Fields Of Gold

by Marie Bostwick

  Without thinking, I blurted out, “I’ve missed you,” and blushed a deep red, realizing it was true.

  “Good,” Paul answered seriously. “I had hoped you would.”

  His face looked so stern that I couldn’t help but laugh. “You always say just what you think, don’t you?”

  “It is a flaw of mine.”

  “Maybe that’s what I’ve missed about you.”

  “Well, it’s something at least,” he said, shifting Alice to a more comfortable position on his hip. “Why don’t you come in out of the heat? There are people who say I make a really wonderful glass of iced tea. You could have one, and after you leave it would give you something else to miss about me. Besides, one more moment out in this heat and we’ll be able to drink whatever you’ve got in there,” he nodded toward my bowl, squinting doubtfully at the melting gelatin.

  “It looks pretty awful, doesn’t it?” I sighed, examining my ruined salad.

  “Yes,” he conceded. “Maybe if we put it in the icebox, it will resurrect itself. Come on in.” He held open the screen door and stepped aside to let me pass.

  Ellen’s icebox was already stuffed with casseroles and cakes. Obviously I was not the first to drop by with condolences. I wedged my dish in with the others. The kitchen was cool and tidy. Newly washed glasses sat on the counter in sparkling rows. Paul had lined them up like columns of shiny soldiers. He saw me looking at them.

  “Too fussy, I know,” Paul said as he sat Baby Alice down at the table with a bowl of gelatin and a spoon. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve started lining up my spice bottles in alphabetical order. The rigidity of old age.”

  “You’re just organized,” I reasoned. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Most of life is so unpredictable, it’s nice to know exactly where the cinnamon is when you want it. There isn’t much else we can count on.”

  “Especially in times like these,” he agreed, rubbing his tired face with his hand, as though trying to rub out the lines of worry written there. “Sometimes,” he admitted, “I think I can’t go on, that if I have to bury one more mother’s son or comfort one more widow I will just give up, take a walk out of town, and keep walking until I reach a place where they’ve never heard of war.”

  “But you’d never do that,” I assured him.

  “No.” He sighed as he stirred a cloud of sugar into a pitcher of tea. “I only fantasize about it. As little as I have to offer, people look to me for answers. They think I know so much more than I really do. I can’t let them down, so I just mumble my little prayers and hold their hands. I do what I can and rely on God for the rest, but I can’t help wishing He’d made me more equal to the task.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “To begin with,” he said thoughtfully. “I’d like to be a better speaker, or a more agile one. I think too much. People want answers, but for me, every answer begets ten more questions. I’d also like to be more spontaneous. Then maybe I’d be have the courage to stop dreaming about things and just do them.”

  “Such as what? Walking out of town and never coming back?” I teased.

  “Oh, but that’s not really a dream, more an indulgence. Lately, I have a favorite story I tell myself.” He stopped stirring the tea and closed his eyes, as though conjuring a vision in his mind. “I dress up in a suit, shoes very shiny and hair neatly combed, then I walk to your house and rap my knuckles firmly on the door. You answer, looking surprised to see me and without a moment’s hesitation I say something like, ‘Eva, you are a fool. You say you don’t love me, and for a long time I believed it. At first I was embarrassed and I kept my distance. Then I was angry. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the truth. You said you didn’t love me, but that isn’t quite right, is it?’” He opened his eyes again and looked at me directly, pulling me into the scene, making the dream real.

  “‘You don’t know if you love me or not because you’ve never given me a chance. You’re afraid that if I got too close you might find out if you really do care for me, and that terrifies you. I don’t completely understand why. I don’t think you do, either, but I know Lindbergh is part of it. To hell with him. He’s not here. I am, and I’m not giving up. I’m coming to your house every week to call, whether you want me to or not, until you know me well enough to tell me truthfully whether you could love me.’”

  His face was flushed, and his voice was strong, filling the room, demanding an answer. Baby Alice sat transfixed as he spoke, as though he were an actor in a play, her spoon frozen midway between the bowl and her mouth.

