The Cherry Harvest (11 page)

Clay frowned. “It's his flying I'm interested in, not his politics.”

Her mind drifted back to the party, and she recalled the words the senator had spoken. “Did I hear your father say, ‘War is good'? Did he mean ‘This war is a good war'—everybody says that—or was he talking about war in general?”

Clay pulled his arm back to hold to the wheel. “It's not about this war or that war, it's about business. War is good for the economy.”

“I don't understand . . .”

“We were in a depression until the war machine geared up. And now we're all fat and happy. Simple economics.”

Kate thought of telling him that her family wasn't fat and happy, but decided against it. “I don't know anything about economics, but all I can see is that everything is going to the war, including men and boys, and things are coming apart.”

“Coming apart? No, no, no.” He shook his head. “The government is buying tanks, ships, fuel, clothing, parachutes, bullets, guns, airplanes, food, you name it. And paying the salaries for all the fighting men. No more unemployment.” He shot her a glance. “Even the women are making money now.”

“So you agree with your father? That war is good?”

“From a business standpoint, yes.” Clay paused. “And this war . . . we're fighting to keep our country safe and free.”

“We?” It suddenly occurred to her that the boys at the party were certainly old enough to enlist. Could they all be 4-F, like Frank Sinatra with his punctured eardrum? She backed away and stared at Clay. “What's wrong with all of you that you're not serving?”

He looked startled. “I'm in the Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps.”

“Reserve? Reserved for what?”

Clay's jaw clenched. “We have . . . deferments.”

A surge of anger rose in Kate's chest. How unfair!

“I want to join up, but . . . my father has threatened . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Threatened?” It was none of her business, but yes, it was. She didn't like that she was attracted to someone who let other people do the hard work.

“I have a lot to lose,” he finally said.

“Not any more than any other boy. It's their lives they're risking. My own brother is fighting in Italy.”

After a tense silence, Clay said, “You must be proud of him. I hope I can meet him one day.”

Well, if you sit out the war, he won't want to meet you!
She didn't say it out loud because it didn't matter anymore. The magical evening
was ruined. She'd never see Clay again. And maybe she didn't want to.

They were quiet until Kate directed him onto Orchard Lane. She asked Clay to stop some distance from the house so her parents wouldn't hear the car.

He switched off the motor and turned to her. “You've given me a lot to think about, Kate.”

“What? What are you going to think about?”

“My father . . .” But he didn't say anything more.

Kate thought of her own father. She wouldn't do anything to cross him. But she never had to—he always supported her decisions.

Clay reached toward her and put a hand on her cheek. “You're a different kind of girl, Kate.”

She hesitated, not sure whether she wanted to know what he meant. “Different how?”

“I don't know how to explain it.” He paused. “You're so . . . so real.”

Real? She touched the warm hand on her face. Then she realized what she was wearing. “Peggy's dress—”

“You can give it to me next time.”

Next time?
There it was again.

“May I call you?”

“We don't have a telephone.”

He sat back, and the surprise on his face reminded her what different worlds they lived in. No, she would never hear from him again.

He pulled forward and kissed her nose. “Then we'll have to find another way.” He got out of the car and came around to her side. She had already opened the door, and he laughed when he saw she was about to step out. “You can't walk on this gravel in those flimsy shoes. You'll trip and break an ankle.” He bent forward. “Let me carry you—”

Kate slipped off the shoes and swung her legs around and stood on the gravel. “I'm more comfortable barefoot.”

He put his hands on her waist. “You're a spunky gal, Miss Kate Christiansen.”

Before she could say another word, Clay gently kissed her cheek, then her mouth. Then he picked her up. “I just bet you'd like to go flying too.”

WHEN MORNING BIRDS CALLED
, Kate pulled the covers over her ears and tried to slip back into the dream. She breathed in floral bath salts and opened her eyes, and there was the dress. Peggy's dress. It wasn't a dream at all. Clay was real. He had kissed her. He had kissed her and invited her to visit him at school. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird taking wing. Fly away with Clay.

She fluffed up her pillow, thoughts racing. When she was done with her chores, she would ride her bicycle up County Trunk Q and search for the road to his house. It must be one of those small roads branching off through the woods. Oh, she wished she had paid more attention. And the dress! That would be her entrée, an excuse to visit. She'd wrap it in tissue paper and put it into her bicycle basket. She'd ring her bicycle bell. Special delivery! She snuggled into the covers.

But what if Clay wasn't home? What if Peggy answered and thanked Kate for returning the dress and that was the end of that? No, she wouldn't take the dress, she'd simply ride by. If he happened to be in the yard, she'd wave and stop, as if she rode that way often. And if he wasn't in the yard?

A woodpecker drilled into the oak outside her window.

Let him come to me. He knows where I live
.

Kate was through with classes, done with school. She could stay home all day waiting for Clay's arrival. After her chores, she would wash away the stench of the barn and put on a summer dress. She'd sit at the picnic table in the yard, work on her math problems, or read that new book Professor Fleming had sent,
To the Lighthouse:
“Dear Kate, I believe you'll appreciate Virginia Woolf's introspective voice.” Yes, that was how Clay would find her. Introspecting.

