The Cherry Harvest

by Lucy Sanna

  “How many?” Kate asked.

  The woman looked to her husband. “Two? Three?” After a pause, “Two then.”

  “Try some cherries.” Kate pushed a plate of samples forward.

  “I want some!” the pigtailed girl cried. The other children chimed in, stuffing their mouths.

  The family left with three pies and four baskets of sweet cherries.

  “You’re pretty cagey, Kitty Kat.” Ben gave her shoulder a light punch.

  “If they try them, they’ll buy them. That’s what Mother always says.” Kate sat back, bathed in the warm sun flowing in through open shutters.

  Ben sat back as well and closed his eyes. “Feels good.” His face relaxed into that smile she remembered.

  “So how about you and Josie,” Kate ventured.

  Ben opened his eyes, serious. “In her letters she said she wanted to get married as soon as I came home.” He regarded his damaged leg. “She seems okay with it—”

  A passing truck backfired. Ben jumped—eyes wide, mouth twisted—and pulled Kate with him to the ground. He was hurting her arm, holding her down, but she kept still. After what seemed like a long time, he let go.

  He was shaking. “Sorry.” He struggled to get up and into the chair. “Sorry, I just—”

  “It’s all right, Ben.” She put a hand on his arm.

  “It’s not all right,” he said, barely audible. He sat forward and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  Kate touched his shoulder. He breathed in deeply and gave a big sigh.

  After some time he said, “Everybody back home . . . You just go on as if . . .” His shoulders fell and his voice softened. “But you couldn’t possibly know what it’s like.”

  Kate faced him. Maybe he didn’t want to tell her. Maybe she didn’t want to hear. Maybe she shouldn’t ask, but she did. “Tell me, then. What’s it like?”

  Ben ate a cherry, spit the pit. Then another. “Charging machine guns. That was my specialty.” His voice grew stronger, proud. “I learned to hear the difference between the amateurs and the professionals.”

  “The difference?”

  “It’s like this,” Ben said. “Bup bup bup. Pause. Bup bup bup. Pause. That’s a professional. But an amateur will hold the trigger too long—bup bup bup bup bup—and the barrel floats up, giving me room to rush in underneath. Take him out.”

  Take him out?

  “That last time. Approaching Rome.” His voice came in a monotone, as if he were reciting a story he had told many times. “Summer flowers covered the hillsides. When we passed an apple orchard, I thought of the cherry trees back home. The sun had just set. Dusk.” He stared off into space. “Salami—”

  “Salami?”

  “That’s what we called him. Nino Salvatore Salamme. He had this crazy New York accent. We were together from the beginning—across North Africa, over the Mediterranean to Sicily, through the mountains—and then we were headed to Rome. Two years together. The last survivors of the original platoon. My buddy.” Ben paused for a bit, grinned. “He had this big Italian family. Lots of sisters. Showed me pictures. I told him I already had a girl. He had relatives in Rome he’d never met. Wanted me to meet them too.”

  “And did you?”

  “We made it to the outskirts of Rome, but . . .” He bit around a cherry pit.

  “We were in a field of high grass, scouting out the enemy, covering for each other. The action had slowed. I was reaching for my canteen when I heard a gunner. We fell to the ground, waiting, listening.” Ben paused. “He was tapping out too many shots. When I heard him do it the third time, I gave the sign for Salami to throw a grenade. He pulled the pin and stood . . . why the hell did he have to stand up?”

  Ben was silent for a bit. A car passed by, tires humming.

  When he spoke again, his words came out in a whisper. “That’s when the machine gun cut him.” Ben looked straight ahead. “Grenade rolled from Salami’s hand. Live grenade, ready to blow. I dove down and grabbed it, flung it toward the sound of the machine gun, but the gunner got me before the grenade got him. I was smelling burning meat and something metallic. And my leg was on fire. Then the grenade blew the earth sky high in the distance, and that’s the last thing I remember.”

  “Oh, Ben!”

  Ben jostled and shifted in his chair. “You look out for your buddy.” He slumped back, an arm across his eyes. “I shoulda died instead of him.”

  “Don’t say that!” Kate grabbed him. “You’re home and—”

  He shook his head.

