“You’ve grown up fast, haven’t you?”
“Eighteen months are like ten years when there’s a war on,” he said matter-of-factly. “I thought I’d ship out, wrap a white scarf around my neck, shoot down a few zeros from far enough away so I couldn’t see the pilots’ faces, and win a medal or two. Maybe dance with some fast girls from the USO in my spare time.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows meaningfully, and we both chuckled, but then he suddenly became serious. “I never pictured myself being afraid.
“Mama, do you remember Mrs. Hutchinson from church?” Of course I remembered her. She’d been Mama’s fourth-grade Sunday school teacher before she’d been mine and Morgan’s in turn. She didn’t teach anymore, but she was still chair of the altar guild and exerted a lot of influence in the church; for that reason, she was one of the many people I was dreading facing when I returned to Dillon. I doubted she would approve of me as a pastor’s wife.
“Well,” he continued, “she wrote me a letter after I’d made first lieutenant congratulating me on my promotion and saying how everybody was so proud to have a real live war hero who’d come from Dillon.”
“Mrs. Hutchinson is right,” I replied. “Everybody in town is proud of you. You’re Dillon’s first pilot.”
Morgan shook his head emphatically, and I could see that he was truly bothered by the idea of people thinking he was something more than he was. “Mama, I’m no hero. I just love to fly, that’s all. When I climb into the cockpit and feel the engine hum it’s like feeling my own heart beating, and when I lift off from the runway and rise up toward the sun it’s like reaching out to touch the door to heaven. As soon as I look down and see the airfield fading off in the distance, I’m afraid, because I know there’s a good chance of me or one of my friends not making it back. With all my heart I want to turn back at that moment, but I keep the plane on course because I know I have to. Somebody has to.”
“Morgan!” I clucked my tongue in mock distress, careful to keep my tone light. “I think maybe I let you read too many books when you were little. That’s the only place where people aren’t afraid. Real people are scared every day. Some of them climb under a rock and hide, and others, the good ones, the ones like you”—I smiled—“stuff their fears into a sack and do what they have to do. That might not be too courageous, but it’s enough to get the job done, and it takes a lot of heart. So you just let Mrs. Hutchinson send her letters, all right?” Morgan nodded mutely.
“Besides,” I joked. “Remember, she’s head of the altar guild, and if she didn’t spend some of her time writing to GIs she’d probably decide it was time to embroider new altar cloths and start nagging at me to help.” I shuddered theatrically at the idea, and we both laughed.
It was getting late. Morgan glanced at his watch, but we already knew he had to go. There was so much more I wanted to say. Instead I smiled and reached across the table to take his hand. “Morgan, how do you suppose that out of the whole world, I got the best young man on the planet as my son?”
He sat a little taller in his seat and impulsively pulled my hand to his lips and gave it a smacking kiss. “I’m glad you came, Mama.”
“Nothing in the world could have kept me from it.”
Standing outside the door of the coffee shop, unembarrassed by the waitress’ obvious and teary-eyed interest in the farewell of a mother and a soldier-son, we hugged and held each other as long as we could. I watched until Morgan turned the corner toward the bus stop that would take him back to the base, then walked quickly in the opposite direction toward the motel, head down, my heels clicking evenly against the sidewalk while I dug in my coat pocket for my handkerchief.
Paul was shaved and dressed when I got back to the room. He was already packing our suitcases. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked. “I thought this way we’d have time for a last walk on the beach before we have to leave for the station. Who knows when we’ll get another chance.”
Something in that sentence seemed to sum up all the uncertainties of the world. My lip trembled, and Paul dropped the shirt he was folding onto the bed to reach for me, crossing the room in three big steps of his long legs. Grateful for his arms around me, I held back the tears. If Morgan could be brave, so could I.
