Tracie Peterson (22 page)

Ellen nodded and got to her feet. Mary Ann felt panic-stricken. “I don’t want to deal with him!”

Mr. Chandler looked at her sympathetically. The older man had an obvious compassion for her fear. “You don’t need to be afraid. He’s not going to be able to hurt you anymore. If you’re afraid about your job—stop worrying. I’m not one of those people who band together with management or one of the ‘good old boys’ who sticks with his own gender. This has to be stopped. I run a tight ship here, Miss Roland. My convictions are that men and women should conduct themselves in an orderly fashion in keeping with God’s Word. I know Mr. Blasingham will see little merit in Scripture, but it doesn’t matter. What he’s done is offensive even outside of my faith.”

“I know, but I’m as much to blame,” Mary Ann replied. “I went to the dances and I took his gifts. He probably thinks I led him on.”

“Even if that were true, it’s no excuse. Given what you’ve said, you made it clear to Mr. Blasingham that you were engaged and not interested in anything more than friendship. If he chose to read more into it than that, it isn’t your fault.”

“I wouldn’t even have gone to the dance last night if Ray hadn’t threatened my job.”

“What are you saying?” Chandler asked, leaning forward.

“I overslept one morning and when I came in, Sam Johnston caught me and started to give me what-for. Ray interceded and then made it clear that I owed him. He said he could have let Sam fire me.”

Chris Chandler showed the first outward signs of anger. Mary
Ann saw his face redden slightly as his eyes narrowed. “He forced you to go to the dance or lose your job?”

Mary Ann nodded. “It didn’t seem like such a big deal to go to the dance because we’d been to so many others. But he said I owed him and that made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know exactly what he meant by it, but I figured it wouldn’t be anything on the up-and-up.”

Just then Ellen returned. A strange expression caused both Chandler and Mary Ann to take note.

“What is it?” Chris Chandler asked.

Ellen shook her head. “You aren’t going to believe this. Well, then again, maybe you will. Ray and his superior, Mr. Guffy, will be here in a moment.”

“Why Guffy?” Chandler questioned.

“That’s the amazing part. Apparently a huge scandal has broken down at the local draft board. Mr. Guffy’s secretary is a friend of mine and she managed to tell me that apparently Ray has been taking an undeserved deferment. He wasn’t rejected as 4-F at all. He’s been listed as deferred from military service as a special-skilled, essential war worker.”

Chandler pounded his fists against the desk. “I knew it! I just knew something like this was going on.”

Mary Ann took a deep breath and shook her head. He’d lied about it all. Every word of it. He’d arranged to skip out on the war, to avoid risking his life, while her Erik honorably served, even after losing a brother. The idea enraged her.

They waited in silence for Ray and Mr. Guffy to show up. Mary Ann nervously toyed with the mug of coffee, wondering how he would handle the confrontation in addition to this latest news about the deferment.

It wasn’t long before Adam Guffy knocked on the door. “Chris, I heard you needed to see us.” A pale-faced Ray followed the man into the room, his head hung low and shoulders bent.

Mary Ann wondered how Mr. Chandler would handle the situation. Would she have to tell all those embarrassing things again?

“Adam, we have a bit of a problem. It seems Mr. Blasingham took some liberties with Miss Roland last evening.”

“His problems are a lot worse than that. Mr. Blasingham has been caught red-handed as part of a draft board scandal. Seems our boy
here has taken an illegal deferment.” Ray refused to look up and Mary Ann was glad. She didn’t want to see his face. “And, as I understand it,” Guffy continued, “he’s going to be in for a world of hurt. Seems he has a friend on the board who allowed Ray to be listed as having specialized and vital skills for Boeing. When his number came up, a little money changed hands and Ray’s deferment was issued.”

“Well, I guess that does create quite a problem for Mr. Blasingham,” Chris Chandler declared. “I was going to suggest transferring him to our Wichita plant, but now I see his transfer is going to be much more distant.”

“To say the least,” Guffy replied. “I have no idea what will be done with him, but the authorities are on their way to pick him up, even as we speak.”

Chris looked at Mary Ann and smiled. “I told you this would work out. Looks like God had a plan all along, eh?”

Mary Ann nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“So now, with Mr. Blasingham leaving our plant, you should feel safe to return to the job you perform so well.”

Mary Ann felt a sense of relief wash over her. She knew what she wanted and in simply recognizing that fact, she felt as though she were on her way to having it. “I appreciate your confidence in me, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I’m going home,” she stated. “I’m going back to Longview.” She smiled at Ellen. “I’m going back to get my life in order and wait for my husband-to-be. I’m certain God will give me a job back home in which I can help my family, but I’m just as certain that He’s sending me back to where I belong.”

Erik woke to feel something warm and gooey being rubbed all over his body. He couldn’t remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. In his mind he ran through an entire universe of ideas. Was he sick? Was he late for something? Did someone need him to be doing something? He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t think. There was pain in his left leg, but he couldn’t think of why. Someone urged him to swallow as they lifted a bowl to his lips. Warm, meat-flavored broth trickled down his throat. It tasted strange but wonderful. He tried to acknowledge this but felt hopelessly lost in a fog. Finally he gave up and went back to sleep.

The next time he woke, Erik felt a gentle rubbing sensation on his legs. Something warned him that perhaps he should play dead. For some reason the image of wild animals hung in his thoughts, but he couldn’t figure out why. Was he camping out? He tried hard to open his eyes, but the sensation of being dragged down into a deep, warm pool of water caused him to give up his fight. It wasn’t at all unpleasant to simply float away. Again something warm was ladled into his mouth. He accepted the offering but knew it was senseless to try and speak.

