The Deepest Sigh

by Naomi Musch

  Their plates were almost empty, and Emmett was looking drowsy when someone knocked on the door. Marilla felt a moment of panic, but gathered her wits. "I wonder who that could be." She rose and went to the door, opening it to Delia standing there in the dusk of day. "Delia."

  Delia fidgeted. "Hello, Rilla. Mind if I come in?"

  Marilla glanced at Jacob and opened the door. "No, please. Come in."

  Delia must have parked behind Jacob's car in the drive and realized he was inside. She would have had time to school her surprise at seeing him there. "Jacob brought me groceries and stayed for dinner," Marilla explained. It sounded like the excuse it was.

  Delia gave him a nod. "Hello, Jacob. It's nice to see you."

  "And you. Marilla tells me Theo will be home for Christmas."

  "We hope so. He is receiving therapy and has a ways to go before he can safely travel and be expected to handle things at home."

  "But he is better?"

  Delia nodded. "Yes. So he says. He's just so anxious to be home." Her gaze turned to Marilla, a penetrating one at that. "And I am anxious for him to come home too. I miss him terribly."

  Marilla then noticed that Delia held a letter, an envelope folded in half, pressed hard in her fingers. A knot tightened in Marilla's throat, and she swallowed. "Is anything wrong?"

  Delia glanced at Jacob and back to Marilla. "Can we talk?"

  Marilla looked to Jacob again. He busied himself cleaning Emmett's face. "Come with me." She took Delia into the bedroom and shut the door, glad that Lang had replaced the curtain separating them from the other room. Marilla took a seat on the bed atop the quilt she'd made last year, but Delia didn't sit. She paced to the dresser and then turned to face Marilla. "Rilla, I need to ask you about something. It's about your marriage." Her eyes drifted to Marilla's belly and back.

  "If this is about Jacob—"

  Delia shook her head. "It isn't. It's about Lang."

  "You know."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That it isn't me he loves." She looked at the letter Delia held. "He's told you, hasn't he? If he never has before, I mean."

  Delia stared at her, her eyes glistening. She nodded and held the letter out. "I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to tell you, but...it's only fair."

  Marilla recognized the writing. "Just tell me." Tears swam in her eyes, and all without knowing why. She had known the truth. Now he'd written it in a letter. Lang couldn't be hurt, could he? It couldn't be...anything else.

  Delia lowered her arm but didn't open the letter. "I'd rather not say. It's too"—she shook her head—"too terrible." Tears trickled down her face, and then she rushed forward and sat beside Marilla. She pulled her into an embrace. "I'm sorry, Rilla. I'm so, so sorry. I would never hurt you. Never. Never ever!" She loosened her hold and fumbled with the letter.

  Marilla slipped it from her hand and opened it. Silence fell between them as she read. Stones filled her gut, filled her right up until she feared she might heave. With care, she folded the letter again and pushed it back inside the envelope along with her sick feeling.

  "Burn it," Delia said. "Burn it up and forget it if you can. But I had to tell you. It wasn't fair you didn't know what he'd done. I care nothing for him, Rilla. Honestly."

  Marilla nodded, a numb reaction to Delia's heartfelt insistence.

  "Do you believe me? I will always only love Theo. I promise. I won't let Lang come to our house when he returns, not unless it's to see Theo. I won't speak to him. I won't go to the farm to do chores with him. Nothing. I promise."

  Rilla raised her gaze. She swallowed, and the movement released tears down her cheeks. Delia hugged her again, but Marilla pushed away. "It's all right, Delia. I know. I've known..."

  "Please don't hate me."

  "I don't hate you,” Marilla whispered. “I don't even hate Lang." She wiped away her tears on the back of her hand, and Delia jumped from the bed and opened her top dresser drawer, rummaging for a handkerchief. She handed one to Rilla. "Thank you." Rilla set the letter on the bed, wiped her face, and blew her nose. "I'm all right."

  "You're having his baby. How could he do this to you?" Marilla looked up at Delia's face, saw it twisted in horror.

  "It's okay. This baby will be just as loved as our other children." She laid her hand on the unborn babe. "You'll see."

  Delia sat beside her again and laid her hands over Marilla's. "I will love the baby too, and so will Theo."

