Grace: A Novel

Chapter Eight

131 Fall 1944 Chapter Eight • 1 Husbands. Sons. Fathers. Lovers. Dead on the beaches of Normandy . All through summer the telegrams have come to Cold Springs. The first, Captain Newton, forty-five years old, married, a father of two children. A month later, young Frank Conroy, dead a month short of his eighteenth birthday. And now, the first day of high school, September 4—only it isn’t the first day because at eleven this morning a memorial service at the First Christian Church was held for Lt. David Taylor, shot by a German sniper in Marseilles a day before the Germans retreated. Flags are flying at half-mast at the post office where David’s father is postmaster and at the high school where he marched in the band. Those who did not know David know his mother at the Red Cross or his father at the post office or his sister just two years younger and off at the University of Arkansas so that she had to hear it from a stranger. All his relatives over in Arkansas, more than a dozen, were there, and so the church was filled to overflowing with those who came to grieve with the Taylors. Later that afternoon the First Monday Bridge Club is to meet as usual (today at the Carringtons’ house), but only for lunch. The cards will not even be shuffled. Arnie Carrington’s mother did not attend the service, couldn’t bring herself to go, because Arnie, her only son (and she a widow), had enlisted in the army the middle of 132 Jane Roberts Wood July, and although he is still in basic training and the War is bound to end before he can finish and be sent anywhere, the thought of what might happen to Arnie is more than his mother can bear. Still she wants to hear about the service for David. Who was there. Who had managed to hold up. Who hadn’t. Before the other members of the bridge club arrive, Amanda Carrington has the cucumber and chicken salad sandwiches all made and covered with a damp cloth in the icebox and the iced tea in a pitcher. However, as she places the tray of tea sandwiches on a table in the living room, she decides to forgo the tea. This afternoon, something stronger is needed, so she gets out her cutglass sherry glasses and opens a bottle of sherry left over from the Christmas before. After two glasses all around (two because after only a sip or two the first is empty), the four women have scarcely touched the sandwiches. Relaxed by the sherry, they find themselves returning again and again to the death of David Taylor, despite their determination for Amanda’s sake not to dwell on it. Martha says, “Why David? Why him?” She pushes her glasses up over her forehead, takes a sip of the sherry. “He was too fine, too young to die on a foreign beach,” she says, red-faced with anger. “And the saddest thing—the Red Cross notified them two months ago he was missing, but his family kept telling themselves he was alive, either escaped or a prisoner. They just knew he was. Now, to find out he was dead all that time. It makes it harder,” says Sarah, of the soft eyes, the soft heart. “His father has already aged ten years,” Miriam says, matterof -factly. “If it’s any consolation to his family, David never took a step in the wrong direction,” says Sarah, her voice going trembly. “Everybody loved him. All that energy. That smiling face. Gone.” “He threw my paper for two years, and it was never anywhere but on the porch.” “Halfway through the service, his fiancee fainted. Just keeled over. Did you see that? The poor thing.” “But fainting. That seems a little . . .” 133 Grace “Excessive?” Martha finishes boldly. Coming to the girl’s defense, “Well, it was too hot in that church,evenwithallthewindowsopenandtheceilingfansgoing,” Sarah says. “All the crowd.” “Girls, I know it’s too warm in here, but I’ve got the attic fan going,” says the hostess. “Now, would anyone like more sherry? Might as well finish it. A bit more in each glass?” “Ifyouaskme,it’shismotherIgrievefor,”saysMiriam,holding out her glass. “The girl’s young. She’ll get over it. But his mother. This will just about kill his mother.” “She was pitiful, sitting all through the service, pale as a ghost. Not shedding a...