Along Waters of Sunshine and Shadow

by Ava Miles

  “There’s a lot on economics and how it drives the world. Honestly, I’ve skipped some of that. I was more interested in the economic impact of war. The way Mill describes it…well, it looks very different when you’re in the face of it.”

  He thought of the devastation he’d seen. Ancestral homes demolished. Towns in existence since the Romans leveled. And one of the deaths that haunted him most—the little boy who had shined his shoes in exchange for a chocolate bar lying dead on the ground without legs after enemy mortar fire. Noah had told Anna about that boy, but he hadn’t told her that he’d found him two days later, his life snuffed out. The boy had been the same age as her students, and he knew the truth would devastate her. If he’d cried, surely she would. Why cause her the pain?

  There had been so much devastation, human and physical. How could it ever be rebuilt? Sure, Mill also talked about the money war generated, in terms of weapons and industry, but the very thought of someone profiting from war left a bitter taste in Noah’s mouth.

  “I imagine war looks very different than Mill writes,” Father Shaughnessy said. “Seems like every line of morality is blurred in times of war.”

  “Is morality ever that clear?”

  Father closed his book and then crossed his hands prayer-like in his lap. “I could tell you Jesus and others in the Bible outline morality rather nicely, but you might say there are some contradictions even there. I might even agree with you, but don’t tell the bishop.”

  So the priest had a boss too? No one seemed to be their own man these days. “Yeah, the Old Testament talks about an eye for an eye while Jesus talks about turning the other cheek, if I recall. The orphanage schooled us in the Bible. Said it would help us get over our unfortunate births and not turn into bad seeds.”

  “That gets my fire up,” Father said. “Why people talk such ways to children, I’ll never know. Most children are as pure as any saint, but I digress. Back to morality. In my experience, most men of faith exhibit both tendencies, forgiveness and revenge. I rather like Marcus Aurelius’ saying about the matter.”

  Noah loved that Roman philosopher. He’d devoured Meditations when he’d found a copy. “Which one?”

  “‘Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.’”

  “That’s a good one,” Noah said. “One of my favorites is ‘You will find rest from vain fancies if you perform every act in life as though it were your last.’ The war sure as hell—sorry, heck—taught me that. I’m surprised you’re so versed in a Roman emperor and philosopher. Didn’t he persecute Christians?”

  “Son, if I only read men who hadn’t persecuted Christians, I wouldn’t have read some of my own church’s history.”

  Noah almost chuckled at that one. “You seem rather open-minded…”

  “For a priest?” The man bellowed a laugh, a loud boisterous one that had him clutching his belly. “People have such stereotypes about so-called men of God. When I first heard someone refer to me that way, I looked over my shoulder to see who they were talking about. Then I realized it was synonymous for priest in their vernacular. Ridiculous, if you ask me. I’m no more a man of God than anyone else trying to be.”

  Noah was starting to like this man more and more.

  “That’s why I like Aurelius’ quote in Meditations. It’s a simple statement of what I was raised to believe, I suppose. My father always did what he thought was right and taught us to do the same. If he had any confusion about the best course to take, he would research the alternatives, pray on it, and come to an answer that gave him ease if not outright peace. In Catholic terms, we call that a well-informed conscience. It’s something I live by.”

  That was a new term to Noah. “What if you have to do something you believe is wrong?”

  “Such as?” the priest asked.

  “Like killing a man in the line of duty,” Noah said. “When I first signed up—right after Pearl Harbor—I believed it was the right thing to do. That we needed to take down the bastards who’d bombed the Arizona and killed our boys. Sorry about the language, Father.”

  He waved a hand. “You can’t offend me. Keep going.”

  “Well, there were people I killed who I can justify having killed. They were going to kill me or one of my guys. You just do it, you know. In the moment.” He suddenly could feel his pack on his back. Feel his gun in his hand.

  “And now?”

  He struggled for words. “I…feel haunted by it all. The killing. The friends who went down next to me. I figure…I would feel different about it if I believed it was completely justified.”

  Father said nothing, and for a moment Noah waited for him to respond. When the silence lingered, Noah shook his head. Maybe the priest didn’t have any answers either. Maybe no one did.

  “Some of the men I shot would call out for their mothers. Mutter and madre are easy to make out. Then there were other women’s names. Maybe a wife or girlfriend. Even a sister.”

  Hadn’t Martin called out for Anna and his mother in the end? “It was hard to shake the feeling we were all caught up in the same kind of hell. They were taking orders just like me, and all because some guy had decided to take what wasn’t his. They got caught up defending it, whether they wanted to or not.”

  “And it was your duty to stop him even though he wasn’t the one who’d started it in the first place?”

  “Yes,” Noah said immediately, and then felt a familiar stab of confusion. “No. I don’t know. That’s the problem. I can see both sides. Hell, part of me wishes our side hadn’t beaten Germany up so badly after World War One. Some say Hitler could never have done what he did if the conditions hadn’t been right. But that doesn’t matter, does it? What’s done is done.”

