caught the librarian’s eye. “Mrs. Sheridan? I’m going home now. I’ll come by next Monday morning, maybe before.”
“Thank you for your help.”
Leah grabbed her purse and the book and darted out of the library. Since the book was slated for destruction, no one could call it stealing.
At the end of the block, Leah admired her new old friend in the warm sunshine. Other than her Bible, this was the first book she could call her own.
16
SCOUTS AND RAIDERS SCHOOL
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1943
Clay paddled toward shore over waves sparkling with moonlight. The rubber raft rose and fell, but after a week, most of the Rangers had overcome their seasickness.
At the stern of the raft, Lt. Bill Taylor peered through field glasses. “The blinking yellow light is straight ahead.”
Along the shore of lengthy Hutchinson Island, which paralleled the eastern Florida coast, colored lights flashed, some steady and some blinking, each signaling to one of the Rangers’ six assault companies or the headquarters company.
Tonight was the 2nd Battalion’s final examination at the Scouts and Raiders School.
Clay shot a grin behind him at Gene, his friend’s face barely recognizable behind green and black camouflage paint. Tonight was going to be fun. Despite the jellyfish, sandflies, and mosquitos, his time in Florida had been great—full of adventure and learning useful skills.
In “Plan Surfboard,” they were to assault the town of Fort Pierce and take it. The shore was guarded by Coast Guard patrolmen with dogs, Navy sentries, and Civil Defense wardens—who had been alerted for the exercise.
This would make a great story to tell Leah.
Clay had just received his first letter from her, written in fancy cursive. She’d included a poem she’d written. He didn’t know she wrote poetry, but then he hadn’t known her long.
In third grade, she’d read a book about Greek mythology and learned her namesake, Thalia, was the muse of idyllic poetry. So she tried her hand at poetry and loved it. In her letter she’d said, “Words make delightful playthings. They cost nothing, they never wear out, and no one can ever take them away from you.”
She certainly had a refreshing way of looking at things.
“I’m glad you’re going in first, Pax,” Sid Rubenstein said from the back of the boat. “You’ve got a death wish.”
“Nah.” But he joined in the chuckling. A few days ago, his squad had been ordered to land their raft on a rock jetty in rough seas. While the other men waffled, Clay had just leaped onto the nearest rock.
It wasn’t that he wanted to die, but since he knew how he was going to die, he also knew how he wasn’t. And it wouldn’t be in a training accident. That washed away fear.
“Yeah, Pax,” McKillop said. “You go first and take the bullets for the rest of us.”
Someday, but not today. “Don’t worry, McKillop. I’ll fend off those little old ladies with rolling pins for you.”
“Watch out, Fort Pierce,” Holman said. “Paxton’s Latin blood is boiling tonight.”
“Silence, boys,” Lieutenant Taylor said. “We’re getting close.”
Clay aimed for that yellow light. Holman didn’t know what he was talking about. Sure, Clay had gotten in a few scrapes when he was little. But by second grade, he’d realized that in fights with white boys, Clay was always to blame. In fights with Mexican boys, Clay was never to blame. That’s when he’d decided to back out of scrapes.
The only time he’d fought as an adult had been against Leah’s attacker, and that was to protect, not in hot blood.
The sound of the breakers increased, and palm trees whished in the cool breeze.
Another scene blinked in his head, as persistent as the yellow light on shore. Adler and Ellen in a knot of pale flesh, the stink of booze heavy in the air.
Clay’s blood had boiled that night. He’d kicked and pummeled his brother, over and over, while Ellen scrambled under the truck, screaming her lungs out.
Thank goodness she’d screamed.
At some point, Clay had lost his balance and caught himself on Daddy’s workbench. His hand had landed on a tire iron, and he’d hoisted it overhead.
In that moment, he’d wanted Adler to hurt. In that moment, he hadn’t been innocent Joseph cast into a pit. No, in that moment, he’d been Joseph’s brothers, thirsting for vengeance.
Sweat tingled on Clay’s upper lip and his breath came hard, and not from the exertion of paddling.
Two sharp vibrations in the raft—Lieutenant Taylor’s signal to catch the next swell.
Clay shook off the memory and paddled with all he had. When the wave