Daughter of Australia (18 page)

A moment of silence, then howls of pain, and James ran from it, ran from the house, ran into the wall of rain to the fields, his feet splashing and sinking. He burst into the rows of wheat, the soggy pedicels whipping across his face and arms, and ran blind until the mud held him by the calf. He slumped down and held his scalp with his hands, clutched through flooded hair, and still he could hear the cries stuck between his ears . . . cries that seemed to rise from the very earth.

 

The months following Tess's death passed in horror. War raged across foreign battlefields, across the home front. There are men who die of wounds and there are men who live with wounds. Tess died and Shamus bled from every pore.

The round table was cleared of plates, of food and tools, the worn wood noticeably smooth with use, the dark grain spreading from one end to the other. And, in the middle of this table, the brown bottle stood. Red wax circled the top and hung in hardened drips along the neck, the seal cracked. The bottle was amber almost to the bottom, where it darkened with an inch or so of liquid. James picked up the bottle, swayed it so the liquid sloshed, the light of the lantern reflecting in spurts. And there it was, in his hands, the war, and he would remember the details of the bottle as if it were an event, not an object.

Shamus emerged from the bedroom, his chin wet and quivering, his eyes red and swollen. James set the bottle down, glass against wood, the sound stamping a memory that would last a life. And then he waited.

The hit came quickly to his jaw, twisted his head with snapping force, painting the world black. Something broke inside that was not made of bone or cartilage or blood. The second hit landed on his temple and knocked him out cold to the hard ground. And so the war came and beat him senseless.

 

The first hit was the worst but not the last. James never hit back, never ran from it, took it until the blackness ended it. And he would have stayed if Mrs. Shelby hadn't forced him otherwise.

For Shamus, that day brought a late binge and a readied fist, not a knockout punch but a near one. James was at the table still cleaning his dripping nose when Mrs. Shelby barged in unannounced. “Brought yeh some dinner!”

A haunted silence hung in the kitchen among the three. Shamus stood at the counter, his knuckles bloody. Mrs. Shelby turned to James and her eyes bulged, her face as red as the tomatoes in her basket. “You son of a bitch,” she snarled at Shamus.

Shamus took a swig of whiskey. “Mind ye business.”

Mrs. Shelby gritted her teeth, angry tears welling in her eyes. “Yer wife be rollin' in 'er grave at the sight of yeh!”

The mention of Tess brought his eyes to black. “Ye don't mention me wife! Not 'ere! Ye hear me! Ye all killed 'er with this land, just like James did by draggin' her 'ere!”

Mrs. Shelby plucked the bottle out of Shamus's hand and whacked him across the head, breaking glass over his skull, cutting his skin with razored shreds. She grabbed James's hand with vise strength. “You won't ever lay another hand on him again, Shamus O'Reilly!”

As Mrs. Shelby pulled James down the steps, Shamus flung open the screen, banging it hard against the side. He held his hand against the bleeding side of his head. “Ye leave 'ere, ye never come back! Do ye hear me? Murderers! All of ye!”

Mrs. Shelby dragged James to the buggy and yanked him to the seat. “Close yer ears to it, James.” She tried to stay heard over Shamus's threats. “The rantin' of a madman. You pay him no heed!” With one hand she found a handkerchief and pressed it against James's nose, and with the other she picked up the reins and beat the horse to a gallop. And even above the clatter of hooves on stones, harness buckles flapping and old buggy wheels grinding, they could still hear Shamus's curses, even as the house disappeared in the swallowing twilight.

B
efore the Americans joined the fighting, the prospect of war held the breath of the country the way an autumn frost stiffens grass for snow. Ears tuned to radios took hope that Europe's war would not become America's war. Woodrow Wilson, in speech and pomp, appeared of like mind and so the hope remained.

But there were others who knew the war was growing. Leonora knew, for she heard the murmurs between Alex and her uncle, saw the shadows that lined their faces as they spent more time at the mills, the way their mouths twisted at telegrams.

