Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  “Remember what you always used to tell us when Luis and I were little?”

  “What?”

  Vanessa blinked. Lily took this as Nessa’s effort to keep from spilling forth the tears which gathered at the corner of her eyes.

  “God reaches everything and everybody. He sees and knows all. And God’s presence is everywhere.” Lily squeezed Vanessa’s shaking hands. “Luis isn’t alone.”

  “And we must remember that.” Pop brought them together with his strong arms, and they prayed for Luis and for God to comfort them in their sorrow.

  Nothing is ever really lost to us

  As long as we remember it.

  L.M. Montgomery

  Chapter Eight

  July 1917

  Victoria General Hospital

  Halifax

  “Where you from then, eh?” my neighbor in the bed to my right asks me.

  “Webaashi Bay. You know it?”

  “That out by Lake Superior?”

  “Yes. Northwest portion. The town is known for ore mining.” I unfurl the covers, swing my feet over the edge of the bed to the floor, and face him. Even though I can’t see him, it seems more congenial, more personal, to visit this way. “And you?”

  “O’r by Toronto.”

  “Really? I grew up in Toronto—well, partly—and have family there.”

  “What’s yer name again?”

  “Luis. Luis Wilson. And you're Corporal Blackwell?”

  “You got that right, but how’d you know? Ain’t never told ya.”

  “I heard the nurses repeat it enough.”

  “Oh, ‘spect so. What’d your people do in Toronto?”

  How do I explain my split parental background? I decide to skirt the issue and call Felix my uncle. “Well, my uncle is a wine merchant there.”

  “Huh, what’s the name of the business?”

  “Vintage Vino Imports. Why?”

  “Don’t that beat all. My pa worked for that company.”

  “Really?” I find the coincidence rather incredible. “Does he still work there?”

  “Na, he died ‘bout five years back.” Sadness makes him draw out his words in a low tone.

  “Sorry.” I sense some strange connection to this man. I try to remember what his wounds are, but I don’t recall. “What brings you to Victoria General?”

  Every man here has stories and wounds.

  “Can’t remember too much.” He quiets.

  “Well, maybe it’s not worth remembering.” I try a different angle. “How’s your body faring?”

  “They say I’m on the mend.” He doesn’t sound too thrilled about the prognosis.

  “Good news, then.”

  He doesn’t respond for a moment.

  “’Bout near got my legs blasted off by a grenade, I’m told. Docs thought they were gonna have to amputate, but I still got my pegs. That’s somethin’, I guess.”

  “Well, I should say so.” I have an idea. “You walking on your own?”

  “Some. Can’t go real far. I use a wheelchair they have here a little, but they want me to try to move as much as I can.”

  “Well, how’s about you and I take a stroll? My backside’s rubbed raw from all this sitting, but I’m too leery to go exploring on my own. You can be my eyes, and I'll be your legs.”

  “You got yourself a deal,” he says with real gusto.

  He gets in his chair and directs me as I push. We don’t talk of the war. We’ve both had enough. We talk of other things, more bright and beautiful, like the ocean, our favorite things, and the sweetness of the nursing staff, with a few exceptions.

  “Tell me what Rose, ah, Miss Greenwood, looks like.”

  Maybe I can see her through his eyes.

  “Miss Greenwood, eh? Got a fancy for that un?”

  “She’s kind.” I don’t tell him he’s right. “I have a picture in my mind of what she looks like, but I wonder how accurate it is.”

  “Let’s see . . . well, she’s on the short side, kind of light brownish hair, a small nose and mouth, and the biggest, green eyes you’ve ever seen. She’s a pretty enough picture, all right.”

  “I wish I could sketch her.”

  I need to express what I am feeling through color, form, and line . . . but how can I when my eyes no longer see those things?

  “An artist?”

  “I went to school for art. Sculpture was my forte.”

  “Why do you say ‘was’?”

  Only another soldier who knows how to sift out the silt would ask me a direct question such as this.

  “I won’t be able to draw anymore . . . I can’t see.”

  “So?”

