“With all the time you’ve spent on this,” her mother said, “I would’ve thought it would be better.”
And that was the way it had always been between them.
In her mother’s eyes, everything Olivia did had to be perfect; when it inevitably fell short, she wasn’t shy about expressing her dissatisfaction. To Elizabeth, Olivia’s singing voice was too shrill. Her cooking was either too salty or not seasoned enough. For a month, her mother had tried to teach Olivia how to knit but had finally given up in frustration when her daughter hadn’t taken to it. Olivia’s marks in school weren’t high enough. Her friends weren’t the sort a proper lady should consort with.
“Why are you never happy with me?” she’d once asked.
Her mother had answered with a question of her own. “Isn’t that something you should be asking yourself?”
Because of the demands of his job as sheriff, Olivia’s father wasn’t around enough to act as a counterbalance to his wife. When Olivia complained, John would smile knowingly, as if he, too, knew what it was like to be held to Elizabeth’s high standards. But nothing ever changed; if it was his responsibility to provide for the family, it was Olivia’s mother’s to raise the children. With Grace’s birth, there had been a moment when Olivia had held out hope that her mother would ease up, but Elizabeth had instead doubled her efforts, becoming even more restrictive with two daughters than she had been with one.
But the one thing her mother had never interfered with was Olivia’s friendship with Billy Tate. Ever since the day they had met by the creek, Elizabeth had welcomed the boy into the Marsten home with open arms, offering to bake cookies, giving Billy a gift at Christmas, and always asking about his father. Olivia knew that the only reason her mother did these things was that Wellington Tate was the president of the bank and she hoped that being associated with him would raise her own family’s standing, but Olivia didn’t mind; anything that kept her mother’s displeasure at bay was fine by her.
Still, Olivia wondered if her mother hadn’t been hoping for a romance between her and Billy all along.
The first time a boy had shown a romantic interest in Olivia, the summer she turned twelve, Elizabeth hadn’t approved and had kept her daughter indoors for almost a month; by the time Olivia could go out, her suitor’s attentions had wandered somewhere else. But there had never been any such restrictions with Billy. Had her mother seen a spark pass between them? Something that Olivia had missed? Had she known that someday Billy would ask her to be his wife?
Unfortunately, Olivia knew that now, when she desperately wanted to talk about her doubts about marrying Billy, her mother wasn’t an option. Their relationship wouldn’t allow for it. Elizabeth would think her crazy for even considering turning down his proposal, would take it as an affront to her parenting, and would excuse her worries as the normal jitters every soon-to-be bride faced. Regardless of how much Olivia might want to discuss it, she couldn’t.
She was all alone.
Olivia sat at the window seat in her bedroom and stared out into the night sky. The moon hung high above the trees, half-illuminated. Thousands of stars dappled the darkness, twinkling brightly. A brisk wind blew the tops of the trees back and forth; even with the window shut, she had wrapped herself in a blanket to stay warm.
Downstairs, Olivia could still hear the sounds of the dinner table being cleared. She knew that her mother would be upset with her for not helping, but after all that she had just endured she’d needed some time for herself.
Her mother had gone to great lengths to show how excited she was about her daughter’s engagement, making telephone calls to relatives and starting preparations for the wedding by writing out a long list of things that would need to be done. Olivia had retreated to the kitchen, her mind twisting and turning as if it were caught in a storm. Checking the stove, tears had suddenly filled her eyes, but Olivia had stamped them down quickly. Her father had arrived just as she was taking out the roast, kissing the top of her head on his way to the dinner table; it had been a struggle for Olivia to smile in return, but somehow she’d managed.
Grace had wandered in just in time to eat. Fourteen years old, Olivia’s sister was every bit a tomboy, the exact opposite of the prim and proper girl Elizabeth wanted her to be. She plopped down in her seat, her sandy-blond hair unkempt and plastered against her scalp with sweat. A streak of grime dirtied one of her cheeks, and her hands were so filthy that Olivia imagined that her sister had spent the afternoon rummaging around in the city dump. Her clothes were just as messy; her mother surely considered them the attire of a tramp or vagrant.
