“Okay, Molly. Go to my room and look through my lace-making equipment. You’ll see it in the very top of my old trunk. Mind you, don’t meddle with anything else in there. It’s private and none of your business. Find some white silk thread and a number nine needle. You know. The size I give you to embroider fancy stuff on linen handkerchiefs after I edge them with lace. I need a little bowl and a teaspoon too.”
Molly finally found what she needed. She didn’t trust Molly to tie a good strong knot, so she did it herself and commenced to take four tiny stitches for each of the four big ones whoever had messed up Jacqueline’s face had made. Didn’t want to make ’em too small—might weaken the skin. She did a good job, if she had to say so herself. And Jacqueline didn’t let out a peep, though it must have hurt like the dickens.
Molly looked like she’d pass out every time she poked a hole through Jacqueline’s skin, but she just stood there and squeezed Jacqueline’s hand so hard she was afraid she might have to reset the bones.
After she finished, she told Molly, “Untie the twine from around that herb jar.” She took the brown paper off the jar and fished out four or five petals of calendula she’d dried last fall. They were brown now, but back then they were bright as the sun. Most folks called ’em marigolds, but they were the best thing possible to help a body’s skin heal.
She crushed them and mixed them with honey then spread them as thick as she could over the place and tied a clean bandage around Jacqueline’s head.
When she finished, at least Jacqueline remembered her manners and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Russell.”
She sighed. Now she had to go rustle up some supper to feed the extra mouth Molly had saddled her with.
*
Mr. James arrived from the fields and patted Patrick on the shoulder. “How’s my boy? What did you learn in school today?”
“Hi, Pa. I’m learning to read pretty good. Maybe I can read you a story before long. Guess what? A nice lady is visiting us.”
Mr. James looked at Molly with a question in his eyes.
“Mama let me carry the lady some potato soup,” Patrick said. “She woke up and ate a few bites. Then she went right back to sleep.”
Molly tried to explain what was going on, but Patrick was wound up. “Grandma doctored her and said she’ll be okay. Mama said she needs to get a good night’s sleep and rest here. She can stay, can’t she? I’ll help take care of her.”
She wanted to hug Patrick. “It’s Jacqueline McCade he’s going on about. Remember her from Easter Sunday? Looks like Eric hit her. You don’t mind that I brought her home to stay with us awhile, do you?”
“Well, now.” Mr. James glanced at his mama, who stood at the stove with her stiff back to him. “I reckon she needs a little help, and it wouldn’t be right if we didn’t give it to her. Isn’t that what you think, Ma? But it’s hard for me to believe Eric would do something like that. Why, he’s the most upstanding young man I ever knew.”
Mother Russell scowled. “Bunch of nonsense, if you ask me. Folks ought to take care of their own personal problems. Eric won’t thank us for getting between him and his so-called wife. I sewed her up, but I didn’t invite her in the first place.”
“I appreciate what you did, Mother Russell,” Molly said. “She’s asleep right now, but she looks bad. Probably nothing serious, but I don’t want to take a chance.”
“Ah, pshaw,” Mrs. Russell said. “Just another mouth to feed and extra work for us all. But I can’t have the neighbors saying I’m not a good Christian woman. Have to set an example for those that don’t have as much as we do.”
Mr. James looked relieved. He didn’t like for his mama and her to quarrel. In spite of his fascination with war, he was a man of peace.
As she thanked her lucky stars for that, a truck pulled up the driveway. She knew exactly who it was.
*
The buzzing in Jaq’s ears had faded. Now she felt like the voices in the distance came from actors on a stage and she was standing in the wings.
Eric: “Where’s my wife? I’ve come to take her home.”
Mr. James: “You’re not going near her. What happened between you two, Eric? I’m disappointed in you. Boy Jim would never lay a hand on a woman.”
Eric: “You need to get it through your head that I’m nothing like that character you admire so much. I’ve got a bad eye and have a hard time walking. I’m not worth a plug nickel.”
