by Sarah Sundin
Once again, Leah would have to release someone she loved.
45
US 158TH GENERAL HOSPITAL
SALISBURY, WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND
TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 1944
Clay eased down onto the hospital bed after a long walk around the hospital grounds. He could feel the benefits of the early postsurgical ambulation the physicians now promoted, but boy, did it take a lot out of him.
“Very good, Corporal.” Lieutenant Dugoni, his nurse, winked at him. “Tomorrow we’ll send you on a five-mile march.”
Clay hefted his legs onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard. “I’d prefer climbing a cliff, but a march will do if that’s all you’ve got.”
The nurse laughed and straightened Clay’s bathrobe over his legs. “I’ll see what I can arrange. In the meantime, keep doing your exercises. You’re making excellent progress.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He filled his lungs, careful to keep his shoulders and pelvis straight and to not favor his wounded side. He didn’t want to become a “chest cripple,” permanently bent to one side as were too many veterans from World War I.
Almost three weeks had passed since the Texas had brought him to England and almost two weeks since he’d undergone the second, reparative, surgery at the 158th General Hospital in Salisbury. It had taken forever for him to learn that the Rangers had held Pointe du Hoc until June 8, when forces from Omaha Beach finally linked up with them.
Hearing that the Rangers had succeeded and the Allies were making progress in Normandy was a benefit of surviving.
Another benefit was being able to report Frank Lyons’s confession to the military police. Now Peggy’s family in Florida would have resolution, and the boyfriend of the girl in Braunton wouldn’t be punished for a crime he hadn’t committed.
The ward door opened, and a Red Cross worker entered the semicylindrical Nissen hut. The tall blonde’s heels clicked on the concrete floor, and patients called out “Hiya, Red Cross” as she passed.
She stopped at the foot of Clay’s bed. “Good afternoon. Are you Cpl. Clay Paxton?”
“Yes, ma’am. Good afternoon to you too.”
She peered at him more closely, then grinned. “Oh, I see it. I hear it.”
A curious thing to say, and he tilted his head.
She laughed and extended her hand. “Pardon me. My name is Violet Lindstrom. I’m with the American Red Cross.”
He could tell by her blue-gray uniform with the Red Cross patch on the sleeve and the Red Cross pin on the garrison cap. He shook her hand. “Right nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Her pretty face sobered. “I’m here on behalf of two officers who are looking for you. Your—your brothers, Adler and Wyatt.”
Just like that, the “Prodigal’s elder brother” part of him didn’t want to be found. He cleared his throat. “They’re doing fine then? After D-day?”
“Oh yes. They each had an adventure, but they’re alive and well.” She held out some envelopes with a hesitant look. “I’ve brought letters from them. They said they’re very sorry for what they did to you.”
Clay’s eye twitched, and he took the letters. Just how much of his embarrassing life story had they shared with this stranger?
Miss Lindstrom twisted her purse strap. “They dearly wish to see you, but they’ll understand if you don’t want to.”
Clay’s brain felt full of mud. He wasn’t ready, wasn’t sure he’d ever be, and he set the letters on the bedside table. “I don’t need to read these.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows tented, and she blinked a lot. “They’ll understand, but please keep the letters. Maybe someday you’ll be ready.”
Clay sighed and fixed his gaze on her. “That wasn’t what I meant. I don’t need to read the letters to know that I need to see my brothers.”
“You do?” A bright smile bloomed. Miss Lindstrom seemed to be taking this case awful personally for an objective Red Cross worker. “Right now?”
“Right now? They’re here?” His gaze flew to the door, but he didn’t see them.
“They’re waiting outside, but . . . maybe another day.”
All the air and all the resistance drained out of him. “They’ve come a long way, haven’t they?”
“In more ways than you know,” she said in a soft voice.
Clay nodded to her. “I’ll see them now.”
“Thank you.” She darted forward as if to hug him but stopped. “They’ll be so happy.”
