The Land Beneath Us

by Sarah Sundin

  Then he rose, swinging gently, climbing the steep gray cliff of the battleship’s hull. Too bad the Rangers didn’t have a winch to hoist them to the top of Pointe du Hoc.

  The whir of the winch stopped, the litter shuddered to a stop, and hands grabbed the litter and swung it over the side of the ship and onto the deck.

  Half a dozen faces stared down at him, each capped with helmets.

  “G’morning,” Clay said.

  A sailor laughed. “Good afternoon to you. Let’s get you to sick bay.”

  More metallic clanks as they unhooked the litter from the ropes.

  “Say, what ship is this?”

  “The fightingest ship in the West—the USS Texas.”

  “My home state. Only fitting.” Coming home to die.

  43

  CHICAGO

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 7, 1944

  Mama Paxton opened Juanita’s front door and helped Leah carry the baby carriage up the steps. “Come in. I have a surprise for you.”

  It was far too early for news about Clay, and Leah had released her hope to be united with her sisters, leaving her both depleted and strangely replenished. “A surprise?”

  Mama scooped up Helen and motioned Leah into the living room. “You have visitors.”

  A couple sat on the couch and stood when Leah entered.

  “Mrs. Demetrios!”

  “Hello, Thalia. It’s good to see you again.” Mrs. Demetrios clasped Leah’s hand. “This is my husband, Dr. Lukas Demetrios.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Demetrios.” Leah shook his hand. “You—you knew my father.”

  He tipped up a sad smile topped by a neat gray mustache. “A good friend and a fine scholar.”

  “Leah, would you like some tea?” Mama asked. “Dr. and Mrs. Demetrios, would you like some more?”

  Leah managed a “no, thank you,” sat in the armchair, and set her purse on the floor beside her. “I’m glad you came, Mrs. Demetrios. I rushed off yesterday, but there was so much I should have asked.”

  “I’m glad you gave me your address.” Mrs. Demetrios cradled her teacup in her hand. “Did you find your sisters?”

  “I did. They’re beautiful.”

  A gasp, and Mama peeked back into the living room.

  Leah gave her mother-in-law an apologetic look. “I stood outside their house and watched them walk to school. They are beautiful. They’re happy and bright and charming, and they’re close to their mother and each other. And I—I said nothing. I let them go.”

  “Ah, mija.” Mama squeezed Leah’s shoulder. “That was brave and wise.”

  Leah turned to her guests. “I may not be able to meet my sisters, but maybe you can acquaint me with my parents.”

  “That’s why I brought this.” Dr. Demetrios opened a cardboard box on the coffee table.

  Over the next hour, Leah saw photos of her father at an award ceremony, of her parents dressed as Zeus and Hera for a party, and of the young parents and baby Thalia at a faculty picnic on the shore of Lake Michigan.

  She heard stories of her father’s exuberant teaching and her mother’s sense of humor, her father’s clumsiness and her mother’s gift with a needle and thread, and of their love for their girls.

  She cried over the article about her parents’ deaths—how Althea had gotten her heel stuck in a crack in the street and had struggled to unlace her shoe, how her father saved his three daughters and shielded his wife when a car careened around the corner.

  Leah held in her hands a book her father had written on Greek poetry, dedicated to his four muses.

  Dr. Demetrios set newspaper clippings and photographs back into the box. “These are for you, Thalia.”

  “But they’re yours,” Leah said, even as she clutched the book. “He was your friend.”

  “And I will always remember him dearly.” He slid the box to her. “But he was your father. These belong to you.”

  Leah set a tentative hand on the box. “Thank you.”

  “If you don’t have plans tomorrow, please come to the university.” Dr. Demetrios settled back on the couch. “I can show you where Georgi’s office was and give you a tour.”

  “I’d love that. I especially want to see the library.” Leah picked up her purse, pulled out the postcard, and passed it to her guests. “This is how I learned I was from Chicago. When I saw this, I remembered the library so clearly I could smell it. This is how I found you and my name and my sisters and my . . . my identity.”

