The Cherry Harvest (6 page)

CHARLOTTE SAT BEFORE HER DRESSING TABLE
and reached for her hairbrush. When Thomas touched her shoulders, she let him take the brush, pulling it gently through her long blond hair. Charlotte closed her eyes, savoring the sensual delight of the simple act.

It had been so long since she had taken pleasure in his touch. Thomas had always been a lusty man, and they had enjoyed their time together in bed. But since Ben left, Charlotte merely went through the motions. As his wife, it was her duty. But she hadn't wanted it, not as she used to.

“
You
didn't keep your legs together, my sweet,” he whispered in her ear.

Charlotte opened her eyes to meet his in the mirror. “I couldn't resist you, Thomas.”

When they married, Charlotte was already pregnant. It happened in the hayloft at the dairy, rain pouring down beyond the barn window, cows stomping and bellowing below, the fertile pungent earth, and a future with a man who had inherited his family orchard. Yes, for Thomas, Charlotte opened her legs.

And now, as she lay next to him on their bed, she opened again, and Thomas moved toward her, his lanky body coming warm against her own, his hands on her breasts, on her buttocks, knowing them, coming into her, full and familiar.

“You are my downfall,” he whispered. “My original sin.”

She smiled at his wordplay.

“You will wear my scarlet letter.” He thrust forward.

She slid her hands up his back, recalling that first time. Grasping him close, the physical presence of Thomas, the man she had wanted so many years ago, now touching her face, breathing into her hair. Whispering her name.

And now, right now, her body wanted him, needed him. Whispering back.

KATE WOKE TO THE SHARP ODOR OF SKUNK
. Rising on an elbow, she peered out to the lake where the morning mist floated over still water in that gray-white light that comes just before dawn.

She listened as if she might hear him—Ben—whistling in the room next to hers. He had always risen early to do his chores. He'd often do hers as well, then pop his head into her room, singing “Lazy Katie, will you get up, will you get up, will you get up . . .”

She raked her fingers through her tangled hair. She didn't mind the skunk so much. No, it reminded her of a spicy pine forest, tramping through the woods with Ben. She slipped out of her flannel nightgown and pulled on a cotton shirt, wool sweater, and overalls.

Downstairs, the warm scent of burning cherry wood emanated from the stove where Mother was sterilizing milk pails, humming the way she used to back when everything was normal. Must be because of the war news, Ben on his way to Rome.

“Morning, Kate.”

“Morning.”

Kate put on her wool jacket and cap and picked up the covered
pails. Outside, the cold climbed in and she pulled her jacket close. She had always felt safe in the yard any time of day or night, but now she imagined prisoners lurking in the shadows. The snow fence encircling the camp served more as a perimeter than a barricade, light enough to be knocked down by anyone determined to escape. She pictured the wild eyes of that Nazi who had rushed her, and she shivered.

Sliding aside the heavy wooden barn door, Kate inhaled the calming warmth of animal sweat and dung and headed toward the goat pen.

What's that?
A rustle and thump in the hayloft. Kate froze.

Ginger Cat jumped to the floor and dashed off toward the empty stalls after something too quick for Kate to spot. Kate let out a heavy breath.

The stalls once held two draft horses, Getup and Sunrise. Father sold the horses a few years back to buy the tractor. Mornings were easier for Kate now that she didn't have to care for the horses, but she missed them. The barn seemed bigger, empty. Almost scary.

Stepping into the goat pen, Kate petted Mia in long strokes and murmured softly to her. Mother had taught her how to relax animals before milking. Mia shook her stubby tail. Kate put a bit of hay in the feed tray, helped the goat onto the milking stanchion, tethered her to the post, and cleaned her udder. Sitting on the milking stool, Kate took one of the nanny's warm, fuzzy teats into each hand, gently working the milk down the soft tubular appendages, squirting it into the pail. She wondered what it was like for Mia, this touching and squeezing. The first time she had milked a goat she was embarrassed with the intimacy of the act. Mia bleated as if she enjoyed it.

While she worked, Kate's mind wandered to the university, the girls in the dormitory. She had read the acceptance packet numerous times, memorized the schedules and campus map. Her roommate would be Libby Huntington from Shorewood Hills. Libby.
She had never met anyone named Libby. She hoped this Libby Huntington from Shorewood Hills liked to go to plays and discuss literature.

