The Storm (14 page)

Ironically, Mother Russell had saved her. She'd told the doctor to leave and mixed up some herbal remedies out of who knew what. Too sick to care, Molly had swallowed whatever Mother Russell offered, and miraculously, she'd recovered.

The sun stayed behind the cloud and a cool breeze began to blow. “When I felt good enough to care about anything, Kate, I was devastated. I couldn't have any more children! I couldn't sleep or eat because I kept worrying if I was still a real woman.

“Finally I calmed down. I'd always wanted a daughter, but I never wanted a large family the way Mr. James did.”

The clouds got darker and it looked like it might rain. She clucked at the mules. “Mr. James was thrilled to have a son, but he was cut up when he heard Patrick would be his one and only child, Gus. I failed him and disappointed Mother Russell too. My last chance to gain her respect evaporated, but that didn't bother me nearly so much as disappointing Mr. James. I felt sorry for him.”

When she'd recovered, she finally accepted that she'd never have a daughter, but she could always share her love for music with the children in the community. And that's exactly what she did.

Now some of them had moved to the city and were developing into fine musicians. When they wrote her occasionally about how they'd never forget her, she couldn't have been happier.

The sun came out again and she thought about Jacqueline. She didn't have any children but had risked her life near a battlefield helping others. Having a baby was tame compared to that.

“Jacqueline's brave, isn't she, Gus?”

The mules plodded on, their blinders keeping them from glancing right or left.

“I wish I had her courage. It's taken me eight years just to admit to myself that I've never loved the man I married.” At this rate she'd be almost as old as Mother Russell before she could get away from here, if ever.

What would it be like to marry someone she loved? She'd never know. She'd accepted Mr. James's proposal out of fear and self-doubt. Now she was bound up here in this alien place as tight as the ball of twine that Mother Russell kept in the kitchen. Every time they came across even a small piece of string, they wrapped it onto the ball and pulled it taut. It would take a lot less time to untangle that ball than it would to get herself out of this situation that she'd been too weak to refuse.

But maybe Jacqueline could help her. Was that why she was so drawn to her—her confidence, her strength, her fearlessness? Molly wouldn't give up until she found out.

Eric had been so drunk and acted like another person, a stranger. Jaq had asked, “Why do you drink so much?”

“None of your business,” he'd yelled. “Put a sock in it. Nobody loves a cripple.”

Too sore to get out of bed, she needed Helen to nurse her, Willie to massage her. Every muscle ached, her forehead hurt. Could she walk? Should have called Molly, told her not to come over. When Molly telephoned yesterday she seemed different—more outspoken, freer.

Pines surrounded the house, closed her in, cut her off from the world, guarded her. Like she was a prisoner of war. “Eric's sentinels,” she whispered. “You don't have to work hard today. I won't escape now. I want to…want to leave.”

The wind blew, the pines rocked. Was Big Bertha shooting at them, playing war music? She felt shell-shocked.

“Jacqueline. Oh, Jacqueline.”

A voice, from a great distance, sounded over the roar of the noisy guns.

“I know you're here. Where are you?”

The person sounded familiar. Who was it? “Molly. Up here. In the guest bedroom. The door's open.”

“Gracious. Are you okay? I can barely hear you.”

“Fine.”

Molly climbed the staircase, walked down the hall. The boards creaked, groaned. The house moved in the breeze with the pines, made Jaq's head spin. Felt like she was in an aeroplane, taking a nosedive.

“Here.”

Molly appeared, her red-gold hair mounded on her head, like a halo. Her pale-green housedress matched her concerned eyes.

“What are you doing in bed in middle of the day? Why, I—”

Her eye hurt. She could barely see Molly.

“What happened to you?”

She pulled the sheet closer. Molly shouldn't see any more of her. She felt weak, too exposed.

“Nothing. I fell down the stairs.”

“Well, I never saw a tumble cause a black eye like that. You must have hit the banister on the way down.”

“Yes. I hit the banister. Don't worry. How are you?”

She didn't want to talk about herself. Ashamed, she didn't want Molly to ask any questions.

