A Star for Mrs. Blake (33 page)

Cora squinted into the sun. A dry wind was blowing her dress. She couldn’t see anything but high grass in the neighboring farmer’s field. It crossed her mind uneasily that maybe Bobbie had wandered off, like Elizabeth Pascoe’s mother on her way to the cemetery. She went down to the road and stood still and listened to the whispering of the straw. She heard Bobbie’s voice calling for help, far away and weak as a baby bird’s.

“Thomas!” Cora waved frantically. “She’s there!”

Hammond dropped the belt and sprinted past Cora, who ran behind him through sharp waist-high grass.

“Hold steady!” Hammond shouted. “We’re coming.”

Fifty yards in they found Bobbie lying near the clump of bellflowers on a matted mound of straw where she’d fallen, legs twisted beneath her, sketchbook tossed nearby.

“I’m afraid I’ve been clumsy,” Bobbie said. “I was walking along looking at the flowers, and next thing I knew, I was on the ground!”

There was straw in her hair and her makeup had streaked. Cora remembered how determined Bobbie had been to sketch the florist’s bouquets in Paris, not hesitating to rush across a busy street, but this time she’d been tripped up by a concealed danger.

Her foot had been caught in a tangle of rusty barbed wire, and blood was running from the punctures of the spikes. She was tethered to the spot.

“I’ve been trying to stand—”

“Don’t do that,” said Hammond, appraising the situation. “Try to relax.”

“Something happened to my knee.”

Cora could see the swelling starting to rise. She stood up in the grass and bellowed, “
Li-ly! Nurse Lily!
I’ll go get her—”

Hammond grabbed Cora’s arm and said, “No.”

“Why?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. Mrs. Olsen, try not to move.”

“I’m not about to get on a train,” Bobbie said. Even flat-out in the middle of a pasture her sense of irony had not abandoned her.

“Look at this.”

Hammond pointed. Cora followed his finger as it moved along the tangle of wire, which was wrapped around what appeared to be a piece of an old farm implement—a fourteen-inch wooden handle with a metal head.

“What is it?”

“A German stick grenade.”

“That’s a grenade?”

“Yes, it’s a grenade. They attached them to sticks and lobbed them into the trenches.”

“Could it still explode?”

He didn’t answer. “Go tell Émile. Get the women out of here. Get the police. Tell them we’ve got a dud-fired German Stielhandgranate 24 wrapped around a lady’s leg.”

“Should I—?”

“Go,” he commanded.

Cora turned and ran.

Bobbie was looking placidly at Hammond. Her eyes were old and calm. “You too,” she said.

“I’m not going to leave you,” he replied.

The faster Cora pushed through the high grass, the harder it became to keep moving forward. The thick stems would not yield. She swept them aside but their sharp edges cut her hands and whipped across her eyes. She inhaled a noseful of chaff and was blinded by tears. Her foot hit a heavy metal object and she tripped and sprawled into the standing field, pierced all over by shafts of straw. When she got to her feet and whirled around to see what had caused her to fall, her legs began to shake like the shivering village dog’s. She’d fallen over a cylindrical brass shell five inches in diameter that still had its high-explosive nose.

“Thomas!”
she screamed, waving.
“Thomas!”

His head and shoulders appeared out of the yellow stalks.

“Go—just go!”

“The field is full of bombs. Look! They’re everywhere!”

She and Hammond stood stock-still, fifty yards apart, watching clouds and sun roll over the sighing grass. As their vision settled in the rippling light, they began to discern the remnants of a battle that had been overgrown and hidden. The rusted wheels of a field gun. A human jaw.

“Thomas! It’s a battlefield!”

Hammond could see it now. The grotesque litter of war was all around them, emerging from the changing shadows like hidden pictures in a child’s book. A charred gas mask. A glove with the skeletal hand still in it.

“Nobody is to come out here, those are my orders. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Go back! Find a telephone!” Hammond called.

“I can’t move.”

“Why? Are you caught?”

