Authors: Marie Bostwick
Fields Of Gold (26 page)
Paul officiated, wearing his best white lace and linen vestment, the one his Aunt Cornelia had made for his ordination, that he jokingly referred to as his “party frock.” Jolene had chosen a full church service, complete with sermon, instead of the short recitation of vows that was usually performed at Dillon weddings. I guess it gave more of a chance to show off the dress, flowers, and scene her mama had spent so much money and effort orchestrating. Paul took his text from First Corinthians, Chapter 13, the part about the qualities of love, and read the verses in a strong, clear voice while the wedding guests squirmed uneasily in their pews; I knew why. It seemed awfully sentimental and slightly ridiculous to read something so romantic aloud, especially in reference to this slightly comic May-December coupling. Actually, I considered Jolene to be more in the July or August of her life than the spring, but no matter. People in Dillon looked on marriage as a desirable and practical necessity of survival. Of course, if affection and attraction or even love entered into the arrangement, so much the better, but it wasn't something you expected.
Riley Jenson, who was sitting next to me, leaned over to his wife, Velma, and whispered, “Well, one good thing. Least now Bud's got a himself a suit as is fit to be buried in. Looks like he might need it soon.” Velma elbowed him to hush but grinned at him for having the sass to say what everyone in the church was already thinking.
It really was a lovely wedding. The bride looked beautiful, everyone agreed on that, as they have at every wedding since time began. People discussed the service briefly as they ate cake and drank punch in the side garden of the church, and then, as always at that time of year, the talk turned to weather and crop yields. It had been a good year, wet in spring, warm in summer, and everybody had gotten their wheat in unharmed by sun or hail. If a person never read the newspaper, you'd never know that the country was on the brink of war. I mentioned this to Riley, who was standing, eating a second piece of cake and looking uncomfortable in a new pair of shoes Velma must have made him buy for the occasion.
“Never read the papers myself,” he said with his mouth full of cake. “All the news that matters is in the Almanac, anyway.” If I hadn't been from Dillon, I'd have smiled at his humor, but being a resident, I knew he wasn't joking.
I drifted away, looking for a place to sit down. My leg was beginning to ache from standing so long. As though reading my thoughts, Paul came to the rescue carrying two folding chairs. He opened them under the lacy shade of a tree and invited me to sit down. “I heard you were back,” he said. “Was it a good trip?”
“It was fine. Thanks. I must be getting old.” I groaned, easing myself into the chair. “I used to be able to stand all day and it never bothered me.”
“Oh no,” he said gently, “not you. Not yet. It's just when you're standing in a crowd of people like this, doing nothing, talking about nothing, your mind has to keep occupied so it takes inventory and notices all the little pains that you don't take time to consider when you're working.” He smiled broadly. “That's what I tell myself, anyway, and I'm already past forty. How old are you, Eva?”
I laughed. “Didn't anyone ever tell you that women don't like to talk about their age?”
“Yes, I think I heard that somewhere, but what a silly notion. We should be proud of our age. Each year we survive is a testament to personal initiative.”
“Or stubbornness. You don't sound much like a pastor,” I said with smiling disapproval. “I thought we owed each day to Providence.”
“Just so, but it doesn't hurt to have something to say for yourself,” he reasoned. “God says if we're lukewarm, He spews us out of his mouth. I interpret that to mean we are meant to stir things up a little, change things, hopefully for the better. That's what my father always preached. You see, I come from a long line of troublemakers.” For a moment a cloud passed over his gaze, and he was far away; then he shivered as though suddenly chilled. He quickly shook off the mood and, smiling again, leaned toward me and whispered conspiratorially, “So, how old
are
you?”
are
you?”
“Thirty-five, but I feel forty-five,” I said with a sigh.
Paul nodded in mock solemnity. “Well, you have lived through a lot in a short lifetime.”
“Oh, I don't know,” I surveyed the wedding guests, poor and shabby in carefully ironed best dresses and shoes polished to brilliance in an attempt to camouflage any worn spots of leather. “Everybody has, if you think about it.”
