River's Edge (21 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: River's Edge
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Chuck came halfway down the stairs and tried to explain. “It was a game, Papa. Well, it was kind of a game. Curt was telling us all about his new play, and we decided to act some of it out. See if we couldn't come up with a better ending. You know, something really flashy!”
Papa looked bewildered. “Curt wrote a play? What play?”
“Curt is working on an adaption of ‘The Three Little Pigs,'” I explained. “It's a morality play.”
“A morality ...” Papa stammered. “Never mind,” he muttered with the worn resignation of a judge who has already heard it all and wishes he hadn't. “Go on.”
By this time Chip had joined his twin on the stairway to aid in his defense. “Yeah, so we were working on the last part where the angry mob of villagers kills the evil wolf, and we thought that it would be neat if, instead of just clubbing the wolf to death, they hog-tied him, hung him from a pole, and carried him back to the village, where they'd burn him at the stake.”
Mama turned deathly white, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my Lord! Boys! You didn't!”
“Well, of course not!” retorted Chip as though insulted that Mama could even think they would do such a thing. I couldn't blame her, though. There were precedents. “You can't burn somebody at the stake inside the house. You'd have to do it at a bonfire outside.”
“Right!” affirmed Chuck. “We were just looking for a pole to sling him from,” he said brightly, as if this were the most innocent and reasonable thing in the world.
Mama just shook her head and put her hand up to her forehead.
Curt arrived on the scene. He pushed past his brothers and came stomping down the stairs, furious. His nose was streaming blood, but he was so angry and intent on seeking justice that I'm not sure he noticed. “They tied me up with Papa's neckties, stuffed a handkerchief in my mouth and left me there for fifteen minutes!” he howled. “I finally worked myself loose enough so I could hop out to look for them, but my feet and hands were tied up, so when my feet got accidentally tangled up in the lamp cord, I fell down, bashed my head on the floor, and took the lamp with me!”
“Well,” Chuck said a little hesitantly, as it had finally dawned on him that he was really in trouble, “we were looking for something that would work for a pole.”
“They were not! They were eating the candy I had hidden in the secret box under my bed!
”
Curt stabbed his finger accusingly at his torturers and yelled louder, which made the blood stream from his nose even faster.
“Oh Good Lord ...” Papa muttered, throwing up his hands in defeat.
Mama sighed and took over. “Curt, honey, come here. Put your head back so the blood stops running. Elise, take some ice out of the tray in the freezer. Cookie, get a towel from the linen closet, but not one of my good ones.”
“Hey!” Chip piped happily as he spied plates on the kitchen table. “Why didn't you tell us there was cake?”
Chapter 14
T
he murmurs, rumors, and conversations about the possibility or inevitability of war became more intense as the summer wore on, but I didn't seem to hear or notice them. I was much too much in love to think about anything but Junior and myself.
As I write this, I am mortified to recall my self-absorbtion in those days. I was young and in love, and there is no combination that is quite as selfish, but that is no excuse. There is no use in denying my behavior or trying to explain it; I'll just report it. I have given up the habit of refusing to see things for what they truly are.
Father's letters came only rarely now. When they did, I opened them with some dread, but not because I was worried about him. He had been safe for so long that I supposed he always would be. He had been physically removed from my life for so long that I had almost ceased to think of him as real. Father had become something like a character from a book of mythology or fairy tales in the life that I might or might not have lived many lives before, interesting but unreal, a product of my imagination or someone else's. It was easier to think of him so.
But all that would change when one of his increasingly rare letters arrived and I held in my hand a palpable reminder of him—and of the specter of war that threatened to break the charmed circle I had drawn to protect myself. My hands would tremble as I took the letter from the envelope, unfolded sheets of white stationery, and saw the words written in Father's neat, orderly handwriting with its even script and nonexistent slant; each of the letters stood up straight and tall like little soldiers at attention—like Father himself.
I could see myself a little girl again, standing perfectly still next to his desk in his dark, silent study, watching him write letters in his saluting-soldier script. I wanted him to notice me, but I was afraid that if he did, he would send me away so I wouldn't bother him. He finished a sentence with a perfect, pointed stab of a period and, without lifting his eyes from the paper but with a small smile on his lips, he reached out his hand and patted me awkwardly on the head before going on with his work. A painful stab of love would pierce my heart.
