Until June

by Barbara M. Britton

  She handed him the pills. He drained the water glass. When he had finished drinking, she reached out to take the glass from him.

  “What do you want?”

  “The glass.”

  He did not move. His hand clutched the glass, resting it on top of the blanket near his thigh.

  “I need the glass.” Heat, blood, and embarrassment rushed to her cheeks. She braced for a struggle to get the crystal back. “I don’t want it missing from my room. The other one either. I don’t want Mrs. Chambers to think I’m a thief.” Her bottom lip quivered.

  “Stop that. He moved the glass away from his thigh. “Take it. I don’t know where the other one went. Search if you like.”

  She inched her hand closer toward the glass. “You won’t curse again?”

  He shook his head.

  Her gaze never wavered from his unshaven face until her fingers were wrapped around the prize. She grabbed the glass and wedged it under her armpit for safety. She skimmed the room for the other cup, but she didn’t see it.

  The man flinched as though he had taken another drink bath.

  She glanced to where his legs should have formed two long lines underneath the sheets. The covers lay flat against the bed.

  “It’s not polite to stare.” His lifeless eyes were as empty as the crystal glass.

  “I didn’t mean to. I’ve just never seen such an injury.” Or felt it.

  His brow furrowed. “Are you ignorant of the war? Those are my legs after the Germans tried to blow up my trench.”

  And like the night before, he bent forward, swearing, and curling his hands into fists. He beat the bed as tears trickled down the sides of his face.

  “Where does it hurt? I’ll get someone.” She didn’t know what she was saying. She would say anything because tomorrow she knew she would be home, sleeping with her sister, and this man would be a mile away.

  “No,” he called out, “don’t get anyone. It’s my feet.”

  She had to have misunderstood. He had no feet.

  Chanting breaths filled the room. “They hurt even though they aren’t there. Funny isn’t it?”

  “Not really.” She didn’t like to see people suffer.

  Slowly, he unfurled his body.

  “I should go,” she said. “My forehead aches. Not as bad as your feet though. I think.” She stepped backward.

  “Belleau Wood.”

  The words sounded foreign to her. “Is that your name?”

  “No.” He laughed and shook his head. “It’s a battle. I’m Geoff Chambers.”

  She kept her jaw from hitting the rug. From what her sister had said, Geoff Chambers was broad, handsome, and charming. Her cheeks grew warm. “I’m—”

  “Josephine Nimetz. Town seamstress. I know because the maid complained about making up the guest room.”

  “Oh, well, I won’t be here long.” She’d leave first thing in the morning and not be any more of an imposition to the Chambers.

  Geoff leaned forward, holding himself upright with his arms. “At Belleau, the Germans tried to pick us off as we took back the forest. A shell detonated near my position. Mangled my limbs. That’s why I couldn’t get those pills.”

  Josephine’s mouth gaped. “You were at the front? And survived an explosion?”

  “Yeah, if you can call it that. At first, the medics left me for dead. Blood covered my body. Wasn’t all my own, either. They didn’t know I was alive until they heard me moan.” A lopsided smirk puffed out his cheek. “I guess I’m good at that, except on a battlefield the dead can’t complain about the noise.”

  “My mother said we’re winning the Great War.”

  “People still die, lose their lives.” He looked down at the foot of the bed. “If your mother’s right, who knows, maybe we’ll pop a cork before the end of December. That would make 1918 a heck of a year.”

  He leaned his head against his wooden head rest. “I’m tired. The aspirin must be working.” His eyes closed. “Good night, Runt.”

  “It’s…”

  A snore reverberated from the pillow. Fake or real she did not know.

  She backed out of the room, still holding the crystal glass. Her soul grew heavy thinking about Geoff Chambers and all the men the war had hurt or killed or maimed. Geoff didn’t lose his life on the battlefield, but he would never be the same again. His painful disfigurement made her heart ache like a real live pin cushion.

  Josephine climbed into her big, fluffy bed and tried to put the tormented man in the other room out of her mind. She glanced around the bedroom at the opulent decorations. Her damp row house couldn’t compare to this luxury. If only she could afford a respectable home with nice furnishings for her mother. She didn’t want to worry if the department store received a new shipment of dresses. She didn’t want to worry if her fingers seized up. She didn’t want to worry.