“Go clean yourself up this instant,” Elizabeth ordered, aghast at her daughter’s appearance. “You know better than to sit down looking like that.”
Grace groaned before finally lurching to her feet and halfheartedly washing away the day’s adventure.
After saying a blessing but before anyone could begin filling their plates, her father stood and raised his glass. Looking at Olivia, he said, “I do believe this occasion calls for a toast.”
Elizabeth smiled brightly. For Olivia, it was a struggle just to look happy; as she raised her glass, she was relieved to see that it wasn’t shaking. She hazarded a glance at Grace; her sister looked from one face to the next, clearly confused.
“To Olivia and Billy,” her father announced. “May their marriage be filled with happiness.”
“Marriage?” Grace blurted incredulously. “To Billy Tate?”
“He proposed today,” John explained; Olivia was glad that he had answered, because she wasn’t certain she would’ve been able.
“And you said ‘yes’?” her sister asked.
This time, it was her mother who came to her aid. “I don’t think your father would’ve proposed a toast if she’d turned him down.”
Grace stared at Olivia from across the table, her expression one of bewilderment. She couldn’t really blame her sister; sitting there at the table and listening as her family began to talk about her engagement, it seemed unbelievable to her, too. Between her mother’s happiness, her father’s warnings, and her sister’s surprise, to say nothing of her own worries, Olivia had no idea what to think. But in her heart, Olivia knew that it was too late to change her mind. She couldn’t break off the engagement now.
She was caught in a trap of her own making.
As her mother and father discussed how to announce her engagement, even details of the wedding itself, Olivia stared down at her untouched plate and kept quiet. She marveled at how much her life had changed with the uttering of a single word.
Olivia was still staring out her bedroom window, lost in thought, when she was startled by a short, insistent knock on the door. Her heart pounded; she was sure it was her mother, and the last thing she wanted was more of Elizabeth’s enthusiasm. But just as Olivia was about to answer, the door swung open and Grace slipped inside. Her sister quickly hurried over to where she sat.
“You’re marrying Billy?” she asked, her voice as full of disbelief as it had been at the dinner table.
All throughout the meal, as their parents talked, Olivia had felt Grace’s eyes on her, imploring her to look up, to give an explanation for what she’d done. Frustrated, Grace had even kicked Olivia’s shin beneath the table. Even then, Olivia hadn’t given her sister the attention she’d wanted, but had kept looking down, absently pushing peas around her plate. But now she couldn’t ignore Grace any longer.
Olivia nodded.
“What happened?” Grace demanded. “And don’t you dare leave anything out!”
So Olivia recounted the whole story, beginning with Billy’s arrival at the hardware store and ending when she watched him on his way back to work.
“And you had no idea it was coming?” Grace asked.
“Not a clue.”
Olivia had spent the whole day asking herself the same question, searching back over the last couple of weeks for something that should have given away Billy’s intentions, but she’
d come up empty. There hadn’t been any uncomfortable silences between them, no unexpected phone calls or awkward embraces, not even a stare that had lingered a little too long. Try as she might, she couldn’t find anything to indicate that he had been about to propose.
“Do you love him?”
Grace’s words shook Olivia because she had no answer. Oddly enough, neither of her parents had asked; she doubted that it mattered to her mother and figured that her father just assumed she did, otherwise, why else would she have accepted? But the truth was far more complicated than that.
“I do…and I don’t…” she admitted.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Grace said, shaking her head.
“Billy is the best friend I’ve ever had,” Olivia explained, “and for that, I love him with all my heart.” She paused, struggling to find the right words. “But when it comes to romance, to loving him like a woman should love a man, especially one who wants to be her husband, I…I…”
“You don’t,” her sister finished for her.
Once again, Olivia could only nod.
