by Sarah Sundin
“Swell.” Clay kicked at a tuft of grass. Wyatt felt bad? Good. He ought to.
He planned to pay Clay back? Sure, he did. Even if he did, fat lot of good it’d do Clay with only weeks to live.
And Daddy and Mama wanted to throw a party for Wyatt and Adler, just like for the Prodigal Son who wasted his inheritance on “riotous living.”
Except Wyatt had wasted Clay’s money, not his own. And Adler did his “riotous living” with Clay’s girlfriend.
Did Daddy expect Clay to leap for joy?
He grabbed a rock and hurled it off the cliff like a hand grenade.
What had Daddy meant about running to the three of them? Clay hadn’t run away. He’d served at Paxton Trucking while Wyatt and Adler shirked their responsibilities and left Clay to do their work. He’d hated that job, but never once had he failed his father.
Another rock, and Clay sent it flying. “Daddy never threw a barbecue for me.”
His own words smacked him in the chest and buckled his legs.
He fell to his knees, the cool wind drying his widened eyes, the truth wringing out his soul. “Oh no. I’m the elder brother.”
Clay might be the youngest Paxton boy, but in his heart he was the Prodigal’s elder brother.
He reached into his breast pocket and whisked out the tiny soldier’s Bible with its leather cover and the brass plate on the front that read “May the Lord be with you.”
Where was that parable again? The gospel of Luke, chapter 15.
He knew the story backward, forward, and upside down, and he already knew Jesus was talking to him. Most people thought the parable was spoken to lost sinners, letting them know the Father wanted to welcome them home. And sure, the parable did say that.
The first three verses stung, but he read them out loud, needing to hear them. “‘Then drew near unto him all the publicans and sinners for to hear him. And the Pharisees and scribes murmured, saying, This man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them. And he spake this parable unto them.’”
Unto the Pharisees. Not unto the sinners, and Clay’s head sagged back.
The Pharisees grumbled about Jesus welcoming sinners. The elder brother grumbled about the father welcoming the Prodigal. And Clay grumbled about Daddy and Mama welcoming Wyatt and Adler.
“I’m the elder brother.” The wind riffled the tiny pages, and Clay read the whole story—the last four verses twice, his voice as rough as the ground beneath his knees.
“‘And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends: But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.’”
Clay’s hands coiled around leather and brass and wafer-thin paper, and shame bowed his head low. “Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.”
As miserable as those last years in Kerrville had been, he’d always had his parents’ company and wisdom. He’d enjoyed Mama’s chili and Daddy’s jokes.
Wyatt and Adler might have flourished out in the world, but they’d done so alone.
Daddy and Mama were right to rejoice that their son had returned, repentant and grieving.
For so many years, Clay had seen himself as wronged. Now he was just plain wrong.
“Lord, forgive me.” He returned to the Scripture. The parable ended there. Did the elder brother continue to grumble? Did the Pharisees? Or did they see the wonder of the Father’s mercy and join in the celebration?
He gripped the Bible hard, willing the truth to transform his brittle heart. “I want to, Lord. I want to forgive. I need to forgive.”
29
TULLAHOMA
TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 1944
Rita Sue fingered the bouquet of pink carnations on Leah’s hospital bedside table. “That baby gets prettier every day. Boy, do I see your husband in her.” She gave Leah a wink.
“Me too.” Sitting up in bed, Leah glanced at the clock. Two long hours until the nurse would bring the baby for her next feeding.
“I need to go home and make dinner.” Rita Sue tucked her purse under her arm. “You’re coming home tomorrow, aren’t you, sugar?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll bring the truck. The kids can’t wait to meet the baby. But, sugar? She needs a nickname. Helen’s too grown-up for that little dumpling.”
Leah smiled. Helen was the perfect name. As small as she was, Helen exuded light and dignity.
After Rita Sue left, Leah slid her feet into her slippers. It felt good to walk around the maternity ward after five days lying in bed and another five sitting in bed.
Leah picked up Clay’s V-mail—tiny but so quickly delivered. She padded to the window, her white cotton nightgown brushing her ankles. Only one other mother was in the ward, fast asleep.
