by Cathy Marie Hake, Lynn A. Coleman, Mary Davis, Susan Page Davis
“That will be nice. Can you sand and stain it, or would it be easier to paint it white?”
“The grain’s nice. I’ll stain it. There are a few washstands and eight or nine chairs up there I’ll bring down and either stain or paint.”
“Your mother and sister—do they come from far away?”
He straightened suddenly. “Buttonhole. They live in Buttonhole.”
“I am sure they will be very glad to see you.” She gestured in a wide arc. “When they see all you have done—”
“That’s the idea,” he said curtly.
Lorelei quietly studied him, then asked, “Do you believe they will be so busy looking at your house that they will not see the trouble in your eyes and heart?”
Chapter 14
Russell’s face hardened, and he gave no reply other than to turn and carry the piece down the stairs and into the empty ballroom he used as his workshop.
Lorelei sat down at the top of the stairs. Heavenly Father, Your voice holds together the universe. Please speak in a way that will soothe Russell’s hurting soul. I dared to hope he’d been improving, but I was wrong. The changes were only on the outside, while inside he’s so very broken. You, God—only You can heal the hurt he carries.
“You’re Diamond?” A purser from the railroad scuttled up to Russell.
“Yes.” Russell kept searching the trickle of folks disembarking.
“I was asked to give you this message. The phone and telegraph line to Buttonhole blew over in the gale, and the new one’s not working.”
Russell accepted the envelope and ripped it open. Just seeing his father’s strong script brought back memories:
Dear Russell,
Your mother and sister have both come down with a fever and are staying home. Mom says not to worry, that she’ll come next week. She’s missed you sorely, as have I. She complains your letters are too short. I would complain, too, but I’m no better, as you can see from this. We pray for you daily and trust the Lord to give you strength and peace.
Love,
Dad
P.S. We’ve sent some furniture to you. It once belonged in your house, and we wanted you to have these pieces.
Russell had dreaded seeing his mother, knowing full well Lorelei was right. Mom was far too perceptive to be deceived by a pretty bedroom and fragrant soap. She’d admire them, enjoy them, but she’d fuss over his leg and fret over how he’d changed.
What was a man to do? He’d gone to war with high ideals and heroic plans. He’d believed in God and country—well, country was still here, but where was God? Where was He when men all around were dying? The first day out, Jonesy—Russell’s childhood friend—had stood up and crumpled back into the trench, dead from a sniper’s bullet. Men he considered brothers had died all around him.
The very first man Russell had killed had a rosary spill from his pocket. He’d undoubtedly thought God was with him, too. From that day on, Russell hadn’t opened the Bible Dad had given him right before he’d left.
That had been the first of many lives Russell had taken. Kill or be killed—it was the most basic rule of warfare. The Bible said God created man in His image, and man was nothing but a bloodthirsty, cruel animal.
Mom and Dad lived such innocent lives. Their world was simple, their faith unshaken. Russell couldn’t bear to look them in the eye and let them see what he’d become. Body, mind, and soul, he’d come home battered in ways no one would ever comprehend.
One more week of respite … but at what cost? Is Mom really all right? And Sis? Is it the Spanish Flu?
“Sir? Mr. Diamond.” The purser scowled at him. “You need to claim your crates and sign for them.”
“Sure. Fine.”
He’d cleaned up an old buggy from the stable to come claim Sis and Mom. Clearly, he’d never manage the furniture. Russell arranged with the livery to deliver the large crates.
The house felt eerily empty when he got home. Once the oak secretary, rocking chair, and hall tree were in place, the feeling of loneliness intensified. Dad had often sat at the secretary, going over order forms. Mom had loved the rocking chair. The hall tree had no umbrellas, hats, or jackets on it to give it a homey air. As far as companionship, Mutt usually was all Russell wanted or needed, but tonight he felt alone.
Russell couldn’t sleep. He worried about his mom and sister. Had Dad taken sick, too? Russell purposefully didn’t read magazines or newspapers because the major features were all about the war. Even so, he’d overheard stories about the influenza up in Boston. It killed strapping, healthy soldiers.
