The Signal Flame

by Andrew Krivak

  Walter was brought up in the business, and when he learned all he wanted to learn about provender, he secured a loan from his father to become Dardan’s sole beer distributor. That was 1910, the year Paul was born. Walter made a fortune throughout the years of World War I and into the early twenties, until Prohibition shut him down. There was nothing he could do but go back to running the store that was still known as Dockens Feed Mill and begin selling off, piece by piece, all the land that his mother and father had passed on to him and that he had believed he would pass on to his son, Paul, were it not for the bills and the debts he ran up to float his business, his appetite for gambling and whiskey, and the occasional whore in the Wilkes-Barre brothels.

  Bo started and looked into the backseat and said, She might hear you.

  Oh, I have no doubt she’s heard all this before, Rovnávaha said. Every word of it. From her father. And none of it good.

  Ruth did wake, just as they turned off the highway into Dardan and went over the bridge and Bo downshifted and drove the long road that wound up to the farm.

  She had never been to the Vinich home, had never even set foot on the land. When they got to the house, she sat up and looked out at the porch columns and tall windows. The gardens and fruit trees in the front yard. The balcony on the second floor, with its wrought-iron railing and glass-paneled French doors through which white curtains swept out and around the glass like waves rising and receding on a shore. She slid to the other side of the seat and scanned the orchard. Rows of apple trees hung with green fruit, and chickens pecked and scratched around a stand of them in the back.

  Bo, I won’t stay long, she said nervously, the sleep still in her voice. You’ll tell your mother that, won’t you?

  Bo turned around in his seat. And where are you going to go? She’s been waiting for you. We’ve got a room all set upstairs. He pointed to the balcony. That’s the one. And a nurse is going to come this week to check on you.

  I won’t need a nurse.

  I don’t think it’s for you. I think it’s to make sure we’re taking care of you all right.

  I’ll be all right, she said. Two weeks and I’ll be out of your hair and you can get back to your lives.

  Rovnávaha turned around, too, and said, Ruth. It’s what we talked about. This is going to be home for a while. Bo and Mrs. Konar both want you to stay here.

  Hannah had walked out onto the porch and down to the car but stood at a distance as Rovnávaha helped Ruth climb out of the Dart. Krasna moved from Hannah’s side and went to Ruth and licked her fingers. Ruth bent down to pet the old dog, and when she looked up, Hannah was standing in front of her.

  She likes you, Hannah said, and stepped forward and took the girl’s hand. Come on inside, Ruth. I’ll bet you’re hungry. I have lunch all ready for us.

  The men followed the women as they walked slowly, arm in arm, up the front steps and through the door, Ruth’s eyes taking in every detail as she entered the house, and Bo wondered what his brother had told her and what he had not about the world that had shaped the young man whom she loved. The young man who could move from his world to hers so seamlessly, without drawing attention, that he hunted with her father on his grandfather’s own land. The young man who had promised her that, after he came back from Vietnam, he would never leave her again. And she had believed him.

  Where is he now? Bo wondered. Now that she is here?

  Hannah had made a mushroom soup and barley salad with fresh tomatoes for their meal. They let Rovnávaha speak once again of what they had seen in the valley, and Hannah mentioned that, though the week was meant to be hot, there was a nice breeze coming through the doors and windows upstairs. Ruth was quiet except to say that she had never tasted a soup as good as this one, and Hannah thanked her and told her she expected her to do nothing around here for a while but eat and sleep.

  After they had coffee, Rovnávaha asked Bo for a ride back to the church. Bo said he had to get over to the mill as well, and they left together in Bo’s truck.

  Hannah saw them out, and when she came back to the kitchen, she found Ruth trying to carry a stack of dishes to the sink before she stopped halfway and left them on the counter and leaned against it holding her side. Hannah ran to her and Ruth said, I’m all right.

  You need some rest, Hannah said. Let’s get you to your room.

  They went down the hall and turned in the foyer for the stairs. Hannah asked if they were too much, but Ruth shook her head and said, It’s about time I started moving some more.

