The Major's Daughter

by J. P. Francis

  “If they come for me again, they will have to kill me.”

  “They won’t be back. Even they see how things are going. The war is dropping away. Germany is in retreat.”

  “Is it really?”

  Gerhard nodded.

  “The longer it goes on, the weaker we will grow,” Gerhard said. “No country can make war forever. Hitler is a confused, weak man now.”

  “There’s still venom in him.”

  Gerhard shrugged. A few other men came by to say hello, to ask after August’s progress, and August told them straightforwardly how things stood. Everyone eventually went outside to smoke before dinner, and August, with difficulty, joined them. His body felt slightly better. He found a seat on an oil drum and positioned himself in the sunlight. He had not been there more than a minute when he heard someone call his name. As he turned, the sun made it difficult to see, so he had to stand and lean to one side and then he saw the little girl he had pretended to dance with so many weeks before.

  “Hello. I remember you,” he called. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to a musical program at the school. I saw you there. I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “Yes, much better, thank you. Remember me to Collie, please.”

  “Yes, I will, of course.”

  She stood for a moment on the other side of the fence, apparently unsure what else to say. Then, to amuse her, he bowed gracefully from the waist. She curtsied in return, and with a great show of laughter blew a kiss to him and ran off. August smiled and went back to sit on the oil drum. Better than yesterday, he told himself, though not as good as he would feel tomorrow.

  • • •

  Seen dispassionately from the outside, Estelle mused, Henry and Amos were precisely the correct men, and they had taken them to the correct restaurant, and this was a perfectly correct evening. At one point in her life, she knew, she would have reveled in a night like this one. The restaurant, a club restaurant where the Heights apparently had a limitless credit arrangement, was small and intimate. It overlooked a golf links, and the furnishings, thick and heavy, with brocaded curtains hanging stolidly from massive curtain rods, struck exactly the right note. The waiters seemed to be old friends, and they called Amos and Henry Mr. Heights, each one addressed solemnly, with due reverence. The entire evening felt a little like a performance, but it was a friendly, somewhat lavish performance, and Estelle felt certain that it had turned many girls’ heads to imagine themselves part of the Heights’ fortune and sumptuous lives.

  Amos, however, required watching. He frequently slipped his flask out of his coat pocket and applied a thin stream of whiskey to his glass. It was not that he couldn’t drink—he ordered horses’ necks for them all—but that he couldn’t drink enough in front of the waiters to satisfy himself. His mischievousness, from what Estelle could discern, bordered on something darker, something he had either to encourage or stamp down in his spirit. He was a puzzle and a hazard, and Estelle felt nervous in his company.

  Henry, on the other hand, struck Estelle as softer and more an obvious heir to the family’s wealth and position. He spoke respectfully to the waiters who moved demurely around the room, and he did not attempt to register his authority in any low manner. He was handsome, too, although she imagined his looks would not fare well in old age. He might go to fat, or to a deskbound heaviness that would not be attractive. It was difficult to say.

  A greater revelation was Collie: how light and gay she could be when called upon to play her part. That was a new aspect of her character, or at least a recently enhanced element. She looked beautiful in the room; the bright crystal, the red-rimmed plates, seemed to pick up her color and improve it. She fit perfectly in this room, in this life, actually, and Estelle felt certain Henry saw it. In fact, the only person who did not see it plainly was Collie herself, and that added to her charm.

  “I’m tired of the Germans,” Amos said after the waiter had delivered their entrees. “I’m tired of thinking about them. They’re a nuisance. I don’t mind fighting them, really, but I simply want them to go away.”

  “Go away how?” Henry asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Puff, disappear,” Amos said, his drink making his tongue lazy, Estelle heard. “I heard about those swastikas appearing above the camp, you know? There are people here in sympathy with them. . . .”

  “You’re off your head now,” Henry said, turning his attention away from his brother. “Let’s not talk about the war or about the Germans. I want to hear about your experiences at Smith. That’s where you two met?”

  “Yes,” Collie said, picking up her knife and fork, “as freshmen. We became friends almost at once.”

