The Cherry Harvest

by Lucy Sanna

  Little Tommy Tucker

  Sings for his supper.

  What shall we give him?

  White bread and butter.

  How shall he cut it

  Without a knife . . .

  She stopped. She hadn’t thought it through.

  “How will he marry / Without a wife?” Thomas concluded with a grin. “And now that you have no more pies to sell, Charlotte, would you go walking with me?”

  When she blushed, he leaned in and said, “Your cheeks are like cherries. I’ll just bet you make the best cherry pie.” He held out an arm for her and sang,

  She can make a cherry pie

  Quick as cat can wink its eye—

  “I’ve never made a cherry pie.”

  “Never? Well, whaddya know. I have an orchard filled with cherries, and no one to make me a pie.”

  She took his arm. “You have an orchard?”

  They strolled through the fairgrounds noisy with carnival rides and pitchmen hawking tickets to sideshows. Calliope music piped all about. She sat on a painted horse circling round the carousel. He stood beside her, his hand on her horse’s mane, and told her he had intended to pursue a literary career, but when his father and brother died in a fire, he gave up his university studies and returned home to take care of his distraught mother and run the family orchard.

  Over the years Charlotte would sense that Thomas had left behind more than just his studies, but she never asked because she was afraid he’d say yes. And even if he’d said no, she wouldn’t have believed him.

  Charlotte was a good wife. She took care of Thomas’s mother until the sickly woman died. She ran an efficient home, managed a bountiful garden, cooked and sewed, did the bookkeeping, and taught Ben and Kate the responsibilities of farm life. Thomas loved her, she knew. But he loved other things too. He loved his books, and whatever he had wanted before, whatever he had left at the university, Charlotte couldn’t give him that.

  She turned from the orchard and walked down to the dock to reel in the boat. Out in the yard, Mia, the nanny goat, gazed up from where she was munching newly sprouted grass. That first year without a harvest Charlotte had butchered the other two goats and kept this last one for milk. Who knew the war would last this long. Only families with small children got ration stamps for store-bought milk, so even goat’s milk was in demand.

  Chickens pecked about, ignoring her. Just five hens left. One night some weeks ago the rooster didn’t return to the coop. With all his strutting and cock-a-doodling out there in the dark, he must have been easy prey for a fox or coyote. Until Charlotte had another rooster to fertilize the eggs, she couldn’t afford to serve her family chicken.

  She thought of the eggs she had traded for the yarn, deep blue like Ben’s eyes. She had seen it in the window of Ellie’s Dry Goods. How could she resist, even if it left her nothing to trade for stew meat? She had counted on Olga’s credit. But now she had fish for two or three dinners and a bounty of fruits and vegetables, so the trades had worked well. A half-dozen eggs for all this.

  No. She glanced toward the rabbit pen. Not when she factored in all the hurt and anger and mistrust. And the beautiful vest Ben would never wear.

  After reeling in the boat, Charlotte returned to the kitchen and picked up yesterday’s Door County Advocate. She spread open the pages to the local ads and brought the bucket of fish to the table. One by one, she scaled and gutted them, then put the pinky-white fillets into the icebox.

  Charlotte typically saved knitting and mending for evenings, sitting in the parlor with Thomas while he read his books. She had her daily chores—today was washday—but right now she wanted to make something for Ben. She carried her canvas satchel to the parlor and switched on the Philco—Glenn Miller’s band playing “I Dream of You.” From the couch she could see the grove of budding birch and maple and the orchard beyond. Off in the distance Thomas was pruning. He couldn’t possibly prune all the trees before the blossoms came. When will those PWs arrive?

  She opened her satchel—not much yarn left. What could she make with so little? Bingo jumped onto Charlotte’s lap, startling her. Charlotte petted the cat in long strokes until he purred and settled.

  When she looked up again, her eyes focused on the War Mother’s Flag hanging in the window. Its big blue star told the world her boy served in the armed forces. According to the news, General Clark’s army was positioned in the icy mountains of Monte Cassino. Charlotte didn’t know much about the geography of Italy, but she knew the pattern for socks: knit one, purl two. Picking up her knitting needles, she cast on forty-two stitches.

