Stay a Little Longer (16 page)

It was nearly dusk by the time they reached the boardinghouse. The sun hung low and orange on the horizon, its heat having
long since left the day. Rachel rubbed her free hand against her arm for warmth; she couldn’t imagine how the strange man
had spent so many of these October nights outdoors.

Taking the back door, they cut through the kitchen and then up the long flight of stairs to the second floor. On the way,
they had decided to put the sick man in the room directly at the head of the staircase; while it was the easiest to reach
from downstairs, it had the added bonus of being as far from Eliza’s room as possible.

Gently as they could manage, they put the man into the bed, making sure he was well covered with blankets. While Rachel pulled
down the curtains on the setting sun, Otis lit an oil-burning lamp, and the flickering flame sent shadows dancing across the
walls. With the man safely in bed, Rachel knew there was nothing more they could do but let him sleep.

“Let him get his rest,” she said to Charlotte, shooing her toward the door.

“But I want to watch him,” the girl protested.

“You can watch him tomorrow.”

Just as she was about to close the door behind her, Rachel stopped and looked back into the room. She held the sleeping man’s
profile in her gaze, wondering for the hundredth time if he was who she thought he might be. Was it truly possible that this
man was Mason Tucker? How could he have survived the war? If he had, why had it taken so many years for him to return to Carlson?
The questions she had to ask seemed never to end, racing through her mind like comets across the sky.

Once you are better, all of these questions will have answers
.

Unknowingly safe, Mason twitched and turned in his bed, sweat glistening on his forehead, his dreams lost in a hazy memory
of a time he had spent the last eight years of his life trying to forget:

THE SOMME RIVER VALLEY, FRANCE—MARCH 1918

Mason Tucker pressed his body into the wet mud at the base of the trench, his bones rattling from the force of the explosions
erupting all around him. Showers of earth rained down on him as if sent from heaven above. The noise was deafening. Each blast
felt nearer than the last, and he struggled to keep his rifle in his shaking hands and his helmet on his head
.

Dozens of other men shared his fate, heads bowed in the hope that they would be spared the shells that had already taken the
lives of so many of their fellow soldiers. Not a soul dared move an inch in the midst of the chaos. Drizzling rain fell from
the ashen sky, the normal pitter-patter of its arrival lost in the grisly sounds of war. Behind the rear edge of the trench,
a lone tree stood silent vigil over them, its leafless, gnarled branches pointing skyward accusingly. No bird, no rabbit,
no other living thing stirred
.

This is a living hell on earth!

Hardly a month had passed since Mason and the other men of his unit had first set foot on French soil. The Great War had been
raging for almost four grueling years, but with the arrival of the Americans, talk had begun to suggest that the conflict
would soon be over. Though he had enlisted full of equal parts daring and excitement, he had still allowed himself the hope
that he would soon be able to return home to Minnesota
.

The Germans had other ideas
.

From the first time Mason fired his rifle in combat, any illusion he might have had was quickly proven wrong. All around him,
men died. Bodies were broken as easily as if they were twigs stepped upon by a booted foot. Faces that he noticed one moment
were simply gone the next. The first time he had killed a German soldier had been difficult, the second time only slightly
easier. Days slowly bled into weeks. Towns and cities drifted by as if they were smoke borne upon the wind; names such as
Amiens, Creil, and Beauvais were as difficult to pronounce as they were to identify. Even the weather seemed to be set against
them; torrential spring rains turned the earth into an unmanageable quagmire of mud and set long trains of rats scurrying
the length of the flooded trenches. When the sun did manage to shine, its meager warmth did little to assuage the chill that
filled him. The food was barely tolerable and bouts of influenza stole as many lives as German bullets. Mason Tucker knew
one simple truth: going off to war was nothing like what he had imagined when he enlisted
.

