by Naomi Musch
Driving onto Main Street in Shell Lake a short while later, Lang picked up the mail and headed across the road to Hessman's Store. The front window held a welcoming display of farm tools and taped up images of fashions one could order. Did Rilla and Jacob pore together over such images in the catalog he'd told her about? The thought of them together talking and maybe even giggling with their heads bent together over such nonsense gored him. He shook off his irritation as the bell jingled when he passed through the door. A bell... That was new. He looked over his shoulder at it and then made his way to the counter where Jacob watched his approach.
"You got a new bell."
"It's helpful when I'm in the back or busy elsewhere."
Lang gave a cursory glance over the rest of the store. "Everything looks real nice, Jacob. You've spruced things up."
"The war is over. Everyone everywhere is hoping for a fresh start." His look at Lang made Lang wonder if there was more to his words than talk of a bell and store displays.
"I couldn't have said it better myself."
Jacob lifted his chin with a half nod. "What can I do for you today, Mr. Prescott?"
"Mr. Prescott. That's different too. We're still friends, aren't we?"
Jacob smiled. "I'm trying to act professional."
Lang returned the smile, but inched toward the real reason he'd come. "I'm planning a surprise for Rilla." He regarded the twitch in Jacob's brow. "I don't know if she's mentioned it, but I've been getting a start on the house. I hope to have it finished before winter. For our anniversary."
"Oh?" Jacob moved along the space behind the counter toward the register.
"Yes. And I want to install a telephone. I'm going to have a line brought in now. I should have the roof on in another week or two to protect it. That way it'll be available if Rilla needs it for anything before the house is ready."
"Why would she need a telephone now?"
It wasn't any of Jacob's business to ask, but Lang went ahead and answered. "Everybody's getting them. Pretty soon they'll be the most common thing ever. She'll be able to simply ring up the store here, give you her order, and then I can pick it up for her—or you can run it out like you sometimes do." Jacob glanced at him, his gaze laced with suspicion. "It'll take a load off her shoulders."
"I see. You know, Langdon, I don't usually make deliveries. The day I came to Marilla's—to your house—I knew she was expecting you home, and I wanted to save her the trouble of a trip to town, to help her get ready for your arrival."
"I see." I know how much you want to "help".
Jacob gave a slow nod and reached for an order form under his counter. "If I place your order, it will take up to a month to arrive. It could be sooner, but..." Jacob shrugged.
"That's fine." Lang studied Jacob while his long fingers scratched out the information on the form. "I was kind of wondering what you were up to when you showed up with those groceries that day. Thought maybe you were planning a longer visit. Dora sure seemed happy to see you."
Jacob laid the pencil down and straightened, narrowing his eyes at Lang. "She's a good girl. Just like her mother."
"I tend to think she takes after me."
"In looks perhaps."
"Not in spirit?"
"I don't know you well enough to say. I see much of Marilla's spirit in her."
"I suppose you do know Marilla pretty well, having grown up around her and all."
Jacob nodded. "Yes. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"I'd like some canned peaches and a bottle of grape juice." He paused and allowed his voice to swell with meaning. "You've felt compelled to get to know her better since I've been gone."
Jacob set the peaches on the counter and rested his hands on the surface, his arms spread apart. "Your meaning?"
"Come now, Jacob. I'm not unaware how much you've always been interested in Rilla—my wife."
Jacob shrugged and stepped back. He reached for a bottle of grape juice and set it down. "Do you expect me to deny it so you can have the pleasure of extracting a confession? There is no need. I'll give it to you freely. Yes. I care for Marilla. She is my friend, and I have watched her go from happy school girl to work laden, heartsick woman." He stepped closer to the counter. "A wonderful woman who has poured out her life for a man who doesn't love her, who doesn't even appreciate her, but gives his attentions elsewhere. A woman who is begging for love and for notice. Well"—he stepped back and folded his thick arms—“if she cannot have such notice from her husband, and someone else is willing to give it..." Jacob shrugged.
