Crossing Stones Read online

  A Rock So Heavy

  Muriel

  Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling …

  Emma is singing, in the middle of the night,

  a song we used to sing with Frank and Ollie.

  I get up, put on a sweater, and follow

  the sweet, sad song through the darkness

  to where she is sitting on a tree stump on their side

  of the creek, her voice as clear as the rippling water.

  I sit down beside her. I couldn’t sleep, she tells me.

  I never can, these days. (I know. I was not asleep myself.)

  Nothing, she says, will ever be the same again.

  I want to comfort her, but everything I think to say

  sounds hollow: The war cannot go on forever?

  (Yes, it can—for Emma, for her parents,

  and in a different way for me, it will not end.)

  We should be thankful we knew Frank?

  (No amount of gratitude can make this loss less heavy.)

  Emma, I finally say, thank you for walking to school

  with Grace this year. She is so proud to be seen

  with you—every morning she looks out the window,

  waiting for you. When she catches her first glimpse

  of you, she starts jumping up and down.

  Emma smiles a little—Grace is a ray of light

  in all our lives. It’s strange to go to school

  without you, Muriel—nobody stands up

  to Mr. Sander the way you did. And so many of the boys

  have enlisted over the summer—it’s lonely now.

  The creek is rushing past. We step to the edge

  of the water and Emma tosses in a stone.

  Then another, another, and another, each

  larger than the one before, until she tries to lift

  a rock so heavy she can’t budge it, and then she’s

  crying, and all I can do is help her lift the rock,

  swing it back and forth, back and forth again,

  until together we can let it go, heaving it

  out into the middle of the creek.

  Blinding Light

  Ollie

  Just to check—a nightmare?

  Stump of an arm? Does the pain mean

  this all might be real? Pa’s letter … here it is.

  “Frank was killed in action, Friday, August 31.”

  That can’t be true. Frank—my closest friend! No.

  I will wake up soon. Nurse, what am I doing here?

  Shot just below my shoulder? Recuperating well?

  Not possible. I’d remember that. Yes, it’s true—

  while trying to save a wounded man. It was a

  rat, not a man, I helped into a trench. No, a

  tank was coming. Philip Ross—you saved

  his life. Someone had a rifle. I tried to

  jump into the trench. An explosion

  burst. You’re lucky to be alive.

  A Bullet and a Bandage

  Muriel

  Emma, I say, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.

  What is it? She opens her mouth to speak,

  but can’t, reaching out instead to give me

  a sealed letter, addressed to me—in Frank’s

  handwriting. It’s my turn to be speechless.

  The Army sent a box of Frank’s personal effects,

  Emma tells me, trembling. I found this tucked

  into his Bible. My parents haven’t seen it—

  I won’t mention it to them unless you ask me to.

  She gives my hand a squeeze, then leaves me alone.

  I open the envelope, take out the letter

  (several sheets of paper). August 27, 1917.

  Dear Muriel, Frank began, as if it were one

  of a hundred letters he would write to me.

  They’ll censor much of what I want to say,

  but it might do me some good to say it anyway.

  Save my letters, and when I come home I’ll fill in

  the missing lines for you. The rest of the letter

  may as well have passed through the censors’ hands—

  I can’t read it through my tears. When I can stop

  crying, I read on: I was well trained, he wrote.

  I thought I understood why we were over here,

  what we are being asked to do. At first, it made

  some kind of sense. I even thought I’d be able

  to explain it to you, and maybe change your mind

  about our being here. But more often than not these days,

  you are the one who changes my mind. Your words

  come back to me when I have to pull a trigger, or

  when I can’t sleep after killing someone. “Why

  is everyone just doing what they’re told?”

  you asked, that night after your graduation. Sometimes

  I find that hard to answer. I blink, back up, read again:

  “after killing someone.” Frank killed someone.

  More than once? I take a deep breath, read on:

  We’re lined up on one side of a line, other soldiers

  line up facing us, and then we shoot each other.

  That’s about the size of it. When you read

  about the war in the papers over there, it sounds

  like we spend our days moving lines around a map,

  half an inch a week. It’s easier to make sense

  of who’s the enemy and who is on our side.

  But when you see a soldier lying facedown

  in the mud and he’s been there a few days

  and everyone is marching past him because

  no one has the time to move him, or give him

  a proper burial—maybe say a simple prayer

  over his body—it barely matters what kind of

  uniform he’s wearing. Dead bodies

  look and smell the same, whatever side

  they once were on. I know I shouldn’t question

  what I’m doing; they drill it into us: “A split

  second can mean the difference between

  killing the enemy and being killed.”

  But do I want to lose that part of myself

  that insists on taking stock of what I’m doing

  every time I do it? That’s hard to answer, Muriel.

