The Deepest Sigh

by Naomi Musch

  She turned slowly, so slowly that now his hands had changed their position, but still they held her arms. She lifted her gaze until her eyes took him in swimming above her.

  "Oh, my dear Rilla. I understand." With such gentleness as if he had never touched another human being before, he drew her close and held her against his chest. She soaked his coat with her tears. For several minutes, she lay against him crying for Emmett, crying for all her pain and loneliness, crying for all she'd lost. She straightened again with a final sniff, and he set her back. "If you do not wish to go to your sister's, she will understand. They only want to help you through this time, as do I."

  She nodded. He handed her a hankie. "Thank you." She dried her eyes and plucked at the corners of the hankie. "I will go. It is important for Theo that I go."

  "And he thinks it is important for you."

  She turned back to the stove and dished up the egg for Dora. "If you will excuse me, I'll get ready."

  His gaze lingered on her long enough for her to feel self-conscious, and then he nodded. "I will watch Dora."

  Rilla slipped into the bedroom and stood in front of her dresser. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was puffy and swollen. Her eyes a darker shade in the dim light. Her face had changed. She wasn't as young as she was last year, or the year before, not in any way. She had aged into womanhood. Lang would not mistake her for a child ever again. Her body was rounded with child, her breasts, swollen with plumpness, her legs, long and thin, were not the limbs of a girl but a woman. She pulled out the tie that held her tattered braid, picked up the brush, and pulled it through her tangles. Her hair stretched longer these days, almost to her waist. What did Jacob see when he looked at her? He never suggested she was a child or that her looks were unpleasing.

  She turned away and put on her stays and a dress. Jacob had helped her select this material months ago, before Emmett fell ill. She hadn't decided what to do with it until after she found out she was pregnant again. She'd made it into a pretty Christmas dress. She had been too sick with the flu to attend the service when they buried Emmett. She would wear it today for her boy.

  And for Jacob.

  She wound up her hair and powdered her face. She emerged from the bedroom.

  Jacob stood. "May I just say..." His words escaped him.

  She warmed. "Thank you, Jacob. You've said enough."

  He chuckled at his own discomfiture, and for the first time in weeks, the strange sensation of a smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  ~~~~~

  Lang awoke from another nightmare, sweat sticking the hospital sheets to his body, trapping him until he thrashed free. His heart hammered against his ribs, making his chest ache as panic ripped through him. Bombs, blood, Dickie in his arms dying, but when he held him, it was Emmett. His little boy Emmett, dying in his arms. He cried out, half awake, but still not sure.

  Cool hands lay against his arms, calming him with a strength that kept him from flying off the bed. "Wake up, Private Prescott. Wake up."

  He was awake. His eyes bolted wide, pinning on the young woman in the nurse's cap holding him. Still, all he could see was Emmett's face, ashen before him. A sob tore through his body, wracking him in one convulsive movement.

  "It's okay, soldier. Private Prescott, you're okay."

  He blinked and breathed rapidly until the horrific vision cleared. His parched throat scraped for words. She handed him a glass of water. He drank like it was the last thing he would ever drink, like he could drown in it and forget, and then he handed it back and buried his head into the pillow.

  "Anything else?"

  "The letter."

  On the stand beside his bed lay an envelope torn open with one folded sheet poking out. She handed it to him.

  "Thanks."

  There was really nothing wrong with him. The doctors said he was shell-shocked. It was just the grief over Dickie and then over Emmett. They had been sent back to Brest, and that's where Rilla's third letter found him.

  "Mail for you, Private Prescott."

  At first, he thought it might be some news from Delia, at last. Some small thread within still held onto a slender notion that she would respond to his letter, but again, it was Rilla's handwriting on the envelope. He hadn't wanted to read it. There would be news of home, of the potato crop perhaps, of her family. News of the baby's progress. Nevertheless, he choked down his sorrow over Dickie and tore open the letter. A single sheet came out. He opened the page and saw it wasn't long. He had not written to Rilla in months, not even to acknowledge her news about another baby. Was it any wonder she was short on words? He lay on his pillows in a ward surrounded by broken men, wishing he had something to drink besides water, as he turned his face to Rilla's familiar pen strokes.

  Dear Lang,

  The Asian flu has reached us, just as you feared it might. I am getting well now, though they tell me I was very ill.

  There was a line break, and in it, he could hear her sigh.

  I can hardly bear to write these words.

  His heart palpitated.

  I can hardly stand to think them.

  He didn't breathe. The single sheet of paper became a weight in his hand.

  Emmett, our sweet boy, is gone. He did not linger. He was taken very quickly. So quickly, I could not prepare myself for it.

  Lang gasped and read on, his heart plunging to his feet, to that dark, horror-filled place he had barely crawled from since Dickie's death. The paper shook in his quaking hand.

  Theo is home. He is doing his best. For that, Delia is thankful. She is ever in love with him. I hope you are well. As you haven't written to me, but no other word has come, I assume it to be so. Hopefully this dreadful war will end, and you will be home again with us soon.