“Then why didn’t you turn him down?” Grace pressed.
“I couldn’t break his heart,” Olivia answered. “I just couldn’t. Not now…not just before he leaves for the Navy.”
“That’s crazy!”
“If you could’ve seen the look in his eyes when I hesitated, you’d understand,” she said, remembering the way Billy’s smile had faltered, his hope fading. “If I’d turned him down, it would’ve killed him.”
“But what about you?” Grace asked. “You’re not supposed to marry someone you aren’t in love with because of what it would do to him!”
“It’s too late now.”
“No, it isn’t!”
“Yes, it is,” Olivia insisted. “If I tell Billy that I’ve changed my mind, it’ll be even worse than if I’d turned him down in the first place.”
“So instead you’ll just go along with it and hope that someday you fall in love with him?” Grace argued. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“What do you know about love?”
“Not much,” her sister admitted, “but what you’re describing sounds like something straight out of the movies.”
Even as bad as she felt, Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. Still, a part of her was impressed by her sister’s argument. She and Grace, despite the very different ways in which they dealt with their mother and her demands, had remained close, defending each other at every turn. In many of Olivia’s earliest memories of her friendship with Billy, Grace had been there, tagging along as they splashed in the creek, laughing at Billy’s stupid jokes, and chasing fireflies through the summer night. In some ways, Grace’s trouble in understanding her decision to marry Billy was the most damning of all.
“What did Mom say when you told her?” her sister asked.
Olivia sighed. “She was as happy as I’ve ever seen her,” she answered. “She thinks Billy is the best husband I could ever find.”
Grace didn’t say a word, but Olivia knew just what she was thinking; that her mother was wrong and that if it were her, she would, just as with most everything else the two of them disagreed about, fight against it with all of her might.
What she couldn’t understand was why her sister wasn’t doing the same.
In a way, neither could Olivia.
Chapter Five
PETER FELT UNEASY being on a train again so soon after the crash. Even as the memories of darkness and the screams of men teased at the corners of his mind, the steady clickety-clack of the rails was trying to rock him back to sleep; he’d been dozing fitfully for hours. His feet were splayed out on the floor of the mostly empty freight car and his clothes were still damp and dirty from running through the thunderstorm.
His back rested against the rail car’s wall. He sat beside the open door, chilled by the wind, his face turned to look outside. The spring morning was glorious; the sun was rising in a sky colored the blue of a robin’s egg. Low-lying fog clung to the riverbeds and fields, slowly burning away as the sun continued to climb. Peter had no idea where they were, only that they were heading back the way they’d come, going east. Even as shaken as he was, he could still see the beauty of this land, the country of his father and therefore his own, if by nothing more than blood.
Otto sat silently beside him; the chain that still bound them together wouldn’t let him get too far away. His fellow prisoner stared silently at the passing landscape. He looked wide awake; Peter hadn’t seen him yawn once or close his eyes for longer than a blink. Occasionally, he leaned forward and peered out of the freight car in the direction the train was heading.
Neither of them had said a word for hours.
After leaving the wrecked prison train and escaping into the woods, they had run for hours, dodging fallen tree limbs and outcroppings of rock, forcing their way through sharp thorn bushes, all while getting drenched by the raging storm. With every step, Peter kept expecting to hear their pursuers bearing down on them, soldiers shouting for them to stop, followed by the crack of a rifle as it was fired. But all he ever heard was thunder and their heavy, weary breathing. Eventually, they came to a broad river, swollen from the storm.
“Are we going to cross?” Peter had asked.
“Not here,” Otto answered. “The water’s moving too fast. We’ll follow it upstream and see if there’s a bridge or some sort of narrowing.”
As they ran, Otto had Peter periodically step into the cold water, the river filling his boots in seconds.
“If they use dogs to track us,” he explained, “it’ll throw off the scent.”
On and on they went.
