Farmerettes (26 page)

But her fantasies of travel to distant places had never included leaving for good. She'd always assumed she'd return home. This was her land—had been since her great-grandfather Gordon McDonnell came here from Scotland and cleared it. Did she have the courage to begin brand-new in a strange place with other people, other customs? Hugh would be with her—and their children, eventually. They would forge a new life, a new heritage together, just like her great-grandparents had. She knew crops, cattle, the rhythm of the seasons. It wouldn't be that different.

Underneath that decision was the unceasing worry about Rob. She had heard about life in POW camps—the shortages, the brutality. It was every prisoner's duty to escape. If they were caught, they were shot. Would Rob try anything so brave and foolish? Was his leg really healing? Or was it festering untended, draining the life from him? Why, oh why had she lied to him about Fran?

Because he had annoyed her. He had been primping to go out with Fran on a Friday night while she sat reading a book.

“Why aren't you going out? There are lots of fellows at Romeo's tonight.”

“Not interested,” she said. “I've known them since they were runny-nosed kids.”

“No, it's because you like Johnny,” he'd teased. “Why don't you just tell him? Stop him from seeing other girls?”

She threw the lie at him playfully. “I hear Fran sees others too.”

He laughed. “Not my Fran. She's crazy about me.”

He was so smug, so sure, admiring himself in the mirror, she said more. “I'm sure she said that to the cute soldier I saw her with last night.”

Rob snorted.

Jean wanted to wipe the smirk from his face. She tossed her book aside and said the worst thing she could think of. “I wonder if she told him that while his arm was wrapped around her at Linton's. He looked so good in that uniform.”

Rob swore and stormed off. Jean's satisfaction ended when she heard the truck motor roar, the gravel spew, as he charged down the laneway.
I shouldn't have said that,
she thought when she heard him come home unusually early that night,
but it'll blow over by tomorrow.

When she got up next morning, he was already gone. That afternoon, he arrived home tall with pride. “I've enlisted.”

Jean begged him not to go. Told him she had never seen Fran with anyone else, but Rob merely nodded and soon left for Camp Borden.

She thought of Fran—full of life, full of laughter. She should have been at the train station kissing Rob good-bye, waving and weeping like the other girls, as the train disappeared down the track. But she wasn't. Since then, Fran had been out flirting with other fellows. Perhaps her fib had been true after all.

But she should never have thrown that at her brother, should never have made him go off to war, get injured, be taken prisoner.
Your fault, your fault, your fault
—the words pounded into her with every step she took.

Now someone was breaking into Rob's place. Perhaps stealing from the house he planned to repair and turn into a home for the family he hoped to raise there. Was that dream about to vanish too?

Jean found herself walking to Crazy Nelly's. No, not Nelly's—Rob's.
He will come home,
she told herself. He will make this place beautiful again. If not with Fran, then someone else.

Ahead stood the neglected building. Even from here she noted the sagging roof, the hastily repaired chimney…the wide-open windows and door!

Someone was there.

She walked faster. How dare someone enter that house! What for? As she crossed the yard, she picked up a sturdy stick, then climbed the porch steps cautiously. At the door, she hesitated. From inside came the sound of something heavy scraping along the wooden floor. A grunt, a pause, and the sound continued. Was someone stealing furniture?

Jean took a deep breath and stepped in. She crossed the hall into the parlor. A figure in dark pants and shirt, head covered with a scarf, was hunched over, pushing a chesterfield.

The figure straightened up to reach for a nearby mop and pail, turned, and gasped. “Jean! You surprised me.”

“What are you doing here?” Jean demanded.

“What does it look like? I'm cleaning my house.” Fran began vigorously mopping the floor in the space just occupied by the sofa.

“Your house? Cleaning?”

Fran squeezed the mop and dirty water drizzled into the pail. “Yes, the home Rob and I will share.”

“He told you to do this?”

“Of course not.” Fran tucked a strand of hair back under her scarf. “But he'll want to start our life together as soon as he gets home. Everyone says the war is nearly over.”