  Marilla nodded and pushed up from the bed. "I have company. I should go back."

  Delia stared at her another moment then nodded and stood.

  "Would you like to join us? There's plenty."

  "You wouldn't mind? Not after that?" Delia gave a pointed glance at the letter lying on the quilt.

  Marilla shook her head.

  They returned to the other room, and Jacob gave them a smile, but his glance at Marilla was filled with concern. They had become close enough friends that she didn't feel the need to hide her red, swollen eyes. "It's all right, Jacob. No one is hurt. Delia is joining us."

  She retrieved another place setting as Emmett began to fuss. "He's tired," Jacob said.

  Delia went to him. "I'll help you, Em." She lifted him from his seat and pulled him to her lap. He laid his head against her and she stroked it.

  As Marilla set a plate and silverware before her, Delia's eyes flew wide and horrified. Marilla stilled. "What's wrong?"

  "It's Emmett. He's very warm."

  ~~~~~

  November 1918

  No. He didn't want another child. No! How could she be pregnant? There had just been that one night, the night she'd clung to him like all was forgiven.

  Lang crushed the letter into a ball, drawing Dickie's attention.

  "Hey now, I'll take that letter if you're just going to waste it. What's the matter? Is it a Dear John?"

  Lang hardly heard him, and he sure didn't feel like answering.

  Lang, this will come as a surprise, I'm sure, but we're going to have another baby. I didn't want to tell you sooner. I didn't want to worry you. But come February...

  He hadn't even read the rest. There wasn't much to it anyway. He leaned his head into the mud and closed his eyes. He opened them when Dickie snatched the note out of his hand. It didn't matter.

  Dickie let out a low whistle. "Another kid, huh? Wow, you must've had some good times before the army caught you." He laughed. Lang couldn't join him. "Come on, it ain't that bad. You won't have to be around when he cries at night. By the time you get home, he'll be past all that."

  "You're not helping," Lang said at last.

  Dickie’s smile fell. "Life's tough all over." It was the most negative thing he'd ever heard Dickie say, and it wasn't even the words themselves as much as the way Dickie said them. Like he was lost.

  "Yeah, I suppose you're right." He gave Dickie half a grin and pushed his shoulder. "What you so glum about anyway?"

  "They say Fred Garray got killed. Bled out before they could get him to the field hospital."

  "Sorry about that." Fred was friendly to Dickie. When Lang wasn't around, Dickie usually stuck to Fred.

  Dickie shrugged. "War is hell, my friend."

  Lang felt around inside his shirt pocket for the broken cigarette Dickie had given him weeks ago. He'd kept it in there like a good luck charm, saving it for a day he needed it. Today was the day. He tried holding the damaged part together to no avail. He pulled out his driest match. It struck. He lit both pieces, and with several puffs, they glowed. He leaned back and exhaled, handing one piece to Dickie. "There you go. I'm returning the favor."

  "Thanks, Lang. You're a pal." Dickie leaned back and drew on the cigarette like it was his last good meal. They sat in silence together for two or three minutes. Dickie turned his head Lang's way. "Tell me about your wife. What's she like, really?"

  Lang kept his eyes closed. He was tempted to describe Delia instead. Had he done that before? But Dickie's words, What's she like—really bor
e a hole in his skull. Rilla's soft smile floated across his vision, her gentle movements when she came to him across a field carrying their son. She floated like a dandelion puff. Her eyes, always able to pull him in, beckoned to him. He longed see them again.

  Lang cleared his throat. "She's pretty. Not dazzling, just pretty. She has eyes like the ocean, all blue and green and full of moods. Her figure, well, that depends." He let out a soft laugh. "About now, she's getting pretty rounded out. She used to be a stick, but she's grown up..." His thoughts went inward again, and he remembered how Rilla looked on their wedding day. He'd not given much thought to her being a kid then. She had shown him she wasn't. It wasn't long before her shape blossomed into a woman's.

  He cringed and swallowed remorse. Rilla, what did I do to you?

  "Is that all? Is she funny? Does she have hobbies? Does she like to dance? I always liked me a girl who loves to dance." Dickie went quiet for a moment and then turned to Lang again. "Well?"

