The Orr House Tennant

The ORR HOUSE TENNANT

An Extended Short Story

THE POW

The German soldier expected they would find him on the beach. Or, it could be the other way. He would find them. If an English voice called, “Halt!” he’d stop and raise his hands. If it sounded like a Frenchman, he’d run. He’d run into the English Channel, hoping he’d be deep enough when they shot him, hoping he’d be underwater when he gasped for air one last time.

The English found him first, and he was glad. They took him to a rock hut buried among the brush at the edge of a line of ancient granite ledges. Piled rocks and raw timbers – it was probably not the first time the hut had been used by a military unit.

The English lieutenant looked up when the prisoner was shoved into the hideout. For a moment, the officer stared at him, surprised and curious. “Well, well,” he finally said. “Does he speak English?”

The German prisoner gave the response himself, “Yes, I do.” The lieutenant seemed more interested than puzzled. The German spoke again. “Yes, sir. I do.” And, in an accented voice, he gave a bow to the lieutenant. “I surrender to the English.”

“I haven’t got time for you.” Still looking at the German, the lieutenant went on. “Tie him down.” He jerked his thumb toward a dark corner in the damp hut. “Get him back there. Gag him.” He turned back to his work and, in an almost whisper, “If we have room, we’ll take him. Else, the damn French can have him.”

The prisoner looked over his shoulder as he was pushed. “Sir, if you can’t take me, I ask … .”

The barrel of a rifle stabbed into his back. “You don’t ask for a bloody thing!”

He called to the lieutenant anyway, “Sir. Instead of the French, I ask for a bullet.”

The lieutenant snorted as he looked up from his maps. “What’s the matter? You don’t like the French? Or, maybe they don’t like you.”

The English didn’t have any ropes, so they cut up the prisoner’s shirt and bound his wrists and ankles with cloth strips. His boots were yanked off and one of his socks stuffed into his mouth. A long strip cut off his shirt was wrapped around his head, holding the sock in place, ripping his lips. He gagged as he tried to thrust the sock to the front of his mouth, scared that he might retch, scared that he might choke on his own sock.

In the dim light of the hut, he watched them eat. They didn’t ask if he wanted food.

They didn’t ask if he wanted water, either. He did.

They didn’t ask if he needed to piss. After a while, he did. It didn’t matter. No one paid attention. The hut was stinking already.

They did pay attention when there was a knock on the door and an older English soldier with two French peasants walked in. None of them were fooled by the country garb the Frenchmen were wearing. These peasants weren’t peasants at all. They were partisans in the French Resistance.

In a quick glance about the hut, the tall Frenchman spotted the prisoner, tied and gagged, sitting in a corner, wearing only pants, one sock, and a small, gold cross hanging around his neck. There was a slight nod of acknowledgement.

The German took note that neither of the two Frenchmen smiled as they spotted him. They looked angry. He figured he had given them good reason to be angry. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted more than their anger. And he knew they wanted more than his.

It was an involuntary move, certainly not the first time the prisoner had pulled on the rags. The bonds had not loosened the other times, and they didn’t this time either. If they had, he would have gladly given his life to get at the tall Frenchman.

First, the French would give the English information. Then, he’d figured they’d ask to take him. They would say they wanted to interrogate him. That request would be a lie. He had heard them extract information from the others. It would not be information they wanted from him. They wanted revenge.

A map was spread over the single table in the hut. The interpreter and the lieutenant hunched over the map in the dim light. Not the taller Frenchman. He hardly looked at the map. He growled instructions, glaring at the prisoner from time to time.

Eventually, the English lieutenant straightened and nodded to the taller Frenchman. He spoke to the interpreter while extending his hand to the other. “Please express to Captain Pendre the appreciation of the Allied Forces, and also my personal thanks.”

The interpreter turned to the captain. “L’anglais merci de nous.”

The French Captain reached into his pack and brought out two bottles of wine. “Dites aux anglais que nous avons apporté deux bouteilles de bon vin. Nous souhaiterions en échange un cadeau de lui, à titre de remerciement.”

“Sir, Captain Pendre brings for you two bottles of wine, and asks for a gift from you.”

` The lieutenant laughed. “Please thank Pendre. Tell him I have cigarettes I can offer.”

“Il a des cigarettes.”

The captain shook his head. “Ce n’est pas ce que nous désirons.”

“He does not want your cigarettes.”

The French captain pointed to the prisoner. “Nous voulons le prisonnier assis dans le coin.”

“He wants the murderer who is sitting in the corner. We will get more information for you.”

The lieutenant frowned and turned to his prisoner. “He wants you?” He turned back to the French and, trying to understand this request, said what he thought was obvious, “He is my prisoner.”

Pendre put his hands on the table and leaned toward the lieutenant. “Cet homme est un espion et un assassin. Il a été capturé en France. Il a tué plusieurs de mes compatriotes. Je vous demande me le confier, afin qu'il puisse être jugé par le droit français.”

The interpreter translated what Captain Pendre had said. “He is a spy. He murdered civilians. French law will execute him after he is examined.”

The prisoner listened and watched as the lieutenant turned to him again. The lieutenant was frowning. He didn’t like what the captain was suggesting. “You want me to give up a POW for execution. I won’t do that. He is my prisoner.”

The captain’s voice was raised. “Ce n'est pas un prisonnier de guerre. C’est un assassin!”

The interpreter conveyed the captain’s anger. “He is not a POW. He is a murderer of French civilians.”

The prisoner lowered his head, refusing to listen to his enemies bargain over who would be his executioner. With the English, it might be quick. Not with the French. Even more, not with this Frenchman. This, the prisoner knew.

The English lieutenant continued to look at his prisoner as he gave his answer. “He is a German soldier captured in uniform. Now, he is a prisoner of war and under control of this English unit. He will be treated accordingly.”

“L’anglais ne sait pas que cette pourriture, assise sur son cul, a prévu de donner la position de cette maison à l'artillerie allemande. Peut-être que je le ferai moi-même.”

“The German is a spy. He may have radioed the location of this house.” The interpreter did not repeat the threat his captain had made.

The lieutenant stepped between the Frenchmen and the German prisoner. “Thank you for all the information you have given us.”

The tall Frenchman and his interpreter scowled, turned, and walked to the door. The French captain paused before leaving. He spoke directly to the prisoner. “Toi, l’espion allemand, ton frère a pleuré, avant de me donner tous les renseignements que je lui ai demandé de me fournir. Il pensait que tu reviendrais pour lui. J’espère que tu vivras assez longtemps avec remords, sachant combien il a pleuré pour ton retour. Maintenant, ce sont les vers de terre qui s’en régalent.”

The prisoner did not raise his head. He did not want to hear how his young brother had cried.

The English lieutenant walked to the door of the hut to watch the Frenchmen leave. When he looked back into the room, his voice was sharp, “Get us packed.”

The sergeant jumped to attention and saluted, “Yes, sir.” The German prisoner understood. The English officer knew what the French were saying. He, too, spoke French.

The lieutenant pointed back toward the prisoner. “Take out his gag.”

The German spit when the gag was removed. He watched as maps were being folded and boxes closed. The lieutenant had continued marking one map, but finally stood. “Take it.” He pushed the map away.

The lieutenant turned to the German. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Oui.”

“Then, you heard all that.”

“Also, you.”

“He was bloody unhappy, you know. With both of us.”

The German said nothing.

“We were getting along fine until I refused to give you to him.”

The German shrugged. “What did you do?”

Without raising his head, the German’s eyes turned up toward the English lieutenant. “You want more than he told you?”

“Did you murder French civilians?”

“There were four of us.” The German took a deep breath. “The French … . They were French dogs, not civilians. Someone told them, told them we were coming. How do you say? I swear? He said we would be tried in a court. Nein! There were no French courts of law to order what he did. I know.” The prisoner paused. He looked to the ground for a moment. His eyes were glistening when he looked up. “I heard what they did to get answers. The dog wanted me to hear.” His voice was firmer when he continued. “I knew we best try to get gone … to go before there were only two.” He paused, again. The lieutenant waited. “I was the one … the one who … . How do you say? Escape? Yes, escaped. My brother and another … they were left. Also, the one they were killing. Not with quick. You heard what they did to my brother. All three, they were hung at the edge of the woods.”

“The French don’t do that.”

The German glared at the lieutenant.

“So you went back?”

“I knew they would wait for me. They left three to take me. Instead, they will bury those three. Not my brother. I had to go, to leave him hanging.” He looked up at the lieutenant. “You will use my confession to hang me in your English prison?”

“I should have let them have you. Pendre is so bloody angry with me that he threatens to reveal this location.” The English lieutenant turned back to his table. He yelled to one of the soldiers. “Come back for the German. Cut his bloody throat if he gives any trouble.” Then the lieutenant looked back to his prisoner. “Don’t push your luck any further. You won’t escape from us. I tell you this, allemand, I don’t like you. If the Channel is rough and we have to lighten the boat, you go first. Do you need me to say that to you in French? In German, if you prefer.”

The German lowered his head again. It was only a whisper, “Nein.”

IN THE ORR HOUSE

He had told Jesse Moreland’s oldest son that he was running to Mobile, that his mama was dying and that he was going to be with her. He asked for food. It was Jesse Moreland herself who brought the bucket of food.

“Don’t no tramps be coming back here in these woods. I don’t like you coming in here, asking for food. And I’m telling you: I don’t want you to be staying ‘round here getting my boys in no trouble. There’s a house further up yonder, through the woods, and across the creek. You take these fixings and git on up there. I don’t be expecting to see you ‘round here no more. Now, jest git on and leave me and my boys alone. Yes, sir.”

The tramp thanked her, promising to leave the next morning, promising never to tell that she and her boys had given him food.

He had lost track of how long he had been traveling, moving on back roads, stealing what he could. He was never greedy, hoping that what little he took would not be missed, would not give any indication that he had been there.