Mr. James: “Calm down, boy. Just tell me what’s going on.”
Eric: “I’ve been hitting the bottle more than I should, sir. And late last night I had more than I could handle. I was gassed. Jaq asked me something—I don’t even remember what—and before I knew it, I popped her one. I don’t know what got into me. I’ve never hit a woman. She fell and I got out of there before I did anything else to her.”
Molly: “She hit her head, hard, and acts like she had a concussion. I don’t know what happened, but she was in bed and acting strange when I went to your house this morning. Her forehead wouldn’t quit bleeding, so Mother Russell had to sew it up.”
Eric: “Good grief. That’s why Pop was looking at me so strange all day. He must have helped her. He fixed breakfast this morning—that was a mess. Even made us a lunch. Said Jaq was feeling poorly, but I had no idea how bad off she was.”
Mr. James: “Son, I don’t think you meant to hurt your wife. But you need to stop looking for your manhood in a bottle. We all still believe in you. You need to heal. Our recruiters would love to have an experienced man like you in our own army to help the new men out.”
Eric: “You’re right, sir. I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in all this, but I’ve learned my lesson. No more whiskey for me. Patrick, don’t ever do anything bad like I have. And Miss Molly, thank you for tending to my wife. She’s a fine woman, and I’d never hurt her on purpose. It’s probably better if she stays here for a spell, if you don’t mind. You can take care of her better than I can. And she most likely doesn’t want to see me. I’ll try to straighten myself out, and when she comes back, I swear on my mother’s grave I’ll never touch her again.”
Mr. James: “All right. Everyone deserves a second chance, but I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, son. Putting down that bottle won’t be easy, but you’ve got a lot to gain. Just remember that.”
Eric: “I will, sir. And thank you again, Miss Molly. Tell Jaq I’m really sorry, but when she’s ready it’ll be good to have her. You can let her know too that I’ve decided to go back and outfly Eddie Rickenbacker as soon as I get better. I have to prove I’m still the man everybody’s always thought I was.”
Jacqueline was glad the play ended happily. How strange to be a character in such a melodrama. Maybe Eric would keep his promises to himself and to her after the way Mr. James had been so firm with him. He wouldn’t want to lose face in the community, but she hoped he was just bluffing about going back to war. What would his father do without him? And what about her?
But she couldn’t worry about that now. Snuggling into the feather mattress in the next room, she sighed and fell sound asleep for the first time since Eric hit her.
Chapter Eighteen
Mrs. Russell stood at the black wash pot in the backyard poking the clothes into the boiling water with her long wooden battling stick. The dirty-looking soap bubbles expanded then burst—kinda like her notions about Jacqueline.
That girl needed to get up out of that bed and start doing for herself. She’d laid around five whole days, and Molly said she just had a touch of fever now. She’d had a powerful thirst, so they gave her lots of water and made her eat as much as she could stomach. She’d cut her stitches out this morning and told her not to frown. Her eye was still purple, but she’d healed fast, probably because she was so young and feisty.
Maybe Eric had straightened himself out enough so she could think about going home.
She was pitiful, hobbling like an old woman when she got up to use the slop jar. At least she’d kept those bangs combed
back. Her forehead should look better in a month or so, and then she could start hiding her scar again. She kept offering to help but wasn’t up to it just yet. She was hurt pretty bad.
“I’m ready,” Molly said as she poured the last bucketful of water she’d drawn from the well into the big number-three washtub. “I’ll rinse the white clothes now, if you want, and you can start the darker ones. We’re running a little low on lye soap. We need to make some more before the next washday.”
She wiped the sweat off her forehead and watched Molly fish the steaming clothes out of the boiling water with the battling stick and tote ’em over to the first rinse tub. It took her several trips, and all that time she acted like she ran the place, like she’d grown up washing clothes in the backyard and drawing all the well water they needed for it by hand.