Jean was dumbfounded. Why hadn't she started cleaning the place? Why had it been this flighty, flirty girl? “Are you sure he wants you to do this?”

“Yes, Jean. I'm certain.” Fran stood tall, the mop in her hand like a rifle at ease. “In spite of the little story you told him about me, Rob and I write to each other every week—well, him not so often since he was captured.”

“You have?”

“Of course. We love each other. As soon as he gets home, we'll marry.”

“Rob wasn't angry at…my story?”

“Not at me.”

Jean knew she deserved that, as well as the scowl Fran aimed at her.

“Then why did he rush off to enlist?”

Fran rolled her eyes. “Because he'd planned it for weeks. I couldn't talk him out of it.”

“You knew.”

“We discussed everything.”

So Rob had not enlisted because of her lie. Jean felt a giant weight lift from her heart. The guilt was gone. She had not made Rob go to war.

She looked at Fran. “I'm sorry.” She saw Fran's red hands, her damp pant knees, and her shirt streaked with grime. She said it louder. “I'm really sorry, Fran.”

“You have no reason to dislike me.” Fran sounded angry. “I've never harmed you, and I'd never hurt Rob.”

“I know. I lied because I was mad at my brother. It was stupid and I've regretted it every day since.”

“And all the dirty looks? Leaving the drug store the minute you saw me?”

Jean decided to be honest. “If you're engaged to Rob, why do you flirt with other men?”

Fran dropped her mop and sank onto the arm of the chesterfield. Her face crumpled. “Because I miss Rob so much. I'm terrified he won't come home to me. And if I laugh with friends—I'm always with a group of people, never alone with a fellow—why would I even want to be when I love Rob? When I'm laughing with my friends, I can pretend everything is normal, that nothing bad will happen.”

She looked at the floor she was washing. “And if I make this house clean and ready, I can convince myself Rob will come home safely.” She turned to face the window, shoulders heaving.

Jean picked up the mop and dipped it in the pail. “Let's do this together.”

Monday, August 16, 1943

Binxie

Binxie moved the ladder over three feet, adjusted the strap on her neck, climbed back up the tree, and continued picking.
Darn this peach fuzz,
she thought, brushing off her arms and neck. “I'd rather pick anything but these hairy monsters,” she called to Peggy in the next row.

“But they taste good.” Peggy held up a half-eaten peach like a trophy. “Is it time for lunch yet?”

“I hope so,” said Binxie. When her basket was full, she climbed down again and handed it to Mr. Grant.

“Good work.” He smiled at her, punched her card, and carried the basket to the wagon.

Binxie dragged her ladder to the next tree. As she climbed it, a truck swerved into the orchard. Mrs. Grant jumped out.

“Are we eating early?” Peggy called.

But Mrs. Grant was empty-handed and breathless. “Binxie,” she said, “there's a phone call for you at the farm. I'll drive you there now.”

Binxie sighed.
Mother's really overdoing it,
she thought.
That's a letter and two calls this week, all to convince me to take a place at Mount Holyoke College in September.
“I'll call her after supper tonight,” she said.

“No. She wants you by the phone at noon. That's in ten minutes. We better hurry.”

At Highberry Farm, Smokey let her into the office just as the phone rang shrilly. Binxie rolled her eyes and Smokey left the room.

Binxie picked it up. “Hello, Mother.”

Her mother sounded hoarse, her words broken, hard to understand at first, then unbelievable.

“What did you say?” Binxie asked. As it sank in, everything went black.

She revived with her head on Smokey's shoulder, the woman's arms around her. The phone dangled from its cord like a noose.

Her mother's words screamed and echoed in her head. “Kathryn's plane crashed. Kathryn is dead.” Binxie wanted to pass out again, to make those awful words stop.

Smokey pointed at the phone.

Binxie shook her head. She couldn't hear that again.

Smokey held the phone to her own ear and spoke to Mrs. Rutherford—first the condolences, then a series of yeses.

By the time Smokey hung up, Binxie had sat in the chair like a statue, numb. She ignored the offer of a glass of water.

