| |
Dear Kate,
Your news sits in my mind like a blinking light. You’re having a baby. Do mornings still find you sick? I hope not, and am glad you’re with Mrs. T rather than in some hotel room.
I have a surprise for you, too. Harold deploys in late April with a St. Louis unit. After all this time, I can barely believe it.
Berthea told me, and apologized for his secrecy, but it hardly hurts anymore. I’m taking that as a good sign and am thrilled he’s not coming home.
I finally realize my determination to please him was grounded in fear. Jane mentioned her besetting sin once, and I think mine might be letting others control me. After all, if I hadn’t let him, Harold wouldn’t have ruled my life.
I don’t know what all this means, but I’m trying to take responsibility for myself. Today, some workers installed an oak telephone above our kitchen table. I successfully tried it out tonight. Then I thought, why not call you? So I sent you a telegram with our number—Halberton 421, or two shorts and a long. Is your office tele still intact? I await your number.
I ran another errand today. I’ll be naughty and give you clues. What has a mission, flies a flag, propels without wheels, and carries a friend?
Oh, and two packages are on their way. Wish I could send you eggs and butter, but cookies will have to do.
Until we talk,
Addie
The clock struck 12:00, but Addie felt more awake than she had in a long time. A slice of moon drew her into the yard. Elma said her chances were better the sooner she decided, so why put it off? She spoke her feelings to the midnight moon.
“The Great War brought Fern and Norman choices, and this one has forced Kate into action. Harold finally has his chance to prove himself, and now I have to choose, too.”
Her throat parched with the decision’s enormity. She wandered back to the house, recalling Gideon’s need for signs. In the ship’s availability, Berthea’s advice, and Jane’s wisdom, three arrows pointed toward London. But everything happened so fast, maybe she ought to seek one more sign.
By now, Kate should have received her telegram. Her reply might already be waiting in Emmet’s office downtown. A long night stretched ahead, but it was never too late for tea. Without even a twinge of guilt, she brewed a pot.
v
The black soil behind Jane’s house produced ample earthworms. Careful not to disturb them, Addie cultivated the spinach row. Across the driveway, Jane sat on her stool hoeing the first batch of weeds around her peony bushes, her lively elbows in company with a pair of red-winged blackbirds chirping from an oak tree. A purple finch raised a lovely melody right above her head.
Simon fitted his hands to some trees and tapped a big stick on others. When Addie stopped hoeing to watch, she could see no logic, but as Jane said, he hurt no one.
She came over nearly every day this spring, since Jane’s lame knee frustrated her gardening. Splitting the days between her own garden and Jane’s brought such pleasure. Several times, Simon skittered closer to wave to her, his pale forehead gleaming in the mid-April sun.
Trucks loaded with seed sacks whizzed back and forth from Halberton, and tractors putted along, transferring heavy raised plows from one field to another. George, elated at the opportunity, plowed the west 40 acres from mid afternoon until full dark.
A mild breeze brought the peaceful sensation Addie sought last year at this time. That was when the Bucket Brigade began protecting vessels on the eastern seaboard, so German U-boats began attacking ships in the Gulf, off the Passes of the Mississippi.
This news nearly drove Harold to distraction, and his howl, “The Mississippi. Do you realize how close that is?” echoed through the house. But he yelled even louder after American and Filipino troops fell into Japanese hands. “Twenty-four thousand sick and starving soldiers stranded on the Bataan Peninsula—what’s wrong with our leaders? What idiot thing will the generals and colonels do next?”
Nearly every evening, she discussed the day’s war news with George and Berthea, but without Harold’s eruptions, her normal tension dissipated. With her London trip just around the corner, she relished these days with Jane. Rich, black Iowa soil filled spring breezes with it heady scent, and the trees became a riot of nest-building and territorial squabbles.
Simon stared up into the branches near his cabin observing one such dispute. Jane pulled weeds west of the driveway, and Addie manhandled the tenacious blighters in the flowerbed east of the house, as Kate would call them.
A sudden screech broke the serenity. Tires scrunched on gravel, and partially hidden by the corner of the house, a blue swatch lurched into the driveway. Could that be the bubbletop? If Berthea came home early from school, why would she drive it over here?
The door banged. A familiar gait sent a sharp slash along Addie’s collarbone. No one but Harold walked like that. Her heart stopped when his voice rose over a manure spreader’s hum in a nearby field.
“Hello, Mrs. Pike. Have you seen Addie today?”
“Why Harold, nice of you to stop in. Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. I hear you’re deploying soon. Do you know your destination?” Jane maintained perfect control, but raised her voice louder than normal.
A suffocating weight smashed Addie’s chest. She backed into the shadow of the porch and clutched the wood siding.
Pride buoyed Harold’s reply. “An undisclosed European destination, but I’d say we’re going to invade France.”
An internal racetrack claimed Addie’s heart as it had a thousand times before. She palmed her collarbone and tried to think. Jane was giving her time to hide. She eased closer to the side door. Her pulse hammered like a woodpecker. The door gave way with a squeak Harold surely could hear.
She locked the door and slunk into the kitchen, where Jane’s calico curtains prevented detection. Ever so slowly, Addie secured the lock and plastered her back to the wall. The clock, the stove, Jane’s yellow teapot—all these familiar items gave her a sense of safety, yet she had no idea what to expect from her own husband.
“I hitched a ride home, but need to go back on tomorrow’s early train. You see, Mrs. Pike, I simply couldn’t leave the country without seeing Addie again.”
“Ah... I understand. If she stops in, I’ll let her know you’re home. God go with you, Harold. This war’s a mighty terrible thing.”
He cleared his throat, and Addie sent a plea heavenward. Give me the sign I need. At the same time, she chastised herself for behaving like a child. Why did she quaver to face him? She couldn’t hole up here until he left for the train, could she?
“Yes, but God is on our side. Did you hear that Admiral Yamamoto’s been shot down? And word has it the final attack on Tunisia will soon be underway. I’m absolutely sure we will prevail, just as I believe certain other things are God’s inevitable will.”
“Umm. Like what?”
Addie took her first real breath. Jane knew Harold would never pass up a preaching opportunity.
“Providence decrees specific earthly ordinances, such as gravity’s pull. People are to marry, and men must manage their households. Wives obey their husbands and produce children to glorify God in the rightful order of things, the set method of the universe, like spring and summer, fall and winter.”
“And if things don’t happen according to that method, then what happens?”
Addie circled her thumbnail with her finger. She recalled Simon’s tearful look when he mentioned baby Sarah on Christmas Eve. Surely Harold knew the Pikes had no children and would switch his tack.
“You mean like producing children? Then there’s sin in the camp, that’s all there is to it. The Almighty punishes disobedience.”