  Your faithful wife,

  Marilla

  Like a hammer, her words fell, short and beating. Emmett is gone. She is ever in love. Your faithful wife.

  Marilla knew.

  Now, in the hospital, he read the letter again. Again and again he read it, trying to change its content. She had dated it in November only days before the armistice. Dickie had still been with him. They had been lying side by side in a wet, freezing trench while she mourned for Emmett. Yes, it was clear she knew about the letter he had written Delia. She hadn't needed to say it, but it was there in her careful innuendo.

  The nurse returned with a tray of cookies and milk. "Did you forget? Today is Christmas. I've brought you something special."

  He thanked her, even though he couldn't think of choking down a cookie. He could only think of Emmett, the son he barely knew. The son he would never have a chance to know again. More than ever, he wished it had been him to take that bayonet in the forest.

  The nurse glanced at the page in Lang's hand. "Can I get you something so you can answer your letter? Or you can make a telephone call if you want."

  Lang shook his head. There was no one to call. Only Jacob Hessman had installed a telephone in their neck of the woods, as far as he knew. "Maybe later. Just paper and a pen for now."

  She smiled and settled the tray of cookies beside his bed. "All right. I'll see what I can rustle up."

  He lay back and stared at the ceiling as the nurse left the room. Then he squeezed his eyes tight, blinking hard. Yet nothing he did could block out the images of Dickie and Emmett and of Rilla's tears, shattering him.

  "You gonna eat those?" A soldier in the next bed swung his legs over the side and jerked his chin toward the cookies.

  "Go ahead."

  "Thanks." He reached for the plate and munched them down, just as the nurse reappeared.

  "Hey, you're going to get your own you know. In fact..." She flourished another plate on a tray.

  "I've got room. Set them here."

  "I think you've had enough." She turned to Lang. Here are your writing implements and another batch of cookies." She set the plate on his tray. "You might feel like trying them later, so don't let that chow hound have them." With a
smile, she offered him a Big Chief tablet and a sharpened pencil. "Can I get you anything else before I go home for the day?"

  "Can you bring me an envelope and a stamp?"

  "You'll need more than one. I'll stop by tomorrow and take your letter to the mailroom. Don't worry. It'll get to her." She gave him a wink and a knowing smile and leaned him forward to fluff his pillow. "It's always a her," she added when she edged out of the room. "And I bet she can't wait to get a Christmas letter from you."

  Lang stared at the paper. He needed to acknowledge Rilla's news, but he didn't know how. How did you say in a letter how sorry you were for being a lousy father and husband? He tried several times, but in the end, all he got for his effort was a pile of paper wads on the floor beside his bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  February 1919

  On a bright, cold Sunday afternoon, the kind in which the glaring sun blinds off smooth, glass-topped snow, Marilla's second baby boy was born. She had attended church that morning for the first time since Emmett's passing.

  Last October, influenza infection rates and death tolls rose. Just days after both Emmett and she had contracted the flu, all public institutions except work places in Wisconsin had been ordered closed. Schools, theaters, saloons, churches, and places of public amusement statewide closed their doors until the epidemic burned itself out in late December. Marilla had recovered slowly, unaffected by the ban. She heard from Jacob that their pastor encouraged his church members to read the Bible and keep their prayer times alive at their own, safe firesides.

  The flu had swept through their state, and every family felt its effects, even though the death toll hadn't been as bad in her community as in some places. Those who remained healthy took on the task of caring for the sick, just as her mother had done. They sacrificially washed the homes and laundry of the sick. They brought them food and assisted however they could to promote healing, while preventing the family from spreading the illness to others.

  As Marilla worked to regain her strength, she grew heavy with her pregnancy and kept busy taking care of Dora. Some days she still felt weak from the trauma her illness and sorrow afforded, yet she was thankful the illness hadn't taken her unborn baby.

  The Sunday her son was born, Marilla had prepared a simple dinner of hot beef served on thick sliced bread nestled around a scoop of mashed potatoes, with a generous amount of gravy served over it all. As she had not done much food preservation last fall, Jacob arrived with cans of beans from the store. It was during his dinner prayer that the first labor pang struck. The pains strengthened as they dined until she had to interrupt their meal to tell Jacob what was happening.

  He stood and put away the leftover food. Then he helped her into a coat. "It looks like you will have me for a driver again."

  She shook her head. "Take me to Mama's. I'm having this one on the farm."

  He pulled back, and his forehead wrinkled.

  "It will be fine, Jacob. You and my father can watch over Dora."

  With a reluctant nod, he agreed. He reminded Marilla of a nervous father. Oh, that Lang had bothered to care so much. She gave Jacob a smile and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "I am glad you are here, Jacob. More than glad."

  He blushed and hurried her and Dora out the door.

  Cold pushed against them as they settled into the icy car. Once again, Marilla was thankful she didn't have to ride in a wagon in the February wind. Jacob had them at her mother's in no time. She was abed before long in the very room she had grown up in, restful and waiting through each strengthening pain.

  She didn't cry out. She thought of Lang and Delia and Jacob and Theo. She cried a bit, but that was because she thought of Emmett. Just when her father and Jacob were about to go outside for the evening milking, the baby was born, a healthy boy. Tears of joy followed.

