by Lisa Wingate
“I remember her,” she whispered, running a finger along the paper, tracing the woman’s hair, then looking at the smear of charcoal on her fingertip.
“Who is she?” My chest filled with anticipation. I wanted to know the woman’s story.
“I never learned her name, but I knew her.” Ruth’s eyes softened, going unfocused, as if she were looking beyond the drawing, as if she could see more in it than I could. “She walked with them, with three German officers. She was smiling and laughing as they went along the road from town. She was bold. Can you see that in her? And she was beautiful. So beautiful. She wore a blue flowered dress. As blue as her eyes. She turned to look at us, the poor, huddled mass of us, marching away with the Nazis as they retreated. What did she think of us, I’ve often wondered. What did she make of the tired, ragged lot of us?” Ruth turned the sketch toward me, as if she wanted me to understand the deeper history of the person pictured there. In my imagination, she began to come to life as Ruth continued her story.
“She was glad to see us leaving Russia, no doubt. Catherine the Great had given the Mennonites land there many, many years before. The Mennonites had a reputation for being good farmers. The intention was that they would improve the land, making it more valuable to Catherine and the country, but the Russians didn’t like having foreigners as neighbors. The Communists had taken everything from the Mennonites by the time of World War II. They’d left our population sick, and starving, and dying; had sent the young men off to work camps. My father was glad to see the Germans take ground in Russia, and later, when the Russian forces drove the Germans back, those who were left in our community followed the German army in retreat, for fear of what would happen to us when the Russians returned. We were German by heritage, of course.”
Looking away from the drawing and then back, she shook her head. “They knew who this woman was, the Germans. They knew that she had reported German troop movements to the Russians. I suppose she thought her beauty would cause her to be spared. I suppose she thought no man could destroy something so lovely, so young. Even going up the hill, she seemed unafraid. She walked to her death without stopping. I have always wondered if she really was unafraid. . . . Or if she was only hiding her fear. I have wondered if she had a faith, if she knew God, or if her beauty was her god.” Her eyes moved from the paper, cut slowly toward mine. “It’s the difference, you know. Faith. It’s the difference between hiding fear and mastering it.”
Ruth’s gaze settled on me, and even though I felt it, I didn’t meet her eyes. I was looking at the woman in the floral dress, studying her face, trying to decide.
Was she smiling because her life meant nothing to her?
Or was she smiling because she knew there was nothing mere men could do to take away the life that mattered most?
Love is the only water that can quench the heart’s thirst.
—Anonymous
(left by Agnes and Fred, 70 years together, happily wed)
Chapter 13
Reasons why accepting a dinner invitation from the guy you always dreamed about in high school, while on a trip back home, is a bad idea? Let me count the ways: One—you have nothing to wear but the three completely uninteresting outfits in your carry-on bag and sweatshirts from the hardware store. Two—you quickly realize there’s no way to do this without the entire family knowing about it. Three—you can just imagine what the family will say. Four—unless you leave town for the date, everyone else will know, but if you do go out of town, it implies something more than just a let’s-do-a-little-catching-up get-together. Five—you’ll feel like you’re in high school again and be so nervous you’ll spend an hour fixing your hair, then hate it, and change in and out of your three possible outfits a dozen times. Six—what’s the point anyway, since you live halfway across the country? Seven—upon spotting your date on the porch, one of your uncles will invite him in, and the two of you will end up side-by-side on the sofa in the funeral parlor, with your mother looking on and the uncs acting parental and protective, asking where you’re going and when you’ll be home.
Technically, the last one would only happen to those who have nosy uncles and a funeral parlor in the family, but it’s nonetheless mortifying (no play on words intended). Fortunately, Blaine was a good sport, if somewhat evasive in answering their questions. I still didn’t know where we were going, but Blaine was laughing as we walked out.
“Looks like I’d better watch my back,” he said and grinned, his mirth illuminated by gas-powered yard lamps that gave the driveway the look of a landing strip at twilight.
