Light Over Water

by Noelle Carle

  The three of them carried the bags of flour, beans, cornmeal and coffee into the pantry and put away the rest of the supplies. Naomi led the tired oxen into the barn and bedded them down for the night. She sleepily bade them goodnight and withdrew to her own private rooms beyond the kitchen.

  Tom and Ruth settled in the sitting room where Ruth had kindled a fire as the April evening grew chilly. Tom drew her next to him with his arm around her shoulder as she told him what had happened while he’d been in town. She grew quiet then and picked up her knitting. Tom drew in a deep breath and brought out the newspaper. He opened it so she could see the black headline and he knew she’d read it when her hands stilled and she breathed in a quick gasp. “Why didn’t you say something before?” she questioned.

  He gazed sadly at the paper and replied, “I don’t know. Just trying to feel like the world is normal for a few more hours. With our country involved in this war now things will be very different.”

  “I know!”

  “For us too, Ruthie.” He laid aside the paper and picked up her hands. She felt so small to him, even though she was sturdy and strong for a woman. He was half a foot taller than her, with a solid, compact frame and strong shoulders and arms. He felt like he could crush her hands in his so he held them loosely and tried to keep his voice light. “I’ve been thinking and praying about what I’d do if this happened. Praying hard, dear. And…” he sighed then, tipped his head back and couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “No, Tommy. No! You don’t have to. I thought we had settled this. Remember?”

  He shook his head. “No, we hadn’t. You decided, but I did not agree.”

  But she let go of his hands and drew him into her arms. “This is not right. You can’t leave us here. You can’t leave me!” And she burst into tears, an occurrence that was so rare he was astonished. He let her cling to him until she quieted. He held her and rubbed her back and felt the words tangled in his throat that he’d meant to say, to explain to her the absolute sureness of his decision.

  When she was quiet he whispered, “Ruthie, you know these feelings I get; these urges that I need to do something?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, that’s how I feel about this. I’ve got to enlist. I’ve got to go. I can’t explain it but I feel like somebody needs me there.”

  She lifted her head then. Her eyes were red and swollen, her nose running and her lips trembling. “We need you here, all of us, a lot more!” She twisted away from him then and ran up the stairs to their room. One of the children cried out briefly and he heard her soothing voice quieting him. He heard her footsteps as she prepared for bed, then all was still.

  Tom closed his eyes. He slipped to his knees; his powerful body slumped to the floor. “Speak to her, please, Lord,” he pleaded. “I can’t go if she feels this way. Show her, Father, that you are sufficient for all her needs, not me.” He continued praying until he was almost asleep there on the floor.

  When Tom finally went to bed, Ruth was quietly and steadily breathing, asleep despite her distress. In the morning she must have arisen long before he did for the bed was cold when he awoke. He dressed quickly and went down stairs. It was still dark out, but the kitchen was warm and coffee was brewed. Naomi sat at the long table he’d crafted, reading the paper. Ruthie was elsewhere.

  “Morning,” he said briefly as he poured a cup and peered through the window to see if he could see a light in the barn.

  “She’s mad at you,” Naomi answered in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Tom just grunted. There was no light coming from the barn and he sat down at the table, opposite Naomi.

  She gestured with her chin to the newspaper. “You’re going, aren’t you?” Her eyes were cold and she seemed on the verge of tears also. He was used to seeing Naomi cry and laugh in the same sentence, so he just sighed. She pursed her lips, and then shook her head. “Naturally you’re going!” Her voice rose and he worried that she’d wake the children. “The big hero is going to save the world. But you know what? I think this one might be too big, even for you, Tom!”

  Tom sat back in his chair. “What?”

  “Oh, you’re always getting people out of trouble, aren’t you? Always jumping in to rescue the lost souls. This isn’t a little baby with no parents, Tommy, this is a war! You can’t stop it and you can’t help it. You think…”

  Ruth burst in from the porch. “Stop it, Nay!”

  “Why? It’s true. He thinks he’s going to go, leave us to carry on without him and he’ll go over there and single-handedly end this whole big mess. Right?” She glared at Tom; her eyes glittered in the lamplight. “What if something happens to you? What if you don’t ever come back?”