The V-mail had arrived that afternoon, and Leah had read it twice. Mr. and Mrs. Paxton had told her about Wyatt when the hospital let her make a long-distance call to Texas. Now Clay knew too, and he’d poured out his heart to her about acting like the Prodigal’s elder brother.
In the afternoon sunlight, Leah squinted at Clay’s handwriting. His letter had been written on a special V-mail form and photographed in England, then the microfilm had been shipped overseas and the letter reprinted in miniature in the US.
For the past three years, I’ve sat on a seesaw in the up position. I’ve taken satisfaction in my perch, high in the knowledge of my righteousness and looking down on my brothers’ wickedness.
Full forgiveness would level that beam, and I admit, that’s why I’ve resisted.
Now I see how wrong I’ve been.
My lack of forgiveness only heaps sin onto my side of the beam, leveling the balance whether I like it or not. Now Wyatt and Adler have something to forgive me for.
One way or the other, that beam will be leveled. I can do it my way, adding the weight of my sin to the beam. Or I can do it God’s way, releasing the weight of their sin in my life and letting them rise.
Only one way leads to peace. Only one way leads to restoration. I am choosing that way.
Leah kissed the page. “How I love you, you wonderful man.”
Now to write her reply. The Lord would have to help her select the right words and speed her letter to Clay. Spring was deepening, and time was running short.
With her pen and her new box of V-mail stationery in hand, Leah sat in the bedside chair.
A man and woman entered the ward. The man was tall with graying blond hair, and he wore a gray suit. Small but sturdy, the woman wore a lavender floral shirtwaist dress, silver streaked her black hair, and dark eyes shone in the deep bronze of her face.
Could it be? “Mr. and Mrs. Paxton?”
“Leah! Mija!” The woman rushed over, kissed Leah’s forehead, and grasped her shoulders. “Let me look at you. Why, you’re even prettier than your picture. Isn’t she, Will?”
“She certainly is.” His Texas twang sounded so much like Clay’s it hurt.
“I—I didn’t know you were coming.”
Mr. Paxton removed his fedora. “We wanted to surprise you. We’re here to meet that baby girl and get the two of you settled in at your house.”
Leah set aside her stationery. “You came all the way from Texas. My goodness.”
Mr. Paxton handed Leah a heavy package wrapped in pink paper. “For the baby.”
“Oh my.” Leah eased off the tape and folded back the paper to reveal a red wooden truck with “Paxton Trucking” painted on the side in white.
“I made it thinking she’d be a boy.” Mr. Paxton shrugged and grinned.
“She’s the first Paxton girl in ages.” Mrs. Paxton’s shoulders and smile lifted as one.
“What a breath of fresh air the two of you are.”
Leah spun little wooden wheels. “It’s wonderful, and it’s all hers. Thank you so much.”
Already her daughter had a Raggedy Ann doll from the Bellamy family and a fuzzy white bunny rabbit from sweet Mrs. Whipple, who seemed to have forgiven Leah for her blunder at the orphanage board meeting.
“Would you like to see Helen?” Leah asked.
Mrs. Paxton gazed to the door. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Leah led them to the nursery with its large window facing the hall. “There she is.” She pointed to the baby on the right, fast asleep and covered with a pink blanket.
A nurse spotted Leah, scooped up Helen, and brought her to the window, tilting her so her grandparents could see her face.
Mrs. Paxton pressed close. “Abuelita’s here, little one. Oh, look at her, Will. Isn’t she the prettiest little thing?”
“Sure is.” He grinned. “My, she’s tiny. Can’t believe our boys were that small.”
“You and I get a whole month together, peanut,” Mrs. Paxton cooed.
Leah blinked a few times. “A month?”
Mrs. Paxton made kissing noises toward the baby. “A new mama needs help with the baby and the household chores. You have a six-week lying-in period, and you need to rest. Clay said you’d turn me down, so I wrote your friend Mrs. Bellamy. She’s letting me stay in her spare room, since you don’t have space in your house.”