Tomorrow, after the sun was up, he would look for that creek in the woods, and he’d follow it until it came to a river. The river would provide him food and shelter until he could decide what to do. For now, he needed a place to rest even if the rest would be only a few hours. He didn’t recognize all the foods in the bucket, but that didn’t matter. When the bucket was empty, he stripped naked and rolled the shirt and pants into a pillow. He lay, exhausted onto the floor. Sleep came quickly.

It was a little before mid-day when he heard the noise. His head and shoulders jerked off the floor as he rolled and sat up. His face turned following the sound as it rounded the side of the house.

Ein Auto? Nein! He listened. Ein Lastwagen.

He reached for the knife. His fingers trembled as he tied the scabbard around his naked leg. One cord just above his knee, the other midway up his thigh.

The truck motor went silent. So did the crickets.

Nur ein Lastwagen!

With the slow and precise movements of a cat about to pounce, he reached for his pants. He had cut a small slit in the leg of the pants, small enough to hide the blade, large enough that he could grab the handle. The blade was sharp, so sharp that it would slice its way through the cloth on its way to … to whatever he had time for.

Still sitting, he pulled the pants over his legs. He grimaced when they scraped across the abrasions on his knees.

Scheiss!

All they would take away would be a body. They’d have more than one body to carry if he could be fast enough. He promised that.

It would have been so easy. Just call, he had begged. He had begged the English, and then he had begged the Americans. He begged the Americans in England and when they were about to board him onto the troop ship sailing to America. He tried to tell them when he and the others were being loaded onto the train. He practiced saying it over and over while sitting in the railcar with blackened windows.

“In Boston, I have an American cousin. In Boston, I have an American cousin.”

The train stopped many times. On the third day, American soldiers entered at the front and rear of the coach. He whispered to the others what the American soldiers said. And then, they were unloaded.

“In Boston, I have an American cousin.”

He didn’t expect that the old man who slapped him would soon forget that hitting this prisoner was a mistake. And maybe the guard will hit harder next time.

He coiled into a ball while the American military police beat him. Not soon enough, an American officer came and ordered that he be drug away, separated from the other prisoners. That was their second mistake. He had no intention of dying in America the way he had seen the separated prisoners die in Deutschland. He had a will to live, not lie and waste away, waiting for a bullet or the gas. He knew that if they took him again, they would be harsher. Maybe this time, they would finish what the French had planned, what the French had done to his comrades. He would not submit meekly like those others, dragging on the inevitable. He’d rather get it over.

He heard the truck door slam.

Nur einer?

He listened as he uncoiled off the floor and pulled the pants over his hips, over the bruises. He had the pants buttoned and was easing the shirt over the scabs before he heard the steps on the porch.

Nur einer!

If others were waiting, they would have at least two to carry away. More, if they are close. He listened for the cocking of rifles.

He touched his forehead. In the name of the Father, the son … .

The door of the old Orr House scraped across the floor as it was pushed open. He heard her step into these remains of what was once been a farm house.

VAGRANT INTRUDER

Betsy tensed when he stepped out the door of the side room. Later that night, she wondered why she didn’t just turn and run. Except, she didn’t. She stood there speechless, staring at him.

He was barefooted. It wasn’t denim pants. What he was wearing was cheaper looking than that. Faded and, if not dirty, then stained. She knew grass stains from her boy’s play clothes. It was that kind of stain. Grass stains. The unbuttoned shirt was made of the same dirty blue cloth. Stains were under each arm. She knew sweat, too. His face was skinny with cheek bones poking out through the heavy blond beard. His hair was hanging low on his forehead and over his ears. And, a small golden cross hung in the middle of his chest.

“Who are you? And, what are you doing in this house?” She was surprised to hear her voice. It sounded like she was angry, more angry than scared. But that was wrong. He scared her.

His voice was strange, not like people she knew. It was gentle, maybe he was a little scared himself. “Hello.” He nodded, then turned his head and pointed back into the room from where he had come. “I stop. For rest. Here. It was quiet. I did not … ;”

“Who said you could stop here, breaking into my house?” Betsy interrupted.

He took a step further into the hallway as he buttoned his shirt.

Betsy reached for the doorknob and looked back at how far away the truck was.

He saw this and understood. “Madam, please. I go out the back door if I make you afraid.” Without turning, he pointed toward the door behind him. “I go away if you wish that to be, if you wish for me to leave.”

Betsy frowned, puzzled. “You aren’t from around here.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, he smiled. It was a smile that a boy would make, a boy who had been caught in a mischievous act. He spread his arms, palms out. “How I look? This tells you? No? I think not. I talk different. Not like your soft way of speaking.”

“Don’t you be smart with me! My husband will tear you apart. What are you doing here, in my house?” She paused, looked back at the truck.

“Your house? No, not this place. No. Your husband makes a nice house for you.” He paused. “Ah, I see. Your house, not your home. It is different, yes? Yes. I see.”

A low chuckle rattled in his throat as he ran his hands through his bushy, unkempt hair. “I am from,” his head rocked from side to side as he formed an answer. “ … from Boston. Yes. Up north. I go to New Orleans.” He looked back over his shoulder and pointed behind him. “Before … Selma.”

She cocked her head, wondering. “Boston? And, sleeping in a shack out in these woods?”

He smiled that smile again. He seemed to know that she wasn’t believing anything he was saying. “If I move over in the corner and sit, will you stop thinking on running to your … the truck, yes?”

She watched him walk over to the farthest corner of the hallway. He wasn’t smooth like Jerry. Instead, his body seemed more like a collection of knots and ropes twisting beneath his wrinkled clothes. And, younger.

He watched her, too. He watched her as he walked to the corner, and he smiled that boyish smile.

“You’re running, aren’t you?” Betsy still held the doorknob.

“Running? Running away? Yes. That’s right. I am running away.”

“Are you a deserter?”

“A deserter? You mean from the army?” That smile again. “Yes, a deserter from being a soldier.” He nodded, but Betsy thought it was a tentative nod. He leaned against the wall and slid down onto the floor, his bare feet out in front of him. “You feel okay, now? Okay, yes?”

“We don’t like deserters around here.” She waited, considering. Finally, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I ask you that, Madam. What are you going to do?”

For a moment, Betsy’s eyes shifted over this young man. He was a deserter, and hiding on her farm. Something bothered her about his smile. About his story, too. Somehow, she figured that there was trouble with this boy. But she made a decision. “How old are you, anyway? My instinct is to turn you over to the police if you’re really a stinking deserter.” She paused to see if he responded. He didn’t. “There is something else. The other side.” She paused again. Maybe it was a mistake. “I need a tractor driver.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Madam? You need … a driver?” He paused, then, “Where to drive?”

“Here,” she nodded.

“Drive here? Not your husband?”

“My husband?” She paused, deciding. Finally, she sighed. “He’s not here. He’s in the navy and in California right now. He’s doing what you’re running from. My husband … he’s doing his duty! But if he had found you here and learned that you’re deserting the army, he’d knock your teeth out when he rammed his rifle down your throat. And, then, he’d pull the trigger.”

The man’s head tilted to the side. “But, madam, he is not here. And, you will not choose to do that, to knock my teeth out. No. You will use me, instead.” There was a pause. “To drive.”

Betsy’s eyes narrowed. “A tractor. Do you understand? You might could be my tractor driver.” She released the doorknob and put her hands on her hips. She decided that he was just an awkward boy. He dared not bother her. He was in enough trouble. She would use him for the hardest work, and then send him off. “Listen to me. Number one: don’t you ever try to get close to me. You hear that? Never! Number two: If you’re going to work for me, it’s going to be hard and you need to start now. I have a dozen sacks of fertilizer out there on the back of the truck. If you want to stop running with your tail between your legs, you can start by stacking the fertilizer in the room across the hall from where you’re bedding.”

“I can be your man?”

“Don’t you dare misunderstand me. You can be my laborer.”

“Laborer? Worker. For food?”

“I smelled food when I opened the door. Where’d you get that?”

“The family over the field, they fed me.”

“Jesse Moreland? Over in the tenant house? Jesse gave you something to eat?” She paused, considering. “I’ll bring her a sack of groceries, or take her to the store. But, let me warn you. Sometimes, people will drive out to see how I’m doing, to see if my farm is going broke.” She paused, looked back into the fields. Then turned back to him. “They’ll be hoping I’ll fail so that they can take my farm. If they find you here, they’ll turn you in.” Betsy turned and looked out again. She was quieter when she turned back. “Or, maybe just string you up out there in the woods.”

“String me up?”

“Hang you by your neck!”

He nodded. “They do not like me being a deserter?” And, then he smiled that smile again. “Maybe they do not like me being your man.”

She wondered if he thought this was some joke. “I told you. Don’t misunderstand! You will be my hired hand. My worker. You cause me any trouble and all I have to do is hint that I found a deserter out on my farm. Before they were finished with you, you’d be begging to be sent to the front lines.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s get started. Get the truck unloaded.”

For the next few minutes, Betsy stood at the end of the porch, watching as the deserter carried the fertilizer into the house. He would pick a sack up and place it on his shoulder. He watched her as he walked up the steps and into the house. The porch shook as he dropped each sack onto the floor inside the house.

The deserter’s shirt was wet from the perspiration before he quit. He took the last sack into the house and stepped back onto the porch. For a moment, he leaned against the door frame.

Betsy stood with her arms folded, waiting. It was a moment before he understood. He nodded, smiled, and turned away from her. She waited while he walked to the opposite end of the porch. Only then did she walk to the steps and out to the truck. After she had shut the truck door, she rolled down the window.

“What do I call you?”

“Call me? Ah, yes. I am Andrew.”

“Andrew?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell the family across the way that you’re my tractor driver, and that you are to live here. I’ll tell them that I’ll pay for your food.”

