The dull sound of each breaking shell against hard earth—one, two, three, four, five—thudded down and through the feet. Fire ripped through Andrew’s veins and he pushed the young man hard in the center of the back. “What the hell are you doing?”
The man met him length to length, eye to eye, scanned him and smirked. He pointed to the crates that were stamped in black letters: Kiser. “These eggs are rotten,” he said innocently, then leaned in and scorned, “They stink!”
And with that, the man turned, picked up the full crate of eggs and tossed it over. Andrew lunged, but Wilhelm stopped him with a steel grip, squeezed with both his eyes and his hands for Andrew to stop.
Andrew pulled his arm back, his fist so tight that his nails cut into his palm. Indignation crept up his legs and sizzled each nerve ending. The anger rose up his neck, flushed his face and raised the hairs at each pore. The eggs oozed under the crate, puddled the ground between Wilhelm’s feet and colored his boot sole.
Little Will’s breath came quick and he ran forward and hit the man on the back. “Don’t touch our eggs!” he cried, tears rushing down his cheeks.
The man laughed, raised his brows at Wilhelm as if to say, What you going to do about it, Pa? But with the crying of the child the crowd lost their pleasure and turned.
The tears touched upon a few of the boys’ humility. “Come on,” one ordered with a tilt of his head. “Let’s get outta here b’fore we step in this shit.”
They turned to leave, but the burly man turned around once more, picked up a solid, wayward egg and threw it at Wilhelm’s thigh, covering it with dripping yolk.
Immobile, Wilhelm stared stonily ahead, his jaw clicking in and out as the only movement or sign of life within the man.
Edgar tugged on his father’s sleeve. “Why didn’t you stop them?”
The boys had worked so hard to collect the eggs, spent days lining the crates with paper and cradling each egg they set in. Andrew put an arm around Edgar’s shoulder to quiet him, but the little boy blurted through his tears, “Why didn’t you stop them, Pa? Why did they do that to our eggs?”
Wilhelm grabbed the last crate of eggs, didn’t even seem to notice that half were broken and headed to the wagon, ignoring the boys as he did the broken shells. Will and Edgar turned to Andrew with confused, tear-streaked faces. “Why didn’t Pa stop them? Why didn’t he do anything?”
Andrew knelt down between them, saw the taffy still stuck to their innocent faces and hair. They needed to know. The war had come and they needed to know. He couldn’t fold the ugliness away like he did the newspaper. They were only children, but they needed to know now. The war wasn’t going away but was coming across the Atlantic straight to their doorstep. They needed to know that their father wasn’t a coward, that some hate has to be fled.
“Boys,” he started, spoke to them as men, looked into their sweet eyes with the seriousness shared by men. “You heard those men talking? About the war.”
They nodded in unison. “Yeah, in Germany,” chimed Edgar.
“That’s right.” Andrew sighed deeply. “War can make people angry. Makes people not treat each other very well. People get scared and it makes them angry. Then they hear stories, some real and some not, but it makes them get angry, you see?”
The boys stared blankly. And he said the words he hoped he would never have to say out loud, words he finally had to face himself. “When they get angry they start to blame the Germans. Start to think that everyone who came from Germany is bad.”
“But we’re not from Germany,” defended Will. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, but your father and grandparents were and that means about the same thing to some people. Your name, Kiser, is German. Sounds just like the name of a really bad man who started the war. There are going to be some people that don’t like Germans or that name. Do you understand?”
“But Pa should have stopped them!” shouted Edgar. “Should have told them we’re not the bad Germans.”
“When people are angry, they close their ears,” Andrew explained. “Your father did the right thing, Edgar. He did the brave thing. A coward would have reacted and fought with those men and lost. Your father showed how brave he was by not letting their anger turn him, you see? A coward would have started a fight because his feelings were hurt, but your father stayed strong and fought them in his own way. You should be very proud of him.”