Leah kept blinking as all her needs and concerns evaporated. “What about Timmy?”
“My sister will watch him when Will is at work.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
Mr. Paxton chuckled. “Don’t say nothin’. When Lupe makes up her mind—”
“Oh, you’re no better.” She wrinkled her nose at her husband. “I’ll stay for a month, but your father-in-law will go home this weekend.”
“The business, you know.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “By the way, we brought a trunk of Clay’s things.”
“Clay wanted them here with you,” Mrs. Paxton said.
“Oh my goodness.” Leah’s breath hitched on her swollen throat. Was there no end to this family’s generosity?
Mrs. Paxton gasped and pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh! She’s waking up.”
“Would you look at that? She’s got your eyes, Lupe—and Clay’s. Sure as shooting.”
Leah studied her mother-in-law and saw the resemblance. “I hope her disposition is as sweet as Clay’s.”
Mrs. Paxton flashed a smile. “Clay was the sunniest child you ever did see.”
Sunny? Clay was thoughtful and kind, but Leah wouldn’t describe him as sunny.
Helen’s face reddened and scrunched up, and the nurse walked away with her. Despite the muting effect of the glass, the baby’s cries made Leah ache.
Her hands stretched out. She wanted to be the one to comfort her daughter. Thank goodness they’d be going home tomorrow.
Mrs. Paxton looped her arm through Leah’s and led her back to her room. Leah returned to her bedside chair, and Mr. Paxton pulled up chairs for him and his wife.
Mrs. Paxton set her purse on her lap. “I wish you’d known Clay before ’41. We’re praying our sunny boy will return to us.”
Leah was just praying that he’d return at all. “I pray so too.”
“Remember, Lupe,” Mr. Paxton said. “War changes a man.”
“Yes, but if he and his brothers . . .” She turned bright eyes to Leah. “We haven’t told you yet. We heard from Adler.”
“Adler? I thought you’d heard from Wyatt.”
“Only a few days later.” Mr. Paxton flipped his hat in his hands. “Both in one week.”
“We’ve missed them . . . so much.” Mrs. Paxton’s voice shook. “Three years. It’s such a relief to know they’re both alive and well.”
Leah bit her lip, afraid she’d reveal that Clay had seen Adler on the ship. “How is he?”
Mr. Paxton stretched out long legs and grinned. “He’s a P-51 fighter pilot, wouldn’t you know? That boy was always a daredevil.”
“He’s in England,” Mrs. Paxton said. “That is no coincidence. God is orchestrating their reunion.”
“Do you think they can meet?” Leah fiddled with the hem of her bed jacket. “I doubt they’re in the same area, and Clay rarely gets leave.”
“It’ll happen.” Mrs. Paxton gave a strong nod.
Her husband shrugged. “If Clay can forgive them.”
“Of course he will. Right, Leah?”
How much could she reveal without betraying Clay’s confidence? “I’m afraid it won’t be easy.”
“She’s right.” Mr. Paxton leaned his elbows on his knees. “What his brothers did to him? They didn’t just steal his money and his girl. They struck at who he was as a man. That’s a lot to forgive.”
“He will,” Clay’s mother said. “He has to.”
He did have to forgive, not just for his own peace of mind, not just for Wyatt and Adler’s sake, but for the whole family. “Clay’s the key, isn’t he?”
Mrs. Paxton frowned at her. “The key?”
“Clay is the key.” Leah stroked the warm gold of her wedding ring. “His forgiveness is the key to restoring your family.”
“Our family.” Mrs. Paxton squeezed Leah’s hand.
Mr. Paxton chuckled. “You’re in this mess too, young lady.”
Leah smiled, even though she was only in the family temporarily. But for whatever time she had, she’d fight for them and with them. “I am indeed.”
30
LYME BAY OFF BLACKPOOL BEACH, SOUTH DEVON, ENGLAND
THURSDAY, MAY 4, 1944
Clay stood at the bow ramp in the British Landing Craft Assault as the little LCA chugged across Lyme Bay.
