Red waited without speaking. This wasn’t the time to talk about it. Not now. Not on this train with other people listening. Besides, he couldn’t help thinking that if he spoke aloud what had been on his mind the past few weeks, it would make everything that happened over on those deadly fields too real.
“I think it’s hit you harder,” Ivan said at last. “Hasn’t it?”
Red swallowed. “Not sure what makes you think that. We’ve all been through a lot.”
Ivan leaned closer and waited until Red met his gaze. “Because I know you, buddy. You bury things down deep inside. Me, I sit by myself and write my poetry and get it out of my system. You should see the stack of poetry in my duffle bag. I’ve probably sent poems to half of Hideaway, and several of Bertie’s friends in California.”
“You oughta try to get them published. You’ll be rich.”
Ivan laughed out loud at that. “You think there’s money in poetry? My Daddy taught me how to make a living, don’t you worry. And don’t change the subject.”
“Thought the subject was poetry.”
Ivan sobered. “You’ve lost something, Red.” His words were soft and gentle, but they felt like broken strands of chicken wire digging into Red’s heart. Ivan didn’t know the half of it. “It’s like all the laughter’s dried up inside of you.”
Red didn’t know what to say. He’d not seen much to laugh about.
“Find some way to get this war out of your system,” Ivan told him. “Don’t let it keep you down.”
Red nodded toward the window. “We’re getting close. Better get your things. I’ll see you for dinner.”
Ivan frowned. “Lunch, Red. Noon meal is lunch.”
“Not where I come from.”
“You come from here, same as me.”
“Your mother comes from Baltimore.”
Ivan chuckled and gave Red a playful sock in the arm. It was one of their favorite arguments.
To Red’s shame, he felt only relief when Ivan shook his head and walked back up the aisle toward the door that led to the forward car.
Chapter Four
Thoughts of Red once more filled Bertie’s mind as she struggled with a misshapen part. She tossed it to the side so Emma could pick it up to send back for repair.
Time to switch the lathe to a higher gear and get some of these parts finished. Hurriedly, she turned off the machine, released the tension on the v-belt, and reached down to move it to a larger v-pulley. Her hand slipped. The belt which hadn’t come to a complete stop, grabbed her forefinger. Before she could react, her finger was snatched into the pulley.
Pain streaked up her arm. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out as she jerked her hand back.
Blood spread over and down her fingers, and for a moment, because of the pain, she thought all her fingers had been mangled. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to keep from passing out, then turned to look around and see if anyone had noticed what had happened.
No one looked her way.
She reached for the bandana on her head. Her hot hair once again fell over her shoulders as she tore off a strip of the cloth and dabbed away the blood. To her relief, only her index finger was torn.
Maybe she could take care of this herself, without going to First Aid.
But she discovered she would have no choice. The blood kept flowing from a fair-sized cut over her knuckle. There was no way to deal with it on her own.
She used what was left of the bandana to tie her hair back into a ponytail, her movements awkward.
Reluctantly, she went to find her supervisor for permission to go to First Aid. She’d catch an earful this time.
Red peered out the window at the passenger cars curving along the track in front of him. He thought he saw Ivan’s blond head in one square of window, but it was too far away to know for sure.
He couldn’t say why he was relieved that Ivan had gone back to his seat. It’d been good to see his friend, to know there was someone else, someone he knew, who could understand what he’d gone through.
But then, looking into Ivan’s face, Red had been able to recall the war that much clearer, when what he really wanted to do was forget it, not be reminded of every detail, every death. There were too many.
Rubbing his fingertip across the corner of one of the envelopes in his pocket, Red resisted the urge to pull them out again. He knew what the letters said. He had most every word memorized. He could see Bertie Moennig’s face against his closed eyelids—her sweet, saucy smile, her thick, fair hair, and turned-up nose.
The letters he’d gotten from her were nearly falling apart, he’d read them so often. The latest ones, of course, were full of questions, full of worry and wondering why he hadn’t written. Those were the ones that ate at him.
He remembered one letter he’d gotten last year, soon after he returned from leave. It had been even harder than leaving the first time, and it’d apparently been hard for Bertie, too.
I’ve made a decision, the letter had said. I’m going to learn how to be good at waiting, because I know there are some things—some people—worth waiting for. Dad and Uncle Sam are urging me to take some training and work in one of the defense plants, and I think I’ll do it. I want to do all I can to help win this war, and get our men home again. Write me soon, Red, and let me know you’re okay.
He’d written to her then, telling her how much he already missed her, how proud he was of her. He’d written more during just one week of war than he’d done all through school. Bertie had always been so good for him.
Problem was, he didn’t know what to write now. Whatever he told her, it wouldn’t be something she’d want to read. And she didn’t need to know. Not yet.
He’d even told Ma not to let Bertie know about his injury. What good would it have done? Ma, of course, had argued, but he knew she’d done what he’d asked.
Thing was, he’d seen too many hearts broken already in this war. Too many of his buddies had died, leaving wives alone to grieve as widows, leaving mothers brokenhearted over their dead sons.
