Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  Her face looked pale to Mauve.

  When was the last time Marm needed a rest in the middle of the day?

  Mauve wondered what had her mother feeling under the weather. She sat down on the edge of the bed and took her mother’s hand.

  “What’s going on, Marm?” Mauve carefully patrolled her mother’s eyes, looking for some reason.

  “Oh, it’s . . . nothing. Really.”

  She’s lying, Mauve realized. She always knew when her mother held something back.

  Should I press the matter? Mauve let the question stew for a moment in her brain.

  No, she decided. It wasn’t the day for confrontation.

  Mauve helped her mother sit up. “Are you able to come have cake with everyone?”

  “That time already? Oh, I didn’t think I had been resting that long.” Ellie smoothed back her hair and tucked in a portion of her shirtwaist. “Yes. I better come, or your father will come find me.” Ellie gave her daughter a flimsy smile.

  “Good. I’ll just go see to Pearl. Come out when you’re ready.”

  Mauve left her mother, but the questions in her mind would not leave her alone.

  What has made her look so old all of a sudden?

  June 1917

  Webaashi Bay

  “Which one do ya think I should pick?” Jeremiah ran his finger over the spines of the books in his impressive set of bookshelves. “I’ve acquired more than a healthy library of books. Being a bookseller was like being a kid in a candy shop.” He looked at Natalie with a sheepish grin. “It’s been hard to say no to more.”

  “What if people are interested but don’t own a copy of the book?” Natalie stood on the other side of Jeremiah’s living room, looking over the books in a matching case.

  “Well, we could check the library.”

  “Yes, I suppose, but it doesn’t have much of a collection yet. The Follett Library was only opened in ’13.”

  “I hear tell their starting budget was pretty slim. Government funding, you know. Oh, and some from Follett Shipping. Named for John Follett, I believe. M. and Mme. Cota donated a large portion of his library to start the collection.” He paused and thought a minute. “But it’ll grow, maybe by leaps and bounds when I’m gone.” Jeremiah gave his trove of books a fond look.

  “Now, that won’t be for some time,” Natalie reassured him. Her eyes stopped on a title. “How about a classic like The Count of Monte Cristo? It’s a deliciously good tale, or sandwich. Thanks to the French.” Natalie giggled.

  “That was witty,” Jeremiah commended her.

  It was, wasn’t it? She realized.

  She had packed her wit away with her concern over her parents. Even her management of The Eatery had suffered. But her parents were fine and the whole debacle with the espionage accusation had passed, with something surprisingly good left in its wake.

  “Maybe Jane Eyre, my absolute favorite book.”

  “What do you like about it?” Jeremiah questioned her.

  “It’s got a little of everything, hardship, mystery, romance, tragedy, moral dilemmas, and, most importantly of all, a happy ending.”

  “Ah, one of those, huh?” Jeremiah chuckled knowingly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Neat and tidy. That’s how you like the story to end.” With a wistful edge, Jeremiah reminded her, “That’s not real life, you know. Not everyone has a happy ending.”

  “No . . . but we all like to hope we will.” Natalie turned from the bookcase towards him. “Everyone must have hope or . . . life means very little.”

  Jeremiah met her gaze. “You’re right, o’ course. We all need that little, winged bird.” He pulled a book off the shelf, blew some dust off the top jagged ridge of paper, and opened the cover. “What say you ta a work that is more recent—The Phantom of the Opera?”

  “Oh, I like that idea. I’ve been wanting to read it.” Natalie strode to Jeremiah’s side of the room. She leaned over to look at the book he held in his hand.

  “Here, take a look.” Jeremiah held out the book to her.

  Natalie took it. The book was edged in a bisque color with a thin, black frame. The image imprinted on the cover was of a man in a black suit wearing a bony, ghoulish mask. A little shiver went down her spine.

  “One way we can manage a lack of copies is to simply meet together and do readings. Maybe once a week. Each time someone different could read. That way we can discuss as we go.”