“Madam. And, your name, please.”

“Mrs. Phillips.”

“Mrs. Phillips, before you go … .”

“Yes?”

“Did your family have slaves for working one hundred years before now?”

Betsy frowned as she looked back at the deserter. “A century ago? Probably.” She shook the gear shift making sure it was in neutral, and put her foot on the starter. “Look, buddy. If you don’t like working for me, you know where you can go.” Betsy started the truck. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. We’ll start work.”

As she drove away, she worried aloud, “I hope I’m not making a mistake.”

A TRACTOR DRIVER

Betsy came back later that day. It wasn’t yet dark. She stopped the truck in front of the old Orr house and lowered the window. There was no sound. Maybe he was gone.

She blew the truck’s horn.

The door scraped across the floor as it was pulled opened. She saw Andrew standing in the darkness of the house. He was barefooted and struggling to button his pants. His shirt was thrown over his shoulder.

Betsy didn’t speak.

The deserter stepped to the edge of the porch, still pulling on his shirt. “You are back. It is not morning, yes?”

Betsy’s voice was firm. “Where did you learn English?”

The deserter ran his hand through his hair, looked out toward the woods, and then back at Betsy. That’s when he saw the barrel of the rifle protruding out the truck’s open window. “So.”

“English, Andrew? Or, whatever your name is. Where did you learn English?”

“My mother was American. I was in Boston three summers. I was a boy. On Sundays, my mother would only speak English so that I would learn. My father did it with her. For her, you would say.”

“You were in the German Army?”

“How did you learn this?”

“Headlines. Selma Times Journal this afternoon. Your picture is right there on the front page.”

“I was captured. Me and three others. The French Resistance. We were north of Paris. The French took us as their prisoners, but had no place. I slipped away.” He looked down at the ground. His eyes were squinting when he looked up. “They hung the others because I ran. Left them hanging at the edge of a field.” He ran his hands through his hair again. “One was … .” His voice broke. In a moment, he spoke again. “I looked to let the English find me. Not the French. The English … they gave me to the Americans. I was brought to America with others. A train brought us to Alabama. Aliceville, I think.”

“You lied to me.”

He turned away from her and walked to the other end of the porch.

Betsy’s voice was hard, “You try to run and I will shoot you dead before you take three steps!”

Andrew turned back to her. He shook his head. “You did not want to know I lied. You need a driver.”

For a while, the two of them waited silently.

“I will not go back to a work prison. I have seen prisons. I cannot go there to starve. Better here to die, even by you, than in prison.” He waved toward the woods below the house. “Either you will … . How do you say? … String me up? In the woods? Or, you will shoot me.” He jumped off the end of the porch.

Betsy raised the rifle, ready to fire.

“Here. Do not break my teeth pushing your rifle down my throat.” He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the gold cross aside, and tapped his chest with both hands. “One bullet. Here.” He tapped his chest again. “It will take only one. I will watch. Ja?” He looked down at his chest and, with his head still bowed, called out, “Nicht jetzt?”

Andrew looked up and watched. She pushed the rifle further out the window, the barrel pointing. A spit of fire, the crack of an exploding shell, and his chest would burst inward. Maybe she would see his crushed bones; maybe she would see his hurt before his brain stopped.

His head! She could shoot him in the head.

His elbows were flared. His clinched fists were pulling his shirt open, exposing his chest, making it easy. The bullet would be where the cross had been, in the middle, where the muscles met. His head bowed again. Waiting.

She saw his lips moving. Oh, God! He was praying. In German? Betsy frowned. Her voice was quieter than it had been, almost a whisper. “You are Catholic?” And then, she whispered one word, “Bartoli.”

He looked up at her, wondering. His hands fell to his side. Their eyes met. He nodded.

It seemed longer than it was. He waited, and she decided.

Betsy pulled the rifle back into the truck.

Her voice was quiet again. “I’m probably making a mistake.” She sat staring at Andrew. “Only God knows why, but I’m going to trust you. That’s all. Maybe, you are … .” She stopped, not knowing how to finish the sentence. “I do need you. I’ve told you already: don’t you ever try to get close to me.” She looked over the steering wheel toward the woods below the house. “I’ve got to hold onto this farm and, now, I’ve got to worry about you.” Betsy turned back to Andrew. “I have two sons depending on me. I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to get my boys ready for school tomorrow. It is too much. But I can’t shoot you now. Maybe, later.”

When Betsy had looked back at Andrew, she was surprised to see the streak of a tear on his face. His chest had been heaving as though he had been holding his breath. For a while they both waited, appraising. She broke the silence again. “I’ll bring you some … some things, some of my husband’s clothes. Some food. I’ll be back when the sun comes up.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Phillips.”

She turned the key to the truck and then looked back to him. “What’s your real name?”

“Andreas.”

“Andreas?”

“Yes. Andreas Maria Schenk Graf Tresckow.” He smiled and, with a small tilt of his head, bowed to Betsy.

She shook her head. “You won’t need all that. You’re just Andrew while you’re working for me.”

He nodded. “Ich verstehe. Und, Frau Phillips?”

She started the truck engine. “What?”

“Haben Sie ein tracktor?”

Betsy looked over at Andrew. She didn’t answer him at first. Rather, she pushed in the clutch and looked down at the gear shift by her right knee. It took a moment of struggling to get the truck into gear. She was trembling when she turned back to Andrew. “You ask about my tractor? Yes. I have a tractor. A working tractor. And you’d better believe me: you’re going to get to know it very well.”

The truck jerked as she let off the clutch. It lurched across the front yard and around the side of the house.

GET TO WORK

Andrew was sitting on the steps the next morning. He was wearing the same clothes, except, now, he was wearing shoes. He stood and stepped toward the truck. “Good Morning, Mrs. Phillips.”

It was a moment before she answered. “Good morning, Andrew, or Andreas.” He smiled as she looked him over, his head barely rocking side to side as though a tune was playing somewhere beneath that blond mop. “Anybody with just a little sense would know that what you have on are prison clothes.” She threw a sack out the truck window. “Get these on.”

He had a big grin on his face. “Your husband’s? Yes? I will measure him.”

“You’ll need work boots. No remarks about size.” She threw the boots on the ground near his feet. “They issue you underclothes?”

“No, Madam.”

“I figured.” She threw out another sack. “And, when you’re dressed, look in the back.” She jerked her hand toward the back of the truck. “Some food and stuff to eat it with.”

He gave a low bow.

“How old are you”

“Old? Years. Zwanzig. No. I mean twenty. Twenty years old.”

Betsy nodded. “That beginnings of a yellow beard told me you’re not still a boy,” she whispered. Then, “Get dressed and let’s get to work.”

He came out wearing Jerry’s overalls and a shirt. The overall’s legs were too short and the waist too big. The clothes would do for today. The next time she went to Selma, she would buy him pants and a belt. A shirt, too.

Betsy didn’t open the truck door. Rather, she called through the open window. “We’ll need four sacks of fertilizer this morning. The sun’s going to be up soon. Throw the sacks in the back and hop on.”

She watched as he made two trips taking in the food she had brought and bringing fertilizer sacks from the house, one on each hip. As he threw the last two onto the bed of the truck, he turned, sat on the wooden truck bed and, reaching out both arms, held onto the sides of the truck. He sat, looking toward the woods. waiting for her to start the truck.

They followed the dirt road that circled the field behind the old Orr house. Betsy watched in the mirror as Andrew looked toward the neglected Orr family cemetery in the middle of the field. He might have walked there before she found him the previous day. The graves were conspicuous with the two oak trees, a long-leaf pine, and a black cherry tree standing as corner markers.

If things worked as she planned, that small cemetery would be surrounded by sprouting corn before a month had passed.

As she came back to the main dirt road through the Phillips farm, she turned left and headed toward Jesse Moreland’s house. Smoke was curling out of one of the two chimneys. A fire in the stove wasn’t for warmth. The smoke meant breakfast had been cooked and the family was ready for work.

As she approached, she saw three of Jesse’s grandchildren playing in the yard. Two of Jesse’s sons stepped onto the porch as the truck pulled up. Betsy watched Andrew slide off the back of the truck. She leaned forward to watch him walking up to the porch. Andrew extended his hand and greeted each of the two boys. Betsy couldn’t hear what they said, but she knew this wasn’t a first meeting.

One of the sons walked back into the house as she was getting out of the truck. He and another – the youngest of the three – came back while Betsy was walking up to the house. The youngest handed Andrew a cup. Coffee, she figured. She heard Andrew’s whispered thanks.

It was coffee. She could smell it. “Good morning,” she called. “You all ready to get these fields planted?”

“Good morning, ma’am.” The older son spoke for the three. The other boys nodded. And, they were grinning as they looked from her to Andrew.

“He’s going to be my tractor driver.”

It was the older son who responded again. “Yes ma’am. I figure we be needing somebody.”

“We’re going to get the planting done one way or another.”

“He know how to crank that old tractor?”

“You have watched me crank that tractor the last three times it was cranked. I’ll teach him. Don’t you be worrying about that.”

“No, ma’am.”

“What you need to be worrying about is getting the mules helping with the bottom land.”

“Yes, ma’am. They’ll be doing that.”

Andrew was nodding his head and looking back and forth between Jesse’s sons and Betsy. She was going to ignore the amusement she saw in his face.

“Jerry said to plant corn when the oak leaf was the size of a squirrel’s foot.” She nodded toward the tree beside the Moreland’s home. “It’s a little early, but we’re going to do it. We need to plant corn in the bottom first. You all can do that with your mules, can’t you?”

The older one nodded. “Yes ‘em. Them mules have been working these fields since before I knew how to handle ‘em. They’ve done come to know me. And, I know them. They do what I say. Yes, ma’am.” He laughed, and nodded toward his brothers.

“Yes, ma’am,” they were agreeing.

