Dandelion Summer

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

But it was more than that. Everything made sense with Dad. Life was predictable and orderly. It made sense in the way he kept a hanky in his pocket for cleaning his glasses or in the knowledge that spring meant planting the garden and cleaning out the gutters. Every year about that time, they would survey their property for animals—good and bad—and perform maintenance on any mechanical device they owned. Madelyn loved sitting on a fence post watching him work on their car or the lawnmower, helping him where she could while peppering him with questions. He never seemed to mind, answering each one the best he could. At lunchtime, Mom would bring them sandwiches with freshly squeezed lemonade, kissing Dad’s forehead while laughing lightly at his greasy fingers.

  In early May of that year, he was the one who started asking the questions. “Do you think you can take care of the garden by yourself this year? And I know I usually take care of the yard, but could you handle mowing the grass?”

  “Sure!” Madelyn answered, on cloud nine, thinking her dad trusted her, not realizing the relevance of such a question was yet to come.

  He simply nodded his head and said, “Good,” but he said it quietly, more to himself than to Madelyn.

  On rainy weekends, when it was too difficult to do yard work, they would settle down in Dad’s study. Not many of her friends knew anything about their family’s money, or lack thereof, but her dad viewed finances as an opportunity to teach her. Each month they would gather the various bills together. He would write out the checks and let Madelyn record them in the ledger, adding deposits and subtracting payments. At first, he checked her work, but since Madelyn rarely made a mistake, he soon stopped. She even enjoyed helping him when the bank statement came in the mail. He showed her how to ensure that his balance and the bank’s balance matched. It felt like a puzzle they were solving together.

  Mom wasn’t fond of numbers the way Dad and Madelyn were. She liked painting and sewing. Often Madelyn would come home from school to find her experimenting with some new craft like laminated placemats that looked like cute little animals or macramé plant holders. Her materials would be strewn all across the kitchen table, and she would be singing some happy tune to herself. Mom was beautiful by anyone’s standards, even when messy. Her face was shaped like a china doll with misty blue eyes that lost the blue aspect when she was angry. Her wavy blond hair was usually held back with a headband, and her fingernails were often accidentally painted with the detritus from her various projects.

  Her finished works were amazing. Mom often invited Madelyn to join her along the way. She tried a few times, but Madelyn wasn’t good at it like Mom was. Daniel sometimes helped, but only if the project “wasn’t too girly,” in his words. Even when he did, he did his best to create outlandish things, like making placemats that resembled monsters or sharks instead of cute, harmless bunnies. Jillian always participated—in whatever ways she was able. Since she was seven that summer, Mom tried to do things that she could understand.

  Madelyn would watch them, jealous that she didn’t fit in the crook of Mom’s world like Jillian did, even being reluctant to join Daniel in playfully mocking her projects. Madelyn was the outsider looking in until Dad came in the door from work. After that, Madelyn didn’t notice the others.

  . . .

  If she’d actually paid attention, it would have occurred to her sooner that her life was about to change, or at least her perception of it. About the same time as Dad put her in charge of the garden, he asked if Madelyn wanted to balance the checkbook by herself. He watched over her shoulder but never said a word. It was hard to tell whose smile was wider, his or Madelyn’s, when she managed it without any trouble.

  “Madelyn, you’re brilliant. Why don’t you take a look at this?” he said as he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a file. Inside were several monthly bill charts he had made. They were drawn up on green graph paper with neat columns for amount, date paid, and check number. He showed her the one labeled June. “Here’s the list of what bills come due in June, and this is the amount I expect them to be. Does that make sense?” Madelyn nodded. Then he proceeded to teach her the basics of family finance and budgeting.

  When they finished, he smiled but appeared more relieved than happy. “Madelyn, this summer –”

  Before he had a chance to finish, Daniel burst in on them. “I think Mom might need your help.” Then he dashed out as quickly as he’d come, the mysterious grin on his face lingering in the air.

  Dad leaped up. “Daniel! What have you done?” He turned to Madelyn. “Will you please go check on your mother? I need to find your brother.”

  For once, Daniel hadn’t actually meant to play a trick on Mom. It was just a happy accident on his part. It seems that after it rained a few days before, Daniel was curious about all the worms that materialized on the sidewalk. He started gathering them up and putting them in the pocket of his jeans, meaning to do something with them later—he hadn’t decided what yet. Only, he got distracted climbing a tree and never removed them. It turns out dead worms float in the washing machine!

  It was another week before Mom and Dad cornered her and told her of the plans that had already been made. And even though she would have liked to have known sooner, in the end, it made no difference. The decision had been made, and her world was turning upside down.

  . . .

  Madelyn didn’t want to go to the airport with them a few weeks later on that June 6th, but staying home by herself and being reminded of how empty the house would feel without Dad seemed a worse option. So, she went anyway.

  Dad and Mom spent much of the time waiting for his flight in hushed conversation as if the rest of them didn’t exist. Dad kept reassuring Mom with words like, “Don’t worry,” although to Madelyn his need to say them meant that’s exactly what they should do.