Lang's chest rose and fell as though he had exerted himself. He clenched his hands into fists, and the feeling of imminent battle heightened until he smelled it in his nostrils. "You've got it wrong, Jacob."
Jacob snorted and turned away.
Lang reached across the counter, toppling the juice as he grabbed Jacob's shirt. Jacob turned, shoving off his arm. "Don't grab me, Langdon, for telling you the truth." He stepped around the counter like a bear.
"You want to take this outside?"
"For what? So you can show me how much you care about your wife? All right." Jacob turned and marched out the door, swinging it open with enough force to make the bell jangle wildly. Lang followed him, and the two stalked around the building to the back yard where Lang had never been. Jacob had barely stopped and turned when Langdon swung, catching him square across the jaw. Jacob stumbled back and shook his head. Lang grinned, thinking of the jingling bell, and waited until Jacob got his bearing. Then he put up his fists as Jacob charged.
Lang went over backward with an ooph as the force of Jacob's heavier body slammed him to the ground. Jacob lunged atop him, but Lang groped for the man's shoulders. Pulling one hand free, he slugged the bigger man across the side of his head, but not with enough force to disengage him. They grappled in earnest.
Jacob reeled over as Lang pushed upward, and together they rolled and thrashed along the ground, each clawing and handing out punches as they could afford themselves. With a shove that separated them, Lang clamored to his feet. Jacob pushed himself up and, in a half crouch, landed a fist in Lang's belly that doubled him over. Lang gritted his teeth and groaned as he unfolded himself, coming up with a punch that connected beneath Jacob's chin. Jacob fell back, landing on the torn up ground again.
They panted. Lang stood over Jacob, his nose bleeding and his gut gathered in a knot of agony, while Jacob wiped his bloody mouth on his shirtsleeve. He squinted up at Lang with an already swelling eye and panted between words. "Now—suppose you—go home—and show your—wife—how—how much you—care, too." He wiped his face on his sleeve again.
Lang's heavy breaths slowed. He gazed around the yard, up at the sky, and back to Jacob. Then he stretched out his hand.
Staring for a moment, Jacob grabbed Lang's hand with a strength that told Lang he'd not lost all his fight. Lang pulled him to his feet. They measured each other a moment longer, until Lang turned away.
"I've got to get my peaches," he said, and stumbled off, leaving Jacob standing in the trampled grass.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lang tossed the peaches and juice onto the Ford's front seat and grimaced as he dragged himself into the car. He looked at the cuts on his knuckles as he pulled away from the store. They didn't sting half as badly as Jacob's rebuke.
"Show your wife how much you care."
Yeah, that had been his problem all along. First, he hadn't cared enough, and now Marilla had no idea how much his feelings had changed. He didn't deserve her. Never had. They all might have been better off if he had never made it back from France. He let out a humorous laugh. Yes, there had been a time or two he had let the thought creep into his mind that maybe Theo wouldn't come back, and Lang would have been able to sweep in and gather Theo's grieving widow into his arms. Now he saw the truth. He should have been the one left lying in a charred, muddy grave. Not Theo. Then they could have all had what they deserved. Marilla could have had a man like Jacob t
aking care of her and doting upon her and their children. Delia and Theo could have had their happy marriage without his interference, and Lang would have gotten what he deserved too.
He gazed out the window at the few passing buildings. A little distance past the church, the graveyard came into view. With a move he didn't expect to make, he decelerated and stopped the car. A knot grew in his throat as he turned into the cemetery and drove along a narrow lane until it hooked around toward a grove of trees. Then he stopped and shut off the engine. The world stilled around him. A bird flitted from a tombstone to lose itself in a bower of trees. Lang blinked as he looked over the site. Old markers stood like sentinels over new ones placed since he'd gone away to France. Asian flu victims, likely. One area held the newest graves. It captured his attention.
He swallowed against the weight in his chest, as he opened the door with a creak and stepped onto the lush grass. Somewhere over there lay little Emmett.
My boy.
