crepe meant someone young had passed on. Black represented middle age. And gray was meant for the very old. Coming across such a sight used to be a rarity. I had an awful feeling this would be the first of many.
We watched the narrow strip of fabric flutter in the wind. A memory rose, of Jack, white-faced, climbing our porch steps and yanking the black ribbon from our door. I brushed the image aside and tucked my arm into Kate’s.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I don’t think they need us here.”
We rounded the corner. The three boys we had seen earlier stood just ahead of us, their bicycles left on the sidewalk in a tangle of metal and rubber. They were about ten, fair-haired and freckled, dressed in matching denim overalls. Try as I might, I could not tell them apart. Kate and I looked at each other, diverted. Triplets!
The brothers did not see us, so preoccupied were they with the low stone wall in front of them. Curious, I turned to see what had captured their attention.
“Oh!” I said.
Kate’s hand flew to her mouth.
The boys jumped, turning in unison to look at us with identical blue eyes. One of them recovered first.
“We didn’t do it,” he piped up, pointing at the wall. “We found it like this. Just now. It wasn’t us.” The other two shook their heads vigorously, their eyes wide and earnest.
Along the wall, someone had painted the word
kaiserite
in red. It was a vicious slur reserved for war protesters and deserters. And German immigrants. Each letter measured at least three feet and had been allowed to drip, so that it resembled a great big bloody wound.
“We know you didn’t.” Kate gave the boys a reassuring look. “Do you know who lives here?” Behind the wall stood an elegant gray house with black shutters. Two stone urns flanked the front door.
A second boy spoke up. “The Kruegers, miss. Mr. Krueger, Mrs. Krueger, and their son, Daniel Krueger. Our pa said Daniel Krueger left Camp Lewis last week.”
The third boy chimed in. “Just upped and ran away, even though the army said he couldn’t.”
A deserter. A Kaiserite. So that was it.
“Are the Kruegers home now?” I asked.
They shook their heads. “They have the influenza,” said the first brother. “The ambulance came yesterday. We heard the sirens and everything.”
“We can’t just leave this here with them sick,” Kate said in a low voice.
“No.” I looked at the wall, calculating the amount of hard scrubbing it would take to get all the paint off. “But we’re hardly dressed for
that,
Kate.”
She eyed my red coat, then looked down at her own blue skirt and jacket. “You’re right.”
She gave the boys a considering look. They were thin but sturdy. Their denim overalls and long sleeves looked one step away from the rag pile. She reached into her canvas bag and rifled around until she found a small purse. Snapping it open, she pulled out a single dollar bill. It was crumpled and sad-looking.
She grimaced. “Do you have any money, Cleo?”
“Sure.” I reached into my own purse and pulled out the handful of dollar bills I’d taken from the jar on my kitchen counter. I gave it to Kate. She counted, gave me back half, and held up the money. The boys straightened. Kate fanned the bills out until their eyes looked ready to pop right out of their heads.
I smiled.
“Well, boys,” Kate said. “School’s out and there’s nothing to do. How would you like to earn some money?”
The three brothers looked at one another, partaking in some sort of silent communication that included quick headshakes, pursed lips, and crossed arms. Finally, the first brother spoke up, sounding far more calculating than any ten-year-old had the right to sound. “How much money?”
The house was unlike any other on the street. Tall and narrow, it was painted forest green, with a gray scallop-edged roof and wraparound porch. A lovely home, but it was the windows that captured the eye. The windows that gave one pause.
We watched the narrow strip of fabric flutter in the wind. A memory rose, of Jack, white-faced, climbing our porch steps and yanking the black ribbon from our door. I brushed the image aside and tucked my arm into Kate’s.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I don’t think they need us here.”
We rounded the corner. The three boys we had seen earlier stood just ahead of us, their bicycles left on the sidewalk in a tangle of metal and rubber. They were about ten, fair-haired and freckled, dressed in matching denim overalls. Try as I might, I could not tell them apart. Kate and I looked at each other, diverted. Triplets!
The brothers did not see us, so preoccupied were they with the low stone wall in front of them. Curious, I turned to see what had captured their attention.
“Oh!” I said.
Kate’s hand flew to her mouth.
The boys jumped, turning in unison to look at us with identical blue eyes. One of them recovered first.
“We didn’t do it,” he piped up, pointing at the wall. “We found it like this. Just now. It wasn’t us.” The other two shook their heads vigorously, their eyes wide and earnest.
Along the wall, someone had painted the word
kaiserite
in red. It was a vicious slur reserved for war protesters and deserters. And German immigrants. Each letter measured at least three feet and had been allowed to drip, so that it resembled a great big bloody wound.
“We know you didn’t.” Kate gave the boys a reassuring look. “Do you know who lives here?” Behind the wall stood an elegant gray house with black shutters. Two stone urns flanked the front door.
A second boy spoke up. “The Kruegers, miss. Mr. Krueger, Mrs. Krueger, and their son, Daniel Krueger. Our pa said Daniel Krueger left Camp Lewis last week.”
The third boy chimed in. “Just upped and ran away, even though the army said he couldn’t.”
A deserter. A Kaiserite. So that was it.
“Are the Kruegers home now?” I asked.
They shook their heads. “They have the influenza,” said the first brother. “The ambulance came yesterday. We heard the sirens and everything.”
“We can’t just leave this here with them sick,” Kate said in a low voice.
“No.” I looked at the wall, calculating the amount of hard scrubbing it would take to get all the paint off. “But we’re hardly dressed for
that,
Kate.”
She eyed my red coat, then looked down at her own blue skirt and jacket. “You’re right.”
She gave the boys a considering look. They were thin but sturdy. Their denim overalls and long sleeves looked one step away from the rag pile. She reached into her canvas bag and rifled around until she found a small purse. Snapping it open, she pulled out a single dollar bill. It was crumpled and sad-looking.
She grimaced. “Do you have any money, Cleo?”
“Sure.” I reached into my own purse and pulled out the handful of dollar bills I’d taken from the jar on my kitchen counter. I gave it to Kate. She counted, gave me back half, and held up the money. The boys straightened. Kate fanned the bills out until their eyes looked ready to pop right out of their heads.
I smiled.
“Well, boys,” Kate said. “School’s out and there’s nothing to do. How would you like to earn some money?”
The three brothers looked at one another, partaking in some sort of silent communication that included quick headshakes, pursed lips, and crossed arms. Finally, the first brother spoke up, sounding far more calculating than any ten-year-old had the right to sound. “How much money?”
The house was unlike any other on the street. Tall and narrow, it was painted forest green, with a gray scallop-edged roof and wraparound porch. A lovely home, but it was the windows that captured the eye. The windows that gave one pause.
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