Beneath the Apple Leaves(90)

“Ain’t jus’ you,” Bob consoled. “Doin’ it to the Muellers, too. Doin’ it to all the Germans. Ain’t right.”

Eveline squeezed the bread to her chest, the yeasty, warm smell at odds with the stench of war.

“Bernie an’ me know somepin ’bout this hate. Know it good, don’t we, Bernie?”

The woman nodded, grinned sadly. The gray between her ebony strands stood bold against her dark skin.

“When I was in the war, back down in Vicksburg, saw the same thing,” the old man said. “Same with every war, I reckon. ‘The army of the North were the saviors; the men in the South, savages.’ You hear it an’ ya start to believe it. An’ a man gets pretty good at tellin’ himself the other ones are evil, that it’s okay to kill ’em just so you can sleep at night. But you know. You know inside that man ain’t no different than you. Jus’ got a gray coat on instead of a blue one.

“Like that with the Germans, too,” he continued. “Men gotta make people hate ’em, otherwise wouldn’t get nobody to go over there to fight.”

Bernice patted him on the knee. “That’s enough, Bob. Gettin’ yourself all upset.”

And he was. His lips glistened with spittle and his body shook with agitation, his pupils bobbing. “But it’s not jus’ the war. It’s the hate. Still have people starin’ at us, Bernie and me, with hate even though the war long over. Still got people throwin’ our bread to the crows because a Negro woman kneaded it with her fingers.”

“Bob . . .”

He straightened then. “So, we know a little ’bout the hatred that’s stirrin’ an’ it ain’t right. So, you take that bread, Mrs. Kiser. Make us feel mighty good you takin’ that bread from us. Me an’ Bernie ain’t got much, a little shack with a leaky roof an’ this old horse, but we got bread an’ if we can give you a share, well, it make us sleep a little better. It ain’t charity, Mrs. Kiser. Jus’ givin’ you somepin small to help against what’s bein’ taken’ away.”

He looked at the street. “A lot of people been cruel to my Bernie. More than been kind. But the folks on this route here always been good to us. Widow Sullivan, the Muellers.” He paused. “Even those Morton girls, always been kind. People like that got to stick together. It’s the only shield against the hate.

“So, you take that bread, Mrs. Kiser. Make an old couple have somepin to smile ’bout. All right?”

Eveline’s lips twitched and she nodded. She wanted to say, Thank you, but the twitching was too much. She squeezed the bread tighter, the crusts cracking.

Bob frowned at the look and his eyes grew wet. He took in a large gulp of air and pulled his old self to the forefront. “Besides, ya know Bernie gotta thing for that nephew of yours. She’d bring ya bread five times a day jus’ to git a look at the feller!” Bernice batted his arm. “Be safe, Mrs. Kiser.”

Eveline watched the old wagon limp up the road. From the hill, Frank passed on the other side, did not acknowledge the Stevenses with greeting or sight; and in return, the Stevenses kept their eyes glued ahead.

Eveline’s heart was still warm from the words when Frank reached her side. But she was melancholy, the usual nerves around the man quiet.

He cocked his head, his eyes soft. “You okay, Eveline?”

She nodded. “I am. Just a nice old couple is all.”

“I don’t know.” He shivered. “Gives me the creeps thinking about those two. Nice and all. Just something about it don’t seem right.”

Her lip curled. “What doesn’t seem right, Mr. Morton?”

He caught the look and backtracked. “Nothing. Don’t pay me no mind this morning. Tired is all. Been stuck in the city the last couple days.”

“Oh.” He did look burdened. “You want to come in for coffee?”

“That’s kind of you,” he said without answering the question.

He gazed at her with drained eyes. She knew her husband would not want him here, but she wasn’t ready to let him go yet. “Made a batch of muffins this morning,” she offered. “Let me give you some to give to Lily and Claire.”

“That’d be nice. Thank you.”

They walked down the lane together. His strong, firm body made her feel tiny and woman-like, safe. “Is that Andrew near the barn?” he asked as he pointed.

“Must be back from the fields.” She hoped Wilhelm wasn’t with him.

“Mind if I leave you for a bit? Like to talk to the young man.”

She found the request strange. “I’ll give you the muffins before you leave.”

*

“Looks like you’re going to have a good crop after all.” Frank Morton’s bulk was propped against the barn, the glib presence putting Andrew on guard. “Cows look good, too.”

He didn’t like the way the man soaked in the fields and animals with ownership. “Sound surprised, Mr. Morton.”

The man shrugged, followed Andrew into the shaded stall. He looked up into the beams, impressed. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Andrew grinned with the cut. “Don’t you have some German spies you need to hunt down?” he cut back.

Frank laughed, long and slow. “Funny thing about that. Thinking you owe me a thank-you for getting you out of jail.”