The Sky Above Us

by Sarah Sundin

  “He isn’t well.” Nick’s dark gaze bored into her, as if drilling for a reaction. As if he . . .

  “You don’t blame me, do you?” She leaned closer and used a fierce whisper. “I didn’t do all those things. He did.”

  Nick drew back, and his eyelids drooped. Not blame. Disappointment. “Luke 18,” he said, and he left.

  What? She really ought to have known that Scripture reference, but she didn’t.

  “What was that about?” Kitty asked.

  “I don’t know.” Apparently Adler had told Nick about the letter, but why was Nick angry with her? Because she’d left Adler that night? He’d told her to leave.

  She stared down into her bowl, and the beige lumpiness nauseated her. “I—I need to go for a walk.”

  “Of course, sweetie. I’m covering the club this afternoon, so take as long as you need.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once outside, she drew deep breaths of cool, clear spring air to replace the fetid cigarette smoke from the mess. But the squeamishness remained.

  At least Adler was away for a week, so she was free to take a walk without seeing him.

  Violet headed down the walkway. Maybe she could request a transfer to another Aeroclub before he returned.

  She groaned. Not until she cleared her name in the theft case. If she failed, she’d be going home in a few weeks anyway.

  “If it comes to that, you go home and hold your head high. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Adler had told her, his expression tender but firm. “Soon as this war’s over, I’m coming for you.”

  Her chest seized. Such a sweet memory, now polluted.

  She passed the Aeroclub and paused. Luke 18. She could read it as she walked.

  To avoid the crowd inside, she went down the side path. Where Adler had kissed her for the first time and then fled. What had he said? “Forgive me for taking advantage of your willingness”?

  Violet stifled a cry. Was that what he’d done with that Ellen? Taken advantage of her willingness? He certainly had.

  “First-rate heel indeed.” She marched through the side door, grabbed her Bible, and headed back outside and to the north, away from the world of Nissen huts and cocky pilots. Looking up frequently to avoid colliding with men and bicycles and jeeps, she read Luke 18.

  The parable of the judge and the widow, urging the disciples to pray tenaciously.

  Did Nick mean she should pray for Adler? Once her anger subsided she would, but not yet.

  She crossed a side street. Two men on bicycles hooted at her, but she ignored them, in no state to teasingly scold them.

  Where was she? Verse 9. “And he spake this parable unto certain which trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and despised others.”

  Violet gasped and stopped in her tracks.

  Someone bumped her from behind. “Pardon me, miss.”

  “That’s all right.” She stared at the verse. Was Nick saying she trusted her own righteousness and despised Adler? But this was the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector praying in the temple. Nick was comparing her to a Pharisee?

  Ridiculous. She marched forward. The Pharisees loved rules more than they loved the Lord. Jesus reserved his harshest criticisms for the Pharisees. “Woe unto you!” he’d said to them seven times in a row.

  “Excuse me, miss.” Three airmen edged past her on the walkway.

  “I’m sorry.” Perhaps she should find someplace more isolated. She turned between two buildings and ambled across a field.

  The chapter was long. Nick must have meant a different section.

  She skimmed the familiar parable, then read it again . . . for the first time.

  “The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican. I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess. And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.”

  Violet fought for breath. “Oh no. Lord, it is me.”

  How often had she looked down at the men for their drunkenness, profanity, and immorality? How often had she taken pride in her wholesome ways, her willingness to sacrifice to serve in Africa, even in England?

  “Oh, Lord. Adler—he’s the publican, the tax collector.” With her free hand, she gripped her stomach. She’d seen him, facedown in the fallen leaves, crying out, “Forgive me! Forgive me!”

  Gritting her teeth, she read verse 14. “I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other: for every one that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.”

  So similar to “the last shall be first, and the first last.” Adler had humbled himself, as a wingman, as a leader, and before the Lord. And what had Violet done? Exalted herself.

  Her eyes burned. “Oh no, Lord. What have I done?”

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and charged forward in the grass and in the chapter. Was there more for her? The story of the disciples keeping the little children from Jesus? The least of her problems. The story of the rich young ruler? Definitely not a problem.

  But verse 19 snagged her. “And Jesus said unto him, Why callest thou me good? none is good, save one, that is, God.”

  “Oh no. Oh no.” Violet’s head sagged low. That night she’d snapped at Adler, “I thought you were a good man.”

  Violet tripped and caught herself. A line of trees stood not ten feet away. The same place she’d followed Adler that night. Where she’d judged him and rejected him for not being good. Except no one was good but God. Not even Violet Lindstrom.

  Especially not Violet Lindstrom.

  She stepped into the grove, same as she had that evening, and she fell to her knees, same as she had that evening.

  A sob gulped out. “I am—I’m a Pharisee. The seven woes are for me.”

  Where were they? The book of Matthew, toward the end. There—chapter 23.

  She dove in, braking at verse 5. “But all their works they do for to be seen of men.”

  “That’s me,” she moaned, and she couldn’t bear it. Wasn’t that the real reason she wanted to be a missionary? The reason she’d come to England rather than volunteering quietly in Kansas? To be admired?