Clay groaned as apprehension and anticipation battled in his heart. Three years had passed. Three years of pain and misery and division. Today it could change—or it could continue. He alone carried the key that could turn the course of his family.
Was this how Joseph had felt in Egypt, waiting for his brothers to be ushered in to his presence?
Miss Lindstrom opened the door and beckoned. Two tall blond officers appeared, one in a navy-blue uniform and one in an olive drab Ike jacket and khaki trousers—Wyatt and Adler.
Clay’s chest constricted, and the apprehension crowded out the anticipation.
Miss Lindstrom pressed her hand to Adler’s cheek, and he kissed her forehead.
Well, that explained why she’d taken the case personally.
His brothers stepped inside the ward and removed their caps. Slowly, cautiously, they approached, sizing him up.
Clay didn’t stand as he should for officers, didn’t smile as he should for family. But hadn’t Joseph tested his brothers three times to see if their repentance was genuine? Nothing wrong with making his brothers squirm.
They stood at the foot of his bed, hats in hand, their faces as familiar as his own, yet changed, older . . . and etched with remorse.
That was enough squirming. “Howdy.”
“Howdy,” they said.
The sound of their voices unraveled his last knot of resentment.
Wyatt gestured to the letters. “I wish you had read our letters first.”
“Wouldn’t change anything.”
His brothers winced and exchanged a glance.
Clay sighed. Why wasn’t he communicating clearly? “You both have letters coming. I wrote them before D-day, before I could see for myself whether or not you were sorry—”
“We are sorry.” Adler’s gaze stretched out to him. “You have no idea how—”
Clay held up one hand, feeling very much like Joseph on his throne. “I wrote those letters to tell you I’ve forgiven you fully and completely. Both of you.”
Wyatt’s shoulders drooped. “We—we don’t deserve it.”
Adler hung his head. “Not one whit.”
Neither did Clay deserve their forgiveness.
Words weren’t enough. Clay swung his feet to the floor and pushed to standing.
Both brothers took half a step backward, as if expecting blows, then stood their ground.
Wyatt was closest. Clay clasped his oldest brother’s shoulders and drilled his gaze deep into Wyatt’s hesitant gray-blue eyes. Last time Clay had seen him, Wyatt had been running for his life, on his way to steal Clay’s savings.
Everything buckled inside, and Clay tugged Wyatt into a tight embrace.
His brother stiffened, then sagged and hugged Clay back. “I don’t—”
“No more of that. No more.” He released Wyatt and turned to Adler, whose sky blue eyes widened.
Clay refused to think about how he’d last seen Adler, and he fell on his middle brother, holding him as firmly as he’d held the rope on Pointe du Hoc, as if his life depended on it, as if the life of his whole family depended on it.
“But—but—” Adler’s voice sounded thick and husky. “I ruined your life.”
“We both did,” Wyatt said.
“My life isn’t ruined.” He stepped back and grabbed Adler’s arm, Wyatt’s arm. “It isn’t. It’s different, but it’s good. It’s very good.”
Adler shook his head. “But—”
“Sit down.” Clay sat on the side of the bed and pa
tted the mattress. “I reckon officers can take orders as well as give them.”
One corner of Wyatt’s mouth twitched. He nudged Adler and took his seat.
“Remember the story of Joseph in Egypt?” Clay pulled his little Bible from the table. “He had every right to say his brothers had ruined his life. They sold him into slavery. He was in a pit, then in prison. Thirteen years. But you know what he said, don’t you?”
Wyatt and Adler nodded with a trying-to-recall-the-verse look in their eyes.
Clay recalled it. He’d memorized it. “Joseph told his brothers, ‘But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.’”
“What good could possibly . . . ?” Adler squeezed his eyes shut.
Where should he start? “So much good. Saved Leah’s life.”
“Who’s Leah?” Wyatt asked.
“My wife.”
They gasped as one. “You’re married?”
“And a father.” Clay pulled out the well-loved photo. “Her name is Helen, and she’s two months old. Aren’t they the prettiest girls you’ve ever seen?”