  She shut her eyes. Someday a mansion would be waiting for her. Someday. Somewhere.

  3

  Morning finally came, bringing with it the sunlight Josephine so desperately desired. She was in the Chamberses’ glorious mansion, and her throbbing head and stiff neck reminded her how she got there. Ivan. She would check on her mother first chance she got.

  Someone tapped at her door.

  Josephine sat and straightened the sheets.

  “Good morning, Josephine. How are you feeling?” Mrs. Chambers’s voice was like a heralding angel. “You gave us quite a scare yesterday.”

  Smiling a finally someone-I-know smile, she said, “I’m fine, ma’am.” She admired Mrs. Chambers’s crepe de chine dress, the gold buckles on her heeled pumps, and her silky tan stockings. “Are you well?” Or did Geoff’s wailing keep you awake?

  “You don’t have to be so formal with me. I’ll have Mrs. Prescott bring you something to eat.”

  “Thank you. Now that I’m up, I am hungry and ready to get back to work.” Josephine sprang forward in the bed. “Your box!” Her head throbbed a warning. “The gloves. They fell.”

  Mrs. Chambers sat down next to Josephine and took her hand. “I have the gloves and handkerchief.” Her voice cracked. “Terrible things have happened. I can scarcely speak of them. When my husband and I came across you lying there in our yard.” She paused and blew out a breath. “Marshal Dorsey will be coming in a little while to talk with you. You must speak freely.”

  The marshal? Did Ivan try to get money from her mother? “Is my mother all right?”

  “She’s at home. Not ill. You’ll understand after you speak to Mr. Dorsey.”

  Mrs. Chambers patted Josephine hand. “Enjoy your breakfast. We have one of the best cooks in all of Alaska.”

  “I will. Thank you.” She kept her answer calm even though a knot cinched her stomach. Was she in trouble with the law? Was Ivan?

  When Mrs. Prescott came to pick up the tray, male voices could be heard in the hallway. Mr. Chambers and Marshal Dorsey entered her room. Josephine tugged her covers up around her chest.

  “Josephine Nimetz.” The marshal walked toward the bed. “You’re a sight for these eyes. Mind if I sit right here?” He indicated a spot near the edge of the bed.

  She nodded and glanced at Mr. Chambers. He looked stately, dressed in a well-tailored, vested suit, but what he held in his hand caught her attention most of all. He clutched a crystal glass. A glass from the set by her bed.

  Her heartbeat rallied. She had brought two glasses into Geoff’s room. But she had only retrieved one.

  “I’m not going to mince words,” the marshal began, rubbing the stubble of a beard. “I need to have some answers about what happened yesterday. Did someone give you those bruises on your neck? That bump?”

  She smoothed the sheets on the bed and said nothing, contemplating what would happen if she told the marshal that her stepfather had caused her fall. She didn’t want to think of what Ivan might do to her if she told. He had a quick temper and a quicker hand. Her mother needed his salary from the mine, even if there wasn’t much left after
he bought his drink and placed his bets. If her stepfather was put in jail, the money would stop for good, not to mention her family would be shamed with the scandal.

  “Josephine, I need the truth,” the marshal coaxed. “How did this injury happen? Did you stop to talk to anyone?”

  She inspected the double-stitched hem of the bed sheet with her thumbnail. “I don’t talk to strangers.”

  “Then you knew this person?”

  Should she confess? Or say she slipped? She didn’t want Ivan to miss anymore paydays at the mine. Tell the truth. Didn’t her mother say the truth always came out anyway? The marshal must know something because he was still stationed on her bed.

  “He was drunk,” she stammered.

  “Who? I don’t like guessing games.” The marshal’s bushy eyebrows arched high on his forehead. He moved closer to her, his broad shoulders dwarfing her petite frame.

  “Please, I don’t remember much.” She twisted the bed linens into a sidewinding snake.

  The marshal fidgeted, intensifying his lawman stare.

