The Storm by Shelley Thrasher

tanks destroying anything that grew. It was quiet and beautiful here, and obviously fertile, like Molly.
    Where had that thought come from? Why had Eric mentioned seducing her? Did he know something she didn’t? What kind of person did he think she was?
    The huge trees—pines—along the edges of those fields had deep roots, Eric’s dad had said. She needed more of those but didn’t want to be immovable, like the people around here seemed to be. All except Molly, with her lilting voice.
    Eric finished one cigarette and lit another. If he kept acting like this, she’d drive back to New Orleans by herself. But now Mother knew she was married and wouldn’t let her rest until she either got unmarried or lived with her so-called husband.
    â€œDamn. This road’s rough.”
    â€œYeah, pretty bad.”
    â€œThese ruts and puddles remind me of all that mud near Passchendaele last summer.”
    Eric finally showed some interest. “I remember. It rained for three months. I was stationed near there, and it grounded us for days. We sat around itching to fly. Every time it cleared for a few minutes, we took off.”
    â€œWhere we were, the tanks mired down, clay stuck to everything, and some of our men and animals drowned in the bombed-out craters filled with water. Driving an ambulance in that hellhole was a bitch, especially in the middle of the night.”
    Eric looked at her with respect. “Luckily, I missed that. Being an ace has its advantages.” His eye took on a faraway expression.
    â€œYep.” She nodded, still mired in the past. After her patriotism had worn off, she’d stuck around France because she’d thought she might bump into Helen. God, she missed her—and the excitement of war. She missed Willie too.
    Even though she’d just gotten here, it was so God-awful quiet she wanted to scream. She didn’t miss the whine of the shells before they exploded, or the wounded men screaming for relief. And she didn’t miss living each minute waiting for her next voice lesson with Sister Mary. She ought to relax and enjoy the silence.
    She tried to rouse Eric. “That Mrs. Russell sure is a powerhouse,” she said. “Bet she’d give the kaiser or the president a run for his money. We should make her a general and put her in charge of all our armies. We’d lick the bloody Boches in a week.”
    He just grunted, so she decided to ignore him.
    Mr. James seemed nice enough, with good taste in women, but he was a mama’s boy. And why had he volunteered all that information about Molly’s love of music in such a condescending way? Wasn’t he proud of her talent?
    Molly seemed fragile and sweet. Was she as straitlaced as Sister Mary? That long red curl escaping from her mound of hair, and those soft green eyes…Similar to yet so different from Willie’s. She’d probably be a great kisser. It’d be interesting to find out.
    No doubt Mrs. Russell kept her on duty around the clock. How did Molly get trapped in that situation?
    She glanced at Eric, who didn’t look like he’d be much fun while they were here. So Molly wanted to be friends? Hmm. Might be enjoyable.
    By God, she could even endure Molly’s mother-in-law for the opportunity to spend some time with her—maybe.

    *

    After the pitiful dinner Jaq had scraped up for Eric and Angus, with their help, she sat in the front-porch swing and smoked. Slow footsteps sounded inside, and she stubbed out her cigarette and dropped it into an old Coke bottle. She was waving smoke away as Angus eased through the front door. He dropped into a rocker and just sat there awhile before he looked at her.
    His thinning hair must have been the color of Eric’s once. And he was about Eric’s height, but he moved hesitantly.
    â€œEric’s taking a nap,” he said abruptly, as if his throat was rusty.
    â€œYes, I suspect he needs to take a lot of