by Lucy Sanna
“Mrs. J” was Ellie Jensen, owner of the dry goods store. Kate left her slicker outside on her bicycle and brushed herself off before entering.
“Good morning, Charlotte. Oh, I’m sorry. Kate! You certainly take after your mother!”
“Hello, Mrs. J.” Kate sauntered over to the fabric corner.
“Are you planning a sewing project?”
“I’m thinking of shorts and a blouse—”
“I have some lovely polished cotton. You’d be good in baby blue, pink—”
“Is there any chance . . . do you know where I might find silk?”
“Silk is for parachutes, Kate. You know that.”
“Yes, I just thought—”
Mrs. J put a finger to her lips. “A special event?” She whispered conspiratorially, though there was no one to hear.
Kate nodded.
“Well, then, if you don’t mind a used fabric, a woman brought in silk brocade draperies yesterday to trade for wool crepe. She should have turned it in, but . . .” She led Kate to the back room and opened a trunk and pulled out yards of forest green brocade. She laid out the silk on a long cutting table. Kate ran her hand across the rich fabric.
Next, Mrs. J unfolded drapery sheers of celadon green, a fine complement to the darker fabric. “The color is light and young.” She pulled a corner of fabric across Kate’s arm. “Perfect against your pale skin. Just the thing for the blouse . . .”
“But it’s nearly transparent!”
“Of course you’ll wear a camisole underneath.”
“Of course.” Kate’s heart raced. She could see it too.
“A new boyfriend?”
Kate cheeks went hot.
“I can keep a secret.”
Kate did want Mrs. J’s advice. “I would like to be in style for a party. Yes, maybe a new boy. I don’t know yet.”
“Hmm . . . well, you’ll need a matching skirt, or—”
“Tap pants.” Kate pulled out the photo of Ginger Rogers.
“Tap pants! Quite risqué,” she said, a serious look. “These would be fabulous on you, but . . . well, I wouldn’t have expected—”
“Maybe I’ve changed.” Kate grinned.
“Ah.” Mrs. J smiled. “The dark green silk brocade would be becoming with your complexion. Is it an afternoon party, or evening?”
“Afternoon and evening both.”
“Dancing?”
Kate nodded.
“Well, then, you’ll need a dancing skirt too.”
“A dancing skirt. Yes, that’s just what I need!”
Mrs. J looked Kate up and down. “How about a knee-length swing skirt? It’ll flip up when you dance to show off your long legs.” She gave a wink. “You’ll be the envy of the county.”
The bell above the door jangled. Mrs. Schmidt came into the store. Mrs. J threw a piece of muslin over the drapes, put a finger to her lips, and went out to greet the other woman. Mrs. Schmidt bought a spool of thread and soon left.
Mrs. J came back. “If you’re going to be outside, a sweater would be nice.”
A sweater would be perfect, but Kate didn’t have time to knit a matching sweater before the party. “That would take too long.”
“How about a short jacket?”
“Yes, I could make a jacket.”
Mrs. J pulled the fabric across the cutting table, measuring it between brass tacks. One yard, two yards, three yards. “Nearly eight yards. Certainly enough to make whatever you’d like.” She turned away from the table. “Let’s take a look at the patterns.”
Leading Kate down the aisle, Mrs. J said, “Tell me about this boy. Would I know him? Is he from one of the farms?”
Kate lowered her voice, as if there were others to hear. “His family has a summer home just up the lake from us.”
“An out-of-towner?”
Kate nodded.
Mrs. J stopped, mid-aisle. Her face suddenly serious. “You have a good head on your shoulders, Kate. I trust you’ll be careful. A local boy is one thing, but these out-of-town boys, they’re often fishing for a summer fling. And then they leave you alone, or worse. You know what I mean?” She patted her tummy.
“He’s not like that.” Kate felt the blush coming. “Besides, there will be lots of other guests. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I hope not.”
