The Cherry Harvest (24 page)

DRIVING THE PICKUP NORTH
on County Trunk Q, Charlotte listened to the radio—clear weather, rising grain futures. Good times. First day of harvest, her favorite day of the year.

At Zwicky's Market, Charlotte traded baskets of cherries for three bins of flour, two canisters of Crisco, and a ten-pound sack of sugar. At the greengrocer's, she sold cherries for cash, then purchased five pounds of butter at the creamery. Ingredients for her pies. With the remaining cash, she could splurge on their harvest supper, their true Thanksgiving.

In the butcher shop, Charlotte paid for a fresh leg of lamb and told Olga she'd be able to pay her IOU within weeks.

“I have a bag of wild rice I've saved from last year,” Olga offered. “It'd go well with the lamb.”

Charlotte didn't hesitate. With the roast and wild rice in her satchel, she held her head high as she pushed out the door, setting the happy bell jangling.

At the barbershop, Charlotte offered Old Man Berger a large basket of cherries—their annual ritual, her cherries for the use of his
phone. The elderly men, gathered about in cracked leather chairs, looked up from their pipes and newspapers and nodded her way. Charlotte pulled out her address book and called every market in Door County. Having missed Christiansen cherries and pies the previous year, grocers put in generous orders.

Back home, shifting onto Orchard Lane, Charlotte noted that Kate had opened the fruit stand. Even Kate wouldn't be able to stay mad for long, not today. And customers already. A sleek red convertible, the likes of which Charlotte had never seen, was parked at the edge of the orchard. A man in a military uniform sat on a picnic bench with Kate.
Must have been wounded
. Kate would be good to him, she'd be thinking of Ben.

Charlotte found Thomas in the barn and hurried toward him to tell him of the orders. He hugged her and kissed her cheek. Yes, Thanksgiving.

From there, she went out to the summer kitchen, a separate building that housed the big ovens. Thomas had left a lug of cherries on the wooden counter. Charlotte donned an apron and fed the fruit through the trough of the cast-iron cherry stoner clamped to the edge of the counter. She plopped a few pitted cherries into her mouth and savored the taste. Though Thomas grew a variety of cherries, it was his tart Montmorency that made the best pies.

Charlotte might make fifty or sixty or even one hundred pies, but she made them one at a time. When people asked for her recipe, she gladly gave it. It wasn't about the ingredients, however; it was in the handling of the dough. The secret was to handle it as little as possible, fingering it just enough to break up the fat, adding the smallest amount of ice water, a drop at a time, then quickly rounding the dough into a ball the size of a large orange to chill in the icebox. The perfect dough for rolling the perfect crust, thin and flaky. It was the touch that made it special. And Thomas's prize-winning cherries, of course.

She smiled as she pushed the first six pies into the ovens, then went to the garden to choose vegetables for supper.

“AH, HEAVEN!”
Thomas came into the kitchen and sucked in the bouquet of lamb roasting in garlic, rosemary, and thyme. Charlotte laughed as he came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist and breathed into her ear. “A good year. Thanks to you, Char, we will have a good year.”

Charlotte patted his hand. She was pleased with Kate's excitement as well. Kate had added a centerpiece of wildflowers.
She's happy again
. Could anyone not be happy today?

Once supper was served and conversation turned to the food, Charlotte closed her eyes and savored the lamb. How could she ever think of leaving this place, this family? Home. She was eager to show Thomas how she loved him for forgiving her, how she wanted him, needed him. She watched his face until he looked up, excited eyes smiling her way.

After Kate cleared the dishes, Charlotte put a warm pie on the table, the first pie of the year. She picked up the knife.

“Hallo!”

Charlotte froze.

“Come in, come in!” Thomas greeted Karl warmly.

“Oh! You are eating.” Karl bowed. “I will return.”

“No, no. You're just in time.” Thomas waved Karl forward. “You must taste Charlotte's pie. She makes the best cherry pie in all Christendom.”

Karl took a seat. “
Danke
. I would truly thank you for offering your pie.”

