Read Online Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene - Free Book Online
Authors: Bette Greene
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as not to anger him up.”
On the sidewalk in front of the birthday house Ruth adjusted Sharon’s pink hair ribbon. “Now don’t let me hear no bad reports come back on you, you hear me, girl?”
Sharon nodded, turning to go. “Hold up now!” called Ruth. “Remember what it is you is going to say to Sue Ellen and her mother ’fore taking your leave?”
“I had a very good time at your party and—and ah—” She looked into Ruth’s face for the answer.
“And I thank you kindly for inviting me,” supplied Ruth.
Sharon smiled. “And I thank you kindly for inviting me,” she repeated. And without even a good-bye wave she skipped off into the birthday house.
As Ruth and I walked slowly back, I tried to talk to her, but she wasn’t in too much of a mood.
“Ruth—why are you mad at me?”
“Mad at you? Oh, Patty Babe, I ain’t mad at nobody about nothing. Sometimes when a person be thinking about one thing it don’t mean they is mad about another thing. It don’t mean nothing but that they is too busy for normal conversation.”
Then it was Robert. Laughing, light-skinned Robert over there fighting in some faraway foxhole. God, would you please remember to keep Robert safe from harm? Please, God, ’cause he’s all Ruth has. Amen.
“Want to know who is the strongest man I ever knew in allmy whole life? Robert is. I bet he could beat up six Germans and outshoot a dozen of them. Honest he could!”
A slow smile spread across her lips. But her eyes—Ruth’s eyes had this gloss and they weren’t smiling.
“Oh, Robert’s going to be O.K., you’ll see. And you know what? Robert’s going to help win the war.”
“Honey, I don’t care about no war. I jest cares about my boy.”
“You have to!” I felt embarrassed by the conviction rushing through my voice. “You’re supposed to care! Don’t you know the Germans will take everything you’ve got, and then they’ll take you into the field and kill you? Don’t you know that?”
Ruth laughed. At me? Let her. Let her laugh her fool head off. She’s not my mother.
From a deep well between her bosoms Ruth brought out a white handkerchief with printed flowery borders and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Honey Babe, I got nothing in this here world worth taking, and no German or nobody else is gonna kill me till the good Lord is willing.”
“If you believe that,” I said, trying to frame the words, “then why can’t you believe it’s also true for Robert? No German can kill him unless God wills it.”
There was no answer, nothing except the sound of shoes against blacktop. But then her arm dropped across my shoulders, bringing me to her in a sudden hugging motion. “Unless God himself wills it,” I heard her say.
I followed Ruth into the kitchen where a headless hen, its blood already drying on its body feathers, lay on the rubber drainboard. “Sit and talk a spell,” she said.
I glanced again at the grotesque bird. “I’ll see you when you finish with her,” I said, backing away.
Out at curbside even the neat row of houses, mostly bungalows with screened-in side porches, seemed peopleless. Not a soul was about. I pictured the ladies of the houses, sitting with saucerless cups of coffee, their eyes fixed on the kitchen radio as they lived through Mary Noble’s trials as a backstage wife, Helen Trent’s over-thirty-five search for romance, and poverty-reared Our Gal Sunday’s efforts to keep up with the local nobility.
I didn’t want to grow up to spend my days like that, but I didn’t want to spend my growing-up days like this either. Sitting alone on a curb trying to think of something to do.
If I had a horse as black as the night I’d go galloping off in search of her. Go, Evol, Go! North toward the Ozarks and never come back.
People would ask, “What a peculiar name, and what does it mean?” And I’d lie to them, saying it was short for “evolution.” Evolution like in Darwin’s theory.
But someday it would
On the sidewalk in front of the birthday house Ruth adjusted Sharon’s pink hair ribbon. “Now don’t let me hear no bad reports come back on you, you hear me, girl?”
Sharon nodded, turning to go. “Hold up now!” called Ruth. “Remember what it is you is going to say to Sue Ellen and her mother ’fore taking your leave?”
“I had a very good time at your party and—and ah—” She looked into Ruth’s face for the answer.
“And I thank you kindly for inviting me,” supplied Ruth.
Sharon smiled. “And I thank you kindly for inviting me,” she repeated. And without even a good-bye wave she skipped off into the birthday house.
As Ruth and I walked slowly back, I tried to talk to her, but she wasn’t in too much of a mood.
“Ruth—why are you mad at me?”
“Mad at you? Oh, Patty Babe, I ain’t mad at nobody about nothing. Sometimes when a person be thinking about one thing it don’t mean they is mad about another thing. It don’t mean nothing but that they is too busy for normal conversation.”
Then it was Robert. Laughing, light-skinned Robert over there fighting in some faraway foxhole. God, would you please remember to keep Robert safe from harm? Please, God, ’cause he’s all Ruth has. Amen.
“Want to know who is the strongest man I ever knew in allmy whole life? Robert is. I bet he could beat up six Germans and outshoot a dozen of them. Honest he could!”
A slow smile spread across her lips. But her eyes—Ruth’s eyes had this gloss and they weren’t smiling.
“Oh, Robert’s going to be O.K., you’ll see. And you know what? Robert’s going to help win the war.”
“Honey, I don’t care about no war. I jest cares about my boy.”
“You have to!” I felt embarrassed by the conviction rushing through my voice. “You’re supposed to care! Don’t you know the Germans will take everything you’ve got, and then they’ll take you into the field and kill you? Don’t you know that?”
Ruth laughed. At me? Let her. Let her laugh her fool head off. She’s not my mother.
From a deep well between her bosoms Ruth brought out a white handkerchief with printed flowery borders and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Honey Babe, I got nothing in this here world worth taking, and no German or nobody else is gonna kill me till the good Lord is willing.”
“If you believe that,” I said, trying to frame the words, “then why can’t you believe it’s also true for Robert? No German can kill him unless God wills it.”
There was no answer, nothing except the sound of shoes against blacktop. But then her arm dropped across my shoulders, bringing me to her in a sudden hugging motion. “Unless God himself wills it,” I heard her say.
I followed Ruth into the kitchen where a headless hen, its blood already drying on its body feathers, lay on the rubber drainboard. “Sit and talk a spell,” she said.
I glanced again at the grotesque bird. “I’ll see you when you finish with her,” I said, backing away.
Out at curbside even the neat row of houses, mostly bungalows with screened-in side porches, seemed peopleless. Not a soul was about. I pictured the ladies of the houses, sitting with saucerless cups of coffee, their eyes fixed on the kitchen radio as they lived through Mary Noble’s trials as a backstage wife, Helen Trent’s over-thirty-five search for romance, and poverty-reared Our Gal Sunday’s efforts to keep up with the local nobility.
I didn’t want to grow up to spend my days like that, but I didn’t want to spend my growing-up days like this either. Sitting alone on a curb trying to think of something to do.
If I had a horse as black as the night I’d go galloping off in search of her. Go, Evol, Go! North toward the Ozarks and never come back.
People would ask, “What a peculiar name, and what does it mean?” And I’d lie to them, saying it was short for “evolution.” Evolution like in Darwin’s theory.
But someday it would
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