Light Over Water (11 page)

          They were sharing a
cup of coffee after supper.  The children were outside running off the remnants
of their energy.  The sun was just starting to sink and she could see the
girls, with Aubrey’s help, lifting the wash off the bushes and the
clothesline.  Mary continued to come on washday, and usually stayed to have
supper with the Eliot’s.  Despite the difficult labor, she’d come to look
forward to her days there.  But her wish to be a part of this family, unspoken
even to herself, was no nearer fruition now than the first time she’d come to
help.

          Mary set down her mug
a trifle sharply, aching for Reg to speak.  She started to rise, to clear away
the dishes, but Reg gripped her wrist and motioned her to sit.  “Well?  What is
it then, this decision you’ve made?” she asked crisply.

          His fingers slid off
her arm and his shoulder slumped.  Still he would not meet her eyes.  “The
children, the younger ones, are going to live with some relatives.”

          Mary would remember
later how odd it felt to go hot and cold all at once.  She snapped her head up
and regarded him as if she’d never seen him.  “What?” she gasped.

          He nodded.  “My
sister and her husband up in Waldoboro will take Caroline, Richard and Peter. 
William and the twins will go to Olivia’s parents in Boston.  Henry is about
strong enough to help on the boat, and I need Esther and Cleo here, for a while
anyway.  So… they won’t all go away.”  Finally his eyes met hers, pleading with
her to understand and agree.

          Mary pulled her gaze
away from his, blinking rapidly.  Stupid great lout, she thought, yelling it in
her mind.  She could not say what she wanted, not without raging at him, so she
said nothing.

          Reg explained some
more, his sandy hair falling down over his eyes as he hastened to clarify. 
“It’s Esther, you see.  She says she won’t even think about marrying while I
need so much help here.  She’s getting all used up.  All worn out, so soon.” 
His voice faded away.

          Mary had known Reg
for so long.  She met him back when she and Olivia were at college, as he
worked for Olivia’s parents, saving money to buy his own boat.  He wooed her
quietly but steadily, winning her over with his determination and settled
purpose for his life.  He was handsome then; lean, brown and careless of his
looks, unlike some of the men Olivia’s parents urged her to consider.  He was
still handsome, still strong, although in her opinion, he’d always seemed too
grim and cheerless for Olivia.  But he was devoted, a hard and tireless worker
and the occasions when he did smile and laugh, you couldn’t pull your eyes away. 
He was too thin now, and the gray in his hair had multiplied over the summer. 
The change she recognized today was defeat.  Earlier, right after Olivia’s
death, he’d been making an effort to be father and mother.  But he couldn’t
sustain that and now felt the sting of failure in addition to the grief over
his decision.

          She finally found
something safe to say.  “Olivia would not want this!  And neither do I.”  She
folded her arms across her chest as she continued.  “The baby needs the twins. 
They take care of her more than anyone.  And William, in Boston!  He’d shrivel
up like a plant without water.  He needs to run.  He’s like a wild thing.  And
he’s Henry’s shadow.  You can’t separate them.”  She felt the heat rising to
her face, but continued on even after Reg straightened and started at her, his
lips tight and white.  “Cleo has worked so hard to get Richard talking again. 
Do you know how long your own wee boy didn’t say a word?”

          Reg’s fist slammed
onto the table, causing both the crockery and Mary to jump.  “Of course I know
that, woman!  If Olivia was here this wouldn’t be happening!”  His face had
grown rigid as he glared at her, but she refused to be intimidated.

          Reg stood up
abruptly, shook his head as if to knock some thought loose, appeared about to
speak, but he turned away then.  He left the kitchen through the shed door. 
Mary heard him pass through the shed and down the wooden steps.  She stared at
that door for a few moments.  That turning away told her all she needed to
know.  She wearily piled the dishes beside the sink.  “I’m here, you daft
fool!” she muttered. 

