Mary Bridgette

by Danni Roan

Mary held Celeste as together they wept. Outside men’s voice raised in cheer as the news spread down the lines. Their job was done, the battle over, and in time, they could gather their shattered souls and go home to seek healing.

  “I can’t believe it’s over,” Celeste said dabbing at her nose with a kerchief. “It’s actually over.”

  “I think there is still a great deal to be done,” Mary said her eyes streaming. “We’ll have to wait and see what comes next, but I can’t wait to get home.” Her heart stuttered in her breast at the very word and fresh tears poured from her eyes.

  What changes had been wrought to her beloved home? What differences would she see when she arrived. The last letter she had received said that Eric was being shipped home and that he had some injury, but no details had been given.

  It was strangely quiet as Mary and Celeste stepped from their hut. Across the fields men could be seen slowly coming up out of the trenches leaving armament behind. At first the men seemed confused, dazed as they kicked the mud off their boots.

  Across the fields on the far side of the no-man’s land soldiers in different uniforms, small and slow in appearance stepped from their own embankments turning to gaze across the field at those who were until that day their enemies.

  “They look so peculiar,” Celeste whispered reaching for Mary’s hand.

  Chapter 14

  Barrister walked along the field gazing up at the neat rows of airplanes. The silent skies pressed down on him and a hollow empty feeling seemed to blossom in his chest.

  The fighting was at an end. The battles were over. He turned scanning the fields, noting the scars of wrecked planes, broken trees from crippled wings that only missed making it home.

  What came next? What was he to do now that his purpose was gone?

  In a distant tree a bird began to sing a clear soft sound that rose and fell in quiet crescendo. The sweet clear sound of hope seemed to vibrate in his chest leaving him stunned and shaken.

  Another sound reached his ears as he sought the tiny creature, the sound of singing from the tent beyond the hanger.

  Turning Barrister placed one foot in front of the other drawn by and invisible thread that pulled him toward the reverent sound.

  For the first time the flyboy lifted the flap of the excess hospital tent looking in on the neat rows of seats where men in uniform sang hymns of praise.

  “Won’t you come in,” an older woman whispered, her gray eyes bright with joy.

  Nodding Barrister followed the woman to a hard bench at the back of the tent taking a seat next to a mud-covered infantryman.

  Barr stared at the backs of the men who sat before him; their voices lifted in praise and wondered at the joy in their solemn strains. For so long his entire essence had been full of anger and an unending thirst for revenge. Now he was empty, tired, and alone.

  The soldier next to him stood, flakes of mud falling from his tall boots onto the rough plank floor. “Can we sing Lord I’m Coming Home?” the man asked twisting his cap in his hand. “For all of us, and all of them.” His voice cracked as he sat back down making everyone think of their friends and fellow soldiers who would never again return to their own homes.

  The matron at the front of the tent nodded turning to the piano player who picked up the notes of the old hymn.

  One by one the soldiers began to stand as the reverent words poured from the weary souls of men who stood, tears streaming down their faces, unabashed.

  As the men around him stood Barr found his feet following the unfamiliar words.

  My soul is sick, my heart is sore,

  Now I'm coming home; My strength renew, my hope restore, Lord, I'm coming home.

  The fourth verse washed over him in an icy wave, and a weary hollowness seemed to leave him empty.

  He had spent the last three years of his life prepared to die only to realize he wasn’t ready to go. Gazing up at the Salvationists whose faces glowed with such assurance that he lost his breath, Barr realized that he needed what they had.

  Throughout the war these brave men and woman had served the soldiers fighting to set the world to rights with no thought of themselves, no desire for reward, and utter selflessness.

  What secret did they hold that filled them with such great love for their fellow man? As the singing came to an end, other women made their way into the tent pushing tables to the fore and handing out their signature donuts, coffee, and hot chocolate.

  Barr longed to feel that purpose to understand the joy that drove the workers to their tasks each day. He was weary of the anger that seemed to consume him.