  His word hangs in the air, defiantly. So?

  So what? What if I try it anyway—what I love—despite my disability?

  “It might not be how you’ve done it afore, but I bet you can learn a new way to do what ya crave.”

  “Blackwell, I feel like you just handed me a silver platter.”

  We head back, both lighter in spirit.

  May 1915

  Webaashi Bay

  A little over two years prior

  “This is ludicrous. The Hermans, and others being targeted, are fine, upstanding citizens. How dare Canada treat them like the enemy!” Lily Parsons literally stood on a soapbox crate, shouting so the crowd in the middle of Main Street could hear her.

  “That’s right!”

  “Dern’t shame!”

  These and other comments floated through the group of listeners. Most of them agreed with Lily, but a few issued forth other opinions.

  “How do we know they can be trusted?”

  “It’s for our safety.”

  Lily couldn’t see who voiced the contradictory words, but they made her angrier.

  “Are we going to stand by while folks we’ve lived with for years are hauled off to camps?” She drew her arm around in a semicircle to encompass the crowd. She made her blue eyes as hard as frosty sapphires. Many in the crowd shirked her gaze.

  Lily glanced over at Natalie, who watched from the shadow of The Eatery. Lily had informed Natalie of her intent, and Natalie had stepped out to watch.

  Lily wondered if seeing people’s true feelings made Natalie feel worse or better. It was enough that the government, or some distant countrymen, had decided her family’s fate, but the fact that people she knew, had catered for, served, and been kind to did nothing, and said little in her defense, must hurt.

  “I feel betrayed,” Natalie had confided in Lily after the last women’s club meeting. In Lily’s mind, the word “betrayal” summed up the situation fairly well.

  “Now then, Miss Parsons. That’s enough of that. Come, get down now.” Constable Charles Aimes walked towards the front of the group gathered in the street and motioned to Lily. “Now, I don’t want to have to drag you away like a criminal, but we can’t have this disturbance.”

  Lily ignored him. “Will no one stand with me to protest against this treatment?” None came forward. Gaul rose up in Lily’s throat. “Miss Herman has served this community for years. I dare you to eat at her diner and not support her family.”

  She spit out the words with contempt. A few people moved forward with shameful faces.

  Constable Aimes reached for Lily’s elbow. She wrenched it from his grasp, but he took a firmer hold on her arm. “You’re coming with me, Miss Parsons.”

  The constable manhandled her off the crate. She struggled against him.

  “This is a free country! I can speak my mind!” Lily raved.

  “That may be, but you’re causing a public disturbance.” He avoided Lily kicking him in the chin, grimaced, and whispered fiercely in her face, “God help me, there’s nothing for it but to haul you off to a cell.”

  Natalie pushed her way forward and yanked on the sleeve of the constable’s red uniform. “Please, Constable Aimes. Don’t punish her. She’s just riled up, is all.”

  “Well, it’s my duty to cool her down!” he barked.


  He pulled away from Natalie’s grasp.

  Lily gave in and let herself be led along by the constable. During their short walk to the courthouse, Lily did cool down some. She regulated her breathing, and the fiery images of retaliation in her mind dissipated. As they neared the courthouse, she walked meekly next to Constable Aimes. Her footsteps hammered on the stone like a gavel, but the longer she walked, the more rational she became.

  Why do I always act first and think later?

  She had truly thought no harm would come to her for speaking her mind.

  “Are you really going to lock me up?” she questioned the constable. Her voice rang with what she hoped was a pitiful tone.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Let’s talk inside.”

  He opened the door and escorted her into the building and down the hallway to a room whose door held a name plate with CONSTABLE AIMES on it.

  Lily ignored the gaping look of his secretary as the constable marched her past her desk.

  “Now, Miss Parsons, take a seat.”

  He gestured towards an available seat in front of his desk as they entered his office. He closed the door behind them, and Lily sat down.

  He eyed her sternly. “I am willing to be lenient if you promise to stop these kinds of activities.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  Lily wouldn’t be enticed into submission. No one was going to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. She didn’t want to break the law, but she felt freely speaking her mind remained within its boundaries.

