An Owl's Whisper (40 page)

Stan thought it looked grand, and the girls did too, but somehow Eva didn’t seem all that pleased. “But what I did was really not much, Stanley. Many did so much more. Put themselves at risk. His Lordship should stay home in his castle, where he belongs.”

“Way I heard it, you did risk your skin for him,” Stan said. “That’s why he’s comin’.”

“I helped someone in need. That’s all. Others gave their lives. Gave their lives on principle. Mother—” Her eyes brimming with tears, Eva didn’t finish the sentence. When Stan squeezed her hand, she looked at him coldly. “Stanley, no good can come of this.”

Stan could tell she wanted her silence, but he couldn’t keep still. “I don’t know what it was like, livin’ those years under the Nazis, Eva, but I reckon, it took spunk just to scramble out of bed every day.” He held her hand in both of his. “Look, you’ll always find someone’s done more than you if you search hard enough. What I know is, this means a heck of a lot to a heck of a lot of folks in these parts. These last twenty-five years ain’t been easy round here, what with the Depression and them dusters in the Thirties, and then sendin’ the boys off to war and havin’ two of ’em not come back. Ain’t been easy and ain’t been much said about it. Well, honey, today some feller’s comin’ all the way from England to thank you for what you done. To thank one of us.” Stan squeezed her hand tighter. “Yep, it
is
a pretty big deal for Hooker County. Lots of folks stopped in at the store to tell me that, one way or t’other. You’ve come to mean a lot to people here. Remember that, honey.”

Eva was quiet for a moment. She looked forlorn, frightened. “Perhaps it’s true. If so, it may not be to the good. It may be more than I am, and people, even you, could end up feeling betrayed.” She looked off for a moment, then back. “I won’t have that, Stanley.”

Stan was still trying to figure out what she meant when a school bus drove by and stopped at the dais. Off trooped a dozen Thedford High School band members in cream-colored uniforms with gold trim and white plumes on their caps. Each carried a brass instrument. Cat and Françie jumped up and down and squealed that they wanted to see the band members up close, so the whole family headed that way.

Stan talked to the teacher, a gangly young man in a tan short sleeved shirt with a quarter-sized navy blue ink stain at the bottom of the pocket. The teacher’s knobby Adam’s apple would have had a supple throne in his red bow tie had it not been so busy, bobbing up and down with his jabbering. Eva and the girls chatted with the students. All they knew was that they’d be playing for some visiting foreigner, so Eva told them about Smithwycke and his heroics during the war. As she spoke, the students’ faces went from bored to excited, seeing themselves as part of an international and historic event. Eva didn’t even mention her own role.

When the teacher returned to the bus to fetch his jacket, Stan had the chance to study the band kids talking to his family. From down the street, the band members had each looked identical, like a distant herd of Herefords does. But up close, seeing one’s scuffed shoes, another’s pants too short, and a third’s frayed jacket cuff, the herd crystallized as individuals. There was the short girl with nose too big and spectacle frames repaired with cloth tape. She knew more about Europe than Stan did—and he had been over there. The boy with the battered trumpet, who cradled his beat-up brass like a baby but let little Cat give it a toot. The clarinetist with the clubfoot. Up close, it was clear—this wasn’t a herd, wasn’t some faceless band from a town down the road. Each member had a story. Stan wanted to tell them how swell they were, but Mayor Ostranec came over with Jess before he had a chance.

An hour remained until Lord Smithwycke’s train was due, but the mayor seemed jittery. He tapped Eva’s shoulder. “My dear, let’s take our place on the dais. Can’t keep his lordship waiting, now can we?” He turned to Jess. “Sheriff, herd the band into position next to the stage.” To the mayor, everything, even the trivial, was urgent. Carrie Garrity had it bang-on when she said, “Hillis Ostranec lives life like a man in powerful need of an outhouse.”

With the band in place beside the platform and Eva, Stan, and Mrs. Ostranec seated up top, the mayor asked Jess to go along with Brice Childers to meet Lord Smithwycke’s train. “You’ll be my official delegate.” He implied it was a step up from sheriff. Childers had pulled the Ostranecs’ old surrey out of their dusty barn and cleaned it up for the occasion. He’d hitched a pair of saddle horses to it, and they were giving him a dickens of a time. It seemed like a dumb idea to Jess, using the surrey with a balky team to transport guests the tenth of a mile from station to the platform, but the mayor took it a step further. “I’ve got it, Sheriff. When you fetch our guests, ride up front next to Driver Childers with a rifle at the ready, as if upon a Wells Fargo stagecoach cutting through Comanche country!”