“I guess that’s good.” Betsy looked from one to the other, waiting to see if there was more to be said about the mules. “Okay, then. We’ll drive down to the bottom and leave the fertilizer. That’ll be waiting for you when you get down there with your mules.”

She nodded toward Andrew. “Andrew and I are going to get things going up here.” The oldest son nodded. Andrew was watching Betsy. “I’m going to get him making rows up here in the cemetery field. Jerry said that’d be most of the corn we needed to plant. It ought to take five days to get all that done. That’s what Jerry said. ‘Course, he didn’t know I was gonna have a tractor driver.” She turned to Andrew. “Maybe I am.”

Andrew took a sip of coffee, watching her over the top of the cup. His eyes laughed like Jerry’s used to.

“We’ll work a half day Saturday. I’ll pay when we quit Saturday afternoon. I’d like us to be finished with corn a week from today.”

Jesse’s sons looked from one to the other. The older nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“Let’s get at it.” Betsy turned and was about to leave when Jesse Moreland stepped out onto the porch.

“Miss Betsy?” Jesse was wiping her hands on her apron.

“Yes, Jesse.”

“We don’t want to be getting in no trouble about this white boy living up there in that old house.”

Betsy looked over at Andrew. “He’s my responsibility. Anything happen, anybody finds him, tell ‘em I put him there. He’s my tractor driver. That’s all you need to know.”

“Is he gonna be feeding his self, or coming down here eating on our back porch?”

Betsy turned to Andrew. “I don’t know if you’re worth the trouble, Andrew.”

He shrugged.

She shook her head and turned back to Jesse. “I’m going to take you grocery shopping at Bartoli’s Saturday afternoon. We’ll buy him some food, and fix a way for him to eat without bothering you all.”

“I appreciate that, Miss Betsy. I do.” She looked at her boys. “We all do.” Her sons were nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s get started.”

It took a bit of time to show Andrew how to make the tractor work. How to start it was first. Then, he drove it back and forth in front of Jesse’s house. Satisfied, she had Andrew to back the tractor up to the plow. “Follow me.” And they went back to the field closer to the Orr house. She had him walk beside her as she plowed the first three rows, watching how she did it.

“Think you’ve got it?” she pulled back on the throttle at the end of the third row and slid down.

“Jawohl!” was his answer. She had to smile as she saw how easily he jumped up onto the tractor. Even Jerry wasn’t that quick

Betsy walked with him as he made five rows beside her first three. With each pass, he got better. Finally, she waved for him to stop. “Okay, you’re on your own.”

“What?” he yelled back over the noise of roaring tractor.

“Go! Get busy!” she yelled and waved her hand.

He nodded, turned the tractor, and waved as he started making the sixth row. Betsy watched with her hands on her hips. She nodded, pleased. When he had finished four more, she stopped him again. She told him it was good and that she was going down in the bottom to see how the others were doing with the mules.

That’s what she did. It was spring and planting the fields had begun! Betsy felt hope. With God’s help, she could do this. She would do this!

Betsy took Andrew books the next day: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and Gone with the Wind. She also took him some boards, as well as tools for him to make shelves for storing the canned meats and vegetables she bought for him. She took him either a loaf of bread or a half recipe of cornbread every morning. Each morning, they planned the day standing around Jesse’s porch while Andrew sipped a cup of Jesse Moreland’s coffee.

On Saturday, Betsy took Jesse into town to buy groceries. Stephan Bartoli, the store owner, asked about the planting while she and Jesse were shopping. He said he wanted to see how her work was going. Betsy asked him to wait until the next Friday afternoon. Give her another week. Betsy said she’d meet Bartoli at Jesse’s house on Friday after stores closed. Her two boys would be with her.

Jesse ordered an extra sack of coffee and brought a metal pot to the counter. Betsy frowned as she saw the extra coffee and pot with the groceries. She said nothing until they were in the truck alone.

“I don’t want smoke coming out of the Orr house, Jesse.”

Jesse didn’t look at Betsy when she replied. “No, ma’am. I ‘speck you don’t. And, I don’t want no white boy what’s in trouble hanging ‘round my house.”

They rode in silence for a while. Then, Jesse spoke again. “He’s got him a place.”

“To cook, you mean?” Betsy asked.

Jesse grunted agreement.

“I don’t want him burning down my woods.”

“I told him that.”

Betsy looked over at Jesse. Jesse was looking out the other window.

A HAIR CUT

It started raining Saturday night and into Sunday morning. Betsy thought that was good. It rained again on Tuesday, so they got behind in their schedule. Nevertheless, all the corn planting was finished by Thursday afternoon.

Late that afternoon, Betsy watched as Andrew drove the tractor into the shed behind Jesse’s house. She reached over and opened the passenger side door of the truck cab. At first, he hesitated. He’d always ridden in the back of the truck. Finally, he shrugged and got in. Neither of them spoke as she took him toward the old Orr house. Or as he got out. He was walking toward the porch when she stopped him.

“Andrew, we’re not working tomorrow.”

Andrew turned back to her and nodded. “Holiday?”

“I’m bringing my scissors to cut your hair tomorrow morning.”

He ran his hands through his tousled, blond hair.

“Mr. Bartoli is the man who sells me seed and fertilizer. He wants to see what we’ve done. He thinks the planting was Jesse Moreland’s boys and me. I told him to come late tomorrow afternoon.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“It’d be best if you are out in the woods. Leave the door to the house open so it will look unoccupied.”

“You cut my hair in the morning and a visitor looks at what we’ve done in the afternoon. What about Saturday?”

“I’ll buy your groceries and bring them to you.”

“I need some … some Seife … body wash.”

“Body wash?” A smile spread over her face. “You mean soap.”

“Yes, soap. Soap for me and my clothes.”

“Okay.”

He stood watching her.

She looked out the front of the truck and then back to him. “It was a good week.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll bring a razor for you.”

“A razor?” He ran his hand over his beard. “Und, ein Spiegel. How do you call it? A looking-glass?”

“Looking glass? Oh, you’re thinking of Alice in Wonderland. Looking glass is mirror.”

“Yes. Mirror. You will bring a mirror, or will you … will you do that? You know, shave my face?” He ran his hands over his beard again. “Shave me every day?”

She smiled, shook her head, started the truck, and drove away.

The next morning, Betsy was surprised to see Andrew standing out in the Orr Family cemetery. She paused at the place where the road was closest, and waited as he walked toward the truck.

“Good morning, Mrs. Phillips.”

“Morning, Andrew. Were you paying homage to the family whose house you are occupying?”

“Walking.”

“Just walking? You’ve got time for that? I haven’t given you enough to do. Hop in the back. I’ve got scissors.”

She watched him in the rear-view mirror. He paused before turning to sit, taking note of the stool lying on its side near the cab of the truck.

When she stopped in front of the Orr house, he reached for the stool. “For me?”

“Yes. Put it in a corner in the house, out of sight. And, the box,” she nodded toward the back of the truck, “It has a razor, mirror, and some food for you for the weekend.”

Andrew reached into the truck, opened the flap on the cardboard box and looked in. He smiled, nodded, and turned to Betsy. “Thank you,” he said.

She got out of the truck and walked over to the shade of the pecan tree. “After you take the box to your room, bring the stool,” she called to him. She waited while he took the box and came back with the stool in his hand, she nodded and snipped the scissors several times. “Now, sit.”

Andrew grinned and, as he sat, looked over his shoulder. “You know how to cut hair?”

“Of course. For my husband and my boys.” She ran her hand through his hair. “You are wet.”

“Yes. I washed in the creek.”

“I haven’t brought you a towel.”

He shrugged and looked back over his shoulder. “Mrs. Phillips. I ask that you not cut my hair like a prisoner. I have seen them. Shaved heads to prevent bugs. Lice, I think. Heads are shaved to prevent lice they are told, and then there are baths. That’s what they say. Only … .”

Betsy waited. “Only what, Andrew?”

He didn’t respond.

In a moment, she shrugged. “I’ll do a good job. You’ll see. You should take off your shirt.”

Without turning, he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it over his head, and threw it on the ground.

Betsy stepped back. “Good heavens, Andrew! Who beat you?”

He did not turn. He spoke slowly, quietly. “The American soldiers. I told them my mother is American. One called her a dog. But, not that word. Another word. A woman dog is what he called her. With my head, I knocked him down.”

Andrew paused. Betsy did not move.

“I would have killed him. They pulled me off. Before they stopped kicking me, beating me with their rifles, I spit blood from inside … not from my mouth … through my mouth. From inside my belly. Methinks … Do you say methinks? No. Shakespeare. I think. I think they thought it was enough, that I was soon to die. By my feet, they dragged me to a small truck … small, like yours. The driver, he asked if I was dead. They said it did not matter, to bury me with my face in the ground. Face down, you say?” Andrew stopped for a moment. “They told the driver he could have my clothes. I did not move when he opened my shirt and the cross. For his children, he told them.” Andrew reached up and touched the cross hanging on his chest. “He took me to woods, pulled me onto the ground, and hit me with the shovel. I cried out, but did not move. He cut the ropes and took my clothes. I waited. I got stronger as he dug. I did not kill the driver. I could have. I have my clothes and his.” He paused again. For three days, I had blood when I … when I pee. Is that right. Pee?”

Andrew did not look to see if she nodded. He spread his arms. “You see. They were wrong. Still alive. Only blue skin. And, brown.” He reached an arm over his shoulder and touched below his neck “I cannot see here, but it hurts. My chest bones and my back, my low back, those kicks brought the blood from my belly.” He turned his head and nodded. “Nothing is broken I think, Mrs. Phillips.”

Betsy was frowning. “You must be careful.”

“You will not beat me. Yes?”

