Henry had changed even since I saw him at Christmas. Sometimes he would get a glazed, confused look about him—as if he were drunk. It was even more perplexing that he’d gained maybe fifty or sixty pounds in just four months and his once-muscular frame seemed bloated. I was worried that he’d been unwell, but Henry said he’d been eating too much fried food at that traveling fair. I couldn’t shake the feeling that wasn’t the whole truth. How much fried food could one man eat?

He wiped his hands on his thighs and gave me a dark look.

“There. New spark plugs. Have fun with your Nazi friends.” He was joking, but his tone was so bitter, I felt a pang of guilt. He suddenly paused, then added softly, “Lizzie, please be careful.”

“Cal says they aren’t a threat…” I said, but I trailed off. That was what Calvin said. The problem was, in the beginning, Calvin fought tooth and nail against those men being allowed into the community, and for good reason too.

“Men like that are a threat as long as they’re breathing,” Henry said abruptly.

“I don’t even want to go,” I insisted. Attending the lunch felt like a betrayal of my brother. I could stay home, but that option felt like a betrayal of my husband. “Calvin says it’s important that I show my support.”

Henry shrugged and turned back toward the house.

Every now and again, I remembered the jubilation I felt the day he came home after the war. It once seemed a miracle that he’d returned physically unscathed. But after five years of ups and downs, it was clear that while Henry’s body was intact, his mind wasn’t. I also knew exactly who was to blame. And I was about to go drink champagne and nibble on sandwiches with a group of them, on a lawn at the Redstone Arsenal facility.

6

Lizzie

Dallam County, Texas
1933

My father and I stood side by side, staring out at a wide, flat field. Every now and again, he wheezed or released a cough that sounded as dry as the earth. A haze of dust lingered across the field and all around us, but there was nothing subtle about it this time—a brown fog had blown in. It would take time for that dust to fall back to earth and longer to clear from our lungs.

“It’ll rain now,” Dad said, nodding with satisfaction toward the field we’d just plowed. “Sure as anything. Rain follows the plow, sure as sunset follows the sunrise.”

This was one of Dad’s good days, so I didn’t point out that his theory had well and truly been disproved. We’d plowed straight after the harvest in ’30, ’31, and ’32, but we hadn’t had decent rain in years. I nodded as if I believed him, but I didn’t know what to believe anymore.