Charlotte felt him watching her, and though she looked away, her emotions raced toward him, embraced him. In this, her own kitchen, with her family, the family she loved and needed. She
blushed with shame, with desire. Her eyes stayed on the pie, on the knife slicing through the pie. Flashing like the knife in the barn. Kate watching.

She was cutting the last piece, her own piece, voices chattering like a distant radio, when a knock came at the front porch.

“Who could that be?” Thomas rose to answer it.

Charlotte stood in the kitchen doorway, listening. What did that boy say?
Telegram?
She held fast to the door frame. She didn't want to know. Yet her legs pulled her into the living room.

Thomas stood with the yellow page in his hand, looking pale.

“No!” Charlotte slogged forward as if through quicksand. She groped for a chair, fell onto the couch. She covered her face with her hands. “My precious baby!”

“Char.” Thomas grabbed her shoulders. “Ben's coming home.”

“What?” She sat up.

He handed her the telegram: ARRIVING RR DEPOT WASH ST GREEN BAY 7/24 15:20 HOURS STOP WOUNDED BUT OK STOP BEN STOP.

“Thomas?” Charlotte touched his arm. “What does this mean?”

“I don't know, Char.”

Kate appeared, alarm in her eyes. “Is Ben all right?”

Charlotte held to the armrest. She tried to say it, “Of course he is.” But the words came out soft, tentative. She took a breath and spoke louder. “He said he was okay.”

Karl's face across the room. His eyes met hers, solemn. She looked away. Then he was gone.

Charlotte pushed herself up from the couch. “I have to . . . I have to get his bedroom ready.” She went to the stairs and grasped the banister. One step, then another.

Wounded?

She had entered this room many times since Ben's departure, to touch his things, feel his presence. The menagerie of figurines he had carved looked up happily from his dresser. They needed dusting, the
room needed airing and sweeping. She would put on fresh sheets, shake out the rugs and curtains.

Her mind saw Ben's bright eyes, his sturdy body. Other boys had come back blind, deaf, paralyzed, crazy.
Not my Ben. Please, God, not my baby!

A broken arm, that wouldn't be so bad. Something that would heal. Or a finger, he could work with a missing finger, she bargained.

Why would God listen to me?
Was this punishment for her sin?
No, no, no!
Ben's alive. That's what matters.
For us, the war is over
.

She would get cotton yarn from Ellie and knit him a pair of summer socks. She sat on the blue-and-brown afghan she had crocheted for her boy so many years ago and began a mental list of all she must do.

“Char.” Thomas stood in the doorway. “Come to bed.”

“But I need to—”

“It can wait until morning.”

“I'll be along.”

After Thomas left, Charlotte picked up Ben's pillow and hugged it to her breast.

KATE RAN TO THE BARN
and grabbed her bicycle and raced down the path.
Ben tells Josie everything. She knows what's happened. She must know!

The evening sky had clouded over. Was that thunder?

When Kate arrived at the lightkeeper's house, Josie was helping her mother with the dishes.

“Kate! Where have you been?” Josie led Kate upstairs to her bedroom. “I was so worried . . . that dead Nazi, and then I didn't see you for so long! And my parents wouldn't let me go to your place. What's going on?”

Movie posters adorned Josie's walls—Judy Garland skipping down the Yellow Brick Road with the Tin Man, the Lion, and the Scarecrow; Scarlett O'Hara in Rhett Butler's arms against a fiery backdrop; Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. Josie closed the door.

“What have you heard from Ben?” Kate said.

“I haven't received a letter since . . .” Josie stopped and stared at Kate. “What happened? Something's happened!”

Kate hesitated. Why hadn't Ben notified Josie?

“What!” Josie demanded.

“He's coming home.”

“Home!” Josie shrieked and gave Kate a quick hug. “Really? He's really coming home?”

Kate nodded. “Day after tomorrow. He sent a telegram.”

“Day after tomorrow!” She laughed. “But . . . but why didn't he write to
me
?” Her eyes darkened. “Did he meet another girl? He wouldn't—”

“No . . . Josie, he's wounded.”

