The Storm (29 page)

Well, if she wanted any butter to spread on her bread, she'd have to climb down off her high horse and make her arm start moving.

*

Thankfully Patrick was only seven, Molly thought. What if he were eighteen and wanted to sign up for the service too and drive to Dallas? How could she let her baby, the only one she'd ever have, go? The idea of him leaving her to risk his life for his country horrified her.

She'd known Mrs. McCade only from an occasional visit. Always so proud of Eric, but she'd doted on all her sons. The younger two had helped steadily around the farm and would have married soon and settled nearby, raised good crops and sons of their own. The salt of the earth, they lay in foreign soil now, their mother in her grave too.

Molly's older sister had died also, when she was just a few years younger than Eric's brothers were. She'd caught diphtheria when Molly was a child. Extremely religious, almost a saint, her sister saw the best in everyone and forgave them almost before they did anything to hurt her. The illness came on quickly, from some of the other students at school, they thought. She was hot to the touch for almost a week and grew weaker as she lingered, until she finally passed away. At least she'd died at home, with her family, instead of in some faraway country, alone and probably terrified.

Molly's parents hadn't let her near her sister during her illness. But when she lay on her deathbed, they let Molly say good-bye. Her sister had suddenly looked around the room and said in a beautiful voice, “Don't you see them, Papa? Don't you see them? The angels standing around my bed? They've come to take me home.”

Everyone was crying, which upset her, but she couldn't decide if her sister was hallucinating because of her condition or if she actually saw angels. The peaceful death, and the fact that her parents had protected her so thoroughly from the ugly parts of the disease, hadn't prepared her to know how she would react now if someone she loved died. She hoped she wouldn't have to find out for a long time
.

*

I declare, the world's gone crazy.
Mrs. Russell ruminated as she hoed the dry soil around her rosebushes. If the Frogs and the Krauts wanted to kill each other off, let 'em at it. Just warring over a little strip of land not much bigger than this county. Bunch of foolishness, sending the boys away when the old folks needed them on the farm.

Praise the Lord, James was too old to join up or he'd be riding alongside Eric, who didn't have any business leaving home again. At least James had a speck of sense. Knew he had a young son, an old mother, and a worthless wife to support, so he couldn't gallivant off to war in a T-Model with the rest of the boys, who didn't think about anything but glory and shiny medals.

They didn't remember the big fight against the Yankees—a righteous one. Some nerve those Northerners had, thinking they could dictate how everybody should live from way up there in Washington. That monkey-faced President had no more idea about Georgia folks than he could fly. And it took him four long years of making all loyal Southerners suffer like they were savages before the soldier boys finally had enough. Eventually some of 'em realized fighting's nothing but terrible destruction and heartache for all involved, 'specially the women and children.

Yep, she was powerful glad Patrick was too young and James was too old for this gol-danged silly war. Sure hoped Clyde made it back in one piece.

Jaq was exhausted, especially after the ordeal with the chicken. Eric never seemed to have any trouble wringing a chicken's neck, so she hadn't thought she would either.

She'd spent a good twenty minutes chasing the best-looking fryer in the yard before she finally cornered him and grabbed him with both hands, one over each wing. Then she eased him under her left arm and held him against her side so she could grab his neck with her right hand. She was afraid he'd peck her or she'd feel so sorry for him she'd let him go and open a quart of canned peas instead.

But, by God, she'd thought about how good he'd taste and how impressed Eric and Angus, and especially Molly, would be that she'd prepared him. So she grabbed his neck, closed her eyes, and started swinging him like she was cranking her Model T. When he whirled as fast as she could manage, she popped her wrist and snap—the chicken's headless body flew across the yard and tried to run back and join the other fryers.

Chilled, she stared at it. Blood covered the front of her dress, and as she wiped at it she thought of Henry after he slipped into her tent. His blood had drenched the ground…

She rubbed her scar as a wave of compassion for him hit her. The horror of her actions gripped her. How easily things died. Men too.