  Marilla was cleaned and feeling a bit of strength by the time the men returned indoors from milking. Her mother made them scrub well before they were allowed a peek at the new infant.

  "He is a handsome boy."

  Marilla appreciated Jacob's thoughtful pronouncement.

  "What will you call him?"

  She looked between them all and took a breath. "He will be named Langdon, after his father, Albert after mine."

  Her father leaned down to have a closer look at his grandson and beamed. "Langdon Albert has a nice ring to it."

  She stroked the baby's downy cheek. "I'll call him Bertie."

  Her mother kissed her head and touched Bertie's cheek. "It is a good choice."

  Her parents backed from the bedroom to let her rest, but Jacob lingered a moment longer. He stepped close and peered again at the baby in Marilla's arms. "You are a beautiful mother, Marilla. I have always thought so."

  This time she wasn't embarrassed to hear him say such things. "Thank you, Jacob."

  "You are a beautiful woman." He bent and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch sent a shiver through her, and she took her gaze from Bertie to look up at him regarding her. He didn't need to say another word. She read everything he thought in his eyes. She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

  "I will let you rest now. The store opens early. Business is picking up."

  "I'm glad. Thank you again, Jacob. We will talk soon."

  She watched him go. When he closed the bedroom door, she turned her gaze toward the window where darkness pressed against the pane, and fingers of frost arched across the glass. Her feelings for Jacob had grown, and she had accepted them. Whether or not she heard from Lang, whenever he should return—if he returned at all—things would be different. There was a man who loved her. Though, like Lang, he didn't say the words, she knew. He spoke them in everything he did.

  ~~~~~

  May 1919

  The good old U.S.A. The boys all talked about how wonderful it was to be home. Well, almost all anyway. Some, like Lang, returned to American soil with trepidation. They came home without limbs, without sight, without heart to start again. Lang came close to being in the latter group. Could he start again? He wasn't sure how. He never did write to Rilla. Ever since deciding he would just wait until he saw her in person to offer some kind of comfort, she'd haunted his thoughts day and night—when they weren't being haunted by Emmett. He arrived in New York, and from there he took a train to Jersey. He hitched a ride to the old neighborhood in Newark and held his breath as he walked up to the door of his family's apartment. Would he even recognize his mother, or she him?

  He had gotten the idea to go to the place he'd once called home during the crossover on board the ship. Each day that brought him closer to seeing Rilla increased his panic. How could he face her? Her son was dead, and he was the last person she would accept comfort from now that she understood the depth of his feelings for Delia. What about Delia? She'd not so much as written a letter turning him down. He had spilled his pitiful guts at her feet, promising her the world in place of her broken husband. Yet, who was Lang now but someone else's broken husband? Did Delia even care if he had survived? Maybe he had understood her all wrong. Maybe she never would give up on Theo. Maybe she never would turn to Lang. Somehow the thought that she might not do either of those things didn't agonize him the way it should have. Maybe he was just that messed up. All he knew was that going back to Wisconsin, though he'd never wanted to leave it in the first place, now seemed the hardest place to return to.

  A visit with his long lost family put it off. He should have thought of doing so ages ago. The woman whose skirts Lang had clung to as a child swung the door open with a frown, ready to chase him off with the broom she held. Her hair, though placed in a tidy bun, had turned iron gray, and lines covered the places on her face that used to be smooth. She looked haggard, or maybe that was to be expected after you saw someone you hadn't in years. His chest burned. She stared without speaking, examining his face. Then her eyes widened as he stood there saying nothing, turning his hat in his hands. Tired, shimmering eyes. She raised her hand beseechingly.

/>   "Hello, mother."

  In an instant, the years fled. She threw the door wide. "Langdon." She wrapped him in her arms. "Langdon. Langdon. Langdon."

  He wasn't sure how many times she said his name. Over and over, she repeated it, pausing to stare at him again as she drew him inside. Had Rilla done that when she held Emmett's limp body? Had she called out to him, saying his name again and again, trying to call him back or hold him in her memory? Langdon had so little of Emmett to hold onto.

  "You've come." She broke the trance of his name at last.

  He gave a quick glance about the apartment's main living space. Everything was neat and organized, though the furniture showed its age. The place still smelled of mint. His glance grazed the coffee table where a glass dish of butter mints sat center on a doily. His mother had always had a fondness for the candies. Some things never changed. He turned his hat in his hands again. "I should have come when Pa died. I'm sorry about that."

  She shook her head. "It is past."

  "I could have helped."

  He glimpsed her face, the water in her eyes. She reached for his hands, grasping the one not holding his hat. "You are here now." She patted his hand.

  "You're here alone?"

  She nodded. "Evelyn, Bethia, Dominic, they're all grown and away now. Geneva and Roland will be home from school soon."

  "How is Dom?" He hesitated. He imagined his brother had likely been called to war too.

  She nodded again, assuring him. "He is good. Very good. He is safely home from the war." She didn't elaborate on that, which was fine. Lang had had enough of war.

  "And Bethia?"