Addie risked a peek through a crack in the curtains. Harold’s spread feet, jutting jaw, and thumbs laced into his belt took her back to that day in the chicken house. But he faced someone much stronger this time.
“This is Addie’s last chance to obey the divine will. Then, even if I die in battle, an heir can carry my name.”
Jane toed clumps of soil. “I see. What do you believe, Harold, about a baby that lives a few months but suddenly passes from this world, perhaps on account of disease? Would that be God’s will, or do you think the child’s parents are in sin?”
“There’s a method to everything, Mrs. Pike, and sometimes people inherit the wind. You’re probably talking about generational sin, visited on the children’s children to the third and fourth generation.”
“So you’d conclude their parents’ or grandparents’ actions may have caused the death?”
“I’d say so, but sometimes such tendencies can be difficult to track.”
Jane struggled to her feet and leaned on her hoe. “My, my. Seems only yesterday you were toddling around here, mimicking your father’s every move. Now, you’ve learned so much at the seminary. Glad such a wonderful opportunity came your way.”
“Let me remind you, Mrs. Pike, this wasn’t chance. Everything’s ordained, just as it’s ordained that Addie bear my child, according to the law of inheritance.”
Though her throat throbbed, Addie couldn’t look away. In utter earnestness, Harold bobbed his head up and down, but a hint of a smile piqued Jane’s mouth.
“Speaking of an inheritance, that reminds me. Addie mentioned wanting to ride her bike over to her home place sometime. Maybe she pedaled down there this morning. That girl has so much energy —”
“I’ll check around there. I’ve got to drive to the Benson elevator and make sure Ma’s been making our payments. And then, I’ll visit Joe’s dad—I’m sure you’re aware, the Bible commands us to visit the sick and grieving.”
“A praiseworthy thing. Praiseable, my grandmother Fitzmeier used to say. You take care now, Harold. What time does that early train leave tomorrow?”
“Seven a.m.”
“Rest well tonight, son.”
The bubbletop’s engine fired. Once the tires spun on the gravel, Addie exhaled in parcels. The same urging that spurred her last week to make a train reservation for New York now instructed her to seek a better hiding place.
When a thin spiral of dust trailed the spot of blue toward Halberton, she collapsed, as weak as corn silk. Jane’s homey kitchen, still bearing the aroma of chicken and homemade noodles, spun around her.
“If I become with child now, how can I help Kate? Please show me what to do.”
The doorknob wiggled, and she unlatched the lock. Jane’s forehead showed first, then her eyes, like fresh-rubbed emeralds against ruddy, weathered skin.
“Oh, child. Did you hear what he said? I’d like to smack that boy’s smart, prideful mouth.” Jane shut the door and spread her arms wide. When Addie’s trembling ceased, she led her to a chair and filled the kettle.
“You’re as pale as hominy grits.” She ran a cool rag over Addie’s forehead and the back of her neck. “Sit here and collect yourself while I check on Simon.”
Dropping her head on her arms, Addie questioned everything. What happened to all the confidence of the past few days? How could she manage a transatlantic journey with such a puny constitution?
Jane talked with Simon outside, and snitches came through the screen. “...if he should come back, stay inside the cabin. Do you understand?”
In a few minutes, Jane set a hot cup of tea with a sprig of crushed rosemary before her. “Rosemary stands for remembrance and for healing. Did you know that?”
With her first sip, terror released its iron hold, and Addie focused on those warm green eyes. They shone with a plan, and Jane rubbed her hands together.
“Well, now. What do you want to do?” The quiet inquiry caressed Addie like balm. Could her answer and God’s will be one and the same?
Her thoughts flitted to Norman. Fernella couldn’t stand up to him, and no one else could do it for her. But if she returned home, could she speak her mind to Harold?
“I want to hide. It sounds spineless, but—”
“Sometimes what looks fainthearted is actually courage, and what would normally count as daring equals foolhardiness.”
“You really think so?”
“If you go home, you’ll have no choice in the matter. Harold made that clear. For him, things are black and white, and that’s that. If he has to force you to comply, so be it. ”
She paused for some tea, and outside, the red-winged blackbirds twittered in unison. “The way I see it, your urge to hide is self-preservation, and since Harold brought up the topic, I’d say it’s God’s will, too.” She poured second cups.
“I’d be happy to have you stay here, but he’ll be watching. There’s the cabin, but that might upset Simon.” A faraway look came into her eyes.
“What if we hide your bike, and I’ll drive you to... I know! We’ll take the back road out to Emmanuel. You can sleep in the organ loft tonight. Pastor Bachmann locks the door at five, and by the time he comes into the sacristy in the morning, Harold will have left for the train.”
“Stay there all night? Should I tell Berthea?”
“I’ll visit with her if you want me to. Harold had several stops to make, so he won’t be home for at least an hour.”
“You would do that?”
“She’s stopped in a few times lately, and I think we have an understanding.” Jane pushed back from the table. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
A parade of scenes tumbled before Addie, but Harold delivering judgment on Jane and Simon’s tragic loss topped them all. Everything had to be somebody’s fault. Close behind came his vehemence in the chicken house. She’d stood her ground, but with his single-minded focus, could she do it again?
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll round up some food and have Simon hide your bike behind the cabin. We’ll make a quick stop at your place to get whatever you need.”
Like an old friend, the cool sanctuary brought back the peacefulness of Christmas Eve, but Harold’s perennial judgment still enveloped Addie.
“Those Lutherans worship a statue just like Catholics. I can’t believe your mother let you go to church with Kate’s aunt, even if her grandfather’s a judge.”
The closed, dry scent of tattered hymnbooks and old dust drew her to the loft stairs, and waxed wooden floorboards cracked under her step. Like a Sherman tank on a mission, Jane followed with a box of food and a lantern swinging from one arm. On the way to Emmanuel, she’d explained her plan.
“You know the parsonage sits beyond that thick pine grove? Pastor Bachmann takes his family into town on Saturday nights, but they come home early and go to bed with the chickens. You’ll be safe walking in the field straight behind the church this afternoon, and no one’ll see your light tonight.”
“What if someone drives by?”
“No windows face the road, and since the river runs on the diagonal, no one lives beyond the grove. Now that I think of it, your old farm lies straight south, as the crow flies.”
She handed over a flashlight. “In case the lantern fails you—I just put in a new bulb. I’ll be here with some crocus and tulips for the altar when Pastor unlocks the door. He goes back home then, so we’ll get you out with plenty of time to spare.”
She grasped Addie’s shoulders. “You’ll be all right? I’d stay with you, if it weren’t for—”
“I’ll be fine, thanks to you. And Jane, Harold says Lutherans worship a statue. I know that’s not true, but—”
Jane chortled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. He’s in for some big surprises in the army. He’ll bed down with men from every corner. A Lutheran may well save his life. As for the statue—” She stepped back and eyed the altar. “That’s only an artful reminder of God reaching out to us.”