  I was as drawn in as Alice. Twin flames of uncertainty and pleasure rose inside me. I was surprised to realize that pleasure was the stronger of the two.

  Paul paused for a moment, and his breathing became more settled. “That’s what I would say,” he continued gently, “if I were the heroic, noble orator I’d like to be, but I’m not. Instead, I’ve been waiting, hoping that somehow we’d run across each other in a private moment. I’m not eloquent, Eva, or heroic, but if you’ll give me a chance, you might come to care for me as I do you.” He straightened his shoulders and spoke in a formal, measured voice. “Miss Eva, may I come to call?”

  I felt a little embarrassed. It was silly, at my age, to think of opening the door to romance. Then a picture of Mr. Cheevers punctured my thoughts, and I saw him as I’d left him, as though he stood there still, alone and staring into the sky. If I had only remembered how short life is, he seemed to say. How unsure. If I had only realized, what would I have done differently?

  But did I love Paul? I had loved Slim completely, instantaneously, helplessly. Our love was large and torrential, a river that swept me along with it, no use resisting or trying to swim in another direction. That was what I knew of love. What I felt for Paul was so different, a cool drink instead of a raging flood, the comfort of a fireside instead of a blazing inferno. Paul was sincere and present and left no doubt as to how he felt about me. He made me laugh and think about things more deeply than I would have alone. This tenderness I felt for Paul, was that really love? I cared for him too much to offer him a counterfeit affection. Then Papa’s voice spoke in my mind, as clearly as it had on that summer night a lifetime before when I’d eavesdropped through the open window. Real love is with someone who’ll be there when the crop fails or your sight grows weak. You can count on it, like the earth under your feet.

  That was Paul. How I missed him, his steadiness, his honesty, his humor, and his kind, kind heart. Paul, trying so hard to make things a little better, polishing glasses to comfort a widow, sharing books and time with a fatherless boy, being my friend, seeing more in me than a checkered past and a cane.

  Paul’s eyes, so sad, searched my face for an answer. “Please, Eva. I know you don’t love me now, but you like me, don’t you? It’s something to start with. Let’s give it a chance, shall we? Just to see how it works out?”

  “Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “What I’ve put you through. You don’t have to come courting.” I didn’t have to think any longer. The words came pouring from me, without explanation or act of will, and when I spoke them they were as much a surprise to me as they were to Paul. “I don’t need to wait anymore. I love you. Will you marry me?”

  Paul’s face was shocked, and he literally stammered, searching for something to say, but before he could, Baby Alice dropped her spoon. It clattered metallically onto the table, spilling bright globs of gelatin everywhere while she clapped her chubby hands together and chortled with laughter.

  The noise startled us both. Instinctively, I jumped up to find a rag to clean up the mess, but Paul grabbed my wrist. “Leave it,” he whispered. He pulled me close and kissed me. I kissed him back while the baby giggled merrily, squishing wiggling lumps of gelatin though her finger and rubbing them into her hair as the distant sound of happy children’s games floated in from outside and rested on us like a blessing.

  When we stepped back from that first perfect kiss, any remaining doubts
popped and vanished like transparent, trifling soap bubbles on a summer breeze. I loved Paul. How simple, how absolute. I wanted us to be married right that minute.

  “A justice of the peace could perform the ceremony today,” I babbled. “We could go to the house and you could tell Mama and Ruby while I change into my Sunday dress. You remember, the blue one? It’s a few years old, but it still looks nice. We could drive to Liberal and be married before the sun goes down. Oh, Paul!” I stopped short, suddenly plagued with worry. “What about the deacons? Do you think they’ll let you get married? To me, I mean. There’s bound to be talk about me and Morgan... .” I could feel heat and color rising again in my cheeks.

  Paul smiled indulgently and silenced my worries with his lips, kissing me slowly and gently but with a patient intensity that made me feel I might disappear into the perfect curve of his body. Still holding me in his arms, he lifted his lips softly from mine.

  “Don’t think so much just now, Eva. We’ll work it out. I’m not letting anything get in our way.” He spoke with such utter confidence it was impossible not to believe him.

