by Ava Miles
He chuckled. “I remember doing stuff like that.”
“You? I’m surprised. You don’t even smoke.”
“I did before the war, but like I told you in one of my letters, I didn’t want to be shot because I was out taking a smoke. The guys ribbed me about it at first. Then we ran out of fags, and they wished they’d quit sooner too.”
She’d smoked less as the war had gone on too, mostly because there had been cigarette rationing. Of course she could have taken some from the USO like many of the girls did, but she didn’t feel okay about it. Receiving gas rations was one thing. Transportation to the USO was part of the job.
“Well, aren’t you a smart one?” she said, loving the feel of his body against hers. Of course, they needed to keep a little more distance between them with everyone around. Last night after dinner, they hadn’t needed to observe such proprieties.
“You’re the teacher,” he said. “Everyone has been telling me how great you are with their kids. Willie’s mom said you single-handedly taught her son addition, which his earlier teachers couldn’t do.”
She shrugged. “Some teachers brand kids as smart or challenged and then treat them accordingly. I don’t do that.”
“To your credit,” Noah said, turning her slowly. “If I’d had a teacher like you, I might have finished high school.”
He’d alluded to being mostly book learned in his letters, but hadn’t elaborated. “Why didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t take the rules anymore, so I ran away at fifteen. I made sure I had a job first—I found one at a local bar a few days before I left for good. Some of the boys and girls had run away earlier, and they’d fallen into…difficult circumstances.”
She thought of how safe her upbringing had been. “I hope the first thing you did when you left the orphanage was get an ice cream.”
He spun her around. “You remember that story, do you?”
“Of course. You got busted for sneaking out, only to discover the great thinkers because you had to clean the library. How could I not remember a thing like that?”
His hand gripped her waist. “I remember all of your stories too. When I couldn’t sleep or we were hunkered down in a foxhole, waiting for orders, I’d replay them in my mind.”
“I’m glad.”
“I told you they kept me going,” he said, his green eyes intent on her face. “You kept me going.”
Her heart welled up with feeling, and she didn’t care that others were looking. She laid her head on his shoulder. Everyone knew he was her beau. A few of her friends had even asked when they were getting married. Alice seemed especially determined to get them hitched. Her argument was no-nonsense and straight to the point, so Alice: If you don’t marry the guy you’ve been writing letters to for a year and a half now, what’s wrong with you? Heck, what’s wrong with him if he doesn’t ask you right away?
Not wanting to stir the pot, she’d put them off, saying he’d only just returned home. Soon Noah would have to meet everybody in her life, but it seemed wise to make it gradual. The neighborhood was plenty for the moment.
“You also didn’t tell me I’d have a welcome committee like this,” he said in a voice only she could hear.
“I guess I didn’t really think about it. I was so focused on getting you here.” Home to me, she thought but didn’t say.
Last night she’d thanked God again for bringing him home safely. She had a feeling she was going to be saying that prayer for some time.
“Me too, Anna,” he said. “Thank you. I…never imagined I’d feel so welcomed. These people…they’ve made me feel like one of them.”
She lifted her head. “I’m so glad you’re okay with all of this because…well, this is my life. This is how it is here.”
This is what it would be like if you married me.
His mouth turned up. “I like your life, Anna Sims.”
Oh, how she wanted to stroke his face, that slight dent in his chin. It wasn’t as marked as Cary Grant’s or anything, but it was still charming. Someone bumped into her from behind, and she heard a chair slam to the ground moments afterward. Noah jerked in her arms. His head swung in the direction of the sound, and she felt his muscles bunch as if in preparation to spring.
“Someone knocked down a chair,” she told him, carefully watching his face as he struggled with his war instincts. “This is what I meant by things getting crazy. Some people drink until they’re three sheets to the wind and then…”
His heart was pounding. She could feel the loud, angry beats against her hand. And was that sweat running down his temple? He didn’t look like he was breathing.
“Noah, let’s grab a drink,” she said, tugging on his hand to lead him away from the dancing.
Sure enough, Robbie Murphy and Johnny O’Hara were so drunk they were holding each other up as they laughed raucously by the large tree flanking the alley. If anyone ended up throwing up in their backyard, she was going to give them an earful and make them clean it up with a water hose. But right now, she needed to do what she could to help Noah.
His hand was protective, positioned on her lower back, and she could feel him straining to keep control of himself. Opening the back door, she smiled when she saw some of their older neighbors playing gin rummy at the kitchen table. His muscles seemed to lock, and she knew he was hanging on by a thread.
“Noah, why don’t you go to the front porch? I’ll grab you a drink.”
He nodded at everyone before exiting the kitchen.
“It’s a great party, Anna,” Mrs. O’Shea said, shuffling the cards. “Your dad and Martin would have loved it. Your mother should have taken some aspirin for that headache.”
A few people nodded while a couple others looked away, as if they didn’t want to make eye contact.
“I did take some aspirin, Margaret O’Shea,” she heard her mother say from behind her. “Of course, with all the ruckus going on outside, it’s not helping my headache none. I might as well play cards.”