Will’s chin crinkled. “How we gonna get money now?” he whispered over choked tears.
“We’ll be fine.” Andrew rubbed a tear away from the little boy. “People got to eat, Will. We’ll be fine.”
But things wouldn’t be fine. This was just the beginning. A gray, green dawn before a twister ripped through the land.
CHAPTER 37
The last remaining apple blossoms unsheathed from stems and snowed delicate petals over the yard, carpeted the land in white and pink, stuck in Eveline’s hair as she weeded the garden. Wilhelm, Andrew and the boys had left for market before dawn and the day was her own, a heavenly reprieve from catering to the men.
Eveline planted zinnias and cosmos and nasturtiums on the perimeter of the fence, a sturdy fortress of vertical sticks to keep the deer and rabbits out. In the raised beds, she planted marigolds to keep out the aphids. She started geraniums that she would grow and fill the window boxes that Andrew built for her. She would line every window of the old house. The bright flowers would be rouge to the clapboard face, its scented breath strong enough to keep mosquitos and flies from the open windows and ripped screens.
Between the flower seeds, the lettuce grew in bright green heads, the asparagus rising like long digits in the squares beyond. The cucumbers, peas, beans and zucchini were already sprouting. Wilhelm promised to bring more seeds from the market.
On the other side of the house, the orchard readied with peach and plum and apple trees. She and Andrew had pruned the mulberry and gooseberry bushes, raspberries and blueberries that mazed around the trunks. And beneath the apple tree, the crosses of her children called to her. Otto and Harold were always there, observing the garden form, watching and sighing as the ground came to life.
A man on the high street turned into the lane. Her throat caught. Frank. She looked at her dirty hands and fumbled with the bun that had fallen half-undone on her head. Giving up, Eveline hurried into the house to wash her hands and inspect herself in the mirror, giving her cheeks a hard pinch for color despite the pink already there. She was being silly, she knew. But it was nice to feel like a woman. Not a mother or a wife but a woman. Then the door knocked and her heart jumped into her throat again.
Eveline stepped outside into the full sunlight. “Good afternoon, Mr. Morton.” She smiled nervously before composing herself. “This is a surprise.”
He went to speak but seemed to grow just as nervous. He laughed. “Well, now that I’m here, I feel a bit silly.”
This calmed her and she folded her arms easily. “Whatever for?” Then she noticed the box sitting at his feet. “Didn’t bring me another crystal pitcher, I hope?”
He shook his head. “No.” He lifted it up and handed it to her. “But it is a little something for you.”
Eveline blinked fiercely, waved her hands and stepped back. “No. You’ve already been too kind. I can’t accept another gift.”
He put a gleaming cowboy boot on the large stone slab and stayed quiet for a long moment before gazing at her face. “I know this isn’t proper, Eveline. I know it.” His face twisted in real penance. “A married man shouldn’t bring a married woman gifts. I know this.”
The shudder of something electric, of something so wrong and so longed for, made her heart race. She was suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of her legs under her skirt and the fabric touching against her skin.
Frank rubbed the front of his shirt. “I know it’s not proper to do these things. But”—he met her eyes square and did not flinch—“it’s a hell of a lot more proper than what I’d like to do to yo
u.”
Her lips fell open and the rush flowed to her inner thighs in a hot flash. She couldn’t think. “I can’t,” she mumbled. “I—”
He smiled and put up a hand. “I know. You don’t have to say another word. I put you in a bad spot right now and I’m sorry.” He chuckled heartily now. “Guess you have to open the present now. Make me feel less of a scoundrel for saying such things.”
Eveline sat down on the step before her legs gave out, tore into the package just to keep her hands from shaking and to keep her mind focused on a task. Sensations swirled, sailed around her, the prickles growing under her clothing.
Frank sat next to her, his shoulder touching her own, and she inched her body away slightly. She couldn’t breathe. She opened the box. It was filled with seed packets, each one vibrantly illustrated with a carrot, watermelon, cucumber, bean, tomato—the number of them and the variety spread endlessly in the box. Her mouth dropped.