It’d be a blessing when Patrick got big enough to do that chore all by himself.
She’d never been a stranger to hard work. Her pa never could afford any slaves, and since he didn’t have anything but girls, she grew up on the end of a hoe. She could chop a row of cotton faster and cleaner than anybody in the county, including her husband Calvin, though he didn’t practice as much as she did.
Her back was as strong as a man’s, but it sure got sore once in a while. She was getting a little old. Yes, sir, it’d be good to have a big strapping boy to haul the water out of the well instead of having to depend on Molly and mostly do it herself when James was out in the fields. She was getting weary of working like a man.
*
“How are you this morning, Patrick? Are you enjoying your summer vacation? Why aren’t you outside helping your mother and your grandmother?”
“Mama said she’d call me later. She lets me help her get the clothes dry. I like to spread them all over the bushes. It’s fun, like a game.”
Jaq sat in a chair in the guest room. Molly had tiptoed in as soon as she woke up and said she’d slept on filthy sheets long enough. It was washday, and she and Mrs. Russell had already built a fire, she said. They had the wash pot ready to go. And her sheets did feel dirty. She’d spent a lot of time between them.
Patrick plopped down on the bare feather mattress and stared at her like she was an exotic animal in a circus parade.
“Can I stay in here with you and talk about the War? Were you really over there where they’re fighting?”
“Yes, Patrick. This time last year I was in Belgium, close to France. Be glad you’re not old enough to be there. The boys on the front lines have to sleep in the mud a lot of nights. And do you know what they have to eat?”
“No, ma’am. What?”
“Well, if they’re lucky enough to find an empty house, they cram themselves into a big room. Then they build a campfire and brew coffee and toast bread over it.”
“Golly, that sounds like fun.”
“It may sound like it, Patrick, but it’s not. The boys don’t ever have any chocolate pie or buttermilk with cornbread, like you do. One of the worst things is the poison gas the Boches use. They shoot it at our boys in big shells. And if it gets on them it makes nasty yellow sores and hurts their lungs so they can’t breathe very well.”
Patrick frowned and changed the subject. “Why do you call them Boches, Miss Jacqueline?”
“It’s an ugly word for the Germans. Some people say it means cabbage head. I’m not sure how it got started, but a lot of the soldiers in Europe use it, so I picked up the same habit. It really means we don’t like the German soldiers and wish they’d go home and leave us alone.”
Patrick looked like he was interested, but he didn’t seem to believe everything she told him.
“Oops, I hear Mama calling me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She enjoyed Patrick’s company. He seemed bright and caring, like his mother. Mature for his age, but she’d heard that was common for an only child. He was already showing signs of growing up to be as large as his father. Lately, he’d started visiting her every chance he got. He liked to talk about life beyond the farm, especially everything his father had told him about the Trojan War.
Mr. James glamorized war, and she hated to disillusion Patrick. But a lot of the young men—and women like Helen—were in Europe because of that same type of lie. Damn it. She refused to help send Patrick off to another war to be slaughtered. She believed in the suffragists’ nonviolent tactic of turning President Wilson’s words against him.
Poor Helen had been a diehard patriot, though, so excited about her experience in the conflict. She’d kept talking about all the war stories she’d share with her family and friends when she got home. Nothing seemed to disillusion her, even when she was shivering in the cold and the rain. She thought about Helen for quite a while after Patrick left.
The Russells were good people too. Molly had been an angel. And what Mr. James said to Eric the other night made Jaq feel a lot safer about going back. Mrs. Russell was a cross to bear, most of the time, but she’d done a really fine job tending to her forehead. Jaq hoped her new scar looked better than the one she’d had to live with since last year. Every time she looked at it, she was ashamed of what she’d done to Henry.
*
Molly spread clean white sheets onto Jacqueline’s bed. “Is this old feather mattress comfortable enough?”
“It’s like lying on a cloud. I’ve felt like royalty the past few days, with you and Patrick waiting on me.”
