The Cherry Harvest (22 page)

IN BED THAT NIGHT
Charlotte tossed this way and that, trying to get comfortable. Though her body was exhausted, her mind whirred. Ben was the last of the squad. What had he seen? What had he lived through? And in spite of all that, he worried about his family back home.
Damn that Josie for telling tales!

Charlotte must have fallen asleep because when she woke she had been dreaming she was with Karl, her body excited by his touch, his arms slipping around her, lying close in a green meadow, a gurgling creek, the call of redwing blackbirds.

Thomas turned toward her in his sleep.

She slipped out of his reach, out of bed, and put on her robe. She tiptoed downstairs, out to the front porch, where she sat on the wooden bench swing. The warm July night was alive with crickets. The beam from the lighthouse swung through the sky, then disappeared and swung back, methodical. Charlotte pushed a foot against the porch rail and set the swing rocking. She breathed in the cool lake air, tried to bring back better nights. But they were gone. All gone.

Ben's letter was dated June third, more than a month ago, the day before his unit reached Rome. Maybe his attitude would change now that they had won another major battle.

The door opened behind her. “Kate!” Charlotte whispered.

“Oh, it's you.” Kate said flatly. She must have thought it was Thomas out here. Of course she would rather be with Thomas.

Charlotte patted the swing, inviting Kate to sit beside her. Instead, Kate remained standing, facing the lake, hugging herself. “What's your plan, Mother?” She turned to Charlotte and leaned against the porch railing. “What now?” she whispered.

“Keep going, the way we've always kept going. We are strong women. This is what we do.”

“Maybe this is what
you
do, but not me.” She wiped her face on the sleeve of her cotton robe.

“Kate.” Charlotte stood and took hold of her daughter's shoulders. “I never wanted you to be part of this . . .”

Kate shook away. “
I
don't want to be part of it either. So let's just end it. Let's tell the truth and it will be over.”

“Kate . . . no—”

“Don't you see how you're hurting everyone? Father, you, me . . . even Karl. Whose idea was this anyway?”

Charlotte stood dumb.

“You and Father taught us to be honest in all things. Our work, our lives.”

“This isn't about—”

“You want me to lie . . . and lie—”

“Kate—” Charlotte reached out.

“And the worst part . . .” Kate opened the front door. “The worst part is . . . I don't even know why!”

The door closed, leaving Charlotte alone.

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE
hot sticky July days, flies buzzing.

Kate propped open the outhouse door with the big mossy stone and set a pail of pungent ammonia water on the floor. She wore khaki shorts and a sleeveless blouse and had braided her hair to keep it off her face. But she was already perspiring.

She dunked a rag into the water and wiped down the wooden seat and bench.

If only she could talk to someone. Josie was the one she always ran to, but Josie was such a blabbermouth. Josie would tell her mother and father . . . and Ben! Kate's mind reeled with the consequences. Kate hadn't been to the lighthouse since she'd witnessed Karl dumping the body—the boat listing to one side, the heavy thing rolling out of the blanket, Karl's face as he turned—it kept her awake at night, and when she did sleep, dark images haunted her dreams.

She twisted the rag and dunked it again.

Clay. He was the only one. He had trusted her with his own secret, told her he was enlisting before he told his family. Kate tried to hold to the sweet memories—the way his eyes smiled at her, the
vanilla warmth of his skin, his sure touch on her back as he danced her around the floor. He was writing to her regularly now.
Dear sweet Kate . . .

In her letters to him, she had been holding back, trying to stay light and fun. How could she possibly tell him about this in a letter?
My mother and one of the prisoners murdered a PW and dumped the body into the lake
. She couldn't write that. There was too much to explain.

Kate scrubbed at the floor.
And I lied about it . . . to Father . . . and the sheriff
. She wanted Clay's advice, his understanding, but would he understand? What would he think of her sordid family? Could she trust him to keep this awful secret?

She'd have to wait to tell him in person. With his arms around her, she'd know how much to say.

She dumped the dirty water down the hole.

But when? His schedule was controlled by the Navy now. He could only guess at a date, weeks away.