“Yes,” he said and sat silent. I knew he was waiting for me to tell him about my trip to Des Moines, but I couldn't. The subject was still too raw.
“Your sermon was nice,” I commented.
Paul chuckled sardonically, “Ah, yes. I could see how riveted everyone was.” He smiled and stretched his legs out to their full length, closed his eyes, and tipped his face skyward, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. The full light of the day revealed the creases around his eyes and face, and I couldn't help but think that his age looked well on him.
“No,” I protested sincerely. “I think they liked it just fine, but it's not the sort of thing we discuss in Dillon. You should know that by now, Paul. We feel things as deeply as anyone else, I guess. We just don't talk about them, that's all.”
“Really?” he said facetiously, keeping his eyes closed against the afternoon sun but raising his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “Actually, I've noticed that. Still, I think everybody would be better off if they talked about love before they slip and find themselves falling into it without knowing what it isâor worse yet,” he said, squinting through one opened eye and training it on me, “mistaking it for something it's not. I think Saint Paul's definition is very nearly perfect: âlove is patient, kind, is not jealous, or self-seeking, or easily provoked; love bears all things, believes all things, endures all things.' There is hardly anything missing.”
“My mama and papa were like that,” I murmured understandingly. “There wasn't anything fancy or poetic about the way my folks loved each other, but it was very complete. Something you could count on.”
Paul pulled in his legs and sat up straight again. “But there is one thing the apostle didn't mention specifically, perhaps because it seems so obvious.” He hesitated for a moment and turned his gaze toward me. “Real love is requited, Eva. You cannot love someone so completely, so selflessly, as you have tried to, unless the other person is as giving as you. Anything less isn't love; it's obsession. It's waste.”
“Paul, I really don't want to talk about this right now.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, noticing the dull ache had returned to my leg.
“Did you see him?” he asked, his voice lowering to an irritated whisper.
“Yes,” I hissed in annoyance. “And I am back, so I think that should tell you all you need to know. Please don't ask me any more questions.”
He angled his chair to face mine more fully and leaned in toward me. For a moment I thought he was going to reach out and take my hand, but he held himself back. “Eva, I
know
what love is, what it costs. It's a price I'd be glad to pay, if only you'd let me. We could be so happy together. Even though you won't talk about it, I can see it in your face, that you finally know the truth. Lindbergh doesn't love you. But I do.”
know
what love is, what it costs. It's a price I'd be glad to pay, if only you'd let me. We could be so happy together. Even though you won't talk about it, I can see it in your face, that you finally know the truth. Lindbergh doesn't love you. But I do.”
My heart sparked in anger at him, furious partly that he wouldn't leave me alone but more because he knew me too well. The cruelest thing I could have said sprang thoughtlessly from my mouth. “You said it yourself, Paul. Love isn't enough. It has to be returned; anything less is a waste.”
Paul face went so pale, so quickly, he looked as though he'd had a bucket of ice water thrown on him. I was instantly ashamed of myself.
“Oh,” he fumbled awkwardly and shifted away from me in his chair. “I am sorry. I feel very foolish. All this time I thought it was him, and that you and I ...” He rose from the chair. “Forgive me, Eva. I hadn't realized how you felt.”
I was absolutely mortified by my behavior. With all my heart I wanted to say something that would erase all the hurt I'd caused him, but that was impossible. The best I could manage was an blundering apology. “Paul, I'm sorry. Please. Please, sit down. I didn't mean that I don't care for you. I honestly don't know how I feel right now. You made me so mad, I wanted to say something to hurt you. Don't leave,” I pleaded. “We are friends. Can't we leave it at that?”
He stared at me for a long moment and then finally took his seat. “All right,” he said, his voice filled with resignation. “We are friends. I'm sorry about the other. I won't mention it again.”