His body hurt, but not from the fight with Jacob. He was heart and bone weary from other battles. His feet turned leaden as he moved closer to the freshest graves, sprouting with the new summer's grass. His breath came in short bursts, filled with as much fear as when he had belly-crawled over wire-covered ground in the face of the Kaiser's guns and gas. Lang clenched his sweaty palms, forcing his feet to move forward among the graves. He blinked at the names he dared to glance at, dreading each one he read that wasn't Emmett's, because he was there, somewhere. Not seeing it didn't mean he was alive.
And there it was.
Lang gasped and dropped to his knees. Staring, his knees sunk into the soft dirt. His eyes stung, and his body throbbed with pain as once again he held Dickie in his arms, watching as the boy's last breaths wheezed out of his body. Then it was Emmett. Little Emmett. His sweet little boy.
Lang squeezed his eyes shut. The feeling of Emmett lying in his arms was as real as anything he had ever touched or held onto. Emmett's small body draped against him, his head hanging back, his eyes closed. The image wrapped around Lang's mind. When he dared to open his eyes, his arms were curled upward, his hands fisted. Every muscle in his body tensed in grief.
A sob tore from him. He dropped forward and wept. "Emmett." Tears rushed out, hot and refining as from a crucible. Once again, he felt Dickie's blood on his skin, but Emmett's little face hung before him. He pressed dirty hands to his face and cried, rocking on the grave over his son. When he finally dropped his hands, through the swimming tears he read the stone.
Emmett Prescott. Beloved Son.
Born August 28, 1916,
Died October 21, 1918.
He touched the words, allowing the pain to sink into his heart, a pain more powerful than he had ever known.
God. Why Em? Why not me? Lang shook his head and gulped. He swiped the back of his hand across his face and breathed in. He cried out. "Why not me?" A shudder ran through him, shaking him to the core. How had Rilla borne it? He pictured her holding their boy, weeping over him, burying him, and then writing the words to Lang. How had she managed? She was stronger than he'd ever realized. A more perfect woman he couldn't imagine. A sigh emerged from some deep place inside and cracked his heart in two as it fell from his lips in a groan.
"I'm sorry, God. I'm sorry. I've done everything wrong. Tell Emmett. Tell him I'm sorry."
He touched the stone again.
He was unaware of the time that passed as he sat with Emmett and prayed and wept again. Finally, bracing himself, Lang pushed up from the ground and turned away. His feet were no less heavy than before. Like an old man, he walked back to the car. He didn't recall cranking the engine, getting inside, and driving away. He could hear Emmett's voice. "Dada. Dada." He wiped his face again.
He pulled into the yard ten minutes later and saw Rilla coming from their small barn with Dora. Bertie must be asleep inside. She carried an empty scrap pail, and Dora was chattering. Dora liked to feed scraps to the chickens. It was the first time Lang realized he had begun to know his daughter. He glanced into the mirror and used his shirtsleeve to wipe at the dried blood crusted beneath his nose. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, and picked up the peaches and juice. Pasting on a stiff smile, he got out of the car and met them just before they reached the front door.
"I brought something. Thought maybe if you didn't want to go to the festival, we could have a little picnic here at home to celebrate."
Rilla studied him, either because she didn't trust him to want to please her, or because he had missed some mud or blood on his face, he wasn't sure why. He tucked the can of peaches under his arm and reached out to open the door for her.
She paused before stepping through it. "Come inside, Dora."
"Did you find any eggs today?" He asked the child.
She nodded. "One, two, fwee," she said, holding up first two and then four fingers and back to two.
"I see. You helped mama find them?"
She nodded.
He set down the store goods and picked her up. "You didn't let that old rooster chase you, did you?"
She shook her head. "Nice roos'er."
"He's nice, huh? Not like Grandpa's?"
She shook her head again. He kissed her dark curls and stood her back on her feet. "Can I help you with anything?" He stepped closer to Rilla, but she wouldn't look at him. She only shook her head.
"Don't you have chores to get to up at the farm?" she asked.