Suddenly, the German guns fell silent. Though his heart pounded heavily in his chest, Mason couldn’t hear it over the continued
ringing of his ears. He was about to move, to cautiously peer up over the lip of the trench, when the relative silence was
broken by the opening up of American artillery. This was to be the opening stage in his unit’s offensive; the orders had come
down for them to cross the no-man’s-land of barbed wire, shattered trees, and broken bodies in an effort to take the enemy’s
position
.

“It won’t be long now, lads,” Mason’s captain shouted in encouragement, his voice little more audible than a whisper over
the roaring guns. “Once they’re good and softened up, then we’ll overrun the damn Huns!”

“Just like the last time, I bet,” a soldier beside him said sarcastically, though carefully out of his commanding officer’s
earshot
.

“They keep sayin’ that this time’ll be the one that gets the Krauts to quit, but it don’t seem to me like they’re payin’ attention,”
another answered to a few sporadic fits of forced laughter
.

Mason’s hand strayed to press down upon his breast pocket. Inside, tenderly wrapped among the soft folds of a handkerchief,
was the letter he had just received from his wife, Alice. He’d devoured every word, reading her flowery script over and over
again until he could recite it by heart. It was almost as if she were speaking to him, the sweet sound of her voice as clear
to his ear as the gently lapping waters of a lake in springtime. Alice’s loving words kept him moving forward, buoying him
against the horrors of the war. Without her letters, he wondered if he would have the strength to go on
.

“Hope they know where they’re firin’,” another soldier said as the heavy guns continued to roar
.

“If they don’t, we’re gonna know soon enough.”

“Damn machine guns’ll cut us to ribbons!”

“Not if we get them first!”

Struggling to keep his thoughts from lingering over the deadly machine guns he was about to face, Mason focused his mind on
Alice. They had known each other since childhood and he couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t been in love with her. When
she had agreed to become his wife, it was as if the Good Lord had reached down and given him a star from the night sky. They
had been married only five months when he enlisted, boarded a train, and left their home in Carlson, Minnesota, for the United
States Army. The sight of her waving good-bye to him from the platform, her curly blonde hair blowing in the breeze, tears
running down her soft cheeks, was one that returned to him often. Though she was without him, he was thankful she had her
family, particularly her younger sister, Rachel, for support
.

“Damn Krauts will be waitin’ for us!”

“Then we’ll just have to show ’em what we came over here for!”

Though he had been gone for only months, Mason wondered if he wouldn’t already be unrecognizable to his young wife. Before
he arrived in France, he knew that there were many who considered him to be quite handsome: a tall frame that was broad across
the shoulders; piercing blue eyes he had inherited from his mother; a firm, square jaw topped by a thin nose; coal-black hair.
But now, in the face of brutal conflict, he knew that he had changed: he always felt filthy, covered in mud and the blood
of his fellow man; on the rare occasions he caught a glimpse of himself, his eyes looked haunted, his face an unruly mess.
Would Alice be horrified to look at him? Would she recognize her husband or think him a stranger?

May the Lord help me return the man I was when I left! And return I must!

“Just a bit more!” the captain shouted above the din
.

“Like he’s lookin’ forward to it,” a man joked, but this time no one laughed
.

When Mason left Minnesota, he’d made a vow to Alice; he would return to her safe and sound. He’d given his word truthfully,
confident in his ability to fulfill his promise. More important, Alice had believed him. Though death was all around him,
he felt certain that he would escape its cold embrace; he would do his duty, but do it carefully, cautiously. After all, he
and Alice had their whole future ahead of them; the joy of bringing children into the world, stepping in to take over his
father’s thriving business, a life filled with love and affection. They had their entire lives…

Once again, the guns fell silent. All around Mason, men appeared to rise out of the muck and mire, edging toward the front
of the trench, rifles clutched in muddy hands. Though several had joked during the thunderous firing of the artillery, now
all held their tongues, their faces determined yet grim. The soldier beside Mason made the sign of the cross
.

“This is what you have prepared for!” the captain bellowed. “Go get ’em, boys!”