She knew he smiled. “I don’t like you talking like that.” She turned away. When she turned back to Andrew, he was looking at her. “Don’t you make jokes about this. You are not a slave!” For a moment she stood quietly. “Maybe it is I who should be scared of you.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. “I don’t want to hear any more. All that is going to be over.” She twirled her left hand. “Turn around.” Betsy shoved his head forward, pushing his chin down onto his chest. “We are going to work and we are going to make this farm work.” She slid her hands through the hair on the back of his head.

At first, she pulled the longest, blond hairs away from his head with one hand and cut the longest strands. Finally, she was running her hand over the back of his head, cutting whatever protruded longer than the thickness of her fingers.

The snipping of the scissors was the only sound as she clipped the back of his head and, then, the sides. From time to time, she would pause and brush the clipped hair from his back.

Finally, “There. That is over,” she said. “And we won’t talk about that other again. Something else.” She continued cutting his hair. “Where … where in Germany did you live?”

“Dresden.”

“Was it like this … a farm?”

She saw his ears move. He was smiling again. “No,” he said. “It is a big city. You do not know where is Dresden?”

“No.”

Andrew brushed the clipped hair off his pants. “My mother is there.”

“Your father?”

“Staff officer. Berlin.”

“They must be worried about you.”

“Not my father. He will know what happened to the others. He knows I was with them. He will think I am dead now.”

“Maybe your mother still has hope. I’m sure she does. For her son … .”

“I think not. She always finds the worst.”

Betsy pushed his head to one side. The only sound was the clipping again.

Andrew coughed and started to ask, “This man who comes to look this afternoon … .”

“Yes?”

“His name is Bartoli?”

“Yes. Bartoli. Don’t you even think of speaking to him.”

“Does he have Italian family?”

“You mean in Italy? Yes. I think that’s right.” She brushed the clipped hair from across his shoulders.

“Is he Catholic?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You know I am Catholic. Are you?”

“No.”

Betsy turned his head to cut the other side.

In a moment, Andrew spoke again. “I would like to see a priest.”

She stopped for a moment. Then laughed. “A priest? Are you crazy?” Then, she ran her hands over his head, pushing his hair forward. “What makes you think he’d keep your secret?”

Andrew didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “If Bartoli should see me and kill me, I would like to have seen a priest.”

“Don’t let him see you.”

“Please understand. I need to make a confession.”

Betsy continued to clip with the scissors.

Andrew spoke again. “I have killed. For that, I want a priest to hear my confession.”

Betsy stopped and took a step backwards. Andrew turned on the stool. For a moment, they were both quiet.

“Americans?”

“Nein. French. They were waiting for me to come back. I told you. Yes? Just three. I knew they would be there.” He looked down at the ground, pushed a rock away with his foot. “I was angry and … these were my comrades they murdered. One was my brother. My young brother.” He looked up. “I told you. Remember?” he was speaking fast, wanting to get it told quickly. “They hung him. Remember? Do not forget. They hung him. Not fast, with a broken neck. No! How do you say it? Auf Deutsch es ist strangulieren.” He paused, rubbing his face. “The others, too. At the edge of the woods. Why at the edge of the woods? Why? I know. They called to me. So that I would know. They wanted me to see. And, then, Mrs. Phillips, you must know what I knew. It was for me a trap. They waited for me.”

Betsy was standing away from him, her fist still holding the scissors and pressed against her mouth. She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear all that. Not here. Not America. Hanging and murder. I don’t want to think about it.” She shook her head, frowning. Finally, she asked, “How can I keep you here?”

Andrew lowered his head. “Yes. That is for you.”

“Turn around,” she shoved him so that he turned and pushed his head forward. “I’ll finish this right now. Take off the crucifix and I can trim the bottom.”

“I never,” he said and pulled the cross from the back of his neck, letting it droop lower on his back. “Never have I. The American who was to bury me while still alive would have taken the cross, but I stopped him. I broke his fingers. All of them. Acht Finger.”

She waited, wondering. And then she finished trimming the bottom edge of his hair line. When she was finished, she stepped back and, in time, nodded. “Finished.”

He was rubbing his hands over his shoulders as she walked to the truck and dropped the scissors into the cab.

It was Andrew who kept their conversation going. “You need me. Yet, you have this worry about keeping me, a man who killed your allies. Your soldiers beat me and would bury me naked before I am dead. Maybe Bartoli would kill me, too. But you had this job: to cut my hair. I have a job: to be your driver. We do this. That’s all. We do what we must. You and me. Later, when the farm is planted, you will decide what next you must do. The farm will grow. Yes? And then, you will decide what to do with me.”

Betsy stood looking at him for a moment. She shook her head, turned back to the truck, and pulled out a cloth sack. “But, not now. Now, we eat,” she called over her shoulder. When she turned back to the house, Andrew was still in the chair. “We start planting cotton on Monday,” she went on, dismissing the previous conversations.

Andrew shrugged. “Something else,” he went on. “Will Bartoli shoot me if he finds me?”

“Don’t let him find you. I told you,” a little exasperated that this unpleasant subject continued. “He has no reason to come with a gun. Besides, he is almost blind in his shooting eye.” She walked over to the porch. “Now, stop that. I have sandwiches for both of us.”

Andrew wiped the hair strands off his shoulders and chest. He ran both hands through his hair as he stood. “Hmm. Short,” he said. “You have kept me. Maybe you saved me.”

She looked up. He had that boyish grin. She shook her head. “You’re not saved yet.” She jerked her thumb toward a place on the porch across from the food sack. “Sit down over there. I don’t want you close to me right now.”

“Yes, Mrs. Phillips.” Andrew sat on the porch away from her. “We are not close now. When you cut my hair, close. Yes? When we sit to eat, no.”

Betsy walked over, handed him a sandwich, and started walking back. She turned toward him when he snorted, “Americans!” he went on. “Why do you not know how to make bread?”

“What?”

“Your bread. It is like a box, a paper box made to hold … to hold whatever this is.” He laughed. She did, too.

Betsy was quiet for a while, watching him. He did not eat like her husband. Her husband didn’t eat food; he consumed it. Andrew seemed to take pleasure in eating. There was a sound from somewhere deep in his throat as though he relished the next bite. And, he watched her as he bit into the sandwich, watched her watching him.

Betsy looked away, toward the woods below the house as she continued to eat. Without turning back to Andrew, she said only a little above a whisper, “I’m making a terrible mistake.”

He looked at her for a moment, holding the remainder of his sandwich with all fingers of both hands. Finally, he spoke. “You do not mean the mistake is to have me to work for you. Yes?” He waited, but she did not respond. He slowly shook his head, watching her. “It is not a mistake. We can be good. You and me. Together.”

She turned to him and laughed. “We don’t talk about that either. Sometimes, I think you’re just an overgrown boy.”

“The French did not think so. Not the English. Not your American soldiers.” He put the remainder of his sandwich on the floor of the porch and stood facing her. He ran his hands over his bare chest. “Did you not see how the Americans beat me? Do American fathers beat their boys?”

“No.”

“No. I thought not.” Andrew put both hands into his pants pockets, pushing his pants low on his hips. “You can see. I am not a boy, not an overgrown boy.” A grin spread across his face. “Do you know that your mouth … at the corners … your lips turn up. You smile all the time. I think about that when you are gone and I am alone. At night.”

She turned back to him and looked without shame. He saw what she was doing. He spread his arms for her to see. No smile crossed his face as he waited, watching her eyes. He nodded when she blushed.

Finally, she spoke. “What are we doing, Andrew? What is going to happen?”

“It is for you.”

She shook her head. “No. I am a married woman and you are an escaped German convict.” She got up and walked to the truck. “This afternoon, I’ll meet Mr. Bartoli at Jesse Moreland’s house. He’ll probably look at all the planted fields. Don’t you be close.” She looked over at the stool and his shirt. “Get your shirt. Clean up the hair over there. I’ll be back Monday morning. We’ll prepare to plant cotton.”

She got in the truck and handed out a sack of turnip greens from her garden and potatoes she had bought at Bartoli’s Mercantile. Andrew walked to the side of the truck and reached for the sacks. “When you found me, you told me not to get close to you. I did not. Today, you cut my hair, listened to my story, fed me. Maybe you can stop being afraid.” He waited, but she only shook her head. He put his hand on the top of the truck. “I like that you touched me. Maybe, when the farm is finished, before you send me away, you will let me touch you.”

“Don’t, Andrew. We are working together. Please.” Betsy looked down at the starter button on the floor of the truck. The motor sputtered as she pressed the starter with her foot. “I know the Episcopal priest in Selma. I’ll talk to him about getting a Catholic priest to hear your confession.” She pushed in the clutch and put the truck in gear. “Do you understand my problem? Think about my problem. I have no one to go to for confession.” She shook her head again.

He was smiling when she looked back at him in the mirror. He must have seen her watching him for he raised his shirt over his head and waved it like a flag, a broad grin spreading across his face. She felt herself blush. She couldn’t help it. He was such a boy! Really! A boy in a man’s body!

THE NATURAL GROWTH

By the middle of May, it was becoming clear that the usual and natural growth of the crops was happening. The rush to g et everything planted was over. If there were blank spaces in the cotton, a replanting by hand was done in those spots. Corn was creeping taller every day. The rows of corn needed to be thinned so that the stalks would get the maximum growth and the biggest ears. Then, it would be time to lay-by the crops, to wait until they matured.

Stephan Bartoli had not been reticent in his praise for Betsy. He often bragged on her to his customers. At the beginning of May, stores in Selma closed at noon on Wednesday, and they closed in Orrville on Thursday afternoons. Stephan had stopped giving Betsy notice that he was going to drive out to the farm. It was not a surprise to see him coming through the fields on Thursday afternoons bringing with him various local farmers, all of them praising what she had done.

Since the first time Stephan Bartoli had told Betsy that he was driving out on a Thursday afternoon, she had warned Andrew to stay out of sight Thursdays and Sundays – Stephan’s days off.