  “It was at once,” Estelle agreed. “Then we had several courses together. Remember Professor Stevens?”

  “Professor Stevens,” Collie lowered her voice when she pronounced the last part of his name. “He had a deep, bass voice that sounded like thunder. He taught classical literature, and he took himself very seriously.”

  “But he was a good teacher for all of that,” Estelle said.

  “You always thought so. I wasn’t quite as taken by him.”

  “I don’t know why a woman needs college anyway,” Amos said, his fork running furrows through a pad of mashed potatoes. “My mother never went to college. Neither did my father, for that matter.”

  “Amos resents the fact that I attended college,” Henry said, “and so he has to run it down as soon as the topic comes up. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I was too busy fighting in the war,” Amos said. “College is a luxury not all of us can afford.”

  “It certainly is,” Estelle said, tasting a piece of her cod fillet. “I won’t argue that at all. But that’s not to say there isn’t a benefit to it.”

  Their primary waiter, a short, dour man with a head of sparse gray hair, came to inquire about their meal. Henry thanked him and said it was excellent. The waiter backed away.

  “I believe in forests,” Amos said, slipping his flask out and tilting it into his glass. He glanced around to see if anyone would join him. When no one took him up on his offer, he slipped the flask back in his pocket. “I believe in pulp. In land. I never cared for school. Hated it, in fact. What’s the good of a bunch of musty old books?”

  “You only prove your ignorance by asking that,” Henry said, then deliberately turned away from his brother. “Anyway, I’m glad you had a good experience. You left after two years?”

  “Yes,” Collie said. “Mother was ill, and the war was everywhere. . . .”

  “It was difficult to rationalize staying in college when the war—” Estelle said, but Amos cut her off.

  “It wasn’t hard for my brother,” he said.

  Now, Estelle saw, Amos truly was drunk. His head moved in jerky, twitchy increments, like a windup dog feeling the inevitable pull of its spring. How unfortunate, Estelle reflected. Amos might have been an attractive man if not for the loose, primitive aspect of his personality. She watched his last comment sink in with his brother, Henry. Apparently Henry had heard it before, because he simply continued eating, effectively ignoring the remark.

  “We’ll drive you back to camp,” Amos said when they had completed their meal and took coffee on the outside patio overlooking the eighteenth green. “It’s a beautiful night for it.”

  “It’s a lovely night,” Collie agreed, “but we don’t mean to trouble you. We can take the train. It drops us at our door.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Amos said. “What kind of escorts would we be if we let you take a train? Is that the type you take us for?”

  Estelle felt a tingle of apprehension. Amos looked to be in no shape to drive, and besides, she didn’t trust him to be a gentleman. She tried to catch Collie’s eye, but in the dimness it was difficult. Amos signed the bill and stood shortly afterward. He led them
to the Oldsmobile that was parked beside the pro shop. He held the door open for her and Estelle climbed inside. Collie slipped in behind her. The two men sat on the left side, Amos at the wheel.

  They had not left the country club grounds before Amos reached across and put his hand on her knee. Estelle moved it away, but it returned immediately, this time with more force. She moved her knee from under his hand, and he did nothing for a moment. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his hands returned to the steering wheel. Then, after taking a right turn, he reached over and tried to work his hand up under her skirt.

  “Stop it, please,” Estelle said.

  Amos looked over and grinned.

  “Stop what?” he said.

  “You know very well what,” Estelle said. “Stop it.”

  “Amos . . . ,” Henry said.

  “Just being a little playful,” Amos said, driving with his palm on the wheel, his free hand lurking like a patient spider on the seat between them. “We’re allowed to be a little playful, you know. This isn’t supposed to be a funeral.”

  He slipped his hand under her skirt and ran it up to her knee. Estelle slapped at his arm, but it was impossible to avoid him. He kept the accelerator pressed down, so she had that worry, too. She felt Collie reach over the seatback and try to restrain Amos’s arm, but it was no use.

  “Two on one,” Amos said, “that isn’t fair. Of course if that’s how you like it . . .”

