Night Bird Calling

by Cathy Gohlke

  The news came from Joe Earl, who’d missed the entire service sleeping off his Saturday night binge at the Whistle Stop Bar & Grill. Everybody was singing the final stanza when Joe, still wearing his rumpled boozing clothes, black hair sticking up straight from the night before, rushed into the church, down the center aisle, and up to whisper loudly in the preacher’s ear. “The Japs are bombing Pearl Harbor! Fifty planes or more—thousands of our boys dead! War, for sure!”

  Reverend Willard paused, and Celia could tell he struggled with whether or not to take Joe Earl’s word. But who, drunk or sober, would make up such a thing? For her part, she’d never heard of Pearl Harbor and had no idea where in the world it was. But Joe was truthful enough when sober, and at least a dozen people sitting near the front of the church heard, so the hymn faded as gasps and murmurs raced through the pews.

  Reverend Willard closed with a prayer, which was his normal practice. “Dear Lord and Father of us all, we’ve heard disturbing news today—news of the bombing of one of our naval bases by the Japanese.”

  Intakes of breath and even a little whimpering came from those who hadn’t heard Joe clearly.

  “Such news could strike fear in all our hearts did we not know that You are in charge of this world and our lives, that nothing happens without Your knowledge, and that You alone can bring good out of the horrors man perpetrates for evil. Protect the men and women in our armed services. Give President Roosevelt and our government and military leaders wisdom and discernment. Keep us from jumping to wrong conclusions and remind us daily that we are all in desperate need of forgiveness and of Your grace and mercy. Help us to reach out to friends and neighbors, especially those who have loved ones serving in the military, and make us a comfort and blessing to those in need. Let us be Your hands and feet to those we live among. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen.

  “Let’s all go home now. Those of us who have radios can listen to the news firsthand and open our doors to neighbors without radios. Most of all, friends and brethren, pray.”

  Not another word of encouragement was needed.

  At home, Miss Lill fiddled with the radio dial. The first station she came to was already telling the story. Regular broadcasts were interrupted to tell the story again and again, with few updates, throughout the afternoon. Pearl Harbor had indeed been bombed by the Japanese that morning, laying waste to an entire naval base, sinking ships, killing thousands. Throughout the evening they kept near the radio, hearing of more devastation, waiting for President Roosevelt to speak.

  But it wasn’t until the next day that the president broadcast, sober and grim, as he addressed a full session of Congress, the American people, and the world.

  “Mr. Vice President, and Mr. Speaker, and members of the Senate and House of Representatives: Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.

  “The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific.”

  That sounded like slick dealing on the part of Japan to Celia.

  “The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost. . . .”

  The president went on to list a whole string of places the Japanese had attacked just since yesterday. Celia had no idea where any of those places were—Malaya or Hong Kong or Guam or the others—or what the people were like who lived there. Miss Lill had shown her Pearl Harbor in one of the atlases in the library, but it was so far away Celia couldn’t grasp it. Still, it felt like the world had gone mad. Is this the end? Does it mean Judgment Day?

  The president concluded, “With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God.”

  Three days later, the United States declared war on Germany. Other countries followed. It seemed the entire world exploded in war. Folks in No Creek could hardly think on it, could hardly speak for the horror of it all.

  The second great announcement of the week came in the form of a letter to Celia’s mama from the state penitentiary. Owing to good behavior and a reduced staff over the Christmas holidays, Fillmore Percy was going to be released from prison on December 20. Somebody needed to go fetch him. Celia knew that didn’t affect the state of the Union, but it would change Celia and Chester’s world overnight, not to mention their mama’s.

  Secretly, Celia’s heart thrilled that her father would be home in time to see the Christmas play she directed, that he would see Chester walk toward the manger so lordly but humble and read the Christmas story straight from the Bible at the preacher’s pulpit, and her in a dazzling white robe—if she could only find one—and a glittered halo as the angel of the Lord. He’d hear their mother sing. But does this mean returning to our cabin? Does it mean leaving Miss Lill and Garden’s Gate and all these rooms full of wonderful books?

  And when Daddy comes home, will he take to drinking again? Will he run ’shine and risk his life and ours all over again? Will he land back in jail? Will he turn mean like Rhoan Wishon? He never was that kind of mean, but what about now?

  Celia knew there was a curse in the misery of moonshine and those who made it, those who ran it, those who bought and sold it, and those who drank their coin and families away. She’d seen it firsthand and wanted no part of it—never again. Even more, she wanted no part of the tension it raised between her parents.

  If Daddy can be the friendly, smiling man he was when we visited him in jail, if he can live like he talked then—full of promises to not drink and to work hard and pay our way—well, that’s one thing. It might be worth giving family life a try. But if it means more of the same as before, I’d just as soon he stay in jail and rot.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  THE DAY THE LETTER CAME from the state should have been a joyous occasion for Gladys and a time of wonder for Celia and Chester—a family reunited. But they each responded differently, and I realized that they’d each weathered a different storm with their husband and father. Not one of the little family felt strong, and every one conflicted.