Bartoli had laughed the first time he saw her in her overalls. She had been embarrassed initially, but with his encouragement, she came to be proud of what she represented. In fact, Bartoli contacted the newspaper in Montgomery where his wife’s brother had worked before his military deployment to England. A reporter came to Orrville for an interview with Betsy. The paper ran a picture on the front page of the Montgomery Advertiser saying that Betsy was Alabama’s counterpart to the North’s Rosie the Riveter. The reporter wrote that Betsy was Alabama’s icon for Southern women, women who now held jobs that typically were done by men. She represented their support for the war effort.

Betsy was surprised at her house one day by a woman from the Selma Times Journal asking for an interview. The evening after the story appeared, several women in the Orrville community called to tell her how proud they were – of her raising those two fine sons of Jerry’s. And of keeping the farm going.

The danger that Andrew would be discovered increased. Betsy started going out to the farm just before sunrise. She would prepare her sons’ breakfast and leave their lunch money on the hall table with whatever homework she had reviewed.

“Boys,” she had told them, “While your daddy is gone serving in the navy, you must do your part. Get yourselves up in the morning, eat your breakfast, and get yourselves to school.”

Sonny, the older son, took charge of their getting ready on time. He laughed that he had to thump his younger brother’s head once or twice, but neither of them ever complained. Neither did the teachers. Betsy made every effort to be at home when they came in from school.

She, Andrew, and Jesse Moreland’s boys put in a full morning’s work, often not stopping until past noon. She brought lunch for herself and Andrew. And then, they’d rest. Betsy found the floor to be too hard to be comfortable, so she drove into Selma one Thursday afternoon and bought a cheap mattress at Boston Bargain’s Store just off Broad Street.

She and Andrew talked about his family and his life before the War. She was fascinated by his stories of growing up in a cultured European family, surrounded by opportunities she could not imagine. His father had been proud of him as he graduated in the officer’s corps in the German army. He wanted his son to join his staff in Berlin. But Andrew had shaken his head and said that he should wait. He would come to join the forces in Berlin after he had established an independent reputation. That had been his plan.

It was all so different from the life Betsy had known. “From upper crust Germany to a tenant house in Alabama. That’s quite a change for you. I think God sent you. He sent you because me and my boys – well, we needed you.”

Andrew had kept his distance from her. Now, her saying that she needed him stirred him. He felt his chest draw tight. He got up from the corner where he had been sitting and walked over to where she lay. He was flushed as he stood looking down at her. “Mrs. Phillips, I need you.”

She watched as he unbuttoned his shirt. She had seen him without a shirt before, but this time, it was different. He scratched both hands through his blond hair, ran them over his chest, and unbuttoned the top button on his pants. He stood before her for a moment with his hands on his hips. “It will be good, Mrs. Phillips. I will let you see. Then you decide.”

Betsy watched as he undressed standing in front of her, stepping out of his trousers and then pushing down his undershorts.

Neither of them spoke. Instead, she sat up and ran her hand up the yellow hair on Andre’s legs.

As Betsy started home later that afternoon, she stretched with pleasure and with what felt like a release of emotions. She laughed; he smelled different from Jerry.

Thinking of Jerry, she frowned, “My husband is out there in the United States navy. He’s counting on me, believing in me, and what am I doing? Oh, God! I’m so … so … . Please help me!” She stopped the truck and leaned her head against the steering wheel, tears dripping off her face. In a moment, she sat up. “I love Jerry. I am not betraying that love. This is … . This is different. Nobody could do all the things I have to do without some … without somebody to give me … to give to me. That’s all: I needed to be held. To be held and to hold.”

In the next week, Betsy decided that she needed to be cautious. Andrew laughed when she included a new box with his usual rations. “Okay,” he had said. “I understand that we must.”

One afternoon in late May, Andrew was propped on pillows and lying on the mattress she had brought. “It must be more than thirty-five degrees.”

Betsy was pulling up her overalls, but paused, looking at him. Then, she understood. “Fahrenheit, Andrew. We use Fahrenheit.”

“Ah, yes. How much is thirty-five degrees?”

She sat on the stool and started pulling her work boots on. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I expect it’s more than ninety degrees in this house.”

“You like the heat?”

“I know about heat. It happens every summer. Always has.”

“Never in Dresden. Not like this.”

“I guess you’re going to the creek.”

He smiled. “You will come, too?”

“Yeah? And let Jesse Moreland’s boys be watching you and Jerry’s wife frolicking down there? Not a chance. My own boys will be home in half an hour.”

“Jesse’s boys.”

“Yes?”

“I called to them when I saw them watching me bathe in the creek. They ask me about becoming a man. I tell them what a boy should know.”

“Their father is in the army.”

“Yes. They tell me.” He shrugged.

Then Andrew reached over and picked up the box. He shook it, listening to the contents rattle. “Schöne Frau. I have not counted.” He opened the box, but did not look in. “Twelve. Two were gone. Take away five. What is that?”

“Five left.”

“Then, what will you do?”

“Don’t you mean what will we do?”

He smiled, put both hands behind his head, and lay back. “You will think of something. It will be good. I have learned that.”

“Let me just tell you not to worry. You have all weekend to let that play out in your imagination. I’m sure you will.” Betsy paused at the door. “Monday, we will walk over the fields. We need to see if we have a good stand everywhere. Cotton is mostly up, corn hip high.” She nodded. “From what I can see, it’s good. Meanwhile, don’t you get restless. Bartoli will be busy in the store Saturday. He might bring someone out on Sunday. Be careful.”

She walked out. When she got to the porch, she stopped and went back. He was smiling when she stepped back in the room where he lay.

He still had not dressed. “Already? Good!”

“Next week is the last week of school for my boys until September,” she said. “Things will have to change.” Without waiting for his reply, she left.

REASONS TO CELEBRATE

Things change. And with changes, decisions have to be made. The end of the school year was only one of the changes before Betsy.

She drove over to the old Orr house, got out, and slammed the door. It kind of peeved her when Andrew was not at the door by the time she pushed it open. “Okay, Andrew! You can’t spend your life in bed!” A glimpse into the room revealed that he wasn’t doing that. “The creek,” she thought.

The woods and creek were only a hundred or so yards away. She slammed the house door shut and strode down through the weeds. She nodded with her observation. Andrew must have known not to walk the same way to the creek every time he went down. That would have made a path.

She saw a movement. Something white, a flash, and then she heard the splash. He was there. “Stupid!” She thought. “Stupid! Friday morning and there he is out here swimming in broad daylight.”

The light and reflections were bouncing in ripples in the middle of the creek. She decided to wait, to watch. A hunter would have waited with his rifle ready, ready to shoot whatever had jumped into the water. Beavers, maybe. Except, Betsy knew that it was not beavers that had disturbed the water.

He had been under water for so long that she almost had decided that he was not there. And then, with deliberate slowness, his head emerged from the cloudy, dark water, dribbling hair hanging in his face, water dripping off his chin. He wasn’t smiling.

“I can’t believe you’re down here swimming in the middle of the morning. What if Bartoli made a surprise visit?”

His head made several shakes from left to right, slinging water. He continued to stare at Betsy. “You scold the simple person you think I am? Not yet do you understand, Mrs. Phillips. Not yet do you understand who I am.”

“What I understand is that what is probably a naked boy is standing there in the water and calling me Mrs. Phillips.”

He started walking toward her. “And you? And you call me a boy!” It was a slight twist of his head. “I ask you, Mrs. Phillips, who am I? No. I tell you! Against my mother’s wishes, I was trained. My father’s, too. I was trained to slip across the borders. Believe me. There was a good reason why I was in charge of the team that went into France. I promise you: no man would find me here in this creek and walk away.”

His legs were churning the water as he came toward the shore. “You have been thinking of me like you think of Jesse Moreland’s boys. Is that it? I say what you should already know that I am not a boy. You should know That is sure. And, you need to remember, Mrs. Phillips. I have escaped from better than your shopkeeper and his co-farmers. Those others were killers. I don’t imagine that your shopkeeper Bartoli is a killer. One more thing, … .” Betsy took a step backwards. “I’m not use to taking the handouts from someone’s table. I was trained to take what I want!”

He grabbed her shoulders and put his face into her neck. He was wet; his skin was cold, but her hands felt the heat of his body just below the surface of his skin.

She tried to push him away.

Both his hands were at the front of her blouse.

“Don’t tear it,” she whispered.

Andrew stepped back and watched as she started to unbutton the blouse. He reached for the zipper on the side of the skirt. Betsy was stepping out of the skirt as he pressed his head into her neck again. Andrew picked her up and walked into the water. When he was chest deep with her, he released her legs and let her slide down in the water, pulling her onto him.

Andrew let them both sink down to their necks into the creek, and, then, down below the tops of their head. They rose again, gasping for air, arms and legs entangled, twisting in the water.

She had brought leftovers from the previous night’s dinner and couldn’t help but smile at how he seemed to enjoy eating. He had not dressed, but sat there with his legs folded in front of him and holding the bowl of food close to his chest. He looked at her as he ate each bite, a smile in his eyes.

She knew he was enjoying what she prepared. “I guess you’ve not had a roast out there at Jesse’s place.”

He paused. Now a smile spreading over his face. “Oh, yes. I didn’t tell you.”

“What?”

“Venison and …” he paused, searching for the right word. “…und Schweinefleisch.”

Betsy laughed. “Deer meat and what?”

He was grinning as he forked another piece of roast into his mouth. “Schweinefleisch. Oink, oink!”

She laughed again. “Pork. Pork.”

“Ah, so. Porky Pig, yes?”

“Yes. Porky Pig.” Betsy watched him continue to eat. “Where did she get deer meat?”