At three on the dime, the Burlington pulled in. Off stepped a tall man with a long face. He wore a pinstriped suit and a pink tie with black polka dots, and his lapel sported a red carnation. Fancy as a cock pheasant. Four men followed him off the train, the last one toting a valise. A man with a monocle and a remarkable moustache—gray whiskers coarse as boar bristles—spoke for the group. “I’m Harney, of the British Embassy in Washington. Allow me to introduce Lord Smithwycke.” Jess shook hands with the dandy, first off the train. “This is Mr. Lansdale of your State Department and Mr. Aubliss, a photographer with
Life Magazine
.” He pointed. “The gentleman there, securing the luggage, is Marsh, Lord Smithwycke’s valet.”

Jess was glad he’d worn his good hat. He informed Marsh a car would take the luggage directly to the hotel, then he escorted the four others to the surrey. With the cattle pens next to the train station, they got moving without delay. To irk the mayor, Jess rode back as a passenger, sitting next to Lansdale.

On the short ride from the station, Smithwycke leaned toward Jess, looking like a little boy who’d just caught his first fish. “Sheriff, great-grandfather made a safari on the American plains some time in the 1870s. Not sure precisely where he ventured, but he shot birds, bison, and bear. Could have been your Hooker County, don’t you say?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “On the train today, watching fields of prairie grass kowtow to the wind, I was reminded of his travel log’s frequent mention of its ubiquitous blast.”

Jess pushed his hat back. “
Ubiquitous
. Now there’s a six-bit word for ya. Lucky for me, it shows up pretty regular in the crossword puzzles. Yes sir, bison we sure had back then, and wind we still got. Pretty dependable, the wind in these parts. One time it quit blowing and I seen a whole herd of cattle tip right over.”

Smithwycke wasn’t sure what to make of that until Jess winked. Then he laughed.

The surrey turned the corner, and the platform came into view. The crowd—there must have been eighty people—all turned to watch the approach as the band lurched into
Cheer Boys Cheer
, the old Civil War ditty.

Lord Smithwycke craned his neck and jumped up. “It’s her, Harney. I’d never forget that face.” He sat down and dabbed the corners of his misty eyes with a silk handkerchief. “It seems eons ago. My gracious, who could have imagined a reunion in such a remote clime.”

As they approached the platform, Jess heard a commotion at the back of the crowd. He guessed the source and was glad for the cover of the band’s booming—the visitors didn’t seem to have picked up on the ruckus. Jess slapped the back of the driver’s seat to get Brice to slow and bounded off the surrey. As he hustled to the rear of the crowd, he could make out the tirade. “Brit bastard. Goddamn King George can kiss my ass. I’ll strain shit with my teeth before I bow down to no limey king. Hey, I lost my brother for your sorry hide, and you repay me like this? Givin’ a tinny medal to a foreigner just like you? Where’s my medal?” The ranter was who Jess figured—Harry Scurfman, the sawed-off, white-haired drunk.

“Scurfman, one more word from that dirty yap of yours and I’ll have you in the clink before you can hatch a second one.” Jess rested his hand on his holstered revolver to show he meant business.

“It’s a free fuckin’ country, Garrity,” Harry replied, “case you ain’t heard.”

Jess went at him. “Not when you’ve been warned about disturbin’ the peace. Not when you’re messin’ up Eva’s big day.” He grabbed Harry’s right hand and jammed it behind his back. Then he pushed him toward the jail in the rear of the county building two doors down. All this time, the varmint was cussing—it made Jess feel like jamming the arm higher.
Give the SOB something real to holler about.
But he didn’t. He shoved Harry through the sheriff’s office and into the single jail cell in the back.

As the cell door swung shut, Jess said, “In here no one can hear you, so say whatever you want. It’s a free fuckin’ country, you know.”

He slammed the office door and walked back to the ceremony. Smithwycke and the other visitors were on the platform with Eva, Stan and the Ostranecs. Lansdale finished his remarks on the friendship between NATO allies. Then Harney rose to introduce Lord Smithwycke. He called him “aviator, hero, scholar, diplomat, and statesman.” And he termed his pilgrimage “a testament to Britain’s long memory for her friends.” Then he invited Smithwycke to the fore.

As Smithwycke came forward the band began their assault on
For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow
and cheers, applause, and whistles filled the air.

The band tailed off, and Lord Smithwycke cleared his throat. “Ladies and Gentlemen, let me begin by thanking you for coming today. By doing so, may I say, you join me in honoring one of your own, Mrs. Eva Chandler.” Smithwycke turned and nodded to Eva.