The storm finally lessened, then fell away altogether; the clouds broke apart, allowing the moon to drift in and out of sight. Rain glistened from every surface. Peter was soaked to the bone, and the night chill made him so cold that his teeth chattered. Hours later, they came to an old rail trestle; in the faint moonlight, it resembled the skeleton of some wild beast. Climbing the rocky embankment, they carefully crossed the bridge and entered the forest beyond.
“How much farther are we going to go?” Peter asked.
“As far as it takes,” Otto answered; in unspoken anger at having his decisions questioned, he pushed them harder, tugging on the chain whenever Peter lagged behind.
Then, just as Peter’s exhaustion had gotten so bad that he thought he would collapse, the night was filled with a familiar sound. Hiding in the bushes, they watched as another train chugged down the tracks, its light cutting through the darkness.
“We have to get on it,” Otto said.
Peter was too tired to answer.
Freight cars whizzed past. Watching down the line, Otto saw one whose door stood partially open; without hesitation, he was on his feet and running toward it. Peter followed, stumbling over the broken rock beside the track, struggling not to fall. The train was moving fast enough that he knew he would only get one try. Otto leaped first and scrabbled his way inside. Then it was Peter’s turn, but even as he tried to time his jump, he knew it was too late; running from the wrecked train had sapped all of his strength. He was going to fail. Suddenly, he was pulled from his feet, the clasp of his remaining handcuff biting deep into his wrist. He looked up to find Otto pulling furiously on the chain that still bound them, reeling him to safety. With a loud grunt, Peter collapsed onto the train car floor. He knew Otto hadn’t saved him out of compassion or friendship, but for self-preservation; because of the chain, if Peter wasn’t in the train, Otto couldn’t be either. He was thankful all the same.
Peter didn’t know how long he’d slept, but now that he was awake, watching America race by outside, hunger had become a more pressing concern. His stomach grumbled, empty. It had been a long time since he’d last eaten; the prisoner train had stopped the previous afternoon, providing sandwiches and weak coffee. Running through the storm, he and Otto had drunk from the river, but there’d been nothing to eat. Though his hunger was unc
omfortable, Peter tried his best to ignore it; after all, there was no telling how long it would be before something could be found.
Unexpectedly, Peter felt the train shudder; almost imperceptibly at first, they began to slow. Otto reacted quickly, sticking his head out to see what was happening; from the look that passed over his face, it wasn’t good.
“We have to get off,” he explained.
Surprise filled Peter. “Why?” he asked; after all that they’d done to get inside, he didn’t like the idea of leaving.
“There’s a town ahead.”
“So?” he asked. “We’ve passed through others.”
Otto shook his head. “That was during the night,” he explained. “Chances are that no one was looking for us then. It’ll be different during the day. Flashlights can’t illuminate everything in the dark, but under this sun,” he said, nodding toward the sky, “there’ll be nowhere we can hide.”
“Then how do we get off?”
“We jump.”
Sticking his head out, Peter looked ahead. A town was quickly approaching; in the distance he saw a church steeple and a few houses. The depot might be in the center; if they waited, there’d be nowhere for them to run. They’d be found out.
They stood at the edge of the freight car, the chain hanging between them. Even though the train continued to slow, Peter knew that they were still going fast enough that their landing wouldn’t be an easy one.
“Now,” Otto hissed.
When they leaped from the train, Peter had the sensation that they were hanging in air, frozen in place, but it only lasted for an instant. Then they began rushing toward the slanted embankment of dirt and rock, hitting the ground hard before rolling. Something struck Peter’s hip, causing it to burn with pain. They scrambled for cover in some bushes and then quickly turned back toward the train; they watched intently for a sign that they’d been spotted, but the cars just rolled by.
“What do we do now?” Peter asked.
“Scout around,” Otto answered. “Look for something to eat or an automobile we can steal.” Jingling the chain, he added, “Maybe we can find a way to cut this damned thing.”
Take Me Home (9781455552078) Page 5