“Jesse Moreland? Ah, yes. Deer. One evening, she and one of her boys come to the house. She told me that animals … deer … deer were eating your corn. No, our corn. So, she gives me a weapon. A rifle. I walked with quiet into the woods. There, the beautiful animal was at the edge of the field. A she. It was a woman deer. I give a short whistle.” Andrew raised his hands as though holding a rifle. “She looks at me. Pow. Between the eyes.” He turned back to his food. He chewed as he looked to Betsy. Then, “No bruises in the meat.”

Betsy sat back in her chair, not speaking for a while. “It seems I am harboring an armed fugitive.”

Andrew looked up, puzzled. “I earn my keep, yes? Tractor driver and meat provider. Wild venison and wild porky pig.”

She only shook her head.

Later, Betsy pulled the sheet over them both and, as they lay facing each other, she rubbed her hand down his back, feeling the indention between the muscles along his spine. “Andrew, there is something I need to tell you.”

“Yes, what is so serious?”

“Jerry’s ship is leaving San Francisco, going somewhere out in the Pacific.” She paused, watching his face. “He has a three-day pass. The Baptist and Methodist Church women will help pay for the train. So, I’m going to California and be with him during his leave.”

Andrew pulled back. “You are going? To the Pacific?”

“Yes. San Francisco.”

“Soon?”

“Yes, Andrew. I leave on June 11.”

Andrew turned so that he was lying on his back, but kept his face pointed toward her. His voice was quiet. “This will be good. Yes?”

She nodded and mimicked him. “It is good. Yes.” She turned away from him, got out of bed, and walked across the room. “It’s good because I think I am pregnant.”

Andrew slowly stood, a smile across his face. “Betsy! You will have a baby?”

She nodded, but was not smiling. “I didn’t want to. But, we … you and me … we will have a baby.”

“I thought we were careful. But it happens. Ein Kind der Leidenschaft.” Andrew paused. “Passion, you say? Yes. Passion. But now, you too must be careful.” He nodded. “You will … be with your husband … when you go to see him?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “I see. Yes, you must go to him and … and be his wife. It will be good.”

“Good? That’s easy for you to say. You won’t be here to help with taking care of your child. What about Jerry? You know that he’s about to get in the shooting war. Who knows what will happen to him, or when he will be back? And what if your baby is blond?”

Andrew walked over to where she was. He reached for her, pulled her to him and put his arms around her.

Betsy didn’t look up. “I’ve already cried enough about this. I most certainly do not need to add carrying a baby with everything else I have to do.”

He whispered to her. “I will have an American son.”

It was a moment before she responded. “You … damn, you! Is that all you can think about?” She pushed him away. “Making boy babies? You ever think it might be a girl?”

“An American daughter?” He pulled her back, looked into her eyes, and then kissed first her right cheek and then her left. “Thank you. I am so happy! Please be happy with me.”

“Oh, Andrew. Think of all I must do. And, don’t you understand? You will never see this child.”

“Maybe. Maybe I come to visit.”

“You may be shot before then, and you’d sure be shot if you showed up here asking to see your child.”

“Do not be sure. Maybe it will not be. God decides.” He turned and looked around the room. “Where is wine? We must celebrate!”

“How many times do I have to tell you? We don’t have wine, Andrew. This is Orrville, Alabama. Remember. Not some fancy castle in Germany.”

“No wine? We celebrate anyway.” He opened his arms. “Please be happy with me.”

TIME FOR GOODBYE

he camp bus met at the YMCA building in Selma on a Sunday afternoon two weeks after the end of the Orrville school’s spring term. Her sons were on that bus and would end a week at that camp the next Sunday.

After the sun set that evening and the window fan began bringing in cool air from outside, Betsy cooked what she called “heavy bread.” It was filled with raisins, pecans, and apple chunks. She’d take a loaf to Andrew the next day.

She expected that she wasn’t going to sleep well that first night with the boys gone. She was not sure whether it was because she was in the house by herself, or because she had been away from Andrew for more than two weeks. Her hard work preparing for herself to leave had not gotten her tired enough to sleep. Or maybe too stressed to sleep. When she lay down close to midnight she mostly tossed and turned. Finally, she got up a little after three o’clock Monday morning and drove to the farm.

Even though the full moon was two or three days away, the sandy road next to the Orrville Town Cemetery was lit well enough so that she drove without the truck lights.

When she killed the motor of the truck in front of the old Orr house, she sat still and listened to the sounds of the night. Some animal howled over in the woods. She had never heard such a wild wail at the house in town. A shiver crept over her back. And then, it was quiet, quiet as though every creature was listening for what was coming.

While the yard of the Orr house was lit by the partial moon, the overhanging roof caused a shadow to fall across the porch. She felt a moment of fear because of the stillness. She smiled when she heard the front door scrape on the floor. The shadow of his figure stood in the darkness. She saw him lean toward the edge of the door, and then straighten.

She frowned as she realized that he had bent over to lean a rifle against the wall.

“You were going to shoot?” she called to Andrew.

He walked out of the darkness of the house, onto the porch, and down the steps. “Hello, Mrs. Phillips. If I had known it was you, I would not have dressed.” He was wearing only a pair of Jerry’s undershorts.

“You call wearing nothing but undershorts being dressed? And, you would not have greeted me prepared to shoot?”

“Do not be surprised about that. It could have been the Polizei, or your friends. Your friends would want to break my teeth or take me to the woods.”

“You would have shot at them?”

“As long as my heart continued to beat, Mrs. Phillips.”

She paused as he walked closer to the truck. “Why are you calling me that?”

“Mrs. Phillips? That is who you are. Yes? I watched you and your sons in the cotton field this past week. You did not know I was in the woods, watching. But I was.” He turned his head and looked down toward the creek. His voice was harsh and more accented than usual when he turned back to Betsy. “Yet, you never came to me. Now, you will go to see Mr. Phillips. Yes? Or, is it Seaman Phillips? You have not told me. He ist a fine officer. Ist that so?”

Betsy frowned. “ Is, Andrew. Is. Not, ist. What’s wrong, Andrew? Why are you acting like this?”

“I have told you. Do you not know? I protect myself.”

“Jesse should not have let you have that rifle.”

“Why not? I provide her with food. You know that.”

“You should surrender if the police come for you.”

“And, let them have their way?” Andrew laughed. It was not a laugh of mirth; rather it sounded forced and angry. “You do not understand, do you? Mrs. Moreland gives me a rifle and also protection. I give her food. Even more than food I give her. Her oldest son does not go to school. Did you know that? He should. But, he cannot, so I teach him. He is eager to learn about science. Eager. Are your sons eager. Her son is smart.”

Betsy opened the door of the truck and slid out. “You are teaching him? I didn’t know.”

“And you, Mrs. Phillips.” He walked closer to her. She could have touched him. He had not shaved for several days. “You also give me protection and food. I work for you in return. I have become your worker and your man. Yes? Your work-slave and your man-slave.”

“Andrew, are you acting this way because I must go? You know I must. You did not expect anything else. You could not have.”

“I expect? No. I expect nothing else. You told me that I must work for you when we met. I would become your white slave … not like the slaves of your … of your Grossvater. Still, your slave. Yes? I work for you, and I also give you a child. A child and good pleasure while you are alone. The time has come that you do not need me. Not for the farm, not for your pleasure. Your sons do the farm. And, you go now to your husband. His turn. You will pretend with him, yes?”

Betsy looked down toward the darkness of the woods, toward Simms Creek. It was a moment before she turned back to Andrew. The moonlight was making shadows on his face and chest. His hands were on his hips. Her voice was shaking when she spoke again. “That’s what it was? Payment for protecting you? You … you self-centered pig!” She turned back to the truck and yanked on the door handle. “How could you?”

He laughed again. “How could I? How could I? Did I not tell you? I was trained to live off the land. Tonight, I shot a deer to keep Mrs. Moreland happy. Now, you come. I will do what is necessary to keep you happy. I will make it good. Look. Look now. I am ready for you. Do you not see? Will it be here? Or, shall we go to the bed? Maybe the creek?”

She swung at him, but he caught her arm. He looked at her hand. “Ah, Mrs. Phillips. You would not have been the first American to strike me. I knocked to the ground the first American who hit me, and I gutted the first Frenchman who tried.”

“Let me go!” She jerked her hand away and turned back to the truck. Betsy got in, slammed the door, and pushed her foot on the starter. She looked out the window as she was shifting the truck into first gear. “You can go to hell! You know that? And get off my property!” The truck stalled when she let off on the clutch. “Damn! Just damn!” She started the truck again. This time, it jerked forward as she let off on the clutch.

“Good bye, Betsy,” she heard him say. He said her name. He called her Betsy. She turned. He was rubbing both hands through his hair. The look on his face was not what she expected. Anguish? “Oh, God! No. Why was I so stupid?” she cried. Betsy stopped the truck, looked back in the mirror.

He was shaking his head. She heard him. The whole world heard him. “Go,” he screamed. “Leave now, Betsy. Go! Go to Seaman Phillips.” Andrew turned. She watched him in the mirror. He didn’t go to the house. He didn’t go toward the creek. No. He started to run, to run into the woods.

Betsy sat there, the truck motor running, watching as the thicket absorbed him into the darkness.

The moon had sunk below the tree line, and it was dark as Betsy drove through the streets of Orrville. A heavy cloud cover had formed in the east, preventing even a hint that the sun would be rising in only a little.

A stray dog was crossing the street in front of the Baptist Church as Betsy drove toward her house. The dog, caught for a moment in the lights of the truck, seemed to turn and watch. It was not the first time the mangy animal had to dash toward the ditch to avoid being hit.

CONFESSION AND FORGIVENESS

Betsy mopped the floors and washed the living room windows during the next few days. She felt compelled to leave the house clean before her long trip. The boys’ room was neater than it had been in a long time; all their toys and games were on the shelves. She left their air rifles lying across the beds. They would like to see those rifles the first thing when they got home.

