The Major's Daughter (27 page)

The three-piece band her mother had engaged began playing. The organ had been replaced and Estelle knew her mother had plans—like a military maneuver, she had envisioned—to cart the organ out through the French doors to make more floor space. She had already recruited the men necessary to do it, and the rental truck waited in the backyard out of sight, and Estelle imagined her mother standing by like General Eisenhower, supervising everything.

Someone handed her a glass of champagne. George, too. He looked at her quickly and raised his glass, smiling, and she did not hate him in that moment. He was not to blame, after all. He was simply George, and she had known what she was doing, and so she lifted her glass and clinked it against his. A few people cheered. She took a good swallow and the champagne hardly bothered her. It felt like water, bright, oxygenated water, and she tossed off the remainder of the glass in a second swallow. Immediately the champagne entered her bloodstream and she remembered she had hardly eaten all day, but that thought passed quickly away. She accepted a second glass of champagne, a lovely tall flute, and she grabbed only a sip before it was taken away and she was turned and the music brightened and George took her in his arms.

They played “A Lovely Way to Spend an Evening” by the Ink Spots. It was their song, Estelle recalled, though where or when it had gained such a valence she couldn't say. George hummed the melody in her ear, keeping time with a measured tap at her waist.

“We're married,” she said to him, appraising him frankly. “Does that strike you as strange?”

“Well, it will take a little getting used to, I'm sure.”

“We're now a social entity. A wedded couple.”

“Say, are you okay?”

“I'm fine. It's just that things happen so quickly sometimes.”

“From my end I've been angling for years to win you.”

“Have you, George? That may be the kindest thing you've ever said to me.”

“I thought you knew it. I was crazy about you all along. Didn't you know?”

“I suppose I never looked at it that way. It always seemed as though we were playing at something . . . and now here we are, married.”

“You've got a peculiar turn of mind going on right now, Estelle. No more champagne for you.”

“Oh, I want quite a lot of champagne. Gallons of it. I'm pregnant, George. This is a big day for surprises, so there you are. I'm pregnant.”

It was a horrible, horrible time to tell him such a thing, and she waited, studying his expression, marveling at her capacity for cruelty. He smiled at someone off to his left, then turned and smiled down at her. This ability to carry on in the face of difficult news would make him a success in business. She saw that clearly. His eyes grew slightly tighter, but then he shrugged and pulled her closer.

“It was going to happen sooner or later,” he said, philosophically, she thought. “We want a family.”

“Yes, I imagine we do.”

“Well then, it doesn't much matter when it happened. It's nobody's business but ours.”

“People will calculate the time.”

“They can go fry an egg,” he said, and spun her. “I'm busting to tell people, but I guess we better not.”

“I should say not!”

Was he joking? She leaned back and took another look of appraisal. He had his abilities, it was true. Before she could come to any conclusions, she heard the crowd make a small guffaw, and then her father—he must have mimed a little skit behind George's back, she realized—cut in for a father-daughter dance. George spun off to find his mother.

“Hello, Cupcake,” her father said, his breath smelling faintly of bourbon. “You look beautiful today.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

“Are you happy?”

“Very happy.”

“I remember marrying your mother and wondering what in the Sam Hill had happened. But you'll get used to it.”

“It feels a little strange right now.”

“Of course it does. Why wouldn't it? I'm not stepping on your gown, am I?”

“Not yet.”

“Your mother would kill me. She should have been a director. In the theater, I mean. She likes putting on a show.”

“Do you like George, Daddy?”

Now it was her father's turn to lean away and appraise her. He pulled her closer after a moment.

“Sure I like George. Who wouldn't? He's a nice young man with a future.”

“But do you like him?”

He danced her a few steps around the floor before he answered.

“I know what you're driving at, Cupcake. He's not Cary Grant. I see that. And maybe you always thought you required Cary Grant. We brought you up to think that, I suppose. George isn't Cary Grant, but he will be a good husband, I guess. He'll make his way in the world. And he'll be as kind to you as you are to him, so you're well matched. Not everything is oatmeal and raisins, Cupcake. But you two will do just fine.”

“I hope so.”

“Of course you do.”