Before she disappeared out the back door, she fortified Addie with a bear hug. “It’s only two o’clock, plenty of time for a walk before Pastor Bachman locks up. I’ll speak with Berthea, and we’ll both be praying. See you in the morning.”
Dragging Jane’s thick quilt up the stairs was hard work. The food box revealed that Jane thought of everything. A quart of water filled one corner, a jug of milk the opposite. Two dried beef sandwiches, a boiled egg, some cheese chunks, and a paper bag of dried apples and oatmeal cookies completed the feast.
In the pew beside the organ, Addie leaned against polished wood and closed her eyes. Right now in Europe and the Pacific Islands, people hid from real tyrants. All those troops taken by the Japanese huddled in horrible prison camps. Her danger didn’t even compare, yet her wild heartbeat didn’t seem to know the difference.
Finally, in the stillness, she relaxed. One thing was sure, Harold would never set foot in here, though it seemed impossible he saw such a refuge as evil.
A glass chandelier balanced about five feet out from the balustrade, with 12 orbs extending from a central burnished globe, with five more like it spaced throughout the sanctuary. Jane said the first settlers brought each hand-worked piece from the Old Country in the 1860’s.
“Someone trimmed the wicks and climbed a ladder to light and extinguish them for each service. You can be sure I voted for electrification.”
In spite of Jesus’ outstretched arms, the barrier between Catholics and Protestants ran through this county like electric wires. Even now, when Baptists fought side by side with Catholics, one gravel road still divided families by their denomination.
One day in high school, Mary Faye Huntington said her parents threatened to disown her if she went to the Christmas ball with Patrick O’Neal.
“But I told Mother I’d fallen in love with Patrick. ‘You just fall out of love, then. No daughter of mine marries a Catholic. You’d sign your children over to the Roman church, and Lutherans are about as bad. Why can’t you pick a good Presbyterian boy?’”
Sounded like Harold’s vehemence toward Pastor Bachman, whom he’d never met. The pastor’s humility and kindness shone on Christmas Eve, and he worked with Mr. Henderson to make sure poor rural children went to school. He even struck the final n from his name to prove his patriotism.
But Harold and others assumed his German relatives fought for the Nazis right now. Could he help it if they did? Addie imagined Kate broaching the subject with Harold.
“Our views are like these two sets of pews. In olden days, women sat on one side, men on the other. But that changed; why can’t you?”
Kate’s other question prodded her. Had she ever argued with Harold? Every conversation seemed like arguing, but hearing Jane talk with him today brought a revelation. She played word games, like Kate. Her mind stayed a little ahead of his arguments, and she asked strategic questions.
“Why can’t I do that? He must have some sort of spell over me.”
Afternoon sun touched the altar’s artistry, and Addie’s words bounced back to her. Jane and Aunt Alvina loved this church, but other folks could still appreciate its beauty, couldn’t they? Did faith have to be narrow to be real?
So many mysteries, but as sure as this building stood, the same Providence that saw Kate safely to London dwelt here. And He dwelt in Kate’s whoop over the telephone last night. Her reaction made the journey seem final, as though this audacious plan might really work.
But now she caught her breath. What if Kate had called tonight instead, with Harold in the house? No—surely, her angels were taking their duty seriously. Mama and Ruthie believed in guardian angels.
Downstairs, the same hymnbook she practiced from at Aunt Alvina’s fell open to a favorite, “Open Now Thy Gates of Beauty.” The feel of smooth piano keys beneath her fingertips brought satisfaction.
Gracious God, I come before Thee; come thou also unto me. Where we find Thee and adore Thee, there a heaven on earth must be. To my heart O enter Thou; let it be Thy temple now...
Harold would say she gave in to temptation in coming here, but Kate would declare that this so-called disobedience proved her faith. All Addie knew for sure was the security of these walls.
The stanzas ended with a fitting request. How so e’er temptations thicken, May Thy Word still o’er me shine as my guiding star through life, as my comfort in all strife.
The sunlight climbed to soak her back. Sunshine—she needed more of it. And Jane said she needn’t stay inside all afternoon.
The north field dried enough for a walk, but years of hoeing soybean fields taught Addie to skirt thick, fibrous stems that grabbed you by the toe and threw you to the ground. The straggly rows led a full mile south.
She never dreamed Emmanuel lay so close to their old place, but Jane was seldom wrong. When the river sparkled to her left, she turned to get her bearings.
“Why, Ruthie and I always took Herman and Bonnie to play at that little pond.”
Benson’s Grain Elevator and the Catholic Church spire needled the eastern sky. On this curve, old Finn Edwards’ team ran aground in a storm one night. On their walk to school, Reuben ran for help while Ruthie dragged her down the road. But she remembered Finn’s groans, and his hand extending from the wrecked wagon.
A staggered line of hard maple, oak, and cottonwood marked the creek’s course. Like Moley in The Wind and the Willows, Addie soon stood in the rubble of her childhood home. Scattered limestone and a pile of once-red boards marked the barn’s foundation.
Early in their marriage, Orville made his opinion of that barn known.
“If I lived down there, the first thing I’d do is paint my barn white.” Addie missed the derogation in his tone, but Harold explained.
“Germans paint their barns red and English farmers paint them white. Didn’t you know that?”
Today, springtime held court with budding trees, weeds waking in fencerows, soil fertile with worms, moss, and seeds. But the wintry gloom that settled over Addie last November wafted over her in the decaying odor from the sunken outhouse.
A trace of the kitchen door dangled listless on wall remnants, and scattered chunks of grimy floorboards splayed over the yard. The windmill lurched, startling a long-tailed rat from the old root cellar.
Something tripped her—the remains of the rain barrel. Thick rust crusted the metal circle where Ruthie taught her to wash her hair. A few feet farther, the old garden plot boasted a gangly milkweed mass.
Nothing for her here, exactly her sense when she stopped by the house to gather her things. Even her white kitchen and freshly painted living room failed to cheer her. She gathered her photograph, notebook, and Kate’s letters, just in case.
The sun slipped lower as she hurried through the back church door, surprised it was already four o’clock. In all these years, she’d never spent a night away from home, but Jane’s comfortable quilt folded perfectly between the banister and the first pew.
At seven, she would miss hearing the radio announcer say, “Here’s your own Johnny Girl, Bonnie Baker!” Since Harold left, Miss Baker’s candied-apple voice immersed the old farmhouse in lighthearted wartime romance stories on Saturday nights. Addie even transcribed one song for Kate.
On Monday he told me he was One A, Tuesday he said he would go any day, Wednesday night he told me how he’d miss me, and then he took me in his arms and he kissed me...
