Front Lines. Майкл Грант
RIO RICHLIN—GEDWELL FALLS, CALIFORNIA, USA
1942.
Remember 1942? It’s been a long three and a half years since then, hasn’t it? In 1942 the Japs were unchecked, rampaging freely across Asia. The Germans had taken all of Europe and some of Africa before running into trouble in the Soviet Union. Our British allies had been hit hard, very hard.
And we Americans?
Well, we were just getting into it. Still with plenty of time to worry about the little things . . .
“Rio Richlin, stay out of the sugar. Heavens, girl, the ration for the family is thirty-two ounces a week, and I’m saving for your sister’s birthday cake.”
“I just used a teaspoonful for my coffee, Mother.”
“Yes, well, a teaspoon here, a teaspoon there, it adds up. Who knows what Rachel is getting to eat?” Mrs Richlin says. She has deep and dark suspicions when it comes to navy rations.
Rio is sixteen and pretty; not a beauty, but pretty enough. Tall for a girl, and with the strong shoulders and calloused hands of a farmer’s daughter. Rangy, that’s one word. If she’d been a boy, she’d have played ball and you’d expect her to be able to throw from center field to home without much trouble.
Her complexion is cream in the mild Northern California winter and light brown sugar during the long days of summer, with faint freckles and brown hair pulled back into a practical ponytail.
“I guess the navy is feeding her; wouldn’t make much sense to starve your own sailors,” Rio points out.
“Well, I don’t suppose her captain is making her a nineteenth birthday cake. Do you?”
Mrs Richlin emphasizes what she sees as her conclusive statement by taking the ration book with its multicolored stamps and fanning it out on the table in front of Rio. “You see the situation. Thank goodness for the cows. I trade my milk to Emily Smith for her coffee ration, otherwise your father and you would have nothing to drink.”
“There’s always beer.” This from Rio’s father, Tam, who rushes through the kitchen on his way to the feed store he owns. “But not for you, young lady,” he adds quickly, pointing at Rio then winking.
It’s a spacious kitchen with green-painted oak cupboards on most of one wall, a battered and well-used white-enameled stove and oven, a long porcelain sink, and a deeper tin sink beside it. There’s a bare wood counter so long-used that dips are worn into the edge where three generations of Richlin women have kneaded bread dough and chopped carrots and parsnips and sliced tomatoes fresh from the garden.
In the center of the room stands a round table—antique, quarter-sawn oak—surrounded by five chairs, only two of which match and all of which squeak and complain when used.
The house is old, having passed down from her father’s great-grandfather, the Richlin who settled in Gedwell Falls after coming two thousand miles in an ox-drawn wagon. Rio has never doubted that she will spend the rest of her youth in this place, going to school, doing her chores, and spending time with her best friend, Jenou.
She’s also never doubted that she’ll marry, have children, and keep house. When they discuss these matters, as they often do, Jenou always emphasizes to Rio the importance of marrying someone prosperous. “Money and looks, Rio,” she always says. “Money and looks.”
“What about kindness, generosity of spirit, and a sense of humor?”
To which Jenou invariably responds with a despairing shake of her head and a slow repetition. “Money and looks. In that order.”
Rio assumes, has always assumed, that she will be like her mother, who is like her grandmother. For the most part Rio accepts that. But there is a small voice in her mind and heart that senses something off about it all. Not bad, just off. Like she’s trying on an outfit that will never fit, and isn’t her color.
This dissatisfaction is vague, unformed, but real. The problem is, being dissatisfied does not mean she has any better goal. Or any goal at all, really, except of course to get through her final year of high school with grades that don’t disgrace her and the family.
Rio sweeps her math work sheet into her brown leather book bag, slings it over her shoulder, kisses her mother on the cheek, and follows her father toward the front door.
Her father is stopped there, framed in the doorway against the early sunlight of the street beyond. He’s a tall man with a face carved to leanness by the hard years of the Great Depression, when he kept a roof over his family’s heads by taking on any work he could find, often going straight from his shop to mucking out cesspools or painting barns.
In the teasing voice that is their common currency, Rio says, “Come on, Dad, some of us have places to . . .”
She focuses past him and sees a uniformed telegram delivery boy.
Rio’s heart misses two beats. Her steps falter. She tries to swallow and can’t, tries to breathe but there’s a weight pressing down on her chest. She moves closer. Her father notices her and says, “It’s probably nothing.”
“Is this the Richlin residence?” the delivery boy asks. He mispronounces it with a soft “ch” instead of the correct “ck” sound.
He should be in school, that boy. He can’t be much older than twelve. Maybe this is an early delivery before heading off to school. Maybe . . .
Tam Richlin takes the envelope. It’s buff-colored, thin paper. He hesitates, turning the envelope as if he can’t find the right way around. He licks his lips, and Rio’s unease deepens.
“What is it?” Her voice wobbles.
“Thank you,” Mr Richlin says. The delivery boy touches the brim of his cap and speeds back to his bicycle, relief showing in the quickness of his step.
“What is it?” Rio asks again.
Mr Richlin licks his lips again, takes a deep breath. Suddenly urgent, he tears the envelope open and draws out the sheet. He stares at it. Just that, just stares, and Rio knows.
After a terrible long silence in which the world stops turning and the birds stop singing and the breeze does not blow, she reaches for it and takes it from his nerveless fingers. The words are all in capital letters.
THE NAVY DEPARTMENT DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR DAUGHTER RACHEL RICHLIN . . .
Rio makes a small, whimpering sound. She looks at her father. He sags against the door jamb, head bowed. She sees him in profile only, a dark outline of a man looking at nothing.
. . . YOUR DAUGHTER RACHEL RICHLIN WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HER DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HER COUNTRY.
“Tam? Rio?”
Rio turns guilty eyes already glittering wet to her mother. Her mother sees the telegram and the expression on her husband’s face and the way he slumps there like every ounce of strength is gone from him. She falls to her knees, falls like she’s been shot, like the muscles in her legs have just quit all at once.
“No, it’s . . . ,” she says. “No, it’s, no. No. No. No, no, no, no. Not my baby, not my baby, not my baby, please no, please no.” It starts off denial, ends up pleading.
Rio runs to her mother, kneels beside her, puts her arms around her mother’s shoulders—though what she wants is for her mother to comfort her, tell her that it’s a joke or a mistake or a simple impossibility. Her mother is shaking. Saying No, no, not my baby, please, please, over and