“I’m sorry.” The evening air nipped at the burn on my cheeks. “I should’ve sneaked through the memory garden and met you at the driveway.”
“Now, how much fun would that’ve been?” Blaine stopped at the T where the front walk met the driveway, but there wasn’t a vehicle anywhere in sight. Surely we weren’t going to walk to dinner. The only place open winter evenings in downtown Moses Lake was my favorite Chinese convenience store. Surely I hadn’t paced the bedroom for an hour and changed clothes countless times so that we could eat Chinese in the convenience store.
Aside from the ambiance issue, there was the fact that, for the sake of fashion, I’d put on the suede boots. Even though it was a surprisingly mild evening for February, the winter chill was already starting to press through the too-thin soles of the boots. If we were walking, I needed to detour to the cottage and change footwear.
“So, where are we going?” I looked around for a vehicle. Maybe he’d parked out back by our cars.
“Good question.” He made a show of standing beside me and looking up and down the driveway, as if he didn’t know, either.
“No . . . seriously. Should I change shoes or grab an extra coat?”
Cocking his head, he pointed a finger at me. “You know, you worry ahead of yourself a lot.”
It almost felt like an accusation. “I like to be prepared. I mean, I don’t like surpri . . .” Wow, that sounded bad. I don’t like surprises. Talk about a euphemism for I’m no fun. “Okay, that’s not what I meant. I like to anticipate . . . possible contingencies, that’s all.” Which makes me great at my job, by the way. “I mean, that’s the business I’m in. You have to think of everything.
“Look at those new Ambrosia Resorts, for instance. The back of the building is concave and it’s west-facing. Guess what happens when the afternoon sun hits it? The building acts like a giant magnifying glass. Nicely focused solar energy aimed right at the pool. Can you say, southern-fried tourists?” I realized that I was babbling. I couldn’t help it. All of a sudden I was as nervous as . . . well, a schoolgirl on a first date.
Blaine stroked his chin, thinking about the southern-fried tourists perhaps, and then he chuckled, his breath coming out in a little puff of vapor. “You know, I can never quite get a grip on where you’re going next with the conversation.”
It was impossible to tell from the tone whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, in his view. Probably bad. Things were so much easier with Richard—predictable. We could drone on about business through an entire date, and that was fine. Both of us expected it, in fact. Nobody analyzed anybody else’s personality. Which was probably because there was very little personality involved. The idea was a small, silent blow to my already flagging confidence. Maybe I didn’t have much personality. The only thing I had to talk about was work, and some people didn’t want to hear about that.
I had a sudden sense of panic about the date . . . errr . . . dinner . . . whatever it was. The evening would be a disaster. And what was the likelihood I’d be able to ferret out anything about the situation with Clay, anyway? Blaine had been uncooperative so far.
I needed to find a way out of his dinner invitation. Now.
“I’m sorry. I’m really not fit company tonight. My boss dumped another project on me, and I should probably just go get started on it. I won’t be any fun, anyway. I’ve got such a headache . . . a migraine, really.” Lie, lie
. lie. Lightning would probably strike me any minute. I moved a step toward the cottage, halfway tempted to pull a Cinderella and just bolt from the scene. I pictured myself curled up on the sofa instead of standing in the middle of the lawn freezing and feeling stupid. It sounded good, really. Safe. Maybe Roger would come around, and we could hang out together. . . .
Just me, myself, and I . . . and Clay’s stupid dog.
Now there was a pitiful picture.
Blaine caught my hand, as if he knew I was thinking of making a run for it. He leaned close to my ear, his breath warm against my ear. “Come on. You’re not going to balk at a little adventure, are you?”
A tingle slid over my skin from head to toe, and suddenly the night was thirty degrees warmer. “Ukh . . . no,” I coughed out. “It’s not that I’m balking. It’s just that . . .” He leaned back and watched me again, and I completely lost my train of thought. “I don’t want to fry any tourists.” I blinked, covered my mouth. Where had that come from?