Her relationship with Harold had few similarities to Bonnie Baker’s lyrics. He didn’t really court her, but assumed he was in charge. And he didn’t even propose.
“I gave him no reason to.” Addie sank into the comfort of Jane’s quilt. “Everyone said we made a good pair, and it was meant to be. What a fool I was, so glad to have him take over my life.”
The image of Mama crying in the kitchen pressed at her. Why had she spent so much time like that, forcing Ruthie to be the adult?
Not once did she recall Mama standing up to her dad. Her illness brought regret, but his tardy changes made little difference. Mama curled toward the barren wall and responded only to the hymns Addie crooned or little Bonnie’s voice.
With Bonnie and Herman in school, Addie witnessed Mama’s passing one quiet afternoon with a woman from the Presbyterian Ladies’ Aid. Ruthie was hurrying from Minnesota. Probably the church ladies telegrammed her.
A cardinal’s clear call split the cooling evening air, and from the squat window, his brilliant coat gave him away, a splash of red amidst forest green.
“Hi, little fellow. Calling your mate?” His warble resembled one two-syllable word. Agree... agree... agree.
Maybe her parents once treasured dreams, but just as likely, Mama had blindly followed Dad like she followed Harold. With graduation coming, to have a warm house and a new family meant so much.
But now, it came down to this. Like a helpless child, she hid from her husband. Her cheeks flamed as the cardinal’s distinctive summons repeated. Fern would say a wife must answer her mate’s call.
The truth, as vivid as the cardinal, faced Addie down. The hateful war called Harold away from here—for that, she had only gratitude.
The sinking sun reflected deep gold through the balcony. Agree, agree, agree.
Against the pine background, Mama’s face appeared, chin down, jaws clamped, eyes averted. It took such hard work to pretend you agreed with someone all the time.
The suffocating weight of all that effort filled Addie’s throat. And even though she’d come so far, she still couldn’t face Harold. When she looked up again, brilliant orange flared against a purple cloudbank and a footfall sounded below.
Footsteps echoed below, up the aisle to the front door, then slowly back. Surely Pastor Bachman came only to lock the door and would leave now. But instead, a raspy resonance rose to the tin-paneled ceiling.
“Fader Gott...”
Hiding was one thing, but eavesdropping on a prayer? After the first phrases, his voice fell into a heavy German rhythm. A few words made sense to Addie, but then his throaty Rs dissolved in sobs.
A fist slammed into protesting wood, and he cried out in English, “The children mock my little Peter at school, and people cross the street when Brita goes to market. We came here for freedom, but my family suffers for my sake.”
There was no shutting out his anguish, although Addie shrank back and clapped her hands over her ears.
“To America I came, according to Thy leading. Shall I leave my family helpless now? Who will provide for them? And this flock entrusted to me—who will shepherd them? To come here at Thy call, yes! But for honor’s sake, must I serve in this dread war?”
Pastor Bachman, go to war? Would the congregation allow his family to stay in the parsonage? Harold’s accusations swam through Addie’s mind.
“I’d bet our grain check he’s a spy. Came just before the Luftwaffe’s first strike—how convenient.” Others joined in, though Jane pronounced her pastor a patriot. But now he considered leaving his family to fight for the Allies?
Knees popped as he trod up and down the aisle. The floorboards directly below her squeaked, and somehow, her bag containing Kate’s letters stirred from its perch in the front pew.
Though she grappled for it, the bag tipped, and like an autumn leaf, one envelope sailed out and came to rest on a pew.
Oh, please, don’t let him see it.
But Pastor Bachman retrieved the letter. Guilty as sin, she caught his eye as he looked up. In seconds, he climbed the balcony stairs.
As his head appeared above the first pew, Addie’s finger might have worn through her thumbnail. And then he stood a few feet away. The worn toes of his shoes made a statement all their own.
“You are Jane’s friend? I have seen you in town with her.”
“Yes.”
“She brought you here?”
Addie nodded. It was all she could do, for he held far more in his hands than Kate’s letter. What if he insisted on taking her home?
But he sank into a pew. He handed her the letter, and his gaze demanded nothing. She let out her breath.
“You are afraid. What can I do to help?”
“I—I cannot go home.”
He handed her the letter. “You seek refuge?”
“If I could stay here, just for tonight?”
“You have food?”
She pointed to Jane’s box.
“Of course. Stay, or come with me to our house.” His lips twisted. “Whatever troubles you, I am sorry.”
“Thank you. Jane will come for me early tomorrow morning.”
He pointed out the window. “We live beyond the grove. If you need anything, come to us.” Then he rose with faint heathery scent and touched her forehead with the sign of the Cross. “Remember that God wraps you in His love, and is always near in times of distress.”
For a moment, she wanted to tell him everything, but his red eyes testified to his own tears. Long after the key turned in the back door, his pleas still roosted along the walls and nestled in her heart.
“He’s such a tender soul. Help him know what to do, and please help his family.”
More than once, Norman shed tears over Fernella and the life they might have shared. Dad never cried, but he might have if someone discovered him wasting his third paycheck in a row. George? Yes, she could picture him weeping, and Simon, too.
But Harold? Never. Instead, he might ransack the house. She sat bolt upright in sudden panic—Kate’s letters! Then she calmed down—no, she’d brought them along. In fact, one of Kate’s letters gave her away.
She stroked her clogged throat and whispered, “See—your fears are groundless. They have no place in a grown woman’s life.” Yet how could she find freedom?
Light faded, and Jane’s sandwiches tasted like a special recipe, downed with cheese and milk. A dark blue book lay in the last pew—how did the Small English Prayer Book land in a German Lutheran Church loft?
War turns things upside down.
She flipped through the pages, and one line stood out:
“May Thy beloved take failure not as a measure of self-worth, but as an opportunity to begin anew, leaving all mistakes to Thy Mercy. Give us grace to relinquish attempting to understand all things.”
The words struck a deep chord. “Kate saw it all, but I kept plotting to fix things, to change Harold. I let stubbornness be my guide, and fear. Maybe I’ve been so afraid to fail as a wife that I—”
She leaned into the oak, limp as baby sister Bonnie’s hand-me-down rag doll. Right now, she would give anything to hold Bonnie once again or feel Ruthie’s embrace. The clock made the only sound except for the old structure’s moans.
Love your neighbor as yourself. The message wafted from the wooden altar. Kate wrote that verse in one of her letters, didn’t she? Rummaging for the lantern, she sought until her fingers touched her notebook of hopeful thoughts.
The quote came not from Kate, but from one of Harold’s books. “Help us to accept our faults and love ourselves, that we might also love our neighbor.” Below it, she’d copied Mr. Firth’s London bookstore advice.
“...We must refrain from apologizing and celebrate our tenacity. Otherwise, we shall look down on ourselves forever—not a pleasant prospect, eh?”