“I miss him so much already, even worse than before. When he left the last time he was so young, so innocent and confident, almost magical in a way, like nothing bad could ever happen to him. Now, I don’t know.” I dabbed at my eyes with the handkerchief I held clutched in my hand; it was already quite damp. “He’s grown, and he’s afraid. It’s like he’s suddenly become aware of his own mortality and just the knowledge makes him vulnerable. If anything happened to him, what would I do?”
Paul held me tighter and rubbed his hands up and down my back as though trying to warm me after I’d come in out of the cold. “He’s going to be fine,” he said soothingly, and I could feel the deep bass of his voice rumbling confidently from his chest. “You were right the first time. Nothing will touch him.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because I believe in God and happy endings. Besides he’s an eagle’s offspring, at home in the sky. Surely that’s a lucky talisman for a pilot.”
I couldn’t help but smile a little. “Are you a pastor or a pagan? Lucky talismans? What kind of creed do you subscribe to?”
“The kind that embraces hope in all its forms and trusts God for all grace,” he said sincerely. “How else are we to go on?”
Later, as we walked on the beach, Paul spotted the silhouette of a destroyer slipping silently toward the open sea. It was probably too early in the day to be Morgan’s transport; there was no way to know for certain. Standing ankle-deep in a temperate surf, Paul and I held hands and prayed for the safe and rapid return of every mother’s son aboard the nameless vessel while the tide teased and swirled gently around our feet with a playfulness that seemed to mock my apprehension. For that moment at least, I felt at peace.
Chapter 23
Of all the things I’ve ever had to do, forcing myself to walk down the aisle past the gauntlet of staring eyes to take a seat in the front pew, where the minister’s wife should sit, on that first Sunday after we got back from San Diego, was the hardest. A week before we left, Paul had informed Mr. Dwyer, who was head of the deacons’ board, of our intention to marry and asked him to lead the Sunday service during our honeymoon. According to Paul’s report, Mr. Dwyer had been flabbergasted by this seemingly impetuous decision on the part of his normally staid and predictable pastor.
“He sputtered quite a bit and then said he thought we’d better convene an ‘emergency meeting of the elders’ to discuss the wisdom of such a move and its impact on the congregation. I told him there was only one person I needed to discuss marriage with and that you’d said yes. Then I turned on my heel and left him standing there with his mouth open.” When Paul told me the story as we were cocooned in the perfect, tiny world of our train compartment, the bombastic deacon’s meddling seemed trivial, a good joke between the two of us. On that Sunday in Dillon I wasn’t so sure.
It was impossible to face breakfast that morning, which was probably just as well. My stomach was so full of butterflies I’m not sure I could have kept anything down, and wouldn’t that have made a lovely impression on the congregation? Nothing in Ruby’s jokes or Mama’s stolid encouragement eased my fears. I was certain Paul would have been able to say something to me that would help, but he’d gotten up and gone to the church before dawn. It was surprising for me to realize how quickly I’d come to value his advice and support. He molded himself into the family easily and immediately, as though we’d been married twenty years instead of two weeks. When we’d moved a full-sized bed into my room and scooted the quilting frame a bit farther into the southwest window corner to make room for Paul’s desk and books, his things looked as though they’d always been there. The room seemed suddenly cozier and more welcoming, not crowded at all, and I wondered how I hadn’t felt naked in all th
at empty space for all those years.
Naked was the perfect way to describe my feelings as I pulled myself over the threshold of the church door and through the vestibule to the sanctuary. Mama and Ruby were right behind me, but even so I felt terribly alone. I could feel the heat on my face as I limped toward my seat. Maybe it was my imagination, but the pews seemed full to bursting with curious saints that day, and I suddenly had a horrifying vision of myself tripping and falling in front of everyone. My cane thumped more loudly than it ever had on the worn wooden floorboards, and I was reminded of what a poor congregation we were, not a pane of stained glass or an inch of carpet in the whole place, just simple white walls and woodwork that Paul had painted himself.