  “We will drive to the farm and tell your family today,” he continued. “Then we’ll send Morgan a telegram. It wouldn’t be right to go forward without his blessing. I want to marry you as soon as possible, but in front of a minister, not a judge. And you must have a bouquet of flowers and a new dress. A white dress.” He spoke firmly, his eyes square on mine as though to say that no matter what shame people in town might try to heap on my head, any sins I may have committed were long forgiven and truly forgotten. And suddenly, in the time it took for a look to pass between us, something changed inside me forever. I felt forgiven, by Paul, by God, by myself. I smiled, but it was impossible to keep a tear from running down my cheek.

  Paul reached out, caught the droplet on his fingertip, and studied it for a moment, as though it were something more precious than a simple teardrop. “Eva, I love you more than my life. We are going to have a beautiful wedding. After waiting for you so long, I want there to be no question but that we are properly joined by God. One flesh, forever.”

  He pulled me again into the long arc of his body. Did I have any objections to his plans? I don’t remember. If I did they were forgotten in the warmth of his embrace.

  Chapter 22

  As the station clock struck midnight, the hulking engine pulled up like an enormous black dragon and, with an exhausted shudder, expelled a cloud of steam, enveloping the platform in mist. I felt like a character in a fairy tale, joyful but slightly befuddled. Even with the pressure of Paul’s hand supporting me as I climbed into the passenger coach and the sound of the conductor’s cheery welcome, I kept thinking it was all too wonderful to be real, but when I looked out the window of the compartment, Mama and Ruby were there, beaming and mouthing, “Good-bye Mrs. Van Dyver!” as they tapped on the window, as though to remind me of my new name. It was all true.

  Our beautiful wedding had been performed a short two hours before. Paul asked a fellow minister from Liberal, the kindly Reverend Doctor Horton, to marry us in the tiny chapel of his church. Dr. Horton’s twinkling eyes and ready smile reminded me of Papa. When he wrapped Paul’s and my right hand in the silken bonds of his clerical stole and declared that “those whom God has joined, let no man put asunder,” I couldn’t help but feel that Papa himself was present and giving us his blessing.

  Though the ceremony included only the four of us, with Mama and Ruby as witnesses, Paul had insisted that we “do it properly.” He put aside his clerical collar for the occasion, looking more handsome than ever in a new charcoal gray suit, a shirt with a soft collar, and a blue silk necktie. I carried a bouquet of purple lilacs and white roses and wore a new white traveling suit. Mama had made it herself, though Ruby and I helped with the cutting and sewing of the trim because Mama’s arthritis was bothering her. Ruby thought we should sew a veil onto the hat, but I wasn’t so sure.

  Mama was on my side. “Nonsense,” she said. “Eva doesn’t need to hide behind any veil.” She put aside the skirt she was hemming, took my hand in hers, and said, “You look him in the eye when you’re saying those vows, Eva. Let him see you just as you are. It’s the only honest way to begin.”

  Dr. Horton had kindly left out the huge sprays of flowers that had been used for a big wedding that had taken place earlier that day and had thought to bring all the candelabras out of storage for the occasion. The chapel glowed with the light from dozens of white pillared candles. Mrs. Horton played the wedding march on the organ as Paul and I walked up the aisle together, and I leaned on him lightly for support, my cane made unnecessary in his presence. Even Jolene Bergen could not have dreamed of a wedding half so elegant as ours.

  We knelt down together, and the benevolent old minister breathed his blessing over our union while Ruby and Mama sniffed back tears. We recited our vows: love ... honor ... cherish ... forever ... with eyes locked, promising ourselves to each another with no reservations. When I looked into Paul’s eyes I saw what I had seen there from the first moment I’d met him, honesty, and I knew I could trust that every vow he made to me was true and would last. I felt the same about my vows to him. It could not have been more perfect.