When the lantern sputtered, she switched it off. In thick twilight, smoke spiraled like a balloon rising.
“I worked so hard to make Harold happy.” Even though only God heard, saying the words strengthened her, and in the shadowy stillness, she arranged Jane’s quilt around her. It smelled like her house—home cooking, hot tea, the earth, and flowers.
Gradually, sleep overtook her, then wakefulness, back and forth like a pendulum. Once when she woke, a chandelier reflected faint blue altar light.
The Shepherd’s arms extended for her, Addie Shields Bledsoe, a woman running from her husband. Jesus reached her way, just as He invited children, his imperfect disciples, and the woman taken in adultery.
And that blue light—Pastor Bachman must have switched it on just for her. Warmth enveloped her head to toe. Unlike Harold with his condemnations, the Almighty welcomed her.
All the shoulds and oughts of her marriage crowded into a heap at the Savior’s feet. She ought to be at home in bed right now, since she vowed to obey Harold before God and witnesses. She ought to put his wishes first and submit like a good, obedient wife, ought to...
But his pronouncement haunted her—one last chance to become a mother—God’s will. Of course a man going off to war would want an heir, but why hadn’t he done his part before he left, back in December?
“I might have conceived that night. I’ve never said no to him before.” Then she realized that over and over, he’d said no to her.
Her thoughts gained clarity. “He can choose, but I can’t—this is all about him being right, not about having a baby. And that should be all about love.”
No choice in the matter... Jane’s kind eyes united with the Savior’s. No harshness or accusation in them, and none here.
Addie retraced the cross Pastor Bachman made on her forehead. “Is this what it means to accept my faults and love myself?”
Kate might have been here beside her, with just the right questions.
Shouldn’t each of us be FOR ourselves, since God is?
If we judge our every move, who would ever do anything? Aren’t our ideas and passions given us for a reason?
“All this time, I’ve made excuses for Harold, but held myself to his standard of perfection. I’ve been just as judgmental as he has. I thought he was my worst enemy, but now I wonder—maybe I am. How could I not see this before?”
Weariness washed her, and she slumped against the banister. “Help me leave my mistakes to your mercy. Oh please, help me.”
She slept until the back door opened and papers rustled behind the altar. Steady footsteps retreated, so she ate an egg and an apple, folded her blankets, and took a load down the stairs. A short time later, Jane’s whistle ascended.
“Did you sleep?”
“Even the mice and bats made me feel at home.”
“No sign of anyone at your place. Probably left for Cedar Rapids hours ago. Still, it might be good to stop by my house for a while. I’ve got the tea steeping.”
Jane had done enough for her already, and yet— “Whatever you think, if I won’t bother Simon.”
“Ach! He’s making war on the weeds. I doubt he’ll even realize you’re there.”
They unloaded the car and Jane smiled. “I’ll be back from church in about an hour and a half. Lock the door and make yourself some tea. By then, we’ll both feel better about you going home.”
She put one foot on the top step, but a blue whirlwind roared in beside the Studebaker, and Harold rushed toward the house. Addie shrank back, but Jane stood as solid as concrete.
“Harold?”
“Give me my wife, or I’ll get the sheriff.” His voice became a shrill whine.
“If you’ll just—” Jane navigated the steps one by one. Gravel crunched again, the Chevy’s door opened, and Berthea emerged.
Harold half-turned with a snarl. “Get home, Ma. I’ll handle this.”
But Berthea wiggled out. “Jane, I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to—”
“What? Keep my own wife from me? I come home for less than 24 hours, and I can’t even see her?” Harold launched a wail. “She refuses to obey God, and keeps me from pleasing Him, too.”
“Listen to me, Harold. You can’t force love.” Berthea touched his hand, but he shook her off and approached Jane. When he grabbed her arm, Addie lost control and ran out yelling.
“Take your hands off her. She’s my friend.”
“Right. That’s why she turns you against me.”
“No one turns me against you, Harold. No one but you.”
Berthea tugged at him, but he wrestled away and shoved Jane. Without her cane, she swayed against the house. Addie flew down the steps. Did the urge to kill count as God’s will outside of war?
But a streak tore around the house. Before anyone could digest what happened, Simon held a long-necked shotgun to Harold’s back.
“Get outta my yard, Mister. Nobody touches my wife. Addie Bledsoe, neither. No, sirree.”
The steel barrel glinted in the sunlight. Whether it was loaded was anybody’s guess. Jane gawked at Simon in wonderment.
Harold’s flexed his biceps. Gingerly, he sidestepped toward Berthea, but Simon kept up with him.
“She... Ma, she painted our living room pink. And there’s a strange car parked in the shed. She’s my wife—I have my rights.” He glared at Addie.
“Son, Addie’s taken care of everything since you left, and the living room has needed painting for 20 years. I let it go for way too long. I like the color, and the car... George and I are buying it for his mail route.”
“You and George? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Harold took a breath. Berthea looked him full in the face. “George and I have been married since February.”
The vein in Harold’s forehead nearly ruptured. “Ma!”
“Yes. Sooner or later, you’ll have to accept it. And about Addie—if she doesn’t want to see you, that’s her right.”
His upraised arm stark against blue sky, Harold sputtered. “You would stand against your own son?”
“And you would hit your own mother?” Not a tremble in Berthea’s voice, but her unmistakable sad undertone drifted to Addie.
“You don’t want to miss your train, do you? You can still make the afternoon one out of Waterloo. I’ll drive you.”
Simon gave another push with the gun. Berthea pulled Harold to the Chevy and shut the door, but as she opened the driver’s side, he burst out again.
Addie’s mind said, “Run,” but her feet froze.
Like a villain in a movie scene, Harold pushed Simon aside and the gun fired. Harold’s fingers bit into Addie’s wrist, and his gravelly tone imploded in her ear.
“You will do as I say.” He nearly wrenched her arm from its socket, and ire wakened in her. She kicked him in the shins and clawed his face with her free hand. Berthea sped toward them, and another loud crack sounded.
Harold sagged against her as Simon raised the gun butt. But Jane held her hand above Harold’s crumpled figure, gentle and steady.
“Simon. Simon. Now, that’s enough.”
Harold muttered something as Berthea checked over his head and held her hand up, clear of blood.
“Harold, now think. This is your last chance.”
He shook his torso like a stunned bull.
Berthea supported him and turned to Jane. “Forgive us, please. Addie, would you bring the pick-up home later?” Harold staggered beside her to the Chevy. Doors slammed, the engine kicked into gear, and Jane collapsed against the house.
Simon lowered the gun and approached her, solemn as a statue. “You okay, Janey?”
“Thanks to you, Simon. You certainly saved the day. Everything will be all right now.”