  At the top of the steps, they walked to the end of the hall and Hannah opened the door of the room that was her father’s. The curtains on the balcony doors lifted and swayed, and Hannah walked across the floor and tied the curtains back and turned to face Ruth. This is where you’ll stay, she said. It’s the biggest room in the house. And the brightest. You can use the balcony to read or sleep, and you can put your clothes in that chest of drawers there.

  For the first time Ruth smiled and held out her hands.

  Hannah laughed and said, When you get some clothes.

  Ruth looked across the room at a dresser with three photographs on top of it, and she walked over and held one up: Sam as a baby, with Hannah, Becks, and Bo huddled around. She put it down and moved to the next one of him, in hunter’s orange, holding the head of an eight-point buck. Then she picked up the last one, a color photograph of the young man in his marine dress blues, his jaw looking as though it had been carved out of a block of wood.

  I put those there for you, Hannah said. I had them in my own room and thought they might help you feel a little more at home.

  That’s kind of you, Ruth said. She looked back at the one of Sam as a baby. This was his father? Your husband? she asked.

  Yes. That’s Becks.

  Ruth stood and stared at the photograph, then said, I remember once when we were in high school and Sam came over for dinner and my dad cooked us up some venison stew. Sam really liked it, and my dad really liked him. They talked about hunting and cars and all kinds of things, and afterward, when he was saying goodbye to us, my dad said, Don’t make yourself a stranger around here, Sam Konar. Sam told him he had no plans to and they shook hands. That night my dad was sitting up watching the TV and I came out of my room to ask if anything was wrong. He said, There’s not a morning I rise when I don’t wish I hadn’t shot that boy’s father. Today I wished it twice.

  Hannah sat down on the bed and looked at her hands and then out the window at the top of the cherry tree in the yard.

  He carried that with him every day of his life, Ruth said. My dad. He never stopped being sorry for it.

  It was an accident, Ruth, Hannah said, and turned to look at the girl. We all knew that. I hope your father did, too.

  He did. But you know, he took pride in his skill as a hunter. And although I know now she was just looking for any old reason, it gave my mom a reason to scoot. That hurt him.

  She still held the photograph of the family and she traced her finger along its border. He was handsome, she said. Those eyes are something. Like Bo’s.

  Hannah stood from where she sat and patted the bedspread. Why don’t you get some rest, Ruth, she said.

  Ruth put down the photograph. I’m not tired. What I’d really like to do, Mrs. Konar, is take a bath. I haven’t had a good one in I can’t remember.

  You call me Hannah, Ruth. And I’ll draw you a bath.

  On the side of the room opposite the windows was a white door, and Hannah went through it and Ruth could hear the plug chain drop and water running. Hannah came back through the door with a bath sheet.

  Ruth turned to face the wall and said, Now, don’t look. She let the baggy Levi’s drop to the floor and tried to pull the football jersey over her head but could not. Hannah helped her the rest of the way and wrapped the large towel around her so she was covered from her breasts to her thighs. Then she kicked the jeans and shirt to the side of the room.

  I’ve got some sundresses you can wear,
Hannah said. We’re about the same size.

  A dress would be nice, Ruth said.

  Hannah led her to the door of the bathroom and stopped outside. Let that water get as deep and hot as you like, she said. There’s soap and shampoo and everything right on the shelf.

  Ruth stood with her hand on the crystal knob. I can’t, Hannah, she said. I mean, do this by myself.

  Hannah nodded. I wasn’t sure, but that’s okay.

  She walked Ruth to the edge of the tub and tested the water temperature with her hand, turned the cold tap up a little higher, then helped Ruth unwrap the towel. Ruth put her left arm around Hannah’s shoulder and blushed when their eyes met. Hannah could have lifted her into the tub all by herself, she was so light. Ruth touched her scar with her right hand and said, Still tender. Then she sank slowly into the bath.

