Eve's Daughters (50 page)

“No, you could stay home with your children for once. You don’t have to work, you know. I make more than enough money.”

I yanked off my wedding band and threw it at him. “There are plenty of women in Chicago too. Why don’t you find yourself a new wife to go with your fancy new job! I’m not moving!”

1980

“That’s the whole ugly story,” Suzanne said. “Our marriage did a long, slow, ten-year slide into the garbage can.” Emma watched Suzanne shove the last plate into the dishwasher, pour in detergent, and turn on the machine. They carried their coffee mugs out to the screened-in porch and made themselves comfortable on her white wicker furniture. Outside, the yard and shrubbery looked as if it had been immaculately groomed by a team of professionals a few hours earlier. The underground sprinkler system switched on automatically.

Emma closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of mown grass and damp earth. She heard a distant sound, like rushing water, and imagined for a moment that it was the Squaw River—-that ever-present stream that had flowed through all her girlhood days. When a siren wailed, she opened her eyes. It wasn’t the river after all, but the ebb and flow of traffic on the busy interstate nearby.

“How have we allowed our lives to become so complicated?” Emma murmured aloud.

Suzanne gestured broadly to encompass the porch, the house, the yard. “Jeff would probably say, ‘I thought this is what you wanted,’ and he’d be partially right. I loved being able to buy nice things, and I loved having Daddy’s approval. But we grew further and further apart. We were trying to prove that Jeff wasn’t a loser, and we lost each other instead.” She took a sip of coffee, then said, “I’m sorry we disappointed you, Grandma.”

“Oh, honey . . . I’m just so sorry for the two of you.”

“You never told me that story about your first boyfriend, Mother,” Grace said. “The one your father didn’t approve of.” She had been unusually quiet since Suzanne finished telling her story. “What did you say his name was?”

“Patrick,” Emma said softly. “His name was Patrick.”

“And you fell in love with him before you married my father?” Emma nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Grandma, we found a love poem by Yeats in the back of your photo album. It was addressed to you. Was it from Patrick?”

“‘How many loved . . . your beauty with love false or true,’” Emma recited, “‘But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you. . . .’ Yes, it was from him. Jeff wooed you with drawings; Patrick wooed me with poetry. You and he would have gotten along well, Suzy. You both loved the graceful sound of words.”

“Whatever happened to him after you broke up?” Suzanne asked.

A warning sounded in Emma’s mind. She knew she had to be careful what she said. “Patrick wasn’t from Bremenville. He came there to work during the war. When we decided . . . when we knew we couldn’t be together . . . he left town. It was easier that way, for both of us.”

“Did you ever see him again?” Suzanne asked, sitting on the edge of her seat. “Did he ever get married? Do you know where he is?”

Emma wondered if talking about herself would help Suzanne forget her own pain. “Yes, I know where he is,” she said slowly. “Patrick is dead.” Tears pressed against Emma’s eyes, even after all these years.

“How? When? What did he die from?”

“What difference does it make, Suzy? He was the only man I ever loved . . . and now he’s gone. We’ll never get a second chance.”

Grace set down her coffee mug and leaned forward. “You mean you
never
loved my father? Not even a little bit?”

Emma saw the wounded look in Grace’s eyes and was reminded again of how her own mistakes had hurt the people she loved. “I tried to love Karl, for Mama’s and Papa’s sakes,” she said. “I thought our love would grow over time. But Karl never offered me enough of himself to love. And even if he had, it never could have measured up to what Patrick and I once had. You’ll never love another man, Suzanne, the way you once loved Jeff. You might meet someone else, you might even marry again someday, but you’ll never have what you had with him. Love like that comes only once in a lifetime.”

The lights of the neighboring houses blurred through Emma’s tears as she gazed into the past. She could almost see Patrick’s face, almost picture him the way he looked back in 1918—his smile, the laughter in his eyes. Almost. How could she make Suzanne understand what she and Jeff were throwing away?

“It has been more than sixty years,” Emma said. “Yet I would give anything
to have Patrick beside me again . . . to be able to grow old with him.”

“Please tell us about him, Grandma. How did you meet? Why didn’t your father like him?”

Emma sighed. “When I think of the reasons why we didn’t marry . . . We were both children of immigrants, but I was German-Protestant, you see. And Patrick was Irish-Catholic. . . .”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Papa’s Protestant church and St. Brigit’s Catholic Church sat on opposite shores of the Squaw River, facing off like two boxers. We celebrated Reformation Day on October 31; they celebrated All Saints’ Day on November 1. We rang our church bell before Sunday services; they rang theirs before Mass. The German community never forgot how their fellow countryman, Martin Luther, had fought to reform the errors of the Catholic church. The Irish community never forgot how ā Protestant, Oliver Cromwell, had fought to annihilate their people and their religion. There was no love lost between the two faiths.

Growing up on the mostly Protestant side of the river, I viewed all Catholics as pagans. After all, didn’t they fill their churches with idols, like God’s enemies in the Bible did? Their priests wore flowing robes and spoke their strange incantations in Latin. They weren’t allowed to marry like Protestant ministers. Catholic women covered their heads when they went to church and had litters of Catholic children. Catholics ate fish on Fridays and stood in line for confession on Saturday. In our house, the very word
Catholic
was whispered.

Patrick didn’t grow up in Bremenville but came there to work in 1917. He was twenty years old, and I was seventeen. I met him for the first time the day the three Irish factory workers attacked my father. Patrick was the man who rescued Papa and me. One minute the bullies were holding me captive and I was scared out of my mind, and the next minute Patrick was pushing his way through the crowd, shouting at them to let us go.

