Part 7 (2/2)
”Can you imagine? I marvel she never mentioned it. She chatters like a magpie about everything else,” said Miss Gordon.
”Not about everything. You have to ask her about her life in Germany; she doesn't bring it up. I think it was harder than we could ever know,” added Robert. ”Did you know the n.a.z.is killed her father?”
”What?” Her voice sounded filled with disbelief.
”Aunt Martha, have you ever even asked her about her family? Did you know she studied cla.s.sical piano at the university? Or that she worked with the underground to fight Hitler?”
It was true. She had never shown any interest whatsoever in my background. Good for you, Robert! I wanted to call out through the open window but didn't.
”I'm amazed she wants to return.” Robert's voice broke the quiet.
”What do you mean, she wants to return? When?”
”As soon as the war is over.”
Miss Gordon set her gla.s.s down. ”Must be why she listens to those gloomy news reports so often.”
”Probably so. She has a map of the world up in her room. She marks the progress of the Allies with dressmakers' pins as they infiltrate Europe.”
I heard Robert refill his gla.s.s of lemonade as Miss Gordon said, ”I thought she liked it here. She seems happy enough.”
”I don't think it's about being happy here. I think she feels that she belongs in Germany.”
”She's wrong. That was then and this is now. She's lucky to be in America.”
Robert gave a short laugh. ”Well, if you feel that way, why don't you treat her a little more kindly?”
”I treat her just fine. Same as anyone else. Well, it doesn't matter. That war isn't going to be over anytime soon.”
That's where you're wrong, Miss Gordon. I could almost smell Hitler's defeat.
After church on Sunday, I pleaded with Miss Gordon one more time to join us for Rosita's dinner, but her mind was made up.
Rosita had prepared an elaborate feast, with foods I had never seen nor heard of, flavors and textures that were completely new to me. Tamales in corn husks, nopales or cactus leaves, empanadas in pastry dough, enchiladas verde. We lingered around her dining room table for a long time after the meal, enjoying cafe con leche, while William and Esmeralda played checkers together.
Either Esmeralda seemed to be able to understand William's attempts at words or they had worked out a way to make their intentions understood to each other. They were good companions. I hadn't realized that Robert was fluent in Spanish until he and Rosita carried on a long conversation. It would have been a logical a.s.sumption, though, living just a few miles from the Mexican border.
Maybe it was better that his aunt didn't come. Robert looked relaxed.
Once or twice I caught Rosita watching us, with a curious look on her face. She followed me in as I took the dishes to the kitchen. ”I think that Father Gordon, he is sweet on you.”
I practically dropped the dishes in the sink.
”Rosita! Please don't say that. He is just a kind man.” I peeked quickly into the dining room, hoping Robert hadn't heard her. Rosita was not going to leave my marital status, or lack thereof, alone.
”I am not so sure about that,” she said in a cloying sing-song voice.
Just then, there was a knock at the front door. Robert, closest to the door, went to answer it. Miss Gordon was standing there along with Ernest from the telegraph office holding a yellow Western Union telegram in his hand, a solemn look on their faces.
”Robert,” Miss Gordon said soberly, ”Ernest has some news to deliver for Rosita and wanted you to be there when she received it.”
Rosita came to the door, smiling, and then, as if in slow motion, as she seemed to grasp the meaning of why Ernest was at her door, her countenance changed completely. She collapsed into Miss Gordon's arms.
To her credit, Miss Gordon seemed to know just what to do in such a crisis. I certainly didn't. ”Help me get her inside, Louisa.”
As we sat down on the sofa, Miss Gordon calmed Rosita. ”You need to listen to what the telegraph has to say, dear, so hold your tears.”
Ernest handed the telegraph to Robert, who read it to himself and then explained it to Rosita. Ramon, Rosita's husband, had been badly injured in the battle of Attu.
”Rosita,” Robert started gently, ”it describes a little information about his condition. His injuries were compounded by the bad weather. He suffered from frostbite.” He paused. ”Ramon's legs were both amputated at the knee.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Rosita hugged herself and began to rock back and forth.
On the radio, just last night, I had listened to reports of an important battle going on over a small j.a.panese-occupied island called Attu, in the Aleutian Islands. The U.S. military was alarmed that the enemy might use Attu and other neighboring islands as a staging area for attacks on North America, plus an enemy presence on American soil was an embarra.s.sment. The radio announcer described the battle as a difficult campaign, made even more difficult with the bitter Alaskan cold. The island was now fully back in American hands, but at terrible cost. Over 2,100 American soldiers were injured, 500 killed, trying to save this little island, much of the casualties from exposure to the cold.
Hauntingly, I recalled hearing the news correspondent say that grown men were heard crying out for their mothers.
Robert went on to explain that apparently Ramon was now on a hospital s.h.i.+p but would eventually be sent home. At that point, Rosita broke down and wept loudly as Miss Gordon held her.
”You just remember that he is alive, dear, that's all that matters,” Miss Gordon soothed.
I eyed Miss Gordon with the beginning of admiration. That no-nonsense way of looking at life, which so often made me bristle, was now just what Rosita needed to hold on to, giving her the handles to grasp this terrible news about her husband and not let it overcome her.
Robert walked Ernest to the door, then he and I wordlessly cleaned up the dinner dishes. Just thirty minutes earlier, we had been enjoying each others' company, lingering at the table after a pleasant meal. The war had reached in to this home and altered all of that. How quickly life could change.
Not long afterwards, Rosita and Esmeralda took the train to San Diego to meet Ramon as the hospital s.h.i.+p docked and to stay near him while he was in the rehabilitation facilities.
While they were away, Robert organized a work crew of volunteers from the First Presbyterian Church and from St. Mary's Catholic Church to make adjustments to the Gonzalves' home to accommodate a wheelchair. It was a one-story home so modifications were manageable. Robert, Ernest from the telegraph office, Judge Pryor, Tom O'Reilly, the mining supervisor, and a handful of others built a ramp over one section of the porch stairs. They added a railing in the bathtub, moved furniture to allow for a wheelchair to pa.s.s by easily, and made other adjustments.
I brought hot coffee over to them mid-afternoon and found Robert hammering away at a little ramp he had built over the front door stoop. He had his s.h.i.+rt sleeves rolled up, denim work jeans on, and his hair wasn't slicked back. Now I understood the rationale behind the heavy dose of pomade hair gel. His hair looked like a thatched roof.
It was a very different look from the usual Robert, who wore a necktie to the breakfast table. Privately, I had often wondered if he slept in a necktie, too. I didn't think he even owned a pair of work pants. I watched him for a minute before he realized I was there.
He looked, well, rather attractive as a carpenter.
He glanced up at me, and for some ridiculous reason, I felt my face grow hot. ”I brought hot coffee,” I said, lifting up the thermos.
He stood up and stretched. ”Perfect timing. I'm ready for a break.” He looked at his hands and rubbed the areas where blisters were forming. ”Guess I haven't been using a hammer as much as a pen lately.”
”It's kind of you to do this for Rosita.” I poured a cup of coffee from the thermos and held it out to him.
He took a grateful sip. ”I'm really doing it for Ramon. If I know him like I think I do, he won't want help from anyone. He's an independent type of man. What the Mexicans call a 'macho man.' A man's man. A gaucho.”
I looked at him, puzzled.
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