  “Well, you’re just filled with good ideas.” Natalie smiled at him.

  He tucked his head down a bit, ignoring the compliment. “When do we start?”

  “How about next Friday evening? I can stop by Smith’s Printing and get Nora to print something up for us.”

  It thrilled Natalie that she and Jeremiah had come up with the idea to launch a book club the last time they had enjoyed a cup of cocoa together.

  “Why don’t you let me do that? You’re so busy at The Eatery.”

  “Well . . . are you sure?” She handed the book back to him.

  “Yes.”

  He was firm, so she conceded. “All right, then.”

  “We should figure out what to say.”

  Jeremiah shuffled over to his writing desk and pulled out a paper and a pencil. He handed them to Natalie. They worked on outlining the details of the meeting until Natalie noticed the time.

  “Oh my, I have to go. I told Fanny I’d be there by 4:00 to help with the evening crowd.” Natalie gathered her things. “But what about payment? You’ll let me know how much the printing is.”

  They both walked towards the door.

  “Psaw . . . I’ll take care o’ it. You just run along. I’ll bring the flyers over ta The Eatery when I get them from Smith’s.”

  “Thank you, Jeremiah.”

  “You’re most welcome.” He opened the door for her.

  She threw him a familiar smile as she left.

  Jeremiah watched her make her way down the steps. She turned back and waved to him when she reached the bottom. He gave a slight wave back. It was all a fantastic mystery to him how his thinking about Miss Herman had been uprooted and turned on its head. He couldn’t believe he had once thought her a subversive spy.

  Jeremiah turned back into his apartment and laughed out loud.

  I certainly was a fool.

  Then he sobered as he remembered once again the very ridiculous accusations he had made to Constable Aimes about her. He regretted it immensely.

  Who am I to accuse anyone of anything?

  It dawned on him that he had gotten a little too self-important. “You are a little too big for your britches, son,” his father used to tell him. Jeremiah had a bent for acting self-righteous, self-important, and just too self-possessed.

  It was why he and Violet had been so good for each other. She had known how to gently bring him down a peg, and he had known how to lift her up. For as insightful of a woman as his wife had been, she had usually overlooked her own faults—the chief being her tendency to belittle herself over the smallest thing. He had told her every day that she was beautiful, sweet, talented, and the best thing in his life. Finally, one day, she had started to believe him.

  Yes, we were good for each other.

  Gratitude built in Jeremiah for the years he and his wife had had together. Now, he could think about her and not feel angry, or the overwhelming sadness which had made him want everyone else around him to be miserable too.

  Miss Herman helped me with that, his heart knew. The unexpected friendship he had found in her had helped free him from his self-made prison, and he was grateful.

  Most grateful, indeed.

  Jeremiah lowered himself into his chair, turned to the first page of The Phantom of the Opera, and started to read aloud.

  “The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as long believed, a creature of the imagination . . .” He read to himself the next few lines and expressed the following. “Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the co
mplete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say of a spectral shade.”

  Jeremiah thought for a moment.

  It’s rather like me.

  It could have been an apt description of him before Miss Herman walked into his life with a plate of strawberry scones and a jug of lemonade. He had walked around like a phantom. Yes, he had been alive, but it had been a grim, lonely sort of life where he had shut people out.

  Funny what a little kindness can do, he told himself and went back to reading.

  June 1917

  Webaashi Bay

  Mauve sat on the grass outside. The day was warm but in the shade the temperature kept it perfectly comfortable. Pearl sat on a flannel blanket playing with a wooden rattle and her favorite stuffed rabbit, whose ear she periodically crammed in her mouth and sucked on. Her little slip, slurp sounds when she sucked accompanied the chitter chatter of the birds and the distant waves of Superior. Mauve heard a ship’s long, mournful honk as she unfolded the letter from Oshki.

  May 10th, 1917

  Dear Mauve and Pearl,

  I so wish I could be there with you all for Pearl’s first birthday. I hope you are both well. I suppose the families came over and helped celebrate. Did Aunt Angelica make the cake or your mother?