“Back home this year, we celebrate the decennial of one of the grandest chapters in the history of the British people, the Battle of Britain. Perhaps you are familiar with Mr. Churchill’s praise for the gallant men in their Spitfires and their Hurricanes who took to the nighttime skies in 1940 to intercept and repel the winged forces of darkness over the English countryside. He famously said, ‘Never was so much owed by so many to so few.’ And it is true. Later when I flew with Bomber Command over occupied Europe, on my ninth mission, returning the fire that Mr. Hitler’s minions had visited on London, my Lancaster was disabled. Here, I suppose you would put it that my steed was shot from under me.”

Smithwycke waited for the crowd’s polite chuckle.

“But I shan’t grumble about my luck, for manifestly The Maker was watching over me, ordaining my safe descent onto Belgian
terra firma
in the proximity of the guardian angel seated here today. This lovely young woman, in the heart of Nazi-occupied territory teeming with Jerry patrols, showed her bottle by willingly placing herself in mortal danger to keep me hidden from those for whom I was prey. I exaggerate not a whit—I lay hidden by nothing but twigs from a Hun squadron as close as I am to you, their police dogs baying for my blood, and Mrs. Chandler saved me. She stood between them and myself and charmed them as handsomely as does a brown Indian charm a cobra. In the end, the cobra slithered away. Mrs. Chandler arranged my disposition to a safe house. As we parted, I offered her modest monetary recompense for her magnificent service. Though the occupation was brutal and there was never enough food, she declined my offer, saying she did what she did for her Motherland. As I hearken back to her actions, I find myself paraphrasing Mr. Churchill: Never was so much owed by this one to another, a stranger at that, and a heroine surely.”

There was a shimmer of applause.

“Before I ask Mrs. Chandler to step to the fore, I’ll end my tale by saying, as you might suspect since I am standing here today, that I did successfully slip through Jerry’s clutches. Mrs. Chandler connected me with her colleagues in the underground, and I passed from Belgium through France and Spain and back to Britain on the famous
Comete
Escape Line, over which so many other Allied airmen also made rescue. With that, I call Mrs. Chandler forward that I might recognize her service to me and to His Majesty’s armed force.”

Eva stepped gingerly to the front of the platform. The band played the opening bars of
Buffalo Gals, Won’t You Come Out Tonight
. Smithwycke took Eva’s hand, and he bowed and kissed it. The magazine photographer’s flash popped. The Yoidel twins, Merle and Deke, thought kissing someone’s hand was the funniest thing they’d ever seen, and they howled. Until their mama grabbed each one by an ear and pulled them to the back of the crowd.

Smithwycke read, “Be it hereby proclaimed. His Majesty George VI, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and the British dominions beyond the seas, King, Defender of the Faith, Head of the Commonwealth, does hereby recognize your extraordinary valor and your service to his subjects with the award of the Order of the British Empire this twelfth day of September, the year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and fifty.” He raised the satin sash over Eva’s head and arm and settled it across her breast. “For those who can’t see it, on the center of the sash glitters a gilt medal surmounted by the imperial crown.” The photographer’s camera flashed again. Everyone clapped, and the Webster boys whistled and whooped it up as they’re known to do. Everyone seemed pleased. Everyone except Eva. She looked like the kid in the front of the line for polio shots.

Smithwycke said, “Congratulations, Mrs. Chandler, on your admission to the Order, and may I once more extend my personal appreciation for your courage.”

After a gallant bow, Smithwycke eased Eva to the platform’s front. Stan was shocked at what he saw.
Jeeze, the whole shebang ain’t settin’ right with her
.
Ya figure a celebration of your bravery ought to make ya feel ten feet tall, but Eva looks tired, all beat up.

Eva said nothing for some time, and when she did speak her voice was small and far away. “Lord Smithwycke, you traveled so far. Ladies and Gentlemen and children, these are busy days and it wasn’t easy to make time to come to town today. Band members, your music is wonderful. Like Lord Smithwycke, I too had a guardian angel in Belgium—my thanks to the Maker are for my husband Stanley, my own hero, who truly rescued me.” Eva turned to Stan and tears filled her eyes. “I only regret my unworthiness of this recognition. I was not heroic. All I can say for myself is that I was just a child.” She fell into Stan’s arms, sobbing. That surprised everyone, but they clapped anyway. Maybe they figured the fuss must’ve pitched Eva back to the nightmare of the war years. They were right.