  After some silence, Kate whispered, “Did you ever have to shoot anyone? Close up where you could see his eyes?”

  He turned to Kate, then away. “You gotta think of them like rabid dogs.” He stared into space. “It’s hard to look at their faces and pull the trigger, but you know they’ll kill you if you don’t.”

  Kate shivered. “Like Old Tramp?” she said, referring to the puppy she’d found when she was six. He stayed beside her every day, every night, best friends. He followed her to school and waited outside and followed her home. When Tramp was nine, he disappeared. Kate was frantic, searching the shore, the woods. When he finally returned, he was snarling, foaming. Father corralled him and said he had to be shot. Ben got his gun. Then Old Tramp was dead. That night Kate was crying, and she heard Ben crying too.

  “Yeah, like that.” He nodded. “You can do it if you think of them as rabid dogs.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.

  “May I have one?”

  “You?” He grinned. “You’re growing up too fast, little sister.” He tipped the pack her way.

  A car pulled up, and a couple approached the stand. Kate hurried them along, giving them what they wanted, taking their money.

  When the customers left, Ben said, “Look, Kate. Maybe I shouldn’t ’a told you all that—”

  “I asked—”

  “It’s not your fault. None of this.” His arm came warm and strong around her shoulders.

  “It’s not your fault either.” She worked to hold back tears. “You did what you had to do. And we have to keep going here at home too. Take care of things.”

  “Yeah. But now . . . it’s just hard for me to sit here knowing they’re still over there, and . . .” He looked up and let out a long whistle. “Would you get a loada that automobile!”

  Clay! Kate’s heart jumped.

  The red convertible pulled onto the gravel, and Clay stepped out.

  “Hey, he’s in uniform. Musta been wounded, like me.”

  “No, he’s . . . come and meet him.”

  Ben followed on his crutches.

  Clay came quickly forward. “Hi ya, Kate!” He put an arm around her waist and kissed her on the cheek.

  Kate felt it all again, the electricity of his touch. She wanted to melt into him, but Ben was right behind her.

  “Well, whaddya know.” Ben smiled. “Little sister’s got a guy.”

  “You must be Ben.” Clay put out his hand, and the two men shook. “Kate told me you were coming home. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Ben, this is Clay.”

  “Good to meet you,” Ben said. “Navy, eh?”

  “Yup. Going to be a pilot.” His eyes went to Ben’s leg, and his face colored. “I’m sorry about your leg.”

  “Ah, I’m okay.” Ben said, lifting his chin as if proud of his injury. “Pilot, eh?” He slapped Clay on the back. “Tell you what. Whenever we saw those planes swoop in to help us out . . . well, it’s a beautiful sight.”

  This was going well. As much as Kate wanted to be alone with Clay, she was glad the two were meeting. “How about we sit at the picnic table,” she said. “You two go ahead. I’ll be along.”

  The men moved toward the table in the shade of the maples, and Kate stayed behind, ostensibly to fill baskets, letting them get to know each other.

  Watching them together—Clay moving easily, Ben hobbling alongside—Kate’s breath caught. What if Clay comes
back a cripple? She gripped a straw basket so tightly it crumpled in her hand. She feared that almost as much as Clay not coming home at all. She shook her head with guilt. She thought of what Josie had said about duty. No, that wasn’t it. She loved Clay. She would never give him up, no matter what.

  “General Mark Clark’s Fifth,” Ben was saying in answer to a question Clay must have asked.

  “We saw you guys in the newsreels, cheered you on.”

  Ben offered Clay a cigarette. Clay accepted the light. After some low conversation Kate couldn’t quite make out, Ben said, “How much longer before you ship out?”

  “Gotta finish OCS, then flight training—”

  “Huh. What are you, eighteen? I thought you looked older.”

  “I’m twenty.”

  “Twenty?” Ben’s voice had an edge. “What have you been doing?” He crushed out his cigarette on the table.

  “College . . . ROTC—”

  “In school?” Ben stood up on his crutches. “And looks like your plan is to stay in school . . . OCS, pilot training, then some other special this or that, waiting it out—”

  Clay was standing now as well. “Hey, I’m in.”