  Each verse pummeled her. Then verse 12. “And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.” Again! God pounding it in her smug, self-righteous ears.

  Then came the woes. “Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!”

  Seven times Jesus pronounced woe upon the Pharisees, upon Violet. For caring more about rules than about showing people the way to the Lord. For caring more about the outward appearance of righteousness than about true inner righteousness of the heart.

  “‘Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.’” Violet read verse 28 out loud, her voice broken and rough. “I’m a hypocrite. I am.”

  She collapsed over her knees. “Oh, Lord, I’m a sinner too.” In her self-righteousness, she’d judged others for their sins, failing to see her own.

  Because self-righteousness was indeed a sin. A vile sin.

  “Forgive me. Forgive me, Lord. I’m a sinner. I’m a stinking, rotten, wretched sinner.” Same as Adler. Worse than Adler.

  At least Adler knew his actions were wrong. She’d seen her actions as right.

  Instead of coming alongside him as a fellow sinner, she’d stood above him and looked down on him.

  “Oh, Lord.” A fresh wave of misery swamped her. “He needed me that night. He needed me.”

  Hadn’t she said those very words as she’d run after him?

  Instead, she’d failed him. When he needed compassion, she’d dished out condemnation.

  He’d been broken, repentant, grieving before the Lord. She should have ignored his demand for her to leave and stayed with him
, prayed over him, and shown him mercy.

  He was so new to his faith. What if . . . ?

  “Oh, Lord, no. Please no.” Her fingers slipped over her damp face. “Please don’t let my sin drive him away from you.”

  37

  Moulsford Manor, Wallingford, Berkshire

  Thursday, May 25, 1944

  At Moulsford Manor, the war was set aside. Adler sat in a wicker chair on the lawn as half a dozen officers played croquet and another half dozen rowed on the Thames, splashing each other with their oars.

  Behind him stood a four-hundred-year-old country house, all stately white with rosebushes and ivy, taken over by the Eighth Air Force as a rest home for airmen.

  At Moulsford, civilian trousers and shirts and sweater vests were provided, with uniforms worn only at dinner. Rest, recreation, and plenty of good food let the men forget their worries.

  “Captain Paxton, would you like more coffee?” Miss Flaherty, one of the American Red Cross hostesses, held a coffeepot. She wore a uniform like Violet’s.

  At least most of the men could forget their worries. Adler lifted his cup. “Yes, please, ma’am.”

  She topped off his cup, black curls fluttering in the breeze. “I’m surprised you aren’t playing croquet.”

  Adler had spent two full days playing croquet and tennis and rowing on the Thames. Two days of hard physical activity while his mind settled into new truths and new plans.

  Now he was ready. He waved to the stationery on the table. “I’ve got letters to write.”

  Miss Flaherty nodded, gazing down to the Thames, not even thirty feet away.

  Adler stared at the letter from his father on the table, wrinkled and soiled, with ink smeared in several spots. Violet’s tears, most likely, and a new bolt of pain shot through him. It would take a long time to get over her.

  Miss Flaherty shifted her feet in their Red Cross oxfords. “We don’t host many fighter pilots here. Mostly bomber crewmen.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. They’ve got to fly in a straight line through the flak and fighters and take it. But we can fight back. That makes all the difference.”

  She looked down at him, the question all over her round face . . . So why are you here?

  “Family problems.” He gave a quick shake of his head to silence further questions.

  “We have people here you can talk to.”

  “Thanks. I’ve done my share of talking. Now I need to get to writing.” He picked up the pen.

  Miss Flaherty took the hint and left.

  Adler had told Nick everything, even let him read the letter. He’d told the chaplain everything. He’d prayed and prayed and prayed. No more putting this off.

  Wyatt’s letter would be the easiest.

  Dear Wyatt,

  There’s only one way to start this letter—I’m sorry. I’m sorry I blamed you for Oralee’s death, and I’m deeply sorry that I tried to kill you. Every day I thank the Lord that he used Clay to stop me.

  The real reason I was angry was because you were right and I was wrong. You fought for Oralee, while I only fought to get my own way. Since I knew how you felt about her, I used that against you to avoid facing my grief and guilt. Deep inside I knew I was responsible for her death.

  I understand why you ran away from me—although you didn’t need to stay away for three years. You see, I ran away from home that night too. I don’t know how much Daddy and Mama told you, but I worked in California for a year, then joined the Army Air Forces and became a P-51 pilot.

  That last bit won’t surprise you. I know you saw me in the park on Easter, because I saw you run away from me. Instead of chasing you and apologizing and taking my punishment, I ran in the opposite direction.

  But I’m not running anymore.

  Trying to kill your own brother seems unforgivable. You have every right not to trust me ever again. I can only tell you I regret what I did.

  I’m also sorry for competing with you all my life, pushing you and trying to be first. God put me second for a reason, and he keeps putting me second. I’ve made peace with that, and I even embrace it.

  Since we’re on the same island, I’d like to meet with you if you’re willing. I’ll even let you take a couple of shots at me. I miss you more than I ever thought possible. Now I realize how much I’ve always loved my older brother and looked up to you.