Walking to the house, Kate noted that Mother was out in the garden.
Good, stay there
. Mother wanted Kate on her side, but until Mother told the truth, Kate would have no part of it. Whenever Mother approached, Kate moved away. When questioned, Kate answered simply “yes” or “no” or “I don't know” or, more often now, “I don't care.”

Alone in the kitchen, Kate washed the pail and heated water on the stove. As she added fresh ammonia, she turned her face away from the burning fumes.

Though she had opened the windows and back door, there wasn't even a hint of a breeze. Her whole body glistened with sweat. She placed the rubber pad on the wooden floor and knelt down. When she plunged the sponge into the hot water, her hands stung raw.

She swatted away a horsefly and slowly, methodically, worked her way across the room. Halfway to the door, she sat back on her heels.
I have to tell Father
.

Yes, she would go out into the orchard. He would smile at her approach. “It's about that Nazi, Vehlmer,” she would say.

“Oh?” His eyebrows would go up.

“I know who killed him.” Yes, that was all she would need to start the conversation. Father would ask questions, and Kate would tell him everything, and then she'd be free of it. Free of the secret, the guilt.

And then what?

Father would confront Mother and she would confess. He would go to the sheriff, and it would be over. It was self-defense, simple as that. Karl came into the barn just in time to save Mother. No one was at fault except Vehlmer, and he was gone.

She resumed her scrubbing, faster now.

Josie had told Kate about the confessional. You tell the priest your sins, and he gives you some prayers to say in penance and your soul is washed clean. Yes, this must be how Catholics feel on their way to confession. If you don't confess, Josie said, you go to Hell.

If ever there was a Hell, this was it.

She wrung out the sponge. A light breeze came from the door. When she reached that door, she would go out where Father waited. And everything would be fine again.

Except that Mother and Karl had dumped the body. That was worse than a lie. It was a big fat crime. As much as Kate blamed Mother for all this, she didn't want her to go to jail. And Karl—Father and the sheriff had talked about the murderer being hanged.

Maybe Father wouldn't go to the sheriff after all. He'd want to protect Mother. And Karl too, because Karl had saved her.

Kate sat back and wiped her forearm across her sweaty face.

Father would blame himself for what Mother had endured. After all, he was the one who let Vehlmer free in the orchard. His fault. Kate didn't want him to suffer for that. And why did Mother not tell him about the assault in the barn? Why did Karl dump the body? Why didn't Mother and Karl tell the truth?

What is the truth? If Mother can lie to Father, she can lie to me
.

Was it really about the harvest? Surely Father would have been able to make it right with the Army, protect Karl and return the PWs to the orchard. If only they hadn't dumped the body.

When Kate reached the door, she tossed the ammonia water onto the back porch.

Mother wasn't one to take risks. She wouldn't have done this unless there was something else. Something she doesn't want Father to know, doesn't want me to know.

And Karl's in on it.

LATE IN THE DAY
Charlotte was in the garden when she heard it. The Army truck.

It had been nearly two weeks since they'd left, and now she held her breath as they piled out from under the canvas, one by one, until—yes! Karl, thank God! Even from this distance, she knew his stance, his bearing, so comfortable in his body. He had remained true to his word. They were safe. He looked her way. Though she couldn't see his eyes, they drew her. She didn't move.

She wanted to run to him, hug him to her, thank him for keeping their secret. She wanted to hear about the interrogation at the prison, tell him she had feared for his life. She wanted to feel his arms around her. But she didn't move.

Now he was coming. Thomas was leading Karl toward the barn, toward her. Heart pounding, she hurried to the house. Inside, she steadied herself at the kitchen counter. Quick breaths. After some time, she went out the front door and sat on the porch swing, focusing on the lake sparkling in the sun, placid in its ignorance.

“Char?” Thomas called from inside.

Suppertime already?

She hurried to the kitchen. Thomas bowed at her approach and said:

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may
.

He hadn't spoken in poetry to her since before Vehlmer disappeared.
He's forgiving me. My dear Thomas is forgiving me. He doesn't know what he's forgiving, but he wants us to go on as before
. “You're ready for supper, then?” Charlotte said, trying to smile.

“It's the cherries that are ready. Tomorrow we start picking the fruit.”

Finally! They would have their harvest. Then Karl would leave. Yes. And she would stop thinking about him. She needed to stop thinking about him.