  “Maybe we should come back,” Mr. Chambers said. He rotated the glass in his hand.

  Marshal Dorsey leaned in and adjusted his thick leather belt. “Don’t make me get your mother. I don’t want to drag her into this mess.”

  Fear and humiliation arm wrestled inside her chest. “My mind wasn’t right after I fell.”

  Mr. Chambers shifted forward in his high-backed chair and reached toward the bed. “Who hurt you?” His tone was like a warm cup of hot chocolate.

  She looked past the marshal to Mr. Chambers. “My stepfather, but it was an accident. He needed money.”

  “You don’t need to be afraid of your stepfather anymore.” The marshal’s hand engulfed her shoulder. “We found him last night. He wasn’t as fortunate as you. He’s expired. Someone shot him.”

  “Dead? Ivan?” Her lips parted, opening and closing like a fish languishing on dry shore. She shook her head and thought of her mother. Tears welled in her eyes. “Does my family know?”

  “I broke the news to your sister and mother this morning.” The marshal squeezed her hand before he rose from the bed. “You have my sympathies.” He acknowledged Mr. Chambers. “I’ll see myself out.”

  She slouched against the solid headboard and studied the pattern of wood knots on the ceiling. The dam holding her tears started to crack, spilling salt water down her cheeks. She swept the wetness from her eyes. Missed droplets hung from her chin. She and her family would manage somehow. Ivan would be walking into the light. Or would he?

  Mr. Chambers took the marshal’s spot on the bed. “I’m sorry for your loss, Josephine.” He set the glass on her nightstand. “I need to ask. Were you in my son’s room last night? I’m not upset, but we don’t like to leave glass by his bed. Anything sharp, for that matter. Geoff hasn’t been the same since he returned from France.”

  Josephine used the bed sheet to dry off her face. “I didn’t know. I heard him calling for water.” She cleared her throat, trying to control the wobble in her voice.

  “My son calls out often. Did he scare you?”

  “No. I slept well.” A half-truth. “I took care of Mr. Gilbertsen before he passed. He was bedridden and needed a lot of care.”

  “My apologies for the noise. We are in-between nurses. A replacement should arrive shortly.” He stood and strolled toward the door. “We’re trying to keep Geoff comfortable. It doesn’t always work.” Mr. Chambers’s eyes glistened. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “When will I be able to go home?” she asked, her body collapsing into the soft pillows.

  “Soon. I’ll have a driver take you. Dr. Miller would like to check your stitches again for signs of infection.”

  The moment the door closed, Josephine let a stream of pent-up tears dampen the pillowcase. She could not stop their flow, nor would she try. She wouldn’t have to face her stepfather. Part of her was relieved, but part of her would miss him. He was a decent man when he wasn’t drinking, although lately, that man rarely showed up. She buried her face in the sheets and mourned for the man who would never show up again.

  After the doctor visited, Marty Hill drove her home in Mr. Chambers’s Model-T. Josephine was surprised to see Mr. Hill in Juneau for he managed a mine on Douglas Island. Apparently, not well enough to keep her stepfather out of trouble.

  Josephine opened the door to her home, content to be back with her mother and Ann.

  “Josephine Primrose! What happened to your hair?” Her mother’s rigid fingers slid from the top of Josephine’s head down the side of her neck, narrowly missing her stitches. Pain shot to Josephine’s collar bone as her mother rubbed a bruise left by her late husband.

  She ducked out from under her mother’s needling fingers and allowed the chauffeur, Mr. Hill, to enter. He looked as if he was leading a parade in his pin-striped suit and wide-brimmed hat.

  “Doctor Miller got carried away with the scissors. But the Chambers took good care of me,” Josephine said.

  “My poor baby.” Her mother gave her a one-armed hug. “Well, Mr. Hill, I didn’t expect you to come out to Juneau from the island. I’m grateful to have my Josephine back though. Lord knows, she’s my right arm.”

  Mr. Hill removed his hat. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Nimetz. Ivan will be missed at the mine. I’d like to give my condolences to the rest of the family if I may?”

  Her mother rubbed her crooked right hand. “Father Demetriev is waiting at the cemetery. He’s fitting the burial in before another funeral.”

