by Lucy Sanna
Finally, we will have our harvest.
CHARLOTTE FINGERED THE SOIL in her garden. The rain had let up for nearly a week, and the beds were dry enough for planting. It was a sweet little quarter-acre of rich loamy earth surrounded by chicken wire to keep out deer and rabbits. She noticed a few places where the fence needed mending. She had always counted on Ben to help her. She glanced toward the barn as if expecting to see her handsome son heading her way with his toolbox, whistling, happy to fix whatever wanted fixing.
There’d be time for fence mending later. She had to get the seeds into the ground while the weather held. She went to the barn to fetch the tools.
Back in the garden, Charlotte picked up the heavy cultivating fork, put a foot on the crossbar, and pushed the chisel-like steel tines into the ground. She worked up one row and down another, preparing the earth for planting. It was hard, physical labor, turning the soil, but she loved the smell of earth, the scent of abundance.
It was late in the day when a bicycle bell jangled Charlotte’s attention away from her work. Kate was riding down Orchard Lane on her way home from school, long blond hair blowing in the breeze, white cotton blouse pressed against her young breasts, skirt flapping up, revealing shapely legs.
Just then, one of the prisoners dropped his rake and charged toward Kate. Charlotte threw down the pitchfork and ran, shouting, but the others were too far away to hear. From this distance, she couldn’t make out the prisoner’s face, but he was squat and solid, barrel-chested, with a short blond crew cut.
Thomas was running as well. He rushed the man, tripped him, and the prisoner hit the ground face-first. Kate’s bicycle wobbled and toppled, spilling Kate with her books and papers onto the gravel. One of the guards stood over the prisoner, pistol pointed at the cowering man. When the PW scrambled to his feet, the guard pushed him off in the direction of the migrant camp.
This was what the county board had feared, what Charlotte herself had feared. And the season was only beginning.
Thomas helped Kate to her feet and picked up her things. He put an arm around her shoulders and walked her down the lane to the yard. Kate was not one to cry, but her face was puffed with tears, her blouse was ripped, and she had bloody bruises on her bare knees.
Thomas nodded to Charlotte, then returned to the orchard.
“Oh, Kate!” Charlotte wanted to hug her close, but that wasn’t her way.
“I can’t believe you let those killers into our yard!” Kate choked out the words. “That Nazi wanted to kill me! Don’t you care? Aren’t you afraid?”
“Yes, I am afraid. But we’re not going to let them know that.” They walked to the barn with Kate’s bicycle. “They’ll be gone in a few months.” Charlotte tried to sound cheerful. “Just steer clear of them.”
“And they better steer clear of me.” Kate’s voice trembled.
THE ONLY ACCESS TO THE ROOT CELLAR was from the back of the house, through double wooden doors that angled up against the foundation. When Charlotte went out, a breeze lifted the hem of her housedress. It was dusk now, and the setting sun had pulled the warmth down with it. She rubbed her arms briskly to warm herself.
As she bent over to grab the metal ring on one of the cellar doors, she sensed eyes upon her. She looked up to see the German prisoner, the one who had spoken with Thomas, loitering at the edge of the orchard. Was he watching her? He turned away and rolled a wheelbarrow of pruned branches to the woodshed.
Charlotte shivered as she stepped down into the cool stone cavern beneath the kitchen. She struck a match and lit the kerosene lantern she kept on the shelf. Opening the grain bin, she silently celebrated her find—a handful of wild rice had fallen into a corner. She brushed it into her palm and went back up. The prisoner was gone.
AT THE SUPPER TABLE, Thomas was filled with enthusiasm about the progress in the orchard. “These fellows are good workers. We should be done with the pruning in a week.” He paused. “But there might be some bad ones out there,” he said to Kate, “so you keep clear of them, all right? Especially that one who knocked you down . . . Fritz Vehlmer’s his name.”
“He has crazy eyes,” Kate said. “And that scar on his cheek. I don’t want to see any of them ever again. And I don’t want them looking at me either.”
“Glad to hear it,” Thomas said.
“You need to send that one away,” Charlotte said.