Blaine laughed. “I promise you, there will be no fried tourists on this trip.”
“Oh, well, then, okay,” I said to save face. I’d provided humor, at least. That was charming in its own way, right? Maybe I could work toward making him laugh so hard that, in a fit of hysteria, he would finally reveal whatever he was keeping from me about my family.
His face straightened slightly. “Trust me.” His voice was soft and low.
That’s just it. I don’t . . .
A movement inside the house caught my attention. Checking over my shoulder, I realized there was an audience peeking around the heavy velvet curtains. If I didn’t go on the date, they’d be all over me, wanting to know what happened. If I went, I could later quell the family banter with a bland report like, We went to dinner. It was nice to catch up. End of story. “At least tell me if we’re walking somewhere.”
“Not exactly . . . but sort of.”
“Do I need my combat boots?” I shifted from one foot to the other. The little cold prickles were already starting. Fashion be hanged, these boots were going in the suitcase until I got back home.
“Probably a good idea” was all Blaine would divulge, so we proceeded toward the cottage, leaving our audience behind.
After a quick change of footwear, we were off. I followed Blaine down to the lake, and from there, he turned left, walking up the shore toward town.
“Where are we going?” I felt like I might explode if I didn’t get some details.
“You’ll see.”
“Well, how far are we walking?”
“Not far.”
“Because it’s cold out here, and . . .”
He turned my way, his face shadowy in the twilight. “You know, just because you haven’t been apprised of the plan doesn’t mean that a plan doesn’t exist.” He shrugged toward the horizon. “Beautiful sunset, huh?”
I let my gaze drift across the water to where the hills had all but vanished into dusky hews of purple and lavender. Overhead, the last rays of sunlight outlined the long, wispy winter clouds, drawing bold strokes over the deepening sky. Not five feet from where we were walking, the water lapped rhythmically at the shore. A dove called, its voice floating in the cool mist, low and peaceful. I realized that I hadn’t noticed any of it until that moment. I’d missed it all. “It’s beautiful out here,” I said, but then I couldn’t resist adding, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re just . . . disgustingly serene, though?” I had to wonder at this point, if anything, including the land deal with my brother, ever rattled Blaine.
He laughed softly, unconcerned. “No. Has anybody ever told you you’re really . . . tightly wound?”
“No,” I countered. In terms of architecture, where fractions of an inch meant millions of dollars, there was no such thing as being too tightly wound.
“Then we’re both learning new things about ourselves, aren’t we?” He pointed to a dock, and we steered our trajectory toward it. To our left, the path ran uphill, through the church picnic grounds and into town. Apparently, we weren’t headed for the Chinese pizza place.
“Either that, or we bring out the worst in each other,” I joked.
He shook his head good-naturedly as we walked to the dock and then along it, his boots making a hollow echo that glided over the water. Blaine’s black-and-silver boat was tied to the end. Apparently, wherever we were headed, we were going there via the lake. . . .
We ended up at, of all places, my uncle’s restaurant, Catfish Charley’s. A warm, homey feeling flowed over me as we pulled into one of the boat stalls there. Several spaces were occupied, and onshore, where a floating walkway led to a gravel parking lot, a couple dozen cars lounged idly as stars twinkled to life overhead. I’d always loved this place because my father had loved it. A visit to Moses Lake never passed without a trip to Catfish Charley’s to say hello to my uncle’s hundred-pound pet fish, Charley. Dad, Clay, and I would grab an ice cream cone, then sit on the dock to fish, or stay inside and partake of Uncle Charley’s famous fried catfish and corn pups.
I’d been afraid to come back because I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about it, but it felt good. “Looks like the place is hopping,” I observed as we departed the boat and walked along the dock. “I thought Uncle Charley was only keeping it open on the weekends now.”
“Friday through Monday,” Blaine explained. “Live music on Monday nights—helps bring in a crowd.”