She planned to leave the door of the ice box open, hoping the smell of soft fruit and decaying vegetables would be gone when she was home again. Except for the scorched enamel around the pilot light, the top of the butane stove was shiny as new. The brown leather suitcase Aunt Lillian had given her was packed, and what she was to wear was laid out on a chair, still smelling of perfumed soap and freshly ironed cotton.

She would need to go out in the yard and cover the small entrance to the chicken house soon. Seventeen hens and one rooster would be on their perch, up off the ground and out of the reach of the rats. Her chickens were too big for whatever chicken snakes the cats failed to kill. Covering the chicken house entrance would keep the raccoons out. There was an uneasy peace that existed between the cats and the raccoons. The coons visited the yard every night, searching for an easy meal, and the cats had the good sense to let them be, only to watch and hiss if the coons got too close. Betsy had promised the boy down the road a dime for every day she was gone. Billy Bob’s job would be to let the chickens out in the morning, give them two scoops of corn from the metal garbage can, and water in their trough. He’d close the chicken house at night.

She could not get Andrew out of her mind. Over and over, she had to tell herself not to go to the farm, to stay away. “Leave it alone! He did his goodbye” she would say. “He’ll be gone when I get back!” That is what she assured herself. That was the way it was going to be.

Added to all that anguish, she was uneasy about taking this long trip. Except for four visits to Mississippi with Aunt Lillian, she had never been out of Alabama.

Betsy was washing the single plate she had used for her tomato and cheese sandwich when she heard her name called.

“Miss Betsy!” There were three knocks at the back-screen door and the call again, “Miss Betsy!”

She dried her hands on her apron and walked out onto the screen porch. “Aaron Moreland! What are you doing over here?” She walked to the door and put her hand on the latch, “Did your mama send you after something?”

“Yes, ma’am. She did.” He stood at the bottom of the steps wearing overalls, no shirt and no shoes. His hands were still on the handlebars of the rusting, once red bicycle. “Mama sent me after to get you.”

The screen door screeched when Betsy pushed it open. “What’s wrong, Aaron?” Jesse knew she was leaving the next day. “Don’t just stand there, boy. I’ve got things to do.”

“A snake has done got him, Miss ‘Betsy. It’s done bit him twice.”

She grabbed the rail as she stepped out onto the steps. “Oh, my God? Who, Aaron? The tractor driver?”

“Yes, ma’am. It was a moccasin that’s done got him.”

Betsy grabbed the boy by both shoulders. He cringed when she shook him. “Where is he, Aaron?”

“At the big house … back over there.” Aaron Moreland pointed back toward the streets through Orrville.

Betsy shook her head, her hands to her face. “God! Don’t do this!”

“You need to come after him, Miss ‘Betsy. He’s all swoll up. Mama says you need to take him to the doctor ‘fore he dies.”

Betsy turned, looking back into the house. She couldn’t do that now. She was ready to leave.

“Aaron, put your bicycle into the back of the truck. I’m going to get my purse.”

She drove down the road toward Five Points, avoiding anyone who might be around the Baptist Church. She turned through Orrville’s back streets, behind the School. Betsy had never driven so fast through the streets of Orrville, and it scared her.

She was soon on the gravel road headed toward the farm. “Hold on, Aaron,” she yelled as she swung the truck off the gravel road and onto the dusty path beside the Orrville Cemetery.

The amber glow of the tail lights reflected in the dust boiling up behind the truck appeared to be a fiery cloud sweeping across the flat cotton fields, swirling toward the dark woods at the edges of Sims Creek. There was dampness in the air as the truck splashed through the rocky creek-bed crossing. The smell was the moldy odor of decaying muck. Muck and moccasins.

The rear of the truck shuddered as she turned into the path through the field surrounding the Orr gravesite. As soon as the headlights of the truck lit the yard in front of the Orr House, she saw them. Jesse and two of her boys were kneeling on the porch. Andrew was there. He was curled in a ball, lying on one of the sheets she had left for him.

Betsy wheeled the truck around so that the headlights lit up the porch. She left the truck door open as she ran to the porch. He was still, his eyes closed.

Betsy reached to him. “Andrew?”

He groaned and rolled onto his back. For a moment, he searched for her. “Betsy! Gottes Strafe!” God’s punishment, he cried.

She pursed her mouth, her face now stern. “Dammit!” She shook her head. There was no choice. She had to do it. “Wrap him and get him in the truck.”

Andrew gasped in agony as they drug him off the porch, wrapping the sheet around him from his neck to his knees. Betsy could see his swollen left leg. The skin was blotched and stretched so tight that it looked as though it might tear open. He cried out if anyone touched the swollen arm.

“Jesse, take all his stuff to your place. Keep it, or burn it. It don’t matter. He’s not coming back.” Betsy pushed the truck’s gears into reverse and backed a few feet. Sand flew up behind the truck’s wheels as she tore away.

They were a few miles north of Orrville, near the small community of Hazen, before she reached over to touch him. He spoke. It was a whisper, barely heard above the roar of the racing engine. “Betsy?”

She turned toward him for only a moment. “I’m here.”

“I teach them to swim.”

“Oh, God, Andrew? Why? Why didn’t you know? So crazy! Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?” It was quiet again amid the noise. She raced along the straight stretch toward Beloit.

Then, he whispered. “The reptile … the snake … it hit my leg. I grabbed. It turned. I didn’t know.”

“Dear God! Forgive us our trespasses,” she prayed. She heard him gasping. She clutched the steering wheel, concentrating on the highway, “Andrew, I can’t help you now! I have to drive!”

“There is …” He struggled to breathe, gasping. “There is no air. Betsy, I hurt. My heart … it is not … not constant.” He was quiet again as the highway dropped off the hill toward the Cahaba River.

“Andrew, please. Say something so I will know.”

It was a whisper. “Leave me. You must. For our child. They will know. Please, I ask you to stop. Leave me.” He was quiet as she drove on. Then, “Do not give me to them. Leave me here.”

“I can’t. Don’t ask me that,” she held back a sob. “Not now, Andrew. I’ve got to drive.”

Betsy had to slow as they crossed the rickety bridge over the Cahaba River. She leaned forward, straining to see, listening to the wooden planks clatter under the wheels. When she was off the bridge, she pressed the accelerator again, speeding along the raised highway above the Cahaba River floodplain.

Betsy reached over. “Andrew?”

There was no response.

“Andrew!”

His voice was weak, hardly a whisper. “Betsy. My eyes … .”

“Talk, Andrew. Talk.”

“Betsy. Promise me.”

“God! Hurry. I’m hurrying.”

“No hospital. Leave me. It is what I ask.”

“I can’t, Andrew. Don’t make me cry now. I must hurry.”

“My leg … . Do you know?”

Betsy didn’t drive into Selma. She knew a way to get around the western side of the city, to get north through the quiet outskirts. There was a traffic light where the US highway turned right and became Selma’s Broad Street. Betsy didn’t stop for the traffic light. She pushed on, going east, going toward Burnsville.

A highway sign gave a warning that the next side road led to the Monastery of Saint Pachomius. She stopped at an iron gate just off the highway and blew the truck’s horn. She pressed the horn continuously while counting to ten. Betsy left the truck’s motor running and the lights on as she slid out of the truck. Andrew raised his head when she opened the door next to him. “We’re here, Andrew. Help me.”

He put one arm about her shoulders and dropped to the ground, crying out as he collapsed onto the driveway. Betsy knelt beside him, pulling his hair back from his face.

She didn’t look up when she heard the man’s voice from the other side of the fence. “We are closed.” She tore the sheet down from around Andrew chest, exposing his swollen arm.

The man standing behind the gate spoke again. “What do you want?”

Betsy turned. “You must help me.” The man did not move. She tried again. “This man … he’s Catholic. He has been bitten by a snake. Twice. A copperhead, I think. He wants to make confession. You must hear him!”

She heard the gate opening.

“Take him to the hospital, madam. Not here.” The voice was quiet.

“Hear him, that’s all. Hear him. Then, you decide.” She looked up. “Hear him, okay? Then, you can choose to let him die. Bless him and he can die with God’s forgiveness.”

“I am a Brother, not a Priest. It is not for me. Besides, we can’t care for him. Our order does not allow this.”

Betsy yanked again at the sheet surrounding Andrew, tearing it open, leaving him lying naked amid the shrouds. Andrew raised a hand to her, but she stood.

She backed away, watching the Brother as he walked toward the truck. Betsy moved around the back of the truck, pulled herself inside and under the steering wheel. She put the gear in reverse, and backed the truck into the highway. She paused and looked back toward the gate. The Brother had wrapped the sheet over Andrew again and was kneeling beside him. She saw the Brother touch his own forehead.

Betsy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she pressed the accelerator hard, driving fast toward Selma. It would be Selma, Beloit, Hazen, and then Orrville. Orrville, and home. She would go to California to be with Jerry. She could not stay here with Andrew. Not with Andrew, the Catholic Brother, and his God.

Betsy was south of Selma before she stopped crying. By the time she crossed the Cahaba River again, she was sitting up straight. And, it was on the long, straight stretch between Beloit and Hazen that she made her prayer. She said it to herself and to whatever spirits hovered in the deserted road. “That’s over. It’s got to be over. I made a mistake. I know it. I knew I was doing it. I did it anyway. Don’t punish him, dear God. And, spare this child. Spare the child and Jerry from my sin. I swear. I will do whatever is necessary. I will make Jerry proud. And, serve you, dear God. Please, God. Boy, girl, whatever. When Jerry comes home from the war, it will be his child. Make it so, dear God. I ask You to let me make Jerry proud. This child will be Jerry’s … Jerry’s and mine. I promise You that! I promise, if it is Your will.” She had already rounded the curve in Hazen when she said it again. “Please help me, God! Forgive me and help me. In Jesus’ name.”