Holy Water

Holy Water

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~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

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Chapter One

Lake Ithaca, Minnesota. May 8, 1919

"Charlie? Charlie!"

At the happy shout, the young man turned on the train platform. He squinted through the bellowing clouds of steam from the huffing engine, glimpsing a familiar cloud of black hair through the tangled clots of people disembarking from the passenger cars.

"Maggie!"

With a shout, his older sister threw herself into his arms, her arms wrapping around him tight enough to cut off his breath. "You're back!"

"Obviously," he said with a tired smile. He took in his sister, his first glimpse of family in nearly two years. She looked almost the same as she had when he left for Europe. A little heavier, maybe. Her thick black hair, a gift from their Chippewa grandmother, was the same shade as his own. It was shorter than it had been, a victim of the ever-changing fashions of women. But her skin was still pale and clear, her eyes the same dark blue he remembered. He glanced around. "Is Carl here?"

She shook her head. "Too far to walk. He's waiting by the automobile with Mama," she said.

Charles raised his brows. "So you got one of those things?" he said, his tone not completely approving.

His sister smacked him lightly on the upper arm. "I wrote to you six months ago and said so, didn't I? And don't look so grumpy about it. You won't believe how much easier it makes our lives. No horses to feed, no hitching up whenever we need to go someplace-"

"Right," her brother grunted, lifting up his kit-bag. "And can this automobile get you through six inches of Minnesota mud in the spring? Or two feet of snow in the winter?"

"Not yet," Maggie said breezily as they walked through the lobby of the small train station, her heels clicking on the polished tiles. "But Carl says the city council is planning on paving some of the streets, just like they have in Minneapolis. Then we can drive whenever we want." She pushed open the front door, holding it open so her brother could walk through. She took a few steps toward her husband's vehicle, then paused and turned around, no longer sensing her brother behind her.

Charlie was standing at the edge of the sidewalk, his green eyes wide and hungry as he took in the familiar sight of the town square. The early May sun, high in a sky of robin's-egg blue, picked out an idyllic scene of small-town life, from the tall, graceful elm trees lining the streets to the businesses that bordered the square on three sides. In the middle of the square, a grassy park with a burbling fountain at the center formed a playground for several small children who were playing a game of tag, their indulgent mothers watching from nearby benches.

Margaret hurried back to her brother as he sank, shaking, to the steps that led into the train station.

"Charlie? Are you all right?" She darted a look over her shoulder to where her husband and mother waited, then moved to his side. Suddenly he looked thirty years older, his face a skeletal mask. It reminded her, frighteningly, of how their father had looked just before he died.

As quickly as it came, it went, and her brother was back, a tired young man sitting on the steps of a train station in a rumpled uniform.

He ran a shaking hand over his face, his shoulders hunched. "Give me a minute, Maggie. I can't face them like this." He looked at the playing children as his sister sat down beside him, a comforting presence. "I never thought I would see this again," he said quietly. "I was sure I would die over there. Even when I got on the train in St. Paul to come home, I never really believed I would get here safely." He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, shaking one out. Before he could light it, however, it was struck from his hand and ground into the dirt.

"You're not smoking one of those filthy things around me," Maggie said, her voice firm.

Despite himself, his lips quirked. "God save me from my family," he sighed. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, savoring the warm morning sun on his face, the gentle breeze, so different from the mud and stink and terror of the trenches. "This must be heaven."

"No, Charlie. It isn't. It's Lake Ithaca, Minnesota. And I don't know why you are carrying on so much."

"Because this is heaven. I know. Because I've seen hell. It's over there." He waved an arm in a vaguely easterly direction. "In Europe. Where I saw men slaughtered by the thousands. So many I got used to it." He shuddered.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked. In that moment, he was a little boy and she was the all-powerful older sister again. Friend, confidant, co-conspirator in a hundred different adventures. He smiled grimly, shaking his head.

"Tonight. One time. Then never again. Until I have to tell my children about it, so they can make sure another war like this never happens." He heaved himself to his feet and picked up his bag. "Let's go."

As they approached the automobile, a tall, lanky figure stepped away from it, leaning on a cane. A smaller form followed behind him. The man snapped off a jaunty salute.

"Corporal," he said, nodding at the stripes on Charlie's sleeve.

