Beaming, Patsy gave him a smile that took his breath away. Mesmerized, his own hopes taking over, Charles felt his face slowly lowering toward that smile, those lips, as he spoke. “Beautiful,” he whispered, “like you.”
HONK! HONK! HONK!
They jumped apart. Patsy stared at Charles with startled bewilderment before she darted away toward the honking car. Charles felt the loss of her nearness like a kick in the stomach.
It was Dr. Thompson in the two-toned Packard he drove to make house calls. He’d stopped in the middle of the road. “I thought that was you, Patsy,” he called into the field. “Hop in, you two. I’ll give you a lift. I’m on my way to your house. Your family sent word they needed me to stop by. Sounds like there were some shenanigans this afternoon on the way home from school. Ron’s arm might be broken.”
Chapter Seventeen
“You should have seen me, Charles. Oh, it was smashing!”
Charles gaped in amazement at his baby brother. Wesley’s blond curls were matted with dirt, his face scratched, his lower lip split. His trousers were ripped and his knees scraped and bloody. Yet he bubbled with excitement.
“I hit him!” Wesley crowed. “Pow! Right in the old kisser!” He swung his arms at an imaginary punching bag. “Ouch!” He stopped and rubbed his arm.
“Slow down, Wes.” Charles put his hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’d like to know exactly what happened too.” Mr. Ratcliff stood beside Charles. He’d been watching Dr. Thompson mold sticky plaster of paris on Ron’s arm.
“Well.” Wesley looked over to Ron before answering. “Well.” He looked back to Charles. “Well.” He scanned the room and realized everyone was hanging on his words.
Wesley took a deep breath. Before that evening he might have told on Ron, exposing him as a bully. It’d be spot-on payback for all the torment Wesley had endured from him. But now? After this afternoon?
He glanced back to Ron, who eyed him defiantly, waiting for Wesley to speak, along with everyone else. “Well, it’s like this,” Wesley began. “Ron and I were walking home from school—”
“You were? Together?” Both Bobby and Charles interrupted him, surprised.
Wesley hesitated.
“Yeah, we were,” snapped Ron. “Want to make something of it?”
“Shush, son.” Mr. Ratcliff silenced him. “You may already be in a heap of trouble as it is. No need to dig your hole deeper.”
“Oh no, Mr. Ratcliff, it’s not like that at all!” cried Wesley. “Ron saved me.”
“He did?” Mr. Ratcliff seemed astonished. So did Bobby and Charles.
“Indeed he did!” Wesley hurried to explain in a torrent of words. “You see, I didn’t know that Negroes have to sit in the back of the bus. And that I wasn’t supposed to be back there. All I was doing was sitting with Freddy.”
“Hold on, Wesley. What in Sam Hill does that have to do with Ron?” asked Mr. Ratcliff.
“Oh, right-o. That’s doesn’t make sense, does it?” Wesley giggled.
Charles exchanged a quizzical glance with Bobby.
“You see, I ran into a spot of trouble with a man and his son on the bus. You know, the day Freddy took me to see the launching of the Ticonderoga. Oh, that was super, that was. It’s so enor—”
“Wesley!” Mr. Ratcliff interrupted. “You’ve already told us all about the big ship, son. Can we stick to tonight, please?”
“Oh! Sorry. Right. But it is connected, Mr. Ratcliff, really. You see, they’d given me a hard time on the bus for sitting with Freddy in the colored section. But the bus driver stopped them. I think the father had been drinking. Anyway, they weren’t very happy about it. And then when we were walking home from school today, that very same boy rode up on his bicycle.” Wesley hesitated, not sure if he should say that the boy was a friend of Ron’s.
Mr. Ratcliff turned to Ron.
“Tommy,” Ron muttered.
“Oh,” Mr. Ratcliff said shortly. He frowned. “I know the boy…and his father. Please continue, Wesley.”
“Well…he said that I had made trouble for him. I honestly hadn’t meant to, Mr. Ratcliff. They just didn’t understand what I said.”
Mr. Ratcliff couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, that can be a bit of a problem. But go on now. Tell me what happened…today.”