At the pattern counter, Mrs. J rifled through drawers and pulled patterns out for Kate to examine—blouses, camisoles, skirts, jackets. She fiddled with the groupings. “How about this combination? I’ll have to special-order the pattern for tap pants. Not something I get much call for.”
Kate scanned the pattern covers, imagining how glamorous she would look. Patterns, fabric, buttons, zippers, thread. She bit her lip. “How much will all this be?”
“Hmm.” Mrs. J appeared to be thinking. “Can you spare two of your rabbits?”
Two rabbits! Maybe she should bargain for only part of it, just enough fabric for the shorts and blouse and camisole, and leave the rest.
“And you’ll need some pink nail polish, lipstick, a light perfume. I can have those for you as well.” After a pause, Mrs. J added, “And perhaps a pair of peep-toe wedge sandals? I’ll see if I can order them in a forest green.”
Matching sandals and pink toenails! “I’ll bring the rabbits tomorrow. But . . .” she hesitated. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course your mother knows.”
“Not yet. I . . . I’m going to surprise her with my outfit. I want to tell her myself.”
Mrs. J winked. “It’s our secret.”
RIDING HOME THROUGH THE ORCHARD was like entering an enchanted fairyland. The clouds had broken and the late-afternoon sun glistened on the green fruit, sparkling like emeralds. Off through the trees, Kate spied Father working with the men, weeding, preparing for the harvest. Her heart swelled with happiness. When Father looked her way, she waved, and he waved back.
And there was Mother in the garden. “Letter from Ben,” Kate called.
Inside, she set Ben’s letter on the kitchen table and hurried up to her room. After reading Clay’s letter three more times—I have to show Josie!—she raced downstairs.
Mother stood in the kitchen, Ben’s letter in hand. Something was wrong.
“Mother?”
Mother stared at Kate, pain in her eyes. “I don’t understand.”
Ben! Kate’s scalp bristled with fear. “What happened?”
“It’s about the prisoners. Did you write to him about the prisoners? And Karl—”
“What about Karl?”
“Coming into the house to tutor you. Did you tell him?”
“No, I haven’t written anything about the prisoners. What is it?”
Mother put a hand over her mouth and handed the letter to Kate.
“Mother,” it began. Not “Dear Mother” or “Dearest Mother.” Just “Mother.”
I’ve learned you have BLACKED OUT working in the orchard, and worse, you’ve let them into the house. Did you forget that I’m fighting these BLACKED OUT? I have spared you details, but BLACKED OUT. These are dangerous men and I am afraid for you and Kate, and Father too. If I were there, this would not happen. Please write and tell me it isn’t true.
Ben
“Josie,” Kate whispered. “I told her about Karl.”
“Josie! Of course.” Mother’s anger filled the air. “She’s trying to pull him away from us, don’t you see? That cunning little—”
“I don’t think that Josie—”
“No. You don’t think. That’s the problem with you, Kate. You live in a make-believe world. Well, this is real.” Her voice rose. “This is your brother, fighting for us. Needing to know that we support him. Needing to know that we’re safe. Now he’ll worry. He’ll be distracted . . .”
KATE FOUND JOSIE SITTING on the end of the dock, a fishing pole in her hand. Josie turned at Kate’s approach.
“Why?” Kate shouted, walking forward.
Josie set her
pole down and stood. “Why what?”
“Why did you tell Ben about the prisoners?”
“He needed to know. Why didn’t your mother tell him?”
“Mother didn’t want him to worry. She wanted to protect him. And besides, it’s none of your business.”
“My daddy says it is our business. It’s bad enough that there are war criminals outside with guards, but letting them into your house, encouraging them to get so close, it can put us all in danger . . .”
“But why tell Ben?”
“Your mother listens to him.”
Not anymore, Kate thought. “You don’t know Karl. He would never . . . and Mother, you can’t imagine how this has upset her.” Kate’s eyes watered. My fault.