CHARLOTTE WAS CLEARING PLATES
from the supper table that evening when the knock came at the door.

“
Hallo
.” Karl's voice. “
Guten Abend
.”

Blood surged through her veins, heat rose to her face.

When he entered the kitchen, Karl's eyes locked on hers, and she read in them a hunger that mirrored her own, a tightrope between, an abyss below.

She looked away, and there were Kate's eyes, watching her, watching Karl, squinting in question.

Charlotte untied her apron and hung it on the knob. Leaving dishes in the sink, she went to the parlor and sat on the couch. But
she couldn't shut out the voices, Karl's deep, evocative voice. She switched on the radio. Bing Crosby. “You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away . . .”

When she reached for her mending basket, her hand shook. On top was the dress she had worn that fateful day in the barn. She had washed it and purchased blue buttons from Ellie. Now she threaded a needle and stabbed into the fabric.

Karl would have liked to stay on his family's farm, he'd said, but his brother inherited it. What would it be like to live on a farm with Karl? A dairy farm, perhaps. She put her work in her lap and closed her eyes, imagined a cozy kitchen at dusk. Karl would come in from the barn, strong and happy, smelling of animals, eager for the meal she'd prepared, hugging her with pleasure. Content. Both of them content with the rhythm of the seasons. She'd like to have cows again. Big, warm, dependable gals who'd give a calf every spring and milk for cheese and butter and ice cream. How could anyone not love cows?

She picked up the needle. A few prize calves to start, that was all they'd need. Fruit trees would be nice—cherries, apples, peaches—not too many, just enough for canning. And pies. Karl would love her pies.

The radio announcer intruded on her daydream with the eight o'clock news. “US Marines . . . amphibious landing . . . Japanese-held island of Guam . . . in the Marianas.” Charlotte didn't know where Guam was. She had never heard of the Marianas. She only knew that it was part of the Pacific war, not the war Ben was in. She picked up the dress and pushed the needle in and out.

Ben! How could she ever leave Ben?

Karl's laugh came from the kitchen, hearty, resonant. She put her hands to her ears. She would write to Ben, tell him the harvest was starting. She wouldn't mention the PWs. By the time he received her letter, they'd be gone.

Gone!
She closed her eyes and swirled back there again, back to the root cellar, Karl's arms pulling her to him, his hard body against her own, his fingers on her breasts, his strength pushing into her . . .

“
Owww!
” The needle pricked her right index finger. She sucked on the blood. His lips on her mouth, his breath quickening in her ear . . .
Did I ever feel this way about Thomas?

Charlotte tore a scrap of fabric from out of her basket and wrapped her finger. It wasn't a deep puncture, but it didn't want to stop.

Stop. Yes, she had to stop thinking about him. It was folly . . . a silly fantasy. She would lose everything—Thomas, Ben, Kate, the farm, respect—everything!

Kitchen chairs scraped the floor. Voices, good-byes, the door opened, closed. Thomas came into the parlor and sat in his wingback chair. Soon he was tapping his pipe on the ashtray. He refilled it with tobacco and struck a match. Charlotte knew what would come next.
Puff . . . puff . . . puff
. Annoying little puffs.

“That Karl,” Thomas shook his head. “He sure does know how to keep a girl interested.”

“What?” Charlotte stammered, nearly choking.

“Kate's actually excited about calculus.” He picked up his book. “She's going to do just fine at the U.”

Charlotte slouched back, stomach churning, the Mills Brothers singing brightly, “You always hurt the one you love.” She fingered one of the blue buttons. “When are they leaving?” she blurted.

“Who?” He peered over the edge of the book.

“The prisoners. When will we be alone again?” She ached to be rid of her guilt, her shame.

“In a few weeks, weather holds.” He turned a page. “But they'll stay in the camp through the apple harvest in September.”

“They'll be gone during the day,” she said. “Working at other orchards. So we won't have to see them?”

“You need not look at them again, Char. They'll sleep in the camp, out of sight.”

She folded the dress and smoothed it with her hand. Done. It's done.

From behind his book, Thomas said, “Only Karl. He'll be coming to help Kate with her lessons.”

Charlotte froze.