Island of Saints (15 page)

Once again, Helen helped Josef stand. This time, she moved him to the couch in her tiny living room and helped him to wrap up in the blanket. He was still without clothes underneath and, while embarrassed, was cold.

“Do you need another blanket?”

“Do you mind?” Josef asked.

“Yes, I do,” she answered, but got another one anyway. “The police will be here soon,” she lied as she placed the second blanket over him.
Why did I say that?

“You are a nurse?” Josef asked.

“What? No. I am a waitress.” Josef looked confused. “Oh,” Helen understood. “The white uniform . . . Nope, not a nurse.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Josef through glassy, feverish eyes, and Helen in her perpetual state of anger and distrust. “Are you from a submarine?” she finally asked.

Josef considered her question. Was there any reason to hide the truth? He didn't think so. Was he still fighting for his country? Fighting? No. Well then, was he still even
for
his country? He wasn't sure . . .

“Hey . . .” Helen snapped her fingers. “I asked you a question. Are you from a submarine?”

What is the harm?
Josef decided. “Yes.”

“Odd wounds for a submariner,” Helen observed. “Don't you guys usually drown? Who shot you?”

Again Josef pondered whether to answer, and he cautiously did so: “A man on my boat.”

Helen, who was still standing but had moved across the room, raised her eyebrows. “Really? Some friends you have there.”

“He was not my friend,” Josef said.

“No kidding.” Helen leaned against the wall and watched him for a moment. He seemed to be drifting off . . . or about to. “What is your name?”

He answered slowly, “Josef.”

“Your whole name.”

Josef tried to concentrate, but was feeling worse by the minute. He didn't want to antagonize the young woman. She had almost beaten him to death on the beach the night before and obviously wasn't any more fond of him now. Still, he was so dizzy . . .
What is it that she wants? I am so
cold. What is my name? I am a cadet.

“What is your whole name?”

Tatiana? Is that you?

“Hey? Are you listening to me?”

“HEY? ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”

Startled, Helen looked up with a jerk. “I'm sorry, Wan.

What did you say?”

The deputy pushed away from the café counter and stood up, shaking his head. “Never mind.” He reached in his pocket for his wallet. “It's almost six. Billy and them'll be here soon. Ain't like you need any company 'til then.”

“Wan, please. Don't be mad. I'm really sorry.”

He put his money on the counter. “Helen, is something wrong? I mean, no offense—you're never really nice to me— but the past couple of days . . .” He made a futile gesture with his hands. “I mean . . . I only want to be your friend. Geez.”

“I'm sorry,” Helen said cautiously. “No, nothing's wrong.”

The deputy shook his head sadly. “I'm glad, I guess.”

Now Helen was confused. “You guess?”

“Yeah. You know . . . it doesn't make me feel great. Nothing's wrong? So you just treat me badly for no reason?” Wan turned to go, then stopped and turned back. “Look, I don't want to make you feel worse. I'm okay. We're friends. You didn't mean to hurt my feelings, did you?”

“No, Wan. Really I . . .”

“Then we're fine,” Wan assured her. “Like I said, we're friends. If you ever do need me . . . to talk or anything . . . well, you know . . .”

Helen watched Wan leave through the back door. Wan was her friend and she would not have hurt him for the world, but he was also an officer of the law. And a smart one at that. Helen was terrified.

It had been two days now since the German sailor—Josef—got so sick. He was still on her couch, burning up with fever, sleeping mostly, but talking too. And crying sometimes and shouting. He opened his eyes, but she knew he never saw her. The man was delirious, and she didn't have any idea what to do.

She couldn't call the doctor. And now, she feared she couldn't tell anyone else, either. Sometime yesterday afternoon, Helen realized that she had waited too long to turn the man in. The questions from authorities, she knew, would now be pointed in her direction. She was hiding an enemy of her country.

The first customers came in a few minutes before the Gilberts, and Helen had already taken care of them. Coffee and toast only. “Where's Wan?” was the second thing out of Billy's mouth after “good morning.”