“Well, I’ll be,” Adler said.
“Congratulations.”
Clay savored the first smiles he’d seen from his brothers in three years. “Neither Leah nor Helen would be alive if you hadn’t done what you did.”
Wyatt’s eyes stretched wide. “What happened?”
“That’s a story for another day.” Clay tucked the photo away. “If I’d gone to college, I wouldn’t have been in the Rangers or on Pointe du Hoc. And that’s where I was meant to be.”
“You really climbed those cliffs.” Wyatt whistled.
Clay shrugged and set aside his Bible. “Only a hundred feet tall, nothing to speak of.”
His brothers laughed, and Clay joined in, then laughed harder at the wonder of it, of laughing with them again.
Adler smiled and shook his head. “Never thought this day would come.”
A twinge of pain in his right side, but the laughter had been worth it. “Reckon we’ll still have moments.”
“Reckon so.” Sobering, Wyatt gestured to the nightstand. “Please read my letter. Adler’s too.”
“Yeah,” Adler said. “Easier to write all that than to say it, and it hurt like blazes to write.”
“I will.”
“I sent my check to Daddy,” Wyatt said. “Three thousand dollars.”
“What?” Clay gaped at him. “Three thousand? I’d only saved two.”
“I charged myself interest and a fine.” Wyatt pulled a notepad from the breast pocket of his white shirt. “Between that and the GI Bill, college and medical school should be about covered.”
“Medical school?”
Adler leaned forward on his knees. “You still want to be a doctor, don’t you?”
“I . . .” Did he dare glance in the direction of that dream? He closed his gaping mouth. “The GI Bill. I’ve heard the fellows talking about it, but I paid it no mind. I thought it had to do with loans.”
“And education.” Wyatt flipped pages in his notepad. “Roosevelt signed it a few days ago. The bill is pretty restrictive, but it seems tailor-made for you. I took notes.”
An accountant to the core, and Clay leaned closer to see.
Wyatt tapped a page filled with his neat handwriting. “You get one year of benefits, plus an additional year for each year of service, up to a maximum of four years.”
If Clay stayed in the service until February, that’d be two years of service—three years of benefits. He tried to make sense of the figures before him, the hope before him.
Wyatt moved his finger down the page. “Five hundred dollars a year for school expenses, plus fifty dollars a month for living expenses.” Then he laughed. “No, seventy-five—you have dependents. Use the GI Bill benefits for the first few years while my check collects interest in the bank, then use the savings. If you work summers, you’ll have plenty.”
Clay did the math in his head. If he couldn’t convince Leah to stay married to him, he’d need to work for a year or two before starting college, but . . . “I could do it.”
“You’d better,” Adler said. “You’re meant to be a doctor. I’d be glad to help out if you need it.”
They thought—both brothers thought he ought to be a physician. For three years he’d assumed they thought the profession was too good for him. Clay’s throat swelled, and he coughed to clear it.
Not a half-breed. Not a half brother.
“If you don’t do this . . .” Adler glared at him. “This time, I’ll beat you up.”
Out of all the misery, a laugh escaped. “I’d like to see you try.”
Wyatt elbowed Adler. “You’d better do it now when he’s weak from getting shot, because—hooey!—look at those arms.”
“Yeah. What did they feed you in the Rangers? Better than the slop we get at the airfield.”
Healing warmth flowed through his heart and lungs and veins. “I want to hear. Tell me. Tell me your stories.”
46
TULLAHOMA
THURSDAY, JULY 20, 1944
Leah savored Clay’s handwriting as she walked down Jackson Street in the balmy summer evening. Since Rita Sue was watching Helen, Leah’s hands were free to hold the precious stationery.
If only she could have seen the reunion of the Paxton brothers! Clay’s letter overflowed with the joy of reconciliation.
On the final page he said he’d be returning stateside for more training—although he didn’t say what sort.
In his letters, he’d only told her a few details about what had happened in France—that he’d scaled the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc on D-day and had taken a bullet through the chest the next morning.