After Kate let Mia into the yard, she tossed out feed for the hens and gathered eggs from their nests. She swept out the stalls with the big push broom, then climbed the ladder to the dusty hayloft and pitched a forkful of hay down to the floor below. All the while, Kate longed for the day she would be away from here, reading and writing and conversing with interesting people like Miss Fleming and the girls in the dormitory. But behind it all was the guilt, guilt about leaving her mother.
What will she do when I'm gone?
Everything would be better when Ben came home. But when would that be?

Kate wandered over to Ben's workbench. He would sit on his stool for hours, whittling fallen limbs and burls into furniture and figurines, listening to the hit parade on that old radio he'd fixed up. She blew dust from the radio and switched it on. Bill Austin with his “Is You or Is You Ain't My Baby.” Louis Jordan on the trumpet. She knew the singer because Ben always guessed the songs and the singers as soon as the music started, and he'd challenge Kate to do the same. Ben would whistle along. He tried to teach her to whistle, but her mouth wouldn't make the shape right.

Ben's wood-carving kit sat neatly on his workbench alongside hunks of wood, just as he had left it all. A log lay near the lathe, ready to make into some piece of furniture, no doubt. He had made the kitchen table and chairs, as well as Mother's rocking chair on the front porch.

Kate picked up one of his carvings—a rearing horse with well-defined muscles and mane. The eyes were wild with fear. Ben must have been working on this before he left. “He'll be home soon now,” Mother had said a few days ago. “I can just feel it.”

Nat King Cole was signing “Straighten Up and Fly Right.” Kate put down the figurine and turned off the radio.

On the other side of the barn, Kate opened the rabbit hutch. She
gently drew Mama Bunny from the hutch, stroked her soft gray fur, and put her into a holding pen. She changed the fat rabbit's straw bedding and added fresh water and spring greens.

Out in the rabbit pen, Kate cuddled a few of the little ones, then scattered feed pellets. “Spring's here and soon you'll be dining on new clover and dandelion leaves.”

Kate returned to the barn to clean up, and when she finally emerged back out into the morning, songbirds greeted her—melodious finches, cheery robins, squeaky little chickadees. Sparrows hopped among the chickens, pecking the ground. Near the edge of the woods, a doe with two speckled fawns fed on green sprouts.

The sun was just peeking up from across the lake, the rim of a ball, huge and red. Kate stood transfixed as the gray-blue mist turned shades of pink and rose from the glassy surface. Reflections of trees rippled along the shore. A family of ducks floated by like paper boats. She thought of Thoreau—“drifting meadow of the air.” The world was no longer scary. She breathed in the fresh morning and kicked through dewy grass.

Coffee?
Even before Kate opened the kitchen door she smelled it. Inside, Mother and Father were speaking quietly as if they had a secret. When Kate entered, they stopped abruptly and pulled away from each other. Yes, they were drinking coffee!

“Would you like a cup?” Charlotte asked. “And there's cream and sugar.”

“Yes, please!” Kate scooted her chair up to the table.

Charlotte served plates of scrambled eggs with grapefruit slices and pastry.

Thomas took a bite. “Little Mother. How do you do it?”

Charlotte smiled and held up the pot. “More coffee?”

“Ah, yes.” After another sip, he said, “I'm going to have the PWs start spraying today. I found aphids in the trees on the far side of the orchard.”

Charlotte touched Kate's hand. “Mind that you stay upwind of the poison.”

Kate knew well enough. Breathing in the pesticide tasted awful and burned her lungs.

“I'm going to try something new. I got a letter from Dr. Michaels down at the university. He told me that a simple soap mixture could do as well as the lead-arsenic. Safer, less expensive too.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Of all the years, this isn't the time to try anything new. We could lose the whole crop—”

“I'll test it on a small sample. If the aphids return, I can always follow with the poison. Right, Kate?”

She nodded.
Why is Mother always so negative?

“He sent me the recipe.” Thomas wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I'll have Karl help me mix the solution in the barn.”

“You'll have a guard with you, of course.”

“Karl and I will be fine—”

Charlotte held her fork in the air. “You can't trust any of those prisoners—”

“What do you expect him to do, Char? Steal a chicken?”