“Come and gone already,” Helen answered as she entered the kitchen. “I'm afraid he was somewhat aggravated with me.”

Danny and Margaret were curious about her statement, but it was Billy who smiled and asked, “Was Wan aggravated at Helen, the waitress? Or at Helen, his friend?”

Helen appreciated Billy's tactful question and answered it with the first smile she'd managed all morning. “Billy, you know he wasn't put out with ‘Helen, the waitress.' She's the best one you've got.”

“She's the only one I got,” Billy said, and they all laughed. He looked out into the dining area. “Pretty light so far. Those guys settled?”

“Done,” Helen replied. “Just refills of coffee now.”

“Well then,” Billy winked, “why don't you three sit at table one right there and let old Billy make your breakfast. Buddy Boy,” he said to Danny, “help these two beautiful ladies get seated.”

For almost twenty minutes, Helen tried to participate in the conversation with Margaret and Danny. The breakfast, she told Billy more than once, was wonderful. But the man who lay on her couch at home was never far from her mind. It was strange, she thought.
When I found him, I really
wanted him to die. Now, I'm afraid he actually might.

Helen listened to Danny chatter away while mentally calculating her options.
Okay, let's say he dies . . . I can
just hear myself . . . “Wan, you know how you said we
were buddies? Well, I have this body I need removed . . .
no, he wasn't a friend, just one of the Führer's finest I was
hiding . . .”

Of course, if he lives, it won't be any better—I'll never
be able to have a visitor . . . no way that would work.
“Come in. Come in. Would you like something to drink?
Just ignore the naked Nazi on the couch . . .”

The café slowly filled and slowly emptied. They worked steadily until 8:45 when Billy motioned for Helen to join him in the kitchen. “Do you want to take off early today?” When she didn't answer immediately, Billy added, “You opened yesterday and today and . . . well, Margaret says you got something on your mind.”

Helen nodded. “I am tired . . . so if you're sure you don't mind . . .” She was trying to remain calm, but was actually frantic to get home.

“Yeah, go,” Billy said, “and you're not the early bird tomorrow so that'll get your sleep caught up.” As an afterthought, he asked, “Do you mind dropping Danny off at the church in Foley? I know it's out of your way, but it'd save me a trip. Today's his volunteer day for working in the garden.”

“I'd be happy to, Billy,” Helen said. “I enjoy Danny's company. And thanks for the time off.” She reached up and kissed Billy on the cheek.

“Hey, now,” the old man said with a laugh, “if I'm gonna get kisses for time off, then take the rest of the week.”

In the few seconds it took Helen to hang her apron on the hook in the back room and say good-bye to Margaret, she and Danny were out the door.

“Do you know the way to the church?” Danny asked as he got into the truck.

“I sure do.” Helen smiled.

“There's two of them, you know.”

“I know.”

“Two churches.”

“Right.”

“A big one and another big one.”

“Which one do you belong to, Danny?”

“The big one.”

“Not the other big one?” Helen teased.

“Nope.” Danny grinned. “I go to the big one.”

Helen headed north on 3. It would take her only about ten minutes to get Danny to the church, and then she could turn around and head home.

“You are the prettiest girl I know except for my mama. I'm sorry that you are sad and it makes you act mean sometimes.”

What?
Helen worked to remain composed and respond appropriately. She was comfortable with Danny, but never ready for the things he said. He was a savant of sorts—a wise child—but he possessed absolutely no guile. He was innocent, honest, and totally devoid of tact. “Thank you, Danny. I'm sorry . . . was I mean to you? I didn't mean to be . . .”

Danny reached across the truck cab and gave Helen a pat on the shoulder. “It's okay. You aren't mean to me. And anyway, you only
act
mean sometimes. You aren't mean. I know because I talked to Daddy about it.”

Not knowing what to say, Helen opted for nothing and silently urged more speed from the blue truck.

Danny spoke again, as she knew he would. “I know why you're sad.”

