The Major's Daughter (15 page)

“Pull over and let us out,” Collie said, her voice commanding. “Do it now.”

“Like fuck I will,” Amos said. “A pair of college twats.”

Collie slapped him. Estelle cringed against the side door. Amos swung his hand back and fought off Collie. Henry suddenly jerked forward, grabbed the keys from the ignition and turned the car off. The engine made a tight whining sound. For a moment the car simply glided on the flat, dirt road. Estelle was conscious of the trees floating by, the headlights gone.

Then Amos reached under his seat and pulled out a revolver.

“Get out,” he said when the car stopped.

He waved the gun at them all. He nearly tripped as he climbed out himself. He pulled his flask from his pocket and drank from it.

“Give me back the keys,” he said to Henry when he lowered the flask.

Estelle felt cold suddenly and dead in her stomach. Collie moved closer and linked her arm with Estelle's. Estelle wondered if they could somehow run away, hide in the forest, do anything to save themselves. Henry was their only hope, and he did not seem a match for Amos.

“I'll run them back to Stark,” Henry said. “You start walking toward Berlin. I'll pick you up on the return trip.”

“Fuck you, too,” Amos said.

“You're drunk,” Henry said.

Amos fired the revolver in the air. The sound shocked Estelle. Its echo seemed to fill the woods on either side of them.

“Take off your clothes,” Amos said. “Take them off now.”

Henry hit his brother. Not with his fist, Estelle saw, but with something like a tire iron. It was a quick, deadly strike, and Amos went down without a struggle. He made a gurgling sound as he lay on the ground. Henry walked over and removed the revolver from his brother's hand.

“I'm sorry,” he said, but whether he meant his apology for their ears or as a statement to his brother, Estelle couldn't say. “Terribly sorry.”

“Take us back,” Collie said. “Leave him here.”

“I'll put him in the backseat and you two can ride up with me. He won't be any more trouble, I promise.”

“No, leave him here,” Collie said a second time.

Estelle watched Henry regard her friend, then he nodded. He put the revolver under the driver's seat and pulled Amos off the road. He left him in the weeds. Amos made no additional noise; Henry, Estelle noted, did not check to see if he had killed his brother. He acted, almost, as though Amos was beyond killing. It was extremely peculiar.

“Climb in,” he said. “Let's go before he wakes up.”

They both climbed in front. Collie sat next to Henry. Estelle maintained her place by the passenger door. Not until the car had moved away from the spot where Amos remained did Estelle allow herself to breathe freely.

“What did you hit him with?” Estelle asked after they had driven for a time. “He went down like he was shot.”

“It was a shillelagh. My father collects walking sticks. He must have left it in the car.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Estelle said.

“He's not really like that,” Henry said. “Not really. It's the drink.”

“Then he did a good imitation,” Collie said. “Because he certainly seemed authentic.”

“He was better before the war.”

“Yes,” Collie said, “weren't we all?”

Chapter Eleven

C
ollie heard the piano across the prison yard. It came in fits and starts, and it had played for some time at the edge of her consciousness before she tuned into it and recognized its presence. The camp felt empty and hollow; the men had gone off to cut wood, and her father and Lieutenant Peters had left to attend a policy seminar in Boston for the day. Estelle had gone to Berlin with Amy and Marie after school had let out. They had plans to see a movie. Collie knew Estelle had deliberately given her some time alone to catch up on work. Estelle was faultlessly considerate that way.

The music distracted her. She had worked briskly through past inventories and a mound of requisition sheets, and had made a dozen calls to suppliers to dicker about prices or check on delivery dates. A typical day's work. And now, in the quiet afternoon, she felt hazy and sleepy, and the piano, when it ran in full passages as if someone remembered what the keys might do, made her moody and happy at the same time. When the music disappeared, as it did frequently, she found she missed it. When it returned, she put down her desk work and listened. She understood enough about the piano to recognize fluency in the pianist. She allowed the music to push her to her feet so that she could make a cup of tea. She went to the window and listened as the kettle boiled. When she had her tea, she walked toward the refectory, where the piano waited.

It was August, of course. She had known that obliquely; she had not permitted her mind to wander there. He sat in front of the spinet, his elbows at right angles to his body, his hair long and blond in the afternoon light. Cooking smells came from the kitchen where Red, she knew, worked to prepare the evening meal. She realized as she entered that August had been placed on the cooking detail. He wore a white apron over his prison uniform and had obviously taken a break at the piano while the meal preparation got on without him for the time being.