Leah pressed her hand over the scar on her chest, over a year old now. How much worse for Clay to have taken a bullet.
But something strange stood out to her. Not once since D-day had he mentioned his recurring dream, even though she’d asked about it. Had it failed to come to pass?
Then the last paragraph—how it destroyed her heart each time she read it: “I’m looking forward to seeing you and to meeting Little Miss Helen. We have a lot to talk about, you and I.”
Any other wife would thrill to the thought of sweet words murmured in her ear. But Leah knew they had to talk about lawyers and papers and alimony and other horrible things.
Leah kissed the letter and folded it. She could stop the divorce with three little words—I love you. Part of her wanted to say them, shout them, and free them from her heart.
If he knew she’d fallen in love with him, he’d feel obligated to stay married to her, honorable man that he was.
As much as she wanted him to stay, she didn’t want him to stay out of obligation and honor. Manipulating him with her feelings would be as selfish as declaring herself to her sisters would have been.
Loving Clay meant releasing him, and loving God meant trusting him to provide.
Leah tucked the letter in her purse and entered the Coffee Children’s Home for the board meeting. Children ran out from the dining room to greet her. She hugged them all, then sent them back to finish their homework.
Miss King, Mrs. Whipple, and Mrs. Susskind greeted Leah warmly. Mrs. Channing shook her hand, which was far warmer than her usual chilly greeting. But Mrs. Ross made a face as if Leah reeked of garbage. How very odd.
Mrs. Channing opened the meeting, and the board members ran through their reports.
When they finished, Miss King turned to Leah. “Mrs. Paxton, please tell the board about that idea you and Mrs. Sheridan discussed with me.”
“Thank you.” After the Chicago trip, Leah had returned to volunteering at the library and to sorting donated books. “Mrs. Sheridan is delighted with how the orphans conduct the scrap drives. She’s become especially fond of Marty, who picks up her scrap each week. She asked if the older children might be interested in volunteering at the library.”
Mrs. Channing’s eyes stretched wide. “She wants them there?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Leah forced a smile. “We’d like to start a junior librarian program. The children would help the community and also learn useful skills.”
Mrs. Channing adjusted her reading glasses. “You don’t need the board’s permission for that any more than you did for the scrap drives. Proceed.”
“Thank you.” Miss King grinned at Leah.
“I have a proposal.” Mrs. Whipple’s face crinkled in the sweetest way. “A few months ago, Mrs. Paxton proposed a pancake breakfast.”
Leah winced at the memory. “I’m—”
“Now is the time.” She folded her plump hands on the table. “My friends say they never used to think twice about the children’s home. But now that they’re acquainted with the children through the scrap drives, they’re noticing. And they’re noticing a need for repairs. I hadn’t seen anything, but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
Miss King twiddled a strand of hair. “I admit we’ve fallen behind in maintenance.”
Leah held her breath. How would Mrs. Channing and the others react?
Mrs. Whipple slid a piece of paper to Mrs. Channing. “I propose we hold a pancake breakfast and work party. Folks could paint or fix things or do yard work, and the children will cook and serve the breakfast. Thanks to Mrs. Paxton’s scrap drives, folks will be happy to help.”
All Leah had hoped for, and so much more. She sent Mrs. Whipple a grateful, joyful smile. At last the children were beginning to belong.
Mrs. Ross shoved back her chair. “I can’t listen to this anymore.”
The ladies gasped and stared at her.
Mrs. Ross stood and pointed a shaking finger at Leah. “Y’all are singing this girl’s praises when she’s nothing but a common thief.”
The familiar words slapped Leah in the face.
“Pardon?” Mrs. Channing said.
Mrs. Ross straightened her shirtwaist dress, her reddening face clashing with the peach floral print. “When I was having my hair done, I was chatting about Mrs. Paxton’s scrap drives. The lady in the next chair said we’d better watch our pennies because that girl will steal every last one of them.”