“Looks like it’s working.” Now that he mentioned it, I could hear music wafting from the gaps in the old building, riding the fumes of fry grease and onion rings, like steam from a boiling kettle.
“There’s still a lot of life in this little juke joint. It’s a landmark, you know—the only thing on Moses Lake that was actually on the river before the lake was built. History like that shouldn’t be lost.” He patted the weathered railing as we walked by, his action showing obvious affection. “Bringing back the live music was a good thing. That was a big draw here in the forties and fifties. My folks used to talk about it. Your grandfather and your great-uncles had a jazz quartet with my granddad. Entertained the ladies.” He fanned an eyebrow at me in the orange light of the dock lamps.
“Really?” It was odd to think that other people in this town knew more about my family than I did. . . . Strange to realize that my father had left those connections behind when he married my mom. What kind of love would cause a man to abandon everything he’d always cared about? What kind of selfishness would it take for a woman to force the man she married to all but sever the ties with his family, with his history? Couldn’t my mother have just gotten over herself and gotten along? Why had she felt the need to cause us to hate this place? Why, now, did she feel so differently?
We entered the building, and as we waited to be shown to a table, it was like old home week. I recognized several of the patrons from my high-school days: the track coach who was married to the English teacher; the cheerleader with the red hair and the high, squeaky voice you could hear all the way across the stadium; the postman; the kid who showed championship swine and always smelled like it; the man who handed out the bulletins at church . . .
My brother and Amy?
They were seated in a booth near an area of raised decking along the back wall, where I recalled that there had once been tables. Now the tables had been cleared, and the decking was a stage built to look like an indoor pier. A four-piece band of middle-aged guys in fishing hats was plucking out a tinny waltz. Behind the stage, a wall of windows looked onto the outdoor deck, where torches and tall propane heaters burned away the winter night. A young couple was dancing under the stars. A waltz. I recognized them in silhouette. Reverend Hay and his fiancée. Her head rested on his chest, tucked safely beneath his chin. There wasn’t an inch of space between them.
I found myself watching, imagining the feel of that moment, yearning for something, until finally I pulled my gaze into the room again. At the corner table, Clay and Amy were talking intently, completely oblivious to everyone else
in the room. Clay drew something on a piece of paper, pointed to it with his pencil. Tap, tap, tap.
I wondered if he was breaking up with her, maybe telling her the truth, finally. The communication there definitely didn’t look romantic, but neither did it look adversarial. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
The waitress grabbed menus and motioned for us to follow her to a table. Blaine said hello to my brother before I could get close enough to see what Clay was writing. Quickly flipping the place mat over to the preprinted side, Clay stood to shake Blaine’s hand in greeting. Amy tackled Blaine with a hug, and he kissed her on the top of her head. I was weirdly jealous, which seemed almost perverse. Amy hugged me next, and I felt like a heel. I couldn’t help thinking about Clay’s text message from Tara.
I should tell her, I thought. Someone really should tell her. . . .
The opportunity seemed to present itself a short time later. Just after Blaine and I had ordered catfish platters, Amy left Clay’s table at the same time that the postmaster came by our booth and pulled Blaine into a conversation about the roads in Chinquapin Peaks, mail delivery, and the upcoming debate in the county commissioner’s race.
I excused myself and crossed the dining area to the rest room line, where Amy was standing alone.
“Well, hey,” she said, in a way that instantly made me feel guilty for arriving with the intention of bursting her bubble. Maybe I should just let things happen on their own—take Blaine’s advice and relinquish control to the powers that be.
Then again, if I were Amy, I’d want to know.
“You and Clay look like you’re having a good time.” Actually, they didn’t. I’d been watching from the corner of my eye for a while, and for the most part, their dinner looked like a business meeting.
“We were talkin’ about the restaurant,” she said, quickly enough that the response didn’t ring true. “He’s got big plans.” She nodded along with the words, as if to give them substance.
