When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  Laying aside her paintbrush, Annemarie wiped her hands on a stained rag as she marched to the front of the studio. “Coming, coming . . .”

  When she saw who waited on the other side of the door, her stomach heaved.

  Gilbert.

  No, Lord, I can’t, not today—

  “Annemarie, please let me in. Please.”

  Her hand shook as she reached for the latch. She pulled open the door. “You shouldn’t have come, Gilbert. There’s nothing more to be said between us.”

  His forlorn expression almost made her regret her dismissive tone. He took one step into the shop and glanced around. “I thought maybe Samuel would be here. The hospital would only say he’s no longer a patient Dr. Russ won’t even talk to me.”

  Annemarie crossed her arms. “Can you blame him?”

  “Not in the least.” He cast a sheepish frown toward the floor before lifting pleading eyes to Annemarie. “Please, just tell me where I can find Sam. I need to make things right with him or I won’t be able to live with myself.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t even know where Sam has gone off to.” The truth of her words brought a quaver to her voice.

  “What are you saying? He’s left town?” Gilbert reached out as if to grasp her arm, but when she flinched, he drew back.

  “Yes, he’s gone, thanks to you!” Whatever measure of forgiveness she’d accrued over the past few days evaporated—along with the fragile remnants of hope she’d ever see Sam again.

  Beads of perspiration dotted Gilbert’s ashen face. He gripped the doorframe. “I swear I’ll make this up to you and Sam if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Then, before she could reply, he swiveled on his heel and marched out of the shop. Hugging herself in the doorway, Annemarie watched as he strode up Central Avenue and climbed into the backseat of the Ballards’ sleek Peerless. Seconds later, the car sped away.

  She could only pray Gilbert wouldn’t try anything more impulsively stupid than he’d done already.

  Two long days and nights on the train, and now two sleepless nights in a shabby Denver hotel room while Samuel contemplated what exactly he’d say to Mr. and Mrs. Braswell.

  Provided they’d even agree to talk with him.

  Upon arriving in Denver, he’d made discreet inquiries about the family based on what he remembered about Private Eddie Braswell. The son of a schoolteacher, Eddie was the eldest of five children. Friends said the boy was a mediocre student but a hard worker—always diligent, always dependable, always dutiful. After Wilson declared war, Eddie had been the first among his peers to enlist in the army.

  “Yessiree, he’s sorely missed around here,” an elderly neighbor told Samuel as they stood on the man’s front lawn late Friday afternoon. “You knew him? Served over yonder in France, did you?”

  “I did.” Samuel ran a thumb along the worn edge of his Bible and gazed up the street toward the Braswell home. “Do you know what time Mr. Braswell gets home from school?”

  The neighbor checked his watch. “Anytime now. Five o’clock at the latest. But his wife’ll be home. I’m sure she’d be mighty pleased to chat with someone who knew Eddie from the war.”

  Samuel seriously doubted it.

  “Eddie’s buried somewhere on the front lines, his folks say. Hear tell they can’t even find many of the graves, so those boys’ll never make it home for a proper burial.” The man’s gaze drifted to Samuel’s chaplaincy insignia. “But I reckon you’d know all about that.”

  Samuel gave a solemn nod. A motion caught his eye, and he looked up to see a slump-shouldered man in a brown suit trudging along the sidewalk.

  “There’s Ed Braswell now,” the neighbor said. He clucked his tongue. “Hasn’t been the same since Eddie Junior was killed. Just drifts along like a tumbleweed most days.”

  The man turned in at a picket gate. Steeling himself, Samuel thanked the elderly gentleman for his time and then strode up the street.

  “Mr. Braswell,” he called as the man reached a weathered front door with peeling gray paint.

  Pausing with his hand on the knob, Mr. Braswell turned with a smile that quickly changed to a look of confusion. “A little late for the army to be sending a chaplain by, isn’t it?”

  “The army didn’t send me.” Standing outside the fence, Samuel brushed aside a drooping, unkempt vine. “May I come in, Mr. Braswell? I knew Eddie. I . . . I was with him when he died.”

