by Noelle Carle
She finally found something safe to say. “Olivia would not want this! And neither do I.” She folded her arms across her chest as she continued. “The baby needs the twins. They take care of her more than anyone. And William, in Boston! He’d shrivel up like a plant without water. He needs to run. He’s like a wild thing. And he’s Henry’s shadow. You can’t separate them.” She felt the heat rising to her face, but continued on even after Reg straightened and started at her, his lips tight and white. “Cleo has worked so hard to get Richard talking again. Do you know how long your own wee boy didn’t say a word?”
Reg’s fist slammed onto the table, causing both the crockery and Mary to jump. “Of course I know that, woman! If Olivia was here this wouldn’t be happening!” His face had grown rigid as he glared at her, but she refused to be intimidated.
Reg stood up abruptly, shook his head as if to knock some thought loose, appeared about to speak, but he turned away then. He left the kitchen through the shed door. Mary heard him pass through the shed and down the wooden steps. She stared at that door for a few moments. That turning away told her all she needed to know. She wearily piled the dishes beside the sink. “I’m here, you daft fool!” she muttered.
It had been months now since Ian had visited her dreams. After President Wilson declared war back in April, her dreams of him had lessened, finally stopping altogether. She maintained her usual control until school ended in June. Then she mourned him all over again. She had weeks during which it felt as though she did nothing but cry. Those dreams had sustained her for so long, but after a while she could barely remember his face. Then she feared she’d never be able to recall it. She took out all the pictures she had put away, placing one in each room of her home. She’d gaze at his likeness, trying to put movement and life behind the image she saw. Gradually she achieved a sense of peace again as she muddled her way through this second loss.
Mary missed Olivia also. Sometimes she would cry until her head ached, so keenly did she feel the loss of such a friend. Olivia had drawn her into the life of this village in a way no one else had. They discussed teaching methods and traveling. They played games together and wrote notes to each other, even though they lived a quarter of a mile apart. They both shared a love of gardening and a faith in God that kept them involved in the little village church. The only place where they had no common ground was in motherhood. Although Mary gushed over the new babes and sewed tiny outfits for them, Olivia sensed how it hurt Mary each time she bore another child. She was almost apologetic with the last two, even though Mary never said a negative word. This difference lay unspoken between them, but caused no real strife.
Mary had made her peace with God over this, although it was an uneasy peace. Many times the boat was rocked, like when Ian died. Why could she not at least have had his child if she couldn’t have him? She had raged over the double loss, for with Ian went any possibility of having children.
One of the town bachelors had sought her hand, but Al Boudreau, a widower whom they called Dusty, really just wanted a housekeeper. He was twenty years her elder, had few teeth left in the front of his mouth, and he looked as though his skin had been tanned and cured by the sun and salt water. He was a kind man, but would never even look Mary in the eyes when he spoke to her. He peered at some point over her shoulder and kept coughing and clearing his throat. Mary politely declined his offer of matrimony.
Now, as she passed through the wooded path down to her little home, Mary reflected on the past few months. She finally admitted to herself that her interest in the Eliot family had been motivated by something more than kindness. She ultimately put to rest the unspoken notion of marrying Reg Eliot so she might have children; either those already born or yet to be. It didn’t matter to her. She ached with longing whenever she picked up Caroline and brushed her lips across her white blonde hair. The notion, it was obvious, had never even crossed his mind. She was too proud to offer herself as a wife and feared what such outright rejection would do to her. She walked slowly along the rutted path as she spoke aloud the truth that had settled in her heart. She loved his children, not him. And she had it within her power to save them.
Her footsteps picked up smartly as she hurried towards the village center. But rather than go home, she veered across the field toward the church and the parsonage behind it. She stopped at the cemetery that stood between them. The setting sun cast the sky in a violet rinse, a hopeful color to Mary. She knelt in front of Olivia Eliot’s grave for a long time. “You won’t be minding now, will you, Olivia, dear?” she whispered.
Chapter Nine
A Veritable Consolation
“Dear Alison,” Sam wrote, “we leave in two days for France. We were given a twenty-four hour leave last weekend, but I didn’t have enough time to make it home and back. Some of the others did, but only those who live close by. Instead I was invited to visit the chaplain’s house. He lives about three hours away, near Lake Erie. Allie, he lives in an orphanage! He and his wife run this place, and even though he could have been released from duty because of it, he said they prayed about it and felt God leading him to join up. He said he wanted to be an example to his “boys” of loyalty and duty, even when it’s painful. Imagine! Wouldn’t you think that God would lead people to peace rather than war? They have ten boys there now, the youngest ones just babies, up to age twelve. I told him we have that many in my family and he laughed. (He laughs a lot.) He said his wife and my mother would probably get along real well. I didn’t tell him about my Mom. I guess I don’t want to believe she’s really gone. His wife’s sister lives with them also and helps with the work there. It’s a great place – clean, organized (not like our house), and really beautiful. It’s in a small valley between two apple orchards. There’s a stream that runs through it, and a dog, a pair of oxen, a horse and ducks on the pond. It’s actually called Valley of Hope Home for Boys. The children call my chaplain “Papa Tom”, but he warned me against trying it! They love him. They cried when we left.