"Councilman," he replied, taking in Carl's well-tailored suit. Carl grinned.

"By God, it's good to have you back, you old devil!" he said, limping forward to gather his brother-in-law in a crushing embrace. He pounded Charlie's back with his fist. When he pulled away, his cheeks were wet. "Here's someone else who's been waiting for you."

Charlie stumbled forward, weeping unashamedly. "Mama." Dropping the bag, he bent and folded his mother in his arms.

"There, there," her soft voice soothed him. Gentle hands which had eased him through a dozen childhood hurts cupped his cheeks. When they pulled apart, Edith Schuler's eyes were bright. "My poor boy," she whispered. "It must have been bad."

He nodded, swallowing through a throat gone suddenly thick with emotion. "It was."

"Well," she said briskly. "The sooner we're home, the happier we'll all be. Charles, get in the automobile. Carl, get this infernal contraption moving."

"You'll be happy to know some things haven't changed," his sister whispered to him as she went to help their mother into the back seat.

"I heard that, Margaret Mary!"

"God, it's good to be back," Charlie sighed. It was a few hours later and he was sitting in the parlor of Maggie and Carl's small, comfortable house. He had washed and changed into civilian clothes, which Maggie had thoughtfully brought from the farmhouse, and he felt he had shed ten years as he folded away his uniform.

"I would hope so," his mother said tartly from across the room. She was sitting on a sofa, eyeing him carefully. "You weren't hurt over there, were you, Charles?" she asked anxiously. "You never said anything in your letters, but..."

"No, Mama," he said gently. After losing four children before they reached adulthood, and her husband to the Spanish Flu only a few months before, he knew how much his and Margaret's safety meant to her. "Not so much as a scratch. I suffered more from bad food than from the Germans."

"Speaking of which," his mother muttered. Raising her voice, she turned towards the kitchen. "Margaret, where's your brother's dinner?"

"At your command, Mama," Maggie said, sailing through the doorway. She set a loaded plate on the table by Charlie. "Eat up."

Charlie eyed the meal with undisguised relish. Thick brown bread slathered with butter, two slices of good home-cured ham, a large wedge of cheese, pickled vegetables, a glass of buttermilk...his mouth watered. He picked up a slice of bread and bit down, his eyes closing in ecstasy.

He opened them to see his sister and mother staring at him. "What's the matter?" he asked with a crooked smile. "Never seen a man eat before?"

His mother sniffed. "Never saw a man attack an innocent piece of bread like it might run away and hide," she said. She looked him over as his sister and Carl joined them in the parlor. "Except when your father was busy with the harvest, of course. You're too thin, Charles," she continued. "Doesn't the army believe in feeding the soldiers?"

Charlie snorted. "There's three ways of doing things, Mama. The right way, the wrong way, and the army way." He cut off a bite of ham and chewed. "The army believes in feeding the soldiers. But not in overfeeding them. And if the food is good, that's an unintended bonus." He changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on his time in France. Later. Tonight. Then never again, God help me. "So what's new in town? How's the farm?"

Edith rolled her eyes. "The farm. The farm. Always the farm. There must be something in the Schuler blood that makes the farm the most important thing in the wide green world. The farm's fine, Charles. The Gustaffsons and the Websters have been taking care of the stock since your father died. The cows and pigs are doing well. We're selling the milk to the dairy, just as we always have. And we're collecting the eggs from the chickens to sell in town. Our neighbors helped get the planting in. We just got the last of the barley sowed last week. And the winter wheat is already coming up in the north fields."

"Good." Charles took a long swallow of milk, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "What else is going on?"

"Well," his mother said, with some exasperation, "if you would look at your sister instead of stuffing your face, you might notice something."

Charles blinked. "I have to say, Maggie, that town life agrees with you." He eyed her thickening middle. "You look like a cow about to be taken to market."

"Charles!" his sister exclaimed, turning red. Beside her, Carl laughed.

"Lord, you are slow today, Charlie. Did the army take away what little smarts you had? She's not getting fat, she's-"

"Oh, God. Oh, Maggie, I'm sorry. You're expecting?" She nodded, proudly standing to show him her growing profile.

"Sometime in late October, from what the doctor says. You're going to be an uncle, Charlie."

