Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze

by Thayer, Nancy

  Once again Anne felt a stab of guilt that opened her up to a kind of understanding of what Herb’s life had been like during the war. She wanted the security of him in her bed. He wanted only the security of a safe place to sleep. So things were reduced to the elementary here, to primitive needs. The desire to console him fought with her jealousy and anger.

  “Yes, all right,” Anne said. “I understand.”

  They both rose. She was surprised when he carried their dishes to the sink and began to wash them. She found the dish towel and dried the dishes.

  After a moment, Herb said, “I don’t know how we’re going to work this out, Anne. I feel responsible, I am responsible, for the baby Ilke is carrying. She has lost so much; her best friend died in the bombing of Bremerhaven. I want to be here to help her until she has the baby.”

  “And afterward?” Anne asked.

  “I don’t know. She has other friends, a married couple who live on the edge of the city. And she is a librarian; she worked at the library until a month ago.” He ran his damp hand through his hair. “I hadn’t thought, Anne. It’s been a matter of living day to day. I suppose I mean to support her financially, support the child financially. It’s the least I can do. More than that.…” He sagged against the sink.

  Anne touched his arm. “You’re tired. Show me where I should sleep.”

  She followed him up the stairs and down a carpeted hall into a surprisingly large room filled with handsome furniture. The bed was covered with a fat down quilt, unlike any she’d ever seen before, and she felt a visceral knock at this reminder that she was in a foreign country. Herb showed her the one bathroom in the house—an unimaginable luxury, he said—and took a fresh towel from a wardrobe in the hall.

  As they moved around, Anne’s senses were alert. Would Ilke come out to talk to them? What would she say? What would Herb say? If Herb spoke to the other woman in German, Anne thought she would die of jealousy, she would throw something at him, and not a sugar bowl. But the door was closed tightly on the room at the front, and all seemed quiet within.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Anne,” Herb said. He looked at her for a moment; then he briefly, quickly, kissed her forehead. “We’ll work this out, somehow.”

  He went down the stairs. Anne had carried her toothbrush and her comb and brush in her purse. Her luggage had been transferred, she hoped, to Stangarone’s. Tonight she would sleep in her underwear and slip. She remained dressed as she used the bathroom, for the house was cold.

  She stepped out of the bathroom. Across the hall, the door to the big bedroom was open. Ilke stood there, clad in a rose-colored flannel nightgown. She looked like a very large fat child.

  Anne hesitated. What could she say to this woman, her husband’s lover? I hate you. I wish you didn’t exist. You have ruined my life.

  Before she could say anything, Ilke spoke. Her voice was low but compelling. “He always choose you,” Ilke said. “I know he always choose you.” Then she shut the door.

  Anne waited, feeling unfinished, wanting to say or do something—but what? If she were Gail, she’d snap back, “You’ve got that right, toots.” But she wasn’t Gail. She stumbled to the bedroom, dropped her dress, peeled off her ruined nylons, and slipped under the down quilt. She was asleep at once.

  In her dreams, a woman was crying. Anne woke slowly. For a moment the dream stayed with her and she wasn’t sure just where she was. In her Boston bed? On Nantucket? On a rocking bunk? No, in a German bed.

  And a woman was crying. From the other room came a deep and primal lowing, almost a mooing. Anne sat up and swung her legs over the bed. Some instinct inside her, something she’d never known existed, urged her to listen. To react.

  Through the window, the sky was bright blue. She glanced at her watch. It was after nine! She pulled on her clothes and hurried into the bathroom, then down the stairs and back to the kitchen. A pot of tea had been made, but it was cool now. Herb had already gone to work.

  Upstairs, the urgent sounds, deep and primitive, continued.

  Buck up, Anne, she told herself. She climbed the stairs and knocked on Ilke’s door.

  “Come!”

  Cautiously, Anne peered into the other woman’s room. Ilke was lying on her side, her arms wrapped around a pillow. She had part of the pillow stuffed into her mouth.

  Anne asked, “Are you all right?”