  Cake. I can hardly remember what it tastes like. Oh, I don’t mean the fruitcakes and such I’ve received in the mail sometimes (which I am very grateful for), but sponge cake, which would surely turn moldy or hard as a rock by the time it reached our base. It is just one more thing I miss about home.

  I won’t bore you with my constant drone on the life of a soldier, so I’ll put my pen to another task.

  I have nothing to give Pearl for her birthday but another tale which my mom told me when I was a small boy . . .

  Long ago, there were only animals on the earth but no people. It was a time when all the animals spoke the same language. They liked to laugh and play tricks on each other.

  One day when the lakes froze, before Makwa, Bear, had settled in for his long winter’s nap, he came upon Nigig, Otter, sitting near a hole with a great big pile of fish.

  “You have many fish there, Nigig. How did you get so many?” Makwa asked.

  Well, Nigig felt like teasing Makwa so he said, “I put my tail in the ice hole, wiggle it around, and when a fish is hungry . . . up he comes!”

  “I like that way. That is much better than trying to catch them with my paws. Can I try?” Makwa leaned over Nigig’s ice hole.

  “Be my guest,” said Nigig.

  He laughed to himself when he saw Makwa lower his big, fluffy tail down into the hole. (You see, this was a time when Makwa had a large tail.)

  Makwa waited and waited. He wiggled his tail now and then to tempt the fish, but no fish came. Soon, the day was at its end and the sun went to bed. Makwa thought he better do the same, so he tried to stand up, but something had happened . . . his tail was stuck fast in the ice.

  Frozen! He tried again and again, but it wouldn’t budge. Finally, he gave one last tug, and out he came. But he left half of his tail in the ice hole!

  Makwa mourned all the way home, for now he had just a stumpy, little tail.

  The moral is . . . don’t always believe what others tell you . . .

  I hope she likes the story of How Bear Lost His Tail. A kiss to you both.

  Always,

  Oshki

  After Mauve told Pearl the story, she folded the letter back up, flopped down on the grass by her daughter, and succumbed to tears. She tired of being both mama and papa to her daughter. She wanted her husband home.

  But wants and wishes don’t change anything, she realized after a good sob.

  Another tear rolled down and wet the blanket under her face. Little Pearl had snuggled down by her mother. She wiped at the strange wetness with her baby fingers, which made Mauve cry afresh. They lay that way for a while until Mauve figured it must be time for supper. She dried her eyes, blew her nose on a corner of her apron, and carried her daughter and their things back to the house to go on with the act of living.

  May 1917

  Halifax

  “There, there now, Lieutenant Wilson. It’s all right. You’re safe. This is a hospital.” Rose said the words quietly, with care.

  She had been on her last round of the night, ready to go home, when the newest man on the ward had shouted out, yelling names and she didn’t know what all. She smoothed his dark hair away from his forehead and grabbed the hand that flailed blindly in the air.

  Rose had sympathy for him. He wasn’t the first soldier she had seen with a head wound and an eye injury, but, for some reason, something about him drew her to him, as if they shared something.

  “Who is this? Who are you? Where am I?” he asked in a tight, strained voice.

  “You may not remember, but I’ve told you before,” Rose patiently explained. “You’re at Victoria General Hospital in Halifax.”

  Luis settled back against the pillows. Rose tucked his arm down next to him.

  “Canada?”

  “Yes. You are in your homeland, Lt. Wilson, not a war zone.”

  “Oh, I thought . . .”

  “I know.” Rose looked at her watch. “You must get some rest now, and I must go home.”

  “What month is it, Nurse . . .?”

  “Greenwood. It’s June.”

  “So long?”

  “Rest now, Lt. Wilson. It’s what you need. Don’t concern yourself with the past. Your work now is to get better.”

  Luis touched the bandages over his eyes. “Will I get . . . better?”