“Well…” Wesley pressed his lips together, hesitating about how much to reveal. Then he knew: he would never tattle and tell the Ratcliffs that Ron had been the first to shove him to the ground. That Ron had stood by as the boy from the bus kicked Wesley in the gut. And just watched as the boy’s companion pulled Wesley to his feet and slugged him hard in the mouth.
No, Wesley would only tell the Ratcliffs what Ron did next. The part where Ron saved him.
“The boy’s friend was holding my arms back so that the boy from the bus—Tommy—could punch me.” Wesley choked on the words, remembering the shock of the pain, the look of hate on the boy’s face. “Things were going rather black. I thought I might die! But then Ron…” Wesley paused and nodded toward Ron. “Ron pulled them off me. He must have thrown Tommy ten feet.
“Thanks to Ron, the two of them left me alone. But they went after Ron because he’d helped me. I couldn’t just stand there, since Ron had saved me. Soooooo…I tripped Tommy’s friend!” Wesley said proudly. “And, and, and…when he got up I hit him. I actually hit him!”
Charles’s mouth dropped open. So did Bobby’s. So did Patsy’s.
“Hold on a second, Wes.” Mr. Ratcliff interrupted. “Are you telling me that Ron stopped those boys from beating you up?”
“Yes!” Wesley exclaimed.
“And that you got into fisticuffs?”
“I did!” Wesley exclaimed again. “Tell them, Ron.”
Ron was gaping at Wesley like everyone else. But as it became clear that Wesley wasn’t going to rat on him, he slowly smiled. Wesley smiled back.
Charles looked from Ron to Wesley to Ron again, not quite believing what he was witnessing.
“Yup, he did,” Ron finally confirmed, adding a “what-of-it” shrug when he saw that his family was looking at him with such surprise.
“So, that’s the story,” Wesley ended. “Ron saved me. Then…oh my…I guess it can be said that I…” Wesley stopped and pulled himself up tall. “Yes, I saved him!” He giggled in delight with himself.
Everyone waited for Mr. Ratcliff to speak again. Wesley’s story was such the opposite of what they all had expected to hear that it took Mr. Ratcliff a moment to find words. “Normally your mother and I don’t approve of fistfights. You know that, boys, right?”
They nodded. Wesley knew Mr. Ratcliff was obliged to say so.
“But, Ronald.” He paused. “I have to say I’m mighty proud of you, son.”
“Me too, little brother,” added Bobby.
“Really?” Ron’s face completely changed as it lit up. Like when a shaft of sunshine managed to break through England’s thick gray cloud cover, thought Wesley with amazement. Ron’s face was suddenly that different.
“Awww, I guess he’s sorta kinda part of the family, right?” Ron addressed his question to his father and Bobby, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Nobody messes with my family when I’m around. Besides”—he glanced at Wesley and a playful smile spread slowly across his face—“nobody gets to punch the limey except me.”
Wesley laughed.
Ron laughed back.
Bobby sat down beside Ron and tousled his hair. The brothers grinned at each other. At that moment, Wesley noticed for the first time how Ron was simply a younger, slightly more rugged image of Bobby, almost handsome even.
“When it dries, I get to sign your cast first,” Bobby announced. “I’m gonna write ‘Ron to the rescue. Brothers in arms forever.’ Ha-ha, right? Get it? In arms?” He elbowed Ron, who flinched in pain. “Sound good, little brother?”
“Yeah.” Ron’s voice was raspy as he answered. “Sounds great to me, brother.”
/>
With so much going on, it wasn’t until after dinner that Mrs. Ratcliff remembered she held a letter for Charles. “I’m so sorry, sugar, we’ve had so much excitement this afternoon, I plumb forgot to give you this.” She pulled a transatlantic envelope from her apron pocket.
“Who’s it from?” Wesley asked, hoping it was from their parents. Oh, but wouldn’t he have grand news for them in his next letter! he thought proudly.
“William,” Charles answered as he tore it open and read. His face fell. “Oh, he’s cricket captain now.”
Wesley knew that if he were home, Charles would probably have that honor.
Then Charles’s face turned white. “Wes, the school got a direct hit last month.”
“What?”
Charles passed him a newspaper clip from the London Times. “They ran a photo. Look, there’s William, helping to clean up the mess.” He pointed to several boys wading through scattered bricks, beams, and hunks of glass. Charles stood up from the table. He was trembling. He skimmed the letter again. “There’s a crater in the cricket pitch, shrapnel all over the rugby field. The library’s plaster ceiling collapsed. The entrance gates and their statues are destroyed. Remember those jolly old stone lions?”
