The Cherry Harvest (27 page)

He pulled away and reached for his trousers and brought out another rubber thing. And she opened to him, unafraid this time, no longer thinking, alive now to his fullness inside of her. This time he was slower, more gentle, and the soreness turned to a feeling like scratching an itch, and her insides came sighing down to that place and her hips went up to meet him, moving instinctively up and up. She held him tight, slick with sweat, her sweat, his sweat. Her legs moved up around his thighs, rocking with him. She shivered and shivered again and cried out, and he kissed her, breathing “Kate” in
her ear, “Sweet Kate.” And he pulsed into her, wet and fast, and then dropped, breathing hard.

And yes, this was what it had all led to, the anticipation, the suspense, it had all led to this. This amazing moment elastic with pleasure extended in time. She could live on this precious night forever.

KATE CLIMBED THE TREE
to her bedroom window and changed into her overalls. Down in the kitchen, she tried not to smile too broadly lest she give herself away. Mother greeted her as if nothing had changed.

Outside she walked barefoot on lush grass glistening with morning dew. A band of silver rimmed the lake's horizon where the Northern Lights had come out just for them.

As she approached the barn, Kate saw that the big door was already open. Ben sat on the high stool at the lathe, the radio playing.

“What's that you're making?” she asked.

“A new leg.” He said it matter-of-factly.

Kate recoiled, afraid to look, until she realized he was talking about the chair. She went over to the bench and watched his large hands deftly craft the cylindrical piece of wood. “I like having you home. You like what Josie's done with the cottage?” She was eager to find out what had happened after she'd left.

“Sure.” He switched on the noisy lathe, effectively cutting off the conversation.

Crossing the barn to Mia's pen, Kate paused at the place with the
bloodstain. The hair on the back of her neck bristled whenever she neared it. She glanced toward Ben. He need never know.

While she pulled gently on Mia's teats, Kate's thoughts wandered. During past harvests, Ben, a fast picker, worked in the trees, but surely he couldn't climb a ladder now. She could ask him to help her in the cherry shack—it would give them an opportunity to talk about things, about his plans with Josie—and she wanted to tell him about Clay. She wanted Ben to meet Clay, to show them off to each other. They'd shake hands, swap stories—Ben coming home, Clay leaving. And when the war was over, they'd share experiences. Like brothers. Yes, brothers! But no, this was her last day with Clay. Introductions would have to wait.

Outside, the early sun shimmered across the lake, pooling on waves and ripples like liquid silver. Squawking seabirds hovered and wheeled away and back. Kate breathed it all in. Everything was good again. Ben was home and Clay loved her.

After breakfast Kate went to the cottage and pulled the sheets from the bed and brought them up to her closet to hide. She would wash them later.

She took time to bathe and wash her hair, then chose a lavender sundress, ribbony straps at her shoulders—Mrs. J said that lavender complimented her skin tone. She brushed her hair until it shone like gold and added her pink barrette.

The sun was bright, and sales at the cherry stand were brisk. Kate tried to focus on serving the customers, but her thoughts were on Clay. She closed her eyes and relived precious details of their night together. She was still sore down there, beautifully sore.

With every approaching car, she looked up, expectant.

Just before noon Kate heard the tractor, Father bringing fruit. And there was Ben, sitting on the flatbed amid lugs of cherries and a rack of pies. “Want some company?”

Kate's heart sank, but she couldn't very well say no. “That'd be swell.”

After they unloaded, Father drove off and Ben stayed.

Sitting next to Kate behind the counter, Ben put a cherry into his mouth and spit the pit out onto the gravel lot. Watching him, Kate noticed that his face was thinner now, his rosy cheeks roughened. Squinty lines had formed on his forehead between his eyes.

“Did you miss the cherries last summer?” she asked.

“I missed everything.” He plopped another cherry into his mouth, spit the pit. He laughed. “You wouldn't believe the fruit they grow around the Mediterranean. Figs, dates, persimmons, pomegranates . . .” He closed his eyes. “I liked the figs best. And so many different kinds of olives and nuts—”

A car pulled up to the stand. A family emerged—man, woman, three redheaded children. The woman marched forward. “Came for the pies.”

