“Hey, Uncle Dubya, Dubya,” I said. “What’s cookin’?”
“Not too much,” he said, his gravelly Arkansas drawl reminding me of what Emory was likely to sound like when he was older. “The sisters are drivin’ your daddy plumb crazy.” Uncle WW gave a tiny chuckle. “He says he’s got a plan.”
That did not sound good. “What does that mean?”
I could picture Uncle WW’s grinning face, the deep wrinkles pulled slightly up, one thumb hooked in the pocket of his denim overalls. “Not my place to tell you.”
“I was just calling to check on everyone.”
“We’re all fine, now that the construction is over. The sisters are off gallivanting somewhere, and Isaac left early this morning, said something about the Bennett brothers?”
“They’re the five-generation fishing family in Morro Bay. He’s taking their photos for his book. I’m scheduled to interview them next week.”
“Guess I’ll be seeing you at the farmers’ market tonight. I’m resting up. This dang ole Parker’s Son disease just throws me somethin’ awful, sometimes. Someone oughta smack that Parker fella and his ornery son.”
I smiled at his nickname for the disease that was slowly taking away his freedom. That was Uncle WW, though. He could make a joke about anything, even his own disability.
“Are you going to be okay tonight?” The farmers’ market could be a stressful place, but especially this week.
“That’s why I’m home restin’ up. The girls and me will be at the historical society booth tryin’ to convince folks to come to the Memory Festival.”
After we talked, I sat back in my chair, contemplating the second free day ahead of me. Setup for the farmers’ market didn’t start until five p.m., and I was caught up on all my paperwork. Though I certainly could clean house or do laundry, I wasn’t in the mood for chores. Since Isaac was working on our book, I decided I should too. That seemed a better use of my time than mopping a kitchen floor that would just get dirty again.
I pulled out the green canvas L.L. Bean briefcase I bought specifically for this project and pulled out my list of interviewees. Isaac and I didn’t start out with a particular agenda regarding whom we’d interview or photograph. We’d agreed that keeping it open this early in the process would allow the book to form itself. We’d let it unfold as we worked, getting inspiration from one person to seek out another. I glanced over my list. Who could I call on the spur of the moment? People were so busy, most interviews took some finagling to arrange.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the pen-and-ink drawing of Scout romping through a field of sunflowers that Stewart Allison, one of the co-op’s longtime artists, gave me last week for an early fortieth birthday present. Stewart caught the wisdom in Scout’s eyes perfectly. After the Memory Festival was over, Scout definitely deserved a day out at the ranch, chasing squirrels and running through mud puddles.
Wisdom made me think of the Coffin Star ladies, specifically Miss Winnie. After finding out she had been a nurse in World War II and a prisoner of war, I thought again about how people were so often judged by their outside appearances.
Miss Winnie. Of course! Why didn’t I think of it last night? She’d be a perfect person to interview for the book. Home had to really mean something special to someone who’d gone through an experience where they weren’t sure if they’d ever see home again. But would she agree to it?
I flipped through my old school Rolodex and found her number. It was eleven thirty, so maybe she was already at lunch, but I took a chance and dialed her number. Miss Winnie answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Miss Winnie, it’s Benni Ortiz.”
“Hello, dear! You just caught me on my way to lunch. It’s fried chicken day, and I want to get there while it’s still crispy.”
“I don’t blame you. I won’t keep you but a second. I have a huge favor to ask.”
“Certainly. What do you need?”
I bit at a rough spot on my thumb. “I’d love to interview you for this book Isaac Lyons and I are doing. Then he’ll take your photo. I . . . I want to ask about your experiences in the war and your feelings about what home means.”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely. When?”
“I know this is short notice, but I have this afternoon free.”
“How about one thirty? We can meet in my room, and then we’ll go out to the garden. It’s been so rainy, and I want to take advantage of the brief sunshine.”
“Thanks, Miss Winnie. I’ll be there.”
I hung up and gathered up my tape recorder, notebook and a couple of pens. A kernel of excitement tickled my stomach. It was the way I always felt when I was able to do what I loved the most, historical research. I loved my job as museum curator and I loved being a cattle rancher. I didn’t even mind being a police chief’s wife. But my passion was history, specifically oral history. It was the one thing that I felt was truly mine. I had a good feeling about this interview with Winnie Dalton. Depending on the photograph, I could imagine her being the cover of the book, though that was ultimately Isaac’s decision, not mine.
Outside, the sky was a brilliant shade of blue that could only be called California blue, a blue so clear and clean with the palest shade of aquamarine hovering around the edges. Scattered across that sky were clouds so perfect they could be applying for a job modeling for a Hollywood talent agency—fluffy on top, flat on the bottom. They seemed to hang by thin piano strings moving just enough to imagine an unseen hand somewhere making them sway.
I was staring up at the performing clouds when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Have some info for my nosy cousin,” Emory said.
I opened my truck’s door and tossed my briefcase on the seat. “That was unbelievably fast.”
“It’s the computer age, my little backwoods cousin. It took my investigator about fifteen minutes. It’s a short report, purely stuff she acquired from Internet sources. She could follow up, check it out in more detail by talking to folks, but I wanted to run what we have by you first. Unfortunately, I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.”