His letters confronted me with the truth. I had not imagined him; Father was real, part of me, and fighting for the nation that had given me birth. Soon he might be fighting against the nation I had come to love. Sometimes I would put the letters back in their envelopes without reading them, saying to myself,
It can't touch us. Not for a year. It will be over by then. Junior promised. Not for a year.
Like the rest of America, the Muller family was glued to the radio whenever President Roosevelt delivered one of his fireside chats. I never paid much attention to the content of the broadcasts, but I loved them because they gave me an opportunity to sit near Junior on the parlor sofa.
Junior and I had decided that it would be disrespectful to be affectionate when we were in the presence of the family. We thought this a very mature resolve on our part, but I suspect we also realized that to do so would leave us open to unrelenting teasing from the twins. With these incentives in mind, we were fairly circumspect in our behavior when others were in the room. However, during the president's addresses we sat close together on the tufted sofa near the radio—Junior sitting up straight and listening with rapt attention, his head inclined just slightly toward the glowing dials of the Philco, while I snuggled as close to him as possible, reaching out to hold his hand in mine when I thought no one was looking. I was so happy to be near him.
Of course, whenever we could steal away from the family and our work, we went down to the river, to the spot that was now our special place instead of mine alone. In our safe, private world, we spent hours walking at the water's edge, holding hands, exchanging confidences and kisses while the waters swirled over the stones, murmuring its approval of our presence. We were passionate about each other, and the moment we were out the sight of prying eyes, it was impossible not to touch one another, though we kept our contact chaste. And yet, we were joined in the astonishing intimacy that comes from completely opening your mind to the one you love and the indescribable joy that comes from realizing that finally, finally there is someone on the earth with whom you can be utterly yourself. There is no need for cover, or calculation, or dissembling, because your lover knows you already, virtues and vices, and celebrates them all without judgment or disillusionment, because the weakness of each joins seamless with the strength of the other—together you are whole.
It was a happy time, the happiest summer I had known, and the busiest. Given the chance, Junior and I would never have spent a moment apart, but we were both working and so had only our evenings together. Still, even the hours we spent apart at our jobs seemed to join us closer in spirit. Our labors were more than just work to us—they were testaments of faith in the future we meant to build together. Each dime we saved became an imaginary brick in the home and future we were building in our minds. We felt very grown up and serious, and each payday gave us confidence that we were more than prepared to face whatever the world could throw our way.
I got a job working for Mrs. Ludwig. She was getting on in years, and she hadn't recovered fully from the cold she caught that spring. She needed someone to look after her. Betty had tried to manage it on her own for a few days, but when Mrs. Ludwig got mad and threw a mustard plaster at her, Harold had called and asked if I would like a job taking care of his mother every day from nine to four. Although Mrs. Ludwig tired easily and spent a good part of the day sleeping, she was still the same crusty, demanding, lovely old woman I had come to think of as the grandmother I had never had. I fixed her meals and read to her, and sometimes we talked, but not as often as before. The effort of long conversations wore her out. I did the housework when she was sleeping, and often, as I was scrubbing the floor, I would imagine that the old yellow farmhouse was mine—mine and Junior's—and I would scrub harder, making old pine floorboards glow with cleanliness and hope.
But that was only one of my jobs. One of the mothers from the children's choir had asked Mrs. Karlsberg if she knew a good piano teacher, and Mrs. Karlsberg suggested me. Next thing I knew I had three beginning piano students coming to the house for weekly lessons. Emmaline, Jean, and Rose were dear girls, all around nine years old and good students, eager to please. I enjoyed teaching them.
Junior was working full time, and then some, at the huge Jorgenson place. They always needed extra hands in the summer. It was hot, hard, backbreaking work. “But it does have its advantages,” Junior would joke as he flexed his arms to show off muscles. He did such a good job that Mr. Jorgenson asked him to stay on after the harvest.
In the fall, I went back to high school, though I still worked at Mrs. Ludwig's every Saturday. Mark Woodward left for his freshman year of college, but Junior stayed in Brightfield, spending his days checking drying tobacco leaves for signs of mold, baling cured leaves for market, and doing odd carpentry jobs around the farm. I knew Papa was disappointed that Junior had not changed his mind and decided to go to college, but he never said another word about it. Papa was not a man to go back on his word.
