Chapter 34

From the Journal of Maisie McGinty March 18, 1938

I wish I understood God better. Is he the kind and loving father Grace and Dad pray to? Is he the something greater than all of us my grandpop believed in? Is he the coldhearted creep who did nothing while my mom died of a fractured skull on a barroom floor? Somewhere, Dad finds enough strength to go one more day without a drink. Somewhere Grace finds the courage to stay with Van and comfort him in spite of the screams that come out of the guest room when he has a nightmare. How can the same God who gives them strength allow me to lose my mom without even a chance to tell her goodbye?

Hub says that maybe we aren't meant to know all the answers in this life. Maybe we're just meant to help each other out the best way we can and trust that the answers will be there for us when we pass on. I don't know what got into me, but I couldn't resist challenging him. "If the atheists are right, there's nothing waiting for us after we die."

Hub just smiled. "I don't believe that, but either way we should be kind to each other while we can. If the war in Spain teaches anything, it's that none of us knows how long we have to do that."

Grace Bailey to Sally Henry March 19, 1938

The temperature here in New Bedford inched its way above zero today and the snow yesterday was only a flurry. I always love to see the first signs of spring. Mother made a major concession and allowed Van to smoke in the parlor. Van was conscious of the privilege. He took his time sipping his brandy and smoking one and no more of the small cigars he enjoys so much.

It did smell better than the two or three cigarettes I tried some years back hoping to be as chic as Claudette Colbert or Norma Shearer. I quickly decided not to take up the habit. The problem with smoking to look glamorous is that you have to smoke.

What Hub said when he caught me doing it about the one time he tried it is true. The taste really is awful. Van obviously feels differently. After a particularly satisfying puff he remarked that he missed his brandy and cigars when he was in Spain. Maisie couldn't resist needling him.

"So that's why you came back," she wisecracked, "and we all thought it was because you missed Grace."

Van kidded her right back, smiling good naturedly as he did so. "A man can get along without women in a pinch, but a good cigar is absolutely essential."

I gave him a mock pout. "Well, that's nice. I'm glad you think so highly of me."

Van looked at me with a sly, smoldering smile that made my heart flutter as he put his cigar down on the ash tray. "Come a little closer, darling. I'll show you exactly what I think of you."

Mother gasped at such a public display of desire, but I didn't care. I leaned over. My husband's kiss was slow and warm. I couldn't help but remember one or two past occasions when, with no company around, he had expressed his feelings for me with more than kisses. When we stopped, Mother was staring at us with silent disapproval. Maisie was grinning ear to ear. "So, you did come back from Spain for something besides a good smoke. "

Van looked at Maisie and grimaced. "The cigarettes there were terrible. The Communist bigwigs behind the lines got Lucky Strikes. We got Gauloises which taste like hot tar and stable sweepings. The first time I smoked one, I understood why the gangsters in French movies are always so cranky. Of course, we were just fighting soldiers. As far as Andre Marty [Commander of the International Brigades. Ed.] and his crowd at brigade headquarters were concerned, barely good enough was good enough for us."

The conversation turned to small talk after that. All of us relaxed. The evening was shaping up to be one of the most pleasant I had seen in a long time. None of us could have anticipated what was about to happen.

May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan March 19, 1938

A puff of wind could have blown me over when I opened the front door to see Ward Manton from the freight office at the railroad station. He and three husky men, no doubt brought along for the occasion, were standing over a long, rectangular packing crate. None of them knew what was in the crate, only that they were carrying out instructions to deliver it to Van. My son-in-law had no idea what might be inside.

I was reluctant to allow the crate to be brought into the front hall, but it was simply too cold to try to open it on the porch. Fortunately, Manton and his helpers managed the operation without scraping the doorframe. After they gently lowered the crate onto the floor and left, the rest of us gathered around it. Grace wondered what might be inside. Maisie suggested, far too enthusiastically, that there was enough room for a large coffin. You can be sure that I admonished her for being morbid, but not too harshly. The girl is high spirited, not malicious.

Van noticed an envelope glued to the side of the crate with his name on it. He opened it as Grace, Lionel, and Maisie looked on avidly. Inside there was an extremely brief note. It read "From one crusader to another," and was signed John Hammond. I recognized the name of Van's fellow jazz enthusiast turned impresario from occasional mentions in his and Grace's conversation. From the chuckle he quickly stifled, Lionel obviously had some idea of what the message meant. So did Van from the rueful way he shook his head.

Grace shot him an inquiring look. A chagrined explanation was forthcoming. "Back when we used to go to jazz clubs together John was always on fire to do something about the injustices of the world. I sympathized, but I was always reminding him that there are other things in life. I told him to relax and enjoy himself more instead of always being such a crusader." The corners of his lips twisted wryly. "Then I joined the International Brigades and went to war against fascism."

Lionel fetched crowbars from the cellar. He and Van, removed their jackets, rolled up their sleeves, and got to work on the crate. The effort showed that Lionel was more muscular than he appeared. I suppose he gets a great deal of exercise moving heavy antiques. He and Van made short work of the lid and then removed the packing straw.

Van shook his head in disbelief. The rest of us couldn't help laughing when we saw what was underneath, a gleaming suit of armor topped with a red plume. Its gauntleted hands were crossed over the breastplate clutching a broadsword. Grace was puzzled. She looked at Van. "From what you told me about John Hammond, I didn't think he had this strong a sense of humor."

"He doesn't," Van admitted. "He must have gotten the idea from someone who does." Van examined the armor. "Obviously, costume armor." Van turned his attention to the broadsword. "This looks like an actual medieval broadsword?"

"It is," Lionel informed him, smiling like a cat that had just swallowed a particularly succulent canary.

The dreadful truth dawned on Van instantly. "I should have known. How could you?"

"Not very easily," Lionel replied, obviously enjoying his brother's discomfiture. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find shining armor for someone who's 6'2'' and as broad in the shoulder as you are."

Van understood the implication of his brother's words perfectly. His eyes widened in horror. "I am not wearing that thing."

Grace sidled up to him, smiled sweetly, and all but batted her eyelashes. "Not even for me? You'd look so cute in it."

"You too?" Van tried to look deeply hurt but didn't quite manage it.

Grace's lips quirked slightly. "Just think of the fashion talk Rebecca could give. 'Tuxedos for men are out. The iron look is in this year.'"

"I still think I'd rather get my suits from a tailor than from a blacksmith."

"Don't be a spoilsport. The fashion might even spread to women. Just imagine. His and hers suits of armor with matching dirks and broadswords."

"Women don't need blades," Van teased affably. "They fence well enough with their tongues."

Grace raised an eyebrow in mock outrage. "Are you saying that I'm a shrew."

Van gave her a mischievous but loving smile that would have melted me on the spot if I were forty years younger. "If you are, you're the sweetest, loveliest, most adorable shrew I know."

Grace's smile was filled with warmth, amusement, and just a hint of eagerness. "Since you put it that way, I forgive you."

It was the kind of smile that makes me nervous every time they go into the guest room together.

Next Week: Memories of Spain. Out of the Ring. How the Children Are Doing.