“It is you,” she said in German, stepping into the refectory. “I heard you practicing. Are you playing it by memory?”

He turned. His handsomeness arrested her.

“Yes,” he said, smiling and standing. “Bach.”

“I'm glad to find you up and around. Marie was the last to see you.”

“So that's her name. I'd forgotten, or perhaps I never knew. Yes, we had another moment together. She has a wonderful spirit.”

“Yes, she's delightful, but please don't let me stop you. Sit. I only looked in because the music made me curious.”

“I think I'm finished for now. I've lost my way in the piece. And I am wanted in the kitchen.”

“How do you feel? You look stronger.”

“I'm a cook, as you see,” he said, and spread his arms to indicate his apron. “A potato peeler. I'll be put back on a cutting crew soon, but the infirmary doctor wants me to wait a few more days.”

“I'm sure that's for the best.”

He remained standing. She sipped her tea. The room possessed an afternoon feeling. Sunlight passed through the windows and climbed over the tables. It reminded Collie of summer camp, or a shore house she once visited on the sands of Asbury Park, New Jersey, where the afternoon proved a time to be still and quiet while the day swirled on toward evening and rest. She took more of her tea to have something to do.

Then for a moment everything stopped except their eyes. She could barely swallow her mouthful of tea. Everything she had wondered about him, everything she had felt, suddenly existed between them. She could no longer deny any of it; she knew he understood, and he did not move but let his eyes rest on hers. The war meant nothing for the instant, and the clamor of pots and pans, the whine of a screen door, the scent of a cigarette and a match light, served only to underline their attraction to each other. She did not move and neither did he, but she felt as if she were a plant and she bent toward him as toward the sun.

“Is it too much to hope for?” he asked.

She shook her head. He stared a moment longer, then nodded as if he confirmed something in his mind, and then he spoke a line from the poem they had shared.

“The world becomes more beautiful with each day,” he said.

“One doesn't know what may yet happen,” she answered.

“Now everything, everything must change.”

He nodded. She felt her cheeks burning. She sensed his eyes on hers and her heart could not catch itself. This was the man she wanted, she realized. It was no use to pretend otherwise. Before either of them spoke again, a voice began calling for August. The voice sounded weary and impatient. August smiled and held out his apron to prove his powerlessness. She smiled in return and nodded to let him go. With a sigh he pushed into the kitchen, his voice calling to Red that he had returned from break. She left the way she had come but stopped for a time in the sun to finish her tea.

 • • • 

Estelle recognized the handwriting as soon as Mrs. Hammond handed her the letter. She forced herself to take the letter casually, thanking Mrs. Hammond and commenting about the fine afternoon. Yes, she said to Mrs. Hammond, the motion picture had been wonderful. In fact, Marie had insisted they stay for the second picture,
Here Come the Waves
, starring Bing Crosby. It was better than the first,
Henry Aldrich, Boy Scout
, so all in all the afternoon had been a success. Estelle marveled at her coolness in conversation with Mrs. Hammond, while all the while her hand burned with the letter. She yearned to tear open the letter and run upstairs, but she forced herself to slide it into the pocket of her skirt and converse amicably with Mrs. Hammond. Mrs. Hammond promised evening tea and sandwiches if she, Estelle, had enough room left over from eating all the popcorn and candy that went with the movies.

She climbed the stairs and found Collie had left a note to join her at the sitting rock. She said she had important news. Estelle paused, wondering if she should take a few moments to read Mr. Kamal's letter. She pulled it out of her skirt pocket and felt its thickness. Yes, he had written a long letter. She decided she did not want to rush through it. She did not want to squander his voice or his thoughts. She grabbed a jacket instead and hurried out to meet Collie.

The late afternoon had turned to early evening. A kingfisher hunted at the edge of the river, lacing its way from tree to tree as if it meant to keep company with her. It felt good to be outdoors. The river sent up an embracing chill that seemed to spring free from the heat of the day. Crickets scattered as she walked. The mountains caught the angle of the falling sunlight and turned bronze; the phenomenon reminded her of the alpenglow she had encountered in the Alps. Legend held that the mountains drew the light inside and stored it for the following morning. Light ran like sugar into the peaks.

She found Collie perched on her meditation rock, watching the river. Estelle deliberately scuffed her foot to warn of her approach. Collie looked up and smiled. Estelle felt a moment of great tenderness toward her friend. When she reached her, she leaned down and hugged her. To her surprise, Collie hugged her in return with great force.