  “Doughnut,” a young woman asked smiling at him. The dark haired ‘lassie’ her hair sticking to her brow from long hours over a stove met his gaze and he nodded taking the still warm treat. “Who do I talk to about joining up?” he asked, his voice a mere breathe of hope.

  “I’d talk to Colonel Jones if I were you,” the girl said nodding toward an older man chatting with others in on corner. “There is always room for one more in the family of God.”

  Chapter 15

  Wyoming, December 1918

  “Put me down here,” Mary said as the wagon driver approached the Broken J Ranch. She hadn’t wired ahead her exact date of arrival as she didn’t know what she would need to do before actually heading home. “I’ll walk from here.”

  “You sure Miss?” the man asked, “a lot of snow on the ground here.”

  “I’ll be alright,” Mary said, climbing down and taking her satchel from the man. “I’m used to walking in all sorts of weather.”

  The driver nodded offering a grin then clicking to his team. “Welcome home again,” he called back over his shoulder as he moved on along the road.

  Mary gazed out across the prairie at her home seeking out the changes she was sure the war had wrought even here.

  Across the distant mounts she could see a wider swatch of open snow where trees that had blanketed the slopes in evergreen had once stood.

  Below along the road the fields of wheat harvested mere months ago, lay fallow beneath a shroud of snow.

  Along the hill at the bend of the road Mae’s home stood dark and still, not even a whisp of smoke from the sturdy chimney.

  Turning back toward her home Mary caught the glint of dim winter sun reflected off of the house roof and lazy gray smoke drifted into a lowering sky.

  Slinging her bag over a shoulder Mary began walking, drinking in the images of home. The old barn still stood dark and strong against the elements offering shelter to the livestock that gave the ranch purpose.

  As she drew closer, Mary could hear the ring of a hammer on anvil and wondered if Eric was home and back in the smithy, or if one of the other men had taken on that job.

  Horses dotted the field around Meg and Clayton’s house and soon new spindly legged foals would frolic on spring grass.

  “Mary?” a deep voice called as a cowboy charged toward her on a sleek mahogany horse. “Is that really you?”

  “Blake?” Mary blinked up into the face of her younger cousin surprised at how mature the boy looked. He’d only just missed the draft, and she suddenly realized that if the war had gone on any longer, he too would have been sent to fight.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” Blake teased. “You haven’t been gone that long have you?” His amber eyes twinkled and Mary smiled again.

  “Don’t tell them I’m here yet,” Mary said placing her hand on the young man’s leg. “I want to surprise them.”

  Blake grinned then winked. “Nona will have a heart attack.”

  “Don’t say that,” Mary chided. “Is everyone home?”

  “Eric got back a few months ago,” Blake said his face growing serious. “He’s not the same Mary.”

  “How bad?”

  “He was wounded in his arm, and it hasn’t healed right,” Blake said. “But it’s more than that. It’s like something’s missing.”

  Mary nodded worried about her big soft hearted cousin. She had seen
so many men with shell shock back in France. It broke her heart to think of the scars to both body and mind.

  “I’m sure over time he’ll be alright,” Mary said encouragingly. “I’ll be along in a few minutes,” she added.

  As she entered the ranch yard proper, Mary smiled feeling the rush of emotion that accompanied the familiar sights and sounds. Chickens scratched in the snow, and in the corral Uncle Hank’s big team of gray horses shuffled a pile of hay.

  Mary walked up onto the wide wraparound porch smiling at the ramps that led up to the front door. They had been built so that her grandfather could drive a pony cart up and down so that he could keep active on the ranch after a stroke.

  Placing her hand on the front door tears sprang to her eyes but she pushed them back. There had been enough tears now was a time for joy.

  Pushing the door open the noise of a bustling household reverberated off the walls. The sound of high pitched children’s voices mingled with the thump and rumble of a rolling pin on a kitchen counter.