  In all the time they’d lived at Garden’s Gate, none of them had spoken longingly of him except Gladys. She longed for the man she once knew—the man she’d married, the man who’d fathered her children—not the man who’d broken them all through drink and shame and incarceration. And yet I saw her struggling to accept the inevitable, to make the most of it for the sake of their children. I watched in awe of her.

  “After all,” Gladys said to me over tea one night after the children were tucked into bed, “he is their father—the only one they’ve got. He paid a dear price for our protection. I know he did. That’s got to count for something, doesn’t it?”

  How can I answer that? How can I know? I’ve never met the man, but based on the likes of Rhoan and Troy Wishon, and the drinking habits of Joe Earl, what I see is that moonshine leads to ruin—for good men, if Fillmore Percy is one, and bad. It’s like rain falling on the just and the unjust. They might all benefit, but they all get wet. “You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you wish, Gladys. Forever, if that’s what you want.”

  She looked at me, a mixture of sadness and relief and resignation. “I appreciate that. More than you’ll ever know. You’ve been real good to me, Lilliana—you and Miz Hyacinth. I could never ask for or imagine better friends.”

  I sighed. “You’ve been that friend to me, Gladys. I hope I can stay here—forever. As long as I have a home at Garden’s Gate, you and the children do, too.” But I wondered. What is Fillmore Percy like? Who is he, really—when not mixed up with moonshine and such? Could he live here with us? Might he turn mean like Gerald? It might be good to have a man in the house, in case Gerald returns—in case the
Klan returns. “Even if you don’t ultimately stay, you don’t have to go right away, you know. You can bring Fillmore here for a time, let him acclimate, get used to things.”

  “You mean get a job.”

  “Well, that, too, at least until they call him up. I suppose he’s young enough that will happen.”

  Gladys shook her head. “Fillmore will hate that I’ve told anyone, but he’ll not enlist and he won’t be drafted. He’s got bad eyes and flatfeet to boot.” She sighed. “I’m ashamed to say I once thought that military pay would come in handy, but he’d never pass the physical. So, a job . . . I don’t where or how he’ll do that. Who has work here, and even if they did, who would offer it to an ex-convict?” Worry lines furrowed her forehead. “He’d have to go away someplace nobody’d know him . . . but so soon after coming home. I just don’t know. I’d be beholden if you’d let me work on here—cooking, cleaning.”

  “Of course. Only you’re not beholden—I am. I don’t know how I’d get on without you, Gladys, and I’ll be so entirely lonesome when you go. What will I do, rattling around alone in this big house?”

  “I don’t like the idea of you living here all alone, especially not with Rhoan Wishon angry and on the loose. Not with that husband of yours out there.”

  “Neither do I. It would be a great gift to me if you and Fillmore felt up to staying, at least for a while. I know you’ll want to be in your own home, and he may not wish to live here—”

  “Fillmore’s a proud man, but he’s been humbled, so I can’t say. He needs a job—for the money—but also to show him that he can do something besides running ’shine.”

  “Stay, at least while you all settle in. We can’t take away Olney’s work—Aunt Hyacinth would turn over in her grave. But there are things he could do to help here, things that might make him feel staying on is a fair trade. The barn hasn’t seen a coat of paint in years. Aunt Hyacinth’s trust provides for those improvements. And who knows? Maybe things with Rhoan will settle down by then, too.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. Ruby Lynne’s going to have that baby, and nothing will ever be the same.”

  “But when she has it and he sees that it can’t possibly be Marshall’s—”

  “You can’t count on that. You can’t be sure, even if the baby’s white as the driven snow.”

  “I know Marshall, and I know Ruby Lynne. I lay my bets on Rhoan Wishon.”

  Gladys was quiet.

  “You can’t believe Marshall beat and raped her. It’s not in his nature.” I knew the nature of such men and Marshall didn’t fit that bill.

  “No, I don’t. At least I don’t want to. I hardly know what to think. But I don’t believe Rhoan, as bad as he is, would do that to his own daughter.”

  “Not even when he’s drunk?”

  “When Ruby Lynne came to us this last time, he’d been out of town for days, remember?”

  I did remember, and that made no sense—not unless Ruby Lynne waited long after he left to come for help. But that didn’t seem likely. As much as I hated to admit it, Gladys was right. It didn’t add up.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “MAMA’S GOING TO BE FIT TO BE TIED when she gets back,” Pearl Mae lamented over the general store ledger and her inventory list.

  Celia hummed louder as she dusted twice over the picture frames Pearl had set in the front window, containing photos of every No Creek man already in uniform and names of those who’d just enlisted. Every mother or sweetheart in No Creek was proud to donate pictures so all could see.

  Celia kept on as if Pearl’s worrying aloud over such details had nothing to do with her. Despite her humming, Celia feared it had everything to do with the food and blanket she’d “borrowed” for Clay and Charlene.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Pearl mumbled. “Mama did inventory just before she left and—”

  “How is Ida Mae? Has the baby come yet?” Celia knew to keep on the good side of Pearl. Her job at the store was all that stood between the couple in the shed and starvation.