  Constable Aimes sighed heavily. “Are you certain, Lily? Now, all I’m asking is for you to temper how you dish out your opinion. Maybe you could get a pamphlet printed up, or sign a petition, or something. I can’t say as I agree with everything regarding the handling of people of a particular heritage, but I have to do my job. Do you understand?”

  Lily supposed she could try to gain public support another way. “I . . . I will try to be more . . . creative in the future.”

  The constable broke out in a smile—which Lily thought made him rather handsome—and laid to rest his official demeanor. “Good to hear. I won’t write this up . . . officially.”

  “Thanks.” Lily was grateful for his clemency. “Can I go?”

  “Yes . . . but just so you know, I will make no concessions a second time.”

  Lily nodded.

  “You are free to go.”

  Constable Aimes got up, walked around his desk, and opened the door for her. Lily left without further comment or a backward glance, but she felt the eyes of Miss Bernice Tillsdale, the constable’s secretary, boring into her back as she walked away.

  Lily went back to the spot where she’d made her outcry. Everyone had left, and the street looked the same as usual.

  “Lil!” Her father rushed towards her, seemingly out of nowhere, his hair mussed and his eyes wide. “You must come. Mauve wants you.”

  Her face went pale. “Is it time?”

  “Yes. Maang-ikwe says Mauve progresses fast. It shouldn’t be long.”

  Michael hustled Lily to his waiting carriage, and they sped off for Oshki and Mauve’s home, out of town just past the Cotas.

  “Not yet! Not yet!” Mauve’s cries met Lily as she rushed through the door.

  She made her way past the kitchen and dining area and into the master bedroom on the main floor, her hair and face a bit wild from the rush.

  Mauve panted, red-faced, upon the bed. Sweat dribbled down her cheeks. Her legs were spread wide, and her belly looked as if it would burst open. Maang-ikwe stood ready at the rear of the bed.

  Lily panicked. What am I doing here?

  The answer came to her—I’m here for Mauve, my good friend.

  She sucked in a breath and entered the labor room.

  Mme. Cota, unfazed and collected, touched Lily’s arm. “Lily, Mauve will be glad you’re here. She’s been asking for you.”

  “Has she?” Lily managed to squeak out.

  The friends had made a pact years ago to be there for each other when they bore their first child. Like Oshki and Luis, the girls were separated in age by a number of years, but, somehow, that had never mattered. When Mauve was born, Lily—nine at the time—had thought her the cutest thing she’d ever seen. Lily had formed a bond with her which had changed from acquaintance to caregiver (Lily had watched Mauve some when they were girls), and eventually to friend.

  “Lil.” Mauve smiled and flopped back towards the headboard of the bed. She was awarded a rest momentary from the contractions which appeared to have her in their grip. “You made it. I didn’t think you were going to show.” Mauve winked but quickly grimaced. “Oh . . . no . . . mmmm . . . already?”

  Her face contorted as her uterus tightened, laboring to bring forth her child.

  Lily took courage, went forward, and took up Mauve’s hand, which she immediately regretted for Mauve squeezed hers with such force it felt like the blood would stop flowing in her extremity.

  “Almost there . . . keep short, quick breaths. No push yet!” Maang-ikwe demanded.

  “I have to!” Mauve pleaded.

  “Non!” Maang-ikwe shouted at her in French and held up her palm, tempering her voice. “Soon. Soon.”

  She stroked Mauve’s exposed knee with her small, leathery paw.

  Jenay came close to Mauve on her other side, opposite Lily. They shared a smile. “You must do as Maang-ikwe says, for she knows. She’s a wise woman.”

  Jenay mopped Mauve’s damp forehead with a washcloth. Mauve nodded.

  Maang-ikwe checked again.

  “You push now, you push,” she encouraged.

  Mauve strained and gripped Jenay and Lily’s hands. She picked her back off its resting spot with as much effort as if she rowed a boat to win a race. She groaned as she strained.

  “Good. You stop now. Wait.”