  Ilke’s body suddenly arched and stiffened. Her fingers went white as she clutched the pillow like a life preserver that would keep her from drowning in her pain. The bed linens were tousled, the quilt fallen in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. Ilke’s flannel nightgown had ridden up in a bunch around her hips, exposing long thin legs and a thatch of pale brown pubic hair. Anne looked away, embarrassed. Then the long low moaning began, partly stifled by the pillow. Anne clasped her hands. What should she do? What could she do?

  After a moment, Ilke relaxed. Panting, she said, “My labor has started.”

  “But isn’t it early?”

  “Yes. But it happens.”

  “We need to call the doctor.”

  To her amazement, Ilke laughed. “I don’t need a doctor. I am only having a baby.” She began to moan again.

  Anne found herself wringing her hands in response. “What can I do?”

  When she could catch her breath, Ilke said, “This could go on all day.”

  “Good God.”

  “You could bring me water.”

  Anne took the glass from the bedside table and hurried across the hall into the bathroom. She had heard stories about the agonies of labor, but this was the first time she witnessed someone enduring it. It frightened her; it made her wonder whether she would ever want to bear children herself, if it meant undergoing such extreme pain.

  Back in the bedroom, she knelt by the bed, slipped her hand beneath Ilke’s head, and supported her as she drank thirstily from the glass. Ilke’s hair was as soft as silk.

  “Thank you,” Ilke said. “It is a help to me that you are here.”

  “Is there someone I could call?”

  Ilke grimaced. “We have no telephone.”

  So this was up to Anne. She couldn’t go off and leave the woman alone. She pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. For the next two hours, Ilke writhed and panted and growled, no longer bothering to stuff the pillow into her mouth, but groaning, her throat arching upward, her head falling backward, her hands clutching the sheets. Her hair grew damp with sweat, and from time to time Anne would lean over to dab a moist cool cloth against Ilke’s forehead. It seemed a foolish, silly thing to do, in the face of the woman’s pain, but Ilke, when she could talk, thanked her.

  When the contractions eased, Ilke rested. Anne surveyed her surroundings. The floor was covered with a thick wool Persian carpet, so Anne assumed Ilke’s family had had money before the war. The drapes were heavy and glossy, patterned with cabbage roses and swirling vines. Framed portraits of relatives hung on the wall, and on the dresser stood a photograph of what must have once been Ilke’s family, parents and brother, all of them standing on some seashore, smiling in the sun. Ilke had lost them all.

  Anne bent her head. What would she do if she lost her parents? She seldom saw them, wrote to them only occasionally, but they were the center of the spinning earth to her, they were gravity. Herb was—at least Herb had been—her sun, her moon, her stars, her wind and weather. But her parents were the profound security of her sense of life; they provided the reliable ground she walked upon. To lose them? Unbearable.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a new noise from Ilke, a shout.

  Ilke rose up in bed, now obviously frantic. She yelled at Anne in German, loud, guttural, gut-wrenching noises.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  “Help me!” Ilke screamed. “Gott in Himmel!”

  To Anne’s surprise, Ilke propelled herself off the bed. She leaned her arms on it, bracing herself as she planted her feet wide on the floor. She was bellowing now, and she di
d not rest; her yelling was long, continuous, agonized. Anne saw that the bed linens were soggy with blood and mucus and water, and Ilke’s legs shone with moisture. Ilke pulled her gown up to her chest, exposing her taut swollen belly and her thin flanks. Anne was embarrassed and helpless and terrified.

  She knelt next to Ilke. She had to yell to make herself heard. “How can I help you?”

  “Get blankets. Get scissors. This baby is coming. You must catch the baby.”

  Catch the baby? Anne stared, confused.

  “Scissors on the dresser. Now! Scheiste!”

  Anne was surprised people weren’t pounding on the door, running up the stairs, demanding to know what was happening here. Ilke’s screams were earsplitting. She gathered herself, stood up, found the scissors, and brought them back. In the moment that she had stepped away from Ilke’s side, the other woman’s face had turned scarlet, almost purple, as she expelled her breath in a long continuous grunt.

  A flood of bright red blood splattered onto the floor between Ilke’s legs.

