The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,72
climbed into the wagon, but her large dark eyes followed Mama Paxton. “That lady has dark skin.”
“Yes, she does.” Leah nodded for Mikey to start pulling the wagon down Dechard Street. “Her family comes from Mexico, where it’s sunny and warm.”
Hattie pulled one of her little black braids and squinted at Leah. “Your skin’s kinda dark too.”
Leah inspected her bare arm in the sunshine. At last she’d lost enough weight to wear her yellow floral dress again. “My family came from Greece, where it’s also sunny and warm.”
“I’m dark.”
“Oh, I think that’s because some of your family came from Africa, where it’s sunny and warm. Now, Mikey has lovely pink skin—”
“Pink! That’s a girly color.” Mikey glowered at her.
“A manly shade of peach.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “But when he spends too much time in the sun, he turns redder than the stripe on your sash. You and I don’t, Hattie.”
“Here’s our street.” Mikey turned onto Franklin and up to a white bungalow.
“All right, children. You know what to say.” Leah motioned them up the walkway, while she stayed behind with the baby.
Mikey rang the doorbell, and a young woman in a green floral housedress and a blue gingham apron answered the door. Two small children peeked out from behind her.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Mikey tipped his cap to her. “We’re from the Coffee Children’s Home. We’re collecting scrap. Got any tin or paper we can turn in for you?”
“Oh my! Aren’t y’all sweet? I have a heap of paper and metal scrap out back, and I haven’t had time to haul it in.”
“We’d be happy to do that for you, ma’am.”
“Meet me out back.” She shut the door.
Mikey and Hattie ran around the house, the wagon clattering behind them. In a few minutes, they returned, the wagon half full.
“Good job,” Leah said. “At this rate, we’ll be the first back.”
Mikey’s grin stretched the width of his narrow face. “Told Marty I’d beat him. Come on, Hattie.”
Hattie didn’t move. She lifted a foot capped with a white bobby sock and a sturdy brown shoe. “Teacher and Principal were fighting over me.”
Fighting? “How’s that?”
“Teacher says I’m not white, and she shouldn’t have to have me in her class.”
Leah’s gut contracted and burned.
“Principal says I’m not black enough for the colored school, so they have to keep me.” Hattie twisted her dusky arm in the warm air. “I’m not white. I’m not black. I’m nothing.”
“Oh! Darling girl!” Leah stopped the baby carriage and scooped Hattie up onto her hip. “You are not nothing. You are something.”
The girl lowered her chin.
Leah fingered one of her braids. “This isn’t nothing. I can feel it. It’s something.” She tapped her nose. “This isn’t nothing. It’s something.”
One slight shoulder shrugged.
Leah poked her lightly in the side, prompting a giggle. “See? Nothing can’t laugh. Only something can laugh. You are something. In fact, you’re something special.”
Mikey faced them, his hands coiled into fists. “Who’s your teacher, Hattie? I’ve a mind to pop her in the nose.”
“Hush,” Leah said. “No one’s going to pop anyone in the nose, you hear?”
Mikey groaned. “I hear. But I oughta. Miss King says we’re all created in God’s image—you, me, Hattie, the Negro boys and girls at the Davidson Academy. All of us.”
Leah smiled and hugged Hattie. “That’s right. Listen to Miss King. She’s a wise woman. Every person is special to God. You are special to him. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Don’t you either. The voice flitted into Leah’s ear, so faint, she thought Hattie had spoken, but the child was squirming out of Leah’s arms.
Made in God’s image. Special. Beloved. Belonging.
Leah glanced into the carriage to her darling sleeping daughter, then back toward the children’s home, where she was welcome, and where she’d come with her mother-in-law and her dear friend, who had enveloped her with friendship and love.
Yes, she did belong.
34
MARSHALING AREA D-5, OUTSIDE DORCHESTER, DORSET, ENGLAND
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1944
The thirty-two men in Clay’s platoon gathered around a large table in a tent. Clay’s lungs filled with the heavy smell of damp canvas, but his veins filled with anticipation.
Lt. Bill Taylor leaned big hands on the blanket-draped table. “This is it, boys.”
Ernie McKillop whooped, and the men laughed.
Clay grinned. As soon as they’d arrived at the camp outside Dorchester, the MPs had strung barbed wire around their enclosure. Confined to the marshaling area, the Rangers knew what was happening.
Now they’d finally learn the plan Rudder and the other officers had sweated over.