Did I tell Mom I loved her before I left?
“Hop in. I’m going to town to make a telephone call.”
Lorelei took hold of Russell’s hand and nimbly climbed into the buggy. “Telephones are amazing, aren’t they? Hearing a voice over wires—it doesn’t seem possible.”
“My dad had one put in his emporium. I always thought it was a nuisance, because whenever anyone called, it fell to me to answer it and take messages.”
Lorelei chuckled. “So now who will have to take the message?”
“I’m calling my dad. Mom didn’t come yesterday. She and my sister are both sick.”
Lorelei twisted on the seat to face him. “Oh, Russell, I am so sorry to hear this. I will have to pray for them.”
“You do that, Buttercup.” His voice sounded grim, and he said nothing more the rest of the way to town. As soon as they entered the mercantile, Russell beelined to the telephone on the rear wall.
Lorelei decided to buy ten-pound bags of flour and sugar instead of five pounds since she’d have a ride home and she and Mama hadn’t bought any for themselves in a while. Then, too, she asked for a dozen brown eggs. Folks chatted and jabbered as usual. One of Mrs. Sweeny’s sons had received a battlefield promotion.
After he finished his phone call, Russell prowled around the farthest aisles of the store. Noting his dark expression, Lorelei ventured over to him.
“How is your mother?”
“Dad said it’s a nasty cold—nothing more.” He didn’t meet her eyes. “While I’m in town, I want to stock up. It’ll take time. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” She laughed. “With the unexpected ride, I’ll still get home sooner.”
By the time they left, Lorelei knew for certain they couldn’t have wedged one more thing in the buggy. As it was, she held a crate on her lap that contained the oddest assortment of canned food she’d ever beheld. “Your larder will be full for at least a year with all of this.”
“Don’t blame me.” He fished a can of chipped beef from the crate and held it up. “Mutt’s the hungry one.”
“She is by your side all of the time. How did you make her stay home?”
“It wasn’t easy. Listen, Mom sent apples from our orchard back home. I’ll eat a few, but they’ll mostly spoil. Can you and your mom use them?”
“But of course. Oh … I should have bought more canning jars.”
“I’ll get you some if you promise to make cinnamon applesauce.”
Lorelei laughed. “This applesauce—”
“Cinnamon applesauce.”
“This cinnamon applesauce—I suppose it is also for your very hungry dog?”
Chapter 15
Russell carried Lorelei’s measly ten-pound bags of sugar and flour into the cottage, barged into the kitchen, and started opening cabinets. “Where do these go?”
“In the canisters, silly.” Lorelei put down the eggs and gave her mother a hug.
“You will stay for lunch.” Mrs. Goetz made it more of an order than an invitation, but he’d been counting on that.
“I can’t stay long, what with that stuff in the buggy. Let me help.” He opened the pantry and scanned the shelves. They hardly have anything on them. He cleared his throat. “What do you want?”
“I want you to sit down,” Mrs. Goetz said as she pulled out a chair.
“Yes.” Lorelei’s eyes sparkled with humor. “Having se
en your roast, Mama is sure your cooking would give us stomachaches.”
“I’m never going to hear the end of that roast, am I?”
Lorelei and her mother said in unison, “No.”
At dusk, they stood side by side and said the same thing. “No, Russell.”
He rotated his shoulders, but the action didn’t relieve the stress. As soon as he’d finished lunch, he’d driven the buggy to his back door, unloaded the contents, then changed his socks to the ones Mrs. Molstead had knitted. He’d unhitched the horses from the buggy and changed them over to the buckboard.
It had taken considerable fortitude to drive north to the Molsteads’ store. He’d done it for Lorelei, though.
Only, Lorelei acted anything but pleased.
Russell folded his arms across his chest and glowered at the woman. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but you’re backing me into a corner. I have information that the flu is spreading.”
