An Owl's Whisper (22 page)

The couple drove into the countryside, over terrain of rolling hills. Stan sighed, “Damn pretty country, Eva. Reminds me of the Sand Hills. That’s home. I inherited my pa’s ranch back there.” Stan left off the details that the inheritance was actually a farm and that he’d lost it in the Depression.

Eva asked, “A ranch? This is a farm for the cattle, yes?”

“Yeah, I s’pose. But don’t let a rancher hear you call it that.”

“So you are a cowboy, then?”

“Cowboy? I s’pose—when I ain’t halfway ’round the world makin’ it safe for democracy.”

“And are many men cowboys in America?”

“Nah, not so many. Well, back in Hooker County, there’s a fair number of ’em. But in places like New York, I reckon there ain’t many at all.”

Eva knew something about cowboys. Once a month at St. Sébastien, Sister Arnaude showed a feature length film. One month it had been the American movie,
The Last Outlaw
, with Hoot Gibson. Gibson stuck in her mind as the archetypal American male and the Wild West as typical American living.

They motored by the now-deserted grounds of St. Sébastien. “Those old buildings,” Eva sighed. “I used to live at the convent school there.” Stan stopped the jeep. “Times were hard in the occupation and soon after I left, the school closed.” She touched the corner of her eye. “The nuns and girls moved to Maubeuge in the north of France, to a school called St. Cécile. There’s nothing left here except—“

Stan watched Eva’s lips. Her eyes. He was spellbound. When she stopped in mid-sentence, the spell burst like a pin-stuck balloon. He said, “Except what? We could go in and look around, if you want.”

Eva paused. “Except the past. Except death. Just drive on.”

Stan eased the clutch out. “Whatever you say, honey.”

They went a bit farther, then stopped and walked to a small meadow Eva knew. Set between the road and the woods, it was carpeted with mossy grass and tiny blue flowers which Eva called mouse’s slippers. Meandering through the meadow was a creek, full of small, darting fish visible only by the shadows they cast on the bottom. From certain angles, the image of the blue sky and fluffy white clouds was borne perfectly on the water’s surface. Eva had a dry bread crust in her pocket. She crushed it and scattered the dust on the water, and the sky and clouds churned alive.

It was impossible on such a day, in such a place, to believe the war continued. At that moment Eva felt as fulfilled as she imagined the billowy clouds, lounging in the blue heavens, might feel when they look down and see their perfection mirrored in the water.

She thought how different Stan and Henri were.
Uncle makes you feel worthless. Dirty. Today, with Stanley, I’m someone else. Someone good. Today nothing is obscured. Nothing distorted. Everything’s so easy. Makes me wonder, what must it be like to live every day so completely in peace with life? To live so honestly?

Stan was watching her. “You look content as a nappin’ cat. I can ’bout hear you purr.”

Eva shrugged, “Maybe it’s just the day. The perfect day.”

Stan picked a flower. “Well I reckon I’m part of the day, so that’s not bad. Not bad at all.” He leaned back and propped himself up on an elbow. He closed his eyes and let the sunshine stream over his face. “No, not bad at all.”

Eva surveyed the boy stretched out next to her on the wool army blanket.
He looks so young, even younger than the twenty-six he claims.
Stan’s eyes fluttered open for just a moment, and she observed their soft gray color. Observed his soft skin. His soft features. The soft wisp of a moustache he was trying to grow and the soft, easy smile beneath it. His curly black hair. His spare frame.
It’s a spareness that’s strong and genuine. A spareness I could cling to.

Eva took a mouse’s slipper and tickled Stan’s ear. Without opening his eyes, he swished at the ear with his hand. Eva attacked again, suppressing her giggle. Stan’s hand shot out, and he grabbed the offending fingers. “I’ve got you, my little mosquito.” He held on, but gently.

Eva liked her hand in his. She leaned over and kissed the smile on his lips. Their first kiss.

She felt the sudden need to know more, to know everything about him. “Stanley, you said me your papa is
mort
?” I’m not sure how I spell
mort
in English.” She shook her head. “How I speak
mort
in English. It’s deceased?” She tapped her lips. “Becomed dead?”

Stan said softly, “Died. We say died.” He was quiet for a moment. “Old cuss drank hisself to death.” His eyes were wet. “Never got over Ma’s death. She fell to the Great Influenza of 1918. Guess it took him, too; it just took fifteen years doin’ it. There’s a feller back home, my uncle. He’s the county sheriff. Been like a father to me since I was a baby—more of one than my old man was. Old man hated him, or maybe he just hated hisself.”

After a long silence, Stan asked, “And you Eva, what about your kin?”

Eva’s blue eyes went up to the clouds, and the hint of a smile slipped across her face. A bittersweet smile. “None. My parents left me years ago. The nuns and the girls at St. Sébastien were my real family, but now they’re gone. I have no one.”

Stan took her hand in both of his. “You’ve got me. We could have each other.”

Eva brought Stan’s hands to her lips, and she kissed them. She pressed them to her cheek but said nothing. For a moment she was tempted to think about a future with him. But looking at the sky, she knew that having this afternoon was enough.
Leave the future for later, Eva, like clothes wanting launder and press on a Golden Tail day.

So the couple sat, both of them drenched in syrupy sun and careening thoughts of infinite possibilities. But harsh weather was on the way, and with it, a bit to the east, so was war’s fury.

Henri’s Questions

Stanley Chandler was a US Army supply specialist. He described his duty in a September 1944 letter to his uncle, Jess Garrity.

After he met Eva, the war’s end sounded even better to Stan. With the fighting done, he might stay put at the Lefebvre supply depot for a while. He could continue to woo his foreign princess. And with some luck, he might head home with the moon and stars on his arm.