          It had been months
now since Ian had visited her dreams.  After President Wilson declared war back
in April, her dreams of him had lessened, finally stopping altogether.  She
maintained her usual control until school ended in June.  Then she mourned him
all over again.  She had weeks during which it felt as though she did nothing
but cry.  Those dreams had sustained her for so long, but after a while she
could barely remember his face.  Then she feared she’d never be able to recall
it.  She took out all the pictures she had put away, placing one in each room
of her home.  She’d gaze at his likeness, trying to put movement and life
behind the image she saw.  Gradually she achieved a sense of peace again as she
muddled her way through this second loss.

          Mary missed Olivia
also.  Sometimes she would cry until her head ached, so keenly did she feel the
loss of such a friend.  Olivia had drawn her into the life of this village in a
way no one else had.  They discussed teaching methods and traveling.  They
played games together and wrote notes to each other, even though they lived a
quarter of a mile apart.  They both shared a love of gardening and a faith in
God that kept them involved in the little village church.  The only place where
they had no common ground was in motherhood.  Although Mary gushed over the new
babes and sewed tiny outfits for them, Olivia sensed how it hurt Mary each time
she bore another child.  She was almost apologetic with the last two, even
though Mary never said a negative word.  This difference lay unspoken between
them, but caused no real strife.

          Mary had made her
peace with God over this, although it was an uneasy peace.  Many times the boat
was rocked, like when Ian died.  Why could she not at least have had his child
if she couldn’t have him?  She had raged over the double loss, for with Ian
went any possibility of having children.

          One of the town
bachelors had sought her hand, but Al Boudreau, a widower whom they called
Dusty, really just wanted a housekeeper.  He was twenty years her elder, had
few teeth left in the front of his mouth, and he looked as though his skin had
been tanned and cured by the sun and salt water.  He was a kind man, but would never
even look Mary in the eyes when he spoke to her.  He peered at some point over
her shoulder and kept coughing and clearing his throat.  Mary politely declined
his offer of matrimony.

          Now, as she passed
through the wooded path down to her little home, Mary reflected on the past few
months.  She finally admitted to herself that her interest in the Eliot family
had been motivated by something more than kindness.  She ultimately put to rest
the unspoken notion of marrying Reg Eliot so she might have children; either
those already born or yet to be.  It didn’t matter to her.  She ached with
longing whenever she picked up Caroline and brushed her lips across her white
blonde hair.  The notion, it was obvious, had never even crossed his mind.  She
was too proud to offer herself as a wife and feared what such outright
rejection would do to her.  She walked slowly along the rutted path as she
spoke aloud the truth that had settled in her heart.  She loved his children,
not him.  And she had it within her power to save them.

          Her footsteps picked
up smartly as she hurried towards the village center.  But rather than go home,
she veered across the field toward the church and the parsonage behind it.  She
stopped at the cemetery that stood between them.  The setting sun cast the sky
in a violet rinse, a hopeful color to Mary.  She knelt in front of Olivia
Eliot’s grave for a long time.  “You won’t be minding now, will you, Olivia,
dear?” she whispered.

Chapter Nine

A Veritable Consolation

“Dear Alison,”
Sam wrote,
“we leave in two
days for France.  We were given a twenty-four hour leave last weekend, but I
didn’t have enough time to make it home and back.  Some of the others did, but
only those who live close by.  Instead I was invited to visit the chaplain’s
house.  He lives about three hours away, near Lake Erie.  Allie, he lives in an
orphanage!  He and his wife run this place, and even though he could have been
released from duty because of it, he said they prayed about it and felt God
leading him to join up.  He said he wanted to be an example to his “boys” of
loyalty and duty, even when it’s painful.  Imagine!  Wouldn’t you think that
God would lead people to peace rather than war?  They have ten boys there now,
the youngest ones just babies, up to age twelve.  I told him we have that many
in my family and he laughed.  (He laughs a lot.)  He said his wife and my
mother would probably get along real well.  I didn’t tell him about my Mom.  I
guess I don’t want to believe she’s really gone.  His wife’s sister lives with
them also and helps with the work there.  It’s a great place – clean, organized
(not like our house), and really beautiful.  It’s in a small valley between two
apple orchards.  There’s a stream that runs through it, and a dog, a pair of
oxen, a horse and ducks on the pond. It’s actually called Valley of Hope Home
for Boys.   The children call my chaplain “Papa Tom”, but he warned me against
trying it!  They love him.  They cried when we left. 