“I told the Army guards to send him back to the prison and bring me a new man, but they said the Army wouldn’t replace him. They assured me that Vehlmer was only interested in Kate’s bicycle. He’s a mechanic, and he heard a rattle as she rode by.” Thomas paused. “They say this fellow’s good at fixing things. I’m going to have him take a look at the tractor. And your bicycle, Kate.”
“I don’t want anyone touching my bicycle!”
“Fine. Fine.” Thomas patted Kate’s hand.
Kate took a drink of water.
When Thomas put a forkful of fish into his mouth, he said, “This is heaven, Char. Lord knows how you do it. Lemon for the fish. Green vegetables.” He stabbed at his salad.
Charlotte had put most of the food into the icebox. Orange slices would be a surprise after dinner. Grapefruit for breakfast. And coffee with cream and sugar.
“Kate, your mother’s a culinary magician.”
Kate nodded. “It’s really good.”
After a pause, Thomas said to Charlotte. “You were up late last night.”
“I was knitting . . . something for Ben.” Her eyes clouded with the thought of the vest she had traded this morning. No, she wouldn’t think of that now. “Would you like more spinach?”
“Ah.” Thomas accepted the bowl from her.
“I was surprised to see you talking to one of the prisoners,” she said. “Do they speak English?”
“Just the one, Karl Becker.”
Charlotte debated about telling Thomas that Becker had watched her going into the root cellar, but Thomas continued. “He’s a math teacher. Smart, well read it appears. Went to Oxford.” He paused, then quoted:
Ye sacred nurseries of blooming youth!
In whose collegiate shelter England’s flowers
Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours
The air of liberty, the light of truth—
Kate waved a hand, stopping him. “I don’t know that one.”
“Wordsworth. A bit obscure, I’ll admit. He wrote it while at Oxford,” Thomas said with a wink. “Say, how’s Hawthorne coming?”
“The Scarlet Letter? I’ve just about finished it.”
Thomas smiled. “Original sin exposed.” He took a sip of water and picked up his empty pipe. “So what do you think of Hester Prynne’s decision?”
“It’s not fair that Hester’s the one who’s condemned, but it’s her own fault for not telling the truth about her baby’s father.”
“She’s filled with guilt.” Thomas sucked on his pipe. “She tempted the minister. As Eve tempted Adam in the garden.”
“Kate?” Charlotte stood to clear the table.
The girl continued the conversation with her father as she rinsed the dishes. “Hester takes all the blame while the minister says nothing. He’s the one who should feel guilty. He should wear a scarlet letter too.”
“But she’s the stronger character, don’t you think? She makes the choice, she’s the one who lives, while he disintegrates—”
“That was Chillingworth’s doing, that’s what I think.”
Enough of this silly talk. Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “Let that be a lesson.”
Kate looked up from the sink. “About what?”
“Keep your legs together.”
“Mother!” Kate’s cheeks went red.
Thomas coughed and looked away.
Charlotte smiled to herself. If they had to talk about made-up stories, they could at least find a practical message in there. She opened the icebox and chose one of the oranges to slice.
AFTER SUPPER, CHARLOTTE WENT t
o the parlor and switched on the Philco. She sat on the couch, opened her sewing basket, and pulled out a sock that needed darning. Thomas sat in the green brocade wingback chair, sucking on his empty pipe, a book open in front of him. Frank Sinatra was singing, “All or nothin’ at all,” when the music abruptly stopped: “We interrupt this broadcast for a special bulletin. Allies have taken Monte Cassino. Repeat. Allied troops have driven the Germans from Monte Cassino.”
Charlotte dropped the sock and stared at the radio. Thomas put down his book.
The announcer went on: “In the early morning hours today, May 18, 1944, a patrol of the Polish 12th Regiment serving in the US Fifth Army under the command of Major General Mark W. Clark raised a flag over the ruins of Monte Cassino Abbey. The only remnants of the defenders were a group of thirty Germans, all wounded. The road to Rome is open. And now we return to the previous broadcast.”
Sinatra’s voice came back.
