Page 11 of The Magic of Ordinary Days

The U.S. forces infiltrated Germany for the first time in mid-September, and we in the U.S.

heard details of the offensive over the next few days by radio and newspapers.

The progress made an Allied victory in Europe seem inevitable, but in the Pacific, over nine thousand men died in eleven days of fighting to capture just one small island named Peleliu.

Even as the end of the war drew nearer, the news kept getting bleaker.

The following Sunday, Ray convinced me to attend church, something that, for reasons not yet clear to me, I had been avoiding.

But I longed for a change of company, so I donned what had always been my favorite Sunday suit and joined Ray, who wore his brown suit again for the first time since our wedding day.

Outside the church building, I saw many parked cars and trucks, all of them covered in the layer of brown dust that had already grown familiar to me, grime that disguised the true colors of most everything.

Groups of people worked their way into the building, letting me know that despite the outward appearance of emptiness down the web of roads, indeed many people lived there.

Before the service began, I met some of the congregation members and noticed that here, wartime fashion had yet to be introduced.

In the face of plain prints and faded hats, I became conscious of the quality of my suit.

Ray introduced me as his wife, and judging by the surprised looks we received, I didn’t think he had told anyone I was coming.

At Ray’s side, however, I received a much different response from the one I’d received in Trinidad, alone.

With him, people didn’t hesitate to smile and greet me.

“So pleased to meet you,” one woman said. “Goodness me.” Then she congratulated Ray.

Another woman said, “We had no idea.”

Her husband pumped Ray’s hand up and down, then patted him on the back before we entered the sanctuary.

Reverend Case began his service with the usual prayers, hymns, and Bible readings. But then he moved from behind the pulpit and spoke directly to the congregation without the burden of that barrier between us. In the sermon, his message was one of forgiveness and sympathy for our enemies.

“I hope we can be so great a nation that we choose charity in the face of victory.” He paused for reflection. “Sympathy over condemnation.”

It felt as if he were engaged in intimate conversation alone and with each one of us. “I hope that we may find love for the countrymen of our enemy.” Then he stood perfectly still. “The common man among our enemies may be more victim than we know.”

Graciousness against our enemies? In Denver, I had been more accustomed to dirty “Heine” jokes and “Jinx the Japs” rallies than to the substance of this talk.

At one point in the early years of the war, a game atmosphere had even prevailed.

Everyone had believed that the U.S. forces were obviously superior, that victory would be easy.

Bent on revenge for Pearl Harbor, we caricatured our enemy, attended parties and rallies, and held parades.

It was definitely a good-versus-evil thing, and we in the U.S.

were the good guys. But after years of it, I had grown weary of celebrations and children wearing cast-off uniforms and shooting toy guns.

And now, in this unlikely place, I was listening to words that mirrored my sentiments.

The difference between Reverend Case and the stern men of the pulpit I had known before was remarkable.

After the first years of the war, I never thought of celebrating victories in the same way that once I’d done it before.

With so much loss taken along the way, victories didn’t feel very triumphant anyway.

“Let us pray for the relief of all suffering, for comfort and prosperity for all, for the end to every skirmish, battle, and war in this world.”

“Amen,” we said together.

After the service ended, Reverend Case held me back in the sanctuary for a moment. With one of his gracious smiles, he said, “I’m so happy to see you again. How are you liking it here?”

I didn’t want to lie. “It’s peaceful.” But still, he looked concerned. “I enjoyed your sermon.”

He put one hand on my back and gave a soft pat. “You’re among friends here, Olivia.” Then he led me into the kitchen area, where we chatted with Martha, Hank, and the children.

Ray then introduced me to the infamous Mrs. Pratt, who indeed handed over a cake. She grinned and touched my sleeve. “What a wonderful thing that Ray has finally married.” Cake in hand, Ray headed for the door. Mrs. Pratt moved closer. “And how did you and Ray meet?”

In one instant, I knew why I hadn’t wanted to attend church.

My father planned to tell everyone in Denver that I had eloped.

During the war years, two people taking off together and marrying on the sly was a perfectly acceptable thing to do.

Rushed weddings happened every day, sometimes just hours before a soldier was shipping out.

Not until the baby came would people realize that I had to get married.

I said, “I eloped.”

Mrs. Pratt looked baffled. Then Ray was back at my side. “We met in Denver several months ago.”

“How romantic.” She was genuinely pleased. “I never knew you traveled to Denver,” she said to Ray, then winked.

Although a potluck was planned for noontime, we declined to stay, as Ray said he had another place he wished to take me. On the way home, he explained, “There’s a fishing hole nearby. Thought you might like to see it.”

Truthfully, I’d never liked fishing. Once my uncle had taken Abby, Bea, and me out to a pier on a lake, but after a few minutes of no bites, my sisters and I had abandoned our poles and gone off exploring in the woods on our own.

But anything would be an improvement over spending the rest of the day at the house.

So when Ray drove us home, we changed into denims and shirts, then headed out again.

At the edge of Holbrook Lake, Ray led me to an overturned rowboat.

He righted it and slipped the bow into the water, keeping the stern on shore so I could hop in without getting wet.

A minute or so later, he pushed us off. Ray dipped the oar on one side and then the other.

Soon we were in the center of the lake surrounded by dragonflies courting over the surface of the water.

“Middle of the day’s not the best time for fishing,” Ray said. “But maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Rimming the bank were stands of cottonwoods and fingery willows.

Pheasants prattled about in the branches near the ground, and in the top of the tallest tree, a bleached bone of spindly arms, I saw a tangled nest that could only have been home to something quite large, perhaps a hawk or an eagle.

Ray cast out a line and waited. I leaned back on the wooden slat that served as my seat and closed my eyes into the sunlight.

I had to admit it was restful here, on this pond.

“It’s nice,” I said to Ray without opening my eyes. “Thank you for bringing me.” And thank you for lying to Mrs. Pratt.

I could barely hear his voice over the sound of whirring dragonflies and tender licks of water against the sides of the boat. “Hoped you’d like it.”

I kicked off my sneakers in the bottom of the boat and fanned out my toes.

Later, I felt Ray shift his weight, then I heard him reeling in his line.

In the bright light outside my lids, I saw that he had caught something.

“Cutthroat,” Ray said as the fish flipped in the water at our side.

Ray lifted it into the air, where the creature began its struggle for life.

But I had to look away.

“Trout are good eating. And this one’s fair size.” I could hear him working on getting the hook out of its mouth.

“I don’t think I could eat anything I’ve seen breathing.”

“Well,” he said, still working. “Fish don’t really breathe.”

“I know. Gills instead of lungs.”

“Look,” Ray said.

I saw that he had removed the hook, that he was slowly sinking the trout back in the water.

He held that fish so gently in his large drum of a hand that it surprised me.

For a few seconds, he held on, letting the fish move within his hand.

He explained, “Got to let it get used to the feel of water on its gills again.” After a few more seconds he let it go.

“See, it’s okay. It’s swimming off now.”

I watched the silver shadow disappear into deeper water. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Ray took off his hat, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then replaced the hat. Looking off into the willows, he said, “Being out here is the point. Fishing is just...” He searched for the right word. “An excuse, I suspect.”

“Thanks for letting it go.”

“You bet.”

“I can’t fillet a fish anyway.”

“I can,” he said, nodding. “But it’s a heap of trouble.”

The surface of the lake became flat and still and solid as marble. I stretched out in the boat like a cat on a windowsill. To my surprise, I enjoyed this day. Ray was enjoying it, too, and that worried me more than being miserable.