I felt my stomach roil and the clouds that had looked so innocent moments ago now had tinges of gray in them. Dark gray. Like the sedan parked in front of the Harper ranch house. “What is it?”
“It is exactly nothing. She is who she says she is. Linda Snider. Born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1946. That would make her fifty-two. Divorced with no children. Both parents have passed away. No siblings. Started school in Berkeley, finished at Washington State. Major was accounting. Worked in the accounts payable department for twenty-three years for Humboldt Manufacturing. They make replacement parts for big assembly lines. You know, for companies like Nabisco and Coca-Cola. She took early retirement and still owns a condo up in Seattle. She is who she appears to be. A nice middle-aged accountant looking for a place to put down roots. Looks like your mystery balloon just lost all its helium.”
I knew I should be happy that she wasn’t some ex-girlfriend of Gabe’s or someone else with a nefarious motive. It should have relieved my mind knowing that she was just who she said she was. So why was my gut still thick with something that felt like a huge knot?
“Thanks for humoring me,” I said, not wanting to sound ungrateful. “I guess I was barking up the wrong tree.”
“You sound disappointed. Seriously, you can trust this investigator. But if you want, we can dig deeper, maybe contact an investigator up in Seattle.”
“No, no, that would be overkill. I guess my instincts were just off this time. It doesn’t explain why she was checking out the Harper ranch . . .”
“If it was her.”
“Touché. Maybe I’m searching for fleas when it’s just that the dog has an innocent itch.”
“You sound more and more like Dove every day,” Emory said with a laugh. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. I have a copy of her driver’s license if you want to pick it up
here at the office. Betsy sent it as an attachment. I’ll print it off for you.”
“A private investigator named Betsy. Somehow that doesn’t sound right.”
“She has a master’s degree in criminal justice and was a Detroit homicide detective for ten years. She didn’t feel like she needed a macho name.”
“Touché numero dos, cuz. See you tonight?”
“I’ll be the one munching on a disgustingly delicious giant turkey leg.”
On the fifteen-minute drive to Oak Terrace, I told myself to let this suspicion about Lin Snider go. If I’d had a therapist, I suspected what she or he would likely point out was that I was attempting to avoid the real problem in my life, a husband who was teetering on an emotional breakdown. What I really needed to concentrate on was figuring out a way to convince him he needed . . . we needed . . . professional help. The thought of sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives was simply unacceptable. But being hit by my husband, even accidentally, was unacceptable too.
I found Miss Winnie in her room sitting in a green and yellow calico easy chair. She cradled a bulky green leather photo album in her lap. The walls of her south-facing room were covered with a soft yellow wallpaper dotted with tiny white daisies. Photos of her family hung on all four walls—her late husband, Frank; her son, Billy; and her three granddaughters. The youngest granddaughter reigned as last year’s Miss San Celina County at Mid-State Fair. Frank, who I remembered as a practical joker with a penchant for silly humor items like hand buzzers and whoopee cushions, died of a heart attack a few months after Jack’s death.
“Hi,” I said, setting my briefcase on the floor. “What have you got there?”
“I kept a few photographs and some articles about the nurses who served with me. A while back, some nice lady from back East visited me. She was writing a book about the nurses captured by the Japanese in the Philippines. We exchanged copies of pictures, so I have more now. Some of them were taken by Japanese photographers while we were in the camp, some after we were released.” She patted the top of the album. “I don’t think about it much anymore. Some days it seems so hazy, like it happened to someone else. But the proof is all here.”
I reached for the album. “May I?”
“Certainly.”
I took the album, lumpy with photographs and articles, and sat down on the straight chair next to Miss Winnie, turning each bulky page slowly, trying to absorb the enormity of her history. She had divided her Philippines album in three sections—before, during and after her capture. Before photographs showed glamorous, classy-looking whitewashed buildings surrounded by palm trees. Inside they appeared airy and resplendent with tiled floors, sweeping staircases and tropical wicker furniture. The nurses wore spotless white uniforms and starched hats, smiling like movie stars. But in the smaller second section the photographs abruptly changed and showed blurred images of shanty-like buildings and tents, rows of people lying on the ground under a tangle of jungle trees, the nurses staring at the camera, their eyes sad and distant, their lips stoic. My expression must have given away my feelings.
“That’s before we were captured, right after the war began,” Miss Winnie said softly. “We had a full hospital out in the jungle to take care of our injured boys. It was hard and frightening, but at that point we were still free.”
I looked up at her calm face. “I don’t even know what to ask you. Isaac’s book has to do with home, specifically San Celina as home.” I looked down at a black and white photograph of a list of handwritten names. “What’s this?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “When we were captured in Bataan we wanted to leave a record of who we were. You know, in case they never found us. So we all signed this piece of bedsheet. See, there’s my name.” She pointed to her scrawled signature—Winifred Eliza Norman. “The photo was sent to me by one of the nurses I stayed in touch with. She lived in Washington, D.C., until she passed away three years ago. A historian she knew found the photo in some museum there, and he made a copy for her. I’m not sure if the original sheet survived the war.”
