Witch Hunt (38 page)

Katherine wasn’t too proud to beg, not when the love she felt for Alan was so profound. She rang the Hawthornes’ bell and waited an eternity until the door swung wide.

“Hello, Natalia. I’m here to see Alan.”

“No,” the maid said, and tried to close the door.

Katherine stuck her foot in the way, but Natalia slammed the heavy door on it. The pain stole her breath, but she didn’t pull away; she didn’t want to surrender. Then she heard the young Englishwoman’s voice.

“If you break her foot, she won’t be able to kick herself for having lost Alan.”

The woman’s words so angered Katherine that she pushed her way inside to face her rival.

“How dare you enter this house without invitation,” Vivian said.

“And how dare you be so contemptibly rude.”

“Get out!”

“I’m here to see Alan.”

“Hasn’t the situation been made clear enough to you yet? Or do you plan to stick around for the wedding festivities?”

“I have to hear it from Alan.”

“Alan has nothing to say to you.”

“What are you, his keeper?”

Vivian slapped Katherine across the face.

Shock mingled with anger, and Katherine responded in kind.

Vivian’s eyes widened with surprise. Snarling, she grabbed a fistful of Katherine’s hair and yanked hard.

Katherine gasped and her eyes filled with tears. She flailed about wildly, trying to push the other woman away, and managed to shove her to the floor. But, Vivian refused to let go of her hair, and pulled her down on top of her.

“You bloody bitch!” She kicked Katherine in the shins with the sharp toe of her heels.

Rage filled Katherine and she howled, lashed out with her fists, and caught Vivian in the face.

Vivian slashed back at her with sharp claws, and they tumbled about in crazed fury.

“I’ll lay twenty dollars on Vivian,” a man’s voice said.

Startled, Katherine glanced up to see Tony and Bea standing in the parlor watching.

Bea shook her head. “I don’t know. Katherine’s bigger.”

“Yeah, but Vivian’s badder.”

Bea giggled and raised her wine glass in toast to the frenzied tangle of enraged women. “Kick her when she’s down, Vivian. No Marquess of Queensbury on this side of the pond.”

Their callous words enraged Katherine even more, and she balled up her fist and punched Vivian in the mouth. In turn, she grasped one of Katherine’s pierced earrings and ripped it out of her lobe. Blood sprayed, and Tony and Bea laughed.

“What the hell is going on here?” The booming voice belonged to Cliff. He rushed in the front door and braved the maelstrom to separate the two women.

“How could you just stand there and watch?” he asked his parents, as he struggled to keep Vivian and Katherine separated.

“It’s not our fight, dear,” Bea said.

“The hell it isn’t.” Cliff pushed Vivian back out of the way and ushered Katherine toward the front door. “I apologize for my family, but it would be best for you if you just stay clear of them all from now on.”

Tears of frustration poured down Katherine’s bruised and scraped face. “But why?”

“For his own reasons and in his own chickenshit way, Alan’s made his choice. Get on with your life, Katherine.”

A sob of complete anguish escaped her. When she stooped down to retrieve her fallen purse, she glanced back toward the parlor and saw Alan standing behind the cherrywood pillar that supported the archway. How long had he been watching? She wanted to hurl her purse and her pain at him, to accuse him of cowardice and lack of honor, to call him a filthy bastard. But instead, she said, “I’ll always love you.”

Winter Solstice, 1944 - Germany

A field commission shortly after D-Day provided Cliff with his lieutenant bars, and he wasn’t pleased. As a matter of fact, his quick succession through the ranks since entering the Army in early 1942 had not been sought, but rather, imposed upon him. He had enjoyed his brief fling with the anonymity of a dogface
GI
; he reveled in having been lost in the mass of humanity. Of course, the problem was he wasn’t ordinary, and that was something he hadn’t been able to hide for any length of time.

Once again, it was Yuletide, and Cliff was alone in his remembrance of Mother Earth and the mystery of her tides. He and his company had come to rest for the day in a barren tract of woodland. As he sat on the frozen ground under the gray, late-afternoon sky, he dug around in his
K
ration for something to offer the Earth as libation. There was a can of meat, some biscuits and crackers, caramel candy, dried coffee and lemon juice, bullion, fruit and chocolate bars, a stick of chewing gum, and a small pack containing four cigarettes. He knew he would need to eat the meat and biscuits for dinner in order to keep up his strength; the coffee and broth — if they were able to have a fire that night — would help to warm him; and the candy and cigarettes would bring him a small measure of pleasure. The fruit bar and lemon crystals were the most comfortably dispensable part of the ration. However, what good was a sacrifice, a spiritual offering, if it were easy? With reverence — and some regret — Cliff broke up the cigarettes and chocolate, and along with the caramel, threw it into some nearby bushes.
Thank you for the gift of life
, he said silently.
Sorry for all the life we’ve taken from you lately.

Cliff had never before had religious sentiments. The war had given him that.

Bob Tucker, a friend of Cliff’s from basic training days at Fort Benning, said, “If you didn’t want it, I would’ve taken it.”

“Bugs got into it.”

“No shit?” Tucker slit open and peered into his own ration.

Cliff tried to think of something to say to change the subject. “Warm enough?” He had developed a strong paternal interest in the welfare of his men over the course of time. It helped the younger infantrymen to deal with the situation better, but it made his watching them die that much more difficult.