  Mrs. Demetrios’s face twisted with sweet sympathy. “I’m so glad we could help.”

  Leah stroked the dust jacket of her father’s book.

  No, her identity had never been lost. At her core, she was the same as she’d been a week earlier. Even without her birth name, without having seen her sisters, without any information on her family history, she’d always been complete.

  She always would be.

  USS Texas, OFF NORMANDY

  THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 1944

  Gene stood on crutches at the foot of Clay’s cot lying on the deck of the battleship’s crowded sick bay. “You look real good, Pax.”

  He found a smile for his friend.

  “You didn’t look so good when they took you on board.” Gene tipped to the side and readjusted his crutches. “Doc says you perked right up with oxygen and some blood, and then they took you to surgery. Sure am glad.”

  “Me too.” Clay sat propped up against a metal locker, very much alive. “How are you?”

  Gene lifted his bandaged leg. “Not too bad. They’re giving me that new penicillin we keep hearing about. Doc says I’ll have a couple weeks in a hospital in England, then back to the front. Sure hope they send me back to the Rangers.”

  “Hope so too.”

  “Remember that D Company LCA that sank? A lot of those fellows are here too.” He nodded down the row of cots lined up like sardines. “So is Sergeant Lombardi. He’s over there by the wall. They had to take off most of his leg though.”

  Clay winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. He says you saved his life. Right now he’s real happy to be alive. Bet you feel the same.”

  He should, so he smiled. But he felt . . . disembodied.

  Dr. Rinehart squatted at the foot of Clay’s cot. What he lacked in hair, he made up for in smiles. “How are you this morning, Corporal?”

  “See you later, Pax.” Gene hobbled away on his crutches.

  Clay shot a glance upward. “You sailor boys know how to wake a man up, sir.”

  “Those 14-inch guns are impressive, aren’t they?” Dr. Rinehart inspected a clipboard. “How are you feeling?”

  “Doesn’t hurt as much as it should.”

  “We gave you a nerve block during surgery. You already know why.” A big toothy grin.

  “So I’ll breathe deeply and cough up secretions.”

  “Are you doing that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Clay deliberately took as deep a breath as he could, his bare shoulder blades rubbing the locker vents.

  “Good.” He squeezed between the cots and inspected the large gauze bandage taped to Clay’s chest. “You’re one lucky man. The bullet missed the major vessels. You only have one broken rib, and it’s in the back. The initial surgery went well, and the X-rays show no retained foreign material. In about a week, you’ll have reparative surgery to close the wound. Barring any complications, you should be back to duty in six to eight weeks.”

  “Complications—like infection.”

  Dr. Rinehart nudged Clay to lean forward, and he inspected the dressings on Clay’s back. “Since there was no abdominal involvement, the risk of infection is low. With perforating thoracic—chest—wounds, the greatest risk is in the first few hours. Your prognosis is excellent.”

  An excellent prognosis? Clay shook his head. His dream had come true, but he was alive. What had happened? Had he failed somehow by dodging that bullet?

  Dr. Rinehart eased Clay back against the locker. “Everythin
g looks great. I’ll look in on you this afternoon. In the meantime, keep doing the breathing and coughing exercises the pharmacist’s mate gives you. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.” None the physician could answer anyway.

  He felt discombobulated. What would he do with his life now that he had one? The problem with believing he had no future was that he had no plans.

  His convalescence would be longer than Gene’s, and they probably wouldn’t return him to the Rangers. Where would they send him? Regular infantry or a support job, like in supply?

  What about after the war?

  Clay forced a deep breath, inhaling the beloved smells of antiseptic and gauze. If Wyatt kept his promise and paid Clay back, could he go to college?

  He had a wife and daughter to support. He might be able to afford it if they all lived in one household.

  Except he’d promised Leah he’d die.

  Clay groaned, and he flexed and pointed his feet to prevent blood clots. Most fellows went off to war promising their wives they’d come home, but Clay had promised he wouldn’t.

  Leah hadn’t signed up for a lifetime with him. To talk her into marrying him, he’d had to promise her—his chest collapsed with the weight of it, straining the dressings—he’d promised that if he survived, they’d get a divorce. He’d have to say he’d cheated on her to give her grounds.

