hot and cold running water, another rarity around these parts. Before that, they’d pumped their water out back of the house, heated it on the wood cookstove in the kitchen, and bathed in a tin washtub, like most other folks out in the country.
As Seymour kept up a steady trot down the road, Ma chattered about the young men coming back home from the war, about who’d been discharged early, and hinting that some of the discharges hadn’t been honorable.
“You mean like Hector Short?” Red asked. No wonder Drusilla was so mean. Her own son was a scoundrel, bringing embarrassment to the family.
“I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him around here,” Ma said. “If I had, I’d’ve suspected him of throwing that brick through the—” Her voice broke off. “Would you listen to me? I’m getting as bad as Drusilla. I need to wash my mouth out with lye soap.”
Red turned Seymour in at the Moennig driveway and kept going until they reached the corral gate. Then he stopped the horse and frowned.
“The gate’s open. Did you notice that when you came by earlier?” he asked.
“Nope, you can’t see this gate from the road.” She gestured back toward the tall hedge around the front of the yard. “That isn’t like Joseph, even if he didn’t have cattle in the corral.”
“Hello!” Red called as he reached for his cane. This time of day, Joseph would usually be out in the field, working the hay, or in the garden.
Ma gasped, then put a hand on Red’s arm, gripping him hard. “Charles Frederick.”
He turned to her, startled at her use of his full name. She was staring at something out in the cattle lot behind the barn. Red saw a patch of blue. A human shape, red-checked shirt and blue overalls.
Red tossed the reins to his mother and scrambled from the buggy, then reached back for his cane. Without a word, Ma pulled it from beside her on the wagon’s running board, passed it to him, then gripped the railing beside her to get out.
“You stay right here,” he said.
For once, she did as he told her.
As he hobbled along the rutted driveway toward the back fence, he felt chilled to the bone. If only this was just another nightmare he’d wake up from any minute.
But it was real. He’d seen too many images like this.
He felt sick as he stepped into the cattle lot and got a close look of Joseph Moennig. The side of Joseph’s face was so white it seemed to reflect the hot, late-morning sun.
Red dropped awkwardly to his good knee next to his friend and gently rolled him to his back. Joseph stared without sight toward Heaven—his new home.
“Roberta Moennig.”
Bertie caught her breath, and looked up at Franklin.
“Yessir,” she said, taking care to turn off the lathe and keep her hands away from the moving parts. Her wound was beginning to ache as the pain killer wore off.
Franklin’s broad face didn’t have the usual scowl she’d come to know and dislike. When she met his eyes, he looked away. Then she realized he’d called her by her real name instead of hillbilly.
“You want something?” she asked.
“Your injury doing okay?” he asked, his voice still gruff, but sounding almost sincere.
“I’m fine.”
She started to return to her work, but then he spoke again. “You need to report to the front office. Talk to Charlotte.”
She stared at him as a chill traveled across her shoulders and down her arms. “What’s she want to see me for?”
He avoided her look. “You’ve…got a call.”
“What kind of a call?” Had he actually followed through with this morning’s threat to dismiss her?
It couldn’t be. Franklin enjoyed firing people, didn’t he? Right now, he didn’t look as if he was enjoying himself too much.
“Just get to the office,” he muttered, turning away.
She nodded and left her worktable. She refused to beg. If she got fired, she’d find another job easily enough. Hughes Aircraft wasn’t the only place in town that could use a trained machinist.
Still, she wished she’d watched her mouth a little closer with Franklin this morning. Sass and vinegar weren’t always a good thing.
Minutes later, she stepped into the business office, abuzz with so many typewriters clattering and telephones ringing. Most folks in the plant wanted an office job, but not Bertie. Give her a machine over a typewriter any day. Machine work made more sense to her, and she loved operating a lathe, forming the parts that would be used to build the airplanes that would help win the war. She felt she was doing something useful. Of course, the people working in the office were useful, too.
If she couldn’t work with machines in the shop, give her a barn full of milking cows rather than a typewriter in a stifling office. In fact, she’d pretty much prefer anything over being cooped up in an office all day.
A woman with dark hair tied severely away from her face was the first person Bertie encountered when she walked through the door. The woman didn’t stop typing, didn’t even look up, when Bertie approached her desk.
“Help you?” the woman asked.
Bertie paused, waiting for eye contact.
When the woman finally looked up, her fingers continued their clattering across the typewriter keys. “What do you need?” she snapped.
“I’m Roberta Moennig, and I was told to report to Charlotte. You care to point her out to me?”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she stopped typing. The sharpness vanished. “I’m Charlotte,” she said in a voice suddenly gone soft. She paused, eyeing Bertie. “Why don’t you have a seat, Roberta.” She pointed toward the chair in front of her desk, then picked up a telephone receiver from the desktop and handed it to her.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, placing a hand on Bertie’s shoulder before rising from her chair and walking away.
Bertie stared after her in confusion, aware that others in the office had stopped their work and shot glances toward her. Something wasn’t right.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Hello?” she said into the telephone receiver. “Who is this?”
“Bertie? It’s me. It’s Red.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she gasped. It was him! Here she’d been thinking about him and…“Red! Where are you? I’ve not heard from you in so long I was beginning to wonder if you were okay. What’s…why are you…” She frowned. “Are you okay? Why are you calling me in the middle of the—”
“I’m…home.” His voice was gentle, uncommonly soft. “I’m back home in Hideaway.”
“For
