people.”
“Which worries me even more,” said Maggie. “I’ve never performed on a stage. Not in a real theatre.”
“You sing at your church every week. Can’t you think of the concert as a different sort of choir?”
“I can’t think of it like that at all.”
“Will Uncle Am be there to offer support?”
“He will. I’ve already bought his ticket.”
Maggie looked down at the street below, where two schoolchildren were heading home. They were laughing together, hand in hand, slipping and sliding along the boardwalk in their boots. She glanced down again, but they had vanished.
“If I’m not allowed to ask about your singing, tell me about the farm,” said Tress. “I’ve lived in town all my life and the only farm I ever get to visit is my grandfather’s.”
“There’s nothing to tell. After Am and I married, we bought our own small place. We had a bit of land, a few animals, a few rows of apple trees.”
“Did you sell the land when you moved to town?”
“We did. And I don’t miss it, not one bit.”
What she did not say was that during the weeks and months before they moved to town, she had begun to dream of small hands combing through her long hair. Even now, thinking about the dreams, she remembered the sensation of her hair being sifted through fingers. The dreams stopped when she and Am moved to the apartment. She’d have gone mad if she’d stayed there, on the farm. She’d have gone mad if the dreams had continued.
She passed the knitted shrug back to Tress. Over the bay, a new chain of clouds was about to snare the sun. One cloud broke free and skittered along the horizon, a beetle looking for cover. She shuddered.
Tress understood that Aunt Maggie wanted no more questions today.
Chapter Eight
K ENAN HELD A PHOTO IN HIS GOOD HAND . T HREE soldiers in uniform in France. Hugh on the right, Kenan on the left, the third soldier between. Out of the depths, grappling for a name.
Bill,
the soldier in the middle, killed only days after the photo was taken. No body found, presumed dead,
was
dead. Kenan dropped the photo to the floor as if it were in flames. He bent forward and picked it up again. Details surfaced quickly, too quickly, firing into his brain from unknown directions.
Bill
. A lean, hard-muscled man whose words rattled out of him like rapid-fire bursts from a machine gun. He’d always cursed a blue streak. Told the others that his two biggest fears were being gassed and being buried alive. After the war he planned to work with the Great Farini so he could be shot out of a cannon. As a human cannonball he’d be able to withstand the noise, he said. If he ever got out of the trenches alive, he’d be deaf by then anyway.
But Bill had become a different kind of cannon fodder and had disappeared. A short time after that, Kenan had been wounded and sent to England. Bill’s disappearance was one of the gaps in Kenan’s memory. Maybe Bill—or his body—had been found while Kenan was in hospital in Blighty.
Now it was Hugh who had tracked Kenan down. Hugh remembered the name of the hometown Kenan had spoken about, and acted on the impulse to write. Kenan could not help wondering what contact would be like if he and Hugh were in the same room. He hadn’t seen any of the boys he’d served with since the night he’d been carried off on a stretcher. Nor had Hugh seen Kenan and his half-face of scars. All this time, neither had made a move to find out if the other was alive.
Tress’s brother-in-law, Jim, had stopped in at the house to visit several times after he came home from the war in April 1919, and before he left Deseronto. For a time, Kenan had relied on Jim to bring in news of the larger world. Their shared experience allowed a comfort between them, though they’d been to different areas of the Front. Except for Vimy Ridge—they’d been there at the same time. Jim had served as a stretcher bearer, and they had compared notes. How the roads leading to the
“Which worries me even more,” said Maggie. “I’ve never performed on a stage. Not in a real theatre.”
“You sing at your church every week. Can’t you think of the concert as a different sort of choir?”
“I can’t think of it like that at all.”
“Will Uncle Am be there to offer support?”
“He will. I’ve already bought his ticket.”
Maggie looked down at the street below, where two schoolchildren were heading home. They were laughing together, hand in hand, slipping and sliding along the boardwalk in their boots. She glanced down again, but they had vanished.
“If I’m not allowed to ask about your singing, tell me about the farm,” said Tress. “I’ve lived in town all my life and the only farm I ever get to visit is my grandfather’s.”
“There’s nothing to tell. After Am and I married, we bought our own small place. We had a bit of land, a few animals, a few rows of apple trees.”
“Did you sell the land when you moved to town?”
“We did. And I don’t miss it, not one bit.”
What she did not say was that during the weeks and months before they moved to town, she had begun to dream of small hands combing through her long hair. Even now, thinking about the dreams, she remembered the sensation of her hair being sifted through fingers. The dreams stopped when she and Am moved to the apartment. She’d have gone mad if she’d stayed there, on the farm. She’d have gone mad if the dreams had continued.
She passed the knitted shrug back to Tress. Over the bay, a new chain of clouds was about to snare the sun. One cloud broke free and skittered along the horizon, a beetle looking for cover. She shuddered.
Tress understood that Aunt Maggie wanted no more questions today.
Chapter Eight
K ENAN HELD A PHOTO IN HIS GOOD HAND . T HREE soldiers in uniform in France. Hugh on the right, Kenan on the left, the third soldier between. Out of the depths, grappling for a name.
Bill,
the soldier in the middle, killed only days after the photo was taken. No body found, presumed dead,
was
dead. Kenan dropped the photo to the floor as if it were in flames. He bent forward and picked it up again. Details surfaced quickly, too quickly, firing into his brain from unknown directions.
Bill
. A lean, hard-muscled man whose words rattled out of him like rapid-fire bursts from a machine gun. He’d always cursed a blue streak. Told the others that his two biggest fears were being gassed and being buried alive. After the war he planned to work with the Great Farini so he could be shot out of a cannon. As a human cannonball he’d be able to withstand the noise, he said. If he ever got out of the trenches alive, he’d be deaf by then anyway.
But Bill had become a different kind of cannon fodder and had disappeared. A short time after that, Kenan had been wounded and sent to England. Bill’s disappearance was one of the gaps in Kenan’s memory. Maybe Bill—or his body—had been found while Kenan was in hospital in Blighty.
Now it was Hugh who had tracked Kenan down. Hugh remembered the name of the hometown Kenan had spoken about, and acted on the impulse to write. Kenan could not help wondering what contact would be like if he and Hugh were in the same room. He hadn’t seen any of the boys he’d served with since the night he’d been carried off on a stretcher. Nor had Hugh seen Kenan and his half-face of scars. All this time, neither had made a move to find out if the other was alive.
Tress’s brother-in-law, Jim, had stopped in at the house to visit several times after he came home from the war in April 1919, and before he left Deseronto. For a time, Kenan had relied on Jim to bring in news of the larger world. Their shared experience allowed a comfort between them, though they’d been to different areas of the Front. Except for Vimy Ridge—they’d been there at the same time. Jim had served as a stretcher bearer, and they had compared notes. How the roads leading to the
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