  No matter how much he loved her, he had to keep his word and offer that divorce.

  Then he’d have two households to support. Even if Wyatt repaid him and Clay worked summers, he couldn’t afford eight years of school. He’d have to get a job. Where? At Paxton Trucking? The job he’d hated? Working with Wyatt and Adler?

  Reconciling with his brothers seemed less appealing now that it was actually possible. It was one thing to write words of forgiveness and another to live it out each and every day. Could he do so? Or would it be better to start over in a new town?

  His pocket Bible lay on the cot beside him, and he opened it. Leah and Helen’s photo had survived the mayhem, and Leah’s sweet smile burrowed into his heart and made itself at home. How could he give her up?

  Perhaps he could persuade her to remain married.

  A laugh burst out, and he clutched his side. Even with the nerve block, he felt that.

  “You okay, Pax?” the fellow on the next cot asked.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Persuade Leah to remain married? Fat chance. She’d barely known Clay on their wedding day, and what had he done since then to commend himself to her? Nada.

  He’d whined about forgiving his brothers and resenting his parents’ forgiveness. He’d wanted to die so much that he’d apparently manufactured a dream to support that wish. He was a half-breed with no job prospects.

  She might even think he was mercenary, wanting to stay married just so he could afford medical school. And why would she want to be married to a college boy?

  Clay closed the Bible. The kindest thing would be to set her free.

  44

  TULLAHOMA

  TUESDAY, JUNE 13, 1944

  Under her umbrella, Leah compared the address on the library postcard to the house before her, a blue-and-white Victorian in Tullahoma’s nicest neighborhood across from the railroad and businesses these families had founded.

  She and Mama had returned to Tullahoma yesterday, and this morning Mama had taken the train back to Kerrville. Leah’s little house felt empty without Lupe Paxton.

  Up on the porch, Leah lowered her umbrella and rang the doorbell. In a minute, a slender woman with graying blonde hair opened the door.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Mrs. Clay Paxton. Is Mr. Robert Mason at home?”

  “He’s at work.” Her eyes narrowed—in suspicion? “I’m his wife. May I help you?”

  “Yes, please.” Leah shone her brightest smile and held out the postcard. “I’m returning a postcard addressed to him.”

  “A postcard?” She didn’t take it.

  “Yes, ma’am. Did you donate a set of encyclopedias to the Victory Book Campaign?”

  “Why, yes.” Mrs. Mason’s posture relaxed.

  “Thank you so much. The campaign wasn’t able to use the books, so we donated them to the Coffee Children’s Home. The children love having their own encyclopedia set. It’s so much easier for them to do homework.”

  Thin lips curved in a pleasant smile. “I never would have thought of that. How wonderful.”

  “A child found this postcard tucked inside. I must confess I took it home because it’s beautiful and reminded me of my childhood. But it doesn’t belong to me, so I’m returning it.”

  She frowned and took Leah’s offering. “It’s only a postcard.”

  “But it belongs to your husband.”

  Mrs. Mason smiled at the back. “From Ricky. Oh my. Richard—he’s my husband’s little brother. He hasn’t gone by Ricky for years. This must have been from his gallivanting days.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be a fond memory for your husband.”

  She laughed, bright as the colors on the postcard. “I’m sure he won’t remember, but thank you. I’m sorry, you told me your name and I don’t recall it. We haven’t met before.”

  “Mrs. Clay Paxton—Leah. I’m fairly new to town.”

  “I can tell from your accent.” Her smile continued to grow in warmth. “Thank you. This was right kind of you.”

  Leah said her good-byes and departed, a warm rain pattering on her umbrella. As much pleasure as the postcard had given her, she’d received greater pleasure returning it, releasing what had never belonged to her.

  Tonight she’d take the final step in releasing what did belong to her—her sisters. Leah planned to write Mrs. Scholz, letting her know she would respect her wishes and never contact Callie and Polly. She would record information about her parents, enclose a photo of herself with Helen, and include the Paxtons’ address as well as hers. If the Scholzes should ever change their minds or the girls should raise questions, they were free to contact her. But she would never intrude.

