After the War Read Free Page B

least good intentions from Cynthia. She told her, “I truly like to go to church now, just for a little?” She glanced at her watch (the watch that Harry gave her, and Harry also taught her to read the time from). “I just make it,” Odessa said, “and Nellie be there, I tell her.”
    The Negro church is less than half a mile away, since this house that Cynthia and Harry bought from Deirdre (the house that Russ bought for Deirdre, long ago) is in a “bad” neighborhood, near “colored people.” Still, Cynthia asked, “You want me to drive you? It’s so hot. Come on, I will.”
    “Oh, no’m. And I be back, time to help you with all the cleaning up.”
    “Odessa, please. I can handle it. Really. Please stay as long as you want.”
    They were standing there staring again, caught in good intentions, when the phone rang loudly—again.
    Cynthia became decisive. “I’ll get it, you go on.” And then, to the long-distance operator, “Yes, this is Cynthia Baird.” And then, “Oh—Derek!”
    “Well, I caught you at home.” His quick, harsh laugh. “I was wondering,” he said. “Any chance of your getting over to Hilton at Thanksgiving? Turns out I have to be down there, some goddam award. It’s what they call their Homecoming Game that weekend. How’re you fixed for gas—got enough coupons?”
    “Oh sure, I think I could arrange that.” Cynthia heard her own careless, light laugh, even as she thought, I’ll steal some coupons if I have to, or get some black-market gas. And thinking too, I’ll take him the Scotch I’ve saved (not lettingherself add: saved for Harry). Thinking: Whatever did Russ mean by “too Vermont”? His voice is ravishing.
    “Well okay then.” Businesslike, efficient, thrifty Derek, though it’s been less than three minutes. “Okay, I’m glad you can make it. Or you think you can. We’ll be in touch.”
    Only then, walking slowly back down to the pool, did Cynthia think of other things that she did not say to Derek: Suppose Abigail wants to come back from Swarthmore, or, suppose Harry gets a sudden leave home for Thanksgiving?
    But she was then struck with a stronger, compelling thought: For God’s sake, she thought, what’s important at this moment is Odessa—this is Odessa’s moment, and everyone should know.
    And so she paused at the end of the path to the pool, and standing there she clapped her hands for attention—an unlikely gesture for Cynthia, who is generally shy (for a Yankee).
    Unlikely too are her first words, when she has everyone’s attention. “You all, listen,” she says, with a tiny laugh; Cynthia never says “you-all.”
    “This terrific thing, we just heard. Odessa’s husband, Horace, he’s out in the Pacific, in the Navy, and he saved a bunch of men’s lives. He’s getting this medal—Odessa’s so proud—” To her own vast surprise Cynthia’s voice broke off, choked by tears.
    Looking up, though, she could see the faces of her friends, and though they all spoke at once she could hear them.
    “Well! That Horace! How you reckon he ever learned to swim so good?”
    “Mother, that’s wonderful, that’s just great!” (Abby, of course.)
    “What a great story.”
    “You could make a movie out of that one, Russ.”
    “There’ll be no holding Miss Odessa now. She won’t do any work for any of us.”
    “Him either.”
    “Couldn’t we take up a collection and buy her a congratulation present?” That last, from Melanctha Byrd, was answered by a total silence, some shifting of feet.
    Until Cynthia said, “Melanctha, what a good idea, you’re terrific.”
    But Melanctha had already turned away, in tears.

2
    I N Cambridge, during the first weeks of college, in September and October, Melanctha experienced the heady, extreme, and slightly unreal joy of a person reborn. Or, a person restored to her rightful home, the place where all along she was meant to be. At home, back in Pinehill, everyone knew her; they knew who Russ was and what