*

Molly tried not to stare, but Jacqueline looked terrible, lying on the bed with a bloody cloth over her right eye and her forehead—and obviously not telling the truth. She reminded her of a box turtle she'd found in the strawberry patch this morning, nibbling berries. As soon as it spotted her, it slammed its shell shut. She couldn't have pried it apart with a case knife.

For a minute Jacqueline seemed to want to open up to her, like the turtle taking a small bite of that strawberry. Then she closed up. She could almost hear her shell snap shut.

Why was Jacqueline in this room? Eric always slept in the room down the hall. A lot of clothes, obviously hers, hung in the chifforobe, and her toiletries sat on a small dressing table.

Mrs. McCade had taken her to see Eric's room once, when he was overseas. “Isn't he neat?” Mrs. McCade had said as she showed her the bare-looking bedroom. “Eric can't stand a speck of dust on any of his things and has to have everything just so. He likes for everything to be perfect. As a boy he always beat everyone in the community at whatever he turned his hand to.

“Once, he lost a foot race at school. He was hurt—and mad as a hornet. Told me nobody would ever like him again, because he was common now. No, he liked to be a cut above the rest of us. And he kept on racing—horses, automobiles. He always writes me about his victories. He doesn't seem to realize he kills people. No. He just shoots down aeroplanes.”

Mrs. McCade had rambled on about Eric, and from what she'd gathered, he was a charmer with a hidden side. But she barely knew him, because he'd left home not long after she moved to New Hope.

When the War came along, he was a famous hero. But if he did this to Jacqueline, she'd give him a piece of her mind, hero or not.

“Jacqueline, did Eric hit you? Is that why you're staying in here instead of with him?”

In response, Jacqueline ducked her head almost entirely under the bloody sheet, just like that little turtle.

She didn't know exactly why, but if Eric had hurt Jacqueline she would…what would she do to a big, strong man? Threaten to beat him up? She couldn't even imagine fighting physically with anyone.

At least she could find out exactly what was going on in this household.

*

The sheet eased away and a hand took the cloth from her face. No. She didn't want Molly to see where…

Molly was talking. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you.”

Jaq felt totally exposed and hated being helpless.

Eric had been like a train coming out of a tunnel. His eyes had flashed. He'd called her a pervert. His fist had roared at her.

She didn't want to think, she couldn't think. Her head fuzzy, she floated, drifted somewhere, unmoored, sailing across cold seas on the
Lusitania
, the
Titanic
.

When they'd first married she'd explained she liked women, not men. He'd shrugged, said, “We'll see.”

Then she'd built a wall, a thick wall of ice, a huge wall of ice like an iceberg. The
Titanic
had grazed it. But Eric was always a perfect gentleman, even in New Orleans when she told him about Willie.

After they married he returned to his aeroplane. She joined the WAACs, went to France and met Helen. Finally she went home to New Orleans, and he showed up. Why did he come? Why…?

His mother had died…mother died…She'd felt so sorry for him, his eye injured, walking with a cane. She agreed to go to East Texas but insisted on separate bedrooms.

He agreed. “Okay, yes, okay, yes. Go with me now. We'll live separate lives afterward.”

They'd had separate bedrooms until early this morning.

“Jacqueline, I don't want to pry. But if you confide in me, I'll see what I can do. The community's very tight-knit, and Mr. James and Mother Russell are influential, so—”

“Oh, Molly. So kind. Don't get mixed up in my problems. Keep them quiet. I'll solve them, for good, soon, very soon. Don't worry.”

*

Jacqueline seemed dazed, and her forehead oozed blood. Molly couldn't force her to make sense or even trust her. But she could try to entice her.

“I've brought you that piece of pound cake I promised. I'll go downstairs and get it—”

“You can't. I won't let you. I'm the hostess—”

“Hush. I won't be a minute. Sometimes we all need someone to wait on us. You'd do the same for me. Rest now. I'll be back before you know it.”

As she transferred the cake onto a small white plate adorned with purple violets, she said to herself, “She's in a bad way, and stubborn as one of the mules. Well, she's met her match.”

