The Bungalow (19 page)

Another lie.

“You know what we need to do to pass the time,” Stella suggested at the mess hall one morning in early May.

“What?” Mary asked, feigning interest.

“A knitting circle,” she said.

“Easy for you to say,” Mary snapped. “Your Will is right here, safe and sound. And you think
yarn
is what
we
need?”

Stella looked wounded.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s OK,” Stella replied. “I was only thinking that it might busy us in the evenings when all we do is listen for news on the radio.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” I chimed in.

“I’m sure the natives could use blankets,” Mary added. “For the children. We could make them.”

“I’ll join,” Kitty said.

“Me, too,” said Liz.

“We could start tonight, after our shift’s over,” Mary offered.

Stella smiled. “Good. I’ll gather the supplies. We can meet in the rec hall.”

Stella had been right. It was yarn that sustained us those next couple of weeks. We made one blanket, and then two. By the third and fourth, we were already planning the fifth: green and yellow yarn, a palm motif in the center.

“I wonder who will sleep under these?” Liz asked, running her hand along the edge of the first blanket we’d completed. “As insignificant as a blanket is, it’s nice to be doing something for the people of this island.”

We all nodded.

“Do you ever wonder what they think of all of this?” she continued. “One day, their peaceful oasis in the middle of the sea becomes the center of a raging war?”

“It must be terrifying for them,” Mary replied. “I wish we could do more than give them blankets.”

“But blankets are something,” Liz said.

I thought of Atea, all alone and perhaps even in trouble. She might be able to use one, and if not, she’d know others who could.

I looked up at the circle of women, knitting needles clinking together. “I can take them to a woman, a native, I know who can use them,” I offered. “I’ll bring them to the market tomorrow.”

“Nurse Hildebrand?”

“What is it?” she snapped without looking up from her desk.

“May I have permission to take an extended lunch?”

She pulled her spectacles lower on her nose. “And what is it that you intend to do?”

“Well, the nurses and I have been kitting blankets,” I explained. “It’s kept us busy in the evenings when we’d just be worrying—”

“Make your point, Nurse Calloway,” she said sternly.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m sorry. My intention is to deliver the blankets to the market today, to give them to some of the islanders who could use them.”

“Blankets?” she said, a little mockingly.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Blankets.”

She shook her head, then shrugged. “Well, I don’t see the harm. Be sure that you’re back by half past two. We’re getting a shipment, and we’ll need all hands on deck.”

I smiled. “Thank you, Nurse Hildebrand, thank you. I will.”

The market seemed quieter than usual, eerily so. Since most of the men had been deployed in the fight, fewer islanders turned up to sell their wares, but I hoped Atea would be there. I needed to talk to her.

It had been months since I’d seen her, since that fateful Christmas Eve scene at the chapel, and I’d worried about her. The blankets were merely an excuse to make sure she was all right.

“Excuse me,” I said to a toothless woman holding an infant at a nearby table stacked with bananas and a few clumps of dusty, exotic-looking salad greens. “Have you seen Atea?”

The woman eyed me skeptically. “She no here,” she said dismissively.

“Oh,” I said, holding out the blankets. “It’s just that I wanted to give her these.”

My gesture changed the woman’s demeanor. She softened, pointing to a hill a few hundred yards away. “She with Tita. Green house. You find her inside.”

“Thank you,” I said, turning toward the hillside. I had less than an hour before the truck returned to camp, so I walked fast along the pathway that led to the hill the woman had indicated. Dirt caked my ivory patent-leather pumps, but I didn’t mind. I swatted a mosquito from my arm and started on the trail into the thicket. It was darker under the cloak of the tropical forest, and I almost didn’t see the little green house ahead, for it blended into the hillside as if it were part of nature.
That must be it.

A bicycle leaned up against the side of the small one-room home, which appeared to be constructed of scrap wood and treasures that had washed up from the sea. A chicken squawked a few feet away, startling me as I lifted my fist to knock on the door.
Am I foolish coming here like this?

An old woman appeared in the doorway, her gray hair fashioned into a single tidy braid.

“I’m here to see Atea,” I said meekly, holding up the basket of blankets.

The woman nodded and muttered something in French, or maybe Tahitian, that I could not understand. I heard footsteps from behind the door.

“Anne!” Atea said, poking her head around the old woman. “You come!” She looked different then, which might have been because she was wearing a dress, one that was about five sizes too big for her small frame. It appeared to have been plucked from the Sears Roebuck catalog circa 1895. I wondered why she wore it when she’d been so comfortable with hardly a swatch of clothing before.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry to intrude. I—I wanted to make sure you were safe. And I wanted to give you these.”

Atea took the basket from my hands and gasped. “They’re beautiful. For me?”

“Yes, and for anyone else you think can use them,” I said, smiling. “How have you been?”

She looked conflicted about answering the question. “Come in,” she said instead. “This is Tita.”

The old woman nodded.

“Pleased to meet you, Tita,” I said. “I’m Anne.”

Atea directed me to a grass-woven chair, and I sat. Moments later Tita produced a mug containing something warm. “Tea,” she said. “For you.”

I thanked her and took a sip. The beverage was sweet and spicy at the same time.

“It’s good,” I said. “What is it?”

“Kava,” Atea said. “It calm you.”

I nodded. Atea was right. Each sip had a soothing and somewhat dizzying effect. Everything softened around me. Minutes later, the sharp edges of the jagged window frame looked polished and the dirt floor I’d noted when I walked in began to take on the appearance of a soft oriental rug.

“Is this her?” Tita asked Atea.

Atea nodded.

Tita moved to the chair next to me. “You are the one who found the artist’s home?”

Confused at first, I remembered what Atea had said on the beach so many months ago—a detail I had forgotten to share with Westry. “Yes,” I said, “if you mean the bungalow.”

Tita gave Atea a knowing look. “There is something you must know about this bungalow,” the old woman said. Her eyes were so arresting, I could not look away. “According to legend, whoever steps foot in it will face a lifetime of”—she paused as if to consider the right word—“heartache.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I said, setting the mug down on a little wooden table to my left. A fog seemed to appear in the room, and I wondered what was in the tea.

“Bad things happen there,” she said.

I shook my head. No, she had it all wrong.
Good
things happened there. It was our beloved hideaway, the place where I had grown to love Westry.
How could she say this?

“Like what?” I asked, finding my voice.

“Things too dark to speak of,” she whispered, casting her eyes to a crucifix that hung on the wall.

I stood up abruptly and the room seemed to move. “Well,” I said, steadying myself on the edge of the chair. “Thank you for the tea. But I really must be going.” I turned to Atea. “Take care of yourself, dear. And please, remember my offer if you need assistance.”

She nodded and eyed Tita cautiously as I reached for the door handle.

“Wait,” I said, turning back around. “You said the bungalow once belonged to an artist. Do you happen to know who?”

Tita looked at Atea and then at me again. “Yes,” she said with wistful eyes. “His name was Paul. Paul Gauguin.”

The following night, Mary passed out the yarn in the rec hall just as the onslaught began. We looked up when we heard a rush of men coming through the door. “Nurses, come quick!” one shouted. “You’re needed in the infirmary. It’s a plane full of wounded men. Too many this time.”

I dropped my knitting needles and ran with the other women along the path to the infirmary, where Nurse Hildebrand was shouting orders. “Kitty, you’ll stay with me and assist Doc Wheeler. Stella, you’ll handle beds one through eleven. Liz, take beds twelve through nineteen. Mary, Anne, you two work receiving. Keep it orderly. There will be a lot of misery tonight. But it’s why we are here. Nurses, find your strength. You will need to draw upon it hours from now.”