Beneath the Apple Leaves(10)
“That’s enough!” She pounded her hand on the table. “I won’t hear of it again, Andrew.” She scanned the tiny kitchen. “I can’t live here without your father. I can’t. I can’t even be in this country anymore. I just want to go home. I hurt all the time.” Her face begged. “I just need to go home.”
Her crying slowly subsided and she was resolute, the decision made and now accepted. She carved into the rabbit. “My sister sent money for your train ticket. Once I have enough saved, I’ll send for you.” She put the pale meat on his plate, the knife trembling between her fingers. “Will only be for a few years.”
His throat tightened. His father had kept him abreast on all the happenings in Europe since the war started overseas, the rabid fighting and bloodshed.
“There’s war,” he reminded her softly, wondering if his mother had forgotten in the midst of her grief. “It’s too dangerous.”
“The Netherlands has stayed neutral. It’ll be safe.”
“Belgium was neutral, too,” he argued. “Until Germany invaded. Now the Belgian refugees are flooding Holland. It’s too dangerous,” he repeated. He wanted to sound strong and forceful, but his voice fell. He was nearly a man, but she was still his mother.
“I need to go home, Andrew. I can find work there. The Dutch are supplying food and goods to Belgium and as far as Britain. They don’t have enough workers as it is.”
“Then let me come with you,” he pleaded. “Take the money from your sister and I’ll come with you. We can work twice as hard.”
She shook her head, wide and low. “You’d be drafted.”
“Netherlands is neutral, remember?”
“Damn it, Andrew!” She hit her fist on the table. “They’ve plucked the strongest boys and put them on the borders. If Germany invades, they’ll be the first ones killed.”
“Then it’s not safe.”
“It is safe.” The quiver in her voice belied the words and they both heard the tone. “But for me. Not for you.”
Andrew pushed his food away, the meat a rotting carcass. The metal tags scraped against his chest, scalded. His father was dead. His mother was leaving. He was moving to Pittsburgh to work on the railroad. He was never going to college. His life—his future—was dissolving before his very eyes and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it.
CHAPTER 7
Lily Morton parked the buggy on the outskirts of the maple grove, far enough from the church to be hidden. She pressed her curled fingers into her stomach to calm the twisting inside. The thin yellow dress belonged to one of Mrs. Sullivan’s daughters, fell too long for the fashion, the heel to one black shoe broken and slabbed with tar to keep it in place. Lily thought about turning home, wasn’t even sure why she was here. All she knew was that Claire had lost another baby. This one was only a clot of bulbous growth, but the loss filled the house and seeped into the woods that would normally give Lily comfort.
She didn’t expect the church to bring her peace or to anoint with words of consolation. A hope for distraction, perhaps. Any hope. For now, the church would be the only place open, the only place she could block out the grief of her sister. And so here Lily was, walking crookedly over wobbly heels, holding the hanging dress hem above her toes, toward the small white chapel.
The oak doors whined mercilessly as she entered and every neck turned in response. The priest nodded once from the pulpit, the gravity of the expression indicating a clear dissatisfaction with her presence. Faces turned forward again while eyes followed the intruder peripherally as she searched for an open pew. Little Thomas, the youngest of the Forrester clan, scooted over and patted his seat. His mother’s chin jutted forward in silent reprimand but turned away when Lily sat. Lily smiled at the child gratefully, the poor boy’s neck red and pinched from the starched white collar.
Lily glanced at the congregation, the Catholics she recognized from town and the farmers from the high country. Mr. Campbell, the owner of the general store, was stationed near the front, his wife’s strong shoulders and refined posture a deep contrast to her husband’s bored slouch, his balding head reflecting the candlelight. The three Campbell girls, the oldest a young woman of her own age, shimmered respectively in their crisp dresses and shiny shoes. Each carried a different-colored satin ribbon in her hair, the dark curls reflecting the light of the stained-glass window in rainbows. Lily glanced down at her own broken shoe and the faded dress tucked around her knees.
Deep in her thoughts, she did not notice the shuffling until the boy next to her tapped her knee and motioned for her to kneel like the rest of them. She bent her forehead to her prayer-pointed fingers and observed those around her from beneath nearly closed eyelids. The priest’s voice droned in a steady monotone, the words blurred and pointless above her cramming insecurity.
Thomas’s mother rubbed his shoulder. Across the aisle, Gerda Mueller held a handkerchief to her daughter’s nose. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson held wizened hands until their hunched frames seemed one body. The space between Lily and the parishioners widened with grim duality.
The organ blasted and young Thomas nudged her again. As dutiful as a lamb, she entered the queue of people headed for the priest. Then she was before him, his hand held out, then pulled back, his brows scrunching incredulously. “You can’t take communion, Lilith.” The eyes watched her from all sides; the feet tapped behind her.