The people of Pittsburgh raised their noses in the air and sniffed the tainted, first scents of war. Leonora saw the subtle, silent fear in the female help as they wondered at this strange threat of a draft, their thoughts occupied with sons or new husbands or brothers as they dropped the silver and carried the china with unstable hands. Leonora saw the faces of stable boys, the close way men spoke to one another, looked at their feet and then off into the distance like they smelled fire. She noticed the ripple of violence in the air, moving and gnawing like a hungry beast, spurring deep lines in foreheads and jaws clenched against the unknown.

Then, on April 6, 1917, America declared war on Germany. The skin of the country rose like gooseflesh with a mix of fear and excitement. The bravado of the American boys rang in the streets, as they spouted their strength over that of the Krauts. But these were boys who did not know the cold of the trenches, the weight of a bayonet or the sight of another man gutted.

And no sooner were the young men sent out—dropouts from Sewickley, miners from McKee's Rocks, tutored boys from Shady Side—than boys returned in broken pieces. Outside the hospital body bags and gurneys made quick bursts from ambulance to sidewalk to building, while two streets over a longer procession filled the road as a parade of boys, brown clad, steel hatted and armed, waved farewell to the people lining the streets.

Emotion filled the faces of the people as the boys walked off intact. Mothers memorized their children's features, wondered if they would scar or warp, and they saw not the faces of the young soldiers or the men they had become but the innocence and frailty of the children the women had borne. Fathers saw their sons as older than they were, as men, as extensions of their own arms. They looked with pride and pain and questioned,
Did I make him strong enough? Will he be brave enough?
And so the war began and brought casualties before good-byes were even spoken.

In the hospital, along the rows of torn bodies, Leonora saw the rainbow of war—each macabre hue—the yellow of typhoid and sclerosis, the black of gangrene, the white of pneumonia—the recurring colors that foretold amputation or death as inevitably as a sentence. The duties at the hospital were gruesome and left Leonora rattled and consternated. And she hated it and loved it all at the same time. For even in the horror, the sights were stark and real and, despite the smell of death, there was life and intrepid hope in the sterile rooms.

And there was healing. For here Leonora found a piece of herself that did not belong to the Fairfields, had not been warped in lies or transformed by false impressions. Here she brought smiles to those who cried, gave hope to those who had none and held the hands of soldiers who woke each night screaming with hidden horrors. And this belonged to her and yet was not about her. She gave and gave freely and opened her heart to a greater good that lit with hope. This was not bought or held upright through forced conditions but flowed from her soul and brought gooseflesh to her arms that she was still here, she was alive, she was intact and could serve a purpose that was real. Here she did not shrink and wish to disappear; here she wished to shine and offer what
she
had to give.

Leonora was deep in these thoughts as she changed the bedsheets and jumped slightly when Nurse Polansky tapped her shoulder. “Someone's downstairs looking for you,” she said, smiling oddly. “He's tall, dark and handsome.”

Leonora's hand came to her throat. She patted her uniform, picked at lint that wasn't there. She was surprised by her sudden resistance, annoyance that Alex was here. This was her sanctuary and she felt him strangely as an intruder.

“Wouldn't keep that one waiting,” the nurse reminded. “The Red Cross ladies are panting at the window.”

Leonora nodded, hurried through the hall and down the metal steps, while trying to shake off her petulance. As she rounded the corner, she found Alex observing a watercolor hanging on the wall, his hands laced behind his back. Her hands were dry, but she still wiped them over her white skirt.

“I've been looking everywhere for you.” Alex gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“What are you doing here?”

His eyebrows went up. “Well, I thought I might get a warmer reception than that.”

“I'm sorry.” She looked furtively down the hall. “I just didn't expect to see you here.”

“Apparently.” He picked up the name tag, his finger lingering on her breast. “Clara.”

Quickly, she reached up and unclasped the pin, putting the name tag in her pocket. “The Fairfield name has a strange effect on people.” She pointed to the family's plaque on the wall.

He sighed and nodded, for this he understood. “Why aren't you with the volunteers?”