  An hour later, the truth laid bare before Private Braswell’s parents, Samuel sat with his hands locked around his Bible. He hadn’t opened it once, but simply holding it served to remind him that no matter what happened next, God was with him.

  Slowly he raised his head. “Words will never suffice to express my profound remorse for causing the death of your son. I want you to know that when I leave here, I’m turning myself in to the military authorities.”

  “Is that necessary, Chaplain? We know it was an accident.” Mr. Braswell drew his wife’s hand into his lap. “There’s been plenty of pain to go around. No need adding to it.”

  “Ed’s right,” Mrs. Braswell said through her tears. “Eddie would hate to think of you being punished for his death. He looked up to you—wrote letters talking about how brave you were, how you encouraged all the soldiers with your faith in Jesus. Why, he even wrote that maybe after the war he’d like to become a pastor and serve the Lord just like you.”

  Samuel’s throat closed. He’d come here dreading condemnation at worst, praying for forgiveness at best. He never expected to be blessed so extravagantly through a fallen soldier’s letters home.

  Even so, by morning he’d boarded a train headed for Camp Dix, New Jersey, where he intended to seek out his former battalion commander, set the record straight, and accept whatever disciplinary action a military court deemed appropriate.

  Staring out across fields and forests greening up from spring rains, Samuel fingered the cross pinned to his collar and wondered how much longer he’d be wearing the uniform of an army chaplain.

  32

  Head throbbing from morphine withdrawal, Gilbert reined in his impatience while Colonel Nelson Peters perused a file. The grizzled officer, one side of his face scarred with burns, deftly flipped pages with his left hand. The stump of his right arm was tucked away inside a folded coat sleeve.

  Colonel Peters sat back. “The report says Private Braswell was shot while trying to get his company chaplain out of harm’s way. You’re saying this is incorrect?”

  “No, sir.” Gilbert repressed a growl. “I’m saying Chaplain Vickary may try to submit a different account, and I want to make certain the facts aren’t distorted.”

  Clearly confused, the colonel tapped the pages with his stubby fingers. “But you just told me you weren’t there. Private Braswell’s commanding officer, who cites accounts from actual witnesses, signed off on this report. Exactly which facts are in question here?”

  Gilbert rubbed his jaw. It hadn’t taken much imagination to guess Samuel’s intentions. Honorable to a fault, what else would the man do after regaining his memory but confess his guilt? So Gilbert had made the journey all the way to Camp Dix hoping against hope to arrive in time to keep Sam from possibly ruining the rest of his life. But apparently Sam hadn’t shown up yet, and now Gilbert had talked himself into a corner with no way to backpedal.

  “Excuse me, Colonel.” The adjutant sidled into the office. “Sorry for the interruption, sir, but there’s a Chaplain Samuel Vickary here, and he insists upon seeing you immediately.”

  Colonel Peters arched a brow. “Hmm, as Lewis Carroll’s Alice would say, ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ Then let’s not keep the chaplain waiting. Send him in.”

  “Wait.” Seizing his cane, Gilbert snapped to his feet, locking his artificial knee before he tumbled face down upon the colonel’s desk. “Please, sir, if I could speak with Chaplain Vickary first—”

  “Gilbert?” Cap in hand, Samuel entered the room. A wary look clouded his eyes. “I . . . don’t un
derstand. Why are you here?”

  The colonel pushed his chair back and propped one ankle across the opposite knee. “I’ve been trying to determine that for myself. Chaplain, it seems the lieutenant is concerned you’re going to dispute a battlefield report, and for some reason he thinks he knows more than either you or your company commander.”

  Swiveling to confront Sam, Gilbert lowered his voice to a rasping plea. “Don’t, Sam. Let the report stand.”

  Samuel edged forward. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I’m a cursed fool.” Sweat soaked Gilbert’s armpits. He clenched both fists around the handle of his cane in an effort to still the muscle spasms. “Because I’ve hurt the two friends I value most in this world, and I want to make things right.”