“Wounded! Wounded how?”

“He didn't say.”

“Oh, my poor Ben!” Tears rolled down Josie's cheeks. “I'll take care of him. I'll nurse him until he's well again. No matter what it is. He did his duty, and I'll do mine.”

For once Kate was grateful for Josie's romantic notions. “Yes, he'll need someone to take care of him,” Kate said. “He's coming home to
you,
Josie, the girl he loves. You need each other now.”

Josie grabbed Kate's arms. “What time is he arriving?”

“Three o'clock train. Green Bay.”

“I'll go with you.”

“There's only room for three in the truck—Mother, Father, and Ben. I can't even go.”

“Ben and I can ride in the back on the way home.” Her nails dug into Kate's arms.

“In the bed of the truck?” Kate pulled away. “It's a two-hour drive each way. And if Ben's wounded—”

“But he'll want me there!”

What
did
Ben want? Kate considered the options. Mother, Father, and Ben would be home from Green Bay in time for supper. Kate would prepare the meal. She could invite Josie to help, invite her to dinner. But no, Mother wouldn't like that. “Come over in the evening, after Ben's settled.” Mother wouldn't like that either. Mother didn't like anything about Josie.

“Day after tomorrow!” Josie twirled around, then went to her closet. “I'll go to the cottage and fill it with flowers. And bring fresh sheets for the bed—”

“The bed?”

“What should I wear?”

Thunder rolled in the distance.

Kate opened the door. “I have to go.”

THE SKY THUNDERED THROUGH THE NIGHT
. Waves pounded the shore, wild and violent. Lightning flashed and crackled. And in the dark of morning, rain poured down around the farm.

Trudging through the mud on her way to the barn, Kate recalled mornings before Ben left. He'd be standing in the boat out beyond the dock, casting his fishing line. Or she'd find him in the barn fixing some piece of equipment, Scout lying at his feet. That mutt would follow Ben everywhere.

She pushed aside the heavy wooden door, threw off her slicker, and tied her hair back into a knot.

Wounded!
Images flooded her mind. Pictures she'd seen in magazines, boys on stretchers, heads wrapped, limbs missing. He'd be home tonight. Whatever it was, she'd know tonight.

Kate cleaned Mia's udder and teats and set the empty pail on the stanchion.

At least he was coming home alive. She had known other boys who didn't.

After breakfast, Kate rode her bicycle down Orchard Lane,
splattering through puddles. Off through the trees she saw Father with the PWs. Lightning or tornadoes might keep pickers from the treetops, but not a simple rainstorm.

Kate hurried into the cherry shack and hung up her slicker. Driving rain drummed on the tin roof above. She pushed open the front shutter that served as an awning and put out baskets of cherries. She glanced up at each car that came splashing down County Trunk Q. Most drove past, but now and then a driver pulled up to the stand, dashed out with a handful of coins for a basket of cherries or a pie, then disappeared off into the rain.

Clay. She wouldn't be able to go with him tonight after all.

Kate picked up
Pale Horse, Pale Rider
. Miranda was in the midst of a whirlwind romance with a young Army officer. Kate smiled—a writer in love with an officer. But on the next page, Miranda collapsed from the influenza. Her officer came home and nursed her through her delirium, but when she awoke, she learned that he had caught it from her and died.

Kate wiped her eyes as she read the last sentence: “Now there would be time for everything.”
What was that supposed to mean?
Kate longed to discuss the book with Miss Fleming. She'd be at the university in just five weeks! Maybe the war would be over by then. Maybe Clay wouldn't have to go. And she could visit him and he could visit her.

The rain let up, and the drumming on the roof quieted to occasional
plips
and
plops
from overhanging trees. Wet leaves sparkled in a patch of sunlight. Kate inhaled the earthy scents, the freshly washed air.

A pickup truck pulled to a stop in front of the stand, and a burly man in overalls got out and approached the counter. “Came to get the order for Robert's Market, Green Bay. Two lugs of cherries, seven pies.”

Kate ushered him into the shack, where Father had set aside the order. He loaded up, paid the bill, and crunched back out of the gravelly lot.