“How many?” Kate asked.

The woman looked to her husband. “Two? Three?” After a pause, “Two then.”

“Try some cherries.” Kate pushed a plate of samples forward.

“I want some!” the pigtailed girl cried. The other children chimed in, stuffing their mouths.

The family left with three pies and four baskets of sweet cherries.

“You're pretty cagey, Kitty Kat.” Ben gave her shoulder a light punch.

“If they try them, they'll buy them. That's what Mother always says.” Kate sat back, bathed in the warm sun flowing in through open shutters.

Ben sat back as well and closed his eyes. “Feels good.” His face relaxed into that smile she remembered.

“So how about you and Josie,” Kate ventured.

Ben opened his eyes, serious. “In her letters she said she wanted to get married as soon as I came home.” He regarded his damaged leg. “She seems okay with it—”

A passing truck backfired. Ben jumped—eyes wide, mouth
twisted—and pulled Kate with him to the ground. He was hurting her arm, holding her down, but she kept still. After what seemed like a long time, he let go.

He was shaking. “Sorry.” He struggled to get up and into the chair. “Sorry, I just—”

“It's all right, Ben.” She put a hand on his arm.

“It's not all right,” he said, barely audible. He sat forward and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Kate touched his shoulder. He breathed in deeply and gave a big sigh.

After some time he said, “Everybody back home . . . You just go on as if . . .” His shoulders fell and his voice softened. “But you couldn't possibly know what it's like.”

Kate faced him. Maybe he didn't want to tell her. Maybe she didn't want to hear. Maybe she shouldn't ask, but she did. “Tell me, then. What's it like?”

Ben ate a cherry, spit the pit. Then another. “Charging machine guns. That was my specialty.” His voice grew stronger, proud. “I learned to hear the difference between the amateurs and the professionals.”

“The difference?”

“It's like this,” Ben said. “
Bup bup bup
. Pause.
Bup bup bup
. Pause. That's a professional. But an amateur will hold the trigger too long—
bup bup bup bup bup
—and the barrel floats up, giving me room to rush in underneath. Take him out.”

Take him out?

“That last time. Approaching Rome.” His voice came in a monotone, as if he were reciting a story he had told many times. “Summer flowers covered the hillsides. When we passed an apple orchard, I thought of the cherry trees back home. The sun had just set. Dusk.” He stared off into space. “Salami—”

“Salami?”

“That's what we called him. Nino Salvatore Salamme. He had this crazy New York accent. We were together from the beginning—across
North Africa, over the Mediterranean to Sicily, through the mountains—and then we were headed to Rome. Two years together. The last survivors of the original platoon. My buddy.” Ben paused for a bit, grinned. “He had this big Italian family. Lots of sisters. Showed me pictures. I told him I already had a girl. He had relatives in Rome he'd never met. Wanted me to meet them too.”

“And did you?”

“We made it to the outskirts of Rome, but . . .” He bit around a cherry pit.

“We were in a field of high grass, scouting out the enemy, covering for each other. The action had slowed. I was reaching for my canteen when I heard a gunner. We fell to the ground, waiting, listening.” Ben paused. “He was tapping out too many shots. When I heard him do it the third time, I gave the sign for Salami to throw a grenade. He pulled the pin and stood . . .
why the hell did he have to stand up?”

Ben was silent for a bit. A car passed by, tires humming.

When he spoke again, his words came out in a whisper. “That's when the machine gun cut him.” Ben looked straight ahead. “Grenade rolled from Salami's hand. Live grenade, ready to blow. I dove down and grabbed it, flung it toward the sound of the machine gun, but the gunner got me before the grenade got him. I was smelling burning meat and something metallic. And my leg was on fire. Then the grenade blew the earth sky high in the distance, and that's the last thing I remember.”

“Oh, Ben!”

Ben jostled and shifted in his chair. “You look out for your buddy.” He slumped back, an arm across his eyes. “I shoulda died instead of him.”