  “Not as of last night. Mama called long-distance when Ophelia was on the switchboard. We have a code. Mama asks for the call to be directed to Ida Mae. That way I know to reject the call. Soon as the baby comes, she’ll call for Ida Mae and when I reject the call, I’ll hear her tell the operator, ‘Oh, I’d hoped to tell her that my niece birthed a baby boy—or girl.’ Saves a bundle in toll charges.”

  Celia stopped sweeping and leaned on her broom. “Isn’t that cheating? Like stealing money from the telephone company?”

  “All depends on how you look at, I guess. Mama says they can afford it and our code serves the greater good.”

  Celia went back to her sweeping. She didn’t know about long-distance calls or how their code served the greater good, but that’s how she felt about “borrowing” food and such to keep the McHones in body and soul. Ida Mae can afford to give up a little food and a blanket or two to keep the McHones from starving and freezing, and hopefully, one day soon, they’ll bring a baby into the world. Babies are worth everything. Folks will surely see that, especially during this season of Christmas, what with the birth of the baby Jesus just around the corner, and charity and goodwill on folks’ minds. What if that old innkeeper hadn’t given Mary and Joseph a spot in the stable? Where’d we be then?

  Celia thought happily of the baby belonging to Janice’s aunt and how exciting and wonderful it would be to have a real live newborn in the manger at church. Everybody’ll be surprised at that! Wonder if the McHone baby will be born by then? She stopped sweeping. If it is, I sure hope they’ll be able to keep the baby quiet during the play.

  “I guess I’ll have to report it to the sheriff.” Pearl had been mumbling on while Celia mused, so Celia had missed a good part of those mumblings. But now she perked her ears.

  “Say what?”

  “Guess I’ll have to call Sheriff Wilkins. I hate to do it, make a fuss and bring the law out here so close to Christmas, but somebody’s getting in somehow. You haven’t seen anybody suspicious lurking around here after hours, have you?”

  “Nobody at all.” Celia felt her armpits sweat.

  “I had that Marshall, Olney Tate’s nephew, lined up to do a little work out back for me the other day . . . unloading crates and such.”

  “Marshall’d never steal.”

  Pearl shrugged. “Somebody is. He unloaded that truck and was gone directly, before I could pay him—before I even saw him. I was working on the front window. Wonder if he just took his pay in store goods. Mighty fresh if he did.”

  Celia waited, her chest tight. Did Pearl consider that fair? Celia and Clay could make her borrowing right later, but she couldn’t let Marshall be blamed for what she’d done, not if Pearl meant to call the sheriff. For all Celia knew, Clay might have come and unloaded the crates thinking he was giving back somehow. She had mentioned the job to him in passing but told him not to take on chores nobody knew about. He’d said that helping out was only right and he couldn’t take charity without showing he was willing to work, if only folks would let him. “Marshall wouldn’t do that.”

  “Not twice he won’t. Not if those night riders get ahold of him.”

  “You mean the Klan? What have they got to do with anything?”

  Pearl shrugged again. Celia hated that shrug. “All it takes is a word from Mama. Mama says sometimes it’s better to let nature run its course than to bring in all the formalities. Just delays and muddies things, you know.”

  Celia hadn’t known—hadn’t even suspected that Ida Mae or her husband, Ray, might be members of the Klan, although everybody knew it only cost ten dollars to join. “I’m sure Marshall didn’t take anything. I was here that day you were working on the window. Remember? I saw him leave and he didn’t have a thing—just the clothes on his back.” That Celia had seen him was a lie, but she was sure he wouldn’t take a thing.

  “You can fit a mighty lot underneath a coat.” Pearl raised her eyebrows significantly. “Just sa
yin’.”

  •••

  Details from the bombing at Pearl Harbor broadcast over the radio all that first week. Jesse kept busy calming fears—rational and irrational—and praying with those in need.

  The Journal-Patriot reported that several county men were stationed at the scenes of Japan’s attacks in the Pacific. Nobody from No Creek had been stationed at Pearl Harbor or any of the other bombed sites, but Joe Earl had a second cousin whose brother-in-law was on the Arizona—now trapped in a watery grave beneath the harbor in that sunken ship. The very idea made Jesse sweat bullets.

  Joe Earl took to drink to steady his nerves racked in grief over his second cousin’s brother-in-law, whom he never knew or even heard of until that week. But it didn’t take much to set Joe off on a binge, and beyond that he was terrified and certain he’d be drafted and sent to fight the Japanese, whose language he couldn’t make head nor tail of. “How will I know what they want? How will I know how to reason with ’em?” Joe was brought to tears all over again and reached for his liquid comfort.

  Jesse whisked the bottle out of his hand. “That’s not going to help you or the nation, Joe. You’ve got to get hold of yourself. You’re digging your grave with every guzzle.”

  “That’s a harsh thing to say, Reverend, to a man in the throes of grief.”

  Jesse didn’t think it wise to point out that Joe didn’t even know the name of the deceased. “You’ve got to take hold, Joe, so we can all pull together. We may each be called to serve in this war. There’s no shirking duty when it calls.”

  “I don’t own a telephone. I don’t expect nobody to call me. I don’t want nobody to call me.”

  “That’s not how they do it.”

  “How, then?”

  “They’ll send you a letter.”