She rose from bed and picked up the dress and twirled with it, laughing. Mother rarely came into Kate's room, but just in case, she hid the dress in the back of her closet.

“We sleep late,” he had said. She had plenty of time. She stepped into her overalls.

SITTING AT THE PICNIC TABLE
, Kate found it difficult to concentrate on math. Images of the party flickered through her mind—the graceful home, the music, the food, the way Clay's friends were so easy with each other, Peggy so sweet and generous, Clay dancing her around the room. Oh! She could hardly wait for him to find her again.

It was a fine spring morning. The storm had chased the clouds away, and now pink and white cherry blossoms fluttered in a fragrant breeze. A Baltimore oriole sang from the reedy meadow.

Lucky for her, Father had taken the PWs to work the far side of the orchard, out of sight. It was perfect, so perfect. She couldn't help but look up at every sound, eager to see Clay's red convertible. She would ask him not to say anything to Mother or Father about last night. “We met at the library,” she'd whisper. He'd wink knowingly.

By the time Mother called her in for lunch, Kate had finished two of the math problems Karl had given her. When she entered the kitchen, Father put down his pipe. “You're all prettied up, Kate.”

Mother's eyes fixed on Kate. “Why are you sitting out there, so . . . so dressed up?”

Kate's cheeks went hot. “It's a pretty day, and I wanted to be pretty with it.”

“And pretty you are,” Father said.

Mother scowled and picked up her spoon. The silence that followed was punctuated only by the slurping of soup, the scraping of bowls.

Kate finally changed the subject. “I finished the problem about the volume of the silo with algebra and geometry.” She explained how she had solved it each way.

“Only trigonometry left,” he said.

Kate groaned. “That's the hardest.”

Mother touched a napkin to her lips. “Kate, I need help in the garden. After all the rain we've had . . . you'll need to change into your work clothes.”

Kate's heart fell. She didn't want Clay to find her working in the dirt. “I've got a hunch how to solve the last problem—”

“Charlotte,” Father said, “perhaps the weeds can wait until tomorrow. The weather should hold for a day or two. Kate has her lessons.”

Mother frowned.

THE MORNING SUN FELL
golden across Charlotte's garden. It was the first of June, and early sprouts were just emerging. But weeds were sprouting as well, creeping in daily, stealing sun and water and nutrients and choking off Charlotte's tender seedlings. The trick was to catch the weeds when they were no more than thin white threads peeking out from the soil, before they had a chance to take hold. Charlotte used a hoe to scrape off weeds between the beds, but she babied her seedlings, picking off invaders by hand.

A spiderweb, suspended between two tomato leaves, glistened with drops of morning dew. Spiders were a gardener's friends, eating the pests. She left them alone.

After finishing the first row, Charlotte stood and stretched. She gazed at the scene before her. Off in the orchard, trees were bursting with blossoms. It would be a fruitful year. Thomas had the PWs hoeing around the trunks while he himself manned the tractor, dragging for weeds between rows. As she watched, the tractor sputtered and stopped. Thomas walked to where the prisoners were working and brought that bad one with the scar, the mechanical one, Vehlmer, over to look at the contraption.

Three years ago, before gas rationing, Thomas sold their good plow horses for this thing that needed fixing at every turn. Charlotte had cared for those horses from the time they were colts. All they needed was a bit of feed, an occasional brushing, and they would do anything. Now feed was much easier to come by than gasoline. When the tractor rattled to life, a whiff of exhaust blew toward the garden. Charlotte turned back to her plants.

The cherry harvest was only six weeks away. Charlotte envisioned going to town with a purse full of money. She'd pay the butcher's wife what she owed. Then she'd buy butter and flour and sugar and bake for days. Thomas sent most of the cherries to local canneries for shipment all across the country, but first Charlotte would take her share for pies. Stores up and down the peninsula carried her blue-ribbon cherry pies. When the money came in, she'd buy gifts for her family. Chocolate for Ben, fabric for Kate—she'd want to make new clothes for college. A sturdy pair of work boots for Thomas. She might even splurge on perfumed soap. Jasmine. She'd touched her wrist to it last week in Ellie's Dry Goods and had enjoyed the scent for hours.

It wasn't quite noon when Charlotte put away her gardening tools. She had to get the laundry hung while the sun was still warm.

In the kitchen, she pumped cold water into a big pot and put it on the stove. She bent down and opened the wood box. Only a few bits of kindling remained. From the window she could see that the woodshed was nearly empty too, save for the newly pruned branches, too green to burn. Ben had always kept the shed full, going into the woods with an ax to chop up fallen trees. He kept the kitchen wood box full as well.

Off beyond the barn, a maple tree struck by lightning the previous year lay on the ground. That was what she needed. Solid, aged wood.