He smiled in unalloyed happiness. Standing, he caught her in a gentle embrace, mindful of the small life within her. "Congratulations," he whispered into her ear. "And to you, sir," he said, turning to Carl. "Looks like the polio didn't do anything to your-"

"Charles!" their mother snapped. "That will be quite enough. We do not tolerate lewdness in this household."

"We don't?" he asked quizzically. "Oh, right. We don't. Sorry, Grandma," he said with an unapologetic grin. His mother sniffed, not taking his bait.

"You always were a rotten little boy," she said. She patted down her graying hair, caught in a bun at the nape of her neck.

"I know, I know," Charlie said. "And you should have let me fall down the well when I was three. I know how this lecture ends."

"Well," she sniffed. "If you know it so well I shouldn't have to repeat it." She eyed her only surviving son.

Thank you, God, for sparing him, she thought. I have lost so much already. Three sons to sickness, a daughter in the cradle, a husband to that ghastly influenza epidemic. If he had been taken away, I don't know how I could have borne it.

He grinned at her unrepentantly, taking a bite of cheese, for all the world as if he was nine years old again and she had caught him stealing a slice of the pie she had prepared for dessert. With shaking hands she smoothed the folds of her best Sunday dress, worn just for him, grateful beyond words that he was alive to see it.

He is too thin, though. Hopefully he will stay here in town where Margaret and I can feed him up. Nothing like a woman's cooking to keep a man around.

Otherwise, though, her son was the image of her husband at the same age. The black hair that all of her children shared was cut high off his forehead, and his grass-green eyes were clear and piercing, keen with intelligence. Not a tall man, but well made, with strong shoulders, a broad chest, and narrow hips.

Once the girls in town see he's back, he'll have to hide in the outhouse to avoid them, she thought with satisfaction. The entire county is marriage-crazy right now. As soon as Johnny comes marching home a girl snatches him up and marches him to the altar.

While she was caught up in her thoughts, Carl, Margaret, and Charles had been discussing the small changes in town. Edith glanced up as a familiar name caught her ear.

"A dam?" Charles asked. "For a sawmill? Where on earth did Malcolm McGill find a place on his land to set up a dam? If he tried, he'd flood out his entire property. It's all meadowland. Crystal Creek doesn't carve a deep enough valley to make a dam practical until it is well into our side of the property line." He drummed his fingers on the table, the remains of his meal forgotten for the moment, and glanced at his mother. "Mama, didn't Malcolm try to buy a couple dozen acres on the east side a few years back? Over where the creek runs?"

"He surely did," she replied promptly. "Offered your father a good price, too. He wanted the woodlot and a strip all the way down the east side. Including the creek. Josiah turned him down, of course. Easier to pull a tooth out of an angry bull than to pry land out of a Schuler."

"I wonder," Charles said. He looked at Maggie and Carl. "Has anyone actually seen this dam?"

Carl shook his head. "I haven't. First I heard of it was when Mal started to build the sawmill. Mortgaged his land to the hilt to do it, too, if what I've heard around town is true. Once the creek was high enough he was able to divert water into a mill race he dug. He told everyone he had built a dam downstream. From what I hear the water from the race rejoins the creek downstream of your property."

Charlie grunted. "I'm going out tomorrow to take a look around, anyway, before I move back into the house. I might as well look for this dam, as well. Hopefully Crystal Creek hasn't sunk too low downstream of the dam. Lily wouldn't like it."

Edith puffed out a disgusted breath. "Charles, it was all well and good for you to have an imaginary friend when you were six. Lord knows you didn't have many playmates your own age. But don't you think it's time to stop? People will think you're soft in the head."

He walked over and kissed her cheek. "Only around family, Mama. You know how dumb I am already. I don't have to pretend around you."

The evening meal was over, the dishes washed.

"Do you really mean to move out to the farm so soon?" Maggie asked as they sat around the dining room table. Clean, bright electric light shone from the overhead fixture, even as the last glow of evening faded from the Minnesota sky. She took a sip of wine as a soft breeze ruffled the curtains. "I was looking forward to having you around here for a few weeks, at least."

Charlie shook his head. "We can't go on expecting people to help work our land for us, now that I'm back. They have their own farms to take care of. Tell me, Mama. How are the finances?"