She gave Anna a pointed look before pulling an empty chair to the table. Anna had to soften her mouth. Somehow her mother’s appearance didn’t make her feel better.
“Paddy would have loved this party if he hadn’t died in the Pacific,” Mrs. O’Shea continued, laying her cards face down on the table. “Mary, it seems to me like it’s up to those of us who’ve lost sons in this war to celebrate the boys who come back.”
A pin could have dropped and no one would have noticed. Anna watched Mrs. O’Shea stare her mother down.
“Anna’s beau is a good man from what I can tell, and that’s no surprise given her good sense,” the woman continued. “He’s a real hero.”
“Hear, hear,” old Mr. Dunne said, thumping the table. “Martin wouldn’t have picked a know-nothing for a friend, and Anna sure as hell wouldn’t have fallen for one. You raised your children right, Mary Sims, and don’t you forget it.”
Given her mother’s earlier comments about her poor judgment, she appreciated their support. She felt tears gather in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “Speaking of Noah, I promised him a drink. Mom, I hope you have fun playing cards. Maybe it will make your headache go away.”
“One can hope,” her mother said. “Margaret O’Shea, you’d better stop jawing at me and deal the cards.”
Exiting the tense room seemed like a good plan. Looking in the refrigerator, she pulled out two Squirts. She’d seen Noah lift a drink with Brian Dougherty and a couple of the other men freshly back from Europe, but he didn’t seem like much of a drinker. A toast was something special, and she had a notion they’d been drinking to their fallen comrades.
When she reached the front porch, Noah was standing with his back against the brick wall, facing out toward the street. His tough-guy stance made her wonder what memories were filtering through his mind.
“I have your drink,” she said, sitting in a chair.
She felt a pinch of guilt for stepping away from their guests, but she
wanted to be alone with him, if only for a while. Right now he needed it, and she realized she did as well. Seeing her mother stand off with Mrs. O’Shea had left her unsettled even if she wanted to kiss the woman for speaking her mind.
Noah stayed standing, and she wondered if that was because he couldn’t sit yet. He didn’t take a drink of his soda either.
“You don’t drink much,” she said. “Alcohol, I mean.”
“There are two kinds of bartenders in the world. The ones who drink like fishes and the ones who don’t give it much thought. I’m the latter.”
“I’m kinda glad. I’m not happy when the men get to the falling over stage.”
“I don’t fall over,” he said simply.
No, he wouldn’t. Even though he was still so thin, he was strong as an ox. She’d felt his biceps when she’d touched his arms.
“I’d try to catch you if you did, but then I’d have to beam you in the head with a cast-iron frying pan the next morning.”
“A cast-iron frying pan?” he asked, easing into the chair beside her.
She swallowed her sigh of relief. She’d noticed how he’d stand for a while until he felt more comfortable. It was like the solider in him had been assured everything was safe before he relaxed. Please God, let that go away soon. She hated to see him so torn between what he’d been and what he might become.
“In my family, the women are known for chasing their, ah…” She couldn’t use the word “husband” quite yet. “The men in the house with a frying pan. It’s an Irish thing, I think. My grandfather gave my mother a pan like that when she married my father, and it always sat on one of the stove burners, part joke, part threat.”
After her dad died, her mother had clutched that silly frying plan to her chest and then dumped it in the trash. Somehow she’d forgotten that. Anna wondered who was going to give her a frying pan. All the significant men in her life had passed, and she didn’t imagine her uncle would remember unless her aunt reminded him. But even though they saw them at holidays when they drove up from Champlain, they weren’t close. Well, she could buy her own frying pan if she wanted to.
“I would appreciate not having a threat like that around,” Noah said softly. “I…can’t guarantee how I would react. What with the war and all…”
Oh, how stupid of her. “Of course,” she said, leaning forward and looking him in the eye. “I can’t imagine needing to keep you in line like that anyway. That didn’t come out right. I didn’t meant to imply—”
“I know what you meant,” he said, extending his hand.
“Seems silly talking about frying pans, doesn’t it?” she asked, taking it.
“And yet, when you talked about the tradition, your eyes filled with light, even in the dark. Then they grew sad again.”
She waved a hand. “Memories, is all.”
“Memories are powerful,” he said. “Too powerful, in some cases.”
He was referring to the war, she imagined. “Noah.”
“What?” he asked.
His hand was warm, and she curled her fingers around it. “I only wanted to say your name. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” he said, rubbing the back of her knuckles with his thumb. “We should head back. Your neighbors will be wondering where we’ve gone off to. I don’t want there to be any untoward talk.”
“They know we’re on the porch, trust me,” she said. “No one has any secrets in this neighborhood. When you sneeze with the windows open, someone next door says, ‘God bless you.’”
He chuckled. “Good to know. I’ll make sure to muffle my sneezes. Come on. Let’s dance a little more. What time do people normally clear out?”
The grandfather clock in the parlor had indicated it was close to midnight when she’d walked by it. “With school out, it might be two-ish? Of course, some of the older people might head on home soon.”
The ones with young children had already left. Anna thought about the older neighbors playing gin rummy with her mother. Who knew how long they’d keep playing? Would her mother stay until the end? Anna hoped so. It didn’t make up for her earlier behavior, but at least it was something.