He’d also seen too many friends going back home as damaged goods, to wives who’d have to take care of them the rest of their lives. He couldn’t do that to Bertie.
Nosiree, Joseph Moennig had a good farm that needed running, and what with his son, Lloyd, off in Kansas with a wife and family, his only daughter Bertie would be the one to take over the farm someday. She’d need a husband who was whole to help with that. A woman like her wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone.
Red closed his eyes and tried to think of something else, because the thought of Bertie loving another man almost made him sick to his stomach.
Bertie watched the suture needle prick the skin of her knuckle in the first stitch. She jerked, in spite of her determination not to. How embarrassing! All this time she’d followed all the safety rules, been so careful about every single movement. And now this.
That was what happened when a person got in a hurry. She’d known better.
“That hurt?” asked Dr. Cox as he tied the stitch.
“Not at all. You do what you have to do.”
“Are you left-handed?” He started the next stitch.
“No, sir.”
“Good, because I would have to warn you against using your finger any more than necessary. Flexing that knuckle will make the healing time longer.”
“I’m glad it didn’t come to that. I have letters to write.”
He worked quickly, his fingers moving with precision. He was the company doctor, and had probably done this a lot. “You have a beau in the war?”
Bertie hesitated. Was Red her beau? She nodded. It was how she thought of him, even if he couldn’t seem to write now that he was on leave.
“Is he from Missouri, too?” Dr. Cox asked.
Bertie blinked up at him, her attention distracted from the needle. “How’d you know I was—”
“I pride myself in my ability to pick up on an accent within seconds of meetin
g someone. Southern?”
Bertie stared into his kind eyes. “You mean Southern Missouri? Yes, Southwest, almost into Arkansas.”
“Ozarks, then. Your beau is from the Ozarks, too?”
“He sure is.” Bertie felt herself relaxing. “We grew up in the same town along the James River.” How she wished for those times again. “We went to school together and were close friends for as long as either of us can remember.”
The doctor smiled. “Think you’ll get married once this war is over?”
Bertie felt herself flushing at the thought. She’d considered it a lot. In fact, the thought of marrying and settling with Red was one of the things that had gotten her through her homesickness, her worry, her fretting. Until now.
“My father wouldn’t mind,” she told the doctor. “Red comes from a good, solid family. Dad knows Red real well.” There were times Bertie had felt as if Dad preferred Red’s company to her own. “He’s already like a son to Dad.” She grimaced. “Why am I telling you all this? You don’t want to hear my life story.”
Dr. Cox chuckled. “Sure I do. It keeps your mind off what I’m doing, and when you’re relaxed, I can work better.”
“Do you see many more patients now that so many doctors are helping in the war?”
“I sure do. Two of the other doctors with offices in this building are on hospital ships somewhere in the Pacific.” He looked at her. “I love hearing stories from my patients, especially those involved in the war effort. Now,” he said, fixing her with a pointed stare, “you were telling me about Red?”
She smiled at him, relaxing further, enjoying the chance to talk about her favorite subject. “Before Red’s father died, the Meyers had two hundred acres of prime farmland along the James River. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Meyers sold off a parcel of land every couple of years to the town, which was expanding and needed more room.”
“To help get her family through the depression?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, even though Red warned her not to sell. He feels they could’ve gotten by without selling. It would’ve been worth more with the James River becoming part of a new lake, with a dam south of a tiny burg called Branson. That would’ve made her property lakefront. Now I guess it doesn’t matter, though, since they had to put the plans on hold for the dam when war struck.”
“Sounds as if Red is a smart man.”
“Yes, but he comes by it honest. Lilly, his mother, opened their big house to paying guests. She did so well with it she was able to help send her two older kids to university in Kansas City.”
“What about Red’s education?” Dr. Cox asked.
Bertie shrugged. “He didn’t go to college.”
“Why not?”
“He knew his mother needed help with the guesthouse. He loves working with livestock, and he’s won blue ribbons at the state fair for the cheese he cultured from their cows’ milk.”
“So he gave up his opportunity to go to college to help with the family business,” the doctor said. “He sounds like quite a man. It looks to me as if you and your young man are a perfect match.”
She shrugged, studying the neat work the doctor was doing on her hand.
Dr. Cox paused for a moment, frowning at her. “Am I detecting some hesitation about him?”
She shrugged. “We only started dating a few weeks before he went off to war.”
“Maybe it took the war to show him how much he cared about you.”
Then why had Red stopped writing now that the war with the Germans was over? “I know why everyone suddenly wants to see stardust,” she said. “Life’s too scary right now. When all this began, a body didn’t want to think he might go off to some strange land and die without ever knowing if someone besides his folks could love him. Later, when he comes back alive and whole, he might change his mind. He might find someone he likes better.”
Dr. Cox placed salve over the sutured wound, then gently wrapped gauze around her finger. “I like my theory better.”
Bertie looked into the doctor’s sincere gray eyes. “I hope you’re right.” But he didn’t know enough about Red to judge.
“There you go, Roberta,” he told her as he finished bandaging her finger. He gave her final instructions for sutures to be removed in ten days.