The army photographer was here a few weeks ago and I paid him for two photos. I’m sending one to my father and this one is for you. You can see we finally got our uniforms. He told me not to smile, even though I wished you didn’t have to see me looking so grim.
We are looking forward to going. We have trained hard and want to go and just end this war. It’s getting cold now. We even woke up to snow recently, but it didn’t last.
My next letter will be from across the world, I guess. Now you can start praying for real. I will do my best to stay safe. You are my sweetheart. Love, Sam.”
Sam folded the letter that formed its own envelope and addressed it. It gave him a proprietary thrill to call her his sweetheart and send her his love. He wished he could have gone home to see her again, one more time before they sailed away.
The world had enlarged for Sam. Here he was in New York State, about to travel to New York City where they would embark for France. But all he could think about was the ocean. He longed to set his eyes on the water again. It had been a hardship for him not to see it for so many months. His soul felt parched and thirsty for it, in this land of mountains and trees.
His fellow recruits were a disparate bunch; tough lean boys from New York City who stuck together and sneered at the boys from Maine as if they themselves weren’t young and inexperienced; older men who took on the role of kindly uncles, offering unasked for advice and complacent in their worldly knowledge; and others, like themselves, who were scared, trying to be tough, and had only ever known their own little pieces of the world. They developed cohesiveness as a group that he’d not known growing up, and Sam admired the others for their individual personalities and their strengths. He watched them all curiously. He saw how they developed in their own strengths and he figured he was probably developing also but he couldn’t see it in himself. He still felt, after all the weeks of training together, that he was alone. True, Tim and Robbie and the others were there with him, but he didn’t even share their enth
usiasm for the war. He wondered sometimes if he was the only man there who just wished he could go back home.
Sighing, he moved to slip the picture in with his letter. He looked at it one more time. It didn’t seem like it could really be him, this man who stared back at him. The watery mirror in their kitchen at home with which he shaved had not given him the full picture. His legs were long and sturdy, his chest as broad as his father’s. His arms and shoulders strained at the seams of his jacket. His hands looked too large, and he wished again that he had smiled, despite the photographer’s insistence on solemnity. He recognized the look of his father in his own face, with its broad forehead and angular cheekbones, but his eyes were his mother’s; large and sensitive, dark like hers.
“Lights out, lads,” came the sergeant’s command from the door to the barracks. Each soldier who was near a lamp reached up to turn down the gas, and slowly the light faded. Sam fell asleep instantly.
The excitement of their deployment was tempered for many by the agony of seasickness. Most of the troops simply lay on their bunks, retching and vomiting until there was nothing left to bring up. Chaplain Tom Hudson managed to retain his good cheer, regaling his boys with stories even though he himself had to stop once in a while to be sick.
The journey to France took seven long days, with a constant alert for U-boats. Sam stayed out of the lower decks as much as possible. The sea was home to him. He volunteered for whatever duties he could rather than spend time below in the cramped and smelly sleeping quarters. At one with the water, he had little sympathy for those who were sick, and felt it was a weakness in the other men. Those he had grown to admire so for their physical strength and endurance were diminished by the movement of the sea he loved so well.
They wrote letters and some played cards. They told stories and listened to stories. Sam spent hours watching the water. He was absorbing its sight, sounds and smells against the future times when he knew these would only be a memory. He was up at dawn to see the sun rise in the east, casting long fingers of gold across the water. He watched to see how the water changed from gray to blue with the movement of the sun. He stood mesmerized by the water curling off the sides of the huge liner, or the chop of the sea in a brisk wind. As he moved further away from his home and his land he was comforted in one thing…they were connected by the water. Rather than a barrier, it was the road home for him.
Their eventual arrival in France was cause for celebration, both on the part of the beleaguered Allies and the weak and spent men aboard ship who were thrilled to touch earth again.
“Look at ‘em!” Tim Cooper yelped in Sam’s ear from behind him as they filed down the walkway with their gear on their backs. “Never seen Cove girls lookin’ like that!”
The crowd on the dock waved American flags and played the American national anthem. Girls waved and smiled, but Sam could see no difference between them and his own sisters. Not one of them was as pretty as Alison, though he doubted Alison or his sisters would greet perfect strangers quite so exuberantly. But as all the division heartily responded with waves and whistles as they formed ranks on the dock, Sam couldn’t help a feeling of pride that they were there and they were going to help.
The welcome was short-lived as they were quickly issued additional gear, including gas masks. Then they were loaded onto a train. They suffered without the luxury of seats this time. Forty men were packed in each freight car meant for eight horses. The cars stank of manure and had narrow openings at the top, but no windows. Sam was separated from Tim and Robbie, but was pleased to see the chaplain in his car. There was grumbling about the tight fit but once their sergeant slid shut the door after muttering, “We’re heading for the front, soldiers,” a silence descended on them. Sam felt hemmed in on all sides. He peered through the half-light to see if the door could be opened from the inside. He couldn’t make out a handle and his heartbeat quickened. His stomach started churning and he gulped two or three times.