  Then he said, “What about your dad?” It seemed a strange question to be asking at this point. Did he think Grandpa was going to step in and help? Madelyn wondered. Grandpa hadn’t been around at all lately, so how could he possibly help?

  Mom had explained it to her—not to her satisfaction, but that didn’t seem to be Mom’s concern. Madelyn’s grandma had died in a car accident not long ago. Before the accident, her grandparents visited often, but after the accident, Grandpa had been around almost constantly—until the spring. Mom told her simply that his work had changed and he didn’t have time to spend with them anymore. It didn’t make sense then, and it certainly didn’t make sense now.

  But, regardless, the fact remained—Grandpa wouldn’t be slipping into Dad’s shoes while he was away. Apparently, Dad had all kinds of illusions about how their summer was going to go. The knot in her stomach grew tighter, the bitter pill getting harder and harder to swallow.

  When the announcement came across the loudspeaker that it was time to board, Dad gave hugs and kisses all around, gathered his things, and walked away, waving to them as he went. “Take care of your Mom,” were the final words he called back to Madelyn as he disappeared down the gaping tunnel.

  The words almost undid her. Despite her attitude, his leaving threatened to break her heart. Without Lori, she’d counted on him being there. It seemed the safest of assumptions, but she’d been mistaken. It may only be for the summer, but Madelyn needed him—and his final words weren’t even for her, they were about Mom.

  Madelyn turned to watch for him through the plate glass window. She hated to admit it, but she was upset with herself. She’d wasted the last few precious weeks he was home by turning an indifferent shoulder to him. They had even planted the garden together, side-by-side, but Madelyn had said little to him, grabbing seed packets from the basket while merely raising her eyebrows to ask if she’d picked the right one. Regret and anger mixed like bile in the back of her throat as she leaned her forehead against the cold glass.

 
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him emerge onto the tarmac then walk across it and up the stairs into the belly of the beast, painfully aware that a part of her was going with him. Mom was talking to Jillian and Daniel behind her, but Madelyn wasn’t listening to what they were saying. She didn’t know if she could handle watching the plane take off like they usually did, but she couldn’t peel her eyes away either, being drawn to it like a compelling yet disturbing accident scene.

  Dad’s flight was headed to Atlanta, and later he would travel from there to Jackson, Mississippi, where his training would take place, arriving late at night. As Madelyn watched his plane lift off, self-pity engulfed her despite her resolve not to care.

  Driving home from the airport was the longest ride of her life. The day had turned hot with an angry sun beating down. Daniel and Jillian in the back seat were alternately hitting, tickling, and pinching each other. “Mom, he –” and “But she –” continuously played behind her like a radio station with a record that was stuck. Mom kept responding, but Madelyn didn’t catch her words even though Mom was right beside her. She just couldn’t bring herself to engage, to be part of their lives.

  Madelyn rolled down her window and let her hand dance up and down on the air rushing past. The window frame was hot, and when she rested her arm on it, she felt it burn into her flesh. She yanked up quickly and turned to see if Mom had noticed, but her eyes were trained on the road, her hands tightly gripping the wheel. Sighing, Madelyn pulled her arm back in and rested her head on the back of the seat, staring up at the vacant ceiling above her.

  Looking back later, Madelyn had sensed something was off. It called to her in the pinched strain in Mom’s voice, the way she picked at her fingernails or chewed on her lower lip, and a general nervous unease of her movements—unusual behaviors that the lonely summer ahead couldn’t account for on its own. But caught up in her own thoughts as she was, the truth of it didn’t hit her at the time. It was like a whispered warning on the breeze, but if you’re not listening for a whisper, you can’t possibly catch its meaning.

  June 6, 1944

  “Hey, Knight, move it. You’re almost up.” The thought of what lay ahead made William shiver, but the presence of the jumpmaster rendered hesitation impossible. Time had just ticked past midnight, starting the soon to be legendary D-Day, and in a matter of seconds, William would find himself leaving the relative safety of the airplane, heading to the ground below. If he was lucky, and lucky was an interesting term, he wouldn’t end up dead or captured, just merely behind enemy lines. The plan involved paratroopers from one side of the line making it possible for soldiers landing on Utah beach to successfully attack from the other side. The man in front of William chuckled and said, “I always wanted to visit the French countryside, but somehow I envisioned doing it differently,” and then he was out the door.

  They had trained for a long time for this very moment—first in the United States and then in England once they had arrived, anxiously waiting for Operation Overlord to begin. All were nervous and excited at the same time. Survival, returning home to loved ones, was never far from their minds, but that, if it happened, was a long way off. Getting ready to jump out of an airplane, however unnatural that seemed, was the here and now.

  Already things weren’t going quite as planned for the 101st Airborne. Enemy fire had forced their pilot to take evasive action, and even the primed and ready paratroopers could see the heavy fog below.

  William jumped just when and where he thought he should, followed by his buddy Frank Stafford, and a trail of others behind him.

