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Authors: Marie Bostwick

River's Edge (27 page)

BOOK: River's Edge
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“Elise, you mustn't speak of your father that way,” Mama admonished me gently. “When he first wrote and asked if you could come to live with us, he sent a very generous check, but we sent it back. Later he even tried to have money wired into our bank account, but we simply wouldn't accept it.”
I was struck dumb by this revelation. All these years I'd been secretly ashamed to think that Father had foisted me off on the Mullers without paying my way. Learning the truth filled me with an even deeper affection for Papa and Mama and a twinge of guilt for believing my own father could have been so ungenerous.
“You're family, Elise. We wanted you to come. We didn't need money for taking care of you. We still don't,” she said, and I knew she meant it. We were cousins so many times removed it was hardly worth counting, but as far as Mama was concerned we were family. Before I'd come to live under this roof it wouldn't have made sense to me, but now I understood perfectly. We were family, bound together by love. The volume of shared blood flowing through our veins mattered very little.
Mama held the money out to me, but I wouldn't take it back. “Mama, just let me do this for you. Let me do this one thing, not because I feel I owe you, but for the same reason you took me in. Because we're family.”
Mama lowered her head and thought for a moment. “All right,” she said hesitantly. Then she opened the envelope and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Here. At least take some for yourself. You should get something out of all your hard work.”
“I already took some,” I lied. “I don't need any more.”
“Well, thank you,” Mama replied with genuine gratitude. “I have to admit, this really does come in handy right now. I was wondering where I'd come up with the money for school clothes next month. I can alter some of Junior's old things for the twins, and, of course, Curt gets their hand-me-downs, but you and Cookie need new skirts and sweaters, and we all need shoes. I can't patch them well enough to get through the winter.”
“What about you?” I asked. “You need some new things too, don't you? When is the last time you had a new pair of shoes?”
Mama dismissed my questions with a wave of her hand. “I'm fine. It's the children I was worried about.”
“Well, there's more where that came from,” I said proudly and tilted my chin toward the money in Mama's hand. “Today Mr. Jorgenson said I was his best worker and that he's going to raise my pay a dime an hour from now on.”
“That's wonderful, Elise! You must be very pleased, but I won't be taking any more of your money. This is more than generous. Next payday you should go down and open a savings account.”
I didn't argue with her, but by the time the next payday rolled around, Mama had gotten a bill for restocking the woodpile and reluctantly accepted my offer to pay for it. However, this time she really insisted that I keep five for myself, so I did, and Cookie helped me look through the catalog and pick out a new pair of shoes in Mama's size.
It gave me a lot of joy to be able to help the family. I could never repay Mama for all her kindness to me, but I wasn't trying to. I just wanted to help in a time of need because it was the right thing to do, and I wanted to show Mama a little of the love and care she'd always shown for me.
Saturday was payday at Mr. Jorgenson's. As the sun began to dip slowly toward the edge of the horizon, I started humming to myself as I worked, anticipating the pleasure of bringing my pay envelope to Mama and wondering if there might be a letter from Junior waiting for me when I got home. He wrote two letters every week, one to the whole family and a second, private one that was just for me. Normally his missives arrived on Monday, but occasionally they were delivered on Saturday. It would be wonderful if that happened today, I thought as I carefully reached under the lower leaves of a tobacco plant to pull the weeds that were crowded around the stalk.
A few minutes before quitting time, I heard Mr. Jorgenson calling out, “Elise! Elise, where are you?”
I got up off my knees and saw him inside the tent, rising up on his toes and scanning the field, trying to spot me through the forest of leaves. He couldn't see me, so I raised my arms high over my head and waved. “Here I am, Mr. J!”
His eyes sparked with recognition as he caught sight of my fingers waggling over the tops of the plants. “Oh. Good. Elise, could you come out here for a minute? I need to talk with you.”
I threaded my way through the stalks to the end of the row where Mr. Jorgenson was waiting for me, being careful not to break any of the tender leaves as I walked. The plants rustled overhead as I moved slowly through them, and when I looked up it was like passing under a canopy made from twenty different shades of green sun-kissed silk. So lovely and so tall; it wouldn't be long until the harvest, I thought. I hoped I could work in the drying sheds. I'd always thought it would be fun to climb up into the highest reaches of the sheds to hang the full lathes, dangerous and exhilarating, working your way across the rafters with nothing below you, like a monkey swinging from branch to branch in the jungle, a trapeze artist working without a net. I decided to ask Mr. Jorgenson about it.
I wasn't surprised by his summons. We'd gotten along well since my first day of work. Sometimes he liked me to brief him on the day's progress or give me instructions about where to begin the next day. Sometimes he just liked to compliment me on my work, and, of course, that first week he'd even given me a raise. That had only been a month before, so it seemed unlikely that he'd be giving me another pay increase so soon, but who knew? I was the fastest worker on the place.
I smiled to myself and thought,
If he does give me a raise, I'm going to take the whole family to the diner for dinner. Maybe we can even go to the movies after that. It's been so long since Mama had a night out.
