Imogene Grayson
MILL CREEK, WISCONSIN
JULY 1946
She should have paid more attention to her longtime neighbor, Oliver Schneider, when she passed him on the road at dawn. Her, hiking at an energetic, running-late march, and him strolling the lane, hands in his pockets, and overall straps over thin but strong shoulders. After all, they’d grown up together—albeit more acquaintances than friends—and Oliver rarely said anything that wasn’t worth listening to. But, while Imogene had paused for a polite morning greeting, she hadn’t taken his words and let them sink into her soul as perhaps they should have.
Oliver gave her his resigned smile—the smile the community of Mill Creek had grown used to since his return from overseas. A sad one, with ghosts in his eyes.
“Red in the mornin’,” he quoted, “sailors take warnin’. Red at night, sailors’ delight.”
Oliver pressed his lips together and raised his brows as if to add a silent apology for the brewing storm. He was an Army boy, but he’d crossed the ocean of the Pacific. He’d experienced war. He knew if the adage was true or not.
Imogene should have listened. Instead, she tossed him a saucy smile, tilting her full lips. “Aw, Ollie. You know nothing is as red as my lips—cherry-apple with a kiss, if you want one. And no one ever sent a warning out ahead of my arrival!”
She glanced at the sky. The morning rays of deep reds and oranges. A thin line of clouds glowing pink and sparkling. The Schneiders’ red barn rising above acres of knee-high corn like a marvelous crimson farm mascot.
Red was a color of beauty. Of joy. Of anticipation and excitement of home.
She should have listened to Oliver Schneider that morning on her way to work. But she didn’t. The day passed uneventful. She returned home for dinner, for that perfect still evening on the front porch with a paperback as cows mooed and a cat scampered across the drive.
Instead, her day was ending with the beginning of a new war. A more personal one. This time it chose to visit her home. A place that should be secure, should be sacred, should be safe.
People hustled around her. Blurs and forms as Imogene stumbled past them. Her breaths were shallow, but they resonated in her ears like hollow echoes, drowning out the commanding voices. She pushed her way through the front door of her home and onto the front porch. An iron shoe scraper by the mat caught her eye. Shaped like a cricket. Bristles dirty with earth. Hazel loved that cricket. She said it was “unseen but served a purpose.”
Imogene tripped down the porch steps. She planted her feet in the yard, her dress hanging to her calves with its flirty bow tied at the waist. She lowered her head, staring down at her hands. They were turned palms up toward the sky, fingers curled as if cupping the air.
“Red in the mornin’ . . .”
Imogene fixated on her hands.
A storm was coming. A storm had come. The scarlet stained Imogene’s skin, forever redefining the color red.
It was Hazel’s blood.
Her sister’s blood.
Yes. Yes, she should have listened to the war-weary GI that morning. He knew what red signified. Now Imogene understood it too.
It was the color of death.