Fields Of Gold

by Marie Bostwick

  “If that’s true,” I said, “they did an awfully good job of keeping it to themselves until today.” Even as I spoke I felt a little ashamed of the bitter edge in my voice.

  Mrs. Hutchinson nodded sagely. “You’re right, Eva, but you’ve got to forgive them. It’s hard for people to come right out and say what they think if they’re not sure everyone else will feel the same way. Sometimes they need a little nudge.

  “The day you left on your honeymoon, Mr. Dwyer called a special meeting of the church just to plan this party for you and Paul. I will admit, there were one or two hateful old busybodies (don’t ask me to tell you who, that’d be gossiping) who wanted to turn the meeting into a vote on whether or not we should keep a pastor who would marry a ‘woman of questionable character,’ as they put it.” I felt my face flush with embarrassment, ashamed to think of my past being discussed in public and mortified to imagine my actions casting a shadow on Paul. Mrs. Hutchinson eyed me sympathetically.

  “Now, Eva, don’t go upsetting yourself. Mr. Dwyer may be a little too fond of the sound of his own voice, but he’s a good man deep down. He told the old biddies to sit down before somebody started telling tales on them! Then,” she reported with a satisfied nod, “Charley Cheevers, of all people! I don’t think I’ve ever known him to speak in public! Charley got to his feet and said you had more character than any woman he’d ever met. ‘Look at the way she’s raised her boy,’ he said, ‘and how she took care of her folks and ran her business. Good as any man! And she lives clean, too, never been seen to smoke or drink or chase after men. Sure, she made one mistake when she was young, and she got caught, but as near as I can tell, that’s the only one. That’s a damn sight less than most people. Hell, we ought to be proud to have a woman like that as our pastor’s wife!’”

  “Mr. Cheevers has always been kind to me.” I smiled.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hutchinson agreed, “Charley Cheevers is the salt of the earth, and everybody in town knows it. Once he spoke up for you, seems like it gave everyone permission to voice their agreement. They meant it, too. At my age I can tell the difference between sincerity and the need to go along with the crowd.” Again there was a mischievous wink.

  I could have hugged the old lady right then and there, but I still had my doubts. “But really, Paul is the one who—” I started.

  Mrs. Hutchinson scowled again and waggled a warning finger in my face. “Don’t go doing that to yourself. It’s not like people in town took to Reverend Van Dyver right off, you know. He was awful different, and it made them nervous. He was good-looking, but he had a strange accent and manner. He preached long, serious sermons full of big words that hit a little too close to home for most folks. Of course, we’re supposed to come to church because we want to find out where and how we need to change, but most people really come to service wanting to hear about how the other fellow needs to change.” She chuckled, pleased with her own joke.

  “People had a hard time warming up to Paul,” she continued, “but he seems more accessible since you came into his life, more human. Make no mistake, Eva, this party is for both of you, and it’s more an apology than a wedding celebration. It’s the church’s way of saying we’re sorry for the way we’ve treated you both in the past; and, Eva,” she said hoarsely, raising her chin and looking me in the eye, as though determined to face the music square on, “I include myself on the list of those needing your forgiveness. We were wrong. But there’s no one we’d rather have lead our church than you and Paul. The only question is, will you accept our apology?”

  For a second I was moved beyond words; then I said, “Of course I will,” and somehow just saying those words filled me with a lightness I’d been waiting for all my life. For the first time, I felt like I was in exactly the right place: home. Without thinking, I embraced Mrs. Hutchinson. Hugging her was like wrapping my arms around a pile of sweet, warm bread dough. When she squeezed me back, we lost our balance for a moment and nearly tipped over the punch bowl. With a joint gasp, we broke apart just in time to grab the bowl before it spilled. Then, looking at each other and realizing how close we’d come to unleashing a pink, sticky flood all over the pristine white tablecloth, we broke into a tide of laughter that attracted the attention of Mrs. Dwyer, who was working nearby refilling the sandwich trays.