“There's a driver on his way to take you home to your parents,” said Smokey.

When Binxie didn't react, Smokey led her to the dorm, sat her on the bed, and pulled her suitcase from under it.

Binxie would never recall the drive home that day. All she remembered was sitting in Kathryn's room, staring at the photo of her sister, alive and vital, laughing by the lake. How could the person she loved most in the world, a woman who filled a room with her presence—how could she be no more?

Her parents had greeted her, ashen-faced, red-eyed. Her mother spread her arms to her remaining daughter and Binxie stepped into them like a child. She felt her mother's salty tears touch her cheek, but her own tears stayed inside her in a heavy ball of grief.

Her father, gray hair, gray face, looked twenty years older. “She was delivering a new plane across the channel to Ireland. Something malfunctioned and she crashed. Alastair has sent a letter with more details.” He wrung his hands in despair.

“Are they sure?” asked Binxie. “Maybe she bailed out over the water, made an emergency landing somewhere. She'll arrive back on base any minute.”

“The plane disappeared four days ago. They found her yesterday.” Her father sobbed at the last word.

The tall, strong-jawed owner of a small steel company was a commanding person. When he gave orders, people jumped. Her mother headed every committee she joined because she got things done. Now both stood helpless. For once their determination or a well-placed phone call made no difference. They could mail a check to God, and Kathryn would still be dead.

Then it hit her. Four days ago? Her birthday. She had been so happy that day. She had no inkling about her sister. When did Kathryn take her final breath? Was it while Binxie laughed with her friends as she took silly photos—or as she was dancing and kissing Johnny? She and Kathryn had been so close—why had she not felt something at that terrible moment?

Binxie couldn't stand it. She wanted to scream, kick, smash her head against the wall.

After her brothers, Duncan and Charlie, arrived, the family sat at the dining room table, picking at food that Sadie served. Tears streamed down Sadie's face. Kathryn's empty chair stood too large at the table. They moved to the parlor and talked through most of the awful night, sharing stories about Kathryn, united in grief.

Late next morning, Binxie awoke with a heavy weight crushing her chest. Why? Then, it walloped her all over again. Kathryn was gone. What was the sense of getting up? What was the point of anything? When Sadie came in with coffee, Binxie closed her eyes.

An hour later, the door flew open and her mother charged in. She was pale, new lines had developed overnight, but her hair was immaculate as usual, her dress impeccable. “We have arrangements to make. I expect you downstairs ready to go in thirty minutes.”

She stroked Binxie's shoulder, then strode from the room. Binxie wanted to throw something at the door as it shut, but she knew this was the only way her mother could deal with her loss.

And her? How would she manage? She didn't even want to. Slowly Binxie got up, bathed, and dressed. Like her mother, she'd get through the next few days because things had to be done. Rites and duties performed. People to speak to in hushed, gracious tones. During that time, their words and reminiscences would keep Kathryn alive for her. But when it was all over, Kathryn would be completely gone.

Three days after the memorial service, Binxie sat on a bench in the garden, too numb to notice any beauty or birdsong. Her mother joined her. She patted her daughter's arm, but remained silent for some time. Then she asked Binxie about her plans.

Plans? Life without her sister loomed as a hopeless empty expanse. She wished she'd been in that plane with Kathryn.

“Come to the cottage with us.”

Binxie bounced her leg in frustration. How would that help? The beach, the sailboat, the cottage swing—would all remind her of Kathryn. There would be no solace, only memories that stabbed. Every childhood story she ever had was now changed—tainted by the new ending—Kathryn was dead.

“You can't stay here alone until September. You'll need the people you love around you,” Mrs. Rutherford pleaded.

Binxie didn't care where she was. The pain would follow her.

“You can recuperate at the cottage. I promise not to mention college or your future.”

Binxie smiled weakly.
But you will,
she thought.
You can't help it.
She took her mother's hand gently. “I can't face the cottage yet, and I can't stay here.”

Her mother opened her mouth to interrupt, but Binxie continued. “I'm going back to the farm. They need me there and I have to keep busy.”