Paul smiled encouragingly from his seat near the altar. I sighed in relief when I finally reached the front pew without incident and took my place while the ancient organ groaned out the opening bars of “Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us.” I sang along, grateful that people were watching their hymnals now instead of me.
The choir sang on key, mostly, and Paul preached a good sermon, one of his best, I thought, even squeezing in a couple of jokes relevant to the text. That was not normally his style, but I had suggested he try adding a little humor to his messages, not by way of being entertaining, but more to help people translate the lofty-sounding words and acts of the biblical fathers into terms they could relate to. It pleased me to see how much more engaged the congregation became after they’d laughed a bit, leaning in closer toward the pulpit and thoughtfully nodding their agreement when Paul exhorted them on the urgency of not giving up before the race had been won. For the first time I thought that even with all my faults, I might be more of an asset than liability to my husband. As Paul finished leading the closing hymn and prepared to give the benediction, to my surprise, Mr. Dwyer stood up, grasped his coat lapels with both hands, and cleared his throat. Paul was clearly taken aback by the interruption and shot me a worried glance.
“Pardon me for breaking in, Pastor,” the deacon boomed in his best oratorical style, “but I have something to say on behalf of the board and the congregation as a whole.” My heart pounded apprehensively. Disapproving of our marriage, even to the point of calling a deacons’ meeting was one thing, but calling Paul on the carpet because of me, especially in front of the whole church, was too shameful to imagine. What had I gotten him into?
Mr. Dwyer cleared his throat again and furrowed his brow ominously. “We were all of us surprised by our pastor’s sudden announcement of his intention to marry, especially without consulting the board on his plans. To add insult to injury, he failed to invite a single member here present to the wedding.” He paused importantly before going on. “However, we are all good Christians here, and mindful of our Lord’s teaching, we have decided to forgive and forget. So, Pastor Van Dyver and”—he nodded in my direction, his eyes twinkling just a bit—“Mrs. Van Dyver, please accept our congratulations on the celebration of your nuptials. Since we couldn’t join you at the ceremony, we thought we’d at least better come to the reception, which we decided to throw for you ourselves. It will commence immediately following the service in my store!” At this triumphant finish, the congregation burst into applause. Paul still looked a bit stunned and seemed unsure of how to respond.
“Well, come on, Paul,” Mr. Dwyer boomed. “Say the benediction! My missus made a huge cake, and it’s over at the store drying out!”
The entire gathering laughed, and Paul joined in before raising his hands wide, as though reaching out to touch every member there present as he spoke the familiar, comforting words of blessing: “And now, may the Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee and give thee peace.” With the organ’s triumphant fanfare, Paul stepped down and away from the altar to join me, and we were suddenly surrounded by a throng of people, all wanting to shake our hands and wish us well.
Mrs. Dwyer had indeed made an enormous wedding cake, with pink and white rosettes and a doll-sized bride and groom on top. She’d even thought to paint a tiny clerical collar around the groom’s neck. Everyone laughed at that. The other ladies of church had provided a fizzy pink punch, trays loaded with sandwiches, and bowls of salted nuts. Plus, they’d taken up a collection to buy us a beautiful gift, an entire set of blue willow china, eight settings. Mama was especially impressed with that. “Imagine,” she breathed in wonder while running a cautious finger around a plate rim, “everything matching everything else and not a chip anywhere! I never saw anything so pretty. Do you dare use them?”
Paul winked at me from across the room where he was trapped with several stacks of canned baby peas on one side and Mr. Dwyer and Emmit Smalley, who were arguing about predestination, as usual, on the other. There was no hope of escape, but Paul didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to be enjoying himself. I was, too. Everyone was so kind—though I found all the compliments and sudden attention overwhelming and a bit bewildering.
