Nightingale (7 page)

Do you live on a farm, perhaps? I am sadly ignorant of the cities in Wisconsin. Is Roosevelt large?

Finally, you asked about my health. I am uninjured, in the basic sense of the word. Of course, can one endure the loss of comrades without bearing wounds? And I fear I will never again lay my head on my pillow without hearing the thunder of shelling or the brutal staccato of machine gun fire. Perhaps, indeed, I shouldn't.

I will admit that your letter surprised me. And selfishly, I hope you will write again. But more, I pray that your friend Linus returns safely home to you, and that all of your grief will be for naught.

Regards,

Peter

“‘Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir tree. He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole and shut his eyes.'”

Sadie placed her hand over the page before Esther could turn it. “I want to live in a rabbit hole, mama!”

“But you're not a rabbit, silly. And we have a pretty bed, with your pretty daisy quilt Grandmother made you.”

Sadie looked up at her and wrinkled her nose. Again. Then she took her pudgy fingers and mashed them to her nose, pushing it around.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm being a rabbit.”

Esther kissed her on her nose, then her cheek, inhaling her fresh-washed scent. Her tawny ringlets sprang from her head as they dried. Esther could stay right here, Sadie pocketed in her lap, forever. Just she and Sadie, chasing Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit and eating bread and milk and blackberries with Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail.

Dusk had already settled upon the town, a haze of gray laden with the drizzle of a somnolent storm. She didn't relish her walk to work. Perhaps she should drag her bicycle out of the shed. One of these days, they might loosen the rations and she would borrow Linus's roadster.

Or perhaps not.

“You're a very pretty rabbit.” Esther tapped Sadie on her nose then poked a finger in her tummy. Sadie doubled over with giggles.

She finished the story then scooped Sadie up and set her on one side of the double bed, rolling back the covers and then tucking her in, down one side, then the other.

“Why do you tuck me in like a sammich, Mama?”

“It's what my mama did for me. So you'll be warm and toasty all night.” She kissed Sadie on the forehead, grabbed Peter, and snuggled the flop-eared rabbit next to her pillow.

She hated leaving Sadie in the attic every night, but with Bertha's room at the foot of the stairs, at least the housekeeper could hear her daughter's cries, should she awaken. Esther had made the attic as homey as possible—a bouquet of lilacs in a milk-glass vase on the bedside table, a throw carpet with a basket of dolls for Sadie when the judge demanded quiet in the rooms outside his den, and an old rocking chair where Esther had spent her most cherished hours, Sadie at her breast, believing in redemption.

“Sweet dreams, Peanut. I'll be here when you wake up.”

She got up, but Sadie reached out of her cocoon and fisted her sleeve. “Mama? Is my daddy coming back?”

Esther sat back on the side of the bed. Pressed her daughter's curls from her cherub face, running them through her fingers. Oh, to have such curls, not have to wear rags to bed. “Why?” See, she managed to keep her voice soft, without the blemish of fear.

“Grandmother said so. That he would come home soon, and that Bertha will make bread pudding.”

“Of course she will. You love Bertha's bread pudding, don't you?”

Sadie grinned, her baby teeth rickrack in her mouth. Nodded.

“I hope so, Sadie.” Except her throat burned when she said it. She swallowed it back, found her truth in Sadie's blue eyes. “I hope he comes home real soon.”

“Me too.” Sadie grabbed Peter and pulled the rabbit to her chest. “Leave the light on.”

Esther pressed another kiss to Sadie's forehead, lingering for a moment, longing to crawl in beside her, spoon her tiny, sweet body against her own.
I hope he comes home real soon
. For a moment, one she savored, those words didn't burn. Yes, she could imagine Linus here, beside her, tucking in Sadie, perhaps capturing her hand, smiling down at her.

Sadie should have been my child.

Rosemary's serrated voice tore through her.

Of course. The minute the words spat from Rosemary's mouth, the barbs and shadowed glances made sense.

Rosemary had been Linus's girl. In truth, Linus had probably never intended more with Esther than his conquest in the backseat of the coupe.

Are you sure?

And if she'd said no?

She blew a kiss to her daughter then picked up her pocketbook and tiptoed down the stairs.

As she gathered her trench coat near the door, the judge looked up from where he sat under the glow of light in the living room, reading the newspaper. A summer fire flickered in the hearth, the pine popping with the drippings of sap. “Esther, a word?”

From the moment she met the man, she tried to imagine him as an older version of Linus. But Judge Hahn bore none of Linus's humor—the way his blue eyes twinkled, the husky, dark tones that made his charm lethal. Yes, at fifty, Judge Hahn still struck her as handsome—dark, Brylcreemed hair, salty at the temples, a build that bespoke his German ancestry—solid and strong. If only his eyes didn't render her mute, turn her to stone.

She forced herself into the family room, summoned to the bench of the judge.

He closed the paper, folded it across his lap. Considered her a long moment before he reached into his pocket. “This came for you today.” He held out a letter. An aerogram.

She stared at it, her body stiffening. “I—he's a medic…”

“I understand that it's part of your nursing duty to correspond with soldiers, but I would ask that you refrain from having these come to our home.” He continued to hold the letter, now raised a brow.

Why did her hand shake? She had committed no sin in writing to Peter. None. She found her breath as she took the letter. “Sorry. Of course.”

He picked up his paper. “I know waiting is difficult. And of course, this is hardly the ideal situation. But soon Linus will be home, and everything will be put right.” He sighed as he opened the pages. “You may consider going to church and thanking God he wasn't lost in battle.”

She stared at the letter, the neat, crisp handwriting.

Were you with Linus when he died?
She had formed the sentence in her head, churning it over, letting the question press through her before carving it into the paper.

