Across a War-Tossed Sea by L.M. Elliott Page B

with the squash.
    â€œAh, that’ll be tough, Dad,” Bobby said, as he reached across and grabbed the last roll, beating Ron to it. “Chuck and I have football practice for championships. And Saturday we need to set up the barn and make guts and stuff for our haunted house. Can’t Ed help you?”
    Mr. Ratcliff lowered his chair legs back to the floor. He leaned forward. “Robert, I am proud of your football record. Very proud, son. But I need you. Ed will already be helping. You know this time of year I usually hire extra field hands in addition to Ed. But I can’t find any—they’ve all joined up, or work in the factories, or have gone down to Newport News shipyards. Ed’s sons, too.”
    â€œThey’re hiring Negroes at the docks?” Ron asked.
    Mr. Ratcliff seemed to consider his middle son carefully before answering. “I’d hate to think you harbor some of the bass-ackwards attitudes others around here have, Ronald. We need every able body to help in this war, either in the armed services or in the jobs that keep them going. I know Richmond gentry are squawking over their help going AWOL. But I applaud the Negroes taking the opportunity to get better jobs. About the only good thing in this war is that it’s finally opening doors for them that were glued shut before. I hear they can make fifty-eight cents an hour at the Yorktown Naval Yard. That’s double what they’re used to being paid. We should be glad for them.”
    â€œFifty-eight cents an hour?” exclaimed Mrs. Ratcliff. “Lord love a duck. If I didn’t have so much canning and preserving to do right now, I’d get myself a job.”
    Her sons stopped eating, forks halfway to their mouths, to stare at her.
    â€œBoys, I had a perfectly good secretary job before your father and I married,” she countered, a bit miffed. “Why do you look so surprised?”
    â€œYou’re just such a good mama,” said Bobby, “it’s hard for us to see you any other way. I always think of you playing hide-and-seek with us behind the sheets when you hung them to dry on the clothesline and never yelling at us if we got dirt on them during the game.”
    â€œWell, aren’t you the sweetest thing, honey. But that’s beside the point. I am a trained stenographer, you know. Your daddy and I met at the bank, after all.”
    â€œTell the story again, Daddy,” Patsy prompted him.
    The twins clapped their hands. “Tell us, Daddy.”
    Mr. Ratcliff leaned back in his chair again. “Well, well. There I was behind my desk approving a loan for some fat-cat lawyer—one of the first loans my daddy let me process. He was president of the bank, if you remember.”
    â€œWe do, Daddy,” sung the twins.
    â€œSo it was a right big moment in my youthful career, a serious moment, a moment I became a real banker in my own right. A moment to be dignified and mature.”
    Bobby stifled a laugh.
    â€œNever mind him, Daddy.” Patsy slapped Bobby’s arm. “Do tell.”
    â€œWell, as I was saying.” He cleared his throat and smiled at Mrs. Ratcliff. “There I was at a moment of import. The ink was drying on the documents, and I was about to stand up, shake the old lawyer’s hand, and hand him a Cuban. I reached into the drawer for the cigar, when the front door to the bank atrium opened, light flooded in, and there stood this gorgeous, I mean breathtaking, gal. She wore a lilac-colored suit and had the prettiest little hat perched on her auburn curls, and leeeeggs that went all the way down to here.” He patted the floor.
    â€œOh, for goodness’ sake, Andy, where else would my legs go?” But Mrs. Ratcliff blushed and laughed all the same.
    â€œDo you remember what happened next?” he asked his children, making a silly face.
    â€œYou fell right out of your chair,” the twins shouted, giggling.
    â€œYes