  “Sure took your sweet time about it.”

  “Ben?” Kate hurried to the table.

  Clay glanced at Kate. “Better get going. It’s a long drive.”

  “But you just got here!” Kate panicked.

  “Let him go!” Ben shouted. “Back to his . . . his country club.”

  Clay turned away and headed for his car.

  “Clay!” Kate rushed after him. “You need to understand. Ben . . . he’s not . . . it’s just that . . .”

  Clay got into the car and looked up at her. “He doesn’t want me here right now.” He started the engine.

  “But I do! I don’t want to lose you—”

  He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “You’ll never lose me. You and me in the cottage last night. That’s what I’ll be thinking about.” He let go of her hand. His tires crunched forward on the gravel. Kate watched his taillights trail off down County Trunk Q, smaller and smaller, until they disappeared.

  “Oh!” Kate whirled toward Ben. “Look what you’ve done! Clay is a good person.”

  “Is this what you call taking care of things?” Ben was breathing hard. “We’re over there fighting and this . . . this pretty boy’s driving around in his fancy car . . . impressing all the girls . . .” Ben banged on his left thigh. “I can’t believe I lost this for the likes of him!”

  “You don’t understand—”

  He grabbed her wrist. “You think a rich guy like that is serious about a simple farm girl like you?”

  “You’re hurting me . . .”

  “Damn fucking officer! He’ll never see action.” Ben’s grip tightened on her wrist. “Guys like him are why enlisted men get ‘Dear John’ letters. Know what that means?”

  Kate twisted from his grip. He grabbed for her again, but she ducked away. “What’s the matter with you!” she shouted. “What did you do with my brother?”

  “Damn OCS brat. He’s a sonofabitch! You stay away from the likes of him.” Ben swung his arm, nearly lost his balance, righted himself. “From all of ’em, ya hear?”

  He’s possessed. That’s what it is. Possessed by war ghosts.

  “You hear me, farm girl?”

  Kate slapped his face hard and watched him wobble with the shock of the blow. Never had she hit anyone, let alone her brother, but no one had ever been so cruel. He caught himself and put a hand to his cheek, his eyes wide.

  A car rolled onto the gravel. Kate turned toward the stand, her palm burning.

  The couple wanted to know the prices of everything and sample every kind of cherry. Kate’s hands shook as she picked up their coins from the counter. Surely they saw she was crying. When they finally left, Kate went outside. Ben was far down the lane, hobbling toward the house.

  “Good. Hobble away,” she said under her breath. Maybe I am a simple farm girl, but Clay wants to be with me. He could be with any old prissy debutante, but he wants me. She rubbed her wrist. He wants to read my stories. Like Father, and Miss Fleming. He appreciates me. “Barefoot and all,” she said aloud.

  Kate brought the OPEN sign into the shack and pulled the shutters closed. She got on her bicycle and pedaled north along County Trunk Q.

  At Island Road, she veered down toward the lighthouse and rode to the end, set her bicycle against the tree, and waded across the channel.

  Josie was at the edge of the woods picking wildflowers.

  “I have to talk with you,” Kate said.

  They sat on the grass in a patch of sunlight, and Kate told Josie what had happened. “Would you please speak with Ben about Clay? Ben always listens to you.”

  Josie frowned. “He’s different now.”

  Kate froze. “Of course he is. Think what he’s been through. He did his duty, now we—”

  “I know, I know. I feel terrible! A coward, a traitor . . .” Tears streamed down Josie’s face. “He was romantic and considerate and fun and happy and . . . Mama asked me how he could possibly run the farm now.”

  “He’ll get a new leg, and—”

  “It’s not that . . . well, not only that . . .” Josie wiped her cheeks. “I loved him the way he was. I loved him so much!”

  “I know.” Kate took Josie’s hand.

  “But now . . . he’s so bitter. Mean. I don’t know what to say, how to act. I can’t even be myself around him.”

  “Josie, we have to give him time. That’s what Father says. He’ll be fine.”

  “When?” She pulled away. “When will he be fine? How long does it take?”