His chin quivered. “I ain’t gonna let nobody—”
Jane held her arms out to him and waved Addie into their embrace. “I think we’ll all be fine now.”
“I’m so pleased you came, Addie. Let’s sit on the back porch, where we can enjoy my flowers.”
Mrs. Morfordson led the way to white wicker chairs poised over sprouting sumac. Sheltered by blue-green spruce trees meeting a white wooden fence, her back yard could have appeared in a Burpee’s catalog.
“How about a glass of lemonade?”
“That would be fine, ma’am.”
Mrs. M stepped into the kitchen, an expansive room with white cupboards. The pale yellow porch walls reflected sunlight, and even the ceiling’s white beaded board sparkled.
A Robert Frost volume nearly filled a wicker table between a settee and Addie’s rocker, but before she could reach for it, Mrs. Morfordson returned with a delicate tray of quartered egg salad sandwiches and lemonade. She took several sandwiches on a small plate.
“Help yourself. My, it’s good to see you again. Having you and Kate in my class was such a joy. But I hear you’re leaving us tomorrow?”
“Yes.” Memories from their wonderful literature classroom came to life. So much good came to her through this teacher, right here in tiny Halberton. Was it foolhardy to go so far away?
“I would imagine you entertain both excitement and foreboding. I know I would at such an undertaking.”
“You said that just right, ma’am. I want to see Kate and help her out, but to think of the ocean voyage—”
“You’re only being realistic, which is wise. That’s how we prepare ourselves. Leaving one place for another is no small thing, and this war makes everything seem even more capricious.”
“Kate taught me the word ambivalent this winter. It fits my circumstances, don’t you think?”
“Still increasing your vocabulary, I see, even without the benefit of English class.”
“With Kate as a correspondent, I can’t help it, really. She’s so full of words and ideas, I have to keep my dictionary handy and visit the library to keep up with her.”
Hearty laughter filled the sunny room. If Addie had any misgivings when she accepted Mrs. M’s invitation, they vanished.
“That’s why we’re still here on earth, to learn and grow. But Kate has always shown a realistic side, too. Instead of complaining about things, she stirs them up to create change.”
Like not showing up for her graduation? Addie bit her tongue. No use bringing up a difficult moment, but Mrs. M. surprised her.
“I’ll never forget her absence at your graduation. You must have missed her terribly.”
“Oh, I did. I had an inkling where she slipped off to, but it was hard to see Aunt Alvina’s dismay. She was always so good to me.”
“Yes—an incredible woman. Did you know about her Great War exploits?” When Addie shook her head, she went on. “She kept them quiet, but some of us never forgot. Kate’s mother worked for Bell Telephone at the front lines, and Alvina volunteered with the YMCA in Paris.
“Just think what their ships must have been like. I would think them far more primitive than what you’ll experience.”
“Really? She never mentioned—”
“No, that was just like her. But you see, you’re in good company. Imagine how much you’ll learn living on another continent. If I were younger, I might join you.”
A male cardinal’s familiar, Agree, agree, agree, echoed from the back yard. Agreeing with Mrs. M wasn’t difficult at all.
“May I ask what puts the tang in your egg salad?”
“A dash of dry mustard, a squirt of vinegar, and finely diced onions and celery. It’s my mother’s recipe. Small things can make such a difference, can’t they? Back to Kate—because of her, the valedictorian committee made some important changes—you might let her know.”
The cardinal fluttered to the stair railing and called again.
“That little fellow thinks he owns the back yard.” Mrs. M’s chuckle deepened her eyelid folds. “I’ve always thought the Creator whimsical to fashion such a striking creature. The blue jay, too, and those little yellow goldfinches—birds might all be dull brown, like sparrows.”
“You like birds?”
“Almost as much as poetry, which lands on the railing of our consciousness and sings its heart out when we need it most.”
“That sounds like Emily Dickinson’s Hope. Oh, I have missed all your wonderful metaphors, ma’am!”
“There’s nothing like a good comparison. Take Robert Frost.” Mrs. M leafed through the book. “Just last night I was reading this.”
Our very life depends on everything’s
Recurring till we answer from within.
“This describes my life from childhood on. Sometimes I wonder why I have to learn lessons so many times, but without the irritating recurrences, I’d never have been forced to finally answer from within. And that’s the point of the journey.”
“Could I... would you mind if I copied that down? I’m awfully slow to learn things, although I can’t imagine that being true for you.”
“You were never slow to learn in my class. You see me as your instructor, but I’m a traveler just like you, with all sorts of sticky conundrums. Everyone is, except those who concentrate only on what’s before their eyes. I could see you were a thinker even as you walked down the hall.”
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
Another chortle sent the cardinal onto a sumac branch. “Neither—it’s simply who you are. That’s why I always felt such an affinity with you and Kate. At your age, I’d have wanted to be in your circle—girls who contemplate, yet still take risks.”
“The risk-taking would be Kate, ma’am, not me.”
“Humpf.” Mrs. M. refilled Addie’s glass. “You must rethink that, my dear. You took quite the risk when you married Harold. Years ago, I did the same thing. Having been Harold’s teacher, I suspect that living with him would pose quite the challenge.”
Addie nearly dropped her lemonade—another woman besides Berthea and Jane saw beyond Harold’s exterior? As far as she knew, no Mr. Morfordson lived here, and today’s visit showed no signs. She’d always assumed Mrs. M’s husband died long ago, maybe in the Great War. Yet her teacher’s mysterious expression hinted maybe not.
“It takes women time to find their voices. All we have to do is study the history of female writers. You may have had to work up to it, but anyone at the precipice of an adventure like yours knows how to look risk in the eye and keep moving ahead, Addie.”
Warmth flooded her head to toe. She was who she was, before marrying Harold, afterward, and—suddenly, now became a category all its own.
v
The first hint of dawn frosted the horizon. George revved the coupe’s engine. From the depths of the back seat, Addie whispered, “Good-bye garden. I’m leaving you in good hands, but I’ll miss you.” She glanced at the chicken house and barn. “And good-bye, girls, Missy, and Old Brown.”
The staggered grass where the fence once stood gradually filled in. The other day, every step of tearing it down—kicking, hammering, pulling out nails, toting some wood to the woodpile and some to the burn pile, increased her lightness.
Harold would find a reason to lament the loss, and blame her impulsive nature. But Berthea exclaimed how the fence’s absence improved the yard. Best of all, Addie already thought so, and enjoyed the process.
At Jane’s, Simon skulked around the edge of the house, even this early in the morning. His wave sent a pang through Addie. She’d said good-bye last night, but Simon seemed extra shy and let Jane do the talking.
“Don’t know what I’ll do now, without your visits to look forward to. I’ll feel guilty drinking my tea alone. But I’ve had an inspiration about those hollyhocks. Maybe we need to plant seed, rather than starts. If you don’t mind, I’ll go over and scatter some this fall.”