“You don’t read the newspaper, Russell.” Lorelei made a dismissive gesture. “So far, they think it will stay up North. No one expects it to come down here, and experts say it will never go to San Francisco, either.”
He’d hoped they’d simply accept what he told them. Clearly, Lorelei needed to be set straight. “You know I spoke with my dad on the telephone. He’s got contacts all over because of the orders he places for his store. He said it’s spreading—faster than folks realize. Dad’s not one to panic, but he’s not letting Mom or my sis come visit. That says plenty to me. After I spoke with him, I placed a few calls myself.”
“You truly are worried.” Lorelei gave him a compassionate smile.
“I am.” He didn’t mince words. “You’re going to have to cooperate with me, because the less often we go to town, the lower the chances are that we’ll contract it.”
“But influenza strikes the feeble, the old, and the very young,” Mrs. Goetz reasoned.
“Not this one. People fifteen through forty are getting hit the worst.” He hated scaring them, but he had no choice. “It’s killing them in a matter of a day or two.”
Russell didn’t give the women a chance to demur. He hefted twenty-five-pound bags of sugar and flour onto his shoulder and headed toward their kitchen door. Prices—especially of sugar—were high, so folks had been cutting back and buying smaller bags. He, on the other hand, was willing to pay top dollar, and the Molsteads gladly sold him as much as he wanted. Fatigue and the extra weight of the sacks made his limp worse. A sardonic smile twisted his mouth. His bum leg had provided a good excuse to buy several bottles of aspirin.
Glass clinked behind him. Funny, how he’d come to associate Lorelei with that sound. “Russell,” she said in her singsongy voice, “I hope you bought some cinnamon for the applesauce I’ll put in these.”
He shouldered the door open and dumped his burden near their pantry, and more than just the weight on his back lifted. He smiled at her. “Are four big tins enough?”
“Four!”
The shock in her voice still rang in Russell’s mind as he crawled into bed that night. Exhausted as could be, he lay there and experienced the oddest sensation—security. He’d not felt this way since he’d gone off to war. For the first time in ages, he’d been able to control matters and take action to make a difference.
The sickening knot in his stomach and the tension in his muscles eased as he closed his eyes and recalled his last glimpse of the Goetzes’ kitchen. By the time he’d left, every last cabinet and shelf there had bulged with provender. Astonishment and gratitude had shone in Lorelei’s eyes as she bid him sweet dreams when he walked past her toward the door. He rubbed his aching leg and let out a sigh. She’ll be safe now.
“All set.” The iceman shut the door to the icebox and pulled a newspaper from his pocket. “Here’s the paper. News is bad all over. The missus said to thank you for the pumpkins.”
Mama handed him a burlap sack containing more bounty from their garden. “She is welcome. They grew well this year.”
Lorelei sat on the new porch and opened the newspaper. Mama came out and settled on the chair. She started to shuck corn. “Read to me.”
“Things look bad in the North,” Lorelei said as she scanned the headlines. She didn’t tell Mama about the article of another German store being vandalized.
“So Russell was right about the influenza?”
“Yes. Boston canceled its Liberty Bond parades and sporting events. In New York, they closed the theaters and symphony halls. The stock market is only open half day. The influenza is awful in Europe, too. They’ve canceled schools!”
“So terrible this is!”
Lorelei read aloud, and as she turned the page, Mama called out, “Good day, Russell!”
“How can you say it’s good with what you’re reading?” He waved his arm toward the newspaper.
Lorelei watched his gait as he approached. He barely limps at all anymore … or is it just that I’ve grown accustomed to his walk? No. It is better, because on the days it pains him, I can tell by his bearing.
“The day is beautiful, crisp, with the lovely autumn air and weak sunshine. The news is bad. Perhaps the church is doing something. We will see on Sunday.”
“You can’t be thinking of going to church!” Russell halted by the porch steps, leaned forward, and snatched the newspaper from Lorelei. “Public gatherings help spread the disease.” He turned and appealed to Mrs. Goetz. “You’ve lost your husband; you can’t possibly endanger your daughter!”