  “Help me!” Ilke pleaded. “Hold me. Support me.”

  Anne knelt behind the other woman. She braced her hands on Ilke’s hips and felt the earthquake shuddering of her body. Ilke was screaming, and Anne had the mad desire to scream, too, to scream in terror and sympathy, and then Ilke’s legs moved, as if she had suddenly become bowlegged, and her body seemed to crack, and Ilke yelled, “Baby coming!” and Anne moved her hands beneath Ilke’s swollen crotch and felt the wet silk of a baby’s head.

  All she had to do was keep her hands there. The baby, slippery as a seal, slid out into Anne’s hands. It was red and slimy with mucus and blood, and its umbilical cord was like a red, pulsing vine. It opened its mouth and cried, the sound high and weak compared to its mother’s shouts. Somehow Anne maneuvered the baby around so that Ilke could see it. As she did, the afterbirth spilled out onto the floor, staining the rug with red.

  Ilke was panting now, and her entire body trembled. She crawled up onto the bed and held out her arms.

  Anne gave her the tiny, squirming, wailing baby. She said, “You have a son.”

  Twenty-four

  Nona needed to do this with great care, and she could not take time for planning, for shaping her words. She had to do this now.

  Rising on her shaky old legs, she slowly made her way from the terrace and into the house. “Glorious?” She hated the quaver in her voice.

  Glorious appeared. “Did you call me?”

  “I’d like to go upstairs, dear. Could you help me?”

  Glorious was at her side at once. With the other woman to lean on, Nona made it across the living room and the hall and began climbing the stairs. It helped, having Glorious there. Glorious loaned her strength, and that kept fear of falling from slowing her down. When they reached the second floor, they could hear, from behind Worth’s bedroom door, the sound of argument.

  Glorious didn’t mention it; she was good about that. But when she finally had Nona settled in her chaise by the window, she asked, “Would you like a little Scotch?”

  “I’d love it,” Nona answered.

  She lay back against the chaise, resting. She felt ancient and very tired, and she was dreading what she was about to do. But the time had come.

  “Here you are.” Glorious came into her bedroom, set the highball glass on the table near Nona, and nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, Glorious. I’d like you to open the bottom drawer of my dresser. Yes, that one. See the old quilted photo album? Put it on the table next to me, please.”

  Glorious did as she was requested.

  Nona took a fortifying sip of Scotch. “Now. Will you please ask Worth and Helen to come see me?”

  “Surely.”

  Glorious left the room, returning with Worth and Helen behind her. Their faces were still flushed from their battle.

  But Nona smiled. “Good. Worth. And Helen. I want to talk to you both. I have something I need to tell you.”

  “All right, Nona.” Worth pulled up a chair for Helen and one for himself, almost touching Nona’s knees, so she would not be troubled to project her voice, which was shaky this morning. “We’re all ears.”

  Nona cleared her throat. “Now that the time has come, I find it harder than I expected.” Emotion hit her hard. She lifted her hands and covered her face. “Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

  Worth reached out to put a reassuring hand on Nona’s knee. “Mother. It can’t be that bad, whatever it is.”

  “Perhaps not. We’ll see.” Nona dropped her hands and struggled to straighten in her chair. “Very well. Worth, on the table there, the burgundy quilted photo album. Could you open it, please?”

  Worth obeyed. The album was old, the pages made of black construction paper, with black-and-white photos attached by glue and yellowing tape.

  “Hey. Is this Dad’s World War Two album?” He studied the first photo, of several soldiers standing on a cobblestone street. “Why didn’t he ever show this to us?” He found his father, slim and young and handsome. He put his finger on his father and looked up at Nona. “Here’s Dad.”

  “Turn the page,” Nona said.

  Worth turned the page. This was a black-and-white interior shot. Herb Wheelwright was seated at desk piled with papers, a chrome ashtray, and two black telephones. Herb wore a khaki shirt and tie and a dress blouse with the battalion insignia and stripes on his arm and on his lapel the bar of a first lieutenant.