  Please know I’m praying for you, especially as things heat up over here.

  Adler signed his name and looked up, blinking as a cloud scooted aside and revealed the sun. He addressed Wyatt’s letter and pulled out more stationery. The letter to Clay would be the most painful.

  Dear Clay,

  I reckon you don’t want to hear from me, but you deserve to know how sorry I am. This letter isn’t for my sake, to lighten my load, but for your sake, so you know I recognize the sinfulness of my actions against you and how deeply I regret them.

  First, I never thanked you for stopping me from killing Wyatt. You were brave and right, and you bore the brunt of my anger to save his life. For that, I’m eternally thankful. I had no right to get angry at you, and I apologize.

  As for what I did in the garage, I take full responsibility. I refuse to blame my grief, the whiskey, or Ellen. I despise how I betrayed you, stole from you, took advantage of her, and gave in to my basest instincts.

  I certainly don’t blame you for trying to kill me. Many times I wished you’d succeeded. But even that wish was selfish, a way to avoid facing what I’d done.

  Three months ago I came to terms with God, and now I’m taking responsibility for my sins and their consequences.

  By now, you probably know I wrote home. A few days ago, I received Daddy’s reply and learned the extent of those consequences. Timmy’s birth. Ellen’s death. So many lives altered, and it rips me up inside—as it should.

  To cap it off, I left you and Daddy and Mama and Ellen to bear those consequences alone. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Clay. You were there as the events unfolded, dealing with rumors and speculation while watching your former girlfriend bear your no-good brother’s baby.

  Even more pain heaped on your shoulders, and the thought sickens and grieves me. I was also sad to hear you didn’t go to college. If I played any role, I apologize for that as well.

  Daddy and Mama probably told you, but I ran away to California, where I worked for a year before joining the Army Air Forces and becoming a P-51 pilot.

  On my way overseas, I saw you on the troopship. As always, I ran. But no more. You have my address. I’m willing to face you in person or by letter and to take whatever you want to dish out.

  I know the reason you’re on this island. Please know that on that day, I’ll be praying for you and doing my best to shoot up the enemy so he can’t come near you.

  Despite what I did that night, I’ve always loved you. I miss you and the friendship we enjoyed. One of my deepest regrets is destroying that forever. Knowing now what my sins have cost you, I won’t insult you by asking your forgiveness.

  But please take comfort in knowing your actions that night were right and honorable—and that your older brother respects and appreciates who you are and what you’ve done.

  Adler groaned as he stuffed the letter into an envelope. Lousy attempt at an apology, but it was all he had.

  He was squeezed out inside, but he had one more letter to write.

  Home.

  Adler stood and stretched. In a way, the next letter would be the most difficult. But he’d write it for his parents’ sake and for Timmy’s.

  He pulled the photo from his pocket. His throat contracted at the sight of the little boy perched on a stool. Chubby cheeks, laughing eyes, slicked blond hair with one wisp sticking up in back, pudgy hands resting on pudgy bare knees.

  Cute as the dickens, indeed.

  Adler walked beside the hedge, stretching his legs and his mind. “My son. My son.”

  Poor kid. His mama had died, just as Adler’s mother had died. But Adler
always had his daddy. Unlike Timmy. “Thank you, Lord, that my parents are raising him and loving him.”

  Beside him, the Thames flowed, slow and deliberate on its set course. Adler’s future no longer had little tributaries of possible plans. Only one channel.

  After the war, he’d go home and raise his son. The boy deserved to have a father, even one like him. And they’d live in Kerrville. Adler was a stranger to Timmy. How could he rip the child from the only people he knew and loved?

  That meant Adler had to humble himself and live with shame and stigma and rumors. In that small town he’d always be the man who slept with his brother’s girl and didn’t do right by her. Now the beautiful daughter of the beloved town doctor was dead.

  The people of Kerrville would always see Adler’s new self as a veneer tacked on top of his old self. And he’d have to bear it.

  As for his career, it was in Wyatt’s hands. If Wyatt agreed, Adler would be thrilled to work under his older brother. He’d always wanted to work at Paxton Trucking, and he no longer minded second place.

  If Wyatt didn’t want to work with him, Adler would have to find other work. He couldn’t start ACES in Kerrville—it would look as if he were trying to steal business from his family. But who would hire him?

  Adler walked to the water’s edge, his shoes sinking into the mud. He needed a job to support his son. Because he’d be raising him alone.

  No decent woman in town would marry him, and it wouldn’t be fair to drag an outsider into his shame. For half a second, he imagined Violet living in a community that would never fully accept her and that would always whisper about her husband.

  He marched up the bank toward the table. Thank you, God. Thank you for letting her leave. I love her too much to do that to her.

  Adler’s chest caved in, and he braced himself on the chair. Violet would be the last woman he ever loved.

  38

  Leiston Army Airfield

  Wednesday, May 31, 1944

  The hoedown was even better than Violet had hoped, but it required every bit of Red Cross training and God’s strength to serve up a cheerful “Howdy, pardner” with each plate of baked beans and cornbread.