Authors: Marie Bostwick

River's Edge (22 page)

BOOK: River's Edge

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“Do you want some? I can't eat it all.”

“Huh?” He shook himself as though suddenly waking. His eyes refocused. “Oh. No thanks. Well, maybe.” He bent his head down and took a bite.

He murmured appreciatively through a mouthful of hamburger. “Mmm. Good.”

“I told you,” I said, pushing my plate toward him. “Here, have some more.”

He waved away my offering. “No, that's okay. You finish it.”

I cut the remaining burger in half and laid a piece on his plate next to the partially eaten lamb. I gave him half my French fries as well. He picked one up and swirled it around in a pool of catsup, but then put it down without taking a bite. After a minute he pushed the plate aside and looked out the window toward the street. His eyes were fixed on some point in the distance, staring but not seeing.

I snaked my hand across the table and tapped his arm with my fingertips. “You're so far away. What are you thinking about?”

I smiled when he said, “You and me.” But my smile faded as he went on. His eyes were earnest and suddenly seemed to turn a deeper, more serious shade of brown. “We've got to talk about it, Elise.”

“About what?” I asked, though in my heart I already knew what he would say next.

“The war. It's going to happen, and soon. We'll have to get in the fight.”

“You don't know that,” I argued. “America is still neutralâ”

“A German U-boat sank an American destroyer yesterday, the
Rueben James.
One hundred and fifteen men died on that ship, Elise. These were people's sons and brothers and fathers. They were sailors just doing their jobs. They weren't at war with anyone, and a U-boat saw them, fired a torpedo at them, and killed them.”

He looked at me hard and pressed his lips together a moment before speaking. “It is inevitable, Elise.”

I was silent. There was nothing I could say to contradict him.

“So many men lost, and they weren't even armed to defend themselves. The paper said President Roosevelt is going to send a bill to the Congress authorizing American vessels to be armed for defense. Just a few months ago, I think it would have been voted down, but now ... The bill will pass, Elise. The ships will be armed, and the next time they are fired upon, they will fire back, and that will be that. We'll be at war. Nothing can stop it now.”

“Junior,” I pleaded hopelessly, “you promised to wait a year. You promised.”

“One hundred and fifteen men,” he repeated slowly. His brown eyes were somber and angry. “They were unarmed. You can't be neutral about that, Elise. I can't be neutral about that.”

I ducked my head to avoid the accusation I read in his eyesâthat I knew him too well to think he was the kind of man who could stand on the sidelines if his country had to defend itself against an aggressor, no matter who that aggressor was. I, of all people, should have known that.

I did know. He was stubborn and brave and honorable. This was who he was and what made him mine. I took a deep breath, lifted my head, and looked into the eyes that were searching out mine, wanting to know if I really knew him.

“I love you.” That was all I said. It was all I had to say.

He reached out and covered both my hands with hisâfour palms clasped and closed as if in prayer. He bent his head down and brushed my fingertips with his lips.

The next day was Saturday, the day I worked at Mrs. Ludwig's. When the summer ended, and I had to go back to school, Mrs. Ludwig's daughters-in-laws started taking turns coming in to take care of the old woman for a couple of hours each day, but they just made a little food and tidied up. I took care of the heavy cleaning when I came on Saturday.

I don't think any of the daughters-in-law were too keen about the prospect of caring for Mrs. Ludwig, and, really, who could blame them? They'd all heard Betty's tale of woe about how she'd been beaned by a mustard plaster her mother-in-law thought was too hot. Everyone in town knew the story, because Betty told it over and over again in that whiny, simpering voice of hers. It was probably the most interesting story she'd had to tell in her lifeânot that having nothing interesting to say had ever stopped Betty from talking in the past. She did have a habit of going on and on about nothing at all.

Anyway, in spite of their trepidation, the daughters-in-law all survived their sickroom rotations without incident. Even if she had wanted to, Mrs. Ludwig was too weak these days to throw mustard plasters or anything else. It had been ages since she'd had the energy to teach me a new recipe; however, thanks to her, I was really pretty proficient in the kitchen now. I could cook just about anything unaided, but I missed our talks and the cranky, impatient, affectionate way she had of telling me I was overbeating the egg whites or underboiling the potatoes, even when it wasn't true. Now, whenever I brought her lunch into her room on a tray, she nibbled at whatever I'd made and told me it was good, with no criticism at all. That worried me.

I arrived early that day and found her completely dressed and sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me.

“You're late,” she croaked as she stirred some sugar into her coffee.

“I am not,” I returned jovially as I put on a clean apron. “I am twenty minutes early.” You couldn't let Mrs. L. push you around or you were a goner. She was like a horse that way; she could smell fear. That's what her daughters-in-law had never understood about her.

“You're looking better today. It's good to see you up and around,” I said.

She nodded. “I still have that cough, but it's not too bad. The day is warm for November. My joints don't hurt much at all. Look,” she said, opening and closing her hands to demonstrate her flexibility, “they feel strong. I think I could even knead some bread dough. Thought I'd show you how to make those special rolls I always do for Thanksgiving.”