Cora stared at the shell. Faintly striped with red and green, it looked threatening, unstable, those lead balls inside poised to blow. She might have been on a ledge a hundred feet above a granite gorge for the paralyzing venom that filled her body, causing her to tremble so violently her teeth were clicking; so light-headed she might faint.

“I just can’t.”

The thing was alive. She knew it.

Hammond’s voice surprised her with its confidence.

“Mrs. Blake, listen to me. Take one step at a time. Exactly the way you came. Steady your mind. Think of your son.”

Cora pictured Sammy. She took a step.

“That’s it! Make Samuel proud of you,” Hammond said. “Keep going!”

The first wild thought that came to her was of the races on the Fourth of July, in the park after the parade. She was hopping along in a burlap sack, one hop at a time, laughing so hard she might wee, and there was Sammy at the finish line, urging,
“Mom! Mom!,”
his face summer-flushed and serious because this race was the most important thing in the world—his little man’s arms covered with downy hair reaching out to tag her while his toes dug in behind the chalk—five or six years old and still obedient to the rules—and she held on with all her might to reach that earnest face, the most important thing in the world, as she picked her way through the living minefield.

Lily was running to meet her when Cora stumbled onto the road.

“What happened?”

“There are explosives left over from the war.”

Lily gasped. Her eyes went over Cora’s head. “Where’s Mrs. Olsen?”

“She got her foot tangled up with a grenade.”

“I’ve got to help—”

Cora grabbed Lily’s arm. “You can’t. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s my duty—”

“You need to take care of the others. The lieutenant’s orders are for everyone to keep away.” Cora startled when she saw that the turnout was empty. “Where’s the bus? Where’s Émile?”

“He went to get gasoline—”

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard!” Cora blurted, half crazed, tramping toward the group waiting in the shade.

Lily followed. “Émile said the gas pump was in the opposite direction from the cemetery, so when—”

Cora interrupted: “I don’t care what he said!” She snapped out, “How far did he go?”

“Mrs. Blake, calm down. We thought there would be enough time—”

“There is no time! How far are we from the village? We need help. Can we walk?”

“I’ll get the map.”

The others drifted over curiously as Lily fumbled with the haversack. Cora wiped the sweat from her forehead and peered down the empty road. They were out in the open and, if that thing went off, completely trapped. Lily found the U.S. Army chart and Cora knelt beside her in the dirt, quickly orienting it to north.

“Where are we?” Lily asked.

Cora pointed. Linwood had taught her how to read maps. “There. The nearest town is Cheppy.”

Wilhelmina leaned over Cora’s shoulder. “Are we lost?”

“Don’t be silly,” Katie answered mildly. “The bus will be back any minute.”

Lily was on her feet. “It’s too far. I’m going to help Thomas.”

Cora stood and got in front of her. “I say you don’t.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t have a say—”

“If you disobey his orders, I’ll report you myself.”

Minnie looked between them. “What is going on?”

“Where
is
Bobbie?” Katie asked.

“She stepped on a bomb!” Cora said in exasperation.

“Sweet Jesus up in heaven,” Katie breathed.

Minnie cried, “What should we do?”

Cora tried to think. “It isn’t safe. We can’t help them; it’s best for us to go.”

Minnie pressed a hand to her mouth. Katie gripped Cora’s sleeve with an accusing stare.

“Just abandon them, like that?”

“They can’t move,” Cora told her desperately. “Bobbie’s got that wire wrapped around her leg.”

Wilhelmina suggested they get out of there. “Pronto.”

“Look!” Minnie cried. “There’s a car!”

They all ran to the side of the road. Only Lily remained. She kissed her crucifix.

“Please be with Thomas, please,” she whispered.

Hammond took his jacket off. The heat of the afternoon was brutal. The bleeding had stopped and he’d had time to examine the grenade—“to know the enemy” as they said—and he could see that the situation was bad. The “spoon,” the time fuse, had already come off, which meant the thing could detonate at any time.