The army
photographer was here a few weeks ago and I paid him for two photos.  I’m
sending one to my father and this one is for you.  You can see we finally got
our uniforms.  He told me not to smile, even though I wished you didn’t have to
see me looking so grim.

            We are looking
forward to going.  We have trained hard and want to go and just end this war. 
It’s getting cold now.  We even woke up to snow recently, but it didn’t last.

            My next letter will
be from across the world, I guess.  Now you can start praying for real.  I will
do my best to stay safe.  You are my sweetheart.  Love, Sam.”

          Sam folded the letter
that formed its own envelope and addressed it.  It gave him a proprietary
thrill to call her his sweetheart and send her his love.  He wished he could
have gone home to see her again, one more time before they sailed away.

          The world had
enlarged for Sam.  Here he was in New York State, about to travel to New York
City where they would embark for France.  But all he could think about was the
ocean.  He longed to set his eyes on the water again.  It had been a hardship
for him not to see it for so many months.  His soul felt parched and thirsty
for it, in this land of mountains and trees.

          His fellow recruits
were a disparate bunch; tough lean boys from New York City who stuck together
and sneered at the boys from Maine as if they themselves weren’t young and
inexperienced; older men who took on the role of kindly uncles, offering
unasked for advice and complacent in their worldly knowledge; and others, like
themselves, who were scared, trying to be tough, and had only ever known their
own little pieces of the world.  They developed cohesiveness as a group that
he’d not known growing up, and Sam admired the others for their individual
personalities and their strengths.  He watched them all curiously.  He saw how
they developed in their own strengths and he figured he was probably developing
also but he couldn’t see it in himself.  He still felt, after all the weeks of
training together, that he was alone.  True, Tim and Robbie and the others were
there with him, but he didn’t even share their enthusiasm for the war.  He
wondered sometimes if he was the only man there who just wished he could go
back home.

          Sighing, he moved to
slip the picture in with his letter.  He looked at it one more time.  It didn’t
seem like it could really be him, this man who stared back at him.  The watery
mirror in their kitchen at home with which he shaved had not given him the full
picture.  His legs were long and sturdy, his chest as broad as his father’s. 
His arms and shoulders strained at the seams of his jacket.  His hands looked
too large, and he wished again that he had smiled, despite the photographer’s
insistence on solemnity.  He recognized the look of his father in his own face,
with its broad forehead and angular cheekbones, but his eyes were his mother’s;
large and sensitive, dark like hers.

          “Lights out, lads,”
came the sergeant’s command from the door to the barracks.  Each soldier who
was near a lamp reached up to turn down the gas, and slowly the light faded. 
Sam fell asleep instantly.

          The excitement of
their deployment was tempered for many by the agony of seasickness.  Most of
the troops simply lay on their bunks, retching and vomiting until there was
nothing left to bring up.  Chaplain Tom Hudson managed to retain his good
cheer, regaling his boys with stories even though he himself had to stop once
in a while to be sick.

          The journey to France
took seven long days, with a constant alert for U-boats.  Sam stayed out of the
lower decks as much as possible.  The sea was home to him.  He volunteered for
whatever duties he could rather than spend time below in the cramped and smelly
sleeping quarters.  At one with the water, he had little sympathy for those who
were sick, and felt it was a weakness in the other men.  Those he had grown to
admire so for their physical strength and endurance were diminished by the
movement of the sea he loved so well.