  “Cut it out, Amos,” Henry said. “I apologize for my brother.”

  “And I apologize for my brother,” Amos said, and lifted his hand and raked it across Estelle’s breasts. He laughed when she squirmed away. “Try to be a little friendly.”

  “Pull over and let us out,” Collie said, her voice commanding. “Do it now.”

  “Like fuck I will,” Amos said. “A pair of college twats.”

  Collie slapped him. Estelle cringed against the side door. Amos swung his hand back and fought off Collie. Henry suddenly jerked forward, grabbed the keys from the ignition and turned the car off. The engine made a tight whining sound. For a moment the car simply glided on the flat, dirt road. Estelle was conscious of the trees floating by, the headlights gone.

  Then Amos reached under his seat and pulled out a revolver.

  “Get out,” he said when the car stopped.

  He waved the gun at them all. He nearly tripped as he climbed out himself. He pulled his flask from his pocket and drank from it.

  “Give me back the keys,” he said to Henry when he lowered the flask.

  Estelle felt cold suddenly and dead in her stomach. Collie moved closer and linked her arm with Estelle’s. Estelle wondered if they could somehow run away, hide in the forest, do anything to save themselves. Henry was their only hope, and he did not seem a match for Amos.

  “I’ll run them back to Stark,” Henry said. “You start walking toward Berlin. I’ll pick you up on the return trip.”

  “Fuck you, too,” Amos said.

  “You’re drunk,” Henry said.

  Amos fired the revolver in the air. The sound shocked Estelle. Its echo seemed to fill the woods on either side of them.

  “Take off your clothes,” Amos said. “Take them off now.”

  Henry hit his brother. Not with his fist, Estelle saw, but with something like a tire iron. It was a quick, deadly strike, and Amos went down without a struggle. He made a gurgling sound as he lay on the ground. Henry walked over and removed the revolver from his brother’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but whether he meant his apology for their ears or as a statement to his brother, Estelle couldn’t say. “Terribly sorry.”

  “Take us back,” Collie said. “Leave him here.”

  “I’ll put him in the backseat and you two can ride up with me. He won’t be any more trouble, I promise.”

  “No, leave him here,” Collie said a second time.

  Estelle watched Henry regard her friend, then he nodded. He put the revolver under the driver’s seat and pulled Amos off the road. He left him in the weeds. Amos made no additional noise; Henry, Estelle noted, did not check to see if he had killed his brother. He acted, almost, as though Amos was beyond killing. It was extremely peculiar.

  “Climb in,” he said. “Let’s go before he wakes up.”

  They both climbed in front. Collie sat next to Henry. Estelle maintained her place by the passenger door. Not until the car had moved away from the spot where Amos remained did Estelle allow herself to breathe freely.

  “What did you hit him with?” Estelle asked after they had driven for a time. “He went down like he was shot.”

  “It was a shillelagh. My father collects walking sticks. He must have left it in the car.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” Estelle said.

  “He’s not really like that,” Henry said. “Not really. It’s the drink.”

  “Then he did a good imitation,” Collie said. “Because he certainly seemed authentic.”

  “He was better before the war.”

  “Yes,” Collie said, “weren’t we all?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Collie heard the piano across the prison yard. It came in fits and starts, and it had played for some time at the edge of her consciousness before she tuned into it and recognized its presence. The camp felt empty and hollow; the men had gone off to cut wood, and her father and Lieutenant Peters had left to attend a policy seminar in Boston for the day. Estelle had gone to Berlin with Amy and Marie after school had let out. They had plans to see a movie. Collie knew Estelle had deliberately given her some time alone to catch up on work. Estelle was faultlessly considerate that way.

  The music distracted her. She had worked briskly through past inventories and a mound of requisition sheets, and had made a dozen calls to suppliers to dicker about prices or check on delivery dates. A typical day’s work. And now, in the quiet afternoon, she felt hazy and sleepy, and the piano, when it ran in full passages as if someone remembered what the keys might do, made her moody and happy at the same time. When the music disappeared, as it did frequently, she found she missed it. When it returned, she put down her desk work and listened. She understood enough about the piano to recognize fluency in the pianist. She allowed the music to push her to her feet so that she could make a cup of tea. She went to the window and listened as the kettle boiled. When she had her tea, she walked toward the refectory, where the piano waited.