The pay at Mr. Jorgenson's was good, and Junior's bank account was growing. During one of our walks, Junior told me he was thinking of becoming a tobacco farmer himself. “I'm turning out to be pretty good at it. It's kind of interesting, and if you can get a couple of good crops in, it sure pays. Mr. Jorgenson's rolling in it,” he said with obvious admiration. “He's bought two trucks this year—both brand-new!”
“That would be wonderful! And I could help you!” I began excitedly. “There is something almost poetic about it—the way the plants grow so high and so fast is miraculous! When you walk though the middle of the rows it's like being lost in a jungle of green. Have you noticed how the tobacco sheds look when they pull the slats out to let the air circulate? It's like a cathedral! Shafts of light beam through the open spaces and leave patterns of dark and light like the sun shining through stained glass, and the roof is so steep and high, it just disappears behind the shadows of the leaves, row upon row of them. And the way the drying tobacco smells! Musty and mysterious, like the pages in a very old book. Oh, I think we would be wonderful tobacco farmers!”
“Whoa!” Junior raised his hand up like a stop sign, and his face broke into a wide grin. “What do you mean,
we
would be tobacco farmers? Women don't farm.”
I was indignant. “Why not? Mr. Schoeller says I've got a real feel for it.”
“Well, sure, you helped him some, but that's not the same as farming.” Junior raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “He was just being nice to you because he likes you. I mean, you don't see Mrs. Schoeller out there working in the field, do you? She takes care of the house, and Mr. Schoeller takes care of the farm. Women don't farm.”
“Maybe they don't, but that doesn't mean I can't. ”
“Come on, Elise! Helping out by spearing a few piles of tobacco, or doing a little hoeing when you feel like it isn't the same as bringing in a whole crop. It's hard work! You've got to be strong, and you've got to know what you're doing. Why, even men who've worked in it their whole lives can go broke quick if they make a couple of bad bets. Look at Mr. Schoeller—he would have gone under for sure if Papa hadn't pressured the bank to give him a break.”
I knew there was some truth in what he said. Tobacco farming was hard work, and it took skill. There were a million things that could go wrong, and lots of them were things a farmer had no control over, like weather, insects, and disease. It definitely came under the heading of those things which were labeled “man's work,” but still ...
“I could do it.”
“Boy! You're stubborn.” He puffed with exasperation.
“You say that like it was news to you,” I said bluntly. “Besides, you're just as stubborn as I am.”
Junior grinned and put his arm around me. “That's true,” he conceded.
“I still don't see why I couldn't—”
He laughed. “You just don't give up, do you? Let's talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like what kind of car we'd like to have someday. I saw this beautiful roadster. Red with a convertible top ...”
And so the days sped by like bright water rushing over the rocks in the river while we talked about something else, something easier, spinning out bright threads of optimistic dreams with all the assurance and thoughtlessness of youth, blissfully ignoring the tides of history that were beginning to lap at our feet, refusing to think of what they might mean for us.
No. That's not quite true.
We were not ignorant of what was going on in the world—we simply chose not to talk about it.
There weren't any real restaurants in Brightfield—just the café, and that was only open for breakfast and lunch. So to celebrate our six-month anniversary, Junior and I drove to Harmon and ate at the Greek diner. It wasn't fancy or anything, but we were all dressed up because it was a very special occasion; we could count the times we'd eaten in a restaurant on one hand. Junior ordered lamb because he was determined to try something he'd never had before, but it was fatty and he didn't care for it much. I ordered a hamburger, and Junior teased me for doing it.
“You could have had that at home,” he said, laughing. “Where's your spirit of adventure?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I know I like hamburgers, so I ordered one. I'm adventurous—just as long as I know everything will turn out all right.” Junior thought this was hilarious.
“Don't make fun of me.” I tapped his shoulder in a playful slap. “At least I'm enjoying my dinner. You ordered lamb, but you don't like it, and there it is, sitting on your plate getting cold. And it was expensive, too! I don't think I'm the one who should be getting laughed at,” I said coyly.
“Yeah, but at least now I know I don't like lamb. How would I know if I never tried it?”
“You lived eighteen years without ever tasting lamb and it never bothered you. You could probably have lived happily the rest of your life and never touched a bite of lamb.” I smiled, took a big bite of my hamburger, and made sounds of exaggerated enjoyment while I chewed. Of course, I was just teasing, but Junior didn't laugh, just smiled half-heartedly. His mind was somewhere else. I held my partially eaten burger out to him.

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