Eventually conscious thought and reasoning returned to Erik. He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a woven mat inside a grassy framed hut. His head and leg ached but not nearly as badly as he had remembered them hurting. He looked around the room hoping to identify something that could tell him where he was and why. The dirt floor and sparse furnishings did little to encourage him.

Little by little he remembered parachuting onto the island. His memory came back in gradual pieces; small but meaningful pictures presented him with a better understanding. He was a marine. He had
parachuted onto the island after a dogfight and now he was being held captive by . . . whom?

He struggled to sit up, then glanced down at his body. He’d been stripped of his flight suit and other clothing and now had nothing more than a thin piece of material draped across his midsection. It wasn’t much comfort. His hands and arms weren’t nearly as blistered as he recalled them being only days before. Or had it been weeks before? How long had he been unconscious? Then he noticed his left foot and leg. His foot had been wrapped in bandages of the natives’ making, while his leg, swollen and red, bore clear signs of blood poisoning in hot red streaks. Fear gripped at Erik’s heart. He tried to move his leg but it hurt too much.

Hearing a bit of commotion outside the hut, Erik fell back against the mat and feigned sleep. By opening his eyes slightly, he could see a young native woman enter the hut. She carried a bowl and behind her came a man carrying two more. They knelt beside Erik and began caring for his body. Unnerved by the process, Erik started to protest.

“What are you doing?” he asked, startling both the man and the woman.

The woman jumped back, but the man merely grinned. His blackened teeth reminded Erik of a blurry image. Something he’d seen before but just couldn’t place.

“
No seksek
,” the man said in a reassuring tone. “You no worry.”

Erik forced his muscles to comply as he sat up. “What is that?” he asked as the woman dipped her hand in the bowl, then reached hesitantly for Erik’s arm.

“You
plante
sick. You no worry,
waetimani
.” The man rattled on in his native language, but Erik couldn’t understand a word of it. He offered Erik a bowl of something. “You drink.”

Erik took the bowl and looked at the contents. It appeared to be some sort of soup. He lifted the bowl to his lips cautiously. What if they were poisoning him? He almost laughed out loud. What if they were? They could have been doing it for days. His stomach growled loudly and he figured he had nothing to lose. But as he drank the rather smelly soup, a feeling of dread came over him. What if they were just fattening him up?

The woman rubbed Erik’s arm with the concoction from the bowl. It felt soothing and warm. Erik felt almost as if he were being slathered in butter. Butter? He looked at the soup bowl and then at the woman. Maybe they were cannibals and this was their way of preparing him for the food pot!

He jerked his arm away and shook his head. “Leave me alone!”

The man smiled again. “You no worry.”

“I’m worrying plenty,” Erik replied. “Where am I and who are you?”

“
Mi Kobu
,” the man answered. “You sick, but you
moabetta
.”

“Better?” Erik questioned.

The man nodded. “
Ya, moabetta
.”

Erik sighed. “My name is Erik Anderson. My foot hurts. What happened?”

“You
blong keeng?
”

Erik thought he understood and it gave him a bit of encouragement. “Do I belong to the king?”

“Ya,” the man nodded enthusiastically.

“No,” Erik said, shaking his head. “I’m an American.”

The man grinned and kept nodding. “Yankee Doodle.”

Erik actually laughed. “Yes. Yankee Doodle and apple pie.” He relaxed as the woman kept applying her medicine. “Where am I? I need to get to a radio so that I can return to my unit.”

“
Mi no savay
,” the man said, shrugging.

“Savvy?” Erik questioned. He tried to reason what the man meant.

Outside the hut came the sound of singing. Erik was almost startled by the music. It almost sounded familiar. He strained his memory for some clue, but nothing came to mind. The music continued and it sounded as though children were the ones doing the singing. Erik wondered how he might question the man about it but realized quickly enough that the singing was really unimportant. What mattered was getting back to civilization.

“Do you have a radio?” Erik tried again.

“
Redio?
”

“Yes,” Erik said, excited by the possibility that the man understood.

“
Wan redio longwe
.”

Erik thought he caught the meaning. “Long way to radio?”

“Ya,” the man replied. “
Plenta longwe
. You sick.”

“Yes, I know, but I need to get to the radio. I need medical attention for my leg.” He pointed to his injured foot and leg as if to emphasize the matter.

The man spoke to the woman in their rapid-fire way. Erik hoped the man was arranging to somehow get him to wherever the radio might be. The woman wiped her hands and picked up the bowl she’d carried. Without a word she exited the hut, leaving Erik and the man alone.

Erik tried to remember what the man had called himself. Patting his own chest, Erik spoke his name. “Me, Erik Anderson.” Then he reached up and touched the native’s chest. “You?”

“Kobu,” the man replied.

“Kobu.” Erik nodded in understanding.

The man grinned and touched Erik’s chest. “Areek.”

“Close enough.”

The woman returned and said something to the man before stepping back out of the hut. As soon as she had gone, another man entered. He was followed by two more men, and Erik began to grow fearful of what they had planned for him. Struggling, he sat up to face his new visitors.

The three men came to his side and sat down. The two younger helped the older man and waited until he was seated before joining the group. Erik studied the man. His gray hair had been cut close to his head, while thick eyebrows accentuated his dark, foreboding eyes. The stern expression on the man’s face left Erik feeling rather ill at ease, but at the same time his clothing, which constituted nothing more than a wrapping of cloth around his waist, made Erik want to laugh. The material itself was the culprit. It looked more like something that should have hung from a kitchen window. Tiny red apples and vining greenery decorated the otherwise white background. It seemed very inappropriate for a man who obviously was someone of importance.

“You no English?” the man finally questioned.

“No,” Erik admitted. “I’m American.”

“You
soldia
—you fight?”