  Hannah took a washcloth from a rack on the wall, knelt down on the floor, and lathered the cloth with a bar of Pears soap. She washed Ruth’s back and neck, and soaped along her arms and under her arms, being careful of her abdomen. Then she rinsed the cloth and began to rinse the lather from Ruth’s body with water that she wrung from the cloth and let pour over her arms and neck.

  Did they tell you what happened? Hannah asked.

  I remember some, Ruth said. Father Romanelli, the chaplain, told me the rest. Over a couple of days. There sure was time to stretch it out. They were good to me there, though.

  Hannah helped her raise her legs and lathered the cloth some more and washed Ruth’s thighs and knees and feet, water splashing back into the bath the only sound that echoed off those tile walls, until Hannah heard the sobs and looked to see Ruth’s eyes pressed closed and her lips trembling. Hannah rinsed the soap and dropped the cloth into the water and leaned forward and hugged her. It’s all right, Ruth, she said. It’s all right.

  Ruth broke into a long aching cry as Hannah pulled her in closer and rocked with her in the bath, holding her as she shook and gave no words to the grief that had overcome her, until her breaths evened out and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and pushed a sigh from her as though she had come to the end of an unwanted task.

  They told me the bleeding was so bad I might have died if they hadn’t— She stopped and lowered her head and breathed again. I can’t have any more babies, she said.

  Hannah held her tighter and did not say a thing.

  Ruth heaved to catch her breath and said, It’s like I’ve lost not only what family I had but what family I dreamed of having.

  No, Ruth, Hannah said. That’s not true. I’ve dreamed of having you in my family. You and Sam. And here you are. And I know that Sam’s coming back here, too. You wait and see.

  Ruth nodded, and Hannah rose from the floor and took a bottle of shampoo from a cabinet and wetted Ruth’s hair with the telephone-handle faucet and worked the shampoo with her fingers, then rinsed it slowly.

  I’m taking you down to Marie’s on Friday to get this bob cleaned up, she said. Then she took the towel off the rack and Ruth stood, stepped out of the tub, and faced Hannah, who dried the girl’s hair, wrapped the towel back around her, and kissed her. She led her out into the room and sat her down in a chair at the desk by the window, closed the doors that led to the balcony outside, and said, Stay here while I go get you some clothes.

  When she returned, Ruth was asleep on one side of the bed, still wrapped in the towel. Hannah undid it gently, pulled back the sheet and covered her, and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon when she heard Ruth coming down the steps. Krasna stood up from the floor and wagged her tail and strode along the hall, and the two of them showed in the kitchen a minute later.

  I slept, Ruth said.

  You needed it. Bo will be home in another hour or so. We’re going to have chicken on the firepit tonight. I asked Father Rovnávaha if he wanted to join us, but he can’t. So it’ll just be the three of us.

  I saw chickens when I came in, Ruth said. Are we eating one of them?

  No, Hannah said. You saw Celeste, Venus, and Renée. Celeste is too old and dear to me to eat. She doesn’t even lay. Tonight’s chicken is just a roaster I got at the Acme.

  I wouldn’t know the difference, Ruth said.

  Oh, I bet you would.

  My dad said he kept chickens as a boy. Best eggs in the county.

  I’ll make you some tomorrow morning, Hannah said, and you can decide.

  Bo pulled into the drive at five-thirty and came in the back door and said, I’m a mess from this heat. You’re going to have to wait until I take a shower.

  Go on, then, Hannah said.

  When he came down the stairs and into the kitchen, he wore jeans and a T-shirt and was in his bare feet.

  You feel better? Hannah asked.

  I feel human.

  They put the bird on a spit over the fire Hannah had made in the afternoon, and wrapped russet potatoes in foil and laid them in among the coals. They set the picnic table outside under a winter banana-apple tree and put out the tomato and cucumber salad Ruth had helped chop, and while their dinner cooked and they drank iced tea and cold beer, Hannah told them about the summer Jozef and Becks had built the firepit with fieldstones from the woods over by the paddock.