But as I emerged from the row of tobacco stalks, the serious look on the farmer's face told me that he hadn't called me out to offer me a raise.
His forehead was furrowed, and a cigar he seemed to have forgotten to light drooped from his lips. His eyes avoided mine. “C'mon out here where it's cooler,” he said and held open a slit in one of the white fabric walls so I could pass.
When we were outside the shade tent, he cleared his throat a couple of times and then, like someone who has decided the best way to swim across a cold river is to simply plunge in, he took a deep breath and blurted out, “Elise, I gotta let you go.”
For a moment I really didn't understand what he was saying. I was just about to ask him where he was going to let me go to, but then his big brown eyes rested sorrowfully on mine, and I understood.
“You're firing me?” I asked, still not quite believing it. He nodded mutely while chewing nervously on the bedraggled end of his cigar. “But why? Did I do something wrong?”
“It's nothing like that, Elise. You're a good girl and a hard worker. Never saw a woman who could work like you can, especially in this heat.” He took off his straw hat and mopped his brow with a bandana.
“Tell you the truth, I never wanted to hire women on the place. When the war came and all my hands joined up, I didn't have much choice. I didn't really think women could do the work, but I had to give it a try. More than half of 'em don't last out the first week, but I've been pleased with the ones that have stayed on, you more than anybody. You should be real proud of yourself, Elise. Real proud.” He reached out and patted me apologetically on the arm.
I was completely confused. “I don't understand. If what you're saying is true, then why are you letting me go?”
“I don't want to,” he said with sincerity, “but I got no choice. You heard about Jerry Samuelson?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Janice's husband. He died in Guadalcanal from a burst appendix. Cookie and I made up a basket of food for Mama to take when she went to visit Janice.” Even though he hadn't died in combat, Jerry was Brightfield's first casualty of the war. Everyone had known it was bound to happen eventually, but the news had come as a shock. Jerry was only twenty-two. He and Janice had a little boy who had just started walking.
“It's terrible,” I added, and Mr. J. nodded in agreement. “But I don't understand what Jerry's death has to do with you firing me.”
He pushed his hat back on his head and rubbed his eyes like he had a headache. “It's just that now, with Jerry dying, and the war and all ...” He stumbled and paused a moment, looking at me as if hoping I would somehow be able to finish his sentence for him. He waited a moment, but when I said nothing he continued.
“Elise, the other girls say that if you keep working here, they won't. If I don't let you go, they're all gonna quit. Good as you are, you can't do the work alone.”
My head was pounding as I finally realized what Mr. Jorgenson was saying, but I still couldn't quite bring myself to believe it. “You're telling me that because Jerry Samuelson died in the Pacific, thousands of miles from here, thousands of miles from Germany, and that because he died from a ruptured appendix that could have killed him here just as easily as it could have overseas”—my voice began to rise in volume and incredulity as I watched the farmer's grizzled head bobbing up and down while I spoke, confirming my words—“the other women want you to fire me? They want you to fire me because ...”
“Because you're German,” Mr. Jorgenson finished in a tone that was both disgusted and resigned. He raised his hands to block out my protestations. “I know. I know it's ridiculous, Elise, but I got no choice. The crop will be ready for harvest in a few weeks. I can't afford to have them all walk out. Not now.” A soft flush of embarrassment rose on his suntanned cheeks. He was ashamed of himself. If I hadn't been so angry, I might have felt sorry for him.
“I'm sorry, Elise.” He eyes looked mournfully up at mine. “I really am.” Just as he spoke, the bell marking the end of the workday sounded and other women started coming in from the tents and fields, walking wearily toward Mr. Jorgenson to collect their pay. He stood up a little straighter, pressed his lips together, and held my pay packet out stiffly in front of him, signaling his resolve. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a group of women approaching. One of them smirked and elbowed her girlfriend as Mr. J. handed me the envelope.
For a minute, I felt like taking the money and throwing it on the ground at his feet or tearing it up in little pieces and flinging the bits in his face. I almost did, but then I remembered something Mama had read to us over breakfast just the day before, something about not casting your pearls before swine. Normally I didn't pay too much attention during Mama's morning devotional readings, but that particular phrase had stuck in my head because it sounded so odd and I couldn't quite imagine what it meant. I still didn't know what it meant, not really, but I somehow felt that throwing down my hard-earned money and letting Mr. Jorgenson and the growing circle of women who were watching see my fury and shame would be doing just that, throwing my pearls before swine.
Besides, I needed the money. The family needed the money. No matter how much it might salve my wounded pride to refuse it, or to turn around and tell that gallery of hateful females just what I thought of them, I couldn't sacrifice the interests of the family on the altar of self-gratification. I was backed into a corner, and it made me furious.
I squared my shoulders and took the packet from his outstretched hand, pleased to notice that it was trembling a little. I looked at him evenly and said, “I forgive you.” Not because I did, but because I knew that the thought of my forgiveness would pile even more guilt onto his already guilty conscience. It was the most hurtful thing I could think of to say.
Pain flashed in his eyes as quickly and neatly as if I'd stuck him with a knife.
I turned slowly around, gave the watching women a cold stare, and walked away.
 