“Ben and I tell each other everything.”
“You don’t have to tell him what’s none of your business. None of your damn business!”
“Don’t swear at me,” Josie said softly.
“Oh, so now I suppose you’re going to tell Ben I swore at you.” Kate turned her back on her friend and stomped off the dock. She remembered the letter in her pocket. No, Josie would tell Ben about Clay’s party, and he’d tell Mother. No, I can’t tell her anything, ever again.
“Kate . . .” Josie called. “Kate, don’t leave! I didn’t do anything wrong . . .”
Eyes stinging, Kate ignored Josie, running across the lawn and through the woods to the channel.
APPROACHING THE CLEARING in front of the house, Kate froze at the sight of Mother standing with the twelve-gauge shotgun at her shoulder, pointed toward the woods. A prisoner? Kate’s eyes followed to where it aimed.
Bam!
A flock of grouse scattered, save one unfortunate bird that plopped onto the grass.
“Good shot, Mother!” Kate hoped this would be a happy distraction from Ben’s letter.
But Mother merely glanced her way, then walked to the edge of the woods and picked up the bird by its feet. A big one, bigger than a chicken.
Following Mother into the kitchen, Kate longed to turn her mood around. “Can I help?”
Her back to Kate, Mother lit the stove and put a pot of water on the burner to soften the bird’s skin and loosen its feathers.
Kate found yesterday’s newspaper and opened it across the table. She put a kitchen towel on top to absorb the water.
Mother was silent until she pulled the bird from the pot and laid it on the towel. “Ben has no idea how bad things are. I’ve kept it from him so he wouldn’t worry. And now—”
“I’m sorry . . .” Kate braced for what would come.
“For starters, you give up your math lessons. Karl will no longer come to the house. And you’ll tell Josie so she tells Ben. Understand?” She began tugging feathers from the bird’s breast.
Kate put her head back to keep the tears from falling. “But I need Karl’s help to . . .”
Mother leveled her eyes at Kate. “That’s more important than Ben’s life?”
“Let’s write to Ben. We’ll do it together,” Kate said. “We’ll tell him what it was like before but we don’t have to worry any longer because of the PWs. He’ll understand. He’ll understand if it comes from both of us. Okay?”
Kate cringed as Mother yanked away another handful of feathers. Then another. After some time, Mother looked up and wiped her forehead with her arm. “Get a pencil and paper and we’ll see what we can do.”
Kate hurried off, relieved that Mother was including her in the response.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ONCE THE BIRD WAS IN THE OVEN, Charlotte sharpened a pencil and opened a box of stationery. Kate sat across from her, drumming her fingers on the kitchen table, drumming on Charlotte’s nerves. Charlotte wished she hadn’t agreed to a joint letter.
Kate began, “Maybe we should start with—”
“I think I need to do this myself,” Charlotte said. “If you don’t mind.”
Kate looked hurt.
Charlotte put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “We could each write a letter. Our argument would be stronger if he heard from us separately, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” Kate stood.
“How about if you go to the garden and choose vegetables for supper?”
Once Kate had left, Charlotte could think more clearly. She gazed at the kitchen window, imagining Ben walking up to the back porch just as he had thousands of times before. What would she say to him if he were sitting across from her now?
Dear Ben,
I’m sorry you had to find out about the German prisoners from someone else. I didn’t want to worry you.
I have not told you how things are here at home, but since the war began the migrant workers have found better jobs than picking fruit. For a year we’ve been living off the goodness of the community. With the prisoners, we can have a harvest and finally pay off our debts.
About that PW who tutors Kate—
Charlotte held the pencil in the air, poised to write the name. Karl. No, Ben would think that too familiar. Because it was too familiar.
She stood and picked up a paring knife and sharpened her pencil. How odd to be defending a prisoner.
A tap on the window frame startled her. Karl peering in through the screen, deep dimples in his smiling cheeks. He held up a bunch of violets. “I found them near to the forest.”