Then the music stopped and people clapped and the noise of so many hands highlighted a large laugh out on the porch. Someone nearby said it had begun to snow. Collie swept in and took both of Estelle's hands. Collie smiled her warm, friendly smile, and Estelle felt better about everything.

“Hello, Mrs. Samuels!” Collie said, her voice cutting through the crowd. “What a gorgeous, gorgeous bride you are!”

“Thank you. Yes, the dress worked better than I thought it might. And you all look lovely, too.”

“Doesn't George look handsome? He looks rather dashing.”

“I told George,” Estelle said, bending close and whispering in her friend's ear, “about everything.”

“When?”

“Just now. Right on the dance floor.”

“Oh, gracious.”

“He didn't bat an eye. Not my George. I give him credit for that.”

“Why did you tell him now?”

“To hurt him, I suppose. Isn't that the lowest thing you've ever heard? I didn't want him to have a pretty picture in his head that didn't match reality. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want me for a friend.”

“Nonsense,” Collie said. “We're going to get you something to eat, and then your mother wants you for pictures. She wants everyone in the library. The photographer may take one out on the porch in the snow. It's begun to snow, you know? That's a good omen. Have you met the photographer? He's a funny man with side whiskers. . . . He looks like photographs of General Lee. . . .”

Estelle let herself be led. Then Collie produced a plate of finger food. Everywhere, at every breath, people swung by to congratulate her, to say how beautiful she looked. Over their shoulders she saw the organ carried away; a blast of cold air from the French doors spilled through the room.

“There goes the organ!” Estelle said and couldn't suppress a laugh.

The efficiency of the operation, the sight of the organ—like a dead hippopotamus surrounded by African porters—scuttling off, struck her funny bone. She was certain it was merely the strain of the day, the nervous energy she could not quite conquer, but she laughed harder and harder at the absurdity of it. What difference did the organ make? They were all inside, they had managed, and now they cast the organ out like an unwelcome guest! She wanted to call it back, apologize, but instead she laughed. Her head felt detached from her body, a fanciful balloon drifting above her shoulders, swayed by the wind and mesmerized by everything around her. How peculiar she felt!

Collie rescued her. And George. George swept by and took her elbow and said into her ear that they were wanted in the library. The whole wedding party. People backed away to let them pass, and Estelle smiled at everyone as the new Mrs. Samuels, George's wife, an upstanding member of Ashtabula society. George was not Cary Grant, that was established, but he was her husband, and she drifted along beside him, Collie bracing her from the other side, the snow drifting past the window like pieces of a plan she once cherished but no longer needed.

Chapter Twenty

A
ugust swung his backside onto the pan of a coal shovel and pushed off from the top of Haymaker Hill. At first he picked up little speed. A boy from Stark, Jeffrey something or other was his name, whizzed past him. The kids skidded like little demons, August saw, but he knew his weight would work to his advantage as he gained speed. A toboggan team went past, too, the front man shouting a warning, but by then August had started to turn and glide like a metal pot with two long legs for handles. He shouted after the toboggan in English, but the faster device had flown into the darkness, the angle of the hill too acute to see their descent.

“Heigh-ho!” August yelled, partially to give himself courage—the hill was steep, and the handle of the shovel jutted next to his privates—but also because they had always shouted
heigh-ho
as boys. A wide grin spread on his face. He saw Gerhard just ahead of him, also twirling slowly. Past Gerhard only the sky remained, the stars blazing as they do in winter. Pinpricks of light in a black felt, August thought.

Then more speed. The shovel made a rasping sound as it skimmed over the icy patches. How long ago, he wondered, had he experienced a sliding night? It had been years, half a war before, and the memory proved elusive. He shucked it away and concentrated on keeping his feet raised. Now the shovel scooted him down the mountain at top speed and he shouted for people to clear away. He saw the children watching, their faces blurred or covered by scarves, and he could not keep himself from laughing. His destination was a bonfire; someone had built the bonfire, and it was that light that had attracted them to begin with. They had seen the light on their march back from a day of cutting, and the children had offered the shovels and August and Gerhard had taken a turn.