  As he was finding his feet after landing, he heard, “Hey, Knight, you okay?” The whisper was coming from the other side of the hedge but was the unmistakable gravelly voice of Frank.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Keep it down, will ya, Stank?” While his fellow soldiers were called by their last names, “Stafford” had proved to be too much of a mouthful. However, the combination of his first and last name had gained instant acceptance.

  As silently as possible, William pulled out his switchblade to cut himself free from his parachute lines and harness. Before he was finished, Frank was standing beside him. “What’s taking you so long?” he said, causing William to jump.

  “Man, Stank, stop it. You see anyone else?”

  “Nah.”

  “Okay, help me gather up this parachute and get your clicker handy. I don’t want to find out someone’s the enemy the hard way.”

  . . .

  By the time the first rays of sun became visible on the horizon, the pair had grown to a small, ad hoc unit of twelve. Between the dark night and the fog, navigating by sight had been difficult, but they had at least found each other by clicking their cricket noisemakers and waiting for the answering click of friendly soldiers—always a relief that the rifles they had at the ready were still just a precaution.

  Palmer, as the only sergeant in the group, had become their de facto leader. Since he was as hungry as they were, he knew which objective to focus on when a house and a church each came into view. “Hey, Knight, Stank, go check out the church for any holed-up Krauts. Johnson and I will go check out the farmhouse down the road. Maybe we can rustle up a nice breakfast. The rest of you, stay hidden the best you can.”

  The possibility of fresh eggs in their future added a briskness to their step as they ascended the small hill to the chapel. William tried not to look at the headstones in the adjacent graveyard they came across first. “At least we’re not among them, Will,” Frank said, coming up behind him.

  “Yeah, you said it, Frank.” It was a small thing, this use of their given names, but it expressed what they found hard to articulate in any other way.

  The church was lovely, nothing like the wooden churches in the States. This one was built of stone and would stand for hundreds of years, in fact, probably already had. Although anxious to return to their buddies, the two couldn’t help but glance up in the dawning light at the steeple rising in the air above them. A small belfry stood below it, thankfully silent at the moment. Gracing the side of the church was a row of large peaked windows illuminated by the sun, and just past them, they spied an arched entryway.

  “C’mon, let’s get this over with,” Frank said, heading to the heavy, ornate door, gun at the ready.

  “Yeah, the sooner, the better.”

  The door was unlocked and creaked open at their gentle urging. Neither was prepared for what they found inside.

  The scent hit them first—a combination of dust and age as if they were stepping back in time a hundred years, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The morning light, which had merely exposed the windows on the outside, now transformed them along with the interior of the small chapel. Streaming through stained glass, it draped the wooden pews in blues, greens, and reds and painted the stone floor with brightly colored images of saints.

  They immediately found it impossible to walk silently across the interlocking, rectangular stones under their feet. So, they opted instead for swinging their M1 rifles in all directions in case of an enemy presence. How they missed seeing the small man near the altar at the front, they couldn’t say.

  “Hallo,” echoed through the chapel, startling both soldiers.

  “Did you see him?” Frank turned to ask William.

  William shook his head, “And if anyone asks …”

  “Yeah, right, I spotted him as soon as we came in.”

  “Like any good soldier,” added William.

  “Hallo,” the man repeated. Thankfully, it was English—heavily accented English, but English all the same.

  William and Frank walked toward the older man who they could now see wore priest’s vestments, but just as they drew close, he disappeared. They hadn’t even had the chance to
inquire about the state of the church or the presence or absence of German soldiers.

  Exchanging puzzled glances, the two walked to where they had last seen the priest. He had been up against the back wall, and they could now see a full-length curtain still swaying slightly. Frank was just leaning forward to sweep it aside with his hand when the priest reemerged, almost running right into him. He was carrying something in each hand, and his eyes were warily darting back and forth.

  “Are you okay?” William said. The priest furrowed his brow, possibly confused by the English or maybe giving his answer. “Krauts?” William tried again, this time swinging his arms wide to hopefully convey the idea of anywhere in the church.

  “Non, non,” the priest said, shaking his head. Then with wide eyes he added, “Krauts,” while indicating with an outstretched arm the darkened windows to the west.

  “Krauts? That way?” Frank said, mimicking the priest’s motion.

  “Oui, oui!”

  “Hey, Stank, if that’s the case, we’ve got to go tell Palmer,” William said as he turned to leave.

  “Non, non!” the priest said, quickly stepping in front of the two men. He held a hand out in front of Frank. In it, in the visible strips of light, lay a brass crucifix. The priest thrust it at Frank. “S’il vous plaît. Take. Make safe.” Then he nodded his head in the direction of the Germans.

  “Keep it safe? You don’t want the Germans to have it?”

  “Oui, oui. Take,” the priest said, leaving the crucifix in Frank’s hand. Then he turned to William. “You take,” he said, handing him a fabric-wrapped parcel that he’d been holding in his other hand. “Make safe.”

  William was hesitant, but the eyes of the priest were pleading, glancing nervously to the west toward the location of their common enemy. William tentatively closed his fingers around the object. It felt like a large, rolled up scroll, but it was hard to tell anything more than that, having been carefully wrapped for protection.