  Ruth sat quickly beside her sister, grabbed her forearm and squeezed it. “I said stop. Tom knows what he’s doing.” Her eyes met his briefly, and then flicked away. “I know that he hasn’t made this decision lightly, and he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t have to. Besides,” she added pointedly, “you didn’t seem to mind when he rescued you.”

  Naomi stared at her cup of coffee, tears dripping down her nose at this uncharacteristic reminder of her past. “How will we manage, Ru, just us?”

  Ruth shrugged and moved her arm across Naomi’s thin shoulders. “We’re strong. We’re resourceful, and the older boys will help. I was thinking maybe we can get Riley Moore to help out too. He could move right out here with us.”

  At the thought of the slow church janitor trying to keep up with the crowd of boys, Naomi groaned and shook her head. Then she rubbed her streaming eyes and sighed, wiping at the unattractive drips under her nose.

  “I hear the boys waking up. Why don’t you go on up while Tommy and I have a quick chat before the bedlam begins, hmmm?”

  Naomi sniffed and stood up. Ruth rose also and went to the cupboard for a mug. Naomi barely met Tom’s eyes as she passed by him and he heard her quick light footsteps running up the stairs. Ruth turned and looked at him. Her face was composed and she looked a little contrite as she spoke. “I guess I got the cart before the horse last night. I did a lot of praying in the night and this morning. I’m sorry for how I reacted.”

  “Aw, Ruthie.” Tom shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. I know you thought this was all settled. I wanted to think so also. And you‘ve always been so patient, so good about these things. But I haven‘t made this decision lightly. I‘m not going on a whim.” He stopped and ran his hand through his thick beard. The kitchen was silent but for the ticking of the clock.

  Ruth watched him and saw his resoluteness and knew his good heart. She bit her lip and stared into her coffee cup. “I am scared…not about the work. I don’t mind that. But, what’ll I do if you don’t come back? What’ll I do, Tommy?”

  Tom rose. He took her mug from her, set it on the counter and drew her into his arms. He didn’t have an answer for that question.

  Chapter Three

  To Spend Her Blood

  The wind had long since passed the point of playfulness this early morning in May. With high winds and high tides, the fishermen were unable to go out, so they would work on shore, mending traps and stocking up on bait, perpetually near the water where they could see and hear it. The sun was still nothing more than a promise when Sam finished dressing and peered out the window. His view of the harbor was not yet visible, but closer at hand he could distinguish the tops of the trees tossing wildly in the rambunctious gusts. The wind rushed at the window causing it to rattle in its casement. Sam was glad, in a way, not to be on the water, but was also trying to spend as much time as he could with his father.

  His mother was unusually broody. Since the news of the war two weeks ago, she acted sometimes as if she were angry with him. After his own news of the previous night he didn’t relish facing her, but the smell of breakfast cooking was drawing him downstairs.

  The kitchen was warm and smoky, for the cook stove always backed up when the wind blew from the northeast. His father was bent over in the rocking chair that sat by
the stove, pulling some worn socks onto his feet. Esther and Cleo were up, along with Henry and William, sleepily yawning at the table. The younger children still slept, or were wise enough to keep out from underfoot until their father had his breakfast at hand.

  Aubrey Newell, who boarded with them, nursed a cup of coffee, which he raised in a salute to Sam as he stepped off the stairs. Olivia stood at the stove, stirring a pot of porridge and turning bacon as it sizzled and popped. Esther finished placing dishes around the long table, yawning as she passed by Sam.

  “You sleep poorly, Esther?” he questioned.

  She shrugged. His sister never said much, especially in the morning. Her skin looked pale, with dusky shadows under her eyes. Her perpetual worry for Remick Granger weighed on her heavily although she scarcely spoke of him.

  Inwardly Sam writhed. He figured he had added to her worries with his announcement last night. It was for the greater good, he knew, but right here, in this moment, he didn’t know how he could leave the warmth and comfort of this home and family. He poured coffee for himself, and for his father as Reg pulled his chair up to the table.

