The Cherry Harvest

by Lucy Sanna

  Karl’s face across the room. His eyes met hers, solemn. She looked away. Then he was gone.

  Charlotte pushed herself up from the couch. “I have to . . . I have to get his bedroom ready.” She went to the stairs and grasped the banister. One step, then another.

  Wounded?

  She had entered this room many times since Ben’s departure, to touch his things, feel his presence. The menagerie of figurines he had carved looked up happily from his dresser. They needed dusting, the room needed airing and sweeping. She would put on fresh sheets, shake out the rugs and curtains.

  Her mind saw Ben’s bright eyes, his sturdy body. Other boys had come back blind, deaf, paralyzed, crazy. Not my Ben. Please, God, not my baby!

  A broken arm, that wouldn’t be so bad. Something that would heal. Or a finger, he could work with a missing finger, she bargained.

  Why would God listen to me? Was this punishment for her sin? No, no, no! Ben’s alive. That’s what matters. For us, the war is over.

  She would get cotton yarn from Ellie and knit him a pair of summer socks. She sat on the blue-and-brown afghan she had crocheted for her boy so many years ago and began a mental list of all she must do.

  “Char.” Thomas stood in the doorway. “Come to bed.”

  “But I need to—”

  “It can wait until morning.”

  “I’ll be along.”

  After Thomas left, Charlotte picked up Ben’s pillow and hugged it to her breast.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  KATE RAN TO THE BARN and grabbed her bicycle and raced down the path. Ben tells Josie everything. She knows what’s happened. She must know!

  The evening sky had clouded over. Was that thunder?

  When Kate arrived at the lightkeeper’s house, Josie was helping her mother with the dishes.

  “Kate! Where have you been?” Josie led Kate upstairs to her bedroom. “I was so worried . . . that dead Nazi, and then I didn’t see you for so long! And my parents wouldn’t let me go to your place. What’s going on?”

  Movie posters adorned Josie’s walls—Judy Garland skipping down the Yellow Brick Road with the Tin Man, the Lion, and the Scarecrow; Scarlett O’Hara in Rhett Butler’s arms against a fiery backdrop; Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. Josie closed the door.

  “What have you heard from Ben?” Kate said.

  “I haven’t received a letter since . . .” Josie stopped and stared at Kate. “What happened? Something’s happened!”

  Kate hesitated. Why hadn’t Ben notified Josie?

  “What!” Josie demanded.

  “He’s coming home.”

  “Home!” Josie shrieked and gave Kate a quick hug. “Really? He’s really coming home?”

  Kate nodded. “Day after tomorrow. He sent a telegram.”

  “Day after tomorrow!” She laughed. “But . . . but why didn’t he write to me?” Her eyes darkened. “Did he meet another girl? He wouldn’t—”

  “No . . . Josie, he’s wounded.”

  “Wounded! Wounded how?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Oh, my poor Ben!” Tears rolled down Josie’s cheeks. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll nurse him until he’s well again. No matter what it is. He did his duty, and I’ll do mine.”

  For once Kate was grateful for Josie’s romantic notions. “Yes, he’ll need someone to take care of him,” Kate said. “He’s coming home to you, Josie, the girl he loves. You need each other now.”

  Josie grabbed Kate’s arms. “What time is he arriving?”

  “Three o’clock train. Green Bay.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “There’s only room for three in the truck—Mother, Father, and Ben. I can’t even go.”

  “Ben and I can ride in the back on the way home.” Her nails dug into Kate’s arms.

  “In the bed of the truck?” Kate pulled away. “It’s a two-hour drive each way. And if Ben’s wounded—”

  “But he’ll want me there!”

  What did Ben want? Kate considered the options. Mother, Father, and Ben would be home from Green Bay in time for supper. Kate would prepare the meal. She could invite Josie to help, invite her to dinner. But no, Mother wouldn’t like that. “Come over in the evening, after Ben’s settled.” Mother wouldn’t like that either. Mother didn’t like anything about Josie.