Quick-tempered and quick-fisted, Patrick wasn’t afraid to brawl with any man—even if the odds were three against one—and he proved it that day. I’ll never forget how he nearly lifted one of the bullies off the ground by his shirt-front, saying, “You want to fight someone, Kevin, fight me, not a harmless man of the cloth!” Fearing his wrath, they eventually spat out their apologies and helped Papa to his feet. “Paddy,” as they called him, inspired fear when
aroused to anger. You’d have never guessed it to look at Patrick, but he had a poet’s heart. Just as swiftly as it came, his anger could dissolve into gentleness. That day, he overflowed with concern for Papa.

“You ought to see a doctor, Reverend. Let me help you.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” Papa insisted that we forget the matter and go home.

But the following afternoon, I answered a knock on the front door of the parsonage and found Patrick standing outside. He bowed slightly and removed his hat. “Good afternoon to you, miss. I’ve come to apologize again for what happened yesterday and to ask how the reverend is feeling.”

“He feels terrible. Good day.” I had made up my mind never to speak to an Irishman again. I would never forgive them for hurting my papa. I tried to close the door, but Patrick wedged his shoulder in the crack.

“Pardon me, miss, but you’re doing the same thing Liam and Kevin did. You don’t even know me, but you’re judging me because of my nationality. Surely you don’t want to be like those narrow-minded bullies now, do you?” He said it kindly, and I heard laughter in his voice. I couldn’t resist his charm.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Come in. Papa is in his study.”

They talked alone with the door closed for twenty minutes. I hovered nearby but couldn’t hear their words. When Patrick came out again he said, “Well, I’ll be going now. Good day to you, miss.”

“Would you like something cold to drink before you leave?” His smile lit up his face. “Thanks, I believe I will.” We sat on the porch while he drank his lemonade, enjoying the weather and the nice view of the river.

When Eva and I emerged from the Red Cross canteen the next day, we found Patrick leaning against a lamppost out in front, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. He straightened up and slipped the knife into his pocket when he saw us, then fell into step beside me. “Good afternoon, ladies. May I walk with you?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Well, for one thing, the factory will be letting out soon, and I don’t quite trust the lads to—”

“We don’t need a bodyguard,” I said stiffly.

“Don’t I know that!” he said, chuckling. “Didn’t I see you standing up to them the other day? But I’m thinking the two populations of this town could do with a bit of understanding, you see. Since you’re such a brave lass, Miss Schroder—”

“My name is Emma,” I said, warming to him. He had that effect on me. “And this is my sister Eva.”

“Well, then, Emma, perhaps you’d be willing to help me set an example for the others to follow. If they see us walking together and talking in a civilized manner, maybe they’ll see that Protestants won’t bite their heads off, after all.”

Patrick radiated zeal like a coiled spring waiting to be released. I got the impression that he yearned for fun or mischief—or both. He seemed familiar to me, as if I’d known him all my life. Then I realized that I did know him—his boundless curiosity and eagerness for adventure were just like my own. In spite of my misgivings about Irish-Catholics, I liked him. We started walking through town toward the bridge.

“I know why there is animosity between our two faiths in Ireland,” he said. “But why do the German-Protestants feel the way they do about us?”

“Well, I guess because Germany is where the Protestant Reformation began. The country has been bitterly divided ever since. Papa says there was even a Catholic political party.”

“Your father is a very intriguing man.”

“He isn’t on Germany’s side at all, you know, even though he was born there. He isn’t on either side. Papa hates war. He hates any kind of fighting, in fact. That’s why he wouldn’t defend himself against those men. He believes that Jesus would want him to turn the other cheek.”

We talked easily, freely, all the way to the bridge, bouncing questions and ideas off each other, hardly pausing for breath. Eva told me later that it was like watching a lively tennis match with a dozen balls in play. From that day on, Patrick and I could say anything and everything to each other and never be misunderstood or misjudged. We parted as friends, each of us hating to go our separate way.

The friendship continued like this for several months, seeing each other once or twice a week, walking together, talking nonstop. I found myself thinking of Patrick in between times, saying to myself,
I must remember to ask Patrick about that
, or
Wait until I tell Patrick about this
. I had never been in love—I had no intention of falling in love. I only knew that the time we spent apart passed much too slowly, and the time we spent together had wings.

“Hey, Eva, let’s borrow the Metzgers’ boat and row out to Squaw Island,” I said one warm spring Saturday in 1918. I had recently celebrated my eighteenth
birthday. “We’ll see if the mushrooms are out and pick a mess of them for dinner.”

Eva had her nose in a book, as usual. “Not now, Emma. I raced through my morning chores just so I could finish this book. It’s all about—”

“Never mind. I’ll go by myself.”

Squaw Island was private property, but since the owner lived in the city and rarely used the log cabin he’d built on the island, I felt free to visit as often as I liked. That day, when I saw another boat already tied to the island’s dock, I almost turned back. Then I recognized the man sitting on the end of the pier, dangling his bare feet in the water. It was Patrick.

“Ahoy, Matey!” I called out. “Catch any fish?”

Patrick laughed and turned up empty palms. “Nary a one has jumped into my lap!” He stood and reached for my oar as I drew close, pulling my boat to the dock.

“What are you doing here?” we said simultaneously, then laughed.

“I’m trespassing,” I said. “I came to hunt morels.”

His eyes widened. “You mean . . . with a gun?”

I thought he was joking, then realized he wasn’t. His puzzled expression made me laugh.

“Morels are mushrooms, city boy. Want to hunt some with me?”

“Sure. What do I have to do?”

“Follow me. I’ve been coming out to this island since I was small. I know all the best places to look. Why are you here, by the way?”

“The owner is an old family friend from the city. He said I could use his cabin anytime. I’m spending the weekend.”

“Uh, oh. You won’t have me arrested for poaching mushrooms, will you?”