“Is it possible to love someone so easily?” Collie asked. “Am I simply being foolish?”

“What happened today?” Estelle asked, taking a place beside her friend. “Did you see August?”

“Yes, he was playing the piano in the refectory. I knew it must be him. We shared a moment together. . . .”

“Did you kiss him?” Estelle asked, and grabbed her friend's forearm.

“No, I'm not that brave. But we recited poetry to each other. And our eyes . . . I could barely breathe, Estelle. I know I can be silly about these things. I have a romantic bent, I suppose . . . at least I've always felt that I am a bit too easily excited by poetry and music. . . .”

“I'm sure he felt the same.”

“I think he did,” Collie said, astonished as she said it. “I'm fairly certain of it.”

“I'm sure he did. It's as good as a declaration.”

“I'm the only woman he sees, really. He might be susceptible in his condition.”

“You don't give yourself enough credit, Collie. You're beautiful and intelligent and would do any man credit. Is he working in the kitchen now?”

“Until he's completely mended,” Collie said. “He looks better than he did, but he's still recovering. Estelle, he's a prisoner! What hope do we have? He can't leave the grounds without a guard. And we can hardly approach each other with several hundred men watching us. I would never want to put my father in an awkward position. Really, I think it's a crazy idea.”

“The heart wants its way. You know that.”

Estelle drew out Mr. Kamal's letter. She handed it to Collie.

“He wrote?” Collie asked, examining the letter.

“I haven't read it yet. I can't bring myself to open it.”

“Would you like me to open it?”

“No, please. I need to sit alone and read it. If I had half a brain, I'd throw it in the river and forget about it.”

“Here,” Collie said, and jumped to the edge of the river and held the letter over it.

Estelle jumped after her, and Collie began to laugh. Estelle took the letter back and returned it to her skirt pocket.

“How absurd we are!” Collie said.

“Let's go back. Mrs. Hammond has promised me a sandwich. And I have to tell you all about the movies we saw. Marie insists.”

“Did you have a good day?”

“I had a lovely day.”

Estelle hooked her arm through her friend's as they began to walk. The kingfisher had departed and the alpenglow had changed to a dull, wan light. Evening rested on the peaks like a bird waiting to come to the feeder.

“If the war would end,” Collie said, “we might have a chance. But until it does, it's hopeless.”

“Yes, a great deal will change when the war ends. The world will be different. Not entirely, of course, but it will be changed. Can you ask your father what will happen to the prisoners at the end of the war?”

“I doubt he knows for certain. They will have to be repatriated eventually. August heard a rumor that the men will be sent to England. They will be put to work as prisoners again.”

“Germany will be destroyed.”

“Still, they will have to go back. Opinion would not stand to let them stay here.”

“So you have fallen in love with a man who will be taken from you?”

“Yes, that's why it's ridiculous to let my heart go in that direction.”

Estelle squeezed her friend's arm with her elbow.

“It's funny, you know,” she said, “if I had made this trip a year ago I would have told you to take hold of your heart and protect it. But now, after meeting Mr. Kamal, I know it's not as easy as it sounds. It's far more complicated, isn't it? At the same time, it's far easier. Simpler. What else should we do but follow our hearts?”

“Will you follow yours, Estelle?”

“I'm not sure it's a choice any longer. I'm afraid I'm lost.”

“And society will never approve.”

“No, not really. We can pretend people will be generous in spirit and accept these differences, but not in Ashtabula, Ohio, I'm afraid.”

“Could you return to India with him?”

“He would never ask. Besides, he likes America. He is growing rich here, at least by his former standards. His business is quite successful. His family in India counts on his resources.”

“My mother used to say that time is the oil of life. She said that patience is the greatest tool. Most things resolve themselves if you leave them alone.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“The war will end someday, Estelle, and then people may look at Mr. Kamal differently. Not everyone, of course, but the people who count in your life. What feels impossible now may seem prosaic later on. You never know.”

“I don't have your confidence, Collie. Prejudice is a sharp, angry thing. Intolerance. Mr. Kamal tells stories that would wrench your heart. In the final analysis, your chances with August are greater than mine with Mr. Kamal. And I am not entirely sure of my own heart as you are sure of yours. It is my own grain of prejudice, you see, that poisons me. I don't like that about myself. But it's there. . . . I see him as different, but he is just a man like any other man.”