I stared at the lists of names, trying to imagine what it must have felt like, how terrified the women must have been. “How long were you there?”
“Almost three years.” Her brown eyes looked past me.
“Where was Frank?”
“He was over in Sicily, but we didn’t even meet until after the war.” She brushed at the crocheted afghan spread over her legs. “We became acquainted at the Los Angeles VA hospital in 1949. He was having a hernia repaired.” Her laugh was a young-sounding tinkle. “I was his nurse.”
“Tell me about him when he was young.” I didn’t want to jump right into her time in the prison camp. Talking about Frank would be a good warm-up. While she talked, I flipped through the third section of the album, photos of a triumphant return to the States and newspaper articles about their capture and time in the camps. What an invaluable piece of history. Though I was a little afraid it might sound insensitive, I wanted to make sure this scrapbook wasn’t lost. After all, Miss Winnie was in her late eighties.
“I hope you’re leaving this album to someone in your family who realizes its importance.” I carefully closed the album, resting my hand on its cover.
“I am. The Coffin Star girls have been after me for ages to make sure that it was properly taken care of in case I unexpectedly kick the bucket.” She gave another girlish laugh. “Not that it would exactly be unexpected at eighty-eight and a half. Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. I want to donate it to the historical society with the assurances that it will be properly cared for.”
“Miss Winnie, that’s so generous of you! You know the historical society would love to add it to their collection. I’ll catalog it myself. Are you sure it’s okay with your family?”
She sat forward in her chair, pushing back the afghan. “Billy’s fine with it. You can give him a call to set your mind at ease that you’re not swindling an old lady. I think he was relieved not to have to deal with it. And my granddaughters—they’re sweet girls, but right now all they think is important is boys, shoes and those funny little things they carry their music on.”
I smiled at her. “That’ll change.”
“One can certainly hope.”
“I’ll propose to the historical society that we have these pages scanned. That way I can have a copy made for your family. They have funds for this sort of thing.” I would also look into having her copy bound into a book. I knew there were places that did that because Emory and Elvia had recently had Sophie’s first six months of photos made into a bound book. I’d ask Emory where he got Sophie’s done. No matter what the cost, I would pay for it myself.
“Take it with you,” she said, waving her hand as if she were casually giving me the last two cookies in a Christmas tin.
“Not now,” I said. “Don’t you want to keep it so you can look at it?”
She tapped her temple. “I have it all up here, Benni. Nobody can take that from me.”
I set the book on her chenille bedspread. “Now I want to ask you the questions for our book. Isaac will be in touch with you soon about taking your photo.”
“Will you come with him?”
“Depends. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”
She gave me a flirtatious smile. “Oh, I don’t mind being alone with Mr. Lyons. He’s quite the handsome gentleman.”
I laughed. “Yes, he is. Did you know he was a photographer during the war? You and he could probably exchange war stories for days.”
We decided to finish the interview out in the garden so she could get some sun and observe what was blooming.
“Flowers really became important to me when we were in the jungle hospital, before we were put in the camp,” she said, while I pushed her wheelchair down the carpeted hallway toward the garden. “The flowers in the Philippines were gorgeous—bright red hibiscus and gardenias so fragrant you’d think you
were living in a perfume factory. After a twenty-four-hour shift in the operating rooms, I’d sometimes lie on my cot and just stare at the flowers. Somehow, they gave me strength. Like God was telling me that there was hope.”
We sat in the center of the garden where a stone bench dedicated to nature lovers had been placed by the local rose society. A western meadowlark landed on a stone birdbath and dipped her copy head to take a drink. Its marigold-colored belly exactly matched the knitted shawl around Winnie’s shoulders.
“Are you warm enough?” I asked, glancing up at the sky, where large patches of blue argued with rapidly expanding battleship clouds. “Looks like we might get more rain soon.”
“I’m fine,” she said, stroking her covered arm. “This cashmere shawl my granddaughters bought me for my birthday is surprisingly warm.” She reached over and touched the bud of a tangerine rose. “You have some questions?”
I pulled out my tape recorder and turned it on. “Just a few. Once I write your story, I’ll let you look at it to verify that I recorded the details correctly. Since the subject for this book is home, where were you born?” I scooted to the edge of the stone bench, resting my elbow on the armrest and holding the recorder a few feet from her.
She folded her hands in her lap. The thin diamond wedding band on her left finger twinkled in the wan sunlight. “I was born in 1909 in a little two-room house way up in north county. It’s gone now. Termites ate it clean up. It was down the street from Mission San Miguel. Daddy was the foreman of a ranch up there about ten miles east. Mama came to town to stay with a friend when I was close to being due. She didn’t want to be out in the middle of nowhere when I was born. She wanted another woman there. A midwife came up from San Luis Obispo to help deliver me, but I was fast. I got there a half hour before she did.” She gave a delighted laugh. “I was always fast. That’s why the surgeons liked me in the camp. The other nurses too, because I’d finish my work, then help them with theirs. They nicknamed me Speedy.”
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