“A man I once knew,” began Chaplain Hudson at his side. Sam closed his eyes. “Are you listening, Eliot?”
Sam nodded, concentrating on the words. “A man I once knew was riding on a train. It was a long ride he took, going back home to see his wife and baby.”
Sam smiled to himself as he listened. The chaplain often started his stories with the words, “A man I once knew.” They all thought he was the man, but some of the stories were so implausible they couldn’t believe them of the self-deprecating chaplain; stories of men who learned pertinent lessons while involved in unusual or interesting circumstances.
“The man started to get sleepy, and as it would be several hours until his stop, he took off his shoes and made himself comfortable, unlike us at this very moment.”
Sam could see the flash of his smile in the dim light. Several men groaned and a few laughed.
“It was winter, so this man’s shoes were muddy and not just a little stained. They weren’t his best shoes, but they were made of leather and had been fitted to his own feet by a cobbler.
When the man awoke after a long nap, he noticed, after a time, that his shoes were missing! ‘How can this be?’ he asked himself. He searched under his seat, up in the overhead rack, and then stealthily looked around the car. It was nearly empty, but those in it were all asleep or reading. Did he dare question the other passengers? Did he dare search among their feet for his missing shoes? What about the embarrassment of going about with only his stockings on?”
The train jolted slightly as they moved ahead. Sam barely registered their movement or the long train whistle as they gained speed.
“The man stood up, moving surreptitiously down the aisle, glancing side to side, trying to see under the seats, which is very hard to do when one is trying not to attract attention. He wondered if his fellow passengers noticed that each step he took was soundless. He felt his face getting red, but he walked the whole length of the car and back to his seat, coming finally to the conclusion that his shoes had been stolen.”
In the rocking and jolting of the car, Sam could sense that everyone was listening now. All the chatter had grown quiet except for the chaplain’s voice. “He told the conductor, when he came into that section, that his shoes had been taken by a thieving individual on his train and that he would hold the railroad responsible. Very vehement he was, even when the conductor assured him of satisfaction.
Finally this man settled down to read the paper, but not before making a complaint to the Lord. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘Thou hast seen what just happened to me?’ He was on friendly terms with the Lord and he felt he had God’s attention, so he continued. ‘Lord, I pray I’ll be able to replace my shoes. Thou knowest that money is a bit of a problem right now, as usual.’ And when he opened his eyes, there was a dirty, skinny, pale young boy, holding out his very shoes. The boy had cleaned and shined them with a kit in a box he carried over his shoulders. He stared hopefully at the man I knew, with brown eyes that looked huge in his tiny face. Not more than seven or eight, the man figured, and probably dodging the conductor the whole time. But hardness filled his heart and he forgot his so very recent prayer. He took back his shoes, saying, ‘I neither asked you for this service, nor will I pay for it.’ The boy remained a minute more, finally questioning, ‘Please, have you any food?’ ‘No,’ he snapped, and the boy scurried away while my friend put his shoes on. He soon arrived at his destination and forgot about it. Then one day, perhaps two weeks later, he received correspondence from the railroad, from the staff manager for the district, in fact, apologizing for the inconvenience he suffered while on his journey. The letter explained that an investigation and search had ensued and his shoes were never located. But he enclosed a check in recompense for his lost shoes, in an amount twice what they were worth. After sending the check back, explaining what had happened and apologizing himself, my friend was next flabbergasted when his wife brought home a new pair of shoes. ‘I entered a drawing at the new F.W. Woolworth in town and look what we won!’ The next week after c
hurch, an elderly lady approached him with a worn valise in hand. ‘I’ve been going through some of my late brother’s thing,’ she explained.
Sam chuckled with the others as Chaplain Hudson effectively imitated an elderly woman’s wavering voice.
“‘These are all in good shape and I’ve tried to give them to others but haven’t found anyone who wears the right size.’ My friend peered into the depths of the valise and knew even before he looked what he would see. Sure enough, shoes!”
Everyone joined in shouting out the last word with the chaplain. “What do you think my friend learned?” he asked, when the laughter faded away. There was silence. “Eliot?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know, but it seems he’d sure feel kinda sheepish and maybe ashamed for how he treated the boy.”
“Oh, that he did truly. His embarrassment of blessings is another whole story. No, no. It will keep for another time,” he said, as they pressed him to continue. “But, he also learned that God can do more than we even ask. Put your faith in him, boys.”
Chaplain Hudson was silent then, but his words repeated themselves in Sam’s head. He himself felt sheepish, remembering how he’d thought himself so superior to his fellow soldiers on the boat. Now he could barely control the fear he felt in this enclosed place. He’d never thought too much about God, except when there was trouble; like the day when his foot got tangled in his gear and he was pulled overboard. Sam prayed God would help him get back to the boat. Like the day a hurricane threatened their livelihood, or the day his mother died. He decided then, in that boxcar, that it would be best to pray now, as he was heading for the fighting, in the war to end all wars.