When the Clouds Roll By by Myra Johnson Page A

rattling against the saucer. “I’ll fight them tooth and nail if they push the issue about transferring him to another hospital.”
    “Is that a possibility?” Again, Annemarie looked to Samuel.
    He tried to reassure her with a smile. “I promise you, I intend to do everything in my power to make sure Gilbert can continue to be treated right here in Hot Springs.” He went on to explain about the additional surgery Gilbert required. “It’s all taking its toll—the pain, the fear of being permanently incapacitated. But as he begins to recover physically, I have every hope he’ll find relief from the mental trauma as well.”
    “I pray you’re right.” Annemarie examined the pajama top in her lap. “I suppose they’ll still be needing these, as long as there are wounded soldiers to care for.” She drew a shaky breath and finished sewing on the button she’d started on earlier. “War is a wretched, evil thing.”
    Samuel couldn’t agree more.
    While the ladies returned to their handwork, Samuel took it upon himself to carry the tray of empty cocoa cups back to the kitchen. One dim light glowed over the sink, and a thin strip of amber shone beneath the door to the servants’ quarters. As soundlessly as possible, he washed and dried each cup and saucer. As he placed them in the cupboard, it occurred to him how natural it felt, a normal, everyday chore that might be happening in any ordinary household anywhere in the world. As a boy he would help his mother clean up the kitchen after meals—and complain about it the entire time.
    Washing dishes, sweeping floors, raking leaves, chopping wood.
    Hot showers, hot meals, clean clothes, dry socks.
    Soft mattresses, downy pillows, warm blankets, a fire in the hearth.
    So much he’d taken for granted, until the war. Standing at the sink, he stared into his own face, reflected back by the darkness beyond the window. Where his eyes should be, he saw only black, hollow spheres, ghostlike, haunting.
    Would he ever feel normal again?

    Annemarie folded the last pair of pajamas and rose to lay them on the chair with the others. “A productive evening’s work. I’m glad I could help.”
    “I’m delighted you decided to visit.” Mrs. Ballard packed up the needles, spools, and leftover buttons into her sewing box. “You know, dear, I still think we should be moving ahead with wedding plans. I realize it would be premature to set a date quite yet, but—”
    “ Quite premature.” Annemarie stifled an angry rebuff, thankful she and Mrs. Ballard were alone in the parlor. She couldn’t fathom how Gilbert’s mother could still be so adamant about this. Was she completely oblivious to the long and difficult recovery that lay ahead for her son?
    “I know it will take time.” Mrs. Ballard crossed to Annemarie’s side and rested a hand on her arm. “But Gilbert will get better. Once he has his surgery and can be up and around again, why, I just know he’ll cheer up even faster with something to look forward to.”
    Annemarie glanced down at Mrs. Ballard’s hand, where a bejeweled ring glittered beneath the lamplight and reminded her all over again of the differences in their stature. The Kendalls were a working-class family, while Mrs. Ballard, who could trace her ancestry back to Virginia plantation owners, had known nothing but wealth and ease.
    It wasn’t that Mrs. Ballard was incorrigibly snobbish—she’d welcomed Annemarie into her heart without reserve. No, the woman’s greatest fault was an arrogant blind spot when anyone suggested a course of action other than her predetermined plans.
    “Mrs. Ballard—”
    “ Mother Ballard.”
    Annemarie dipped her chin. “Not yet, Mrs. Ballard. And perhaps not ever.” At the woman’s surprised intake of breath, Annemarie faced her directly and clutched her hands. “Please understand. I love Gilbert with all my heart. But we must both accept the fact that the war has changed him, probably forever.”
    “Of course