“What about Father Shaughnessy?” he asked. “I don’t want to bother him or the other priest, especially on my first night.”
“Oh, Father can party with the best of them, but he has the morning Mass at seven. He might head out early. We can ask him.”
He stood and pulled her out of the chair. Needing to touch him, she moved in and hugged him. His arms came around her too, and they swayed to the music coming through the windows.
Earlier, just as the party was heating up, she’d pushed the radio in front of one of the back-facing windows and cranked up the dial. The news updates on the war in between the songs had brought quiet to the party every time they aired. Noah had looked down at his feet, his hands clenched by his sides. Maybe he was frustrated to be listening to the news now that he was no longer part of it. While he hadn’t said it, she suspected he was bothered to be home before the war was truly over.
Please God, let it end soon and bring all our boys back.
“I love you,” she whispered against his neck.
“I love you,” he whispered back, his hands clenching on her waist for a moment.
Oh, how she loved the way he squeezed her like that. “I want to send them all away and be with you,” she said.
“But that wouldn’t be neighborly. Besides, they’ve been so welcoming to me. I would hate to offend anyone. Come on. We’ll dance some more. The time will fly.”
The time did fly, but Noah ended up going off with Father after the two of them helped her clean up, something her mother had failed to do, having gone up when the card playing ended.
Anna watched them until they disappeared from view, then shut the front door and leaned against it. Seeing him walk off had pulled at her heart strings, but it wasn’t like he was going off to war again.
Soon, she hoped they’d be closing down parties together, only to retire to the quiet sanctuary of their bedroom.
Chapter 7
Noah awoke gasping. The image of Henry’s guts spilling out continued to play in his mind. Oh, the gore…
Sweat rolled down his face, and he pressed his hands to his chest in the hopes it would help him breathe. He closed his eyes, but the images continued their haunting repetition. Blood. So much blood. Spurting. Gushing. Internal organs pink and pulsing.
God! He shoved the covers off and stood up, clutching the bedpost for balance. These dreams were pure agony. His friends and brothers at arms dying over and over again around him as he watched, helpless to save them.
His room felt like a small cage, and he couldn’t ignore the urge for more breathing room. If he was quiet, he could make it down to the library. Maybe he could find solace in a book until dawn broke. Father Shaughnessy had shown him the way of things earlier in a brief tour before bidding him a congenial goodnight likely fueled by Brian Dougherty’s whiskey.
Noah scrubbed at his face, wiping away sweat droplets, and made his way out. The house was quiet save for a man’s snoring coming from Father Wilson’s room. His heart still thundered like a German tank in his ears and he fought the urge to run. His body and mind were at war, and all he wanted to do was charge down the stairs and out the front door to fight. Something. Anything. But the enemy wasn’t outside…
The enemy was inside now, and he felt powerless in the face of it.
Light shone in the library’s doorway. Had someone forgotten to turn off a lamp? When he entered, he stopped short. Father Shaughnessy was sitting in a wing-backed chair with a book open in his lap. His cheeks were less ruddy than they’d been.
“Noah!” the priest said. “Come join an old man. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, and I come down here when it’s clear no amount of praying will help me rest.”
He wasn’t suitable for company. “No, I’ll—”
“Sit right here,” the priest said, standing and crossi
ng to him. “I won’t bother you, I swear. We can read in silence. Please, choose a book and make yourself comfortable.”
The man stood silently before him, as if waiting for Noah to make a choice. He couldn’t face his tiny room again. It was either stay here or wander outside and sit on the front porch, but he desperately wanted something to focus on instead of the way he was feeling, and books had always been an escape for him.
“Thank you,” he said, breaking off to the bookshelves.
Father shuffled back to his chair and resumed reading. Noah looked at the leather-bound books and felt his heart rate slow. By God, the man hadn’t been emptily boasting. He had an incredible collection of philosophy.
“Have you read John Stuart Mill’s Principles of Political Economy?” Father asked. “A quote from it came to mind earlier, one that might interest you. ‘A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.’ I pulled the book when I came down so I wouldn’t forget. It’s on the table by the other chair.”
A man who has nothing to fight for… “That does interest me. Thank you.”
He moved slowly to the chair, his eyes resting on the navy leather-bound book stamped with a gold title. Father crossed his ankles and sank deeper into the chair.
“Of course, he talks about justice and the misery of war and some other things. See what you think. Oh, and turn on that other lamp. No need to strain your eyes.”
“I will. Thank you.” He realized he was repeating himself, so he opened the book.
The mantel clock ticked in the background as Noah started reading. The outer world faded, and he found himself in a space that had always comforted him. It felt as if Mill was speaking to him, and only him, his ideas coming to Noah as if they were seated side by side.
“How are you finding Mill?” Father Shaughnessy asked after a while.
Noah had to shake off the reverie. He looked over. The priest was regarding him in the soft lamplight. The man had a way of making his body completely still, even though he was actively listening. It practically compelled a person to talk, and the priest didn’t miss much of what was said to him, Noah imagined.