  “May I escort you?” Mr. Hill offered.

  “Just family.” Mrs. Nimetz glanced at Josephine and started to sway.

  “I’ll relay your condolences to my sister.” Josephine wrapped her arm around her mother for support.

  “Thanks. I’m sure I can count on you.” Mr. Hill winked and retreated out the door.

  Josephine helped her mother into the living room.

  Her sister, Ann, slipped into a raincoat without as much as a hello. “You should have let him drive us. I haven’t had a finely dressed escort in a while.”

  “He isn’t family,” Josephine said. The last thing she wanted to do was answer any more questions about her meeting with Ivan, especially questions from his boss.

  Mrs. Nimetz smoothed the re-sewn collar on Josephine’s coat. “After all Mr. Chambers has done for us, the last thing we need to do is tie up his car all morning. It’s a clear fifty-seven degrees. The short walk will do me good.” She bent closer toward Josephine. “But we must get you a hat.”

  Josephine stayed in step with her mother’s gait. Ann walked on ahead, blazing a path to the church. Josephine gently squeezed her mother’s hand and breathed in the scent of pine sap from the fresh-cut logs loaded on the docks below.

  “What else has Mr. Chambers done?” Josephine asked as they neared the town square.

  “He bought the cemetery plot for us, even gave the man who found Ivan’s body a week’s wages not to say anything about the way he died.” Her mother’s lips thinned as she drew in a deep breath. “The newspaper said it was a heart ailment that killed him.”

  Josephine tucked a stray strand of hair under her hat. “How will we ever repay the Chambers for their kindness?”

  “Kindness?” Ann whipped around. “Ivan worked in their mine for years. Look what it got him.”

  “But...”

  “No buts, Josephine. You listen to me. The mighty Chambers didn’t want publicity about one of their miners getting murdered. People would get to talking about their crazy son being to blame. If you hadn’t opened your big mouth to Marshal Dorsey, he might have thought their son attacked you.” Ann poked at the plum-colored bruises on Josephine’s neck.

  “That’s not true.” Josephine freed herself from her mother’s arm and squared her shoulders, trying to gain an inch on her sister’s height. “Geoff Chambers couldn’t have knocked me down. Ivan came at me. He wanted my sewing money.”


  “Money?” Ann’s head shot back. A shrill cackle split the gray sky. “He needed money and he went to you?”

  A geyser of anger flared from the soles of Josephine’s worn boots into her fisted hands. “I was delivering the accessories you forgot to put with Mrs. Chambers’s gown.”

  “Girls, please.” Mrs. Nimetz hobbled forward, separating her daughters. “There are people in the churchyard.”

  “No one can blame this mess on me,” Ann said through gritted teeth. She patted the dirty-dishwater-blonde braids emerging from her sport hat.

  Josephine glanced past her sister to the church where Father Demetriev stood near the gate to the cemetery. She gave the priest a we’ll-be-there-soon wave. “Let’s not keep the priest waiting.”

  Ann stomped her foot and rushed toward the church.

  Josephine consoled her mother and longed for life to get back to normal—pre-death normal. Sewing machines and bolts of fabric never threw dagger-eyed tantrums. But now, with Ivan gone, they just might, for she’d have to sew twice as much, twice as fast to help support her mother.

  4

  Josephine folded her arms on her family’s kitchen table and rested her head on her black cotton sleeves. Being angry at the dead was draining. Pangs of guilt fluttered in Josephine’s chest as she accepted the neighbors’ sympathies along with their sweet-smelling cinnamon bread. September 17 would go down in her diary as the longest day of the year even if the sun had already set.

  Her back muscles ached as if she had pick-axed her way through a wall of granite. Maybe it was from the standing and hugging, maybe still from her fall, maybe—she didn’t have enough emotion left to care. Her hearing must have been going, too. She thought she heard footsteps outside the door. Certainly, condolence visits were done for the night. A knock at the door startled her whole family.

  Her mother straightened her skirt and stumbled to the door. Her passionless face brightened with an I-can’t-believe-it’s-you smile.