  She lay down on the lawn and curled into herself. Ringlets of dark hair fell against her pale skin. Her tears rolled sideways down her cheeks. Her full breasts heaved against her white cotton blouse. She was so pretty, any boy would choose her.

  “C’mon, Josie.” Kate bent forward and stroked her friend’s hair. “You should have seen the way Ben perked up when Craig visited. That’s what he needs. To talk with the other boys who’ve come back.”

  Josie moaned. “I love being with him, in his arms. He’s the only one I ever . . . we were meant to be together.” Josie sat up and pulled out a hankie and wiped her face. Her white blouse was grass-stained, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m leaving end of August,” Kate said. “If you want me to help you with your wedding dress, we better get started. A summer wedding.” Kate recalled Josie’s excitement whenever she spoke of the wedding. Dancing with Ben. Well, there’d be no dancing now. “Let’s go up to your room and look at that Bride’s Magazine with the dress you like.”

  Josie turned away. “Maybe later . . .”

  “And those kitchen curtains. White lace, right?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Decided?” Kate repeated. “Look, we’ll go to Mrs. J’s together and pick out the fabric. We could go now.”

  “Stop!” Josie put her hands to her ears.

  “What’s wrong?” Kate’s words felt hollow as soon as they left her lips. Hadn’t she just slapped her own brother? Everything was wrong.

  “It’s not his fault, I know. It’s not fair. Not fair for either of us.” She was sobbing now, shaking with sobs. “I feel so . . . so guilty! I told him I’d marry him. I love him, I really do. But I loved the other Ben!”

  Everyone loved the other Ben, Kate thought miserably.

  “He did his duty, and I should do mine. If I only knew whether he’d ever be the same again. If I knew that . . .” Josie blew her nose. “I’ve been waiting for him, and I’m older now, and all the boys are gone . . . and I don’t want to lose you either!”

  Kate put an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

  “I’m afraid of him,” Josie whispered.

  Kate rubbed her wrist where Ben had grabbed her. “Oh, Josie!” Ben needed Josie. If she were to leave him . . . “Let’s give him a chance.”

>   Josie sniffled. “What if Clay comes back angry like Ben? What will you do then?”

  Kate stiffened. Oh, why had she goaded Clay into joining up?

  Josie’s mother called from the house.

  Josie let out a ragged breath and wiped her nose. “C’mon.” They walked arm-in-arm to where Josie’s mother waited.

  Kate greeted her. “Hello, Mrs. Lapointe.”

  “Josie has things to do,” Mrs. Lapointe said sternly. “Come along, Josie.”

  “We’ll talk more later,” Josie said over her shoulder.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHARLOTTE HAD CARRIED her heirloom seeds forward year to year, and now, standing amid the bounty of her garden, she examined the ripe tomatoes in the morning sun. She picked a plump one from the vine and bit into it, dribbling sweet juices onto her chin and apron. She closed her eyes and savored the rich flavor, a guilty pleasure, then filled a bushel basket with the ripest ones to blanch for canning.

  Walking to the kitchen, Charlotte looked off toward the orchard. The men were working near the house. She hadn’t seen Karl since the night of the telegram. She had been so focused on Ben. Yet thoughts of the root cellar would flit across her mind like afternoon shadows, and tactile memories would glide across her skin. Now, in the warm summer breeze, there he was, his good strong body.

  No! It was over with Karl. It had to be over.

  STEAM ROSE FROM THE POT. Charlotte was about to dump tomatoes into the boiling water when she heard the thumping of Ben’s crutches on the wooden porch steps. The door opened. He seemed agitated. She pulled the pot from the burner.

  “What is it, Ben?”

  “Damn Nazis all over the place! Can’t stand to hear that fucking German talk!” He put his hands to his ears. He hadn’t said anything about the prisoners since his return, perhaps because he hadn’t come in contact with them. But now they were in the trees just beyond the back porch.

  Charlotte ignored his swearing. “They’ll be gone soon.”

  “Now is not soon enough.” His eyes bored into hers. “Where’s the one you let into the house? Which one is he?”

  “It’s over, Ben. Kate’s tutoring is done.” Charlotte touched his arm. “I have hot water here. Would you like me to pour it into the tub for you? A good warm bath before dinner. Some mint tea—”