Certain she didn't want to go there, but not seeing any other choice, Helen asked, “Why, Danny?”

“Because your husband died in the war. That's the main reason.”

She nodded. “That's right.”

“I know that's why you're sad, but is that why you're mad?”

Helen could feel Danny looking at her and knew he would wait until she answered. “Um . . . Buddy . . . do you want to talk about something else?”
Please!

“No, thanks.”

Helen sighed. She coughed nervously and asked, “Ahhh . . . what was the question?”

Danny spoke slowly as if he was explaining a difficult concept. “I said, ‘Your husband died in the war.' Then I said, ‘Is that why you are mad?'”

Helen wiped tears that sprang to her eyes and gritted her teeth.
Please, God, make him stop.
“Ahmm . . . Danny . . . yes.” She cleared her throat. “I think that does make me mad.”

“But who are you mad at?”

At the moment, the answer was quickly becoming “you,” but Helen bit her lip and took a deep breath—about to take another stab at leading the conversation in a different direction—when once more, Danny began to talk.

“If you are mad at a soldier, I think you have to forgive him. You want to know why?”

Convinced now that her only option was to endure this torture for a few more minutes, Helen made a mental note never again to get into a vehicle with Danny Gilbert, then answered, “Yes.”

“I think you have to forgive him for
you
.”

Though she was trying desperately to tune him out, Helen could not help being curious about
this
line of thinking. “Why's that?”

“Because whenever you get hurt by somebody, you can either think about 'em all day long and let 'em keep hurting you inside . . . or give them to God.”

Helen furrowed her brow. “Give them to God?”

“Unh-huh. If you forgive them, it doesn't mean they get away with what they did . . . it just means that
you
don't have to think about it all the time. You can't do anything anyway, except be mad. See? You just give 'em to God. Then you can be happy.” With that, Danny smiled and nodded a couple of times, then faced forward in his seat, seemingly satisfied that he had solved his friend's problem.

Helen was grateful for the silence. Give 'em to God . . . then you can be happy. She repeated the words a couple of times in her head and thought,
Yeah, it would be nice if it
were that simple.

She dropped Danny off at the church and headed south toward home. It was so strange, she reflected as she drove, that whole thing about giving them to God. She smiled at a crazy thought:
So what does God do with them when He
gets them?
And she laughed at the ridiculous answer that popped into her head:
What do I care? They don't belong to
me anymore.

CHAPTER 10

WHEN HELEN OPENED THE DOOR TO THE COTTAGE, THE first thing she saw was Josef, fully dressed in his uniform, sitting upright on the couch. She entered warily, noticing that he had, at least, possessed the strength to move about. It was apparent that his fever (and presumably its accompanying bewilderment) had faded away. Was he dangerous? Helen might have laughed had she known Josef was asking himself the same question about her.

“Hello,” Josef said tentatively.

Helen did not respond, but without taking her eyes off him, she set her purse and keys on the kitchen counter and moved to the sink to draw a glass of water. Noting the water glass in front of Josef on the coffee table, she said, “I would offer you some, but I see you helped yourself.”

Josef nodded. “I did. I had hoped you would not mind.”

“Found your clothes, did you?”

“Yes, in the washroom. Again, I hope you do not mind that I entered that private area. You were kind to wash my uniform. Thank you.” Josef watched curiously as Helen sat down at the kitchen table, not entering the living room where he was, instead keeping her distance.
She is afraid of
me,
he thought,
or hates me with passion. Or both.
“May I ask how long I have been here?”

Helen studied his face for any hint of deception. She saw only the black eyes and cut lips. “You don't remember?” He shook his head. “You've been barely conscious for two days. High fever . . .” She shrugged. “I really thought you might die. How's your shoulder?”

Josef glanced toward the wound. “I've never had anything hurt like this in my life, but I looked at it when I put on my uniform and . . . well, it doesn't appear gangrenous . . . you took much care. Again, I thank you.”

After a moment, Helen said, “You're welcome.” Then, “Are you hungry?”