The house was empty when I came in, but there was a letter from Junior waiting for me on the kitchen table. I tore open the envelope and read it standing up in middle of the kitchen.
Camp Conrad,
August 10, 1942
 
Best Girl,
 
I was so happy to get your last letter. Hearing my name at mail call, especially when the letter is from you, is the highlight of my day!
Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, but boot camp is hard and I get pretty lonely here sometimes. Hearing from you always lifts my spirits. You shouldn't apologize for writing about everyday things that happen in Brightfield. You can't imagine how hungry I am for every little detail of what is going on at home. Your letters always make me feel like I was right there. I'm so lucky to get so much mail from all of you.
You'd be surprised at the number of fellows who never get so much as a postcard! I feel sorry for them. One of my bunk-mates, Jim Harrison, a nice country kid from New Hampshire, was watching me one day when I had three letters, one from you, one from Papa, and one from Mama—and the look on his face just about broke my heart. He wasn't jealous, just kind of sad and wistful. We got to talking and he told me that he doesn't have much family; no brothers or sisters and his father is dead. Only his mother is alive and she can't read or write and is too ashamed to ask anyone to do it for her, so he never gets any mail. I wish there was something I could do to help, but I can't exactly share my letters with him. The cookies were a different matter though! I passed those around to Jim and some of the guys and they disappeared pretty quick, let me tell you! Wouldn't mind having some more—hint, hint! I showed them your picture and they all said what a lucky guy I am. Don't I know it!
I sure miss you, Elise. I know I've told you a hundred times, but you're just the best thing that's ever happened to me. You're the last thing I think about when I fall asleep and the first thing I think about in the morning. The thought of you makes even the hardest, loneliest days bearable. I love you so much, Elise.
I'm so proud to hear that you're doing so well at Mr. Jorgenson's place. Nobody knows more than I do that Jorgenson is a hard man to please. He's fair, but he's tough, so if he gave you a raise, that really says something about you! Maybe I'll have to take back what I said about women not being able to grow tobacco. Who knows? You might be the first female grower in the valley. Of course, I don't know what that would leave for me to do. Can't see me taking up cooking or sewing, but I sure am proud of you, sweetheart, especially to know that you're helping the family out with your earnings. You didn't say much about it, but in her last letter Mama said what a blessing that money has been. I'm sending her most of my pay, but it doesn't add up to much. It sure sets my mind at ease to know you are there and doing everything you can to help her.
Here's something that'll make you laugh. The base chaplain called me into his office yesterday and said he'd been reading my file. He asked if I might consider applying to be a chaplain's assistant! He said they really needed men for those spots and thought with my “family background and experiences” as he called it, I might be a good candidate. Boy! I just can't get away from it! Once a preacher's kid always a preacher's kid, I guess. Anyway, I told him I really wasn't interested, that I was hoping to score high enough at the firing range to become a sharpshooter and even if I didn't make it, I really wanted a combat position. He said he could pretty much guarantee I could be assigned to a combat chaplain if that's what I wanted, but I don't know. It sure is the last place I ever thought about serving. I think I'm going to say “thanks but no thanks”, but I did promise him I'd think and pray about it so I will even though I'm sure what my answer will be.
Well, the bell is about to ring for chow, so I'd better close for now. The food is pretty awful here, but after a day of running and marching with a full pack, I'll eat anything! Write me soon. I love, love, love you!
 
Junior
BOOK: River's Edge
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