  It was August, of course. She had known that obliquely; she had not permitted her mind to wander there. He sat in front of the spinet, his elbows at right angles to his body, his hair long and blond in the afternoon light. Cooking smells came from the kitchen where Red, she knew, worked to prepare the evening meal. She realized as she entered that August had been placed on the cooking detail. He wore a white apron over his prison uniform and had obviously taken a break at the piano while the meal preparation got on without him for the time being.

  “It is you,” she said in German, stepping into the refectory. “I heard you practicing. Are you playing it by memory?”

  He turned. His handsomeness arrested her.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling and standing. “Bach.”

  “I’m glad to find you up and around. Marie was the last to see you.”

  “So that’s her name. I’d forgotten, or perhaps I never knew. Yes, we had another moment together. She has a wonderful spirit.”

  “Yes, she’s delightful, but please don’t let me stop you. Sit. I only looked in because the music made me curious.”

  “I think I’m finished for now. I’ve lost my way in the piece. And I am wanted in the kitchen.”

  “How do you feel? You look stronger.”

  “I’m a cook, as you see,” he said, and spread his arms to indicate his apron. “A potato peeler. I’ll be put back on a cutting crew soon, but the infirmary doctor wants me to wait a f
ew more days.”

  “I’m sure that’s for the best.”

  He remained standing. She sipped her tea. The room possessed an afternoon feeling. Sunlight passed through the windows and climbed over the tables. It reminded Collie of summer camp, or a shore house she once visited on the sands of Asbury Park, New Jersey, where the afternoon proved a time to be still and quiet while the day swirled on toward evening and rest. She took more of her tea to have something to do.

  Then for a moment everything stopped except their eyes. She could barely swallow her mouthful of tea. Everything she had wondered about him, everything she had felt, suddenly existed between them. She could no longer deny any of it; she knew he understood, and he did not move but let his eyes rest on hers. The war meant nothing for the instant, and the clamor of pots and pans, the whine of a screen door, the scent of a cigarette and a match light, served only to underline their attraction to each other. She did not move and neither did he, but she felt as if she were a plant and she bent toward him as toward the sun.

  “Is it too much to hope for?” he asked.

  She shook her head. He stared a moment longer, then nodded as if he confirmed something in his mind, and then he spoke a line from the poem they had shared.

  “The world becomes more beautiful with each day,” he said.

  “One doesn’t know what may yet happen,” she answered.

  “Now everything, everything must change.”

  He nodded. She felt her cheeks burning. She sensed his eyes on hers and her heart could not catch itself. This was the man she wanted, she realized. It was no use to pretend otherwise. Before either of them spoke again, a voice began calling for August. The voice sounded weary and impatient. August smiled and held out his apron to prove his powerlessness. She smiled in return and nodded to let him go. With a sigh he pushed into the kitchen, his voice calling to Red that he had returned from break. She left the way she had come but stopped for a time in the sun to finish her tea.

  • • •

  Estelle recognized the handwriting as soon as Mrs. Hammond handed her the letter. She forced herself to take the letter casually, thanking Mrs. Hammond and commenting about the fine afternoon. Yes, she said to Mrs. Hammond, the motion picture had been wonderful. In fact, Marie had insisted they stay for the second picture, Here Come the Waves, starring Bing Crosby. It was better than the first, Henry Aldrich, Boy Scout, so all in all the afternoon had been a success. Estelle marveled at her coolness in conversation with Mrs. Hammond, while all the while her hand burned with the letter. She yearned to tear open the letter and run upstairs, but she forced herself to slide it into the pocket of her skirt and converse amicably with Mrs. Hammond. Mrs. Hammond promised evening tea and sandwiches if she, Estelle, had enough room left over from eating all the popcorn and candy that went with the movies.