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Briar

1942

T he mercury was hitting one hundred degrees and a storm was on the way, as I climbed to my post atop my favorite beetlebung tree to cool off and try to quell my anxiety about everything. I’d cleaned both Mr. Schmidt’s house and our whole cottage top to bottom with ammonia, swept the fireplaces clean, and warned Cadence that McManus might be preparing to show up. Our plan was to get Peter down to the boathouse once he woke, since he worked the farm at night and slept during the day.

But that worry was nothing compared to my fears about Tom. Why hadn’t he written? We’d heard little from the Army, just a form letter promising an update soon. I checked the casualty list every morning at the post office, but his name hadn’t shown up there. Talking to Cadence about it was no help, since she lay on the sofa like some lovesick Victorian on a fainting couch, probably reliving her swim with Major Gil the night before.

I’d heard Cadence tell Bess she’d gone swimming with Gil, which probably concluded in the boat cabin, since Bess had slept alone. If my sister wasn’t careful, she’d end up like Bess, sitting around the house in Gram’s old housecoat and throwing up every fifteen minutes, and blow her chance to go to New York City. Gil certainly wouldn’t be around much longer, with the war going on and whatever sneaky thing he was up to. She’d better get out of here soon, before McManus threw me in prison and tried to take the rest of them with me. He wouldn’t rest until he’d made his big score that sent him off to the land of fat cigars and Delmonico steaks. They might even blame Tom somehow.

I climbed to the highest branch and caught a cool breeze. I just felt closer to Tom up there, the sun high in the sky. Also, I could see if a car was coming with bad news. Before Gram went to the hospital, it had been hard to watch her at the window, waiting for someone to come down that drive, black Anglican prayer beads in her hand. And almost harder to see Scout at the front gate, at her post, waiting for Tom.

My gaze drifted to the rows of emerald potato plants in the upper field, Tom’s Burbanks. That morning, before dawn, Peter had snapped off a flower bud and opened it with his thumb. “Won’t be long now,” he said. “Two days. Maybe three. But we’ll need at least twenty men to harvest them.”

I counted the available hands. Cadence and me, with Bess driving the truck. Peter, if he could help load them at night. Margaret could put us over the finish line. The proceeds would help Gram get better. And maybe keep the lights on awhile longer.

Out on the sound, the wind was starting to whip up some whitecaps. Was the U-boat out there, watching and waiting for their spy? Just one more day to go. If Peter was even telling the truth.

I looked toward the white steeple of the Chilmark Methodist Church in the distance as the bell tolled once, on a limited schedule due to the war. We were lucky to even have a bell. Throughout Europe, so many had been taken by the Nazis and melted down.

I loved that I could see all the way out to the main road—a good slice of it, anyway—through the trees, to the farm stand at the head of our road, which Tom and I had painted ourselves.

A movement caught my eye. It was a car. Not Margaret’s, since she was at work. As it drove closer, I thought it might be the old Pontiac that I’d seen McManus around town in. I could see a man in the passenger seat. They turned onto our road, and I broke out in a cold sweat. It would take roughly six minutes for them to make it down Copper Pond Road and emerge from the woods at our house, depending on how concerned the driver was for his tires and how many potholes the car could take.

I scrambled down the tree, two branches at a time, and took my shortcut to the cottage, running like hell. I reached the front of the cottage and ducked inside.

I stepped out the front door as McManus pulled up and he and his minion got out.

“Hey,” I said with a wave.

McManus nodded toward the flowers along the fence. “Nice lilies. Hope you don’t mind us stopping by.”

I stayed on my side of the fence. “It’s not a good time, actually. My sister is sleeping.” Would Peter hear us and wake? Be smart enough to hide in the closet upstairs? They’d probably look everywhere.

“Oh,” McManus said, as he tried to see past me through the open front door. “Mind if we come in? Won’t disturb your sister.”

I stepped back toward the house, about to lose my lunch. “I’m not feeling well.” All at once, a second car came down the road and emerged from the woods, with two uniformed men in the front seat. They parked and exited the car, both wearing the white pants and shirt of the Coast Guard. They strode to us with that all-business military step. It was like it was happening to someone else, in slow motion, a newsreel maybe.

“I’m Lieutenant Kiligrew of the Coast Guard at Woods Hole, ma’am. Is there a Virginia Smith at home?”

I wrapped my arms around my waist. “Tom.”

How baby-faced the officer was, his pale cheeks flushed salmon pink. This was our notification team. They sent two in case a family member collapsed or went nuts and attacked them. We didn’t get the chaplain, though.

Captain McManus and his deputy started toward their car. “We’ll come back another time.”

I could barely speak. “Gram’s at the hospital,” I said to the coastguardsman. “I’m her granddaughter.”

“Full name, please, miss?” he asked.

“Briar Rose Smith.”

“If you don’t mind, Miss Smith, I’d like to come in.”