  Leah rounded the corner onto Moore Street. She would thank the Scholz family for giving her sisters a loving home, and she’d say it was enough to know her sisters were healthy, happy, and together.

  It was indeed enough. Leah had the family the Lord had given her, and she’d received the extra gifts of her family history and of witnessing her sisters’ happiness.

  She had so much more than when she’d arrived in Tullahoma. A year ago to the day, she’d started her job at Camp Forrest. And she’d met Clay.

  She breathed out another prayer for the man she loved, set her umbrella on the porch of the Bellamy home, and entered. “Rita Sue? I’m back. Thank you for watching the baby so I didn’t have to take her out in the rain.”

  “Always a joy,” Rita Sue called from the kitchen. “Let’s sit a spell.”

  “Maybe this afternoon.” Leah knelt by the blanket on the rug where Helen lay, playing with her fingers. “Hi, sweetie. Let’s go home so Mama can do laundry.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Rita Sue entered the living room. “You can’t hang out your washing in this weather.”

  A stiffness in her friend’s movements and a strain in her voice niggled inside Leah. “Is something wrong?”

  Rita Sue sat on the couch and patted the cushion. “Come sit down, sugar.”

  Something was wrong, and Leah’s blood stilled, her hands firm around her baby’s warm middle. “A telegram.”

  A twitch of the eye confirmed the truth. “Please sit down, sugar.”

  Leah felt as if she were spinning, rising, looking down on the whole nation. Hundreds, thousands of telegrams were being delivered. Hundreds, thousands of lives were being shattered. Leah wasn’t special. If anything, Leah was better prepared for this moment.

  Then her vision narrowed and spun back to earth, to the only soldier who mattered to her. “Clay . . .”

  “Come sit—”

  Leah collapsed onto her backside and pulle
d her daughter to her chest. How could she bear this?

  A rustle of movement, and Rita Sue knelt beside her and wrapped her arm around Leah’s shoulder. “The Western Union boy arrived while you were out. Now, don’t panic. We don’t know what’s inside.”

  Leah did. She shifted Helen onto her lap, supported by her left arm, and she took the small envelope from her friend.

  With numb fingers, she opened the envelope and removed the slip of paper. A prayer, and she read the dreaded words: “REGRET TO INFORM YOU YOUR HUSBAND CPL CLAY PAXTON WAS ON SEVEN JUNE WOUNDED IN ACTION IN FRANCE STOP YOU WILL BE ADVISED AS REPORTS OF HIS CONDITION ARE RECEIVED.”

  That wasn’t right, but each time Leah blinked, the words became clearer. Wounded . . . wounded . . . “He was wounded.”

  Rita Sue hugged Leah’s shoulders. “Oh, sugar, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no.” An odd little laugh escaped. “He’s only wounded. He’s alive!”

  Rita Sue ducked to the side and stared at Leah.

  “He’s alive. Thank God, he’s alive.” She laughed and kissed her baby’s head. She didn’t care if he’d lost all his limbs, been burned, disfigured, and maimed forever. Clay Paxton was alive. “He’ll survive.”

  Rita Sue massaged Leah’s shoulder. “I pray he will.”

  Leah tucked in her lips. True. The telegram didn’t say how badly he was wounded. She had no guarantee he’d survive, but she had hope that one day he’d come home to her.

  She lifted Helen and kissed her sweet-smelling cheek.

  Leah could picture Clay stepping off the train, breaking out in his gorgeous smile, taking her into his arms, and kiss—

  No, he wouldn’t.

  Leah pressed up to her knees and then to her feet. Even more clearly, she could see him in the hospital at Camp Forrest, proposing to her, assuring her he’d die in battle and promising—promising to divorce her should he survive.

  She wobbled a bit, then sent a grateful smile down to Rita Sue. “Thank you. May I—may I make a call to Texas to tell his parents?”

  “Of course, sugar.” Rita Sue led Leah into the kitchen.

  Clay would indeed come home, but not to her.