  Behind him stood two other army officers, one leaning casually on a wooden file cabinet, the other looking jaunty, hands in pockets, grinning. Behind Herb stood a thin, bald, older man in a suit, his face taut and serious. Between the standing men were two young women. One wore a flowered dress and her dark hair was arranged in marcelled waves. The other, a blond woman, wore a simple white shirt and a dark skirt. Her shoulder-length hair was almost white, her eyes luminous, her figure voluptuous.

  “Wow, the blonde is a beauty!” Worth exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Nona agreed. “She is. Look at her carefully, Worth. That woman is your mother.”

  Worth wrinkled his forehead and shot Nona a look of gentle, benevolent concern.

  “Mother.” He closed the album. “Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about the past. Perhaps it’s upsetting you—”

  “Worth, I haven’t had a stroke and I haven’t developed a full-force case of senility overnight. I’m telling you the truth. You need to hear me. Your father and I discussed this when it happened, and many times since, and now is the time for you to know.”

  Worth looked apprehensive. “What would you like for me to know?”

  Adrenaline flooded Nona’s body. She was not as anxious as she was invigorated. Perhaps everyone felt this way when they remembered a dramatic, life-changing event.

  “You know your father was an officer in World War Two. You know he remained in Germany, in the Army of Occupation, for two years. You know that I joined him. You were born in Bremerhaven in 1945. But not in August. In January.”

  Nona watched Worth shoot a quick look of disbelief at Helen. She was glad that Helen was here to share this—this bombshell. The pertinence of the word made her bark out a kind of choked laugh, which made Worth look even more worried.

  She continued. “These are the facts, Worth. Perhaps we should have told you before now. Or perhaps I should never have told you. You must understand how much thought I’ve given this.”

  Worth said, gently, “Mother. You and Father were married in 1943.”

  “We were. And we were separated for almost two years by the war. Your father saw terrible things—men fighting, men dying—and for months he was on the battlefield, living in the harshest conditions, eating dreadful food, sleeping on the cold ground, not knowing whether he would live or die. I’m not trying to excuse what he did. I’m trying to explain. When the war was over, he was sent to Bremerhaven to head up the organization and dispersal of supplies arriving in that port city and sent throughout a devastated country. He was
billeted in Ilke Hartman’s home. That woman, with the white-blond hair, that is Ilke Hartman. That is your mother.”

  Irritation rasped in Worth’s voice. “You really should stop saying that.”

  “You really should listen to me.” Nona’s voice was sharper than she meant it to be, but it silenced Worth. “I sailed to Bremerhaven in January, to work at the European end of the Stangarone shipping offices. When I arrived, I found your father living with Ilke, and she was pregnant, she was pregnant by your father. He told me they had been lovers. He told me her child was his. She gave birth in January. I was there. Worth, I was there at your birth. I saw you born.”

  “But Nona.” Helen’s tone was urgent. “If this Ilke Hartman was Worth’s mother, why was Worth raised here in the United States?”

  The accumulated buffer of years dissipated from around Nona like a sea mist, allowing so many emotions to return vividly to her, so many sights and sounds and wounds and terrors. “Because Ilke was killed by a UXB.” Seeing their confusion, she added, “An unexploded bomb. They were everywhere in Europe.”

  Now the memories were beginning to coalesce, to weigh upon her shoulders and her lungs. “Ilke knew a butcher in another part of town, a man who had been a friend of her parents. Her parents, her entire family, had died in the war. Ilke’s milk was not abundant, and she decided to go see the butcher, to could convince him to sell her a piece of meat. It was a Monday morning. The baby—you, Worth—was only two weeks old. He was sleeping, and she did not want to carry him with her, because the streets were difficult to walk on, with the rubble in the way, and people were often unruly, shoving in their haste to get to something, anything. The streets were always dangerous. And she knew the butcher well. It seemed a reasonable thing to do.” Something thick clogged her trachea. She tried to cough it away.

  Helen leaned forward. “Would you like some water, Nona?”

  Nona touched her throat, her crepey, turkey-wattle throat. “I’ve got something here, dear.” Nona sipped her Scotch.