More speed. He felt his bottom knocking against the shovel pan as he sped over a tiny jump, then two quick bumps in succession. It was nearly Christmas, he realized. Earlier he had heard the villagers singing “Silent Night,” and he had joined them under his breath, pronouncing the lyrics in German, feeling the old holy warmth of the song enter him. It was all madness. Were these the people he had been sent to kill? Were they his enemies? What had it all been about in the final analysis? He closed his eyes and clung to the shovel handle, and he was a boy again, riding his ancient sled down through the Black Forest, and his brother, Frederick, was a mere lad, and his mates shouted and laughed around him. He was no different, he knew, from these boys who ran up and down the hill on this mountain on this night.

The hill leveled out and he skidded to a stop. A boy with a runny nose asked him if he wanted to ride again. August shook his head. The boy wiped a sleeve across his nose and reclaimed the shovel. Then he ran off.

“Over here,” Gerhard called from his position in the group of cutters. “We're cold.”

Before August could join them a man in a large red mackinaw came closer and invited them to step into the firelight.

“Come on, come on,” he said, waving his hand as if to wind them closer, “we won't bite! A hot dog! Have a hot dog. Do you savvy hot dogs?”

August translated the invitation.

“What's all this about?” Liam asked. His color appeared sharp and bright from the sledding.

“They want us to have a hot dog,” Gerhard said. “A sausage.”

“Do we have a minute?” August asked his two guards.

“Go ahead,” said one of the guards, the younger of the two. “But let's move along afterward.”

Together the cutting team moved over to the fire. The guards came, too. The heat felt wonderful to August. Ten, maybe fifteen, Americans stood around the fire. The man who invited them busied himself getting hot dogs. A woman on the other end of the fire held them forward, and the man slapped the sausages into rolls.

“My grandfather was pure German,” the man said, beginning to hand out the hot dogs as the indistinguishable woman across the fire provided them. “Here, try these. This is an all-American food. Sure, there are plenty of Germans in this country. Why, between the Dutch and Germans, and now the Italians, of course . . . the Germans settled Philadelphia, for instance.”

“
Danka
,” the men said as they received the hot dogs.

“You could put just about anything on a hot dog,” the man said, “but most people use mustard. And pickle relish. You savvy pickle relish?”

August translated and received a hot dog as he did so. He waited for a cue to begin, but the man simply waved his hand in a motion that meant go ahead, so he bit into the hot dog. It was a bland sausage, slightly crispy from being in the flames. August glanced at his team members to see what they thought. He saw they ate mostly out of politeness.

“There you go,” the man said, “that's what we eat at baseball games and the like. You savvy baseball?”

August didn't recognize the phrase.

“You know, a lot of people around here were quite concerned when they heard a prisoner-of-war camp was moving in. You can imagine, I'm sure. We're not a very sophisticated community, but you people have been darn white. You have. No one can speak against it. It makes me proud of my German heritage.”

August did his best to translate the phrases.

Then, to his amazement, one of his own party began singing “O Tannenbaum auf Deutsch!” It was a boy named Stephen, and he had a lovely voice. August had heard him sing before, in the showers, and during slow periods of work, but now his voice gathered the others, and they repaid the debt of a hot dog with a carol from their own language. August lifted his voice along with Stephen's. Tears suddenly came into his eyes and he had to wipe them with his coat sleeve to keep them from freezing. It might have been an absurd moment, August reflected, but Stephen's voice carried them, and, to his astonishment, a few Americans joined the song. They sang in English, for the most part, but two of the older women in the circle knew the carol in German. A song about a tree, for heaven's sake. Slowly the faces of the Americans became more visible, the light brighter, and August could not help seeing the hard country where the men and women had suffered. They did not look much different from the people of his own village. Here might have been the cobbler, there the blacksmith. . . . The occupations of his boyhood village could have been transferred easily onto these familiar faces.

Then Stephen finished the song. The guards called for them to march. The man in the red mackinaw waved them off and the children continued sliding down the hills like dark sprites. Sparks flew up into the black sky, and away from the fire it was very cold.

 • • • 

Henry Heights watched Amos tiptoe carefully along the first row of river logs and knew it did no good to warn him to turn back. The logs lay bobbing next to a boom pier. They had been abandoned there years before, and they rested like white-backed sheep milling slowly in the river pool. Amos carried a pint bottle of rye whiskey in his hand. He drank from it and then lifted it to the side for balance as he stepped onto another log.