  “Baby’s head has made an entrance,” Jenay encouraged Mauve. “When the next contraction comes, give one more big push, and the little one will be released. You’re doing wonderfully.”

  Mauve panted and nodded, her eyes set on her task. “Rrrrr . . . mmmm . . .”

  The wave came, and Mauve bore down. In seconds her baby slipped into the world and Maang-ikwe’s strong, waiting hands.

  “Ah, a beautiful girl.” Maang-ikwe lifted up the little one and wiped her off with a clean cloth, while admiring her features.

  Lily couldn’t help but notice how Mauve’s red hair turned redder as the afternoon sun reached through the bedroom window and graced her head with its glow. Maang-ikwe laid the wriggling new babe in its mother's arms.

  “Oh, my darling. How precious you are.” Mauve examined her daughter’s little fingers and toes, her head of matted, down-like, reddish hair, and her petite, perfect mouth. She turned to Jenay. “If only Oshki could be here . . .”

  A few tears made their way slowly down Mauve’s cheeks. Lily’s heart broke for her friend.

  Jenay spoke words of comfort and sniffed. “He will be. You’ll see. Maybe he will be able to come home to see you both soon.”

  Lily brushed away a tear. She missed Luis and Oshki. She felt badly for Mauve to be without her husband and friend. Lily watched the baby take in her new world, as she snuggled close to her mother.

  Lily hesitantly touched the baby’s hand and silky, little arm. “She looks like you. We’ll have to see how Oshki crops up.”

  “I hope she inherits more of Oshki’s temperament instead of my fiery stubbornness.” Everyone shared a smile. “You can let Patrice in now. I thought it might be too much for her,” Mauve directed.

  Lily moved to call Mauve’s sister into the room. Patrice entered the delivery room with caution.

  “We’re fine.” Mauve patted the quilted cover next to her on the bed. “Come see your niece.”

  Patrice obeyed her sister. She touched the baby’s damp crown of hair and brushed the side of her head with a hesitant finger. “She’s so littl
e.”

  “Just de right size, I say,” Maang-ikwe commented as she tidied Mauve up and cut the cord between mother and baby.

  Mauve stroked her daughter’s cheek and followed Jenay’s instruction to try to get the baby to latch on to her breast. The little one and mother soon figured it out.

  “What will you call her?” Jenay wondered.

  “I don’t know.” Mauve’s face took on a worried look. “Oshki said he would send his ideas, but he hasn’t yet.” Her face pinched in sudden panic. “Did Michael go for my parents?”

  “Yes. I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Maybe they were in the middle of baking something.” Jenay shrugged.

  A sudden inspiration hit Mauve. “What about Marguerite Eleanor Cota?”

  Jenay softly smiled. “That sounds like a fine name.”

  Lily knew Marguerite was Jenay’s middle name and, of course, Eleanor was Mauve’s mother’s name.

  She echoed Jenay’s expression. “I think Oshki would approve.”

  Mauve laughed, which startled Marguerite. “No doubt he’ll figure out something cute to call her. He’s always been good at fitting people with pseudonyms. Remember how he always called Luis, Old Man?”

  Jenay nodded. “Oh, yes.” She tilted her head and inspected her granddaughter. “She’s a little pearl of a bundle.” A light dawned on her face. “Do you know Marguerite means pearl?”

  “No. I like that.” Mauve smiled, adjusted her daughter tighter in her blanket, and gazed at her. “Pearl. Yes, we’ll call her Pearl.”

  Ellie and Billy Murray showed up, and the admiring started afresh. The new grandparents oohed and awed over the new family member.

  “Jacque was right behind us. ‘E should be ‘ere soon,” Billy let the group know. “Michael said he’d bring Vanessa by in a day er two ta see t’ new arrival.”

  William Murray’s grin couldn’t get any larger, or it would split his face wide open. Lily’s smile widened just watching him. Mr. Murray infected people with his congenial spirit.

  “Here, you take her.” Mauve motioned to her father, who wasted no time in scooping the little one up.