  Mary hurried past the parlor door and down the hall to the kitchen peering around the corner to see who was working.

  At the counter Nona was rolling noodles but it was the flash of golden hair that drew the gasp from Mary’s lips as she saw her mother turn from the polished cook stove and drop the heavy spoon in her hand.

  In seconds Mary was wrapped in her mother’s embrace as hot tears trickled onto her shoulder. “I didn’t know you were coming,” her mother sobbed. “You didn’t tell us.”

  Behind them Nona expostulated in Italian as she hurried to hug them both. “I call everyone!” Nona said excitedly as she rushed to the back door and began ringing the large dinner bell only to rush back in again grabbing a shotgun from the rack in the parlor and racing out the front door before anyone could stop her.

  “No, Nona, don’t!” Katie cried and she and Mary both rushed after her.

  Nona stepped off of the front porch raised the shotgun in the air and pulled both triggers but the recoil of the heavy gun staggered the old woman knocking her back into a pile of snow in a billow of skirts.

  “Nona!” Mary cried rushing to the old woman and taking her hand while her mother retrieved the shotgun. “Are you hurt?” Mary asked fear clutching at her chest.

  Bianca Leone raised her hands above her head threw back her head and began to laugh as she fell back in the soft snow.

  Mary looked at her mother and Katie’s green eyes twinkled to life as she shook her head then began to laugh.

  The sound of thundering hooves from all parts of the ranch soon mingled with the laughter as the crew of the Broken J raced home.

  Chapter 16

  The Broken J pulled out all the stops to welcome Mary home and the celebration left everyone breathless with happy tears and laughter.

  There was nothing like coming home and yet Mary could already feel the pull toward the wider world once more. She knew that one day the call would come, and she would once more leave the Broken J behind, but today she would soak in every moment of living and loving back home.

  As the table was set and the family gathered Mary looked around noting the empty seat where Eric always sat. Joan, looking weary and concerned settled her two children around her as Will, holding tight to his daughter’s hand said grace. Mary smiled kindly at Joan listening to little Josh as he talked about his new pony. Eric and Joan’s little girl Jessie snuggled in her mother’s arms dozing.

  “Where’s Eric?” Mary asked looking up at Joan. The tall blonde woman shook her head. “He said he’ll finish up in the smithy then come in,” she said. Joan had been a mail-order bride and the perfect match for the shy oversized young man she had wed, but something was amiss.

  “I’ll be right back,” Mary said squeezing her father’s hand. “You go on without me.”

  Will looked at Katie who nodded releasing her daughter as everyone began to eat.

  Mary grabbed her heavy woolen coat and stepped out into the gray evening. She could hear the ring of iron on iron and hurried toward the small building at the side of the barn.

  “Eric?” she called into the warm red glow of the foundry. “Aren’t you coming for dinner?”

  Eric Ballard looked up his eyes coming to rest on his slim cousin and froze for the count of ten.

  “You made it home,” he said his voice dry and gravely.

  “I did,” Mary agreed, “and so did you.”

  Eric’s blue eyes searched Mary’s face looking for something then he turned leaving his hammer behind revealing the ragged scar that traced across his wrist to his bent left hand.

  Mary hurried to her cousin grasping his arm and studying it with horror.

  “Tore the tendons when the gun exploded,” Eric said his voice flat. “They didn’t heal right.”

  Mary wrapped her arms around her big cousin and pulled him close. She could feel the dark remnants of the war still clinging to him, and her heart broke at the weight of it.

  Eric, bright, cheerful, full of life and energy was a mere shadow of himself. The toll of war went far beyond a crippled hand, and she could feel the cold grasp on his soul.

  “When did you get back?” she asked finally releasing him.

  “This happened at the battle of Cantigny in May,” Eric said lifting his hand. “It took a week for me to get back to a hospital, but triage did all they could. When they saw that I wasn’t going to heal enough to be of any use they shipped me home.”

  “Joan must have been relieved when you got back,” Mary said kindly touching Eric’s sleeve.