Wesley nodded.
“Gone. Obliterated.”
“Was anyone…Was anyone hurt?”
“No, by some miracle, not seriously. Just some nasty cuts from the glass. The bombs missed the dormitories. No one was in the library that late at night, thank God.” Charles dropped his arms and the letter fell to the table. “William’s saying it’ll take weeks for them to clean up because so many chaps have left, chicken about the Blitz.” He looked at his little brother, shame on his face. “I should be there helping.”
A knock on the door interrupted.
“Land’s sakes, what a day we’ve had,” Mrs. Ratcliff said as she went to the front door. “What on earth could it be now?”
At the kitchen table, the family heard the door pop open and Mrs. Ratcliff’s surprised, “Clayton!”
Now Patsy’s face turned white. It was their cantankerous neighbor, Clayton Forester, Henry’s father. He’d never come over to pay a friendly visit. He barely spoke to anyone. Charles and Bobby exchanged a knowing glance. Mr. Forester would never come over unless there was…
“Bad news, I’m afraid, girl.” Mr. Forester stood in the kitchen doorway, hat in hand. “Lilly would have come to tell you herself, but she’s tore up. I thought you should know, given his being so sweet on you.” His gravelly voice broke and he swallowed hard. “We received a telegram. Our boy’s missing in action. Henry’s plane went down somewhere over France. That’s all we know right now.”
Mr. Forester put his hat back on and tugged its brim down so his eyes were hidden. Awkwardly, he attempted to reassure Patsy. “Henry’s a smart boy. If he made it to the ground alive, he’ll figure things out. I just hope I toughened him up enough.” With that, he turned abruptly, grunting a “good night,” and left. Mr. Ratcliff saw him out the door.
Frozen to her seat, Patsy sat shaking her head. “No,” she whispered. “No.”
Charles reached for her hand to comfort her. But Patsy jerked it away, shooting him a glance that he could read easily. She’d almost let Charles kiss her while the boy she loved was shot down, maybe captured, maybe on the run, maybe dead in a comet of flames. She’d never let him that close ever again.
Putting that hand to her heart, Patsy rushed out of the room. Her mother followed.
That’s it, Charles told himself. Who was he kidding? Patsy would never love him. And it was dishonorable for him to even hope for it. Her beau was off fighting the Nazis, partly to liberate his and Wesley’s country from terror. How ungrateful could he be?
More to the point, it felt to Charles as if his school chum’s letter had implied that he was a coward for not being in London when the city desperately needed every able hand—a sense of guilt that had dogged Charles ever since he had walked up the gangplank of the ship evacuating him to America.
Wesley finally seemed capable of taking care of himself. There was no longer an overriding big-brother responsibility tying Charles to Virginia. England needed him more.
Charles was going home. He wasn’t going to waste any more time negotiating the matter with his father, hoping for permission from overseas. No, Charles would wait until the Ratcliffs had fallen asleep. Then he would find that canoe Wes had told him about, float down the river like he’d been imagining for months, and stow away on a freighter bound for Great Britain.
20 March 1944
Dear Dad,
I am writing this in case something bad happens on the high seas. Tonight, I received a letter from William, telling me about the direct hit on the school and how hard it will be to piece the grounds back together. It made me feel such a coward for not being there to help my mates. So I am coming home, Dad. I cannot wait any longer. I am going to catch a cargo ship leaving from Hampton Roads tonight.
The Ratcliffs could not have been more kind, and it was right to send Wes to safety away from the Blitz. I needed to come along to take care of him. He should stay here in the States for the duration. He’s only eleven, after all. But I am fifteen now, Dad, and more grown up than you can imagine since you have not seen me for three and a half years. I wonder sometimes if you would even recognise me.
I know you and Mum want to protect us. But I am ready now to make my own decisions about what I should do, about what I can handle, about what is right. Please tell Mum I love her.
Yours, Charles
Dearest Mummy,
I have had such a WONDERFUL day! I hope you will be proud of me. I am sure Charles is and that Dad would be as well. I got in a FISTFIGHT, just like in the Westerns! I SAVED Ron! Now he and I are going to be FRIENDS like the Lone Ranger and Tonto! I think I finally fit in here—isn’t that bully swell?