  Lang opened his eyes and smiled at him. "Yeah, she used to like to dance. I guess we haven't danced since, well..." When had they danced? Not since before he proposed to her. Not since the Fourth of July when Theo proposed to Delia. "It's been a while."

  "You should take her dancing when you get home."

  "Yeah...I should."

  A shell screamed above them and exploded into the earth, sending a shower of dirt over them. "Down!" Lang yelled. Lulls between bombardments never lasted long.

  He and Dickie brushed away the dirt. The sergeant roared for them to charge. Lang clamored up out of the trench and reached for Dickie's hand. Like bugs flushed from the ground, the troops swarmed ahead, dodging pits and ditches and wire, aiming for the next foxhole, the next shelter. Maybe lightning wouldn't strike twice in the same spot, or in their case, maybe mortar shells wouldn't.

  They dove into the next hole as explosions rocked the earth around them. Machine gun fire rang to their right flank. Cries of men falling were like curses to Lang's ears. "Come on!" He shouted above the din as he lunged out of the hole to move again, urging Dickie to stay nearby. He would protect the younger man if he could. If one of them went down, maybe they both would. They reached a line of barbed wire, and a full twenty percent of the men were cut down there and left to dangle in bizarre silhouettes against the haze and flash of fire. Lang dove into another hole and a moment later crawled out again. He and Dickie charged ahead, returning fire. The infantry gained the edge of the woods, or what was left of it, but once there, they came full force against the German counterattack.

  Lang reached for his bayonet even as the cry to do so came from somewhere in the inky, smoky darkness. He tripped on something soft that could only be a dead man, and when he turned to stand, a roaring charge met him. He turned as a German soldier ripped his bayonet past. His blade missed skewering Lang by an inch. They grunted as their bodies met, and Lang's own bayonet sunk deep into the man's middle. His eyes bulged like glowing orbs in the night. Why should he see that? It would forever haunt his dreams. Lang swallowed bile and pushed the fellow off to fall and bleed away into the night.

  He pressed on. "Dickie!" Lang yelled. Other yells and shots drowned out his call, and ahead the tangle of men awaited. Whether they fought for one hour or five, he didn't know. The night grew endless. The land was a stinking black hole of violence and death. As daylight grazed the edge of the blackness, Lang lay smeared in mud and blood, some of it perhaps his own. He wasn't sure. He rolled to his stomach and crawled along on his elbows. Shells continued to fall, but in fewer numbers. The groans of men surrounded him, broken by intermittent silence almost as unnerving as the bombs and moans. An occasional single shot split the darkness with a flash of light. Perhaps a German killing a wounded man. Perhaps some man finishing the job for himself.

  "Dickie," Lang whispered. He crawled over one body and another, retreating as he could. Rays of sunlight crested the horizon, bringing stark horror to that which had lay masked in the haze and fog of night. "Dickie boy. You out here?" His guts knotted. His fingers clenched frozen on his rifle with its bloody bayonet moving before him along the ground.

  "Lang? Lang is that you?" The voice sounded weak, almost weepy, scoring Lang like a cut.

  He jerked his head toward the sound and blinked. "I'm coming, Dickie." He squirreled faster over the ground, not daring to lift himself higher. "Dickie?" He found the boy lying in a pool of black mud that glistened with blood. His coat front shone wet with it. More blood caked his nostrils and trickled from his mouth.

  "Lang?" He choked.

  Lang dropped his rifle and scooped Dickie's head into his arms. Nausea rolled inside, but he forced his voice to calm. "Dickie? What did you do? Come on, son. Don't be afraid now. Stay with me. I've got you."

  Dickie blinked. His chest rose and fell too fast. "I wanted to meet your pretty wife. Do you think she'd have liked me?"

  Lang pushed Dickie's dirty blond hair back from his forehead. He could imagine Emmett looking like Dickie when he grew up. Blue eyes, kind smile, and all. "I know she would. And she will. You just don't give up on me, you hear?"

  Dickie's eyelids fluttered. "I got to go, Lang."

  "No. No, Dick. You hear me?" He felt his control give way. "You aren't dying."

  Dickie choked again, and blood spewed from his mouth and his gut. Lang looked at the ragged hole in his body. He widened his eyes and swallowed, forcing down tears.

  "You're...you're like a brother, Lang."

  Dear God.

