“I’m sorry if I made too much noise. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Don’t you worry none. I’ve been living next door to that family for going on twenty years now. I know each and every noise they make,” she said. “Hearing you didn’t bother me. Rather, it made me curious.”
“Is that right?” Peter asked cautiously.
Ruth nodded. “The Marstens all make different sounds, some noisier than others, especially Grace. That girl hollers like the devil himself was chasing her,” she explained with a laugh. “But they all greet me each morning without fail. It might be nothing more than a quick hello, a comment on the weather, or an offer to come sit awhile and gossip, but they do it all the same. Then today, you came outside,” Ruth said, pointing her wrinkled finger right at him. “You didn’t say a word, which made me interested.”
Peter didn’t answer.
“You’re the one who kept Olivia from being run over by that old drunk Sylvester, aren’t you?” she kept on.
“You heard about that?”
“There isn’t a person in town who hasn’t by now,” Ruth answered. “Maybe even a couple of towns over, too. I think half the company I’ve had lately has really come by in the hopes that they’d get a glimpse of you. Delores said you were a handsome one, but whatever good looks you have are lost on me,” she said with a smile. “With the way everyone’s carrying on, I suppose that for these parts, you’re what passes for famous.”
Peter was glad the blind woman couldn’t see him frown; the last thing he wanted was to attract attention.
“I did what I had to,” he replied. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Ruth turned her head a bit, just as she’d done when he’d been walking across the yard. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“Pennsylvania,” Peter answered nervously. “Why do you ask?”
“You have any German blood in you?”
The blind woman’s question made Peter’s blood run cold. He was sure that all the color had drained from his face. “My…my mother’s family came to Pennsylvania from Bavaria…originally…” he managed.
“That would explain it,” Ruth said with a nod.
“Explain what?”
“Your accent,” she explained. “I’ve been blind since I was five so I never had a chance to get good at studying people’s faces. I’ve learned to pay attention to their voices instead. You can tell an awful lot about someone just by listening to them talk. If they’re happy, nervous, or angry. Whether they’re young or old, even if they’re too heavy because of how hard they breathe. If I listen close, I can tell where someone’s from. Even though my friend Rita DePasqua has lived here most all her life, she still sounds as Italian to me as she surely did the day she stepped off the boat. With you, I hear German.”
Peter didn’t know what to say. To his own ear, his English sounded perfect, the same as his father’s. “My grandmother used to speak it around the house,” he finally spat out.
“That explains it,” Ruth said. “Although it must be hard for you, what with the war and all, one family fighting against another. You should hear all the terrible things Rita has to say about Mussolini.”
Desperately, Peter tried to think of a way out of their conversation. It amazed him that in all the time since he’d left Otto at the cabin, the person who had come the closest to divining his true identity was a blind woman. But as he considered which excuse he’d use to get back to the safety of the Marstens’ home, he was rescued by an unlikely source.
From the street, a car horn honked. Peter turned to see a police car pull into the Marstens’ drive. For a moment, he thought he’d been discovered, that the law was coming to get him; his heart raced and he chastised himself for not running when he had the chance. But then he saw John behind the wheel, waving out the open window, and his anxiety subsided a bit.
“Afternoon, Ruth,” the sheriff said once he’d joined them, unnecessarily tipping his hat in the blind woman’s direction, surely out of habit. Peter tried to stay calm, but the sight of the badge pinned to John’s shirt unnerved him just as much as the gun strapped to the man’s waist, maybe even more so. “I see you’ve met Peter.”
“I have,” she answered. “We were having a nice conversation. He was telling me about where his family originally comes from.”
Peter’s heart thundered, but he didn’t say a word.
“Then I’m sorry to interrupt,” John replied. “I hope you don’t mind if I take him off your hands.”
“Not at all.”
“Much obliged.” Turning to Peter, he said, “Olivia mentioned that you might be up and about today, so I thought that I’d come by and offer to take you to lunch. Goslee’s Diner isn’t fancy but they make a darn good plate of food. Besides, I’m sure you’re sick of being cooped up,” he added, nodding toward his own home. “This will give us a chance to talk and maybe I can show you around town a bit.”
Peter stumbled for an instant, leery. The sheriff’s offer might very well be genuine, another way of offering his gratitude for keeping his daughter from harm, but Peter couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t more to it; maybe he saw a chance to dig a little deeper into the life of the stranger staying in his home. Either way, Peter knew that turning down the invitation would only make the lawman more suspicious than he might already be.
“I’d like that,” he answered.
John must have noticed his hesitation. “You sure you’re feeling up to it?”
“Really, I’m fine.”
“All right, then.”
They said their good-byes to Ruth and headed for John’s police car. Just before he got inside, Peter looked back toward the blind woman.
She was staring right at him.
“What do you recommend?” Peter asked.
“I’m partial to the hash and eggs,” John answered. “But there isn’t a bad choice to be made.”