She thanked him and walked back out to the waiting room, where she found Connie, the company nurse, reading a magazine and chuckling at a “Joe and Willie” war cartoon.
Connie looked up at Bertie and grimaced at the bandage on her finger. “Guess you’ll be put on special duty.”
“No need,” Bertie said. “I’m right-handed.”
Connie got up, shaking her head. “You don’t know Franklin Parrish, kiddo. Last gal who cut herself was transferred out of his department. He’s about as easy to work with as a porcupine. You may find that out soon enough.”
Chapter Five
The train slowed at a long uphill curve, and Red saw Lake Taneycomo gleaming in the sunshine out his window. Not much farther now. He started watching for familiar landmarks: the big cedar that’d been hit twice by lightning and lost most of its branches, but kept on thriving; the rocky cliff that looked like half a huge teacup—one of the area’s bald knobs, where it was rumored that the old vigilante gang, the Bald Knobbers, sometimes met when preparing to raid a farmer’s land.
He remembered riding the train to Springfield with his mother and listening to stories from old-timers about the places along the tracks that had been raided by that gang, the owners forced from their land with threats of beatings or burned homes—or death.
That had happened just before the railroad came in. It had become evident later that the vigilante gang had had inside knowledge about its course. Many men became rich when they later sold their ill-gotten land to the railroad.
Red closed his eyes, wondering when his mind would stop wandering to brutality and the ugliness of humankind. When he looked again, the first buildings of the tiny burg of Branson came into view.
The train continued toward the Hollister station, a short jaunt south. He wasn’t sure what kind of a ride his mother would’ve arranged, what with the gasoline rationing and so few cars in town, anyway. Could be she’d come for him with the horse and buggy, unless she was in a hurry to get back to the house, and was able to convince one of the neighbors to take a car out of hibernation long enough to drive her.
Lilly Meyer always said one of the big draws of the Meyer Guesthouse was her horse and buggy. In this new world of modern cars with all their speed and fancy buttons and gadgets, Ma believed her guests returned to Hideaway year after year because they wanted to be taken back to a time when life wasn’t so hectic.
Red knew how it felt to be lulled into a sense of peace by the clopping of horse hooves instead of a smoking tailpipe.
Many who did have automobiles in Hideaway had followed Lilly Meyer’s lead and parked their cars for the rest of the war. They rode their horses or bicycles to town when they needed to shop or have a haircut or deliver goods. The gasoline was left to the farmers in the rest of the country, who needed to supply food to the troops.
Most farmers around Hideaway still used mules as their power source for plowing and wagon pulling, cutting hay and reaping corn. This way they didn’t have to fret about the shortages as much. They could save for other things.
Red had discovered just how well-off he and his neighbors had been in Hideaway by talking to other soldiers who’d come from farms across the Midwest. His hometown had five hundred and fifteen of the best people he’d ever known. That was why the population had doubled in the past ten years, smack dab in the middle of the depression, and that was why it would keep growing long after the war ended. Why, he could even see it doubling again in time, maybe to a thousand or more.
The train stopped at the Hollister station. He looked out the window for signs of his ma. Other men in uniform left the train, including Ivan, who glanced back in Red’s direction and waved. They’d see each other soon enough.
Ivan could never resist Ma’s cooking.
Red waited, watching happy reunions taking place on the train ramp. Two soldiers and an airman stepped off, uniforms proudly decorated, as Ivan’s was. Many were probably home for good after the victory in Europe.
Home. It was the one thing everyone in the field dreamed about and talked about most.
Until now, Red hadn’t been any different. He slid his left hand down the side of his thigh to his knee, where shrapnel had ripped into the muscle and bone. He’d been held in the stateside hospital for three weeks, with daily injections of some new drug called penicillin that was supposed to kill the infection.
He didn’t know how well it had worked. The surgeon had told him the bone looked good, the infection gone, but for some reason his brain didn’t seem to be getting the message he was healed. He couldn’t put all his weight on his left leg yet. Smart as the surgeon was, he wasn’t God.
Red still didn’t see his mother or anyone he recognized who might be here to pick him up. And so he stayed put, the darkness of the past few weeks haunting his thoughts.
Dark and heavy. Dark and hopeless.
Here he’d been thinkin’ that Bertie would be better off without him, but wouldn’t that be the same for everybody else, as well? Nobody needed a lame soldier taking up space, Ma least of all, with all the work she needed done.
The last of the passengers disembarked, and the crowd on the platform began to thin. Red looked on glumly as Ivan greeted his parents in the parking lot.
Ivan’s father, Gerald, broad-shouldered and smiling—teeth gleaming so brightly Red could see them from where he sat—gave his son a bear hug. Both men towered over the fair Arielle Potts, whose Swedish coloring Ivan had inherited.
Ivan gestured toward the train, and they all glanced toward where Red sat watching them from the shadows. He didn’t think they could see him, looking from the bright sunshine into the darkness of the railcar, but he waved back.
The three of them climbed into a shiny black Chevrolet.
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