  “What are you two up to?” she asked cheerily.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Mrs. Hutchinson grinned and patted me on the arm. “Mrs. Van Dyver has just agreed to make a quilt for the raffle at the church bazaar this year, haven’t you, Eva? “ Her eyes twinkled, as she was clearly enjoying the look of confusion on my face.

  My jaw had dropped in surprise, but Mrs. Dwyer’s expectant face showed me there was only one thing I could say.

  “Of course, I’d be happy to.”

  “Well, that is good news!” Mrs. Dwyer exclaimed. “Your quilts are so beautiful, Eva, I’m sure we’ll raise more money than ever before. We’ll be halfway to a new organ before you know it. How kind of you. But making a quilt is so much work, and the bazaar is in September. Is there enough time?”

  “Well, perhaps some of the ladies would be willing to help me with the cutting and quilting?” I asked.

  Mrs. Dwyer was enthusiastic about the plan. “I’m sure we could find at least a dozen ladies who would love to help,” she twittered, “if only for the chance to see your work and learn from it.”

  “Wonderful idea,” Mrs. Hutchinson agreed. “And after the quilt, Eva, we can start embroidering new altar cloths!” the elderly woman chirped, as Mrs. Dwyer led me away by the arm, eager to spread the word.

  Chapter 24

  July 1944

  “Maybe staying here was a mistake,” I said to Mama as we stood together at the kitchen sink, washing and drying a mountain of teacups left behind by the ladies of the Tuesday Sacred Sewing Circle. “The parsonage has a good-sized parlor. If Paul and I had moved there instead of telling the church they could rent it out, you wouldn’t have to put up with all this noise and mess. Seems like someone is here every minute! If I’d known being a pastor’s wife was such a big job, I’d have asked for a salary.”

  “Ha!” Mama snorted. “As though they’d give you one. Darling, every married woman unwittingly signs up for some sort of job she never counted on doing—none of it comes with a pay packet.”

  “Still,” I argued, “I feel badly crowding you in your own home, Mama, surrounding you with chattering women every minute of the day. It’s like living in a henhouse, and I know how much you like your peace and quiet.”

  “Actually,” Mama reflected, seeming genuinely surprised by her own revelation, “I don’t mind. It’s true I’ve always kept to myself, but I think that may have been as much from circumstance as from choice. We lived out so far, people never came to visit much, and with your Papa around I never wanted for conversation. At my age it’s nice to have people around, gossiping and laughing. It keeps me interested.”

  “So you wouldn’t rather Paul and I moved to town?”

  “Certainly not!” she exclaimed, “I’d be too lonely. Besides, if Paul wasn’t here, who’d take care of the farm? I’d much rather have him around than a hired man. Luther Krebs never had two words to say for himself, and I never saw him that he didn’t have dirt under his fingernails, not even on Sunday. The man made my skin crawl.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust and scrubbed the teacups with renewed vigor.

  “Well, Paul’s not much of a farmer,” I said, laughing. “He still can’t milk a cow without spilling half the milk when Flower kicks the pail over.”

  “I heard that!” Paul shouted good-naturedly as the screen door slammed, announcing his arrival. He took off his hat, hung up his coat, and spied the pile of dirty teacups. “Shall I grab a towel and help you dry?”

  “No,” Mama demurred, “we’re almost done here. Sit down and relax. You shouldn’t let Eva tease you so much, Paul,” she scolded. “You’re a fine farmer, for a beginner. You brought in a perfectly respectable crop.
”

  “I don’t call two acres, tilled and tended on Saturdays and spare evenings, farming; it’s more like a hobby.” He fished a donut out of the jar before I could tell him he’d spoil his appetite for dinner, which would have been ridiculous, anyway. Paul was always hungry. He took a bite of the donut and then kissed me hello, getting powdered sugar all over my lips. Laughing, I wiped it off and kissed him back. Mama pretended not to see, but I noticed the trace of a smile on her lips.

  “Eva’s right, Mother Glennon,” he continued, “I’m no good at all with cows. I always preferred sheep. They seem smarter, or more contemplative, anyway.”

  “Sheep are not smarter than cows,” I retorted. “Just so dull-witted they can stand still for hours at a time.” I poured him a glass of milk to go with the donut and set it on the kitchen table. “You’re home early.”