With the number of people crowded into Goslee’s Diner, Peter figured that the sheriff was probably right. Just a little past noon and almost every seat was filled, including all those running the length of the diner’s long countertop, people wedged in elbow to elbow. When they’d arrived, most everyone they met had greeted them; Peter assumed they did it to be friendly or out of respect for John’s position in town. Bits of conversation and the clinking of silverware mixed with the faint sound of music coming from the kitchen. The smell of grease was everywhere.
“Here we are, fellas.”
Denise Goslee set down a couple cups of coffee, pulled a worn notebook out of her short apron, and tugged out a pencil that had been wedged behind her ear. According to John, Denise and her husband, Sam, had been fixtures in Miller’s Creek for decades. Many a belly had been filled with their food; from the roundness of Denise’s waist, it was clear that she wasn’t above sampling the dishes, either. She quickly scribbled down their orders. Just as the waitress was about to leave, she nodded at the open newspaper John had begun to peruse.
“You reckon the Cubs will have much of a team this year?”
“I’m hoping to win the pennant,” the sheriff replied.
“I’ve got my fingers crossed.” Turning to Peter, she asked, “How about you? Are you much of a baseball fan?”
“I’ve always rooted for the Athletics,” he answered proudly, remembering his father’s passion for the game and the Philadelphia team he’d grown up cheering, a love he’d taken great pains to instill in his son.
“I never much liked that Connie Mack,” the waitress said with a frown. “Those bushy eyebrows he’s got look like they belong on a mule.”
While Denise went to start their order, John unfolded the newspaper and quickly scanned through the pages. From his side of the table, Peter stared at the headlines on the front.
GERMANS SURRENDER IN ITALY! ALLIES PRESS TOWARD BERLIN! VICTORY MAY BE JUST DAYS AWAY!
Peter couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Even when he’d been fighting in Germany, freezing in the
snow, his belly and rifle both nearly empty, he’d known that it was only a matter of time before Hitler and his cursed Third Reich fell. From the moment of his capture, he’d only heard snippets about the war, usually about gains that Allied forces had made; he’d wondered whether it was the truth or just propaganda to help further demoralize the Germans. But now, reading and rereading the headlines, he knew which it had been. Emotions, some of them contradictory, raced through him; elation, fear, shock, and hope, all at the same time. In that moment, Peter was filled with questions.
What does all of this mean for me?
If the war ends, would I still be considered the enemy? A prisoner?
Could I…could I stay here…?
To all, he had no answers.
When John folded up the newspaper, Peter tentatively said, “Looks like the war in Europe isn’t going to last much longer.”
“It’s a shame it’s gone on this long,” the sheriff replied, shaking his head. “But then, even when I was on the boat back from France in ’19, I just knew those damn Germans were going to drag us over there again someday.”
“You fought in the Great War?”
“The ‘War to End All Wars,’” John spat. “The worst year of my life is more like it. I hadn’t but just turned eighteen when I signed up. Thought I was going on an adventure. Instead, I ended up slogging through rain and mud up to my knees. I’ve hated the Germans ever since.”
Peter nodded. While John’s honesty wasn’t easy for him to hear, it at least helped explain where some of his daughter’s fear and disdain for his country came from; Hitler had surely done the rest, and deservedly so. Though Peter knew it’d be best to hold his tongue and agree with everything the sheriff said, he felt something in him stir.
“My father fought in France, too, but after the fighting ended, he decided to stay…for a while…” he began, catching himself. “Eventually, he traveled to Germany and lived among the very people who’d been trying to kill him months earlier. When I was a boy, he told me that it hadn’t taken long for him to understand that while there were many who loved the kaiser, who’d wanted the war as bad as they’d wanted anything in their lives, not everyone agreed. He cautioned me not to blame them all for the mistakes of their nation.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me that you don’t blame the Germans for all this?”
“I’d gladly give my life to be the one who put a bullet between Hitler’s eyes,” Peter explained. “But I cannot bring myself to believe that every German is as evil and sadistic as him. Not all of them are guilty. Some have to be innocent.”
For a long moment, John sat silent, watching him. Peter thought he was weighing whether to argue further, to defend his hatred of Germans, but instead he said, “Olivia mentioned that you have a military deferment.”
“Yes, sir.”
John glanced down at the newspaper headline. “I know most folks stare sideways at a young man your age who isn’t in uniform, but I don’t judge. I’ve been there. I know what hell war is like, and as long as you’re doing your part, you’ll get no grief from me.” The sheriff smiled. “Take it from an old soldier,” he said. “It’s an honor to fight for your country, but let’s hope that you never have to.”
Peter didn’t answer. How could he possibly admit to John that he knew exactly what it was like to fight on the battlefield? That it was because of that service that he was right here, sitting across the table from him at a diner, thousands of miles from home?
“I look at you and can’t imagine I was ever that young,” the sheriff continued, flashing a wry smile. “Men like you and Billy don’t seem near old enough to be going off to fight.”
Confused, Peter asked, “Who’s Billy?”
“Olivia didn’t mention him?” John replied. “Billy Tate? My daughter’s fiancé?”
Peter was stunned speechless. All he could do was stare blankly at Olivia’s father. He would have sworn that his heart had stopped beating. Time stood still. Fiancé? She’d never mentioned anything of the sort, he was sure of it, but he had no doubt of the truth of John’s words. “I…I don’t remember…” he mumbled.