Clouds moved across the sun and Kate shivered. The rain came once more, hard and cold, closing her off from all sights and sounds, a gray curtain around her.

Kate thought of the soldier who saved Miranda. Clay would do that for her. He would come home and take care of her. But he wouldn't die.

The sky thundered close. Then lightning. Father would call off the harvest. It was just past noon when the truck pulled up at the stand, and Mother rolled down the passenger window. “We'll be back around five-thirty. The rib roast is in the icebox. It should cook about three hours.”

“I'll have dinner ready by six,” Kate said.

Mother nodded and rolled up the window, and the truck veered south onto County Trunk Q. Ben would be with them when they returned. Dearest Ben!

A few hours later, Kate was about to close up for the day when she saw it, a vision emerging from the foggy rain. The red Duesenberg. Clay dashed inside and threw off his hat and gloves and coat and pulled Kate into a hug, his arms warm and solid around her. He was kissing her and she was kissing him, hungry together, not worrying about anything because they were alone and loved each other.

“I came to see you last night, but your house was dark except for one lighted room upstairs.” His voice was low, sensual. “If I had known what room you were in . . .”

“Oh, Clay!” She pulled back. “Ben's coming home.”

Clay's eyebrows drew together in concern. “Is he . . . ?”

“He's wounded.”

“He's alive, then. Thank God.”

“Yes, but . . .” Tears flowed down her cheeks. She had held them in, but now they came. “He didn't tell us what. I don't know what it is. I fear . . . I just don't know!”

“My sweet girl.” He rocked her. “He's coming home alive.” He kissed her tears.

She looked into his eyes. “If it could happen to Ben, it could happen to you—”

“Don't worry about me. I'll be up in the sky, watching it all from above.”

“I've seen newsreels of planes going down in smoke and flames . . . I do worry.” Rain beat on the tin roof. “I worry about you!”

Thunder rattled the shack. Lightning flashed white.

He hugged her to him, his body against hers, rain all around. His fingers undid the top buttons of her pink summer dress, touching her breasts, sliding into her bra, kissing her breasts. She sighed, moving against him, her own hands beneath his starched military shirt, then beneath his undershirt, his skin slick and humid. Headlights drifting just beyond the curtain of rain, swishing off into the mist, his hands leading hers to his trousers.

She pushed away.

He backed off. “I didn't mean to—”

Nor did she. Confused, embarrassed. The spell was broken. Looking down, she covered her breasts, buttoned up.

He moved forward. “We don't want to do anything that would—”

“No, it's not right—” Though she did want to. She wanted to do everything.

He cupped her face in his hands. “We'll have fun tonight at dinner.”

“Oh! I can't. Ben's coming home
today
.”

Clay's smile dropped.

“Mother and Father are on their way to Green Bay right now to pick him up. I need to go make dinner soon.”

“But I'm leaving—”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I'll go with you tomorrow night. Meet me here.” She had no idea what she'd tell her parents. With Ben home, Josie, wanting to be with him, would no longer be available for an alibi.

Clay took hold of her shoulders and kissed her strong and hard,
his body firm against hers. “Tomorrow, then. I'll find a way to stay another day.”

When Clay left, Kate felt a chill, as if a fire had died. She pulled her cardigan sweater tight around her and thought of tomorrow evening. She would bathe and wash her hair. If only she had a bar of perfumed soap. What should she wear? Her mind coursed through her closet, her underwear drawer . . .

“What am I doing?” She said it aloud. She thought of the girls who had gotten pregnant before finishing high school, closing off future options.
This is how it happens
. She had always thought of those girls as sleazy, desperate even, but now she saw how it was, how easy it was, how sweet it was to love a special boy who loved you too.

She picked up Porter's book. Miranda, losing her love. “Now there would be time for everything.” Was that the choice—love or everything else?

She brought the baskets in from the counter and pulled down the shutter. She put on her slicker and walked her bicycle to the house.

Did Miss Fleming ever have a lover? Would she understand what it meant to want a boy and want everything else too?