  Forgiveness shone in Samuel’s eyes, but he gave his head a sad shake. “Scripture says, ‘You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ I’m here to make things right, too.”

  “Sam, I’m begging you. Go back to Annemarie and live your life.”

  The colonel stood and strode around his desk. “All right, gentlemen, let’s have some answers. Somebody better explain right now, or I’ll have you both thrown in the brig for wasting my time.”

  Over a week had gone by with not so much as a word from Samuel. Annemarie hefted the misshapen vase she’d removed from the kiln earlier and flung it against the workroom wall. Shards of pottery rained down in a sickly satisfying torrent.

  A deep-throated chuckle sounded behind her. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”

  Cheeks flaming, Annemarie whirled around to face her father. “It was ruined anyway.”

  “Well, it certainly is now.” Papa scanned the room and then marched over to the corner where Annemarie kept a broom and dustpan. He began sweeping up the broken pottery. “I daresay this is no way to run a business, young lady. Producing shoddy inventory? I thought I taught you better.”

  Annemarie might argue with her father if the vase were her only failed attempt. Unfortunately, since Samuel had left town, she’d produced a whole boxful of irregular pieces not worth the clay she’d used.

  She flounced over and yanked the broom from her father’s hands. “I can clean up my own messes, thank you very much.”

  Papa planted his fists against his hips. “Are you sure about that, lassie?” His voice softened. “Because it seems to me you’ve gotten yourself into quite a mess with those two young men in your life.”

  “Don’t lecture me, Papa.”

  “I’m merely stating a fact.” He snatched back the broom and continued sweeping.

  Groaning, Annemarie sank onto the stool at her worktable. “If you’re not here to lecture me, then why are you here in the middle of a workday? Aren’t you needed at the factory?”

  Papa emptied the dustpan into a waste bin and then brushed off his hands. “Truth be told, I’ve been missing my girl. Bad enough your pretty face isn’t gracing the front office anymore. But to make matters worse, you’re rarely home in time for dinner, and you worked so long and hard last weekend you didn’t even go to church with us on Sunday.”

  “I should have, I know. But the thought of facing every-one . . .”

  “By ‘everyone,’ you mean the Ballards, I take it . . . or just one of them in particular?”

  “I can’t help it. After what Gilbert did to Sam—” Even more worrisome was the thought of what he might do next, if he hadn’t already. Annemarie folded her elbows on the table, tears pooling in her eyes.

  “There, now, don’t cry, Annie-girl.” Her father came to her side and enfolded her against his warm, solid chest.

  She snuggled close, taking comfort in the manly potpourri of aromas—smoke and clay and bay rum aftershave. “What if Sam doesn’t come back, Papa? How can I live without him?”

  The rough hand patting her back stilled. Her father straightened. “I don’t believe it’s a question you’ll ever need answered.”

  “What?” Annemarie lifted her head. “Why would you—”

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a shadow in the workroom doorway. Twisting out of her father’s embrace, she gave a shriek and leapt to her feet. “Sam! Oh, Sam!”

  Then she was in his arms, holding him, kissing him, running frantic hands along the stubbly growth of whiskers on his cheeks as if to convince herself she wasn’t dreaming. He looked tired and travel-worn, and smelled faintly of tobacco, but an immutable spark lit his eyes. He cradled her face in his palms before claiming her lips in a passionate kiss that left no doubt her Sam had finally come home.

  Home. Samuel could no longer remember a time when he hadn’t thought of Hot Springs, Arkansas, as home. From the moment he first admitted his love for Annemarie, he’d somehow known home would always mean anywhere she was.

  Loathe as he was to end the kiss, he needed even more to see her face, to look into her eyes and see the love shining there. He swept the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “My darling, my darling, don’t cry.”

  “I was afraid . . . so afraid I’d never see you again.” Sobs choked her. She kept her arms locked around him as if she’d never let him go again. “What were you doing all this time? Why didn’t you call or write?”

  Samuel cast a glance toward Annemarie’s father, who stood a few paces away. “Sir, may I take your daughter for a walk? I have some explaining to do.”

