The Wings of Morning (29 page)

Watching their squadron leader from a distance as they took off and rose toward him in their SPADs, Zed and Billy Skipp—as well as a recruit everyone called Tex for reasons that became obvious once he opened his mouth—were amazed by the stunts and maneuvers Jude was pulling off at high speed in front of their eyes. They had never known he had those kinds of acrobatics in him—though Billy and Zed had seen him twist about in the air like a flying corkscrew often enough during aerial combat. Not able to match him turn for turn, all three nevertheless decided to join in, spiraling and diving and climbing as if thousands of people below had paid good money to see the four of them at their very best.

“The greatest show on earth!” shouted Tex in his distinctive drawl, but no one could hear him as they ripped past one another, heading in every possible direction on the face of the compass. Yet every moment they played they still kept flicking their eyes up and down, glancing over their shoulders, squinting up at the sun, scanning the sky for enemy planes. But none appeared.

Finally they ran low on fuel and headed back toward Nancy and the field.

Exhilarated, the whole gang sat down to lunch at the aerodrome and devoured chicken and green beans and ice cream as if they hadn’t touched food all week. Zed summed it up for them when he said, “Remember why you fell in love with flying in the first place? Eh? Remember what made your heart go faster and how the sky and sun filled you to the top with strength? That’s what we had today. That last hour was better than all the others we’ve had since they brought us to France.”

Billy, the ace, nodded. “Combat flying is pretty exciting stuff. But doing the stunts, the flips, the rolls—that’s what I love. Do you think, after the war, there’ll be air shows, that they’ll let us do all kinds of wild things in the sky for paying customers at state fairs and exhibitions and things?”

“I’d bet on it,” responded Zed.

“At rodeos?” asked Tex hopefully.

“Why not?”

“Well—it’d spook the horses and rodeo stock.”

Zed shrugged and sat back, poking a toothpick about in his mouth. “Just use a field far enough away. And don’t buzz the stadium.”

Billy ran his hands through his red hair and grinned. “Won’t those be fine times? Just have to get there first. In one piece.”

Jude sipped at his coffee. “Just have to end the war. Just have to finish the job.”

He wasn’t thinking of fairs or rodeos or July Fourth celebrations. For a moment, he wasn’t even thinking of getting back to Paradise and to Lyyndaya. Only one thing was on his mind, only one plane, only one man. When Lyyndaya returned to his thoughts, smiling, full of life and God, her hair shining in the Pennsylvania sun, he whispered,
I’m sorry. I pray the day will come when you can understand
.

Zed was standing over the Squadron Bible. He marked Sharples’ page with a thumb and then turned the tall pages slowly and carefully until he found what he wanted.

“Frank opened to this psalm the day Jack Zatt was killed,” he told them without looking up. “But he didn’t get to one part. So this is for us. This is for now—today, tomorrow, and the day after—all the days after.” He read the words out loud with a certain measured cadence no one else used, as if they were seated in a cathedral for a time of worship. When he was done he turned back to Frank’s last reading from Isaiah. Then he walked from the room. The others got up, but Jude remained sitting until he was by himself, turning an empty coffee cup over in his hands.

F
rom the window of the Zooks’ house, Lyyndy watched the buggies move like shadows in the soft rain. Three or four turned up the drive. The bishop stepped down from the first and then walked around it and took his wife’s hand. The pastors emerged from the other buggies and came up to the couple. Dr. Morgan strode firmly to the porch from the final carriage.

“Are they back from the funeral?” came a faint voice from behind Lyyndaya.

“Yes. The doctor is on his way in to see you.”

Emma Zook smiled as much as she could. “I feel better.”

“You look better.”

“But such a sad day.”

“Yes,” agreed Lyyndaya.

“Except they are with Jesus.”

Lyyndaya walked over to the bed where Emma had the covers pulled up to her neck and held one of her pale hands gently. “You’re right, sister.”

There was a knock on the door. She crossed the room and opened it.

“Dr. Morgan,” she greeted the tall, broad-shouldered physician.

He took off his black hat and raindrops fell on the carpet. The hat had less of a brim and a different crown than the Amish men’s hats. Lyyndaya took it and helped him off with his long dark overcoat. He went immediately to the bed.

“How is my Emma?” he asked, lifting her wrist and checking her pulse.

“I think I’m stronger. I walked around the room twice—with Lyyndy’s help.”