Once again patting his breast pocket, Mason reassured himself that his wife’s letter was with him. Though he knew that Alice
was safe in their home in Minnesota, he believed that some small part of her was beside him; regardless of whether they were
simply words written on paper, the feelings and emotions they shared with each other were real enough to pierce the darkness
of war
.

I will be true to you, my beloved! I will return!

The near-silence of the trench was broken by the shrill sound of the captain’s whistle as he gave his men the order to engage
the enemy. As one, they began to clamber up the ramparts, their hands and feet struggling to find any purchase in the muddy
earth. One after the other, they disappeared over the lip of the trench, moving forward to fight for their country
.

Mason Tucker crested the trench and trudged forward, his rifle at the ready
.

C
HARLOTTE SAT IN A CHAIR
in the bedroom at the head of the stairs, watching the man sleep. Brilliant rays of afternoon sun streamed through the curtains,
holding out the promise of an October afternoon of fun, but she wasn’t about to spend her day outside, even if it were one
of the last nice days she might see before spending the winter cooped up indoors. She had run home from school as fast as
she could, all so that she could sit and stare.

The stranger lay perfectly still, his eyes closed and his chest gently rising and falling with every breath. Rachel had washed
his face and hands with a washcloth, removing the dirt and grime, and Otis had stripped him of his tattered clothing, dressing
him in a nightshirt a former boarder had left behind. Though he seemed awfully thin of face, even with his unruly mess of
a beard, Charlotte thought that he looked somewhat peaceful, at rest even though he hadn’t awakened even once.

Two long days had passed since they brought the stranger to the room in the boardinghouse, and the secret of his existence
was burning a hole in Charlotte’s proverbial pocket. Never in her life had she wanted to talk about something more, to run
screaming through the streets of town, shouting her news to anyone who would listen. Even though she knew that this was the
last thing she should do—Rachel had warned her against it more times than she could count—her silence was no easier to bear.

“We can’t tell anyone he’s here, can we, Jasper?” she said to the dog.

Jasper raised his head from his paws in answer, staring at her from his resting place next to the door. His ears rose expectantly,
betraying a wishful hope that they were finally going to end their self-imposed exile indoors and resume their normal routine
of exploring and playing, but when Charlotte remained in her seat, he dropped his head with a sigh, defeated.

When she was alone in the room with the stranger, Charlotte sometimes found herself talking to him, telling him about her
day at school or about some ordinary goings-on around the boardinghouse. She wasn’t sure why she did it; she supposed that
it was either because she detested the silence of the room, or maybe that she would have wanted someone to talk to her if
she were in his position. Either way, he never answered.

But she kept on talking anyway.

Lazily, Charlotte moved one of the checker pieces across the board she’d just been given for her birthday. She had promised
the first game to Uncle Otis. He had taught her how to play last winter as they sat next to the wood-burning stove and the
board had been his gift, but she had brought it into the room in the hope that the man might want to play if he ever woke.
So far, the game remained untouched. Frustrated, she took one of the pieces and flung it hard against the wall, where it fell
with a clatter to the floor.

Waiting for anything, whether it was a sunny day after a week of rain or Christmas morning, was every bit as painful to her
as the time she had fallen and chipped a tooth. Her grandmother and Rachel always preached the benefits of being patient,
that all things would arrive in good time, but Charlotte couldn’t bear it. Passing the time until the man woke up, as well
as keeping the secret of his existence, made her want to shake him and try to wake him up.

What’s the point of having a secret if you can’t tell anyone about it?

Keeping silent about what she knew wasn’t the only thing weighing heavily on Charlotte’s mind; it was only two weeks until
the performance of the school’s annual play. Every fall, all of the citizens of Carlson jammed themselves into the school’s
tiny auditorium to watch the children sing songs, act out comedy skits, and even shed an unintentional tear or two. This year’s
theme was in honor of the recently finished harvest. While this would be the first time she had been forced to participate
and had a small part as an orange leaf being blown across the stage, it didn’t make it any less traumatic.