  “Day after tomorrow!” Josie twirled around, then went to her closet. “I’ll go to the cottage and fill it with flowers. And bring fresh sheets for the bed—”

  “The bed?”

  “What should I wear?”

  Thunder rolled in the distance.

  Kate opened the door. “I have to go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THE SKY THUNDERED THROUGH THE NIGHT. Waves pounded the shore, wild and violent. Lightning flashed and crackled. And in the dark of morning, rain poured down around the farm.

  Trudging through the mud on her way to the barn, Kate recalled mornings before Ben left. He’d be standing in the boat out beyond the dock, casting his fishing line. Or she’d find him in the barn fixing some piece of equipment, Scout lying at his feet. That mutt would follow Ben everywhere.

  She pushed aside the heavy wooden door, threw off her slicker, and tied her hair back into a knot.

  Wounded! Images flooded her mind. Pictures she’d seen in magazines, boys on stretchers, heads wrapped, limbs missing. He’d be home tonight. Whatever it was, she’d know tonight.

  Kate cleaned Mia’s udder and teats and set the empty pail on the stanchion.

  At least he was coming home alive. She had known other boys who didn’t.

  After breakfast, Kate rode her bicycle down Orchard Lane, splattering through puddles. Off through the trees she saw Father with the PWs. Lightning or tornadoes might keep pickers from the treetops, but not a simple rainstorm.

  Kate hurried into the cherry shack and hung up her slicker. Driving rain drummed on the tin roof above. She pushed open the front shutter that served as an awning and put out baskets of cherries. She glanced up at each car that came splashing down County Trunk Q. Most drove past, but now and then a driver pulled up to the stand, dashed out with a handful of coins for a basket of cherries or a pie, then disappeared off into the rain.

  Clay. She wouldn’t be able to go with him tonight after all.

  Kate picked up Pale Horse, Pale Rider. Miranda was in the midst of a whirlwind romance with a young Army officer. Kate smiled—a writer in love with an officer. But on the next page, Miranda collapsed from the influenza. Her officer came home and nursed her through her delirium, but when she awoke, she learned that he had caught it from her and died.

  Kate wiped her eyes as she read the last sentence: “Now there would be time for everything.” What was that supposed to mean? Kate longed to discuss the book with Miss Fleming. She’d be at the university in just five weeks! Maybe the war would be over by then. Maybe Clay wouldn’t have to go. And she could visit him and he could visit her.

  The rain let up, and the drumming on the roof quieted to occasional plips and plops from overhanging trees. Wet leaves sparkled in a patch of sunlight. Kate inhaled the earthy scents, the freshly washed air.

  A pickup truck pulled to a stop in front of the stand, and a burly man in overalls got out and approached the counter. “Came to get the order for Robert’s Market, Green Bay. Two lugs of cherries, seven pies.”

  Kate ushered him into the shack, where Father had set aside the order. He loaded up, paid the bill, and crunched back out of the gravelly lot.

  Clouds moved across the sun and Kate shivered. The rain came once more, hard and cold, closing her off from all sights and sounds, a gray curtain around her.

  Kate thought of the soldier who saved Miranda. Clay would do that for her. He would come home and take care of her. But he wouldn’t die.

  The sky thundered close. Then lightning. Father would call off the harvest. It was just past noon when the truck pulled up at the stand, and Mother rolled down the passenger window. �
��We’ll be back around five-thirty. The rib roast is in the icebox. It should cook about three hours.”

  “I’ll have dinner ready by six,” Kate said.

  Mother nodded and rolled up the window, and the truck veered south onto County Trunk Q. Ben would be with them when they returned. Dearest Ben!

  A few hours later, Kate was about to close up for the day when she saw it, a vision emerging from the foggy rain. The red Duesenberg. Clay dashed inside and threw off his hat and gloves and coat and pulled Kate into a hug, his arms warm and solid around her. He was kissing her and she was kissing him, hungry together, not worrying about anything because they were alone and loved each other.

  “I came to see you last night, but your house was dark except for one lighted room upstairs.” His voice was low, sensual. “If I had known what room you were in . . .”