Jacqueline seemed to have dozed off, but she stirred when Molly entered the room. She set the cake and a tall glass of milk down and walked over to her. “Jacqueline, I want you to sit up and take a bite. Have you eaten anything today? But first, hold this clean dishtowel to your head.”

Jacqueline took the towel but shook her head, like Patrick when he wasn't telling the whole truth. She probably hadn't had any food since last night. Judging from the dirty dishes in the sink and the burnt frying pan on the stove, the men had messed around in the kitchen. Surely Jacqueline wouldn't have left it in such bad shape. At least someone had milked the cow and left a pail of milk on the counter, though it was already turning bad. Just like a man.

“Here, just a bite. It won't hurt you. That's it. Now a swallow of milk. That's a girl.”

She coaxed Jacqueline to eat, and she slowly finished the sliver of cake and milk as if she hadn't eaten in days. She acted a lot like Patrick. He tried to be so independent, but sometimes he still needed her to take care of him. And Jacqueline needed her…

“Now listen here,” she said, “and listen good. You're going to dress and pack a few things and come home with me. If your body looks as bad as the rest of you, you won't be able to climb those stairs for a while.”

Jacqueline looked stricken, as if she had just suggested that she walk into the church naked.

“No. Mrs. Russell, Mr. James? Can't impose—”

“Don't you worry. I'll take care of them. Mother Russell won't like it, but she won't want to look bad in the eyes of the community. And Mr. James? He'll hardly know you're there. He's got his own routine and doesn't pay much attention to what goes on in the house. When he's there he's usually in his own little world—reading the paper or dreaming up ways to get rich.”

“Eric? Mr. McCade? Need to—”

“If they don't know how to cook, they can learn or starve. If you stayed here they'd just have to wait on you. And I doubt any of you would like that. Come on. Kate and Gus are waiting downstairs.”

She wanted to get Jacqueline away before Eric returned.

*

What a bumpy road, but Molly was so careful. In France, Jaq drove over rough, shell-pitted roads carrying groaning men. Rockets exploded everywhere, the noise of bombs and bullets deafened her.

Finally, she and Molly reached the long driveway. The sun was so bright, too bright.

“I'll settle you in the spare bedroom before Mother Russell and Patrick get home. Here. Hold this clean cloth over your forehead and let me rinse your dishtowel. You need to lie down, see if we can stop the bleeding.”

Molly braced her. She leaned on Molly, put her arm around Molly's shoulder, Molly's arm encircling her waist. She forced her feet up the front steps, hobbled down the central hall to a bedroom.

“This belonged to Mr. James's youngest sister, Hannah. She got married and moved out. We use it for a sewing room now, and for guests. It's a little cluttered. Hope you don't mind the mess.”

“I'm tired. After I rest I'll help you straighten up.”

“Nonsense. Undress and put on your gown. I'll take care of everything.”

She pulled her gown from her bag. Molly placed her other clothes in an oak dresser and placed her toiletries on top.

“There. The slop jar's beside the bed. Don't even try to go to the outhouse.”

Her face warmed. Molly emptying her slop jar? Jaq was helpless like the wounded men on the front lines. Her upper chest ached, and her hip too. She felt like a mule had kicked her, couldn't unbutton her blouse.

Molly took over. “Here, let me do that.”

She tried to lift her arms, sit on the edge of the bed. Molly finished undressing her.

“I'd have hit your husband like he hit you. Did you fight back?”

Was this someone else's body, this mass of pain? Her head pounded, her arms and legs were purple, ugly.

“I need to sponge the blood off you, Jacqueline. You sit here. I'll go get a washrag and some water. I won't be long. You'll feel better when you're clean.”

Molly seemed upset, angry.

In the mirror, Jaq saw the bruises on her arms and back. Eric had hit her in the face, and she fell and broke open her wound from France. Everything turned black after that for a while. Then she tried to go downstairs. Eric was a large man with a huge temper. She should never have come to East Texas, but Eric had been so pitiful when he asked for her help.

She'd believed she could help him. She was a fool. How dared he do this to her? But she couldn't strike back at him, not after what she did to Henry in France.