I saw Mrs. Hutchinson standing alone manning the punch bowl. She waved me over, and I worked my way through the throng to talk with her. She had always been a sweet woman, plump and pink with snow white hair, always smelling faintly of lavender and new bread. Even so, I was a little nervous greeting her. Her approval or disapproval of Paul’s choice of wife could influence the entire congregation. She had been chair of the altar guild for as long anybody could remember—even when I was a little girl she seemed about as elderly as she was right now, which I suppose was about eighty. When she saw me squeezing through the crowd toward her, she smiled and filled a glass with punch.
“Thirsty?” she asked, offering me a cup. “It’s warm in here with all these people.” I thanked her and took a sip of the punch. It was too sweet, but I drank it anyway.
“Morgan wanted me to thank you for your letters to him. It means so much to get mail from home,” I said.
“Oh, I’m glad to do it,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s my way of helping with the war effort. I try to write every serviceman from Dillon at least once a month. It’s not much, but at my age”—she added with a wink—“it’s about all I can manage.” Then she asked, “How is Morgan? It must have been wonderful to see him.”
“It was,” I said sincerely. “I feel so lucky, which I guess is a strange thing to say when the whole world is at war, but so many people haven’t seen their boys since they signed up and others will never see them again. Then here I am. I got to spend three whole days with my son. I’m married to a wonderful man, and now this.” I spread my arm out to indicate the room and the warm welcome home. “I just don’t know what to say. It’s all a little—”
“Unsettling?” she interrupted, looking at me with her wise old eyes that seemed to see right inside my thoughts. They were eyes to trust.
“Yes,” I admitted in a whisper and leaned closer to make sure no one else could hear. “Mrs. Hutchinson, when I was a little girl all the people in town either pitied me or mocked me because of my leg. Then I had Morgan, and nobody would speak to me at all. After Papa died, people softened up a little, but they still held me at arm’s length. Folks tolerated me, but just barely. Now, overnight, people are talking to me, shaking my hand, asking me over for coffee.... It’s nice, but I know it’s just because of Paul. People in Dillon don’t like me; they never have.”
As I spoke, Mrs. Hutchinson’s tranquil countenance clouded over. “Evangeline Glennon Van Dyver, that is a bunch of hooey!” she scolded, and I nearly smiled at her reproach, as though by invoking my full name she’d get my full attention, exactly the way Mama did to me when I was little—and exactly as I’d done when Morgan was a boy. A mother’s instinct and a mother’s care.
“When you were little, yes,” she agreed, “there were people who pitied you, but mostly they were concerned about you. It’s a small town, Eva; every child here belongs to all of us, and when they aren’t well, we all worry. And, yes, there were children
who taunted you, but that’s what children do!” She pointed a gnarled finger at me and shook it admonishingly, then sighed with exasperation and continued on, more gently.
“If you’d had two legs straight as sticks, they’d have teased you about the length of your hair or the freckles on your nose or something else. But, you were so self-conscious! I remember how shy you were in my class, never even tried to talk with the other girls, always off by yourself, reading. You never let anyone get close.” Just then two little girls in pigtails with matching ribbons, the Robins girls, approached the table. Shyly, they asked Mrs. Hutchinson if they could have more punch. She ladled the fizzy pink potion into their waiting glasses, gave them a smile, and cautioned them not to drink too much or they’d upset their stomachs. They thanked her and scooted off toward the food table, looking for a second slice of cake. Mrs. Hutchinson shook her head disapprovingly.
“They’ll ruin their supper, that’s all. Oh well”—she shrugged in defeat—“I suppose it’s a special occasion. Now, what were we talking about?” She answered her own question before I could say a word. “That’s right, you. Yes, when you had your baby and no husband to go with it, people were shocked. A lot of folks avoided you, and I’m ashamed to say that I was one of them. Others cut you cold. Well,” she said uncertainly, “I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, but that’s the way it’s always been. I guess we think that sort of treatment will make girls think twice before they ...” She lowered her voice, and I thought I detected just a hint of a blush on her well-lined cheeks. “Well, you know what I mean,” she whispered.
“Over time, though, people saw what you were made of. People in this town respect you, Eva. They have for a long time.”
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