  I’ll put this letter away for a few days,

  and then decide if I should mail it.

  If you’re reading it at all, no matter what

  they’ve crossed out before it comes to you,

  at least you’ll know that I was thinking of you.

  Your friendship gives me comfort

  through long nights in the trenches.

  I hope this finds you well, my dear.

  With love, Frank.

  A bullet and a bandage for the wound

  it causes, all in one small envelope.

  My questions may have caused a hesitation

  that cost Frank his … his certainty.

  His life? However long I live, it won’t

  be long enough to silence that suggestion.

  I stuff the letter deep into my pocket

  (“my dear” … “with love”)

  and walk to Reuben Lake. A harsh wind

  whips up the water’s surface; somewhere

  among the whitecaps’ tumult, a loon

  cries out. Hard as I listen for an answer,

  there is none.

  Applesauce

  Muriel

  Bushels of red apples,

  knife against my thumb,

  peelings curling in a pile

  on the floor. Grace’s chatter.

  Mama’s admonitions and advice.

  You’re awfully quiet, Muriel.

  What’s wrong with you today?

  Emma and her mother

  stir the apples, keep

  the pot from boiling over.

  (Thank you, Emma,

  for the question y
ou

  refrain from asking.)

  I have burned

  the letter. I will never

  tell a soul what it contained.

  White Shirt Crumpled in the Mud

  October 1917

  Her Careful Signature

  Muriel

  Another letter from Aunt Vera—disappointing,

  and peculiar. My dear ones, it begins,

  As you may know, We are still here: you

  Have probably finished your canning by now.

  Has the pastor Stopped by to see you lately?

  I hope to be Eating Thanksgiving dinner with you

  next month. And then her careful signature.

  Papa puzzles over it—why doesn’t she tell us

  what is happening in prison? She must know we’re worried.

  Mama pulls her lips into a tight line.

  Papa hands me the letter, and I read it four times.

  It’s not like Aunt Vera, I point out, to make errors

  in capitalization. That’s her job, as a secretary,

  to correct the errors other people make.

  We analyze the words she has mis-capitalized:

  We … Have … Stopped … Eating. A hunger strike?

  It’s the only power they have—to refuse

  what their jailers try to feed them.

  Papa runs his hands through his hair, leans against

  the door, and lets out a long, low whistle.

  These women mean what they say, he says.

  This could go on awhile. It could get worse.

  What is Papa saying? They can’t refuse

  to eat forever—can they? If they could,

  no one would let them die of starvation—would they?

  Either the president will issue an order

  to release them, or the women will start eating.

  I can’t imagine (though I can’t stop trying)

  how it could get worse.

  I Know Instantly

  Muriel

  Ollie! I’m hanging out the clothes,

  pinning Papa’s church shirt to the line,

  and I look up to see the merest speck

  off in the distance, coming closer. I know

  instantly it’s Ollie—I recognize him by

  the rhythm of his walk. I drop the white shirt

  in the mud and run so hard I’m barely breathing

  by the time I’m close enough to see his smile.

  I throw my arms around his neck and he

  sets down his duffel bag and puts …

  one arm … around me …

  Across my left shoulder and around my back,

  the absence of Ollie’s right arm spreads

  icy fingers over me. I pull away and stare—

  not at my brother’s face (all I saw

  when I ran to him)—no, not at Ollie’s face,

  but at the sleeve pinned to his shirt. I blurt

  out my question, Where’s your arm? and he

  draws in a breath, as if to answer quickly

  before the question finds a way to push

  the two of us apart. But then there’s Mama.

  She’s been running, too, her hands white

  with flour, and before Ollie has a chance to answer,

  Mama sweeps my words away: Muriel, she gasps,

  what kind of question is that?

  It’s the same kind of question as the look

  on her face—joy and horror, pride and

  anger, all rolled into one. She looks at Ollie’s

  empty sleeve, and at his face. She doesn’t give

  the smallest glance in my direction

  even as she shushes me. Oliver, she says,

  we praise the good Lord you’ve returned.

  She puts her arm through the elbow he still has,

  and turns with him toward home.

  I hope Ollie doesn’t notice, when I reach

  for his other hand, how my hand flutters

  back down to my side like a sparrow

  shot out of the sky. I pick up Ollie’s duffel bag

  and walk along beside him. Mama chatters

  all the way home—so that I won’t, I suppose.

  Or—so that Ollie doesn’t have to?

