Along Waters of Sunshine and Shadow

by Ava Miles

  Her eyes tracked to the only picture she had of Noah so far—taken with Martin and Henry, both of whom were dead. She kept it on her bedside table and looked at it after she said her prayers every night.

  She dropped the book on the bed and rushed to the mirror over her bureau. Oh, she looked a fright. Her eyes were red, and her mascara running. Well, she didn’t have time for a complete overhaul. Part of her thought the War Department and the USO had gone a little too far telling American women to wear make-up all the darn time to hide their sadness and worry about the war.

  She grabbed her Max Factor pancake make-up and dashed at her face in quick swipes. If it was good enough for Lorraine Day in The Story of Dr. Wassell, then it was good enough for her. The movie made her think about Gary Cooper, the leading man in the picture. How had Marty thought Noah looked like the actor? His jaw was so much squarer, his eyes brighter. Why, if her brother were here, she’d…

  Her hand fell from her face. She could never tease Martin about that or even call him Marty, which he’d hated. Sadness filled her up like an overflowing washbasin, but she shook herself. This was a time for celebration. She grabbed a tube of red lipstick and smoothed it on. She’d finally found a shade that worked with her red hair, thank the Lord.

  “I see you’re making yourself up into quite a ninny with all those cosmetics,” her mother said from behind her.

  She jumped and smeared her lipstick. The edge in her mother’s voice signaled a fight brewing. “I’m only trying to look pretty for our guest, Mom.”

  Her use of the word guest seemed to charge the room, like Christmas lights flickering from a power surge before some of the colored bulbs exploded.

  “Anna, I don’t think I can bear to have that man stay here. Seeing him brought it all back like a flood. My beautiful boy is gone.”

  Her mom’s muffled cries stirred her compassion, but they’d had this conversation over and over again since Martin’s death. Her mother knew how important Noah was to her. To give herself a moment to calm down, she reached for a handkerchief and fixed her lipstick before turning around.

  “I’m sorry you’re hurting, but we discussed this, Mom,” she said, trying to sound reasonable. “Martin would want Noah to stay in his old room for a spell. We have the space, and he’s respectful. He needs time to figure out how to start over. Besides, I want some time to get to know him better.”

  “I can’t bear it, Anna,” her mother whispered. “When I saw him at the door in his uniform…it was foolish, but for a second I thought it was your brother. Then I remembered Martin is never, ever coming home.”

  Her mother left the doorway, and she heard her door slam moments later.

  Anna sat down with Noah’s book cradled against her chest and took a moment to grieve for all of them.

  What was she supposed to do now?

  Chapter 3

  The sound of a slamming door put Noah on full alert. He’d been overreacting to simple things ever since he left the front. Hearing a car backfire outside the train station had sent him to his knees. Most of the passersby had given him a wide berth, but a few had looked on with sympathy.

  Somehow he needed to convince his brain he wasn’t at war anymore. He knew about the symptoms of shell shock. Had certainly seen it in soldiers he’d served with. He wasn’t shell shocked per se—not like the guys who went around glassy-eyed and didn’t know their own names or what day it was—but he didn’t feel like himself all the time. Part of him wondered if he ever would.

  Anna came into the kitchen with her hands behind her back. The smile on her face was forced. Somehow he knew the difference between the real deal and a fake one even though they’d just met.

  “Did you have a talk with your mother?” he decided to ask.

  Her chest lifted in distress before she shook her head. “Yes, I did. Noah, I don’t know how to say this, but she’s gone back on our agreement to let you stay here. I’m…so darn upset about it, I can’t see straight. Oh!”

  He stood and crossed to her. “Don’t you mind that one bit. This makes things a bit easier. I’d thought it might be best for me to stay at the YMCA Hotel awhile anyway. We’ve only just met, and I’m still getting used to being back.”

  She put her head down, and he could feel her shaking even though he wasn’t touching her.