“Where is everyone?” Bobbie murmured.

“I’ve asked them to stay away for the moment.”

She nodded. “We don’t want to put anyone else in danger.”

“Just taking precautions,” Hammond replied lightly.

“I wish you’d go.”

“We’re getting out of here together. This thing might not even be live. After all, it’s been lying around for years—”

“Don’t fib, Thomas,” Bobbie said. Her tongue moved over her parched lips. “I raised a boy of my own, you know.”

Her eyes were dull and her skin had taken on a greenish pallor. Hammond badly wished he had not dropped his belt with his canteen when he’d run into the field. He tried to weigh the greater danger: the damn thing blowing up or her becoming dehydrated and going into shock.

“Tell me what you’re doing, son. I’d like to follow along.”

“Textbook would be to dispose of the ordnance by blowing it up,
but obviously we can’t do that, so the next best thing is to separate
you
from
it
, so maybe if we can remove the shoe …”

He untied the laces carefully, but the slightest movement made Bobbie groan.

“My foot’s all swollen up.”

He sat back on his heels. He had no tools, no knife. He scanned the old battlefield for something sharp to cut the wires, but all he saw were a couple of half-empty sandbags oozing the earth they’d been stuffed with.

“You just rest,” he said idiotically, and scrambled through the brush to drag the sandbags, one by one, around the woman. Sweating like a pig, he went back to the shoe.

He looked at his work and realized he had accomplished nothing.

“If we can just slip this off …”

But he couldn’t manipulate the shoe without causing her to squirm in pain and disturb the pull cord to the grenade, which was wrapped around the barbed wire. With the spoon gone, they were at grave risk. The slightest movement could set off a blast.

“Can we go now?” Bobbie said dreamily.

“Almost there,” Hammond promised, feeling like a lousy, cheap, cockeyed liar.

Her eyes had closed. Then she was still for a long moment.

“Mrs. Olsen?”

Panicked, he groped for a pulse. Her wrist was so thin it disappeared inside his hand.

“Henry?” she said quite clearly. “Would you mind closing the door, dear?”

The driver of the car was dressed in a suit and hat and his female companion wore a corsage. They roared right by, ignoring the commotion by the side of the road and keeping their eyes straight ahead, as if they were late to be somewhere. Distraught, the women returned to the shade.

“Did you see that man? That man refused to stop!”

Wilhelmina stomped her foot with frustration. Her hat was
crooked and her hair was lank. Random bits of straw clung to her clothes, which were covered with dust. She looked to Cora like a colt that had rolled in a pile of manure.

“Of course not,” Minnie cried. “Waving your arms and jumping up and down like a crazy person. Who would stop for a crazy person?”

“Another crazy person?” Wilhelmina suggested.

Katie pointed. “Look!”

The blue bus was lumbering back. It stopped in a cloud of foul exhaust. Émile climbed out, eating an apple.

Minnie hit him with her purse. “Where were you?!”

“Quel est votre problème, madame?”
he cried, jumping away.

“We have to go,” said Cora. “Now. Find a telephone. Where’s the nearest phone?”

Émile was confused. Didn’t they want to go to the cemetery? He was supposed to keep to the schedule.

“Mais il n’est pas temps de revenir à l’hôtel. Nous n’allons pas au cimetière?”
he asked, tossing the apple core.

“Oh hell,” said Cora. “Nobody here speaks French.
Telephone!
” she fairly shouted. She pointed to the field and mimed a huge explosion. “A bomb. A German bomb!”

Émile understood.

Hammond had decided that the only course of action was to try to defuse the grenade himself. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his face and hands. Then he wrapped the cloth around two twists of the barbed wire and pulled gently. Slowly he eased the wires far enough apart to be able to get his hands through. He could just reach inside the knot of cords and wires to get his fingers around the head of the grenade.

Gingerly, he tried to unscrew the top. His plan was to disrupt the chain of explosives by removing the top and the pull cord in one piece.