“Oh, Thomas! They’ve done it. Ben’s finally out of those terrible mountains.”
Thomas smiled. “I’m sure we’ll read all about it in the paper tomorrow.”
Bingo mewed and jumped on the couch. Charlotte scooped him into her lap and pushed her fingers through his soft gray fur. “Thomas, what is the first thing you want when we have money again?”
“The tractor needs new tires.”
“Damn tractor. Horses are more reliable.”
“You want to manage the orchard?”
“What else?”
Thomas studied his pipe. “I’ll get myself a good stash of tobacco.” He paused. “What about you, Char?”
The cat was asleep now, but Charlotte’s fingers didn’t stop massaging his neck. “I need a rooster. And enough layer hens to replenish the flock. And two more goats. And cows. Dairy cows. I’ll start with two.” Charlotte’s mind wandered to her past. Fresh sweet milk, as much as she wanted. Yes, after the war, when Ben came home, Charlotte would go to the county fair and choose two prize calves.
“Cows, they take a lot of work, Char.”
“You forget I grew up on a dairy farm.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” He gave her a wink. “My sweet rosy milkmaid.”
Charlotte cozied into the couch. “Just think, if we had had a cow these past few years we’d be doing so well, selling milk and butter and cream and cheese. And buttermilk. I don’t recall when I last had buttermilk. If we had a cow, we could feed the whey to the goats and chickens. Hire a bull every spring to get a calf to slaughter at a year. Self-sufficient.”
“You got it all worked out, my pretty cowgirl. A rooster. A stud bull. I see where that mind of yours is going.”
She laughed. “You’re always searching for hidden meanings.”
“Isn’t that what women are about? Hidden meanings?”
“I’ll make vanilla bean ice cream. Oh, I can almost taste it! With cherry sauce.”
“Cherry sauce. Hmm.” Thomas stood and held out his hand for her to follow.
CHARLOTTE SAT BEFORE HER DRESSING TABLE and reached for her hairbrush. When Thomas touched her shoulders, she let him take the brush, pulling it gently through her long blond hair. Charlotte closed her eyes, savoring the sensual delight of the simple act.
It had been so long since she had taken pleasure in his touch. Thomas had always been a lusty man, and they had enjoyed their time together in bed. But since Ben left, Charlotte merely went through the motions. As his wife, it was her duty. But she hadn’t wanted it, not as she used to.
“You didn’t keep your legs together, my sweet,” he whispered in her ear.
Charlotte opened her eyes to meet his in the mirror. “I couldn’t resist you, Thomas.”
When they married, Charlotte was already pregnant. It happened in the hayloft at the dairy, rain pouring down beyond the barn window, cows stomping and bellowing below, the fertile pungent earth, and a future with a man who had inherited his family orchard. Yes, for Thomas, Charlotte opened her legs.
And now, as she lay next to him on their bed, she opened again, and Thomas moved toward her, his lanky body coming warm against her own, his hands on her breasts, on her buttocks, knowing them, coming into her, full and familiar.
“You are my downfall,” he whispered. “My original sin.”
She smiled at his wordplay.
“You will wear my scarlet letter.” He thrust forward.
She slid her hands up his back, recalling that first time. Grasping him close, the physical presence of Thomas, the man she had wanted so many years ago, now touching her face, breathing into her hair. Whispering her name.
And now, right now, her body wanted him, needed him. Whispering back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KATE WOKE TO THE SHARP ODOR OF SKUNK. Rising on an elbow, she peered out to the lake where the morning mist floated over still water in that gray-white light that comes just before dawn.
She listened as if she might hear him—Ben—whistling in the room next to hers. He had always risen early to do his chores. He’d often do hers as well, then pop his head into her room, singing “Lazy Katie, will you get up, will you get up, will you get up . . .”
She raked her fingers through her tangled hair. She didn’t mind the skunk so much. No, it reminded her of a spicy pine forest, tramping through the woods with Ben. She slipped out of her flannel nightgown and pulled on a cotton shirt, wool sweater, and overalls.