  “My meeting with Mr. Dwyer was canceled. He has a toothache.” Paul sat down at the table, loosened his tie, took a deep drink of milk, and sighed with satisfaction. “I thought I’d come home early and plant those rosebushes I bought in Liberal. I want to get them in before the weather turns too cold. Where is Ruby? I thought she might want a couple of bushes out near the caboose.”

  “Peter Norman came by earlier to take her for a ride in his new car. Smelled of shaving cream and bay rum.” I nodded meaningfully. “ And last week he took her to the pictures.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows in interest. “Is that so? Well, good for Ruby. Pete seems a nice enough fellow.”

  “I suppose so,” I said begrudgingly, “but I have to admit I don’t like the idea of anyone marrying her and taking her away. It wouldn’t be the same if I couldn’t talk to Ruby every day.”

  “We could always buy another caboose and make room for Pete,” Paul teased.

  “Very funny,” I said, flicking a bit of dishwater in Paul’s direction while Mama fussed that I’d get water all over the clean floor. I started to ask what harm water could do to a clean floor, but Paul very sensibly interrupted.

  “Eva, Mrs. Waters is going to take over the Christmas pageant this year, and she wanted to know if you’d be in charge of the costumes.”

  I groaned at the thought. “Goodness, Paul, between making the raffle quilt, embroidering altar cloths, going to meetings of the WCTU, the Naomi Circle, and the Sunday school curriculum committee, I’m just about worn out. I hardly have a moment to work on my own quilts.” I dried the last saucer and sat down next to him. Mama said she was tired and wanted to lie down before dinner, as she did most days when Paul came home. She’d never been tired in the afternoons before Paul and I were married. It was kind of her to give us some private time.

  “I’ll just tell Mrs. Waters you don’t have time.” He shrugged as though it were a matter of complete indifference to him.

  “But I hate telling people no,” I mumbled through a bite of donut I’d stolen from him.

  “Well, you’d better learn how to pretty quickly or you’ll die of overwork. Pastors’ wives are always in demand, especially if they are beautiful”—he reached over, took my hand, and kissed it on each adjective, like punctuation—“and lovely”—smack—“and kind—smack—“and talented—smack.

  “They admire your accomplishments,” he continued. Just be grateful you never learned to play the piano.” He grinned. “You’d never have a moment’s peace.”

  “You don’t think she’ll be upset with me?” I asked doubtfully.

  Paul shook his head. “Disappointed, but not upset. I’ll explain it to her. She’ll understand. With four young children and another on the way, she knows about being too busy.”

  “Lydia’s having another? Does she have time to run the pageant?”

  “Probably not, but I bet you Joseph and Mary will both be played by little Waters. She’d probably cast this latest addition as Baby Jesus if she could, but I understand he or she will not arrive until spring. Ah, well. Maybe next year.” He grinned impishly, and I smacked him on the hand.

  “You’re terrible. But thank you for handling Lydia. Did you stop by the post office today?”

  “I did,” he said and drew a small packet of envelopes from the breast pocket of his jacket. “There is a letter here addressed to you with many exotic-looking stamps on it.”

  “Morgan! Why didn’t you tell me?” I snatched the letter from his hand and tore it open before giving him a chance to answer. I unfolded the pages and cleared my throat before beginning.

  Dear Mama and Paul,

  Finally, after so many months of you enduring the ‘small town’ gossip and foibles of life in McDonald’s 475th Fighter Group I finally have some real news to report! You won’t believe it because I half don’t believe it myself, but somebody pretty famous has come to visit us and give us some special flight training. I can’t tell you who and I can’t even tell you what he’s showing us how to do, but I know you’ll understand who I’m talking about.

  Remember the picture I’ve had on my wall since forever? That’s right! It’s him in the flesh! I sure never thought I’d see him again in person. You can imagine how excited all the fellows are. Everybody has been asking for his autograph. Of course, I already have one!’

  “Oh, my Lord! It’s Slim!” I whispered to myself.