Lorelei folded her arms in her lap. Dear Lord, let this be an opening. “Will you make a deal with us, Russell? If we do not go to town for church, will you come to our house and worship with us?”
“Is that what it’ll take?”
Lorelei glanced back at Mama, saw her nod, and turned back to him. “We would be pleased.”
“Fine. Sunday.” He stomped off.
“You know, it will be hard for him,” Mama said softly. “He knows the Bible, but his faith is faltering.”
“I know. He got angry when I was singing, ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness’ out in the garden last week. He’s still a soldier, but the battlefield is his soul.”
“The Holy Ghost is wooing him. Maybe God will make something good happen out of all of this bad.”
“With God, all things are possible.” Lorelei scooted backward and reached up. Her fingers closed around her mother’s corn-silk-tassel-covered hand. “Let’s pray, Mama.”
“What was I thinking?” Russell angrily opened a can of chipped beef and dumped it in a bowl for Mutt. Russell plopped the bowl on the floor for the dog and didn’t worry about the gravy that slopped over the edge. Mutt would make short work of it. He twisted and threw the empty can into the wastepaper basket with total disgust. “What under the sun was I thinking to agree to that ridiculous proposition?”
I care about them. The truth nearly knocked him off his feet. It was dangerous to care. How many friends had he made on the battlefield, only to lose them? How often had he shared a cold, miserable trench with someone, only to see him die? This flu—it’s killing people. It could claim any of us.
The safest thing is not to grow attached. Even though she’s freshly widowed, Mrs. Goetz has a pleasant outlook on life and a gentle warmth. As for Lorelei …
Russell didn’t want to admit it to himself, but the truth glared at him. He yanked out a chair and dropped into it. She has a way about her—a compassion and joy for living that lights the dark corners of my heart. It’s too late for me to keep from caring. I’ll be sure to keep as much distance as possible.
Really, it wouldn’t be all that hard. He’d been essentially solitary since he’d arrived. Other than interacting with the workmen as necessary, Russell made a point of not socializing. All he’d do was walk down to the cottage for an hour or so on Sunday mornings, then ignore his neighbors the rest of the week.
Satisfied with that decision, he stood and tugged open a cupboard door. Scanning the cans of food, Russell felt a twist of di
sgust. Overseas, he’d eaten out of tins for months and promised himself he’d never eat out of them once he got home. Now that he was home, it didn’t matter. Nothing tasted good. For the most part, he ate only because hunger forced him to. The meals Lorelei and her mother made were the exception. Russell couldn’t figure out why he suddenly developed a decent appetite and appreciated the flavor of their food. He grabbed a can of tuna and wrinkled his nose as he opened it. It occurred to him that anything he didn’t have to fix or something fresh ought to rightfully be more appealing. But when I’ve eaten at the diner, that might as well have been sawdust.
He peeled off the lid and didn’t bother to drain the can or mix it with anything. Hunched over the counter, he scooped out bites and shoveled them into his mouth.
Why did I agree to worship with them? I left the battlefield in France, but I’m still at war—only this is a personal war. I’m fighting with my soul, with God. Tradition and convention aren’t good enough, and I’m not going to pretend.
Russell spent a sleepless night and a hectic day. He tried to find something to take his mind off the fact that he’d gotten roped into Sunday worship. Mucking out the stable and grooming both horses, raking and burning leaves—the heavy physical labor didn’t distract him in the least.
The library beckoned—the one room he’d left entirely alone. Heavy draperies blocked out the sunlight, and sailcloth drooped in forlorn, dusty shrouds over the bookcases. Methodically, he removed and folded each piece of sailcloth from the outside to the middle, effectively capturing the worst of the dust. Whoever had closed up the house had taken great pains to try to preserve the books. Russell finally stretched his back and wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans. He’d gotten a lot done—even if he’d been thinking of Lorelei all the while.
The next morning, he grudgingly put on a tie and walked to the cottage. Mutt trotted alongside him, and he figured it would be all right. She’ll probably behave better than I will.