Downstairs, the warm scent of burning cherry wood emanated from the stove where Mother was sterilizing milk pails, humming the way she used to back when everything was normal. Must be because of the war news, Ben on his way to Rome.
“Morning, Kate.”
“Morning.”
Kate put on her wool jacket and cap and picked up the covered pails. Outside, the cold climbed in and she pulled her jacket close. She had always felt safe in the yard any time of day or night, but now she imagined prisoners lurking in the shadows. The snow fence encircling the camp served more as a perimeter than a barricade, light enough to be knocked down by anyone determined to escape. She pictured the wild eyes of that Nazi who had rushed her, and she shivered.
Sliding aside the heavy wooden barn door, Kate inhaled the calming warmth of animal sweat and dung and headed toward the goat pen.
What’s that? A rustle and thump in the hayloft. Kate froze.
Ginger Cat jumped to the floor and dashed off toward the empty stalls after something too quick for Kate to spot. Kate let out a heavy breath.
The stalls once held two draft horses, Getup and Sunrise. Father sold the horses a few years back to buy the tractor. Mornings were easier for Kate now that she didn’t have to care for the horses, but she missed them. The barn seemed bigger, empty. Almost scary.
Stepping into the goat pen, Kate petted Mia in long strokes and murmured softly to her. Mother had taught her how to relax animals before milking. Mia shook her stubby tail. Kate put a bit of hay in the feed tray, helped the goat onto the milking stanchion, tethered her to the post, and cleaned her udder. Sitting on the milking stool, Kate took one of the nanny’s warm, fuzzy teats into each hand, gently working the milk down the soft tubular appendages, squirting it into the pail. She wondered what it was like for Mia, this touching and squeezing. The first time she had milked a goat she was embarrassed with the intimacy of the act. Mia bleated as if she enjoyed it.
While she worked, Kate’s mind wandered to the university, the girls in the dormitory. She had read the acceptance packet numerous times, memorized the schedules and campus map. Her roommate would be Libby Huntington from Shorewood Hills. Libby. She had never met anyone named Libby. She hoped this Libby Huntington from Shorewood Hills liked to go to plays and discuss literature.
After Kate let Mia into the yard, she tossed out feed for the hens and gathered eggs from their nests. She swept out the stalls with the big push broom, then climbed the ladder to the dusty hayloft and pitched a forkful of hay down to the floor below. All the while, Kate longed for the day she would be away from here, reading
and writing and conversing with interesting people like Miss Fleming and the girls in the dormitory. But behind it all was the guilt, guilt about leaving her mother. What will she do when I’m gone? Everything would be better when Ben came home. But when would that be?
Kate wandered over to Ben’s workbench. He would sit on his stool for hours, whittling fallen limbs and burls into furniture and figurines, listening to the hit parade on that old radio he’d fixed up. She blew dust from the radio and switched it on. Bill Austin with his “Is You or Is You Ain’t My Baby.” Louis Jordan on the trumpet. She knew the singer because Ben always guessed the songs and the singers as soon as the music started, and he’d challenge Kate to do the same. Ben would whistle along. He tried to teach her to whistle, but her mouth wouldn’t make the shape right.
Ben’s wood-carving kit sat neatly on his workbench alongside hunks of wood, just as he had left it all. A log lay near the lathe, ready to make into some piece of furniture, no doubt. He had made the kitchen table and chairs, as well as Mother’s rocking chair on the front porch.
Kate picked up one of his carvings—a rearing horse with well-defined muscles and mane. The eyes were wild with fear. Ben must have been working on this before he left. “He’ll be home soon now,” Mother had said a few days ago. “I can just feel it.”
Nat King Cole was signing “Straighten Up and Fly Right.” Kate put down the figurine and turned off the radio.
On the other side of the barn, Kate opened the rabbit hutch. She gently drew Mama Bunny from the hutch, stroked her soft gray fur, and put her into a holding pen. She changed the fat rabbit’s straw bedding and added fresh water and spring greens.
Out in the rabbit pen, Kate cuddled a few of the little ones, then scattered feed pellets. “Spring’s here and soon you’ll be dining on new clover and dandelion leaves.”