Beneath the Apple Leaves(106)

Andrew’s insides curled and he grunted with rage in the humid barn. He thought of what Frank had done to his own family, what he had done to Eveline. Pieter had warned Andrew, but even his friend hadn’t known the level of Frank Morton’s savagery.

The old Ford lumbered onto the lane, the exhaust spewing and the wheels bouncing over the narrow width. Andrew took one step into the shadows, watched from the open seams of the barn. The vehicle stopped.

Andrew didn’t have a plan. He hadn’t brought a weapon and loosely scanned the stalls for something metal. He looked at his hand. No. If he met Frank, he wouldn’t hide behind a gun or a knife or an ax. He’d meet him pummel to pummel.

Frank stumbled from his car, his shirt untucked and his face thick with sharp whiskers. A gin bottle fell from the car and rolled in the gravel. Frank bent to pick it up, saw it was empty and kicked it to the side. He wobbled to the corner of the house, put one hand to the crooked gutter spout and fumbled with his pants with the other before relieving himself against the stone and mortar. He swayed, then stopped, his bottom showing above his pants.

His left hand gripped the whining gutter in a strong hold and his right hand rose and smacked flat against the clapboard. He leaned in, his head bowed. A long, low wail cried from the deepest recesses of his throat and then he retched. Vomit splashed upon the ground and his shiny cowboy boots, splattered against the house.

Andrew turned away, the hate mixing with revulsion. He could take the man easy, drunk or not. He could beat him, bloody him to pulp. But then Andrew thought of Lily and the child she carried. He was going to be a father. He had a family to care for, people who looked up to him for guidance. He thought of the war, the spilled blood that seemed to drip across the world, fed the violence that only escalated and multiplied.

He looked at Frank again. The man patted the peeling paint as if an old friend, spit to clear his mouth and wobbled to the porch, his pants slipping unnoticed down his hips. Frank stopped, put his hand to his chest, opened his mouth wide as if trying to swallow the clouds. The man’s body erupted then, a hacking cough the likes of which Andrew had never heard. Frank’s face turned blue. He stumbled to find the side of the house, his body convulsing.

Andrew’s blood iced. They all knew about the influenza that had ravaged Europe and appeared in Kansas a few months prior, had recently leaked into the crowded streets of the Pittsburgh tenements. Slowly, the virus was spreading and breeding across the nation, crippling the army camps, closing schools, public meeting places, even the church.

Frank wasn’t just drunk. He was sick.

Andrew slunk back, covered his nose with his shirt as if the germs were reaching for him. He waited until Frank skulked into the house, watched the slice of a man fade away into the shadows.

With a conscious will, Andrew loosened his body. He could go into the house and kill Frank. He could add another murder to the war’s tally, to the running count of those dying from the Spanish influenza. But he would not draw more blood to already-soaked ground. Frank would pay one way or another, but not through Andrew’s fist—not with the hand that would one day hold his and Lily’s child.





CHAPTER 54

“Take a break now, Lily,” Eveline recommended.

Lily smashed the green tomatoes and garlic into a fine pulp for Eveline’s piccalilli, wiped her hands and took the woman’s advice. Over the last month, Claire and Lily had fallen into the routine of the farm and the house had never been cleaner, the boys more catered to.

The Morton women remained in the house during the day to stave off any chance of seeing Frank. But upon the inching twilight they would emerge from the kitchen like foxes, sitting in the warmth of the setting sun. Lily’s belly swelled and her face flushed with health and happiness.

Lily taught Edgar and Will how to pencil sketch animals, how to roll a perfect piecrust. At night, she’d let them rest their hands upon her belly when the baby waltzed inside. In return, Will read to Lily, taught her the simple words he had learned in school, holding her fingers as she traced the lines of sentences.

Pieter Mueller left for the war. They saw the Muellers when they could, but with the top of the harvest season underway, both families were tethered to their fields and animals. Fritz came often, though. The great man-child came with Anna in tow, would help Andrew in the fields, as if a day’s work on his own farm hadn’t taken more effort than blowing a dandelion puff.

And in those weeks, Eveline watched her nephew with pride. Watched the way he and Lily cherished and revered each other. The young man worked hard and ate well. His blue eyes glowed as an ocean that knew and loved its expanse. Eveline ached and grieved for Wilhelm, but there were days that she was happy, too. Truly happy. There were sad days also, but the sting lessened, became somewhat bearable.

And the war against Germany went on. But the Kisers insulated themselves. They did not bury their heads to the war, but they also did not entertain it. They prayed for Pieter and they sent food and wool socks to the Red Cross when they were able.

Then there was the baby. The new life that grew inside sweet Lily. Within the confines of the old farmhouse, they all loved this child. They each took pride and protective responsibility for the unborn infant, as if they were all in silent competition to see who could love it more.

*

Andrew worked in the lower field cutting corn. He had nearly five acres to go. The corncrib was filled and so the rest would be sold at market. It had been a robust harvest.