Now it was the sheriff’s turn to look puzzled. “Huh,” he said, absently scratching at his arm. “I reckon that she must’ve, but that maybe you were still too addled to take it in.”
“That must be it…”
But Peter was sure that it wasn’t. Over and over, he pored over the moments he’d spent with Olivia, replaying their conversations, searching for something, any clue that she might have dropped to the fact that she was promised to another man. She kissed me!
There was only one thing that gave him pause; her ring. She’d kept it hidden out of sight, and when he had finally noticed it and asked, she had given him an evasive answer, but he’d known that it wasn’t the truth. Now, he understood.
It had been her engagement ring.
Just like that, Peter knew that there was no reason to keep up the charade he’d been playing. In his heart, he knew it had been a fool’s errand, anyway. No matter how much he wished otherwise, there was no changing who he really was: a German prisoner, a fugitive of the law. There was only one thing left for him to do.
He’d tell the sheriff the truth, right here and now.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Peter began, looking right at the sheriff; if he was going to admit to lying to John and his family, he’d do so as a man, eye-to-eye. “I’m not—”
But that was as far as he got before the front door to the diner flew open and a large, sweaty man came rushing over to their table.
“Sheriff!” he shouted. “We got a problem!”
John had already risen out of his seat. “What is it, Huck?”
“Carl Hendrickson called in and said Roy Lafferty’s barn is on fire! He seen Roy tryin’ to get his horses out, but the flames was growin’ fast! You can see the smoke from here!”
“Did you call Mike?”
The other man nodded. “He said the truck’s comin’.”
As if on cue, the sound of a siren rose in the distance.
John looked down at Peter. “We don’t have much of a fire department here,” he said. “More than likely, we’re going to need every hand we can get. You up for it?”
Even though he’d been about to turn himself in, Peter stood without hesitation. Revealing his true identity and taking whatever punishment he had coming to him could wait until after the fire had been put out. He owed that much to Olivia and her family.
“Let’s go,” he said, and they did.
Chapter Twelve
PETER SAT BESIDE JOHN in his squad car, racing south of town. They whipped across a wide, wooden bridge, the tires slapping hard and fast across the boards, before speeding alongside the gurgling creek, heading toward the fire. In the distance, black smoke rose into the sky. Behind them, Huck and another volunteer followed in the deputy’s vehicle. The road followed the route Peter had used to enter Miller’s Creek; when they passed near the cabin, he strained to get a look at it, still wondering what had become of Otto, but it shot by so fast that it was gone in a blink.
“Roy’s place is a couple miles out of town,” John explained as the car dropped down onto a long straightaway; the lawman pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, making them go so fast that the scrum in the ditch blurred past Peter’s open window. “Because of the way the roads are around here, we’ll have to cross back over the river to get there.”
“Any idea what might have started it?”
“I got a hunch,” the sheriff answered. “Back during the days of Prohibition, Roy’s old man had a still set back a mile or so from the barn. Used to sell his moonshine liquor to everyone within a ten-mile radius. Every couple months, I’d come along and make sure things hadn’t grown bigger than I was comfortable with, but I never arrested him. What would’ve been the point? I hadn’t had the job long and the last thing I wanted was the whole damn county mad at me. I’d have been voted out on
my rump.”
John paused his story as he turned the car into a sharp curve, the wheels skidding slightly, before the car righted itself and again shot forward.
“Old Theodore passed away about seven years back and since Roy was raised up with it, I figure he’d know every trick in the book. Problem is, he’s always been lazy as a summer afternoon. It’s been a few years since I trudged out into the woods to look at the family operation. Maybe Roy moved it into the barn to keep from having to make the walk himself. If everything’s on fire, it might mean that the still blew.”
“What was that about horses?”
“I’ve never understood how he’s done it, but Roy’s managed to keep at breeding horses. That’s a job that requires more gumption than I’d expect to find in a man cut from Roy’s cloth. But he’s been lucky to have had a couple of sons who aren’t as worthless as he is. This time, the apple fell far from the tree. They’re big boys, strong as the animals they tend. Problem is, they’re all off fighting overseas and Roy’s been left to do it all himself. Maybe he started falling behind on his bills and thought he’d fire up the still to make the money back. We’ll find out.”
Just as John had explained, they had to drive back over the creek in order to reach the Laffertys’ farm. But unlike the bridge leaving town, this one was narrower; when they raced over it, Peter leaned inward as the car’s mirrors came within inches of the bridge’s railing.
They passed through a thick stand of trees, majestic elms and oaks, their branches sprouting the first leaves of spring, rounded a bend bordered by a weathered length of fence, and drove down a short hill. From the open window, the acrid smell of smoke reached them. Seconds later, John pointed ahead.
“There it is,” he said.
The barn was set off a bit from a two-story home up a gravel drive from the main road. The house had seen better days; one of the upstairs windows was boarded up and the whole thing leaned to one side. A mangy dog sat on the porch, watching as its owners ran around like chickens with their heads cut off, frantic.
Take Me Home (9781455552078) Page 12