He pointed to the seeds. “Something else in there for you.”
Eveline shook her head in disbelief and dug to the bottom, pulled out a delicate straw bonnet with a coral silk ribbon.
“Figured with all this planting, you’ll need to keep the sun off,” he explained. He watched her profile.
“I don’t know what to say.” Tears laced the voice, the thoughtfulness beyond words. The gift was more precious than diamonds. And somehow, he knew this.
“Look inside the hat,” he suggested.
She turned it over. A simple stitched tag read: Gemaakt in Nederland. “It’s from Holland?”
“Yeah. Had a hell of a time getting it with the war, but . . . I got it.”
“I don’t know what to say.” She said the words again. And in her mind, they repeated. I don’t know what to say.
“Don’t need to say anything, Eveline.” He winked and stood. “Made me happy to give it to you. Makes me happy to see that look on your face. So, guess you could say, it was more a gift for myself. Kind of selfish when you think about it.”
She smiled. “Well, selfish or not, it’s just about the nicest gift I ever got in my whole life.” Her tone stroked soft as the touch she wanted to deliver to his skin.
He stuck his hands in his back pockets and tapped his foot, squinted at the sun above her head. “Can I be honest?”
She nodded, though she wasn’t sure if she could handle much more from the man.
“I’m worried about you.”
“About me?” She pulled back in surprise. “Whatever for?”
“There’s a lot of unrest right now. I see it. Hear it. Can’t get away from it. It’s a hard time to be German. Now, I know you’re only German by marriage, but that doesn’t matter to people. Just watch out is all I’m saying.”
She thought of her husband, away at market, trying to make a living off this land—the land she wanted—and the regret blew fierce and harsh. She stepped away from Frank, closed off the feelings that had tickled and now threatened as an affliction. She was proud to be married to Wilhelm. She was proud to carry his name.
“The prejudice of others is no concern to us. We’re a strong family, Mr. Morton.”
Her tone and sudden formality stiffened him and he nodded, tugged at his earlobe. When he spoke again, his voice was higher, a tinge of spite tainting it. “Well, I can see that. Just could be hard times is all I’m saying. Seeing that Wilhelm came to me for a loan and all, just figured the war can’t make it easy paying it back.”
Eveline froze, blinked spastically. “A loan?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.” Eveline turned away. Her ears picked up a noise from the lane, but she gave it no mind. This news from Frank blocked everything else. “When?”
“Before the blizzard hit. Figured he told you about it. Figured a husband shares that sort of decision with his wife.” His features took on a sharp look. “Figured that’s what a man and woman talk about when they share a bed.”
She didn’t feel well, nearly faint. She had always scoffed at sensitive women who took their hands to their foreheads and feigned dizziness at anything disagreeable and yet she was that woman now. She swallowed, didn’t have any words to speak or feel.
Frank stepped off the granite stone, tucked in the back of his shirt that already was tucked deep into his jeans. He picked up the straw hat from the box and affixed it to Eveline’s head. She watched his movements as if in a dream. He let the silk ribbon fall near her face and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. And she let him make these small advancements and gestures and she watched them as if they were happening to another.
He straightened the bonnet. “You look right pretty, Eveline.”
“Get your hands off my wife.”
Wilhelm appeared from the walkway, his face white and his arms shaking. Eveline pulled off the hat and stuffed it in the box, her whole body trembling.
Frank put his hands up mockingly. “Steady, boy!” he placated. “Claire got your wife a present and I was just dropping it off.”
Wilhelm snorted like a beast. He stepped into Frank’s space until their noses nearly touched. “You don’t touch my wife.”
Eveline touched his arm and it was like rock. She pulled her hand away. “He didn’t mean anything by it, Wil.”
Wilhelm grabbed the box and thrust it into Frank’s chest. “Take your present and get off my property.”