Charlotte was beginning to find his guttural accent endearing. She went to the back hall and opened the door. When she accepted the flowers, his hand touched hers. A fleeting touch, but the tingling lingered.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Does Miss Kate have papers for me?”
“No” was all she could say.
“I’ll come tomorrow.”
Surely he must smell the bird roasting in the oven. Maybe she should invite him to supper.
“Yes. Yes, come tomorrow.”
He gave a slight bow. Charlotte watched him walk away, his broad shoulders, confident stride.
Charlotte put the violets into a small vase and placed it in front of her on the table. She touched her hand where he had touched it. She should have invited him for supper.
After some time, she picked up the pencil.
He doesn’t support Hitler. He’s a good man, a gentleman, a math professor, educated in England, you can hear it in his voice. You know how important it is for Kate to go to the university.
The university! How foolish that sounded in the face of what Ben must be going through. What could she say that would make him accept all this when she herself had a hard time accepting it?
Kate came in with a basket of garden greens. “It smells so good in here!” She put the greens on the counter. “Where did the violets come from?”
Charlotte quickly wrote a last line and signed the letter, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope. She hadn’t written anything Kate didn’t already know. And yet . . . “Could you please take this to the barbershop for tomorrow’s mail?”
Kate held out her hand. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him the truth.”
Kate hesitated, as if waiting for more, but when Charlotte stood and turned to the stove, Kate left with the letter.
THOMAS MARVELED at the homey aroma of roasting game. After washing at the sink, he stood over the butcher block and carved the bird.
Once they were seated, Thomas noticed the violets. “Nice touch, Kate.”
“I didn’t pick them.”
“Karl brought them,” Charlotte said.
“Karl?” Thomas’s eyes focused hard on hers.
“To celebrate summer,” she added. “For us.”
“Ah, yes.” He took up his pipe. “I recall Karl said that his mother loved flowers. And he thought you would too.”
His mother! Charlotte stiffened. But when she touched that place on her hand again, it felt like a burn.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
KATE PULLED THE FABRIC from the bottom of her closet and snuck it down the hall. The day was warm, and the s
ewing room was musty from being closed off for so long. Dead bugs lay along the windowsills, and when Kate pulled up the blinds, dust motes floated in the yellow afternoon light. She sneezed and opened the windows to let in the fresh summer air.
The cutting table was strewn with pieces of floral-printed flour sack from Mother’s last project, a square dancing skirt. Kate recalled Mother’s pleasure in creating new outfits, back before the war, when there were potlucks and square dances, charity events for the school and the hospital. But now she wore the same old housedresses—cotton in summer, wool in winter—day after day.
Kate opened a drawer and hid her bundles under a pile of fabric scraps Mother had once collected for making a quilt. She grabbed some odd ends and dusted the cutting table, the windowsills, the full-length mirror that rocked in its oak stand, the dressmaker form, the cabinet filled with patterns, and finally, the Singer itself.
Mother had taught Kate to sew, and Mrs. J had encouraged her from an early age with fun projects—puppets and dolls, then doll clothes, and finally patterns that Kate could use for designing her own outfits. It was a creative endeavor that took Kate away from tedious chores. That was what she liked about it. Whenever Kate sat with a book, Mother would find something practical for her to do. “Idle hands . . .” she’d say. But when Kate was sewing, Mother left her alone. With only the friendly hum of the Singer, Kate’s mind could roam into her own fantasy world.
Kate slid onto the cane-back chair and rocked her foot on the treadle, testing it. When the needle buzzed up and down, the table thrummed against the floor. Would they hear it in the parlor below? Kate couldn’t take that chance.
Through the window, Kate saw Mother carrying a basket of wash to the clothesline in the side yard. “Hello, Mother,” she called down. “Do you have anything that needs mending?”
Mother looked up, smiling. “Why, yes, I do. Check my sewing basket in the parlor.”