  Marta’s children didn’t like fish. Charlotte shook her head. She might have gotten the lot of them with a simple scarf. If only she hadn’t taken the vest.

  The music ended, and the local newsman announced a clearance sale at the dress shop, a woman injured in an accident down at the shipyard, a boy from Egg Harbor killed in the Battle of Saipan. Killed! Johnny Malone . . . in Ben’s class!

  The cat jumped away.

  Charlotte’s hands clenched the couch cushion, eyes focused on the War Mother’s Flag, heart racing. She gulped for air. Gulped again and took a ragged breath. Then another.

  The newsman was talking about the weather—mostly sunny—then Bing Crosby’s voice was crooning “I’ll Be Seeing You.” Charlotte tipped back her head to keep the tears from falling. Her shaking hands took up the needles. Keep going. Knit one, purl two.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KATE READ EAGERLY TO THE END. “And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.” Ashes of Manderley.

  After reading those last lines, she reluctantly closed the book and stared at the yellow book jacket—Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier. Kate wanted to meet this author, learn the impetus for the story. The biographical note on the inside flap said that du Maurier lived in Cornwall, England. Worlds away.

  Kate put down the book, switched off her nightstand lamp, and lay back on her pillow. She decided she liked sad endings best. Why was that? She was eager to discuss it with Professor Fleming.

  An owl hooted from the woods: hoo h’hoo hoooo. Another echoed in the distance. The beam from the lighthouse swept across the ceiling.

  Professor Fleming. Kate closed her eyes and brought it all back—four years ago, when she was thirteen.

  From the time Kate was a little girl, Father had taken her to every theater production in the county—community plays, school performances, even puppet shows. Mother and Ben weren’t interested, but Kate loved escaping into the stories. When Father proposed to take Kate to a play at the university in Madison, Mother wasn’t pleased. But it was November, the orchard was dormant for the winter, the root cellar was full, and Ben volunteered to do Kate’s chores while she was away.

  “It’ll be just one night,” Father had said.

  With overnight bags in hand, Kate and Father boarded the train in a flurry of feathery snow and traveled south through small towns and open countryside, passing snow-covered red barns and carrot-nosed snowmen and children skating on backyard ponds.

  Once on their way, Father opened his valise and pulled out a book. Show Boat. “The play’s based on this novel.” He handed it to Kate. “Written by a Wisconsin girl, Edna Ferber. Grew up in Appleton. We’ll be going right through there on the way.”

  Greedy for a new story, Kate pushed off her shoes, pulled her legs up under her wool plaid skirt, and opened the book.

  The train stopped now and then. Passengers pulled parcels down from overhead racks and hurried off. Others entered with a cold draft, shook snow from their coats and hats, found spaces for their things. Kate barely registered these changes, so engaged was she in the story.

  She was about halfway through the novel when Father touched her arm. “I’ll be right back.” After the whistle blew a second time, he returned with a bouquet of flowers. He seemed eager, excited. “We’re nearly there.”

  “Who are those for?”

  “Someone I’d like you to meet.�
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  When they disembarked in Madison, a woman waved from the platform. She had dark hair and big brown eyes and wore a belted raccoon coat and matching hat and very high heels.

  Father gave her the flowers and introduced her as Miss Fleming—“Professor Fleming,” he quickly corrected himself. “She wasn’t a professor when we met, how many years ago?” He didn’t wait for her response. “And now her stories are published in Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s . . .”

  “Oh, Thomas.” She hugged his arm. “That’s enough.”

  Miss Fleming—Father was soon calling her Deenie—drove them to the university. Bundled in winter coats and hats and gloves, they walked along shoveled sidewalks to a grand stone building. “The Memorial Union,” Miss Fleming told them.

  “It’s like a palace,” Kate said.

  The union stood on the shore of the frozen lake. A single skater twirled and danced on the ice, casting a long shadow in the low orange sun. Two boys on the beach pushed off in an iceboat, and once the sail was up, the little skiff tacked back and forth, then raced out across the lake faster than any boat Kate had ever seen.