Addie accepted the offer, but heaviness bore down on her. Who knew how long she might be gone or what might happen before she came back? As usual, though she tried to hide her anxiety, Jane read her misgivings.
“Mind you, no second thoughts. You have a mission, and I’m so proud of you. But we’re going to miss you every single day.”
“Me, too.” Simon bopped into the kitchen, his voice muffled. “Janey said you’re coming back, Miss Addie, so I’ll watch for you.”
“Yes, and I’ll bring Kate. You’ll like her, Simon. Take good care of Jane for me, won’t you?”
Simon clasped his hands and shifted his feet. “Yeah, but no more guns. Janey said so.”
“Well, she’s almost always right.”
“Yep.” He backed out the door, and Jane handed Addie a small piece of paper.
“Mr. Lincoln’s my favorite President. He suffered so much, yet encouraged so many. Once, he wrote to a friend, Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing. Keep this handy and think on it if you run into any trouble.”
When she saw Addie out, they paused to watch Simon near the shed. Jane sighed and cleared her throat.
“You have no idea what a difference you’ve made for Simon and me. For a long while after I got him situated out in the cabin, I stayed away from folks. They wouldn’t understand, so why take a chance? It was far easier to hole up here and plant flowers.
“But when you rode over on your bike that first afternoon and told me about opening up the living room in the old house, beating the dust out of the drapes and pulling them back, I knew I could trust you.
“You’ve been such a good friend, and you’ve helped Berthea come out of her shell, too. You’ve brought us two together. In my book, there’s no one quite like you.” Her eyes glinted. “Take care of yourself.”
As George turned into Halberton, Addie pulled the paper from her pocket. My own resolution to succeed... She rummaged again and handed George Jane’s gas coupon.
“Jane sent this. She said even though you have a C gasoline sticker for your work, you might need extra for this trip.”
“Her week’s four-gallon gasoline coupon—well, I’ll be. That woman’s always thinking of others. With the new speed limit at 35 miles per hour, we shouldn’t need it, but it’s better to be on the safe side.”
Berthea twisted in her seat and patted Addie’s knee. “We heard from Harold yesterday. His unit sails for the English coast in a month.”
“Mrs. Morfordson would call this ironic—I’ll be closer to him now.”
“He didn’t write anything else.” Berthea shook her head. “But I’ll let you know if he does, all right?”
“Sure.”
George caught Addie’s eye in the rearview mirror, a gentle look that bespoke camaraderie. They navigated the rest of sleepy Halberton in silence. The mercantile, the theater, Olson’s café, and the Red Cross office might have been a movie set, false storefronts that stood only four feet deep.
She and Kate used to walk Main Street on Saturday nights, hailing friends and stopping to talk. Sometimes they treated each other to nickel cherry drugstore Cokes, but Harold refused to come to town when everyone else was out and farm wives did their weekly grocery shopping.
“Too many people too close for my taste.”
“Wonder how Harold’s handling the swarms of soldiers? He’s never liked crowds. Ah, well—what will be, will be.”
Berthea and George kept talking, but Addie stopped with Harold. Resolution of their problems seemed as impossible as perfection, but there was no use revisiting that old thought channel. Things would work out, one way or the other. Why not adopt Berthea’s view?
Around the turn past the McCluskey’s road, the sunshine highlighted the first pale green alfalfa sprouts, row on row. As Halberton faded, corn seedlings already formed rows in a few fields. Farmstead after farmstead passed, some with long lanes, some hedged entirely by thick groves, some with red barns, others painted white.
German and English. And I’m on my way to England because of the Germans. The concept boggled Addie’s mind, and this day seemed unreal, like something she’d read in a book.
For one thing, George determined to drive to Davenport, two hours farther, although regular trains left from Cedar Rapids. All the way to the Mississippi—farther than she had ever gone.
“Connections are better down there, and I haven’t seen the Mississippi River in years. We’ll get a hotel for the night, Bea. This’ll be our wedding trip.”
Every time he called Berthea by the new nickname he’d coined, she smiled. The name fit her—short and efficient, and as Mr. Henderson said, a perfect school secretary. Bea Bledsoe, so much easier to say than Berthea, perfect for her new figure and her fresh outlook on life.
Flat farmland gave way to undulating hills in a gradual decline to the great river. Morning sun inundated lurking shadows and stirred the scent of earth hungry for seeds, lilacs, and ever-present manure.
Once George stopped at a gas station to fill the tank. Berthea visited the ladies’ room first and handed the key to her.
“Not so pleasant, but here’s an extra hand towel I brought along. You’ll need it in there.”
Just like her to think ahead. She’d lost a few more pounds since the wedding, gained color in her cheeks from Saturdays spent in the garden, and rarely scowled. Her entire bearing declared her happy.
For the rest of the trip, the world flew by. In a few hours, she opened her eyes to the highway sign outside Davenport. Population 66,039. The smooth ride must have put her to sleep.
“There now. That didn’t take long at all. Did you know this is the only place where the Mississippi bends and flows east to west for a while?”
George parked at the train station and went in to buy Addie’s ticket. When he handed it to her, her fingers trembled. Berthea noticed and squeezed Addie’s hand.
“In three days, you’ll meet your ship in New York Harbor—it seems impossible.” Whatever she saw in Addie’s eyes caused her to continue. “You’ve become so strong. You’ll do just fine, I know you will. Kate paved the way for you.”
Like it had in the chicken house that long-ago morning with Harold, her stomach flip-flopped. “I’ll have to borrow your faith, because right now I’m thinking, ‘How can I possibly embark on such a Kate-like adventure?’”
“In your own way, and with the courage that’s grown in you, that’s how.” Berthea opened her purse for her hankie. “Now, no more such talk—set your mind that the deed is already practically done.”
“I’ll leave you ladies at Petersen’s and make the hotel arrangements.” George pulled to the curb in front of a red brick building, taller than any in Halberton.
“Come on, Addie. We have some shopping to do.” Berthea led the way through heavy double doors underneath a Peterson Harned Von Maur sign.
“We’ll start with new shoes.” She whisked down a wide aisle and halted at a map of the store.
“The lay-out hasn’t changed much. My aunt Elise used to live here, did you know that? I stayed with her my first year out of high school. Although she was nearly bed-ridden, she still had a taste for style, and sent me down here on errands. I always liked this store.”
“You lived here? Why, I didn’t know—”
“Of course you didn’t. When I came to the farm, I buried the past. Some day, I’ll show you my old pictures. Once, a neighbor included me in an outing aboard their boat. Can you picture me, young and out on the wide Mississippi?”
She shook her head. “Those days are long gone, but having George bring me back here means so much. Now, let’s find you a pair of sturdy shoes for those London sidewalks.”