  A soft light graced the big cowboy’s face at the mention of his wife and Mary breathed a little easier. Perhaps Eric was struggling to adjust to being home, but his deep love for his wife could still break through.

  “Joan has been wonderful,” Eric said, “she tries hard not to look on me as a cripple, but it’s not fair that the man she got back isn’t the man she let go.”

  “Eric,” Mary placed her hands on her cousin’s arms forcing him to stand up straight. “You’re home. You’re loved.”

  “I shouldn’t have volunteered,” Eric said his blue eyes full of doubt. “I could have stayed and worked the ranch. They wanted farmers and ranchers to provide food. I didn’t have to go. I left my wife, my son. I wasn’t here when little Jessie was born. What kind of man does that?”

  Mary lifted her green eyes to Eric’s blue. “One who feels he needs to do his part to see that his family stays safe forever. A man who believes that all mankind should be free to choose the life they want.”

  Eric looked into Mary’s eyes seeing the shadows of destruction and death in their depths. She had seen it. Mary had been there. She knew the horrors of war. She had seen the waste of life that the fighting had caused.

  Something deep in his chest seemed to twist as images of men, machinery, and horses shattered and torn by the hand of war raced before his eyes. His tender heart had been fodder for the harshness of conflict. Deep inside he felt something move as he recognized the depths of his injuries for the first time and accepted that he would never again be the same man he was before.

  “What do I do Mary?” he asked thick tears choking him like the gas that had strangled so many. “What do I do?”

  “You live one day at a time Eric,” Mary said. “You look at the love you’ve been given and you cling to it with every breath you have, and you let God sort out the rest. We can’t hold on to it Eric, it will eat us up, tear us apart, and leave us empty.”

  A sad smile tugged at Eric’s lips but a flicker of light gleamed in his blue eyes.

  “Now we go in and eat our dinner before it gets cold,” Mary added taking his coal smudged hand. “We take today Eric, just today.”

  Joan looked up as Mary led Eric in to the kitchen and smiled, her heart skipping at the light in her husband’s eyes.

  Something his younger cousin had said must have reached him, and she could see something had changed. For weeks, she had been desperately trying to reassure h
im that it didn’t matter about his hand and that she loved him no matter what, but she couldn’t seem to break through. Some dark shadow stood between them that she couldn’t fathom, and it had been breaking her heart.

  Perhaps shared experiences, days of living in Europe and seeing the daily destruction of the Great War had built a bond that Mary could use to help Eric. Joan prayed that it was so, even as her husband took the seat next to her brushing her cheek with a kiss as his son scooted close.

  ***

  Over the next few weeks Mary’s life settled back into a familiar winter routine. Often she would find herself making her way to Eric’s house where they would talk and little by little she saw Eric letting go of some of the hurt that scarred his heart the way his injury scarred his arm.

  Reese and Mae returned from working at the military barracks where they’d been assigned to a hospital for returned soldiers. Reese became almost obsessed with Eric’s crippled arm when he saw the damage, and several times Mary or one of the other family members found him carefully dissecting a squirrel’s tiny arm.

  It seemed like there was so much to put back together even here in the wilds of Wyoming. Taylor brought the massive tractor back from the hills where he’d hidden it from scrappers even as he used it to haul lumber from the surrounding hills.

  It was good to be home. Mary took extra care to spend time with her siblings. To visit with Nona who was growing so old.

  She laughed and joked with her cousins and found little things that would draw them together.

  Each week as the family loaded up the wagon to head to the schoolhouse for church services, Mary gazed around the room at friends and neighbors, who had, like her served in one capacity or another.

  One afternoon as the morning service ended she pulled Eric aside for a quiet word. “Eric, what do you think about having a meeting for men who served overseas here? We could invite others who have been there and understand what it is like. Those who don’t want to burden their families and loved ones with the horrors of the campaign. It would be a place to come together and to share stories or just talk.”