*

Molly knocked on the front door and Jaq called, “Come on back. I'm busy cooking. But I'll be through soon.”

In the kitchen, at first she saw only Jaq's back as she stood at the stove busily dropping pieces of chicken into the skillet and jumping back when the hot grease threatened to spatter her. But when Jaq finally turned around, she burst out laughing. The fancy lady from New Orleans, used to having servants wait on her, stood there with bloodstains on the front of her housedress and chicken feathers in her hair.

“From the looks of it, the chicken lost the fight, but just barely,” she said to Patrick, who looked from her to Jaq with a puzzled expression.

“Mama, she's pretty even when she's all messed up, isn't she?”

Jaq beamed. “Thank you, Patrick. And for that you get a teacake and a glass of milk. And your mother gets nothing.” Jaq playacted a frown, and she laughed again.

“Sit down at the table, Molly, and help yourself to the teacakes. I was kidding. You're certainly getting to be a big boy, Patrick. Did you help your mother drive the buggy?”

He was already halfway through his cookie. “Yes, ma'am. But I want to learn to drive a Model T. Will you teach me?”

Jaq forked a piece of chicken and turned it over. “You bet I will. As soon as you can reach the pedals.”

As Patrick chattered, Molly let her mind drift. What if Jaq never moved away but stayed in New Hope so she could watch Patrick grow up and actually teach him to drive? Molly would be able to talk to her on the phone every day, see her at the church, and visit when she could escape from Mother Russell's constant demands. She and Jaq could drive to town occasionally to shop and have an ice-cream soda at the drugstore, and maybe they could even join one of those new women's clubs in town that Tabitha Milner had told her about, where they discussed great works of literature. Wouldn't that be exciting?

But she couldn't possibly expect Jaq to live in New Hope, so she pointed her dream in another direction. “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

Jaq stood by the stove and turned the pieces over, to make sure they browned evenly and didn't burn, then finally glanced at her. “That's a hard question. London's okay, but it's too cold and damp and gray. I spent half my time inside, waiting to see the sun. And New Orleans is too hot and humid. Washington and New York are exciting, but I'd have to choose Paris.” She put a lid on the skillet. “What about you?”

She slowly bit her teacake. “I've always wanted to visit Vienna, because so many famous musicians lived there. But I don't suppose I'd run across Mozart or Beethoven on the street now. And I'd like to see Athens. I enjoyed reading the ancient Greek tragedies when I was at the university, and I'd love to see the Parthenon. As for living somewhere else, I've never been anywhere except Texas so that's hard to say. Why did you settle on Paris?”

She wanted to learn everything she could about Jaq before she disappeared.

*

Patrick was squirming in his hard-backed chair, so Jaq asked him, “Would you like to go upstairs and look at Mr. Eric's treasures from some of his travels, Patrick? They're in the room at the end of the hall on the right. Just be sure to put everything back, all right?”

He jumped up. “Yes, ma'am. It's okay, isn't it, Mama?”

“Yes, son. We'll be right down here if you want us.” As he left, Molly smiled and said, “You're good with him.”

“As the youngest child, I didn't have anybody to look after. But my older brothers and sister treated me well, so I guess I want to return the favor. He's a sweet boy. You've done a great job.”

“Not if you ask Mother Russell.” Molly frowned, and Jaq didn't blame her. Her demanding mother-in-law could upset anybody. “Thank you. I don't know how I'd get along without him. But what about Paris? Have you been there too?”

“Yes. The War's made it dirty and hectic, but I like the openness, the acceptance of all types of people, even the ones like me.”

Jaq's arms prickled with embarrassment and excitement as she said the words. She didn't want to remind Molly that she was different, that she loved women. But she had to be herself and try not to think she was strange or even sick. Molly had helped, and she was determined to go the rest of the way on her own.

“Did you visit Paris while you were in France with the WAACs?”