  “Anna, I’m having the odd dream here and there,” he made himself say. “It would interrupt you and your mother’s rest, and I won’t have that. This arrangement will be fine. Trust me.” If it would help things with Anna’s mother, all the better.

  “But you can’t have that much money after the war,” she said. “Noah, you came here at my invitation. I promised you—”

  “Anna Sims, I would have come here even if I were as poor as a church mouse.” He placed his hand on her arm. “I came to see you, remember?”

  “But—”

  “I have plenty of money at the moment if it eases your mind. I barely spent my pay during the war, so I have a lot saved up.”

  He’d sent it back to one of the older bartenders at the bar he’d tended before the war. If Noah hadn’t made it home, the money would have gone to the orphanage where he’d been raised. He’d picked up his savings before heading to Chicago.

  “That’s not the point,” Anna said, her chin showing some of that stubbornness Martin used to exhibit. He almost smiled at the image of both of them sticking their chins out like that as infants. Then he remembered the way Mrs. Sims had stuck her chin out when they’d talked on the front steps. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, it seemed.

  “Give your mother some time. Seeing me instead of Martin would be hard on any mother. Well, except mine, I guess.”

  “That only makes me feel worse,” Anna said, hanging her head. “My mother should be a source of kindness to you—especially when your own mother wasn’t. Martin would have wanted that. He said as much to me in his letters before he died.”

  “It’s early yet,” he said. “Besides, I’ve made it twenty-four years without any maternal affection. Another few weeks won’t hurt me none.”

  That was mostly true. Until the war, he hadn’t thought much about his mother, but so many of the guys had written to their mothers or even called for them as they died—like Martin had. It had saddened him to think he’d never have that connection. Perhaps Mrs. Sims would come around in time, but right now his focus was on Anna.

  “Noah, she’s so caught up in her grief,” Anna whispered. “Sometimes I don’t know if I can stand it anymore.”

  He drew her into his arms and felt the parcel behind her back. “You might put that down so I can comfort you.” That’s all he was doing, he told himself. The last thing he wanted to do was rile up her mother by acting too forward.

  “Enough of this.” She turned slightly and held out a gift wrapped with string. “A welcome home present.”

  “You didn’t have to do this,” he said, but he felt his mouth tip into a smile as he took it from her. When had he ever been given a gift like this, wrapped up and everything? “I have something for you in my bag. Let me get it.”

  He stepped away and walked down the hall to retrieve it. There was a shadow in the stairway, and he pressed himself back against the wall before he realized it was Mrs. Sims walking upstairs. He let out his breath slowly, his heart hammering. Only then did he realize he’d picked up a candlestick from the entry table. Yes, it would be best for him to stay at the YMCA until he got a hold of himself.

  After taking a moment to settle himself, he finally went back into the kitchen. The groceries were gone, and he assumed she’d hastily put them away. Anna had the coffee on, and she was busily wiping coffee cups with a dishtowel as if he were a treasured guest.

  He stopped in the doorway and gazed at her. She was so beautiful, what with the lovely dip of her waist and the slender, graceful line of her neck. He’d love to see her hair down, he realized, and that seemed a bit fresh. He reeled himself back in. It struck him that perhaps he could r
eel in his overreactions to sounds and shadows the same way. Survival was as primal as sex, after all. He’d have to do more thinking on the subject.

  “Oh, Noah, you startled me!” Anna said, spinning around.

  “I didn’t wrap it,” he said. “I wanted to give you flowers, but none of the vendors at the station had them.” He’d thought about picking a cluster from someone’s front yard, but that hadn’t seemed right.

  “Flowers are rather like sugar,” Anna said with a smile. “They might not be rationed, but they’re a bit more rare. People started planting things you could eat, what with the war. We didn’t know—”

  “If the Jerries or the Japs might take the fight to our turf and try and starve us out,” he finished for her. “Thank God they didn’t.” He’d witnessed what hunger could to do a person, bodies grotesquely bloated or sunken in so badly the human skeleton seemed to be covered in parchment paper.

  “You open yours,” she said.