“Don't say that!” Kate grabbed him. “You're home and—”

He shook his head.

After some silence, Kate whispered, “Did you ever have to shoot anyone? Close up where you could see his eyes?”

He turned to Kate, then away. “You gotta think of them like rabid dogs.” He stared into space. “It's hard to look at their faces and pull the trigger, but you know they'll kill you if you don't.”

Kate shivered. “Like Old Tramp?” she said, referring to the puppy she'd found when she was six. He stayed beside her every day, every night, best friends. He followed her to school and waited outside and followed her home. When Tramp was nine, he disappeared. Kate was frantic, searching the shore, the woods. When he finally returned, he was snarling, foaming. Father corralled him and said he had to be shot. Ben got his gun. Then Old Tramp was dead. That night Kate was crying, and she heard Ben crying too.

“Yeah, like that.” He nodded. “You can do it if you think of them as rabid dogs.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.

“May I have one?”

“You?” He grinned. “You're growing up too fast, little sister.” He tipped the pack her way.

A car pulled up, and a couple approached the stand. Kate hurried them along, giving them what they wanted, taking their money.

When the customers left, Ben said, “Look, Kate. Maybe I shouldn't 'a told you all that—”

“I asked—”

“It's not your fault. None of this.” His arm came warm and strong around her shoulders.

“It's not your fault either.” She worked to hold back tears. “You did what you had to do. And we have to keep going here at home too. Take care of things.”

“Yeah. But now . . . it's just hard for me to sit here knowing they're still over there, and . . .” He looked up and let out a long whistle. “Would you get a loada that automobile!”

Clay!
Kate's heart jumped.

The red convertible pulled onto the gravel, and Clay stepped out.

“Hey, he's in uniform. Musta been wounded, like me.”

“No, he's . . . come and meet him.”

Ben followed on his crutches.

Clay came quickly forward. “Hi ya, Kate!” He put an arm around her waist and kissed her on the cheek.

Kate felt it all again, the electricity of his touch. She wanted to melt into him, but Ben was right behind her.

“Well, whaddya know.” Ben smiled. “Little sister's got a guy.”

“You must be Ben.” Clay put out his hand, and the two men shook. “Kate told me you were coming home. I've been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Ben, this is Clay.”

“Good to meet you,” Ben said. “Navy, eh?”

“Yup. Going to be a pilot.” His eyes went to Ben's leg, and his face colored. “I'm sorry about your leg.”

“Ah, I'm okay.” Ben said, lifting his chin as if proud of his injury. “Pilot, eh?” He slapped Clay on the back. “Tell you what. Whenever we saw those planes swoop in to help us out . . . well, it's a beautiful sight.”

This was going well. As much as Kate wanted to be alone with Clay, she was glad the two were meeting. “How about we sit at the picnic table,” she said. “You two go ahead. I'll be along.”

The men moved toward the table in the shade of the maples, and Kate stayed behind, ostensibly to fill baskets, letting them get to know each other.

Watching them together—Clay moving easily, Ben hobbling alongside—Kate's breath caught.
What if Clay comes back a cripple?
She gripped a straw basket so tightly it crumpled in her hand. She feared that almost as much as Clay not coming home at all. She shook her head with guilt. She thought of what Josie had said about duty. No, that wasn't it. She loved Clay. She would never give him up, no matter what.

“General Mark Clark's Fifth,” Ben was saying in answer to a question Clay must have asked.

“We saw you guys in the newsreels, cheered you on.”

Ben offered Clay a cigarette. Clay accepted the light. After some low conversation Kate couldn't quite make out, Ben said, “How much longer before you ship out?”

“Gotta finish OCS, then flight training—”

“Huh. What are you, eighteen? I thought you looked older.”

“I'm twenty.”

“Twenty?” Ben's voice had an edge. “What have you been doing?” He crushed out his cigarette on the table.

“College . . . ROTC—”

“In school?” Ben stood up on his crutches. “And looks like your plan is to stay in school . . . OCS, pilot training, then some other special this or that, waiting it out—”

Clay was standing now as well. “Hey, I'm in.”