“I got on a layer of cotton, a layer of wool, my fatigues, field jacket, overcoat, two pairs of socks, two pairs of gloves, boots, galoshes, a knitted hat from my girl — that was before my induction into the Dear John Club, of course — and my helmet. Can’t move, but, yep, I’m okay warm.”

The Dear John Club. All you needed to join was the all-too-common letter containing the morale-busting words,
I’m sorry, but I’ve met someone else
.

There were times when Cliff even felt jealous of the guys who received Dear Johns. At least it was mail. He had never received any. He was disappointed that neither Glynis nor Alan had reached out to him, but understood that they had grown too afraid of their father to defy his wishes.

“So, why’d McTavish take his guys on ahead?” The question came from Guy Kibbodeaux, a newly assigned medic whom the men called Kibby. A green recruit, his nervousness showed.

“Well, the sarge decided to scout ahead. Makes our journey in the morning that much safer,” Cliff explained.

“I’ve heard you’re one of those objectionables,” Tucker said to Kibby. His tone carried scorn.

“I’m a conscientious objector.”

“Goddamn chicken livers. Who the hell do you think you — ”

“He’s here, right beside you, facing the same enemy,” Father Nolan, one of the company chaplains, said.

“Yeah, but you couldn’t count on him to guard your back. It ain’t fair, Father.”

“Ah, but this young man would die trying to save your ass. Remember that.”

Tucker sighed and dropped his attack.

Kibby sat up on his tree stump a little straighter.

Well done, Father
, Cliff thought.

“Are your reasons religious, son?” Father Nolan asked Kibby.

He nodded. “I’m Buddhist. My grandfather was French ambassador to Siam and took on their religion. It’s been with the family ever since.”

The priest nodded. “I think it’s a fine religion.”

“Ain’t Buddhism what the Japs do?” Tucker asked.

“They practice a kind of Buddhism called Zen,” Father Nolan said. He paused and tugged on his priestly collar. “But I wouldn’t follow where your mind’s trying to lead you, son. A fair number of Germans happen to be Catholic, you see. And I’m just as Yankee Doodle as you.”

Score two for the priest,
Cliff thought
. Wonder what Bobby would think if he knew my religion?
He shrugged to himself
. Oh, well, it’s not really much of a religion anymore. Something got lost along the way. Something’s missing.

Thunder crashed in the distance, and the men were assaulted by a gust of wind that carried the fresh smell of snow. Cliff’s train of thought was lost in the scramble to erect shelter before the storm hit.

Trees broken and shattered by recent battle provided the unit with the raw material to build lean-tos. And the lean-tos provided them with the privacy to build small fires so they could heat their rations. Lately, as invaders into enemy territory, they had been too wary of revealing their position to risk the comfort of fire. When the storm finally came, it was a harsh blast of freezing rain, punctuated by repeated rounds of thunder and lightning. The fury of the wind was inescapable even in their shelters, and they struggled to keep their small fires alive.

Cliff and Father Nolan ended up alone together in one of the lean-tos. They heated water and reconstituted the coffee, then put their tins of hash over the flames to warm.

“You’re a good leader,” Cliff said.

“So are you.”

Cliff shrugged.

“You care about your men. And your command decisions have been amazingly … lucky. You have a magic genie or something?” The priest’s bright blue eyes flickered with keen curiosity.

“Yeah, he’s a family pet.”

“Mmmm. He’s priceless. Keep him well fed.”

“I try to.”

Father Nolan slurped his coffee noisily. “I noticed. Ain’t many bugs around in the midst of winter.”

Cliff looked at the priest with surprise. He wondered how much the priest had figured out, but his mind chose not to probe. His war experience had taught him — for the most part — to respect the privacy of other men’s thoughts. “Not many,” he agreed.

“Your records don’t list a preferred religion.”

“I have my own beliefs.”

“Do they include a god?”

Cliff nodded.

“Any particular kind of god?”

“One who is born, dies, and is resurrected.”

“But not Christ.”

Cliff shook his head.

“The myth of the dying god has surfaced in many of the religions man has practiced throughout time. But Christ was the only one I know of who actually played it out in the flesh. Kind of the living fulfillment of that concept.”

Cliff had never thought about it like that.

“The Virgin Mary is kind of like an incarnation of the Mother Goddess the ancients used to worship, too,” Father Nolan said.

Cliff grinned. Despite his best efforts to discipline himself, his mind couldn’t resist the urge to invade the priest’s.

Father Nolan had figured him out.

“You certainly know your ancient religions, Father.”

“They were a special focus of mine in the seminary. A personal thing.”

“Have you found it’s come in handy?”

“Oh, every once in a while. Every once in a while.”

Cliff was finishing up the last of his hash when he heard the scream. It had the characteristic hollow sound that was the quality of his gift. The scream was lingering and carried with it the smell of burning flesh; it belonged to Sergeant McTavish. Cliff shuddered and dropped the tin and fork he was holding.

Father Nolan looked up from his meal. “What?”

“McTavish and his men are under attack. We’ve got to help them.”

The priest didn’t question Cliff’s knowledge. “Let’s go.”

Cliff rounded up the confused and weary company of men, and urged them through the cutting sleet toward where the recon party was trapped. Father Nolan fell in step beside him.