  I spoke to him after one of the training sessions and said he probably didn’t remember me, but I’d met him when I was five years old and it had been the biggest thrill of my life. He got this real funny look on his face, like I’d caught him out and he was embarrassed that he couldn’t remember, even though he said he did. But, shoot, why would he? I was just one kid out of the millions that thought he was the greatest. I was just the one lucky enough that day to get picked out to meet him personally. Boy, I’ll never forget it. And it seems my luck is holding out because he asked if he could take me out for a beer on Friday! Can you believe it? There’s a million things I want to ask him! After all, he’s the reason I wanted to fly in the first place and I’m convinced there’s still nobody on earth who knows more about aviation than he does.

  He’s still got his stuff too! Just yesterday he was flying with my wing and we ran up against the enemy and darned if he didn’t take out a zero that was dead set on doing the same to him. Sent the other plane right into the drink! It was a sight to see, I can tell you that!

  Well, I have a million other things I’d like to write, but if I don’t stop now I’ll be at the end of the chow line and there’s a rumor we’ve got steak tonight. I’ll believe it when I see it, but still, I’d better get over there, just in case. I’ll write again soon. Give my love to Grandma and Ruby.

  Love,

  Morgan

  My stomach felt hollow and sick all at once, like it had when I was little and got the wind knocked out of me while learning to ride Ranger. “It’s not possible!” I cried. “How could Slim be flying a combat mission? I thought the government wouldn’t let him serve, and now he just turns up in New Guinea? Even if they did, what are the chances that he’d just happen to end up in the same unit as his own son? Do you think he went looking for him?”

  “I don’t know.” Paul said incredulously. He was clearly as confounded as I. “Maybe, despite all Roosevelt’s rhetoric, Lindbergh’s just too valuable to leave sitting on the sidelines. Whatever he’s doing there, it must be a very big secret. The papers haven’t said a word. It’s amazing that Morgan’s letter got through intact. The censors must have missed it.”

  “And Slim is out there with Morgan,” I murmured disbelievingly. It was all to much to take in. “Do you think he’s going to talk to Morgan about ...”

  “It’s time someone did, Eva.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “After you and I quarreled that day in California, I was going to tell him, but I lost heart. It just didn’t seem like the right moment. Now he’s going to hear it from the father he barely knows, a stranger. It should have been me. Do you think he’ll hate me for keeping it from him?”

  “Don’t be silly.” He dismissed the very ide
a with a wave of his hand. “Morgan could never hate you. You’ve been everything to each other. He’ll understand that whatever you’ve done, you’ve done from love.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said doubtfully. “Whether I was right or wrong, it’s too late to change now, isn’t it? I suppose I should feel relieved, but something just doesn’t feel right. Oh!” I shook my head, exasperated with myself. “Why do I have to think so much? Always four emotions at once! Why can’t I just feel one way about things?”

  Paul grinned. “If you did, you’d be very dull company indeed. You’re complicated, Eva, but you’re never boring. Cheer up.” Paul thumped the table with conviction. “Everything will work out for the best. You’ll see.”

  “Hmm,” I murmured, unconvinced. “I guess I’d better tell Mama and Ruby.”

  “All right. Then come back and I’ll help you cook dinner. It will keep your hands and mind busy with something else.”

  “You’re right, “I agreed, but a warning bell knelled within me. There was no point in arguing about intuition with a man as practical as Paul, but I knew my heart wouldn’t rest easy until I heard from Morgan again.

  Sleep came at a price that night. All my dreams were of water, not cheery, babbling brooks or peaceful ponds, but water stretching on all sides, heaving and contracting like the breath of some terrible giant. I was afraid to move in case the giant remembered my name and swallowed me whole.

  No matter how dreadful and real the omens, there is no way to prepare your mind for the moment when the Western Union man arrives at your front door with the message you’ve been dreading.

  REGRET TO INFORM YOU YOUR SON LT. MORGAN GLENNON’S PLANE SHOT DOWN OVER PACIFIC JULY 27. SEARCH IN PROGRESS. WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED.

  Cold ebony letters swam stupidly over the yellow paper sea, swelling and joining, shutting out the light until there was nothing left in the world but black, and my knees refused to support me any longer.