  “Ladies first,” he said, untucking the book from his arm.

  She took it with a gasp. “The Secret of the Old Clock! You got me a Nancy Drew book. Oh, I can’t wait to add this to my collection.”

  He loved hearing the awe in her voice, and his chest puffed out like a rooster’s. “It’s the first one in the series, which makes it special. Of course, I worried you might already have it since it’s one of your favorite series, but this here is a first edition. The lady I bought it from guaranteed it.”

  “Oh, Noah,” she said, pressing it to her chest. “Where did you find this? I mean, you only just returned from the war.”

  “In Washington, D.C. There are some old bookshops I used to haunt. The war hadn’t knocked them out, thank God.”

  Browsing the slightly musty stacks had made him feel normal again, like he had before the war. Funny how he always felt such a profound peace among books. Had since he’d first discovered them at the orphanage.

  “I’ll treasure it always,” she said, and then leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

  Her lips were soft and warm, and he realized she’d freshened up upstairs. He felt himself blush, wishing she’d kissed him on the mouth. “You’re welcome.”

  “Your turn,” she said, keeping the book in her hands like she couldn’t bear to put it down.

  The string came off easy when he pulled it, and he was careful not to tear the paper. “Robinson Crusoe!” he exclaimed. “You remembered.”

  “I didn’t know if you had a copy of your own since you mentioned reading it in the orphanage.”

  He did have a copy—in his bag, no less—but he’d never tell her. He’d taken three books with him to war, and that had been one of them. The others were Tom Jones and the book that had started his interest in reading and philosophy: a compendium of the great philosophers. He’d taken it out of the orphanage library on his way out. He couldn’t leave Francis Bacon and the others behind—although he wasn’t sure he’d ever tell Anna about that either. She might not approve.

  “This means a lot to me, Anna,” he said, feeling the solid weight of the words in his hands. “Books are one of the best gifts you can give a friend. It’s like…sharing your soul with someone.” He shook his head. “That sounded corny. Especially since you’ve given me a book you know I like. Forget I said that. Sometimes I talk crazy.”

  He’d spoken like this in his letters, but now that they were face to face, he couldn’t help remembering that some of the girls he’d liked when he was just getting hair on his chest had made fun of him for speaking like he did. They’d called him a sensitive boy like it was a bad thing. He certainly hadn’t blushed while writing to Anna, although at times he’d wanted to cross out the words he’d just put down or hoped the censors would strike them for him. Paper was too precious to be wasted even if it was a V-mail form.

  “Don’t you dare stop speaking like that,” she said, meeting his eyes. “When you talk like that, it’s like you’re touching my soul, Noah.”

  She’d called their connection one of words and souls in a letter, but the way she said it now was oddly intimate. He felt that deep spark of attraction for her again and wanted to pull her into his arms and press his lips to hers and never stop.

  “All right, I’ll keep saying what comes to mind if it doesn’t bother you any. Martin didn’t mind when I waxed poetic. That’s what he called it. Not that we talked about each other’s souls or anything.”

  She laughed. “No, I can’t really see Martin talking like that. He hated his catechism, but don’t tell anyone.”

  She had a nice, hearty laugh, one that wrapped around him like an embrace.

  “Of course Martin usually told me to lighten up when I got going on all that philosophy stuff. That’s what he used to call it.”

  A smile flickered on Anna’s lips. “Martin used to say I waxed poetic too,” she said. “And that I was a romantic. Like that’s a bad thing. Oh, when you find yourself alone, there’s a card inside your book.”

  Was she blushing? “Why can’t I read it now?”

  “Because the coffee is ready, and you don’t normally make a guest wait this long for a treat. Let me pour us a cup. Do you take milk or sugar or both?”

  His gorge rose in his throat at the thought of milk. Suddenly, he was back on a farm in France. A bucket of milk sat on the floor of the barn and thirst drove him to drink from it. He didn’t even consider the possibility it might be sour. It didn’t look curdled, although the color wasn’t snowy white either. A vile tang soaked his tongue. He turned aside to retch, right as someone fired off a shot from an unseen post in the barn loft. Noah spun around and fired back. The loft turned silent again, and he stared at the milk puddle on the barn floor. He retched again when he found the French farmer dead in the loft, decapitated, his blood dripping where the bucket had sat.