“Did you?” He warmed the end of his stethoscope in his hand and then placed it on her chest. “Take a deep breath for me and hold it. Now let it out slowly. Good. Once more. And cough. Again.” He smiled at her. “No crackling. No congestion. I believe you’ve turned the corner, young lady.” He glanced over at Lyyndaya. “Thanks in no small part to your friend here.”

“I know,” said Emma. “She’s been wonderful.”

Lyyndaya had draped the doctor’s coat over a chair and was holding on to his hat for him. “Feeding her broth? Mopping her brow? That hardly amounts to a cure.”

“Day and night,” the doctor said, putting his stethoscope back in his bag. “You stood on the line between life and death. If I had a nurse like you for every patient, we’d stop this biblical plague.”

Lyyndaya dropped her eyes. “Thank you.”

There was another knock on the door and it opened a crack. Emma’s father peered in.

“May we?” he asked.

“Of course,” Dr. Morgan replied. “I’ll just take her temperature.”

Emma’s mother and father stepped into the room, bringing with them the scent of rain on grass. Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed back her daughter’s long dark hair that was spread over the pillow.

“You have some color,” she said.

“How was the funeral, Mother?”

“It went very well. Hosea and little Annie and John are not suffering anymore. Heaven is their home now. Your father and I thank God. They were in so much pain, Emma. You know how it was. They could not…they could not…” Her mother struggled with her voice and to control her tears, “…even get a breath at the end.”

Emma placed one thin hand on her mother’s. “Yes, but now—they breathe freely.”

Her mother nodded, her eyes glistening.

Dr. Morgan gestured to Lyyndaya. “Let’s step into the room across the hall. I must be sure you have no symptoms. Excuse us, please.”

The room across the hall had been Annie’s. It was neatly made up and seemed to be waiting for her as if she was expected back from a trip at any moment. Dr. Morgan placed his stethoscope on Lyyndaya’s back and chest and listened carefully.

“Do you feel feverish at all?”

“No.”

“Are there any chills that come and go?”

“None.”

“Do you feel up to doing some more nursing for me?”

She caught his eyes. “Why? Who is sick now?”

“I’m not sure what I’m dealing with. But I would feel better if someone like you, who is experienced with how the disease manifests itself, could spend some time at their side.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want you to get upset when I tell you their name—”

Her green eyes widened and she caught his arm. “Doctor—is it my family?”

“Yes. It’s Ruth.”

“Ruth!”

“Calm yourself. I do not see all the symptoms, but—”

“We must go now, then!”

“Yes, yes. Emma’s parents can see to her needs now. Gather up your things.”

Lyyndaya flew from the room. She didn’t wish to disturb the three surviving members of the Zook family as they spent a few quiet moments together, but most of her items were in Emma’s room. She hesitated at the door and suddenly heard the three begin to sing a hymn, deep and slow, yet somehow with a strength that sent a quick chill up her spine. Feeling compelled to pray, she bowed her head a moment. Then, as they continued to sing, she recalled that her long coat and an extra pair of boots were in a closet near the front door, and she made her way downstairs.

The pastors were sitting at the table in the parlor off the hallway. All of them murmured their greetings as she passed by the doorway and opened the closet. When she turned around, coat and boots in hand, Pastor King was standing in the hall waiting for her.

“We wish to thank you for all the work you did for our bishop’s family,” he said.

Lyyndaya felt flustered, wanting to go back upstairs and fetch her clothing, anxious to join Dr. Morgan who had already come down the stairs and was out in the buggy, beginning to feel a slight panic about what was happening to her sister. But she forced herself to slow down.

“It was something I believe the Lord wanted me to do,” she replied.

“They tell us Hosea and John passed away in less than two days.”

She nodded.

“And the little girl?”

Lyyndaya did not want to say. “Didn’t Dr. Morgan mention this to the church leadership?”

“No, but we wish to hear it from you.”

“From the time of the first symptoms that Mrs. Zook noticed after lunch on Sunday, to the time of Annie’s death—it was not three hours.”

The color in the pastor’s eyes seemed to pale as she spoke.

“And what are these symptoms, Miss Kurtz?”

“But you have been told, haven’t you? It can look like ague. Or a person feels the usual things a person with flu feels—headaches, pain in their shoulders and elbows and knees—there’s a fever, they grow very tired and have no energy.”

“I have heard that sometimes…a patient…can turn blue—”