“Watch it, Kiser.” Frank’s eyes shone black and he pushed the box back into Wilhelm’s chest, his strong arms knocking the man back a step. “The present wasn’t for you. It was for her.” Frank stepped upon the path and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And as for getting off your property, I suggest you start making your loan payments. Otherwise, you might not be saying those words for much longer.”
He tipped his cowboy hat and winked at Wilhelm’s wife. “Always a pleasure, Eveline.”
CHAPTER 38
In the farthest fields, the crabgrass stuck out in needles, the blades wide and pale, the tips browned and dead, all softness now a memory, fossilized into rigidness. Now there was grass. Now, when the Kisers had to plow and the summer heat grew, there was grass and it seemed that with every turn this land taunted them. The land teased by giving them mud that eroded fertile soil and pushed it piled against the forest line and gravel line of the lane. And the land shackled their efforts by placing deep-rooted weeds and clay-packed dirt wherever a shovel could be hoped to spade.
Andrew’s boots crunched the grass, bent the straight lines into disfigured angles. The sound of cicadas vibrated and rose like a drumroll with no finale. Sun centered the sky, the white orb strong and warm, beating down on everything that lay below. The hot rays pushed atop his crown and Andrew pulled the cloth cap from his back pocket and fastened it with rebellion upon his head. He looped his thumb through one suspender, felt the cross rub across his back with the pull, the sweat pressing against the white shirt.
The field was a level one, flat with just a hump leading off into the horizon. He dug into the ground with the heel of his boot, kicked up the chestnut-colored clay. He knelt, pressed his fingertips into the material, soft enough to sculpt. No topsoil. None. Washed away from years of sheep overgrazing.
Plowing the stagnant fields was a task neither Wilhelm nor Andrew could have foreseen as being so arduous. From the distance, the fields were open expanses of promising land, an empty canvas that would soon be filled with the vibrant greens of corn and the deep yellow of hay. But upon closer inspection, the ground appeared littered with rocks, wedged between deep roots of bittersweet and poison ivy and young, whiney oaks.
The Fordson tractor handled well, the lid to its steam pipe yawning with black smoke before closing again with its next gulp. The noise of the engine drowned out any other noise, scattering the crows and the grouse in panicked waves of flight. Wilhelm and Andrew had to scream above the sound of the engine to be heard.
Wilhelm ran the tractor and the plow, the hard metal grinding against the stones. Andrew followed
behind with the hoe, cutting out the wide roots that were left nicked but intact. Within the hour, Andrew’s ears numbed to the engine, the hammering clutching his neck. His hand was rubbed sore and blistered. But he worked through the pain and the noise, let the sun heat his back and drip sweat down his cheeks. He ignored the bleeding in his hand and did not mourn the loss of the one but was thankful for the work of the remainder—bloody or not.
The muscle and bone and flesh pain didn’t matter. He would work by Wilhelm’s side silently and without complaint until his uncle gave the word to stop. For Andrew had seen a man die that day at the market. He had watched a proud, strong man who had tamed the railroad turn to ash that day. It would only take a fleeting wind to blow that ash away. So, it did not matter that his hand bled or that his shoulder was nearly disjointed or his head dizzied from dehydration. Andrew would work next to his uncle and step between him and any wind that dared to blow.
The corn seed had been delivered earlier in the week and they were already behind getting it into the ground. Andrew didn’t ask where the corn came from or how it was paid for. He already knew. Saw the way Wilhelm had nearly pummeled Frank Morton, the taste of disgrace hardened and stuck to his mouth.
At the mount, after the endless rows of overturned earth, Wilhelm turned off the engine, and the sudden lack of noise was startling. It made the ding in Andrew’s ears throb worse with the reprieve.
“Slow goin’!” Wilhelm shouted, his ears still deaf. “Corn should be in by the end of the week, though. Don’t you think?”
Andrew nodded, scanned the acres of hard-won clearing.
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