  “Noah.”

  Someone was calling his name, and he struggled back. Anna was looking at him with her brow knitted. He couldn’t seem to respond to her. It was like a glass wall stood between them, one he couldn’t wish away.

  You’re not in France. That happened months ago.

  So why could he still taste that spoiled milk? Fisting his hands, he squeezed with all his might until his head started to clear.

  God, in moments like these, he missed the fighting, the physical action of moving forward and taking down the enemy. The endless days of enduring, surviving. Hadn’t that been a surprise this past week? But keeping moving, vigilant, and active had kept some of the horror at bay. Most nights he’d been too tired to dream, but now he was home, and it was all flooding back like waves during high tide. How was he supposed to handle moments like these?

  Anna deserved better than this from him. She’d turned downright pale.

  He cleared his throat and found his voice again. “Black only. It will probably be the best coffee I’ve had in years. Not that I wasn’t grateful for the sludge we had over there.” Even cold coffee had been better than none, he’d often reminded himself.

  He sat first, and when she took the seat on his right rather than sitting across from him, he angled his chair to be closer to her. He watched as she carefully topped off her coffee with a dash of milk from a small china-painted pitcher that hadn’t been on the table earlier. He had to tear his gaze away from it, telling himself it was just plain ol’ milk, but his mind couldn’t let the thought go.

  He took a drink from his own mug and scalded the roof of his mouth. The aroma of the deep roast complemented the bittersweet flavor on his tongue. “I knew you’d make the best coffee.”

  “My dad used to say that,” she said, turning her cup. “Made my mom mad as a hornet. But never mind that. So you stopped in Washington, D.C. Is that where you sent the telegram from? Tell me…everything! I mean, there’s so much I want to know. Now that I have you, I plan on hearing all your stories.”

  The devilish look in her eye confirmed what he’d already known from Martin and from her letters. When she wanted her way, Anna Sims got it.


  “I’ll tell you most of them. Some don’t bear repeating. To anyone.”

  He wished she wouldn’t press him about how Martin died. Mrs. Sims was already upset. What would happen when she found out Martin had died saving him? Would Anna be as upset as her mother? Oh, maybe he should keep it from her. Or delay the telling. Now that he and Anna were together, in person, his fanciful thoughts about her didn’t seem so fanciful.

  Suddenly, he wanted to hit something. Because he was no coward, and only a coward would shy away from the truth. She deserved to know, and when the time came, he would have to tell her.

  She took a sip of her coffee, studying him. “I’m familiar with this way of thinking from the soldiers I’ve met, but we’re…friends.”

  They were a heck of a lot more than that, and they both knew it. “We are.”

  “I want you to share things you wouldn’t share with anyone else. Like you did in some of your letters.”

  His mind flashed again to the German camp. To the thousands of dead bodies they’d found piled up like garbage. To the emaciated survivors walking around in dirty striped prison uniforms with numbers tattooed on their wrists. Nothing was ever going to wash away those images or the knowledge of what had been done to the people there. He’d thought he’d seen everything one human could do to another, but he’d been wrong.

  “We have plenty of time for stories,” he responded, trying to shake it off by focusing on her face. “I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone. Let that suffice for now.”

  “I hear a warning in your tone, Noah Weatherby,” she said, cocking her brow. “It won’t deter me. I won’t push you to tell me things, but I will encourage it. I’ve seen too many soldiers fester like they have boils on the inside. If you’re having nightmares—”

  “I didn’t call them that,” he interrupted.

  She leveled him a glance that was pure schoolteacher, and he recalled how determined she’d been in some of her letters. What other woman would talk so boldly about defying the Jerries by choosing love, not fear? She’d inspired him at so many turns when he’d needed it.