“You're going to go through,” Henry said. “You won't like it if you do.”

“Come out, you chicken. This is how men logged in Daddy's day.”

“It's how men got killed, you foolish jackass.”

“Come out.”

It was a bitter night. Henry felt the cold in his bones. He pushed his coat collar closer to his throat, but it did no good. He was not dressed for the frigid temperature. Neither of them were dressed to be out on a bobbing cluster of logs a few weeks before the New Year. Henry tasted the chemical burn of alcohol on his tongue and mouth. Despite his best intention to refrain from drinking with Amos, he had given in to it once again. They had passed the night in Ernie's, drinking and shooting pool for a dollar a game against a pair of loggers from Portland, and now this. Henry understood Amos could not be satisfied with the normal course of a night. It was not in his nature to do so. He had to push things; he had nearly talked them into a fight with the Portland loggers, but Henry had negotiated a hasty treaty. Now, not fifty yards from the bar, he had put his life at risk for the holy hell of it.

“I'm tired and cold,” Henry said, trying to be offhand, which occasionally worked on Amos. “Let's go home.”

“Not until you come out and join me.”

“We have no spikes on our shoes, Amos. And we've been drinking. Only an ass would think this is a good idea.”

Amos laughed and stepped farther out onto the log raft. At the edge of the pod, Henry knew, the logs would be more active. In the center of the mass they could turn at any moment, but at least the other logs pressing on them lent them a modicum of stability. Near the fringe of the pile, the logs bucked and moved on the icy swirls, surging to spin back to the core. Henry knew Amos would work his way out to them.

“We missed our day,” Amos called over the logs and wind. “We missed the era when logging had romance. You didn't mind walking on these when you were a boy.”

“Maybe during the summer. You're being maudlin, Amos. Come back out of there before you hurt yourself.”

Amos slipped and went down to a knee, but he stood back up quickly, his whiskey bottle passing to his mouth as he rose. He laughed as soon as he had swallowed his drink.

“Men used to ride these like horses,” Amos said, deliberately flexing his knees so the log that carried him bobbed slightly. “They walked on water, those jacks.”

“What are you trying to prove out there?”

“I'm proving I'm braver than you are, for starters. Proving I don't give a good goddamn for another thing.”

“You're drunk, Amos. Come on back.”

But he continued working his way out on the logs. Now and then Henry heard the logs hit together and give off a dull thud. Wind carried the sounds away as soon as they were created. The night possessed no moon whatsoever. It was close to the turn of the year, and winter held everything as firmly as it ever would that season.

“She loves that Kraut, you know,” Amos said over the wind, his face pointed out to the center of the river. “You're making a fool of yourself over a woman who is in love with a German.”

“Says who?”

“It's common knowledge. Everyone knows it except you.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't I? You think I don't have friends among the guards? It's not hard to see if you have eyes to look. She's playing you for a patsy.”

Amos turned slowly around. He had reached the outermost edge of the logs. He made a little bow and smiled. Henry half hoped to see him fall from the logs and be spun between the massive boles like a piece of paper on a typewriter platen. Instead, Amos merely grinned and started back toward shore.

“They trade poetry,” Amos said, working his way across the logs, his hands out at his sides, “and he plays the piano for her. She's a traitor giving comfort to the enemy. I'm not the only one who says it. She probably gives him a lot of comfort. She probably spreads her legs for his Heine dick. For his Messerschmitt dick.”

“You're vile. Don't talk about Collie like that.”

“Like what? You think I'm insane? You're the one lapping after her with your tongue out like a damn dog. She's in love with a German. You know the one. The princely looking one . . . makes me sick to look at him.”

Amos slipped again. This time he almost went through the logs, but he caught himself on his belly and worked his way back to his knees. He had spilled a portion of the whiskey, and he tucked the cap back on the top and slid the bottle into his vest pocket. He placed his hand repeatedly on the logs for a third point of balance. Then with great effort, he rose to his feet again. In one motion he rose and took three long steps, jumping two or three logs at a time. With a final surge, he nimbly came back onto shore, but his feet went out from under him and he fell backward, laughing as he went.

Henry stepped forward and jammed his foot on Amos's chest. He pushed him down and kept his weight on him.