And he had written his answer—at least she dared hoped he had—in his precise, detailed, even poetic words. What kind of a man described war or delivered the news of the death of a man he barely knew with such compassion?

The judge's dark eyes lingered on her. She looked up and met them, and for a second the saliva left her mouth, her heart becoming granite in her chest.

“Because, you know, Arlene couldn't bear to lose both Linus and Sadie.”

He held her gaze, probably wanting his words to impel her to liquid. Indeed, she had no strength to tear away from him—or better, to leap upon him and claw at his eyes, tear his callous arrogance from his face.

“Have a good shift,” he finally said.

She willed herself to shuffle away yet stood in the hall, scrabbling for the pieces of herself.

“Esther.” The voice emerged so softly, she barely heard it over the torrent inside.

Bertha filled the doorway at the end of the hallway, in the gray swath of the unlit kitchen. She met Esther's eyes then backed into the shadows.

Esther didn't hazard a glance at the judge, just tucked her coat over her arm and followed her.

Bertha closed the swinging door. Dressed in her dark blue housecoat, the one that buttoned to the neck, her black hair down her back and tucked into a scarf, she appeared eerily young, a teenage desperation in her posture, the way she swallowed then wrapped her strong fingers around Esther's wrist.

“Listen to me. Do not think for one moment that the judge won't put you out on the street, lock you out of Sadie's life.” Her gaze panned to the letter in Esther's hand.

“This is nothing.” The words tasted inexplicably acrid on her tongue.

“Perhaps. But you must remember, you are nothing to them.”

“I'm Sadie's mother.” But her protest emerged terribly feeble.

“Yes. But Linus is her father.”

“I'm her
mother
.”

“It doesn't matter! It has never mattered to them! Oh!” Bertha's eyes sparked as she cupped her hand to her mouth. She shook her head, her eyes shiny.

“What—”

Bertha turned away, swiped up a flour cloth, pressed it to her face.

Esther stood, lost.

Finally, “Why did you come here, to us? Why didn't you go home to your own parents, Esther?”

Surely Bertha had been beautiful as a young woman, with her satin black hair, those crisp blue eyes, so fervent in hers. A woman who might spellbind a man.

“I wrote to my parents when I found out I was pregnant. They telegrammed back that I'd have to make my own way, just like my sister Hedy did when she started to live a life they didn't approve of.”

Bertha drew in a long breath, something on her face that felt like compassion.

“I didn't know what to do. I had to tell the Red Cross, and of course they discharged me, and I—I didn't know what to do. I telegrammed Linus, who was already on the way to Germany, and he telegrammed back that I should come here. He must have written to the judge, because they were waiting—”

“Yes. I remember when they received his letter. Mrs. Hahn locked herself in her room for two days. Called Linus a man after his father.” She pressed her reddened fingers against her lips. “Perhaps.”

Outside, the rain had begun to spit upon the house, the growl of thunder rumbling the leaded panes.

“What are you trying to tell me? Is Sadie in danger?”

“No.”

“Am I?”

Bertha's hand closed around Esther's wrist again. “You just heed my words. It may be different elsewhere, but in Roosevelt, the judge is always right. Mind yourself…” Her gaze drifted down to the letter in Esther's hand. “You don't have the luxury of a choice. You traded that away.”

“But what if—what if Linus… What if he doesn't come back?”

Bertha closed her eyes. Breathed. “He must. For us all, he must.”

He must.

She dropped her grip on Esther, who rubbed the hot spot.

“You'll be there if Sadie cries?” Esther said softly.

“Of course. Where would I go?”

The judge didn't move when Esther tucked the letter into her pocket, buttoned up her trench coat, and retrieved her umbrella. Nor did he look up as she let herself out into the night.

The umbrella required two hands, and by the time she reached the hospital, her leather shoes squealed, weak and soggy. They protested upon the linoleum floor as she deposited her coat in her locker, set her umbrella to dry on the radiator.

“I had a date last night,” Caroline said in greeting as Esther entered the break room. She stood at the mirror, pinning her cap to her head. “With a soldier from the dance. His name is Teddy, and he works for the brewery.”

Esther sat down, smoothed the aerogram on the table.

“Is that…?” Caroline turned.

“It's from the medic. I asked him straight out…”

“Open it.”

Esther drew in a breath. “I had the strangest conversation with Bertha. I think—I think she knows something about Linus and his family.”

Caroline reached out for a chair.

Esther rolled the words around her head before she let them tumble out, slowly, one boulder at a time. “Could Bertha be—no.” She held up her hand. “I'm just…”

“What?”

Esther smoothed the letter, the heat from Bertha's grip still upon her skin. “I don't mean to offend, but I've always seen more of Linus in Bertha than his mother—Mrs. Hahn's shorter, and her coloring is lighter, but Bertha is tall, and dark, and—she has Linus's eyes.” She ran her finger around the edge of the letter. “She said she worked for the judge's family. I can imagine the judge then, handsome and bold. He probably whispered things into her ear, probably made her feel beautiful.”

Caroline reached out, took the aerogram.

“What if he got her pregnant?” She spoke almost to herself. “I'll bet when she had the baby, the Judge told her that he would take him. Maybe her only choice had been to stay behind. To raise him. To continue working as their housekeeper.”

She raised her gaze to Caroline. Who stared at her. “I'm going to end up imprisoned in that house. As their
housekeeper
.”

“Don't be overdramatic. Linus is not Bertha's child—”

“I'm serious. Unless I can find a way to tear Sadie away from them, I can't leave. Bertha practically said that I'd be out on the street if they thought I was betraying Linus. And how would I support us, anyway? The shift here barely covers our expenses. I hand my entire check over to the Hahns every week for rent, not to mention my ration coupons.”