A silence settled between us, gaping and clumsy, as though we had suddenly become strangers. I racked my brain to think of some small talk that would break the tension and remembered Nils. “How is your brother and his work? Have you had another letter from him?”
The distant looked passed across his face again, cold and close and resigned. His mind was far across the ocean where his questions lay unanswered. “No, not for a long time. Weeks and weeks.” The muscles on his cheek twitched, and I could see his jaw tighten as though he were chewing on something tough. “I think he must be dead.” He spoke dully, flatly, as a man in shock.
“Paul, don't say that!” I insisted. “Don't even think a thing like that. You know how slow the mails are now. His letter could be lost, or he could be traveling. There are a million things that could have happened.”
“Yes,” Paul said, nodding, “a million things could have happened, but I don't think they did. Sometimes, when you are very, very close to someone, you can sense their presence, even across an ocean, and once they are gone there is a hole. You can't explain it exactly, but you feel it, inside. A hole.” Paul pressed his hand to his chest and left it lying there, still as a man taking an oath. “You understand what I mean?”
I nodded.
“I have this hole here for Nils. For some weeks. I've tried to explain it away, wish it away, but there it is.” Slowly, his hand dropped down to his side, as though he was suddenly overcome by weakness. “There is just me now.”
A million things could have happened to Nils, but Paul believed his brother was dead, and while he might have been wrong, believing it was just as painful as knowing for sure. As long as I had known Paul, I had never seen him less than certain of every word, gesture, and of God's ultimate justice. But now, looking at his face, creased with despair, I knew that he was as human as I, vulnerable and struggling with seeds of doubt. A tenderness I hadn't known I felt for him pooled inside me and left me feeling confused and inept. I weighed and measured words that might bring him some relief, but the phrases all sounded trite in my mind.
His eyes focused a long way off, as though the guests were all gone and it was just him, sitting alone on a chair under a tree, spilling his worst fears on a deaf wind. I could see the crowd, the bride, the members of the Naomi Circle standing with heads together, occasionally glancing disapprovingly toward our corner, wondering why the pastor and the cripple of tarnished reputation stayed squirreled away together for so long.
To hell with them all,
I thought.
To hell with them all,
I thought.
Hiding my hand behind my skirt, I dropped it down to meet his and pressed it in my own, hoping to bring him some measure of warmth and comfort in a solitary place, but he drew back from my touch, and I knew, no matter what Paul said, we were not friends anymore, we couldn't be. We had passed the point where such common definitions would suffice. Paul refused to make it easier for me by pretending.
The sun was near setting when I got back from the wedding. The house was silent. Mama was napping in her rocker, and Ruby was nowhere to be seen, probably in bed out in the caboose nursing her cold. Someone had left a brown cardboard box addressed to me sitting on the kitchen table. I opened it right away but didn't have to tear back the wrappings to know what I'd find inside. My quilt, the story I'd stitched for Slim, lay new and untouched under three layers of white tissue. That was all. There was no return address.
The next day I started a fire in the trash-burning barrel out near the chicken yard. I opened each of the manilla envelopes I'd collected over the years and, one by one, fed Slim's clippings into the flames, then stepped back and watched the ash rise on a cloud of warm air and disappear into the four winds.
Chapter 20
M
organ got his pilot's license on December 3rd, 1941. The country went to war within the week, and without asking my opinion, Morgan joined the Marines. He was among the first to be shipped out. Since he was already a pilot, the U.S. Armed Forces were especially happy to welcome him into their ranks. When he wired me the news, I was angry. “He might have at least asked me,” I fumed to Ruby.
organ got his pilot's license on December 3rd, 1941. The country went to war within the week, and without asking my opinion, Morgan joined the Marines. He was among the first to be shipped out. Since he was already a pilot, the U.S. Armed Forces were especially happy to welcome him into their ranks. When he wired me the news, I was angry. “He might have at least asked me,” I fumed to Ruby.