“I'm thinking of the butchering tools.”

“So maybe he'll butcher a chicken?” Thomas patted her hand, chuckling.

“He's younger and . . . and maybe stronger than you.” She stood and cleared the plates from the table.

Thomas picked up his pipe, paused. “I've spent time with Karl, off away from the others. He has some interesting thoughts about Thomas Mann. In
Magic Mountain,
Karl sees allusions to irrational forces within the human psyche. I'm going to read it again.”

Irrational forces within the human psyche?
“I'd like to read it too,” Kate said, rising to help.

“Excellent. Then we'll discuss it, you and I. And Karl.”

Charlotte turned from the sink. “Kate discussing things with prisoners? No. Never.” She banged the cast-iron skillet on the
wooden countertop. “Those prisoners come into the orchard with guards and leave with guards and so be it. We'll have our harvest and that's the end of it.”

Recalling the eyes of that crazy Nazi Fritz, Kate for once sided with her mother.

Thomas shook his head. “Karl is an intellectual. He'd like to read more American authors.” He sucked on his empty pipe, then after a moment, added, “I told him I'd lend him some of my books.”

“Lending personal items to prisoners?”

“What's the harm?” He put his pipe on the table.

Charlotte rinsed dishes in silence, handing them to Kate to dry. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, if you're going to be sharing things with him, you might ask for something in return.”

“I enjoy his conversation.”

“The canteen truck comes every week. He has Army scrip to buy anything they bring. Why not trade the loan of your books for some pipe tobacco? I know how you miss it.”

“I never thought of that, Char.” He stared at the empty bowl of his pipe. “Sure would be nice to have tobacco again.”

“I don't believe this!” Kate broke in. “Ben's buddies are being blown apart over there.”

Father put down the pipe. “Where do you get such ideas?”

“It's his letters to that girl, isn't it?” Mother crossed her arms.

“Yes,” Kate heard herself whisper.

“Please don't keep information about Ben from us, Kate,” Father said.

“The letters have lines blacked out. We're just guessing what's behind the marks.” Oh, she should have kept her mouth shut. “If Josie found out that I told you, she wouldn't show me anything else.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “We certainly don't want you to lie to your friend. You don't have to tell us anything personal Ben writes to her, just the news of what's happening. That's all. Is that reasonable?”

Kate nodded and wiped her hands on her overalls. “I have to wash and change for school.”

“Yes, and you'd better work on your math,” Thomas said. “Otherwise, you'll be taking remedial classes at the university instead of doing the work you want.”

Math, ugh. Kate expected to get all A's on her report card again this semester, except in math.

“Say, what would you think . . .” Thomas began. “Our Kate here needs help with mathematics, a tutor.”

Kate waited for more.

“Karl's a math professor—”

“What!” Charlotte spun around.

“I've asked Karl many probing questions about his background and sympathies. He wasn't one of Hitler's men.” He paused a moment. “I'd be right here with him.”

“I don't like it,” Charlotte said.

Thomas leaned forward. “Believe me, I see most of those PWs as the enemy. And I don't want them near my home. But Karl . . . I think we can trust him.”

“
Think?
” Charlotte balled her fists. “You
think
we can trust him?”

“I'll come in with him when we're done with our work in the orchard. He can tutor Kate after supper.”

“Are you suggesting we invite him for supper?”

“I wasn't proposing that, but it would be good for us to get to know him over a meal.” Thomas sucked on his empty pipe.

“And how do you expect me to add another plate to the table?” Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “I have enough for us today and tomorrow, but I'll be damned if I'm going to share our food with some prisoner who gets all he needs from the Army.” Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron. “If Kate's math isn't good enough for the university, so be it. She can attend one of the state normal schools and teach until she gets married.”

“I don't want to go to a state normal school.”
And I may never get married, either. Professor Fleming isn't married
.

Charlotte untied her apron and threw it on the counter. “If you insist on such foolishness, I want to meet this man. Yes. Bring him here for supper. Station a guard at the door. But it's up to you to get the fixings. I have nothing to offer.”

Kate thought of the play, the girls in the dorm. She'd do anything to get away and make it on her own. She hesitated, then whispered, “I'm willing to give up one of my rabbits—”

Mother's eyes widened.