“They were shorthanded upstairs.”

“Oh.” He put his tongue in his cheek. “With the soldiers?”

Her heart galloped with his tone. “Yes.”

“You think that's appropriate? You're not a nurse, after all.”

“I know.” Her insides shrank. “Alex, why are you here?”

His face calmed, he reached for her hands. “I need to go away for a while.”

Alex shifted his eyes to the nurses in the hallway and lowered his voice. “My number in the draft came up. Your uncle is trying to pull some strings, saying I'm needed here. It's true actually. England and America can't get enough iron. Anyway, it's best if I go away until the whole thing is cleared up. I'm fairly confident your uncle will make them see that I'm more useful at the mills.” He chuckled. “Certainly more useful than getting shot on the front lines.”

Leonora grimaced at the light reference, thought about the wounded young men upstairs. Alex mistook the look for worry and stroked her cheek. “I want you to come with me.”

It took a minute for his words to register, for the dread to enter. “What?”

“I'm not ready to say good-bye to you yet.”

She floundered and found comfort in an unlikely ally. “My aunt will never allow it.”

He laughed again. “She's the one who suggested it. Your uncle will be our chaperone.”

Leonora looked longingly at a group of nurses chatting at the front desk. “Alex, I can't just abandon the hospital. They don't have enough hands as it is.”

“Yes, yes.” He pinched her chin and clicked his tongue. “How would they ever manage without you?” He leaned in happily. “Besides, it's already been taken care of. I spoke to Dr. Edwards. Said they had more bandage rollers than they knew what to do with.” He looked very pleased with himself.

“You did what? How—”

“Between you and me, he hardly remembered you volunteered here.”

“You had no right!” The words flew out quick and heated.

“You're angry?” he sputtered.

“Of course I'm angry!” A few heads from the hall turned their way. “You had no right to go behind my back without speaking to me first.”

He grabbed her roughly by the elbow and his pupils dilated. “You should be thanking me!” he hissed, keeping alert to listening ears. “Anyone in their right mind would be begging for an excuse to get away from this place. You can smell the death as soon as you walk through the doors. I'm not happy with you being here; neither is your aunt.” He hushed again, his voice taking on a hint of smugness. “It's really not . . . proper . . . for someone of your background.”

“I'm finished talking, Alex.” She turned, but he took her hand, gently this time.

“Look, I'm sorry if I upset you. I should have talked to you first. You're right.” He gave a quick bow. “In my defense, I truly thought you would be pleased.” Alex's mouth frowned in earnest. “I'm a bit on edge, Leonora. Things are moving faster than I expected. It's important I leave as soon as possible.” The half smile returned. “I'll make you a deal. Come away with me for a few weeks and I'll convince your aunt to let you continue to work at the hospital when you get back. She was planning to have you quit.”

“She can't force me to quit, Alex.”

“Maybe not, but she can have you fired.” Spite flickered, turned up one side of his mouth. “Your aunt and uncle give this place enough money they'll do whatever they wish. What's one volunteer to a new wing of a hospital, after all?”

Once again, the shackles of her family's name cut into her flesh, choking any freedom. She looked into Alex's handsome face, searched for a glimmer of understanding or compassion, but found the eyes empty, disinterested. She turned her face from him and her gaze landed on the watercolor hanging on the wall. Her lips parted, and for a moment time slowed and the noise of the hospital faded. The painting brushed the strokes of the sea, of a perfect sky and sheer cliff sides that seemed to rise from the very earth, from an ancient time, from an ancient land. A warmth flooded her chest, and for a second she was there, her feet dangling over the cliffs, sitting next to a friend who always chased the demons away.

Alex shook her arm. “Leonora, did you even hear a word I just said?”

And time began to move again; sounds invaded the silence. The painting turned back into an amateur imitation of a pastel landscape and she pushed the memories away, pushed the ache down to her fingers and then gripped them into fists. She looked at the nurses and the patients moving through the hall. The hospital was all she had in this world and Alex's ultimatum leaned only one way. Resignation settled. “When do we leave?”