Your loving son,
Wesley Bishop
Chapter Eighteen
As the back door clicked shut loudly, Charles grimaced. Don’t wake up, dogs, please don’t wake up. A moment passed. Nothing. He turned, tiptoed down the steps, and escaped into the darkness.
It seemed a fine night for running away. The black sky was splashed with thick, billowy clouds, but the moon was almost full and its white light lit up the earth. The Ratcliffs’ acres of winter wheat rippled in the cold March wind, and in the moonshine the knee-high blades glittered silver, then sage, then emerald green as they bowed and rose, bowed and rose again.
Charles memorized the sight of them—planting that crop was one thing he’d done right to help the Ratcliffs, he reassured himself, trying to squash the regret rising up in him about running away. He hurried on past the fields. It was already one A.M. He was setting off far later than he’d hoped. Wesley had been so excited about the fight with Ron’s buddies and his newfound courage that he’d dashed off a triumphant note home and then babbled to Charles until midnight.
Charles had to wait until his little brother was soundly asleep, his breathing slow and steady, before he dared write a note to his father explaining what he was about to do, especially if the worst happened out there on the ocean. He tacked it up on the wall, on his map marking Allied advances, knowing Wesley would find it there and read it himself. Then he shoved a few things into a pillowcase and crept down to the kitchen.
In a mere four hours, Mr. Ratcliff would be getting up. That was barely enough time for Charles to make his way to the marshy land overlooking Turkey Island, where he hoped to find the canoe Wesley had described. He needed to be well on his way down the river before Mr. Ratcliff could get in his truck and come looking for him.
That was his plan: Locate the canoe. Float it downriver, past Weyanoke Point, past Jamestown, past Hog Island, to the Newport News–Hampton Roads docks. There he’d stow away on a cargo ship, hiding in one of its covered lifeboats on deck. Once the freighter cleared the Chesapeake Bay and was out into the Atlantic, he’d reveal himself to the captain and
offer to work in exchange for transport to England. He had a little pocket money. He’d pay the captain to telegraph a message to the Ratcliffs then.
Piece of cake. Hadn’t Huck Finn floated a rickety old raft down the Mississippi? Charles knew that between him and Norfolk yawned sixty miles or so of deep water, with strong, changeable tidal currents. But Twain wouldn’t write such a story if it couldn’t be done, Charles reassured himself.
He turned to say good-bye to the clapboard farmhouse where he’d known a lot of joy, a catch in his throat. Sorry if I scare you, Wes, he thought. Sorry, Bobby, for not telling you beforehand. Although Charles was sure his best friend would understand. Bobby would get the question of his honor being at stake. And Patsy, would she be sorry at all to see Charles gone?
As he stood in such thoughts, a dark shadow raced across the grass toward Charles, and a rush of air swooshed over him. “God’s teeth!” he cried out, ducking.
Whoo-cooks-for-you. Whoo-cooks-for-youuuuuuu.
Charles turned just in time to glimpse the tail end of a barred owl as it swooped into the trees, hooting as if trying to remind him of the people who’d cooked for him, sheltered him, cared about him during his country’s troubles. For a moment, he hesitated. But only for a moment. Charles pushed off his guilt by getting mad at himself. You’re that spooked when strafed by an owl, Bishop? How will you hold up against the bloomin’ Luftwaffe?
Charles squared his shoulders and went on his way.
Back at the house, Wesley murmured in his sleep. He flipped over, flipped again, dragging the sheets around his neck. He was choking. He was drowning. He opened his mouth to call for help, but waves gushed in, shoving water down his throat as he clung to an overturned boat. Charles!
Charles was clinging to the overturned boat too. It was raining, great black sheets of rain. Charles! Wesley lunged for Charles’s hand as it seemed to slip down the boat into the water. Another wave spun the boat around and around, dunking Wesley. He resurfaced. He was all alone.
“Charles!” Wesley shrieked, sitting bolt upright in bed, awash in sweat and terror. He rubbed his forehead and started to search under his pillow for his stuffed koala, but stopped himself. “It’s only a dream,” he said aloud to steel himself.
Across a War-Tossed Sea Page 12