My eyes narrowed for a moment as I tried to remember what rolls she was talking about. “Oh, I know! Those nice chewy ones that have the orange-colored dough.”

“Those are the ones,” she confirmed. “What do you suppose goes in 'em to make 'em that color? I've never told anyone the secret. Go on. Guess.”

I thought for a moment but nothing came to mind. Admitting defeat, I shrugged.

“Pumpkin!” she proclaimed with a triumphant flourish of her index finger.

“Pumpkin? Why would you put pumpkin into bread?”

Mrs. Ludwig sighed and mumbled something inaudible before answering me very slowly, as though speaking to a not very bright child. “Because pumpkin is what gives them that chewy texture and that nice orange colorâpretty for fall. Also, this time of year there's always more pumpkin around than a person can possibly use. How much boiled pumpkin and pie can you really eat? You don't want to waste it, so I had an idea to try them in rolls, and it worked fine.”

“I would never have thought of that.”

“That's the problem with you young people,” she grumbled. “You're wasteful. Never been hungry. Always had everything handed to you on a silver platter, so you just throw out perfectly good food without giving it a second thought. There's an old Yankee saying, âUse it up, make it do, wear it outâ' ”

“ââor do without!'” I finished for her.

“Are you trying to be saucy?”

I just grinned as I took the coffeepot from the stove and poured her a refill.

She grunted. “Told you that one before, have I?”

“Uh huh.”

“How many times?” she asked, drawing her eyebrows together, making the deep wrinkles on her forehead even deeper.

The answer was at least ten. Probably closer to fifteen, but why bother her with numbers. “I don't remember. It doesn't matter.”

She picked up her coffee cup and took a drink from it. “I guess I'm getting old,” she commented, more to herself than me. “Well, what of it? Not like I got a whole lot of other alternatives.”

She took another sip from her cup. “Coffee tastes good. Good work.”

“You made it,” I reminded her.

“Hmm. That explains why it tastes so good.”

I pushed my lips together to keep from smiling. I would have laughed, but I knew she wasn't joking. It was nice to see her feeling like her old self again.

“Don't just stand there with your teeth in your mouth!” Mrs. Ludwig barked. “Get out the mixing bowls!”

Mrs. Ludwig talked me through the recipe, telling me how much flour, pumpkin, salt, and sugar I needed to add to the proofed yeast. I commented that a little cinnamon might be a nice addition, and, to my great surprise, Mrs. L. agreed. When I asked if she was sure, she told me that I was as good a cook as she was now, or almost anyway, and that I should trust my instincts.

“There's nothing in this world so good that it can't stand a little improvement. Except my mother's recipe for
sernik babci,
” she said. “That's perfect.”

I cleaned the kitchen and the rest of the house and chatted with Mrs. Ludwig while the dough went through its first rise. Sitting side by side at the scarred wooden kitchen table, we kneaded the dough, then divided it into egg-sized lumps and shaped the lumps into rolls. While they were baking the whole house smelled wonderful. When they came out of the oven, I made a pot of fresh coffee, and we ate them hot, slathered with butter and peach preserves.

“You remember the day we put up these preserves?” Mrs. Ludwig asked, continuing without bothering to wait for an answer. “About a month after you got here. You still had your German accent and wore dirndls and braids. Couldn't find one nice thing to say about Brightfield. You sat right on that stool and told me that Junior Muller was the most brutish, ill-mannered boy on the face of the earth.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me, wondering if I was going to try to deny it. Instead I just said, “I was pretty awful, wasn't I? Everything was so new and confusing to me, and now Brightfield seems more like home to me than Berlin ever did. It feels like such a long time ago.”

“Not to me it don't, but time moves quickly when you're running out of it. It wasn't that long ago, really. Not even three years. Now you talk, act, and look like any other American girl.” She looked me up and down but frowned when she came to my feet.

“I see you're even wearing those ridiculous bobby sox. I suppose Cookie started you on 'em. For a smart girl from a good family, she sure does follow the fads. Silly things make your legs look too long.”

I didn't respond. I had spent too many afternoons with Mrs. Ludwig to get into an argument about fashion with her. That was a battle you simply couldn't win.

Mrs. Ludwig shook her head over the stupidity of young girls. Then she paused and thought for a moment. “What was I talking about, anyway? Oh yes! Fresh off the boat not three years ago, and now you're a bobby-soxer. And I hear tell that the brutish, ill-mannered Junior has been suddenly transformed into Prince Charming.”

I was surprised. Mrs. Ludwig had been ill and homebound for so long that I didn't suppose she knew anything about Junior and me.

“Ha!” she laughed when I stared at her.

“How did you know?”

“Oh, I've got my sources,” she said slyly, and I remembered that Mama dropped by to visit her at least once a week. “It was bound to happen. Junior is stubborn and pigheaded. Just like you. You're perfect for each other!”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “It's true! We're both always sure we're right, and even if we know we're wrong, we'd rather die than admit it. But I do care for him. Very much.” Mrs. Ludwig nodded at this last comment and took another bite of pumpkin roll.

“Do you write your father much these days?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

I reached for another roll and buttered it carefully, keeping my eyes on the bread.

BOOK: River's Edge

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