Filipinos if they surrendered—how could anyone even entertain the thought?
Eventually he tired of arguing, and after he fell asleep, the episode left Stan restless and wakeful. What had happened in Cap’s brain to make him return to that time, to live in it for longer and longer periods? It was impossible to understand.
But right now, another member of this Jap patrol skulked toward him, unaware that he was being observed. Stan gripped his weapon tighter. This time, his bolo, recently sharpened by one of the guerillas, would serve his purpose well. The long, single-edged knife designed for breaking through dense foliage had become his favorite weapon.
True, the thing weighed more than his army knife, as Carlos pointed out. But the sturdy blade proved reliable no matter the target. The natives had taught all three of them to aim more accurately when they’d been out hunting a wild pig.
Even though he’d lost a lot of weight here, Stan wanted to maintain his strength, so the more pounds he lifted, the better. When no one was looking, he did exercises holding the bolo.
Come on, come on.
Like an obedient child, the young Japanese took a few more tentative steps. Stan aimed the bolo for his chest, and the sickening whoosh of the blade sent the enemy off into an Imperial Japanese version of glory.
Just before the impact, Stan looked away. The sound alone convinced him he’d hit his mark. Then came the thud. A Filipino ran ahead and stripped the victim of his weapons. Even seeing the native’s hand brush the Nip’s still-warm skin made Stan shudder, and for a split second, he allowed for human feeling.
The poor lad looked more like a boy than an adult. His fragile cheekbones, sprayed red now, reflected patchy midday sun.
“Sorry, but you chose the wrong side.”
He couldn’t recall when he took to addressing the men he felled...kind of like Cap quoting the classics to whomever he saw. The short address he gave the enemy allowed him to move on. That was the secret to survival out here—do what you have to do and take the next step. Leave the past behind.
He’d certainly been able to do that with the distant past. Traipsing through the Wisconsin forest with his brothers seemed more like a distant dream than an actual memory.
It took a few seconds to notice the absence of fighting around him. The stillness drove an uncomfortable wedge under his breastbone, something like the oppression on an August day in Wisconsin when the sky turned sickly green and a peculiar quiet fell over the land. Tornado season—stay on the alert.
A guerilla collected the other enemy weapons they had stashed in a pile. Then Cap appeared through a bamboo thatch. Noting the eerie look in his eyes, Stan spoke first.
“You accomplished your mission, I take it.”
“Yep. Odysseus has returned home victorious.”
“Right.”
“We won this one. There ought to be a parade, with festive carosas, and painted water buffalos bowing down to Saint Isidore, like in that one village we passed near. Remember?”
“Yeah, but they were giving thanks for the harvest, and it wasn’t much of a celebration compared to before the war. Remember how the Filipinos explained the tradition?”
“Umm... patron saint of farmers...” Cap seemed lost in thought, but at least he’d moved past the surrender—must’ve have been about two weeks after they crossed over to Bataan that they heard faint music from that town... Started with a P, but Stan couldn’t recall the name.
Then out of the blue, Cap said, “Virgil knew what he was talking about. ‘Fortune favors the brave.’”
“But wouldn’t you call the enemy brave, too?” Stan helped the Filipinos gather more weapons and once again, glanced around for Carlos. In his poor Tagalog, he asked one of the guerillas.
“Ahead, two-three guys. Meet you later, he say.”
Like a stage play, the action all around him continued. Carlos, in watchful Filipino companionship, was safe. And for the moment, Cap seemed perfectly fine.
Oddly, the verdant jungle colors blended into a form of comfort. Like the north woods in his other life, this place had become home.
He studied the terrain until Cap slapped his shoulder. “Someday, we’re all going to be heroes.”
“But you only made me a captain, remember? If you’d told these guys I was a major, I’d be up for General by that some day you’re talking about.”
“Let’s say we level ten more patrols in the next few days and keep it up till the war ends. When the command discovers how many Japs we took out up here, and how many American lives we potentially saved, they’ll...”
Stan fell in behind him and the Filipinos. “You’re nuttier than I thought, oh learned professor. And for once, I’ve got a quote for you. ‘You can’t build a reputation on what you are going to do.’ Henry Ford. Not to mention my Grandpa Ford, who actually met old Henry back in the day.”
Cap half turned. “You don’t say? Were they related?”
The glint in his eyes tempted Stan to tell a whopper, but he declined. “Nope. I suppose you know this one, too: ‘Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you are absolutely right.’”
“What a memory you have. But I must alter your verb—it’s believe, not think.”
“Ah, I stand corrected. You’re the professional here.”
“If you think you can out-quote me, you’d better think again. If you believe you can, it’s the same scenario.”
This joking demeanor encouraged Stan—maybe Cap could recover some day. If only they could get him to medical help. But a few minutes later, he squinted off into the distance, and his left eye began to twitch, a sure sign of another feverish attack.
But for now, his cheery voice belied worry. “However, I’ll give you this, Stanley Ford. You make a much better army officer than I do, and I wager you will make Major someday.”
He was back in the present again, back in reality. But how long could it last?