  Inside, Miss Fleming led them to a noisy dining hall, Der Rathskeller, permeated with the scent of wet wool and beer. When Father helped Miss Fleming out of her coat, she looked stunning in a slim green wool flannel skirt and jacket. The three of them sat in front of a fireplace painted with German murals and ordered bratwurst and beer, a cherry soda for Kate.

  Students came and went—some lingered in serious conversation, others laughed in groups or flirted in corners. The girls looked sharp in neat wool skirts, knit sweaters, and leather saddle shoes. Boys wore V-neck sweaters over shirts and ties. Kate took note of the clothes, the way the coeds wore their hair, the flirting, the jostling.

  Kate was wearing her best cardigan sweater and white cotton blouse. “The fire feels good,” she said, rubbing her arms.

  Father smiled and launched into his poet voice: “‘Some say the world will end in fire, / Some say in ice.’”

  “I’ll take fire,” Miss Fleming said, glancing toward Father with a grin.

  “My favorite Frost poem is ‘The Road Not Taken,’” Kate said. “‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, / And sorry I could not travel both . . .’”

  Once she’d finished, Father said. “If only we could travel both.” He looked at Miss Fleming.

  She cleared her throat, and then, after a pause, turned to Kate. “Your father tells me you like to write stories.”

  When did he tell her that?

  “Speaking of favorites,” Father said, “my favorite Kate story is ‘The Deer and the Wolf.’” Then to Kate, he said, “May I tell it?”

  Kate blushed. But when Miss Fleming looked her way, expectant, she nodded.

  Father put down his beer and began. “A female deer finds a wolf cub abandoned in the woods and takes it in to replace her fawn, which had been shot by a careless boy.” He paused to sip his beer. “Once the wolf is weaned, he goes off on his own. Then, one day the wolf is running with a pack, running down the very deer that raised him. Kate has a way of showing how conflicted the wolf is as he bites into his mother doe.”

  Miss Fleming touched a paper napkin to her lips. “That’s quite a story, Kate. Do you recall where the idea came from?”

  Yes, she recalled it clearly. “I was walking through the woods and saw a doe and her fawn and wondered what might happen if the fawn were to die and the doe had milk coming for her baby. And the story came all at once.”

  “Would you be willing to share some of your writing with me?”

  Kate thought of the notebooks filled with poems and stories and random thoughts, simple reflections on everyday things. “Not much happens in my stories.”

  “It’s not what happens but how your characters react,” Miss Fleming said. “Want to give me an example where not much happens?”

  Kate put down her bratwurst and wiped her hands on her napkin. “I was milking one of the goats, and she nearly kicked over the pail of milk. I started a story about what would happen if she did. But it’s silly—”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, I’d need to make the milk really important, right? Maybe they need it to survive.” She paused. “Oh, this sounds childish!”

  “Not at all.” Miss Fleming patted her hand. “Go on.”

  Kate took a big breath. “The protagonist doesn’t want to disappoint her mother, so instead of telling the truth, she sneaks into a neighbor’s barn and milks their goat. I don’t know what happens next. I haven’t figured that out.”

  “It could go in so many directions,” Miss Fleming said. “That’s the best kind of story. Once you decide how to end it, I’d love to read it.”

  “When I finish it, I’ll send it to you.” Kate paused. “But I’d never show it to Mother.”

  Father coughed as if choking, then sipped his beer.

  “Writers don’t have parents,” Miss Fleming said, giving Kate a wink.

  Kate blushed with Father right there.

  “Your dad’s on your side. He would have made a fine English professor.”

  Father smiled. “Well, I don’t know about that—”

  “Your father and I once talked about opening a bookstore together.”

  “What about the orchard?” Kate blurted.

  Father frowned and looked away.

  THE THEATER LOBBY WAS ABUZZ with students calling to each other, talking, laughing. A group of boys and girls came up to Miss Fleming, and when the professor introduced Kate as a friend, the students seemed eager to know her. “When will you be coming here?” “What do you want to major in?”

