The Storm (28 page)

*

Molly wondered how Ladye had felt when she'd realized John was involved with another woman. Jealous, angry, afraid, accepting? Probably all of these, but her love for John tempered her emotions, and she had released John gracefully. Could she follow Ladye's example? Did she have any choice?

She stopped shelling peas and tried to be as honest as she could. She
would
leave New Hope when Patrick married. But she couldn't ask Jaq to put her life on hold and wait that long for her. She wasn't even sure if Jaq would want her to leave the farm with her right now. After all, she was seven years older than Jaq, with a child to take care of. No, she had to let Jaq go. That was the only way.

She picked up a pea pod and started shelling again. For Patrick, she could stay in New Hope. For Patrick, she could live with Mr. James, who was a good man, even though she didn't love him. For Patrick, she could even live with Mother Russell, though she ached when she considered her future.

*

Jaq hoped Molly realized she was a lot like the strong women whose stories she seemed to love hearing about. And Molly was as interesting and even more appealing because she didn't have a clue how special she was. Loving Molly had helped her forget the past. After she left New Hope, she wouldn't be fit to live with for a long time, but she'd never forget Molly or regret what they'd had together.

Molly, standing with her hand on Jaq's shoulder, shook her from her memories and said, “I better go.”

She sighed, grateful for her touch. How many more would she be able to enjoy before she left here, left Molly? She didn't like to think about it.

“Mother Russell will expect me, and I need to go see about Patrick. I miss him when we're apart too long. Thank you for teaching me to drive and for the stories. They've given me a lot to think about.” Molly climbed into the wagon and pointed Kate and Gus toward the Russell farm.

Jaq stood in the road and watched until the wagon disappeared from sight, and then she trudged back toward the empty house. Could she and Molly possibly have a future together, or would she be another Helen and ultimately reject her? Molly had come back after their kiss. What did that mean? Helen had been straightforward and said she wasn't attracted to women, and that was that. But Molly hadn't made such a clear-cut statement. She seemed to accept that two women could love each other.

If Molly let her guard down, would Jaq lose control and become another Sister Mary? God forbid. But Jaq hadn't been able to stand her ground against her feelings for Molly so far. She'd better talk to Eric about leaving East Texas sooner rather than later. She couldn't bear to do something as foolish—and marvelous—as make love to Molly. That would only hurt them both.

Jaq sat holding the pink telegram Eric had just crumpled and thrown to the floor. His father sat in the kitchen, his head in his hands. Eric had stormed out, and she hoped he didn't get drunk. Smoothing the wrinkled paper, she wished she could do something to help relieve Eric's and Angus's suffering. She hated to feel so helpless.

She fixed a plate of food and placed it in front of Angus, though she knew he wouldn't eat. That was all she could do, so she returned to the front porch and sat in the swing. The weather had cooled a bit, and the usually blue sky was overcast. A slow rain fell and compounded the grim mood that had settled on the McCade house.

She stared into space for a long while, contemplating the lives this war had wasted. Sighing, she opened her latest letter from her Aunt Anna, in New York City. Maybe it would help distract her from the news they'd just received.

September 19, 1918

Dear Jaq,

Sorry I haven't written in so long. I trust you're enjoying your stay in the country. It seems like the ideal place to regain your health—if you don't go too stir-crazy. I've been working all day and writing every night, as usual.

I took an unexpected trip yesterday that I thought might interest you, especially in light of your bouts with influenza that you described to me last fall during your brief visit.

William and I left before sunrise, and I drove us out to Camp Upton on Long Island—seventy miles one way. We reached the army camp about noon. It's in the pine barrens of central Long Island, a huge, raw-looking, isolated place thrown up last summer, swarming with mosquitoes.

In a gigantic room there, of the eight rows of cots, with about twenty in each row, only one bed was empty. All the young men there wore long white gowns, and some breathed through white gauze masks. I soon learned this was one of several convalescence wards.