But by October first, optimism seemed cockeyed. Operation Market-Garden was a fiasco. First Army’s move on the Siegfried Line south of Aachen, the Hürtgen Forest campaign, was proving bloody and slow. Maybe Fritz wasn’t quite KO’d yet.

One October Sunday, Stan managed a pass to call on Eva. It was gray and misting out, so Stan, Eva, and
Madame
Ducoisie sat in the parlor sipping Bordeaux wine he had bartered for two packs of Camels from one of the Red Ball drivers.

Suddenly Eva tensed. Her fair complexion went lighter. Stan was asking if she was ill when he heard the sound of an automobile driving up.

Madame
Ducoisie jumped up and, pulling back the curtain, peered through the window. “
Ah! Voilà
,“ she cried without removing the cigarette dangling from her lip. “
C’est Monsieur Messiaen!
” She flew to the door and flung it open. Waving, she gleefully chirped, “
Ah, Bonjour Monsieur Messiaen,
” before the car’s engine was turned off.

Eva looked upset. “I’m afraid my uncle calls.” Her eyes darted between Stan and the door. “Perhaps we can make our walk after saying hellos.”

Stan walked to the window and looked out. “Aw, honey, I’d kinda like gettin’ to know the old boy. Your kin and all. Too chilly for a walk anyway.”

Henri entered. His face lit up when he spied the American GI standing next to Eva. He kept an eye on Stan as he handed
Madame
Ducoisie a box containing English cigarettes, Danish cheese, a bottle of wine and one of Pernod, and lipstick from France.

To Stan, he seemed the picture of a European gentleman: No he man, Henri impressed with style and presence. Starting with the trim of his moustache and the set of his bowler hat, his look was meticulous, if a bit out of date. But Henri’s eyes were what held Stan’s attention. Dancing behind that
pince-nez
of his, they seemed to drink in the world.

Eva introduced the men. Henri removed his hat, revealing a shiny bald pate. He took Stan’s hand in both of his. “Ah
Monsieur
, what an extraordinary pleasure to hail one of our liberators. A true hero.” He bowed. “Allow me to make my thanks for your rescue of our nation.”

Eva’s gaze at her uncle narrowed.
Such good English! He’s been studying.

Stan hemmed, “Aw, just doin’ our duty, Mr. Messiaen. Besides it’s a pleasure to help out folks as charmin’ as your niece and you. And Mrs. Ducoisie, of course.”

Henri beamed when he saw the GI take Eva’s hand. He pointed to the patch on Stan’s sleeve. “Ah, the Big Red One. You are one of General Hodges’ men. No?”

“Yes sir. Now that General Bradley’s heading-up the whole shebang.”

“So, I take it you are stationed directly nearby? In Lefebvre, perhaps? It’s good, is it not, that you are close, since you and Eva are now such fast friends?”

Stan smiled at Eva. He was surprised by the tension he saw in the set of her jaw. “Yes sir, I’m posted at the Lefebvre depot. Good to be near Eva? Sir, it’s real good.”

“I know almost nothing about armies, but I do know they need fuel for their stomachs and for their transportations. So your supplying depot is important. Yes? Coming here I see many lorries making way to Liege and many stopping in Lefebvre. It’s a big depot?”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir. Ain’t big as the one in Liege, but we see a sizeable stream.”

“Ah. Then there must be a formidable company of your comrades toiling at the depot?” Chuckling, Henri came to attention and saluted. “And guarding it?”

Stan grinned, “You’re not thinkin’ of tryin’ to sneak in and heist some gas or chocolate bars, are ya?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Henri tittered. “My interest is only for the—” He moved his hands in circles. “—the curiosity. Surely the
Boche
cowering in his hole at the East is no threat. And some black marketeer? He might snatch fifteen liters for his lorry. But that wouldn’t deplete you, now would it? You must have many of liters of petrol stored there. Yes?”

Stan looked proud. “Yep, many, many liters. Heck, we got ten thousand drums of fuel right now, ready to be farmed out to the front.” As the last word left his mouth, he knew he’d said too much, but he didn’t worry.
What the heck’s it matter? It’s Eva’s doggone uncle.

Henri touched his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. “Of course the supplies are nothing to me. My concern is for you,
mon ami
. Eleven thousand drums of fuel! And bombs! The very thought shivers my back. Such dangerous work! Especially if there aren’t enough of you. But then, you’re Americans! With you, there are always more than enough!
Oui?
” He elbowed Stan playfully. “But just for the curiosity, how many of the fine men of the Big Red One would you say
servir
—in English, it’s serve, no?—at Lefebvre’s depot?”

“It’s up and down, sir. But don’t worry. We got plenty.”

Henri’s eyes were ablaze. “Ah, I suppose it must be dozens. Certainly dozens for the operating around the clocks! And I dare say, for the security also?” Henri winked.

Stan’s eyelid twitched. He said softly, “Yeah, security too.”

Henri studied Stan’s face. His pursed lips broke into a smile. He produced a pack of Camels and tapped one out for Stan, ignoring the women. “Corporal, come have a smoke and tell me about your American chocolate!” Stan had more or less quit smoking, but he took the cigarette to be polite. As they walked to the door, Henri put the Camels away. On the porch, he produced another pack, like a miniature cigar box, black and leather-bound. Its cigarettes were rolled in gold-ringed black paper, and he selected one with care. “I have a weakness for this English brand, myself. Sobranie Black & Golds. Created for the Czar’s court.” He lit Stan’s, then his own. “That Hershey chocolate of yours—I find it quite different from our Belgian variety. Don’t you agree?” He whispered to Stan, “To be honest, I prefer yours.”