  Before Kate could answer, a bell sounded and everyone headed toward the auditorium.

  They had front-row seats, and as the curtain rose and the orchestra swelled with “Ol’ Man River,” Kate felt herself right up there on the levee in Natchez, Mississippi, boarding the riverboat.

  When the curtain fell for intermission, Kate followed Father and Miss Fleming to the lobby café, where they ordered drinks.

  Kate took a sip of hot chocolate and asked them how they met.

  “It was freshman year,” Miss Fleming said. “Homecoming dance.” She picked up her beer mug.

  Father laughed and clinked his mug against hers. “So long ago.”

  Kate tried to imagine Father at a student dance.

  “I was studying agronomy, but Deenie persuaded me to take a literature class.”

  “And do you regret it?” Miss Fleming challenged in a teasing voice.

  “I wouldn’t have signed up for more if I did.” He touched her hand. “You know how I enjoy reading. Tell her, Kate.”

  “Father loves his books. But Mother thinks it’s a silly waste of time.”

  Father frowned at that last part. “Well, things change.”

  “Indeed,” said Miss Fleming, a pensive look.

  After a pause, Father took a sip of beer and grinned. “Remember the time the sailboat dumped us into the middle of Lake Mendota?”

  “The picnic!” She turned to Kate. “I made your father a batch of brownies with a bit of brandy, my own special touch. The fish who found my sweet treats must have had a fine afternoon.”

  “Your sweet treats.” Father winked her way.

  “But hey, TomTom.” She gave a light punch to his shoulder. “You were strong enough to right that big boat.”

  TomTom? Kate’s eyes widened.

  “It was a small boat, Deenie. Your memories are larger than my capabilities.”

  Kate put down her chocolate. “I had no idea how fun college could be.”

  “Tell me, Kate,” Miss Fleming said. “Are you interested in coming here to the U?”

  “Oh yes! But . . .” She looked at Father. Was it possible?

  He nodded. And with that nod, the window to Kate’s little world blew wide open.

  After the play, they walked to the freshman girls’ dormitory where Miss Fleming had arranged for Kate to stay the night. Kate
introduced herself with her full proper name, Katrina Linn Christiansen, because if she was to be an author, that was how she wanted to be known.

  The girls stayed up well past midnight, discussing the play and answering Kate’s questions about college life.

  That was where she wanted to be right now. She wanted to live in that dormitory with those girls forever.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHARLOTTE LOOKED UP at the sound of an approaching vehicle and peered out the back door. Finally! An Army truck, green with a big white star on the door and a canvas-covered bed, rumbled down Orchard Lane. She wiped her hands on her apron and went out to the porch.

  Thomas was directing the truck off to the far side of the property, toward the migrant workers’ camp, a collection of whitewashed wooden buildings that included a bunkhouse, cookhouse, outhouse, and dining hall. The prisoners would stay through the fall, working first here in the cherry orchard, then in Gus’s apple orchard over on Plum Bottom Road. That was the agreement. The Army had erected a snow fence around the camp, a meager defense, but they also sent guards who spoke German. They had culled the dangerous ones—the SS were identified by tattoos of their blood type etched on the underside of their left arms, Charlotte was told. The men sent here had been approved and were glad to have the work.

  The migrant camp was not visible from the house, but Charlotte was curious to see the prisoners. She waited on the porch until Thomas, flanked by two Army guards with holstered pistols, led about a dozen men into the orchard. Thomas was speaking to one of the guards. Charlotte couldn’t hear their conversation, but intermittently the guard would shout out orders in what must have been German. The prisoners stood at attention in brown and tan outfits, a large “PW” imprinted on the backs of their shirts. Even from this distance, Charlotte could see that most were mere boys, like Ben.

  When Thomas turned to take the PWs to the barn, Charlotte ducked inside. Peeking through the kitchen window, she watched as one of the prisoners caught up to Thomas and walked alongside him. The two appeared to be in conversation. Thomas didn’t speak German, so this man must know English. She watched until the group emerged from the barn, carrying pole pruners and loppers, saws, hatchets, rakes, and ladders.