“Yes, briefly. Right before I went back to London and sailed home. I adored it, even though it was in shambles. The people's open-mindedness, their appreciation for a good meal and a fine glass of wine coupled with their spirit of freedom and intellectual inquiry, made me want to stay much longer. I'd heard of a couple of American women who've lived in Paris for ages and wanted to meet them, but unfortunately they were temporarily in another part of France.”

She sighed, thinking of the excitement that seemed to radiate from the city she'd fallen in love with. If she and Molly could be in Paris together her life would be complete. “I felt so at home there. I speak the language well, and the Parisians made me feel at ease. I promised myself that I'd live there someday. And maybe I will, after the War ends. I understand that other women like me have formed a little community there, so I might even meet someone as understanding and accepting as you over there.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, though, she knew she'd never feel as deeply for another woman as she did for Molly. Molly had eased past every barrier Jaq had set up. So natural and unassuming, Molly had calmed her fears and helped her realize that she could be herself.

She wanted to do the same for Molly, to hold her close, to treasure her sensitivity and help her leave this place where people didn't appreciate how special she was. But Molly was as stuck here as an automobile with four flat tires, and Jaq didn't know how to help her drive away.

*

The possibility of Jaq meeting someone else to confide in and laugh with made Molly almost sick to her stomach, but she couldn't encourage Jaq to stay in a loveless marriage just because she wanted her nearby. With her looks and charm, Jaq could easily find someone else, and she should thank her lucky stars for Mr. James. At least he didn't abuse her.

She had to resign herself to the reality that though Jaq could move to Paris, she would never leave East Texas. She had roots in this community as deep as the long taproot on a pine. She couldn't leave Patrick, and Mr. James would certainly never let him wander around the world like a vagabond. No, she had to stay here, and she had to let beautiful Jaq sail away to Europe and meet someone else.

Right now, though, they needed to create another memory. She wanted to squeeze a year into each minute they had left to be together, so that an hour would stretch to a span of sixty years of living together and loving each other. “Do you need any help with supper? I can make some biscuits.”

“Yes, thank you. Be sure to cover your pretty dress with that big blue apron.”

She wrapped the large apron over her next-to-best dress and scooped some flour into a large bowl. Wouldn't she and Jaq have fun if they could stand beside each other in the kitchen every day, just peeling potatoes or making biscuits. An occasional glance, frequent laughs, and sitting down together to share what they created were what counted. But she had to stop thinking about the future and concentrate on the present.

The present. Molly anatomized Jaq's every move. Jaq finished peeling the potatoes and rinsed them then put them into a boiler and ladled well water over them. She placed them on the stove and stood there with a lid, so as soon as the water started to boil, she could cover the pan and move it to a cooler area.

Fine black hair covered Jaq's lightly muscled forearm, though her skin was very white. Her strong arms and capable hands could fix an automobile, pluck a chicken, run down Molly's—

Oh stop.
She didn't want to preserve that thought. She'd blush every time she'd recall it. She'd want Jaq so much she'd refuse to let her go, and she had to.

She must.

*

After Jaq hurriedly changed clothes and stood stirring the cream gravy, Patrick rushed into the kitchen. “They're here. I just heard them drive up. I put everything back exactly like it was, Miss Jacqueline. I'm going to see Mr. Eric, Mama.”

The door slammed, and Jaq frowned as she turned to Molly. “I wish I could be that excited to see Eric. Patrick's a real joy. You'll have to bring him with you more often.”

Molly nodded as Eric strutted in, his arm draped across Patrick's shoulders. “Pop's worn out and said he's going straight to bed, but look what came busting out the door and jumped all over me. I wouldn't mind having a big, fine boy like this to meet me every day. What do you say, Mrs. McCade,” he said with a saucy grin, “think we could manage to find one like him somewhere?”

Eric had to be teasing, so she grinned back and picked up her Brownie from the sideboard. “You two come outside with me and let me take your picture before it gets too dark.” After they finished she told Eric, “I doubt if we could find another one. Boys like him don't grow on trees.”