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But it felt good—better than good—to actually spot one and get rid of it.
Only Stephen kept looking back where we’d come from, searching for the telltale oil slick on the waves. “Guess the crew all died.”
That sobered us up. It’s all kill-or-be-killed in war, isn’t it? Reminded me of that life jacket you found. Whoever it belonged to was following orders just like us. But his orders were from a crazy man across the ocean who decided all of Europe was his to take over. And we can’t let that happen. We won’t.
I couldn’t wait to write to you, to say you can hold your head a little higher. Your husband has finally done his part in the war. And remember, my term’s up in eight weeks. Chin up, Avis. I’ll be back soon, with lots of stories to tell. (I promise I won’t exaggerate them much.)
Yours, a hero at last,
Russell
P.S. Almost forgot to say glad you enjoyedTreasure Island. That kid has good taste. I’d like to meet him someday. Keep a copy around, will you? I want to give it another read when I get home.
Notes from the Blackout Book Club—August 22, 1942
Taken by Lt. Freddy Keats
Members in attendance: The usual crowd, except Ginny’s still not here. Martina said it’s been hard for her since the funeral. The rest of us haven’t seen her in a while. There’s just something missing when she’s gone.
Book under discussion:Treasure Islandby Robert Louis Stevenson
Avis handed a new notebook to me, this one larger and with wider lines. Wonder what was wrong with the last one—it was only a fourth full.
Jokes were made about my eyepatch being on theme for this book, and should we all dress up for future clubs? I didn’t mind the attention. When you get to where folks will rib you, you know you’ve found real friends. Although I said I’d draw the line at a tunic and tights if we ever got around to Robin Hood like Danny Maloney is lobbying for.
Even Miss C admitted that “the narrative was certainly compelling,” though she gave Gio and Rosa a stern lecture on how real pirates are not so romantic and tragically heroic as their portrayal in the story.
The other fellows in the group and I tried to reassure her that no one really thinks brigands are role models: they only like the adventure they stand for. You’d never think it to look at him, but Earl Bell apparently went through a stage where he tried to persuade his parents that piracy was a legitimate career option. I carved wooden swords and made friends walk the plank as a boy. Hamish claimed he’d always wanted a pet parrot. The women of the group looked at us like we were crazy.
We let Gio pick questions to ask. He started off with a great one: What did we all think of Long John Silver? Opinions varied; no surprise there. “Gentleman scoundrel” was the term I used, and while Danny Maloney thought his kindness to Jim was faked the whole time, Mrs. Lokken maintained that there was some good in him after all.
Only Martina didn’t seem to find him compelling. “I didn’t trust him from the start,” she said quietly to me. “You can always tell with some men, no matter how polished they sound.” I told her that was really smart of her, making predictions like that. But then I thought about the man at the movie theater, the one Gio ran after. Makes a fellow wonder. Anytime I ask Gio, though, he says everything is fine at home and talks all about his da training for radio work, so maybe it’s nothing.
The corrupting power of greed was the next topic, and we all answered Gio’s question about what we’d do with our share of a vast treasure. Avis tried to tell us she’d donate it all to charity, and when we booed her for the trite answer, she added that she’d get a new hat too. Delphie wanted to visit Paris, “or whatever’s left of it after that awful man finishes tearing it apart.” As for me, I said there wasn’t much I wanted that gold could buy. After me, Rosa said she’d buy all the ribbon candy in the world, and everyone laughed.
A good time was had by all. Even Louise said so, and Gio practically beamed. Good boy, that one, and a hard worker. I’ll miss long days in the garden with him once the harvest is in, talking about everything and nothing.
Delphie piped right up when it was time to take suggestions for the next reading, offering up Edgar Allan Poe as another great American author. The work she suggested, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” sounds suspiciously like a romance, but Miss C didn’t say a word. And no wonder. It takes a lot to cross Delphie. I haven’t tried it again, that’s for sure.
P.S. Looked up Edgar Allan Poe afterward. Two revelations: First, “The Tell-Tale Heart” is a short story, not a novel. Second, it is most definitely not a romance.
This is going to be fun.
thirty
LOUISE
AUGUST 25
Louise could feel the shift in temperature as she stepped from the dining room into Delphie’s domain. Despite all the windows being wide open, the kitchen resembled an inferno, steam rising from enormous pots on the stove, the counter a mess of bruised tomatoes leaking pulpy juice and seeds.
Her cook, brilliantly red-faced, was midway through pouring water from a kettle into a soup pot with glass jars bobbing inside and didn’t turn when Louise cleared her throat. Perhaps it wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the bubbling water. “Delphie, I need to speak to you.”
Not so much as a glance over. “Can’t. It’s canning day. Now shoo.”
No one, not even Delphie, told Louise to “shoo.” She planted her practical pumps right there on the mat, immovable. It might actually be better to speak to Delphie when she was distracted and off her guard. “Why did you have us read this ghastly story?”
That got Delphie’s attention, and she turned, metal tongs in hand. “What’s that?”