  “Oh, Clay!” She pulled back. “Ben’s coming home.”

  Clay’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “Is he . . . ?”

  “He’s wounded.”

  “He’s alive, then. Thank God.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Tears flowed down her cheeks. She had held them in, but now they came. “He didn’t tell us what. I don’t know what it is. I fear . . . I just don’t know!”

  “My sweet girl.” He rocked her. “He’s coming home alive.” He kissed her tears.

  She looked into his eyes. “If it could happen to Ben, it could happen to you—”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be up in the sky, watching it all from above.”

  “I’ve seen newsreels of planes going down in smoke and flames . . . I do worry.” Rain beat on the tin roof. “I worry about you!”

  Thunder rattled the shack. Lightning flashed white.

  He hugged her to him, his body against hers, rain all around. His fingers undid the top buttons of her pink summer dress, touching her breasts, sliding into her bra, kissing her breasts. She sighed, moving against him, her own hands beneath his starched military shirt, then beneath his undershirt, his skin slick and humid. Headlights drifting just beyond the curtain of rain, swishing off into the mist, his hands leading hers to his trousers.

  She pushed away.

  He backed off. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Nor did she. Confused, embarrassed. The spell was broken. Looking down, she covered her breasts, buttoned up.

  He moved forward. “We don’t want to do anything that would—”

  “No, it’s not right—” Though she did want to. She wanted to do everything.

  He cupped her face in his hands. “We’ll have fun tonight at dinner.”

  “Oh! I can’t. Ben’s coming home today.”

  Clay’s smile dropped.

  “Mother and Father are on their way to Green Bay right now to pick him up. I need to go make dinner soon.”

  “But I’m leaving—”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll go with you tomorrow night. Meet me here.” She had no idea what she’d tell her parents. With Ben home, Josie, wanting to be with him, would no longer be available for an alibi.

  Clay took hold of her shoulders and kissed her strong and hard, his body firm against hers. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll find a way to stay another day.”

  When Clay left, Kate felt a chill, as if a fire had died. She pulled her cardigan sweater tight around her and thought of tomorrow evening. She would bathe and wash her hair. If only she had a bar of perfumed soap. What should she wear? Her mind coursed through her closet, her underwear drawer . . .

  “What am I doing?” She said it aloud. She thought of the girls who had gotten pregnant before finishing high school, closing off future options. This is how it happens. She had always thought of those girls as sleazy, desperate even, but now she saw how it was, how easy it was, how sweet it was to love a special boy who loved you too.

  She picked up Porter’s book. Miranda, losing her love. “Now there would be time for everything.” Was that the choice—love or everything else?

  She brought the baskets in from the counter and pulled down the shutter. She put on her slicker and walked her bicycle to the house.

  Did Miss Fleming ever have a lover? Would she understand what it meant to want a boy and want everything else too?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “I’M FRIGHTENED,” CHARLOTTE WHISPERED, moving closer to Thomas, tugging her cloche hat down tight. They sat on a wooden bench in front of the yellow stone depot. The air was chilly with rain.

  They had been silent most of the sixty-eight miles to Green Bay, afraid to voice what possible wounds Ben might have. At least that was why Charlotte had been quiet. Along the way she had nearly finished knitting two pairs of socks for him.

  When Thomas turned toward her, rain dripped from his fedora. “We’ll know soon enough, Char.” He patted her leg.

  That was when Charlotte heard it, the faraway wail of the locomotive. Then louder. And louder still. The ground shook and steam filled the air, and the engine came to a squealing stop. Not a stop, really. It shivered and shuddered, anxious to be on its way again.

  Charlotte grasped Thomas’s arm and scanned the windows.

  “There!” She pointed. “Ben!” She waved frantically.

  Ben peered out the window, but he didn’t look her way. He wasn’t smiling. His cheeks were hollow, his baby face gone. In a flash she saw sharp cheekbones, a steely jaw. But no bandages, no patches. She watched as he stood and reached for things. She saw his shoulders, his arms. “See! He’s fine. He’s just fine! He needs wholesome food and sun . . .” And motherly love. Yes, that was what he needed.