  “Yes, it’s done,” Father said. “Millions of people have died in this war, and some will still die before we beat down the Japanese, God willing. Are we better off after it all? I want to tell myself we stood up to yet another bully in history, and I believe that’s true, yet I could name you twenty war widows. Now I have good men I’ve known since they were born coming back home and going to confession, crying their hearts out as they share the gory details of the things they had to do in war. I’m struggling for answers as much as they are.”

  Noah wondered if confessing had helped any of the men, or if they continued to be haunted by their memories.

  “Back in my old neighborhood,” Father continued, “we had a saying about the ends justifying the means. As I grow older, I’m not so sure that’s appropriate for every situation. But I’m also not sure that merely loving someone as Christ would will preserve justice and order in the world.”

  “So you’re just as messed up as I am,” Noah said before grimacing. “Sorry, Father. I’m not fit for polite company. I’ve done nothing other than fight for the past few years.”

  “Yet you managed to make a beautiful young woman like Anna Sims fall in love with you,” Father said. “That seems to suggest you haven’t lost all your faculties.”

  “Letters aren’t exactly the same as keeping company,” Noah said. “She might well change her mind.”

  “I doubt that,” Father Shaughnessy said. “Anna is a good judge of character. So was Martin. From what I can see, you’re very good company. You ask good questions. You have strong feelings about the important things. That makes me like you all the more.”

  He found himself blinking in surprise at the man. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Please call me Niall,” he said. “You’re not Catholic, and it must seem weird for you to use that word for a man who isn’t your father.”

  Noah had never called any man father, but he refrained from saying so.

  “Besides, I have a feeling we might come to be friends. Certainly it’s nice for me to quote men like Marcus Aurelius without getting into trouble with the bishop.” He laughed. “Some narrow-minded people think we priests should only read Catholic theologians. Again, my father taught us to read everything we could on the topics that inte
rested us.”

  “What was his profession?”

  “He was a history teacher at Loyola University here in Chicago,” Father—no, Niall—said.

  “He sounds like a good man. I imagine he left a legacy,” Noah said.

  “He wouldn’t have called it that,” Niall said. “He only did what he felt was good and right. His passion was helping young people learn more about the world’s history and how it impacted their lives and minds today. He wasn’t thrilled about me becoming a priest. Thought it would be too restrictive for my mind, but I’ve managed to navigate the sometimes narrow corridors of the church all right.”

  “What is your passion then?” Noah asked.

  “Serving people in the most joyous and horrible moments of their lives, from a baptism to a death. People say I have the best shoulder to cry on.” He waggled his brows. “In case you ever need it.”

  Noah almost laughed. “I’m good, but thanks.”

  “So, Noah, what is your passion?”

  “I’m hoping to discover it,” he said. “I told Anna I started learning things, reading books and the like, when I came across Francis Bacon’s saying that knowledge is power. An orphan doesn’t have much power.”

  “And what’s up here can never be taken away,” Niall said, tapping his temple. “Smart of you to realize that. You can’t be persuaded to do something against your own good if you have knowledge. People can make bad choices, but those mostly come from ignorance, malice, or fear. Someone with knowledge learns how to make decisions from a different place, and when coupled with the heart, you can’t go wrong.”

  Noah had never heard a man talk about the heart like that. “You’re right, Niall. I have a feeling we are going to be friends.”

  The man stood. “I’m going to head up to bed and see if I can sleep a little more before morning Mass. Please feel free to stay as long as you like. As I said last night, think of this place as your home.”

  As he watched him walk off, Noah sat up straighter in his chair. “Thank you, Niall. For the company.”

  At the door, Niall turned. “I heard you call out earlier. I came down thinking you might need a friend. Turns out, I needed one too. Thank you, Noah.”

  Noah could only lean back in astonishment as his new friend closed the library door.

  Chapter 8

  Anna was making coffee the next morning when her mother came into the kitchen.

  “Margaret O’Shea is a meddling busybody,” she said, her tone filled with angst. “She kept me up all night with her interfering opinions.”

  Turning around, Anna leaned back against the counter. She searched her mother’s pale face. Had her conscience bothered her? “Mrs. O’Shea has been your friend since the day we moved to this neighborhood.”

  Her mother pulled out a chair and sat down. “My on-and-off friend, to be precise. That woman can push at you something fierce when she has a mind to. She couldn’t talk enough about how happy you looked, dancing with your fella. Everyone playing cards was on the edge of their seats, wondering what I was going to say in response. She embarrassed me in front of them.”

  So this was about embarrassment? “She means well, Mom. They all do, you know. Our friends have had always had our backs. Do you remember how old Mr. Dunne helped you collect Dad’s pension after he died? Or how Mrs. Fitzsimmons organized all the food for Martin’s wake?”

  Her mother placed her elbow on the table and rested her face on her palm. “Yes, I remember all of that, Anna, and it’s not that I’m not grateful. But to call me out in my own house. God knows what she’s saying elsewhere.”

  This conversation wasn’t raising her hopes. “She’s not a gossip, Mom. You know that. Everyone is just worried about you. That’s why they’ve been talking like that.” She sat down at the table and held out her hand.

  Her mother took it, and Anna had to blink away tears of relief. “If Father Shaughnessy and Margaret are any indication, people are worried indeed. I’ve never seen so much meddling.”