"As good as they have ever been," Edith said with a satisfied air. "Your father put every acre into wheat the last four years, and prices went sky-high with the war." She lowered her voice, as if listening ears could take away their good fortune. "We're almost rich."

"But the price of wheat will crash, now the war's over," Charles said, his voice pensive. Carl nodded agreement. "I'm glad you decided to diversify this year."

Carl cleared his throat. "Your father was good to us, Charlie," he said, fiddling with his napkin. "He and your mother put money aside for Margaret and myself every year." Charles nodded, aware of the arrangement. "We don't need it anymore. My law practice is doing well, and you're going to need to hire help. There's no way you can work a farm that size all by your lonesome. You'll kill yourself.

"I'd be grateful if you stopped the arrangement. A man should be able to stand on his own two feet, even if one of his legs doesn't work quite right," he said with a crooked smile. "And you're going to need all the assistance you can get to get the farm up and operating again. Lars Gustaffson and Mike Webster have done a fine job for you, but you're going to need to hire help, and a lot of it, until you marry and your children can help shoulder the load."

Charlie nodded slowly. "I've had some thoughts along those lines. About how to make things easier for myself," he said. "Mechanization. A tractor. A farm truck." He looked at his mother. "Modernizing the house. Are you sure you don't want to move back to the farm?"

Edith snorted. "I spent nearly forty years watching your father break his back and his heart on that farm. And when things finally started to go well, he took sick and died. Carl and Maggie have made me welcome, and I have my friends in town. I'll stay here, thank you very much. Besides, Maggie will need my help when the baby comes."

Charlie nodded his understanding. "But they can't be expected to put you up for free. And you'll need money for yourself, too. Carl, we're going to need to talk things over in a few days. If you insist, we can stop the payments to you and Maggie. But we will need to set something up for Mama."

Edith smiled. "Thank you, Charlie. I guess you didn't fall on your head as many times as I thought. But why are you in such a hurry? No one is going to begrudge you a few days. Stay here. Eat a few good meals before you leave for the farmhouse and have to start cooking for yourself." She lifted her eyebrows as a thought struck her. "You might also consider hiring a cook and someone to keep house for you until you find yourself a wife."

Charles nodded. "That's a good idea, Mama. But I have to get back. Back to the farm. Where it's quiet."

For a long moment, nobody spoke. Leaning on his cane, Carl went to the icebox and pulled out two bottles of beer. He flipped the caps off and set one down by his friend. Sitting down beside his wife, he took her hand. "Tell us," he said, his voice full of sympathy.

Charlie shook his head, his eyes grim. "There's no way to explain it all. The filth and stink and the fear." He gnawed on his lip, then took a deep swallow of beer, draining half the bottle with one long pull. "But this might help you feel a piece of what it was like. Over there.

"Last June, the Germans made a push. They had beaten the Russians and had rushed all of their eastern forces to France. Trying to knock them out before we could get enough troops deployed to make a difference. They punched a hole in the French lines. My outfit was there to stop them."

He looked at them, eyes haunted. "Imagine the worst thunderstorm you have ever been in, where the lightning and thunder are so close it makes the house shake. Now imagine that rather than being safe in a house, you are in a beautiful forest, the trees being torn to matchsticks in front of you. And this being done by your own gunners, trying to kill the enemy. And the Germans are doing the same thing to you. And it goes on. And on. And on. For hours at a time. And the only thing you can do is hug the dirt in your foxhole and pray."

He swallowed, his face gleaming with sweat. "That is what it was like. At Belleau Wood. I had a friend over there. Jimmy Tyson. Nice guy. He was from Minnesota, too. From Brainerd. Had a girl waiting for him, or so he said, and a job in his father's shoe store. He was...he was twenty yards away from me when a shell hit. I never saw him again. Never found so much as a trouser button. There was just a hole, filled with mud and blood.

"Do you remember old Fergus O'Donnell?" he suddenly asked Carl. The lawyer nodded, taken aback by the anger in his friend's eyes. "He fought with the First Minnesota, back in the Civil War. God, he must have been seventy years old, maybe more, when he told us those stories. Stories of how glorious battle was. How noble it was. I ought to wring his skinny neck. If war is glorious, so is shooting a pig so you can butcher it."