  Blackberry Jam

  Emma

  Stirring jam in a cast-iron pot,

  I see, through the window, Muriel run

  up the hill. She slows to a walk, then, barely

  moving, approaches our door. I have never known

  Muriel to hesitate when she comes into our house. I

  open the door. Is something wrong? (Though there is

  also a deep joy in her eyes.) Muriel … what is it? Has

  something happened? She starts to answer me just as,

  behind us on the stove, the sugar and blackberries

  boil over. Mother comes rushing in: Emma, why

  did you stop stirring? Then she has her own

  reaction to Muriel’s expression. She stares

  as Muriel answers: Ollie is home. One

  arm is … She can’t finish. What?

  Mud

  Muriel

  Late afternoon, bitter wind,

  eight pairs of socks half frozen

  on the line, Papa’s white shirt

  crumpled in the mud where I

  dropped it when I ran to Ollie—

  yes, I have to wash it out again.

  I have to rinse it, wring it out,

  and hang it on the line to dry.

  I am not complaining—

  look what I can do—I hold the shirt

  with one hand while I reach

  for a clothespin with the other!

  Oh, Ollie …

  Changes

  Ollie

  Raspberries have come and gone.

  Rows of cornstalks stand like soldiers:

  one strong wind could blow them all down.

  I was in the war for three weeks, not counting

  the time in the hospital, and everything is different

  now. Muriel and Grace ask if I want to join them in a

  card game. Sure, I say, I’ll shuffle. Oh … um, let’s play

  partners. Here, Muriel—you can shuffle. I keep looking

  down at my sleeve and thinking of things I won’t ever

  be able to do again: tie a fishing fly, hammer in a nail.

  Why me? I ask Pa. He looks at me long and hard.

  Son, that question leads nowhere. These old

  crows around here still know you. The

  past is past. You’re home now.

  This Changes Everything

  Muriel

  At least you have your brother home,

  Emma says, which means I can’t talk

  to her about my horror. I keep picturing

  the moment Ollie’s arm was torn from him …

  What did it look like? How close did he

  come to dying? He says he can’t remember,

  but maybe he remembers in some awful,

  wordless way. He’s sleeping all the time—

  Mama says he’s healing, and we should

  let him be. Beyond that, she doesn’t say

  a word about the way this changes

  everything for all of us. What does Mama do

  with rage she thinks she shouldn’t feel?

  If God knows what he’s doing, and

  the president is worthy of our trust,

  where does Mama look for reasons

  to explain why she is cutting Ollie’s food

  the way she used to do when he

  was two years old?

  Take This Bread

  Emma

  Everything that used to be easy is hard.

  We’ve always run so freely across the creek and back.

  Now when I say, Let’s go over to welcome Ollie home, Mother

  answers, I’m sorry, Emma, I can’t, just yet. You go. Take this bread.

  I would give my
own right arm, she says, to have Fra—I’ll go when …

  Well, I don’t know when, exactly. Mother simply can’t, so I go alone, and

  find: Ollie asleep, Muriel scolding her hens as she throws them their grain,

  Grace clutching her doll in her playhouse, and Mrs. Jorgensen cleaning a rain

  gutter, scrubbing at it with such ferocity she slices the palm of her left hand

  on the sharp edge, shakes off the blood, but doesn’t stop to wash it. Then

  she goes right back to work, oblivious. I offer the bread: Mother said

  to give you this. She’d have come, but she had to … do some other

  things. Mrs. Jorgensen stares at me. Shouldn’t you wash that

  cut? I ask. Oh … yes. Her blood drips across the yard.

  Phantom Pain

  Ollie

  Pain in a missing limb is common,

  Pa tells me. They call it phantom pain. An itch I

  can’t scratch. I try to imagine some way a mosquito could

  bite an arm that isn’t there, but it’s so obviously not possible.

  None of this makes sense. And another thing—or the same thing?

  Why does the sight of our pigs wallowing in mud behind the barn

  send me running into the house for shelter like we’re coming to the

  end of the world? I’ve never been afraid of pigs! I see them in their

  sty after a rain, and I start to shudder so hard I can barely stand up.

  One image—pigs in mud—immediately brings another: dark

  night, heavy rain, a muddy boot. And then my mind goes

  blank. Pa says, It’s hard not to think about such things.

  Ma says, Leave the war behind now. Rest your

  brain. But my brain won’t rest.

  What Kind of Luck?

  Muriel

  Everyone is telling Ollie not to think

  the things he can’t help thinking.

  Mama cautions me: Don’t mention anything

  that will remind him of the war. But what if

  Ollie wants to tell someone what happened,

  like Frank tried to tell me those hard

  things he couldn’t say to anyone in France

  or in letters to his family? Let’s go out

  for a walk, I suggest to Ollie, after supper.

  We walk in near silence for an hour—a few

  small comments about the calves, the land,

  the weather. When we come to the pigsty