Two doctors hurriedly took us to the area where the actively ill men lay. Some cried out in pain, and some were strangely blue in the face. After the doctors described the patients' symptoms, we swabbed the throats and nasal passages of several men and preserved each sample in a glass tube to take back to the lab with us.

Then our hosts led us next door to the morgue, where they were autopsying a handsome young Texan. He'd recently died of influenza, and aside from his skin's blue pigmentation, his strong body looked untouched, possibly because he'd died quickly. Everyone wanted to know what caused his death.

The doctor conducting the autopsy cut into the soldier's chest with a scalpel and shears, removed the chest plate, and revealed dark red lungs. When detached, both the lungs remained expanded and didn't collapse as normal ones should. As the doctor sliced one open, a mass of fluid gushed out. Of course I took a sample.

But here's the strange thing, Jaq. A battle seemed to have raged inside the soldier's lungs, and the invader won. The young Texan's defenders were dead and had clogged his lungs. Just before he died, he must have been short of breath, then felt as if he was suffocating or drowning. I couldn't help but wonder if the internal struggle actually killed him. If his defense system hadn't put up such a fierce struggle, he might still be alive

I asked one of the doctors if this was the worst case he'd seen, and he said this was typical. So, my dear Jaq, I thought you should know about this in light of our conversations about your illness and the War. The one in Europe isn't nearly as terrible as the one that took place in this poor boy's lungs. At least the Allied forces can see the Germans approach. I don't want to alarm you, but no one has a chance against an invisible enemy as predatory as this new form of influenza.

You can take heart because your cases in Europe last summer and fall probably immunized you to this mutated form. But stay isolated in the country, and don't let any of your loved ones near a crowd until we can find a cure for this horrible disease or it disappears on its own.

Your loving aunt,

Anna

P.S. I've been so busy I forgot to mail this for several days. Sorry.

*

As soon as Molly heard the news, she telephoned Jaq, who sounded very down in the dumps.

“I guess you've heard Eric's brothers died in the Argonne Forest,” she said. “Eric's driving to town to register for the draft tomorrow, then on to Dallas to go with his cousin, who's finally old enough to enlist. Eric can't stay away any longer. His leg has completely healed, he's regained his sight in his bad eye, and he says he's licked his drinking problem. He's sure the US will accept his services.”

“He has to be devastated about his brothers and sick of sitting on the sidelines,” Molly said. “I'd almost rather see him go back to war than to the bottle.”

“I agree. I begged him not to, though. My aunt wrote me about a horrible new type of the flu that's beginning to hit the big cities hard. And this means I won't get to leave here as soon as I hoped. I'll have to stay and help Angus until Eric returns from wherever they send him. Oh, I'm ashamed to be so selfish.” Jaq sounded like she might cry.

Though inwardly Molly rejoiced, she forced herself to say, “I'm sorry you can't go as soon as you want. Everyone's saying the tide of the War has turned in our favor. And maybe they'll station Eric nearby.”

“Yes, but if I know Eric, he'll insist that his aviation skills will help win the War quicker. He'll want to help train new pilots, and with his record, they'll station him wherever he wants. Even if the War ends soon, he'll probably be involved in the aftermath. I'm afraid I'm stuck here until the men begin to come home and the labor shortage eases. Eric and I won't have a chance to annul our marriage until who knows when.”

“Jaq, I'm so sorry. Listen, Patrick will be thrilled when he finds out Eric's enlisting. He wants to talk to him about flying. Why don't I bring him over when Eric gets home from Dallas? Maybe Patrick can help us soften him up so we can talk him into getting home as soon as possible.”

“It's worth a try, though it probably won't work. He's so stubborn. But maybe we can talk him into requesting an assignment here in the States instead of abroad.”

Until then Molly had never realized how desperately Jaq wanted to get on with her own life. But now she was determined to help her leave New Hope, no matter how much she wanted her to stay. She would encourage Patrick to treat Eric like a war hero for signing up, but the prospect of living here without Jaq tore her apart inside.

She had been entranced with Jaq since she first saw her at church wearing her bright-yellow dress. A canary among crows, she had thought then, and now she knew how true her vision had been. Jaq had enlivened her, put her in touch with the larger world, made her feel again.