Eager anticipation rippled among the twenty-one men—two of the three sections in Clay’s platoon. Exercise Fabius was a full-scale dress rehearsal for D-day, so realistic that when his company had boarded their British transport, the Ben-my-Chree, in Weymouth, half the men were convinced it was the real deal.
Live naval shells flew overhead, shredding the gray morning sky and leaving concussion trails along the water.
Lyme Bay teemed with vessels—the landing craft speeding to shore, the hulking transports farther out to sea, and the destroyers and cruisers belching fire and smoke and shells.
Was Wyatt on one of those ships? Clay shook his head and focused on the mission, on the green land before him, the golden crescent of Blackpool Beach, and the cliff beyond, the objective of D, E, and F Companies.
Two miles south at Slapton Sands, the other three companies of 2nd Battalion and the entire 5th Ranger Battalion were landing with the 29th and 1st Infantry Divisions. “Twenty-five thousand men,” he murmured, his voice lost in the noise of shelling and boat engines.
The largest amphibious training exercise ever, the brass said.
Four fighter planes zoomed overhead, P-47 Thunderbolts of the US Ninth Air Force.
Not Adler’s planes.
Clay squirmed in his field jacket. Daddy’s letter about Adler had arrived a few days earlier, and Clay was digesting it.
Adler felt deep remorse, Daddy said, not just for his sins, but for how he hurt everyone. All torn up inside, and he wanted to write Clay an apology. Well, good.
Daddy hadn’t given Adler’s address to Clay because he wanted his own letter to arrive first. He and Mama were figuring out how and what to tell their middle son. Adler didn’t know he was a father, and he didn’t know Ellen was dead. It’d be hard on him.
Fine. Clay had dealt with the consequences of Adler’s sins for three years. About time Adler dealt with them too.
He hated feeling vindictive again, just when he was making progress, but Daddy’s letter had ripped the scab right off the wound.
Only forgiveness could slap a bandage on that wound so it could heal. Clay had to take that hard step and write his brothers. Since he didn’t hav
e their addresses, he’d send the letters home for his parents to forward.
The shore drew near. A naval shell slammed into the cliff, spewing out a geyser of dust and rock.
“All right, sailor boys,” Clay muttered. “Time to let up.”
They must have heard him, because the noise fell away.
Beside Clay, Lt. Bill Taylor leaned his elbow over the left front corner of the LCA. “Let’s hope the Rangers’ bad luck doesn’t follow us today.”
“Bad luck?” Clay frowned at the platoon commander.
“Didn’t you hear?” Ernie McKillop nudged Clay from behind. “Fellow in the 5th Rangers told me. Right after we left Braunton, they found another dead girl.”
“What?” Clay stared into McKillop’s wide-set eyes.
“Stabbed and naked and dumped at sea.”
Stabbed. Most likely raped. A weight crushed Clay’s chest, like when he’d wrestled Leah’s attacker.
His gaze swept the Rangers, found Frank Lyons behind McKillop, and locked on him.
Lyons stared back, then his face went flat and still. He blinked and glanced away.
Clay’s breath rushed out. He turned to Gene on his right, who looked as alarmed as he felt, then to Taylor. “Is Colonel Rudder looking into this, sir?” he asked in a low voice.
“Why?” Taylor’s square chin drew back. “It wasn’t a Ranger. The girl’s boyfriend was the town drunk, always fighting with her and everyone else. Sure enough, he skipped town when she disappeared. Last I heard, they were still looking for him.”
“All right.” Clay drummed his fingers on the bow ramp in time to his racing heartbeat. It wasn’t a Ranger, wasn’t Frank Lyons. But the man still made the hairs on his arms stand at attention under his field jacket.
A scraping sound on the bottom of the LCA.
“Here we go, men!” Taylor yelled.
The ramp of the LCA creaked open and thumped onto the beach, splashing Clay with cold water.
Clay roared and charged forward, pounding down the steel ramp and across the beach, pebbles giving way beneath him.
Nothing to shoot, but he held his M1 Garand rifle ready. Teams of men set up equipment and fired rockets. With sharp booms, grapnels shot into the air, trailing rope.