An hour later, new black Mary Jane wingtip shoes with a two-inch heel carried Addie around the store. Every few minutes, she glanced down in wonder.
A plush gray wool coat draped her arm, and a warm rose hat enhanced her hair. When they passed a long mirror, she stared at this stranger, someone who might work in an office, maybe even a writer.
Berthea also insisted on leather gloves, a new nightgown, a silk slip, and two pairs of stockings. Her energy propelled them from department to department.
But as they maneuvered the curving granite stairs, Addie clutched Berthea’s arm. “Really, this is too much. You don’t need to buy me any more. I’m fine just the way—”
“You are fine. But a beautiful young woman like you deserves a decent set of traveling clothes. I should have been a better mother-in-law to you all along, and today’s a good day for starting to set things right.”
At a grand piano on the first floor, a male pianist attired in a black tuxedo played with such grace, Addie could have listened for hours. But Berthea urged her on.
“You need a new purse. Choose a high-quality one, and don’t look at the price tag—I want this to last you for years. My purse becomes part of me, and I hate to change it.”
So many grains to choose from—alligator, suede and tanned leather buffed to a shine, as soft as Missy’s nose. She ran her fingers over a supple black creation with long braided handles.
“Try it out. Here, put on your coat, and, oh my, it goes so well with your shoes.” Berthea smoothed Addie’s sleeve and gave a low whistle. “And it has plenty of pockets. Like it?”
Adjusting the straps over her shoulder, Addie let out a low whistle. “It makes me feel like a woman about town.”
“Well then, it’s the one for you.”
While Berthea paid the bill, Addie tapped her toe to the piano music. Maybe Mrs. Tenney had a piano, or she could play at a nearby church.
“All right, let’s sit down. Go ahead, clean out that old purse and fill the new one so I can throw your old one out.”
“Oh, I know—you can fill it with treasures for Willie to discover the next time he comes over. I’ll picture him going through it, looking for whatever you’ve added since his last visit.”
“What a great idea—I’ll do just that.”
The new purse boasted two inner zipper compartments, one for her ticket, along with half of her cash. The other half, Addie slipped in the inside pocket of her coat.
George ushered them to an early dinner in the basement cafeteria, but she could barely finish her meal. On the way to the station, her throat tightened.
Berthea turned and placed a shiny gold compact in her hand. “When you look in the mirror, remember who you are and how far you’ve come.” She reached for a small paper sack. “And take this, too. You may find some use for it on your crossing.”
One sniff of the white powder brought a chuckle. “Oh, you would give me Borax—now I’m prepared for anything!”
George carried her suitcase. In the spacious women’s waiting room, a USO poster invited women to participate. When Addie and Berthea came out, a line formed near the train. Addie’s breathing went wild and she reached blindly for George.
“I’m going to miss you so much. Thank you for driving me here, for doing the chores and cleaning out the—”
“Ach. You take care, now.” He hugged her hard and turned her over to Berthea, whose accordion embrace brought more tears.
“If you need anything, write me.” She drew back. “I should have sent something along for Kate. Let me know what she needs, will you? Jane and I can send a package for the baby.”
“Oh, yes, Jane can knit something.” She struggled for breath. “You’ve been so good to me—”
“Not half as good as I should have been. The Lord gave me the daughter I never had, but it took me way too long to see it.” Berthea wiped her eyes.
“But regret never changes anything. Remember, no matter what happens between you and Harold, nothing will ever change our friendship. I’ll write you every week and watch your garden. And I’ll report on any hollyhocks that come up.”
George took over as she broke down. “Let us know when you get to New York, and when you arrive in London, too. Call us and reverse the charges, all right? You have plenty of money, don’t you?”
Plenty of money? More than she’d ever carried, plus three times that amount sequestered in Jane’s unique hiding spot in a locked metal safe to replace the cigar box. “In case the house burns down.”
Berthea and George insisted on banking the payment for the coupe in Addie’s name. “I’m doing the same thing with my paycheck. When the war’s over we’ll start collecting interest. From now on, a woman can grow her savings as well as any man.”
George handed the conductor her ticket and patted her shoulder. “Be careful.”
Three steps up, a deluge of interesting hats and expressions faced her, as colorful as her garden in July. One small group drew her toward the back. A slight woman with a flushed face and her hat askew balanced an infant in one arm and grasped a squirming toddler’s ankle with the other.
Making her way down the aisle, she slid her bag into the seat ahead of the little family. Her purse strap caught on the buckle of her Mary Janes, so she reached down to set things aright. Before she even settled her things, warm clammy fingers touched her neck, so she twisted with her best smile.
“Michael, you mustn’t—” The woman grimaced, but the two-year old reached for Addie like Willie Miller, his big brown eyes intent.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. Michael, come here right now.” His mother’s voice trembled, and she looked too exhausted to fight.
The cuddly little fellow wiggled into the crook of Addie’s arm, leaning his weight against her. Almost immediately, his eyelids shuttered.
“He’s fine. I don’t mind at all. My name is Addie, and I grew up taking care of my baby sister. Have you come a long way?”
“From Grand Island to Cleveland. My husband left for the Pacific front, and we’re going back to stay with my parents until he comes home.”
“You must have been traveling for two days already.”
The woman nodded as if speaking required too much effort.
“Really, I don’t mind holding this sweet guy at all.”
“Oh, thank you so much. Michael’s at that age where he’s so squirmy I can hardly handle him any more. And my name’s Lorraine Connors.”
She blinked back tears and Addie gave her attention to the cuddly child fiddling with her coat button, already so at ease in her arms. She took a deep breath, and the suffocating sensation in her throat gave way. Michael’s smile won her heart as she smoothed her finger over his soft cheek and murmured in his ear.
“Little one, you’re on your way to a safe place where your Grandma and Grandpa will help your mommy care for you. And I’m on my way somewhere, too.”
Outside, Mississippi River views faded as Illinois cropland came into sight. Just like that, Iowa was gone—the farm, her garden, and her people. Against the rhythmic clackety-clack of the train and the chatter of folks throughout the car, Addie whispered to the slumbering boy in her arms.
“I’m on my way to see a friend—to help her with her baby. And maybe someday, I’ll still be blessed with a beautiful child like you. It’s spring, little Michael—spring of 1943. No one knows how long this war will last, but I do know one thing for sure. My life belongs to me. I’ll never return to the way things have been—I’ll never again be Harold’s slave.” She let her glance range around the car until it fell on two young men in uniform napping in a front seat. She lowered her head again and breathed in Michael’s baby scent.
“I’m glad Harold’s finally a soldier, and I’ll pray for his safety. I don’t know what the future holds, or how long I’ll stay in England. I only know I’m on my way.”