  Olivia turned from the stove, grunting and hefting the pot of oatmeal, saying as she did, “Here we are, ready or not,” the same words she said every morning. She set it in front of Reg, who began filling bowls. As she turned back she laid one hand on Sam’s head, briefly, then slid it down his neck. She smiled faintly and her hand was warm and dry. He felt her blessing in that touch, a reassurance of her heart for him.

  She turned back to the stove to tend the bacon, and she hummed quietly to herself, a habit that her children teased her about consistently. But she stopped after a moment, and then she gasped out, “Oh my dear!’ The fork clattered out of her hand onto the floor and Sam thought she must have been splattered with grease. But across from him, Esther’s face lost more color and Cleo squeaked, “Momma!”

  Turning, Sam saw Olivia bent over, a grimace of pain tightening her features. Reg stood so quickly that his chair clattered backwards. “Liv, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said in a strangled voice. “It…I…help me, Reggie,” she cried, tears forming now and squeezing onto her cheeks. “It’s the baby,” she moaned. She began to topple forward when Reg caught her and pulled her into his arms.

  When he lifted her up, Sam saw with panic that blood was already soaking through her skirt. “I’ll go get Doctor Granger,” he told his father, jumping from his chair.

  From the stairway came the hushed but definite sound of a whimper, over which Sam heard his father insisting, “Hurry, son. Hurry!”

  “Can I go with you?” William implored.

  “Course not!” Sam snapped. “You get ready and go to school.” He turned back as he drew on his jacket. Esther had her hand across her mouth and tears were filling her eyes, but as he watched she straightened, wiped them quickly and turned to William.

  “Sam’s right. You need to go to school, all of you. Momma will be fine.”

  Cleo scowled and pushed away from the table. With a mutinous look she deliberately walked upstairs. Sam didn’t linger but ran outside. He wished, not for the first time, for a telephone. They had a horse, Freddie, who moved slower than Sam could run. He set off down the hill, urgency gripping him. Even after tripping in the pale light, he sprang back up, pushing on without feeling the bleeding cut on his palm or the burning in his legs.

  He passed the quiet houses and the still school yard. As he ran by the church, he prayed for his mother. At the three-way fork he veered left, and then cut through the woods and fields until he reached the doctor’s home.

  Lamps were lit. When he clattered up the steps and pounded on the door, it opened almost immediately. Doctor Granger was half-dressed, with his dangling suspenders looping down along his pant legs. His undershirt couldn’t cover up his pale arms or the slight paunch of his belly. Sam thought fleetingly of his father, tightly muscled as an athlete and skin leathery brown. But the doctor had lively interested eyes and an embracing compassion that made him so fiercely loved in their community.

  “Why, Sam! Son, what is it?”

  Sam stood trembling, his breath still straining to catch up with his body.

  “You’re hurt. Has there been an accident?” asked Dan, catching up Sam’s bleeding hand and pulling him inside, out of the wind.

  Owen wandered in from the kitchen then, eyeing the scene curiously.

  Drawing it back, Sam wiped his hand negligently across his shirt. “It’s not that. It’s my mother. Something’s wrong with the baby!”

  “Owen. Go hitch up the buggy.” The doctor said sharply to his son. To Sam he said, “I’ll get dressed. Pearl!” He bellowed out the last, calling for his sister who nearly always accompanied him during births.

  Sam found himself suddenly alone in the room. He sagged, sinking down into one of the soft chairs. His heart still drummed in his chest. He held his hand to his shirt, trying to keep the blood from dripping on the chair. With each passing moment he grew more restless, finally leaping up from the chair and pacing about the room. He stopped when he heard a step.

  Turning, he saw Alison, her blue eyes sleepy and confused. She had her nightclothes on, with a plaid blanket pulled tightly over her shoulders and tucked around her arms. Her hair, still in its braids, was nevertheless disheveled, as if she had tossed about in bed and just this moment had awakened.

  “Sam? You’re hurt.” She came to him and took his hand in hers, her look of such care that he could almost forget for a moment what was happening back at home. “Let me…” she began, but he pulled his hand away as Owen came back in the house.