  They spoke Slovak the whole time, Hannah said. Not a word of English. Well, Papa spoke and Becks did what he was told. They spent all of one Friday gathering the stones, then got up early on Saturday morning and started laying them out one by one. They rested Sunday morning, while my mother and I went to church, and they picked up again when we got home. By supper it was finished. Chimney and all. My mother thought it was a thing of beauty and wanted to cook on it right there, but Papa said, No, no. That mortar needs a few days to cure.

  Where was Becks from? Ruth asked.

  Only my father knew that, Hannah said. He told me he had been at Becks’s birth and that he had saved the boy’s life. This was just after World War I. My father was walking home after spending six months in an Italian prisoner-of-war camp. He came upon a Romani woman. A gypsy. Which was strange, because gypsies never traveled without family. But she was pregnant and pretty far along. It turned out the father was a Hungarian army officer and the girl had run away. When her time came, she told my father that if she died, he was to take the child to their camp on the banks of the Sajó River. And she did die, so my father picked up the boy and started moving fast. The war wasn’t over along that border, and he risked imprisonment if he got caught by the Hungarians. But he did what he had promised the girl. And then he came to America, never giving a second thought to that gypsy whose life he saved.

  Who would believe that? Ruth said.

  Well, that’s not the end of it, Hannah said. When I was a girl of eleven, this boy showed up one afternoon at the front door of the house. His hair was flattened from his hat, and his eyes were a blue like dusk set in almond shells, just like Bo’s over there. And he asked in this heavy accent if Mr. Vinich was at home. I just stood there, speechless. My mother came to the door and told him Mr. Vinich was across town at the mill, but she expected him within the hour. He stared back at her, and my mother took him by the hand and led him into the kitchen, leaving the rucksack that he carried out on the porch.

  We were drinking tea like a party of polite mutes when Papa came in by the back door and the boy looked up at him and rose to his feet and began to speak in Slovak, animated and expressive as he tried over and over to explain why he was there. When he finished, Papa didn’t move, and that boy ran from the kitchen and returned with his rucksack and took an old rusted knife and a sling of coarse cotton from it. Then he said his name was Bexhet, which seemed to hang in the air as the final word. My father sat down in his place at the table, smoothed his hand along the weave of the cloth, and said to me, I wondered when he would come.

  Ruth shook her head and said again, Who would believe that?

  No one, Bo said. That’s who.

  Hannah said nothing, and there was quiet for a
long time.

  When the chicken and potatoes were done, the three who had gathered ate and spoke of the food and how pretty the sunset was, although they could see an ominous bank of clouds rolling in from the east. And when they were finished, they sat at the garden table in the twilight and watched the coals of the fire pulse red and an ashen silver without flame, sat like sated guests at their own feast, silent once again and not wondering what came next, for all that they had strived for in the course of the day lay in the past, and what anxiety each carried lay, at least for the moment, in that past as well. There arose around them the hungry peent of nighthawks as these birds swept and dodged near the barn for moths and mosquitos in the warm night air. The brash, uncanny cry of a northern mockingbird joined them for a few minutes, and then the calls ceased. The night grew darker, and with the dark came the low hooting of a great horned owl from somewhere in the trees, and still the three did not move or speak. Not until they could see the flash of lightning and the thick curtain of clouds that had assembled and stalled in the heat, followed by a low rumble of thunder.

  Hannah stood from the table and said with some regret in her voice, We should go inside. The wind picked up then and shook the trees in gusts, and they cleared the table of everything and had to run the last few feet into the house as the skies opened and their world knew rain again.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  RUTH DID LITTLE MORE THE next day than sleep and eat and sit in the room that had been given to her and stare at the photographs on the dresser. After the nurse left, Hannah knocked to see if she needed anything, and Ruth said no and waited in the room for the next meal and then for the dark. That night Hannah left a pair of sandals, a dress, and some fresh underwear by the door.

  In the morning Ruth came down the stairs after Bo had left for work and thanked Hannah for the clothes that she was wearing.

  Well, sit down and have some coffee, Hannah said, and I’ll be back with those eggs I was bragging about for your breakfast.