  Now we were traveling all the way to California, where Morgan would be waiting for us, on leave for the first time in nearly two years. The Pacific was so far away to begin with, we didn’t want to waste more of Morgan’s precious leave time in traveling to Oklahoma, so San Diego seemed the perfect meeting place. On top of that, it was a marvelous excuse to take a honeymoon trip. As we boarded the train, I wasn’t sure which pleased me more, being Paul’s wife or seeing my son. Then it occurred to me there was no need to choose between the two, and I laughed with pleasure.

  I was so busy waving to Mama and Ruby that I didn’t notice the compartment until we were well out of the station. It was beautiful, all polished wood and chrome trim, with a paneled closet to store our clothes, two soft, upholstered seats facing each other across a tiny table, and a not quite double bed built right into the wall. “It’s lovely! “ I exclaimed. “Can we afford it?”

  “On a minister’s salary? Of course not,” Paul said in mock seriousness as he came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, and kissed my neck playfully. “I don’t care what it cost. All that matters is that you are happy. I’ve waited too long to allow for any interruptions. I don’t intend to let you leave this room or this bed for the entire trip.”

  I turned toward him, placed one hand on his chest and loosened his tie with the other. “Not even for meals?” I asked coyly.

  “I don’t know,” he breathed, reaching over to turn off the light. “Let’s decide when we get hungry.”

  But we weren’t hungry for a long, long time. In some sense, I’ve never been hungry again. That night I discovered that Paul’s touch, so gentle, so adoring and unhurried, filled all the empty caverns of my soul and made me want to do the same for him. When morning came, my heart stirred at the sight of his head sleeping peacefully on the pillow next to mine, and I wanted him again, even more than before, but I didn’t wake him. There was no hurry. I knew he would be there that day and the next and the next; we had our entire lives to love one another. We could count on it, like the earth under our feet.

  Morgan’s sparkling eyes and ready grin were the same, but the thin, lanky frame of his boyhood had been layered over with muscles, topped with broad, powerful shoulders—he had the body of a soldier. Handsome and confident in his dress uniform, he scooped me off the station platform and squeezed me tight. We were neither of us too proud to cry a little.

  My eyes were still full as I held him at arm’s length for a better look. “When did you get so good-looking, Morgan? Were you always this tall?” I covered my mouth with my hand and took in a deep breath to stop myself from crying again. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. I didn’t think I’d see you for another six months at least!”

  “I know! We were lucky. Your letter came
at a good time. I’ve been assigned to a new unit, the 475th fighter group, but it won’t be activated for a few days yet. I convinced the C.O. it was better to let me take my leave now when there’s nothing going on.” He flashed that genuine, winning smile of his, so like Papa’s, and it made me think that even battle-hardened commanders might not be immune to Irish charm. “The bad news is, I’ve got to leave to report to my new group in Australia in three days. I’m sorry there’s not more time.”

  “Oh, never mind about that.” I squeezed him again, to make sure he was real. “It’s just so good to be together.” I rested my hand on my son’s muscled forearm at the same time as I reached for my husband’s hand, pulling us into a circle. “We’re going to have the best honeymoon in the world! Just the three of us,” I said. We all laughed.

  “Australia!” Paul shook his head in amazement. “That’s half a world away.”

  “Oh, that’s just where we’re training.” There was a little edge of pride in Morgan’s voice. “Once we’re ready we’ll get a base in the islands, probably New Guinea. The Allies just got it back, and Uncle Sam wants to make sure we keep it.” The determined look on Morgan’s face convinced me they would.

  I tried to calculate the distance in my mind but couldn’t. Like Paul said, half a world away. Beating back the Japanese. Tiny planes tossed out like so much confetti over an infinite and unforgiving ocean.

  The conversation lagged for a moment, but Morgan leaped in to lighten the mood before the atmosphere became too chill. “I almost forgot!” he exclaimed, grabbing Paul’s hand and priming it like a pump handle. “Congratulations! When I got the telegram that you two wanted to get married, I let out such a whoop other guys heard me all the way in the mess hall! I think it’s great, Paul, I really do. You and Mama are meant to be together. I’ve thought so for a long time.”

  Paul smiled and murmured his thanks. It was so wonderful to see the two men I loved getting on so well, I wasn’t even bothered that they were talking about me as though I weren’t there.