  She ran to the platform of the railroad car and waited, impatient as other passengers came forward down the steps. What was taking him so long? She was about to climb up after him when there he was, standing tall on the platform, shoulders square in an olive green Army jacket. “Ben!” she cried out, laughing.

  He grinned down at her. But then he was struggling on the metal steps. He had crutches. A broken leg?

  That was when she saw it. Saw it wasn’t there. “Oh!” She put her hands to her mouth. His left trouser leg was bunched up at the thigh with a big safety pin. Dear God! Nauseous, dizzy, she grabbed Thomas’s arm to hold herself up.

  Thomas reached out his other arm to help Ben down the last step. “Welcome home, son,”

  “Hello, Father.” Ben rested his right arm on a crutch and held out his hand for Thomas to shake.

  Charlotte threw herself around him. Her tears fell on the front of his jacket. “Ben! Oh, Ben. We missed you so.”

  He tucked a crutch under one arm and put the other arm around her.

  Another man in uniform, a patch over an eye, followed Ben with a duffel bag and set it on the ground. “Good luck, buddy,” he said, then climbed back up the steps.

  Thomas picked up the duffel and led the way to the truck. Charlotte walked alongside in stunned silence.

  Ben spoke first. “Let’s get one thing out of the way.” He gave that old grin. “Just don’t be calling me Peg Leg.”

  Charlotte laughed, but there were tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

  In the truck she slid to the center of the seat and put her knitting basket on her lap. The socks.

  When Ben climbed in, she held tight to his arm. “Thank God you’re home. Safe,” she quickly added.

  “Sure feels good to be home.” Ben rolled down the window and sucked in the cool, misty air.

  The missing leg, the left leg, was next to Charlotte, half a thigh. Ben reached down as if to scratch the part that wasn’t there. Then his hand moved up and he scratched the edge of the stump. The knee she had bandaged when he fell off his bicycle. Gone!

  Charlotte focused on the wipers slapping back and forth as if they could slap it all away. But the rain kept coming.

  Thomas glanced toward Ben. “See by your stripes you made sergeant.”

  “Yup.”

  “We didn’t know,” Charlotte said brightly. “That’s pretty impressive.” She was about to
pat his leg but then remembered and clenched her fist.

  Ben stared out the passenger window.

  “What’s that medal you got there?” Thomas said.

  “Purple Heart.” After a pause, Ben added, “Wounded in action.”

  “Ah,” Thomas said.

  Charlotte tilted her head back to hold the tears from falling. All was quiet for a while, save for her few quick sniffs. She took out her handkerchief and blew her nose.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “How did it happen, son?”

  “Machine gun tore it apart.”

  Charlotte cringed at the image, Ben blown off his feet, writhing in the mud, screaming with unspeakable pain, chaos blasting around him.

  “Can’t recall feeling anything.” He paused. “Not until I woke up in a field hospital. Didn’t even know it was gone until I tried to sit up.” He looked off. “Nurses were nice . . .”

  Charlotte stared at the bunched-up pant leg, the safety pin. “You didn’t write—”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.” He cut in. “Not until I knew how it would be. Not until I got to Walter Reed.”

  How will it be? Charlotte didn’t want to ask. Ben rolled up the window and bent forward and unzipped his duffel. He pulled out something blue.

  “The vest!” Charlotte said. The one she had knit for him, the one she had traded with the lighthouse keeper’s wife for fish. The blue of his eyes.

  Ben beamed. “Josie made it for me.”

  Charlotte’s cheeks burned, anger rising. She breathed fast, holding it in. Barely holding it in. That little liar! But no, this wasn’t about who made the vest. It was meant for Ben from the start, and she was glad he had it. She touched the cabling she had knit so lovingly late into the night.

  Josie. Charlotte had never liked the girl, but now she realized she needed her. Ben needed her. They all needed her. “We’ll invite her to supper tomorrow,” Charlotte said.

  Ben didn’t smile. He put the vest against the window, laid a cheek on it, and closed his eyes.