  "I always...thought so." Dickie's eyes closed.

  No. "No! You wake up, Dickie. Me and Rilla, we're going to take you dancing. Introduce you to a nice girl."

  Sweet Jesus. Take me, not him.

  No matter how he shook him, Dickie didn't open his eyes again, and after a moment, he stopped bleeding.

  "Cease fire! Cease fire!" The voice came ghost-like from far away, far beyond some hill, some bloody ditch, some grave-like trench. Lang found it hard to move as he lifted his eyes. Sweat and blood ran into them mingling with his tears, yet coldness shattered his bones. An echo came up the way, from shell hole to shell hole. "The war's over. It's over!"

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  December 1918

  It wasn't healthy, all this crying. Marilla dashed away another onslaught of relentless tears and sniffed down a sob as Dora started bawling from her crib. Both Dora and the baby Marilla carried must sense her deep grief, and it must be affecting them. "Shh... shh... Dora, sweetheart." She picked the child out of the crib and held her fast, kissing her temple and rocking her from side to side. She tried to sing, but the words broke apart, and she squeezed her eyes shut, thinking again of little Emmett. Poor Emmett. Her poor boy. "Oh, Dora. How shall we ever..." She took jerky breaths, fighting the crying, but at last succumbing. She sat in the rocker and squeezed Dora tight. "At least you were spared," she whispered at last, still half afraid the sickness would strike them again and take her other child as it had Emmett. The baby stirred within her, forcing her to shift Dora to the side.

  Dora settled down. She patted Marilla's shoulder.

  "Let's find you some breakfast." The house was cold. She carried Dora to the kitchen and shifted her again while she lifted the stove grate and put in as much wood as she could fit. Thankfully, Jacob had come out and filled the wood box. Now that Theo was home, Jacob drove out from town more frequently, taking it upon himself to help her as well as her sister and crippled husband in any way he could. He brought them their groceries, and he always made sure Marilla was well supplied in firewood. He had hired a young fellow in town to come out with him and they had split and stack for several hours last Saturday.

  What would she have done without Jacob's kindness in the wake of her tragedy—of all their tragedies? Marilla had taken sick also, but she had pulled through. Delia took Dora and cared for her, while Rilla's mother nursed her. She was told Jacob came out every day to check on her, though her mother wouldn't let him in the house for fear of passing on the sickness
. The illness stopped at Marilla, and no one else had suffered. No one but Emmett, who had left her forever.

  Not forever, Jacob had reminded her, but her faith felt thin.

  She scrambled some eggs for her and Dora, setting Dora in her high chair near the stove where it was warm. Marilla pulled her shawl tighter when a knock sounded. She knew it would be Jacob. She recognized the sound of his boots on the stoop and even the rap of his knuckles, if such a thing were possible.

  "Come in!"

  The door opened even as she said it, and tall, broad-shouldered Jacob stepped inside, brushing snowflakes off the sleeves of his red and black mackinaw. "Fresh snow for Christmas," he said with a smile. His cheeks were red. He swept off his hat so that his thin blond locks fell across his brow.

  "Have a seat, Jacob, and I'll make you some breakfast." She pushed back her own loose hair, her slight embarrassment that he had caught her so unkempt fading as he made himself at home. She still wore her flannel nightgown beneath her shawl, and she hadn't even put up her hair. It lay over her shoulder in a loose braid from the previous night.

  "I've eaten already. I came to take you and Dora over to your sister's for Christmas, remember?"

  Christmas. She had put the holiday out of her mind. The war was over, but Lang wouldn't be home for some time, so she had been told. As far as she knew, he was all right. There had been no news contrary to that. Lang being gone was one thing. Christmas was all the worse to bear for the loss of her sweet boy. She hunched her shoulders and focused on the frying pan sizzling with hot fat. She didn't want Jacob to see she was still crying. It seemed every time he came, she—

  His hands on her shoulders startled her, stopping her thoughts, but she settled, feeling comforted for the first time in days. She shuddered as his fingers spread warmth through her. Calming, peaceful warmth she so needed and craved. She hadn't even realized how badly she'd yearned for this touch.