Charlotte went into the barn and found Ben's leather gloves, stiff
in the shape of his big hands. She held them a moment, then slid her smaller hands inside.

She took down the ax—it was heavier than she'd expected—from where it hung on the wall. As she approached the fallen maple, a chipmunk flashed out from an undergrowth of leaves. Charlotte felt a tic of guilt that this little thing would have to find another home for her family. Then she brought down the ax.

She first tackled the smaller branches, chopping them for kindling. But when she struck at a stout limb, the ax merely bounced against the hardwood, jarring Charlotte's hands. She whacked it again and again until it finally broke apart. Her arms and shoulders ached. She dropped the ax and pushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

“Mrs. Christiansen.” She turned to see his solid silhouette against the late morning sun.

Karl. That was what she called him now. It had been nearly three weeks since that first lesson, that awkward supper. He came every few days to tutor Kate, but Charlotte hadn't invited him back for a meal.

“Thomas sent me to help you.”

Charlotte looked out toward the orchard. Thomas waved to her, she waved back.

When Karl moved forward, his face came into the light—that hard jaw, those eyes, the dimples. She stared. Too long, she realized.

She pulled off Ben's gloves. Before yielding them to Karl, she hesitated. But he didn't. His big hands pushed into them, filling them, changing their shape.

He picked up the ax, and with a few sure strokes, he chopped a thick branch into pieces small enough for the stove. He loaded the wheelbarrow and followed Charlotte to the house.

The wood box opened from two sides—the outside door was for stocking the wood, and the door in the kitchen was for removing it.
Karl began loading from the outside while Charlotte went in and opened the interior door. Karl's hands pushed the thick logs toward her, filling the kitchen with the earthy fragrance of fresh-cut maple.

When he had finished unloading, he returned to the fallen tree and continued chopping, piling logs neatly in the woodshed. She watched through the window as he brought the ax down again and again in a strong, graceful tempo. After some time, he went into the barn and returned with Thomas's bow saw and began sawing the trunk into thick rounds—back and forth, back and forth—before taking up the ax again to split them. All the while Charlotte stared, mesmerized by the rhythm of his body.

Steam rose from the pot on the stove and beaded on Charlotte's face. She pushed herself away from the window and filled the deep wash sink, pumping in more cold water until the temperature was not too hot for her hands.

Her mind wandered as she scrubbed one of Thomas's grass-stained shirts against the washboard. Once the harvest came, she'd make a special supper to celebrate the abundance. It had been years since she'd made ice cream. Warm cherry pie with vanilla ice cream melting on top. She'd take a rack of pies down to Mettler's dairy and trade them for fresh cream.

“Mrs. Christiansen.”

She dropped the shirt and swung around toward the voice. Karl's face peered in through the screen like a priest's in a confessional. How long had he been watching her?

“May I help you to do more things?”

She wiped her hands on her apron. “The garden fence needs mending.” Her mind began ticking off all the things Karl could fix. “I'll show you where we keep the wire.”

The air in the barn was close with dark, feral odors. In the dim light, Charlotte saw that Karl had hung up the saw and ax alongside the heavy shovels and sharp picks and spike-toothed animal traps and shiny butchering tools. Charlotte feared being alone with this
man. Not because he would do her physical harm. No, it was that dream, the dream of him climbing through her bedroom window. And now, when she caught the musk of his body, blood raced hot beneath her skin. She swayed involuntarily toward him.

“
Das
wire?”

“Oh, yes.” She stepped back. “This way.”

Approaching the rabbit hutch, Charlotte stopped and put her hand to her throat. A note was tacked to the roof. Karl's name written clearly in Kate's handwriting. “What's this!” She tugged it off, anger rising, recalling Kate dressed in her best, obviously waiting for someone's attention. The girl had never shown any desire to date the boys at school. No, she thought herself literary, sophisticated. And here was an older man, an educated man, a man of foreign intrigue. Of course Kate would be attracted to him.

“I will not tolerate secret messages between you and my daughter.” She opened Kate's note and tried to make out the odd figures. A code? “What does this mean?” she demanded, holding the note before him.

Karl studied the page. “Your daughter is a smart girl. She solved her lessons.”

Embarrassment clouded Charlotte's mind. She let out a breath. “I'm sorry if . . .” She couldn't finish. She didn't want him to know. Know what? She rubbed her clammy palms down her apron.

“
If you like, Kate could give her papers to Thomas—”

“No,” Charlotte didn't trust Thomas to notice signs. “She will give her completed assignments to me.”

“How will I—”

“You will come to my kitchen window every afternoon.” With that, Charlotte grabbed the wire from a shelf, handed it to Karl, and left him alone.

From the cover of her kitchen, Charlotte spied through the window, watching Karl search for holes in the fence, watching him cut the wire and make neat repairs.
What must he think of me after
that outburst, that accusation?
She breathed deeply, trying to regain her composure.

Damn! I don't care what he thinks. I don't care I don't care I don't care!

She pushed Thomas's shirt into the sink, but the water had gone cold.