  “It’s an Irish thing,” Anna said. “You know that. We meddle and push at each other out of love. Dad always used to say that. Remember?”

  There was an audible sniff. “That man could push like no one’s business. I’m not sure I would have married him if he hadn’t harangued me into it. Oh, I miss him, Anna. Ever since Martin died, I’ve wished I could curl up in your father’s arms and hear him tell me everything was going to be okay.”

  Anna couldn’t fight the tears streaming down her face. “I miss him too, Mom.”

  “Then I remind myself I’m glad he isn’t with us because he’d have to grieve Martin too,” she said, letting go of Anna’s hand and rising to pour herself some coffee. “He was a strong man, but I’m not sure he was strong enough to lose a son.”

  Anna wasn’t so sure about that. Her dad had always faced everything head on, but she wasn’t going to dispute her mother’s opinion. Clearly she’d given it a lot of thought.

  Her mother returned to the table and set her coffee down and then crossed again and poured another cup, setting this one in front of Anna. Somehow it felt like a peace offering.

  “I watched you from my window last night a couple of times,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Margaret was right, although it galls me to admit it. You did look happy.”

  “I am happy, Mom.”

  Her mother gave a deep sigh and then was silent for a moment. “When I came down to make a plate, I can’t tell you how many people told me they were impressed with Noah. Did you know he served with Audie Murphy?”

  Anna reached for the milk and added some to her coffee. “I…ah…hadn’t put it together until some of the boys mentioned it. Noah doesn’t like to talk about the war.”

  Her mother’s face seemed to crumple. “That infernal war… Oh, Martin, my sweet boy.”

  Anna rose from her chair and put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Mom, maybe Mrs. O’Shea is right. We do need women like you to welcome our boys home. Who would better understand how precious their lives are?”

  Her mother set her cup down so hard it sounded like thunder cracking in the sky. “You aren’t a mother. You don’t understand. And neither does Margaret, for that matter. Now that I think of it, she wasn’t as close to her Paddy as I was to Martin. I wish I’d remembered that last night. I lost sleep for nothing.”

  Anna dropped her arm from her mother’s shoulders, totally deflated. “No, she wasn’t, but Paddy was still her son and she mourns him. No different than you.”

  “How dare you!” her mother said, her face tightening.

  Then she slapped Anna’s face. Anna gasped in shock, her hand flying up to her stinging cheek.

  Her mother stared at her, her blue eyes wide. Anna could only stare back in return, words failing her.

  “I’m sorry, Anna,” her mother said, “but you went too far. You’re wrong. You’re all wrong.” Tears filled her eyes, and she picked up her coffee and hurried out.

  Left alone in the kitchen, Anna started to cry. Her mother had never slapped her before. Sure, she’d paddled her bottom a little here and there when she was growing up, but this…

  It took her a few moments to compose herself. She said one Hail Mary and then another, her conversation with her mother replaying in her mind. The hint of hope she’d felt at the beginning had been dashed as surely as wrecking balls destroyed those condemned buildings downtown.

  Had she gone too far? No, her mother had been the one to compare her grief to another’s, and that was wrong. How could she say Mrs. O’Shea didn’t grieve Paddy as much as she grieved Martin? That wasn’t fair. But would her mother admit that? No, she had to be right, and worse, everyone else had to be wrong. Her dad had always chided her mother for being prideful. She’d reacted by pretending to beam him with the cast-iron frying pan, but her dad had only laughed. It had been their way. Now that he was gone, few people were brave enough to tell her mother to stand down.

  She eyed the clock, wondering when N
oah was going to come over. She desperately wanted to see him. Feel his arms wrap around her. What her mother had said about her father was true. Her dad had always been able to allay her fears with a hug. When Robert Sims put his arms around you and told you everything was going to be okay, you believed him. When Noah held her, she felt the same way, and that was surely a sign. Then she realized she could go to him. No need to wait. If he wasn’t up, she could spend some time in church, praying. Maybe that would help her find some clarity about the situation with her mother.

  The stinging on her face reminded her she had to have a red mark on her cheek. Realizing how Noah was likely to react to the mark, she set her coffee aside and started cleaning up what was left of the kitchen.

  When she was finished, Anna found a mirror and checked her face. The steam from washing the dishes had dissipated some of her powder. She needed a touch more lipstick too. The mark on her cheek was almost gone, but she dabbed it with extra powder all the same, doing her best to settle her conflicting emotions. There was plenty of time to pray over that later.

  The sunshine felt good when she stepped off the front porch and tucked her purse under her arm. She called out to the neighborhood kids she passed, some playing ball and some playing tag. Next summer she hoped to see them riding their bicycles again. All of them had turned in their tires to help the war effort.

  When she reached St. Patrick’s, she stopped and let a familiar peace settle over her. This was her sanctuary. Some might consider it a bit heretical, but the school and the playground off to the right of the church building were just as sacred to her. They uplifted her spirit in the same way praying in church often did.

  “Anna!” she heard a now-familiar voice call out.

  “Noah!” she shouted back, turning in his direction.