But Jaq could fly away at any time, and Molly would never see her again. The prospect made her tightening throat ache and her arms feel shaky. She would be even more alone than before, now that she knew what life could be like with Jaq. She'd be left without anyone that she totally fit with or belonged to. Only her piano, her music pupils, and Patrick would ease the pain. He was worth it, she kept reminding herself.

*

Jaq got up earlier than usual to fix breakfast. Angus wanted to try once more to convince Eric not to register.

They were sitting at the table eating biscuits and gravy when Angus said, “Son, you've been in this war since the beginning. Don't you think you've done enough?”

But Eric was mulish. “I know what I'm doing, Pop.”

She tried to warn him. “My Aunt Anna said a bad strain of influenza is killing people, especially in the big cities. Everyone should stay away until it dies down.”

They all argued until she almost screamed. She was more than ready to see Eric go when her Model T chugged out of the driveway at six o'clock.

Molly and Patrick planned to arrive about four o'clock the day Eric was due back, so she and Molly could spend some time together first. That would be the highlight of her week, because she planned to clean house the rest of the time. She'd even decided to fry a chicken and fix mashed potatoes and gravy for their welcome-home supper.

She worked steadily for a couple of days changing the beds, sweeping and scrubbing floors, washing the windows, and dusting. All that time, she couldn't keep her mind off Molly. What would they be doing if she were here?

On an ordinary day they'd sleep late then stroll to the barn, arms around each other's waists, Molly's head on her shoulder, watching the birds and the squirrels. Molly would have to milk their cow because that's one thing Jaq simply couldn't master. She hoped she could manage the few days Eric was gone. And from the way Molly talked about Nellie, she enjoyed their daily communion. Jaq could feed the chickens and gather the eggs. That seemed easy enough. But as long as she was dreaming, she wished she'd come into a fortune. Then she and Molly could do exactly as they pleased.

So, since they had money, they'd sleep late because they'd stayed up late the night before kissing and…When they finally dragged themselves from their big double bed with its thick feather mattress, they'd smell bacon frying. They'd kiss—long, deep kisses—then slowly dress. Neither would have worn a stitch to sleep in. They wouldn't want anything to come between them. She'd run a comb quickly through her short hair but take her time brushing the tangles from Molly's luxurious mane—so long she could sit on it—and kiss her neck between each stroke. Molly would be wearing only her chemise, so Jaq would pause to run her fingers over the buttermilk skin of Molly's shoulders and arms, unable to resist her taut, cushiony body.

By the time they dressed and drifted downstairs, their hired woman would have fixed breakfast, with fresh eggs and hot bread. They'd smear butter and strawberry jam on generous slices and feed them to one another, laughing between bites. Jaq would have churned the cream for the butter while she listened to Molly play the piano, and they would have made the jam from tart, sweet strawberries they'd grown and picked together.

They'd work in the flower beds and tend their vegetable garden, where they grew lettuce and spinach. Their hired man did all the heavy work, and they'd all live together happily ever after on the farm, while Patrick (she'd almost forgotten him) grew into a fine young man, met the girl of his dreams, and set up housekeeping just down the road.

The house seemed to glow with her fantasy as she scrubbed and cleaned, preparing for Molly's visit. But it would never be real. She quickened her pace, barely managing to keep herself from giving up hope and just leaving.

*

Now what did Molly have up her sleeve? Mrs. Russell watched her help Patrick shed his play clothes and put on his Sunday best. She'd been dolling up and said Jacqueline had invited her and Patrick to supper. Something about Eric enlisting.

Losing both his brothers was a crying shame. But Eric's stunt left Angus McCade holding the bag. He didn't have nary a soul to help him harvest the fall crops now.

Hope he didn't expect Jacqueline to give him much of a hand. She wasn't good for anything except mechanicking and fixing a few light meals and keeping house. Speaking of the house, she'd heard tell Jacqueline could sure keep it a heap cleaner. Flat-out refused to milk, Ethel said, though she'd churn when she had to.