  “Buggy’s ready, Father,” he bellowed. “Gee,” he continued, more subdued, his eyes embarrassed. “I hope your mother’s all right. Soon we’re going to get a motorcar, and then it’ll be quick as anything to jump in it and drive right to your door. I think Father should get a…”

  “Thanks, Owen.” The doctor arrived, fully dressed now, with his bag in hand. Pearl Granger trailed behind him, her appearance serious and troubled.

  “Oh, Father! I want to go. I want to help you,” Alison pleaded as she realized what was happening.

  Over his shoulder, the doctor said, “There’s no time, lovey. Finish getting breakfast for your brothers and get off to school.”

  Sam saw her mouth pull down at the corners, but then her eyes met his with a look imbued with concern and sorrow. He turned to join the others outside. The wind slammed the door and the horse shook its head nervously, but stood still.

  Alison jumped reflexively as the door slammed, then rigidly made her way back to the kitchen. She resented being left behind, having to wait on her brothers and missing out on the excitement. But she recalled Sam’s face, ashen despite his long run, his eyes so bleak and frightened.

  Little Davey, although only eight years old, understood his sister enough to sense her frustration. So he held still at the table and held his tongue until Alison scooped him out some eggs and buttered his toast. “Thanks, Alison darling,” he intoned, using a phrase she insisted on sometimes in her moodiness.

  Alison stopped and kissed his head. His brown curls were as wayward as hers, and in need of a clipping, she noticed. She put down a bowl of milk for their cat Maggie, patting her as the cat purred and wound around her ankles. Throughout breakfast Owen pondered out loud the benefits a motorcar would be to them. Alison ate quickly, pretending to listen to him, but thinking instead of Sam’s mother and what was happening. It would be dreadful if the baby were born this early.

  Alison knew the process. She cherished a dream of being a doctor herself; unspoken as of yet because of the ongoing dispute between her father and Remick. She had already attended two births with her father. However, those were normal and thrilling. Aunt Pearl had protested at her presence, but shortly withdrew her protest when she saw the clinical way in which Alison approached the births. But Alison didn’t know if she could be so calm if something were
wrong.

  The wind buffeted Alison, Owen and Davey as they made their way to school. They had to yell to be heard above the noise. Alison held tightly onto Davey’s hand despite his squirming. In sight of the harbor they saw the waves rushing unrelentingly to shore. The boats at their moorings bucked like wild horses. Seagulls called raucously and wheeled about in the air, waiting for a stray scrap of herring from the fishermen, who were taking this time to cut bait and mend their traps and nets.

  The inside of the school building was quieter and warmer. With the wind from the north came icy temperatures. The snow had all melted, but it felt cold enough to drop another few inches over them again.

  Esther and Sam weren’t at school, but the rest of the Eliot’s were, except for the baby. During the morning recess Alison questioned Cleo, who answered, “Esther had to stay home to take care of Caroline. Momma’s sick.”

  Alison nodded. “Sam came to get my father earlier.”

  Cleo gazed at Alison for a moment, her cocoa brown eyes gauging her. She flipped back a blonde braid and said, with her cheeks turning pink, “I’m not supposed to know what’s happening, but I’m not a child. She’s having the new baby.” She gnawed at her bottom lip, her eyes dropping. “I don’t think it’s time.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry,” Alison told her, although she was worried herself. “My father knows what to do. You’ll probably have a new brother or sister when you get home from school.”

  But when Esther came to meet her siblings after school, she stiffly directed them to go with Rena Mayhew over to Mrs. Mayhew’s house, across the harbor. They would be able to watch the drama as the men tried to rescue Valmond Ouellette’s boat, which had pulled loose from its mooring in the high winds and rough seas. After Cleo herded the younger children away from the school, Esther gripped Alison’s arm and leaned into her, as if she lost all strength. Alison stumbled backward trying to hold her up. They both sat heavily on the schoolhouse steps. Esther’s arms curled around Alison’s neck tighter and tighter. She was shuddering violently and mumbling into her sweater, unintelligible words in a low unfamiliar voice. Alison pried her arms away and sat back.