  “That is why you are here, to recover. We’ll do our best to see you restored to health, and you must do the same.”

  “Yes.” Luis settled back and allowed Nurse Greenwood to tuck him in.

  “Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

  “Goodnight.” His voice sounded hollow to her.

  Probably reliving something, she figured.

  Rose left the soldier, collected her things, and went home. She was beyond tired. They had gotten more wounded men and packed Victoria General to the gills. She hoped no more would come, or they would have to get more help. She and the other nurses were already worked off their feet.

  The walk home refreshed her. It had gotten stifling in the ward, sticky and humid with the warm weather, but now the cool of evening kissed her skin.

  Rose rounded the corner to the boarding house where she and Mabel stayed, entered, and dashed to her room. She tried to be quiet so she wouldn’t wake Mabel, but she found her roommate was not sleeping yet. Instead, Mabel sat up in bed with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of gin in the other.

  Something must be seriously wrong, thought Rose.

  Mabel was not a hardcore drinker, but temperate in her consumption, her alcohol usually of the ale variety.

  “Mabel. You’re still up?” Rose shut the door behind her, walked over to her bed, and stared to undress.

  “Yas . . . wouldnnn’t . . . ya . . . beee-lieve it?” Mabel slurred her words.

  Rose didn’t comment but hurriedly changed from her uniform to her night gown and stepped over to Mabel’s bed.

  She took the glass of alcohol from her. “What’s wrong?”

  Mabel laughed, more a sarcastic groan. “Ev-rrrry-thing’s . . . wrong.”

  “Come on.” Rose lightly slapped her cheek. “What’s going on?”

  Mabel turned her head away, put her smoke in the saucer on her bedside table, and buried her head in her pillow. She mumbled something from its depths.

  “I can’t hear you.” Rose waited a moment then tapped Mabel on the back. “Mabel?”

  Mabel turned towards her. “The wedding’s . . . ooofff . . . oh . . .”

  She turned back to her pillow and sobbed into it.

  “Surely that can’t be. Milton loves you. Is it just postponed? Because of the war?” Rose stroked her friend’s back to try to calm her.

  “Here, reeeead . . . it yourself.” Mabel turned over and raised
herself enough to grab the paper crinkled up next to her spent cigarette.

  Rose took it and read through, pausing in the middle—I am in love with someone else. She’s a nurse here at the hospital near where I am stationed. I’m sorry, Mabel. We had some laughs, though, didn’t we? Try not to hate me. Milt

  Rose folded up the letter and slowly set it back on the table.

  What can I tell her that will make it better? Nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Mabel. So sorry.” Rose hugged her.

  Mabel sobbed some more into Rose’s shoulder. After a few minutes, she sat back, dried her tear-stained face on her arm in a very un-ladylike fashion, and demanded of herself, “Stooop blubbering!”

  Rose ventured a smile.

  “Aren’t yooou gonna say, ‘I told ya so,’ or ‘Yer better oooff without him,’ or ‘There’s plenty a fish in the sea’?”

  “No,” Rose smiled again and clasped Mabel’s hand, damp and all, “I’m not.”

  “Yer a good friend.” Mabel sniffled again.

  “But I am going to say what you’d tell me.” Rose got up and pulled on her robe.

  “What’s that?” Mabel was starting to control her vowels.

  “It’s time we get some tea down your gullet or, better yet, coffee.”

  Mabel allowed herself a slight grin. “I would say that, wouldn’t I?”

  “Come on. Get yourself up, wash your face off, and I’ll be back with some coffee in a jiffy.”

  Mabel moved to do as Rose commanded.

  As Rose left, a thought hit her. How am I going to sleep with coffee in my system? Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. Today I need to comfort a friend.

  Patience is bitter,

  But its fruit is sweet.

  Aristotle

  Chapter Seventeen

  December 1st, 1917

  Webaashi Bay

  I think I’ll write to Rose and say I’m sorry. I’ll have to get someone to pen the letter for me, though.

  I don’t want anyone to know how I feel.