  “I’m sure you do, lad.” Mr. Kendall motioned them toward the rear door. “Not to worry, Annie-girl. I’ll keep an eye on the shop.”

  Annemarie looked none too comfortable leaving the showroom in her father’s care. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she slid her hand into Samuel’s as he closed the door behind them. They walked in silence to the end of the alley and then turned up a long, climbing lane off Central Avenue. West Mountain loomed behind the houses on their right, the trees green and lush with April freshness, the scent of pine heavy in the air.

  “Well? I’m waiting.” Annemarie slowed her pace, while her grip on Samuel’s hand tightened.

  He told her then how he’d searched out Private Braswell’s parents and confessed his responsibility for their son’s death. He told about their incredible kindness, their understanding, and forgiveness. He told how he’d traveled from Denver to Fort Dix to correct the report and turn himself in, only to find Gilbert waiting for him in the colonel’s office.

  “Gilbert was there?” Alarm filled Annemarie’s eyes. “Why?”

  “He wanted to stop me.”

  “Stop you from telling the truth?”

  “I couldn’t let him. I couldn’t have lived with myself otherwise.” Samuel smoothed the worry lines from Annemarie’s forehead. “But it’s all right. Everything’s all right now.”

  It still brought a catch to his throat to realize how the men in his company had tried to protect their chaplain. Colonel Peters had shown him the report, in which everyone questioned swore Braswell had been hit by enemy fire. “Even after I confessed what really happened,” Samuel told Annemarie, “the colonel refused to amend the report. He said as far as he was concerned, ‘enemy fire’ was accurate, because Satan was surely running rampant that day.”

  “Oh, Sam, Sam . . .” Beneath a spreading oak, Annemarie cradled his face in her hand.

  He kissed her fingertips, the earthy taste of clay lingering upon his lips. “On the train ride home I spent more time in my Bible than I had in months. And the Lord kept sending me back to a particular passage again and again—the verses from Jeremiah 18, where he goes down to the potter’s house.”

  Annemarie smiled. “I know the one you mean. ‘And when the vessel that he made of the clay was marred in the hand of the potter, he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it. ’ I’ve pondered the verse many times as I’ve worked at the wheel.”

  “I feel as though I’ve been pounded down and reworked quite a bit this past year.” Samuel drew Annemarie into his arms. “I don’t know yet what God is making me into, but I do k
now His ways are good.”

  “Yes, God is good, and so are you.” Annemarie tilted her head to gaze into his eyes. “You’re a good man, Samuel Vickary. An honorable man. A man I’m proud to know and to love.”

  Samuel swallowed over the lump in his throat. He pressed her hand to his thudding heart. “A man you’d take as your husband?”

  Annemarie’s breath hitched. “Are you proposing?”

  He grinned. “I am.”

  She snuggled closer, her eyes shining. “Then I’m accepting!”

  Epilogue

  It was a perfect June afternoon with not a cloud in the sky, the sun blazing across the Ouachitas in all their forested splendor—a perfect day for a wedding if ever there was one. Only a few short hours ago, Samuel’s bride had promised before God, their families, and half the city of Hot Springs, if the overflowing church pews were any indication, to love, honor, and cherish him as long as they both should live.

  Never had she looked more beautiful.

  Never had he felt more alive and whole.

  “Well?” Annemarie poked him in the ribs. “Are you going to stand there all day with a silly grin on your face, or will you perform the required husbandly duty and carry me over the threshold?”

  He laughed. “Is it a requirement? What if I injure my back? Trip and fall? Drop you on your—”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?” With a provocative grin, Samuel scooped Annemarie into his arms, crushing yards of white satin and lace between them.

  Annemarie gasped. “Sam! What are you—”

  Silencing his bride with a kiss, Samuel carried her through the front door of his newly purchased two-bedroom bungalow and then plopped her onto her feet in the middle of the parlor. “Welcome home, Mrs. Vickary.”

  She sighed and nestled against his chest, and the sweet scent of jasmine filled his nostrils. “Oh, Sam, I’ve never been happier.”