“You deserve every minute of it, after what happened. I just wish you could live with us forever.”
“I can’t remember when I’ve been happier. I enjoyed visiting my aunts in Washington and New York, and living with my sister in London, but she’s so fascinated with high society, just like Mother. She was always fretting about what to wear and why she didn’t get invited to this party or that one. I told her she’d just recovered from having her second baby and didn’t need to be out running around, but did she listen to me? You seem so devoted to Patrick. It’s good to see someone who truly enjoys being a mother.”
Molly flinched. She did love Patrick and would do anything for him. She’d agreed to this life, and she meant to make the most of it. But if she had it to do over again, she’d choose a much different road, perhaps one with somebody as special as Jacqueline. The very thought made her grab hold of the sheet she was spreading so tight she bunched it into a wad. She had to loosen her grip and press out the wrinkles with her hand. That’s what life with Jacqueline would be like, she mused—nice and smooth, instead of the twisted-up mess hers was now on the farm.
But it was so hard for two women to support themselves. Men monopolized almost all the paying jobs and denigrated women’s work. Her favorite music teachers at Bowdon seemed to have managed financially, though supposedly a wealthy uncle had left one of them a substantial inheritance.
She’d heard that some women dressed up like men, even lived their entire lives pretending to be men and never got caught, just so they could make enough money to survive on their own. But she wouldn’t like that. She liked being a woman, and she enjoyed being around someone who seemed to feel the same way—such as Jacqueline.
“Mother Russell asked me to change your bandage today. Do you mind?” She hoped she could do it right.
“Of course not. But don’t you have better things to do, with all your chores?”
I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. She patted the bed. “It’ll only take a few minutes. I’ve watched Mother Russell, so maybe I’ll do a decent job.”
Jacqueline’s expression encouraged her. “Of course you will. And I’d much rather have you close to me than her.”
Then Jacqueline blushed, like she’d said something she didn’t mean to.
As they both sat on the edge of the bed and she scooted close enough to take off the old bandage, she smelled the homemade soap they all used here at home. Then, instead of the odor of lard sweetened with rose water, she inhaled a hint of perspiration, as if Jacqueline was nervous. But why would she be?
Molly gent
ly brushed Jacqueline’s bangs back and eased the soiled bandage off, barely touching Jacqueline’s face, though even that tiny contact made her fingers vibrate. The wound seemed to be healing. She could see the tiny holes the stitches had left after Mother Russell cut the thread out. As she carefully ran a clean, wet cloth over the gash to clear away the flecks of calendula petals that still clung to it, Jacqueline grasped her shoulders, as if she’d startled her.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“Not much. But it’s a little tender.”
Jacqueline didn’t move her hands, and she didn’t budge. In fact, she inched a tad closer. They sat unmoving for a while, gazing at each other. Something flowed between them, as strong and sweet as taffy. Molly didn’t want to breathe and risk disturbing the connection.
“Do I look too horrible?” Jacqueline seemed embarrassed to ask the question.
Nothing about you could ever look horrible, she wanted to say, but she simply rubbed the back of her hand over Jacqueline’s cheek, which was as smooth and firm as an almost-ripe plum. “Not at all,” she whispered. “I doubt anyone will even notice your scar after a few months.”
Without warning, Jacqueline wrapped her arms around her in a long hug and murmured, “Thank you.” She just had to hug her back, and for a wonderful few minutes they sat there with their breasts touching and the smell of clean, sun-dried sheets wafting around them. She didn’t remember ever feeling so content yet so on edge.
When they finally pulled apart, Molly was full of an energy she’d never experienced. She wanted to run, to shout that everything in the world was wonderful, especially Jacqueline.
But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t slip between the soft sheets beside Jacqueline either, or smooth her fingers over her forehead and heal it completely. If she could work that kind of miracle, she’d turn herself into an unmarried woman.
The Storm Page 12