"Not yet. Plenty of time until the evening milking. So, what do you say about a picnic tomorrow?"
She paused from her busywork. "Just us?" Her voice sounded hesitant, uncertain, suspicious even.
"Yeah." He dared to move closer and touch her upper arm. "Just us."
She spun away. "If that's what you want, I suppose it would be all right."
He backed off. "Don't worry about making a lot of work. We can eat whatever we have for leftovers. I just want you to have a chance to relax. We can play with Dora. Maybe if it's as nice out as today we can take her and Bertie to the river for a swim."
Rilla's blue eyes dashed a look at him as though she were just a tad disbelieving, but something livened in them too, if only for the spark of a moment.
"Rilla..." He lowered his gaze, unsure how to manage his words. "I went to see Emmett's grave today."
Silence like a tomb hovered between them. When he dared to look at her again, her eyes were wide, her breathing tight.
"I...I can't express how sorry I am you had to face everything alone."
She let out a sigh and gave a brief headshake. "I wasn't alone. Jacob—"
He took a step and reached for her hand, not letting it go when she tugged. "I wasn't here. I'm sorry. I wish I had been. For you. For Emmett. But mostly for you."
Her hand stilled, and she stared at him. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but fear stopped him. He didn't think he could stand it if she pulled away, and she would pull away.
"It's...all right." She glanced at his hand holding hers and tugged again. This time he let her go. She turned away and reached into a bin for some potatoes. She set them on the worktable and picked up a paring knife.
He watched her go about the busy task of ignoring him again. "I guess I'll go out and work on the house for a bit."
She didn't look, only nodded. So he left.
~~~~~
When the door closed, Marilla collapsed into a chair. She dropped the knife and pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, sobbing as silently as she could. Why did he do it? Why did he taunt her heart so? Why did he go from hot, to cold, to hot again, making her remember the days in which she loved him? Why did he act like a husband, when who he really wanted was Delia? Why had he carved out that hole inside her and then filled it with such tender words about Emmett and being sorry? Why, why, why?
Dora tapped her leg and laid her head against her. Marilla plucked a dishtowel off the table and wiped her face. His hands. Lang's hand that held hers was cut and scraped. It looked like it w
as still raw. When had he done that? Today before going into town? Yet it looked as though it had happened more recently. Had he hit something? A tree? Emmett's gravestone perhaps? Had he grieved their boy? She smoothed Dora's curls just as Bertie's gurgles rose from the crib.
"Brother is awake. Why don't you go say hello to him?"
Dora gave her a big grin and nodded before scurrying over to see her little brother. Marilla rose stiffly and continued peeling potatoes. Lang had butchered a chicken yesterday. She retrieved it from the icebox and proceeded to prepare it for cooking. They would have leftover chicken for their picnic along with the peaches and juice still sitting on the table. Had he had that in mind when he butchered it? The idea puzzled her, even as she peeled extra potatoes with the thought of making potato salad.
Lang continued his conversational tone with her later in the day, but she sensed a sorrow hanging onto him as well. Perhaps the visit to Emmett's grave had stirred him, just when she'd grown to believe he had never cared for any of them at all. She frowned when he turned down the bedroom lamp and crawled into bed on the other side of Bertie that night, wishing she knew what had happened and what he was thinking, but afraid to know all the same.
Lang was gone when she awoke the next morning. Daylight crept across the windowpane. He must already be at the farm taking care of the morning chores. Were Delia and Theo planning to go to the festival? Was Delia there at the farm now, helping with the milking so that her parents and everyone could leave in a timely manner?
Bertie fussed, so she pushed the thoughts away and reached for him. After a quick change into a clean diaper, she fed him and tucked him back into bed, moving him from their bed to the crib in the other room. Then she dressed and slipped into her apron to prepare breakfast. Was it already four years ago she had hurried through her morning chores and breakfast with Lang and her family so they could get to the festival, her hopes unbounded that Lang would notice her? Dance with her? Fall in love with her?