“He might have,” she replied, “but if he had, he wouldn't be Morgan. Besides, he'd never have thought for a moment you'd want him to hesitate in doing the right thing. All the boys are joining up. Did you raise Morgan to be less courageous than they are?”
“Of course not, it's just that ... What if something happens to him?” I whispered. “I couldn't bear it.”
Ruby's voice softened. “I know, but we can't show our feelings. It won't help anything if we let him see we're worried.” When I saw my friend wipe a tear on the corner of her apron, I wondered if she would be able to heed her own advice. Then she took a deep breath, smiled, and we both laughed through our tears.
“All right, now.” Ruby said. “Enough of that. He's going to be fine. Let's forget all this foolishness and get back to work.”
Morgan stayed at school long enough to finish his exams, no point in losing a whole semester's work, and came home flying his own plane just three days before he had to report to boot camp.
It was a strange visit, all joy and apprehension and silver tinsel; Morgan was filled with excitement and fear and feigned bravado; Mama and Ruby and I were trying to pretend it was a normal holiday, but knowing it was much more precious than that. Ruby must have given him a dozen pairs of socks. “I hear it gets cold in Germany,” she said.
Mama gave him a pair of leather gloves and Papa's gold watch, the one she'd been saving for him until he graduated college. We were all in a hurry to show him how we felt. It seemed urgent not to hold back anything in those days. I gave him the quilt I had carried to Des Moines. “I don't know if they'll let you keep it on your bed in the army,” I said, “but maybe you can hide it under your regular blanket, and it'll remind you of home a little. Be careful with it, now. If you take care, it should last a lifetime.”
“It's beautiful, Mama. Look, there's you and me, standing next to the house.” He smiled at the tiny figures. “But who is flying the plane?”
“Well, that's you, too,” I lied. “It's a dream quilt, the boy you were and the man you've become.”
“Mama, you are some kind of artist.” He leaned down and gave me a smacking kiss on the forehead. He was now grown so tall that kissing me on the cheek required a deep bend at the waist. “Don't you worry, Mama. I'll bring it back all in one piece, I promise.”
We took special pains with Christmas dinner, but the food tasted like chaff in my mouth. Before I could blink it was time for Morgan to leave.
I drove him out to the airfield the next day to say good-bye to the plane before he had to rush off and catch the southbound train. Whitey had agreed to keep an eye on it for him until he got back.
Morgan walked around and around the plane, kicking the tires affectionately, checking the struts, and stroking the wings. “She sure is a beauty.” He sighed, patting the fuselage lovingly. “Thank you, Mama, for getting her for me. I'm just sorry I didn't get to take you up in her. As soon as I get back, we'll go for a ride. I want you to know your money wasn't wasted.”
“It's a date,” I answered as cheerfully as I could manage. “I'm saving all my dances for you.”
“How about just one,” he said seriously. “It'd be all right with me if you had somebody besides me to dance with. You deserve to have someone around who appreciates you, Mama. Know what I mean?”
“I know.” I nodded my understanding. “Maybe someday.” I felt how the scales between us were changing a bit and knew the weight of worry was no longer tipped all on my side.
Morgan sighed deeply, took a last look around, and slapped his hand hard against his thigh with cheery finality. “Well, I guess we'd better be going if I'm going to make my train. Don't want to be late and catch hell from the drill sergeant the very first day.” He made sounds of leaving, but still he waited. “Funny, all my life I wanted to get away from Dillon and go out into the world, but just now I'd give anything to stay.” I didn't have to tell him I felt the same way.
It was cold, standing on the platform waiting for the train. So cold. I couldn't even feel my feet. Couldn't feel anything. As the train pulled slowly out of the station, Morgan leaned out a window and shouted above the whoosh of steam and squeaking metal, “Don't forget, Mama! As soon as I get back we're going flying. Wait till you see Dillon from the air. It's beautiful!”
“I know! I love you!” I shouted back. I tried to run alongside the car to keep him in sight a moment longer, but my cane slowed me down and the platform ran out much too soon. There was no way to keep up with him.
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