Until Tomorrow, Mr. Marsworth

by Sheila O'Connor

  The hateful calls and letters just won’t quit, and sometimes people yell, “Get out of Lake Liberty,” or “The Kellys are all commies,” when they drive by in their cars. What’s a little bit more hate in this dumb town? They can hate me right with Billy, at least he’s not alone.

  This morning we woke up to a dead squirrel on Gram’s front steps.

  And a mess of broken eggs smashed on her car.

  (Shouldn’t I skip that bad news? I think I probably should. I’ve tried to keep things cheery because I know now you don’t need another ounce of sadness in your heart.)

  Anyway, the good news is I’m going to march for PEACE, and you should come and join us if you have the strength to stand. I’d be so proud to march beside you, Mr. Marsworth.

  Standing Up for Peace Now,

  Reenie Kelly

  P.S. On our way home from the post office, we stopped at Rash’s Hardware to ask about Gram’s window, and Billy had to listen while Mr. Rash called him a deserter, and a traitor to his country, and he asked us how Frank Kelly could raise a coward son. “Good men died so you’d be free,” he said to Billy, and he said he’d fix Gram’s window when Billy did what’s right. I guess that means we’ll have sheet of plastic for a window at least until Dad’s home.

  Sunday, August 18, 1968

  Dear Mr. Marsworth,

  I know now all the news of war must make your heart hurt worse, and I don’t want to make you suffer, but this is news I think you’ll want to know. I can’t bear to write it, so please read it for yourself.

  Every letter that Skip sends me just gets worse. Is that the truth of war? I guess it is.

  At least he’s still alive. At least he isn’t missing. At least he has a chance to heal. At least he wasn’t killed like Jackie Moon, and all the other good guys that he lost.

  Still, I don’t want him to be wounded. I don’t want him to go home a one-armed boy.

  Of course I’ll be his pen pal for the rest of our long lives.

  Always and forever, I’ll never quit on Skip.

  Praying for My Pen Pal,

  Reenie Kelly

  P.S. We’re all at work on get-well cards, including Dare. Snow Cone, too. If you want to add your own, I’ll mail it with the rest.

  Hey there, Reenie Kelly,

  I got to keep this short and sweet, or not so sweet. You ought to know that I’ve been wounded. Got my back and arm shot up pretty good. I took a bullet to the lung, but I’m alive. Other guys were KIA, and that part hurts the worst. I can’t think of anything, but those good guys that we lost. I got a Purple Heart here at the hospital, but what good is a medal when the guys you loved are dead? I’d rather have them living than earn a Purple Heart.

  I don’t feel much like a hero, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s ungrateful, but it’s true. Folks should hear the truth about this war.

  My left arm looks like a mangled hunk of beef a dog gnawed to the bone. If they can save some of the nerves it might still work. Either way, I hope I’m going home. Good riddance, to this war. I hope my friends and family like me still. I’m not the kid they last saw, that’s for sure.

  I could use some Reenie Kelly letters to lift my spirits. I’m in the hospital in DaNang, but I’ll get you your letters here. Next stop, Louisiana, if Uncle Sam decides I’m sufficiently destroyed to be discharged.

  Is Billy squared away for college? I sure hope so.

  Do you mind a one-armed pen pal, if they have to take my arm? I hope and pray it doesn’t come to that.

  Your Friend,

  Skip

  Sunday, August 18, 1968

  Dear Mr. Nichols,

  I would like to join your devoted friend, Miss Kelly, in praying for your health. In every way that you can heal, body, heart, and spirit, I pray with time you will. I shall pray as well that you are discharged to your family. With great sacrifice and courage, you have served your country honorably, but home would be the best place for you now.

  Sincerely,

  H. W. Marsworth

  Monday, August 19, 1968

  Dear Mr. Marsworth,

  I snuck your letter into my care box with our get-well cards and a batch of Gram’s good fudge and a rainbow-colored bracelet Snow Cone braided out of yarn. This afternoon our package will leave for Vietnam. I hope all the love we sent will help Skip heal.

  Do you think his arm will heal? Will he end up with a hook? Don’t worry, I didn’t write that, I kept it to myself. I just know if it were Billy, he’d hate to lose an arm. Anybody would, including Dare.

  I’m going to walk for Skip on Main Street at 2:30 this afternoon and for all the other people in that country who don’t deserve to die.

  In case there’s any chance you’ll join us, we’ve made lots of extra signs. Snow Cone is sure some mothers at the grocery store might march. Yesterday I made a sign that said ARMY PFC SKIP NICHOLS, PURPLE HEART, COME HOME. On the other side I painted: PATRIOT FOR PEACE. (That means I love peace AND my country. Snow Cone taught me that.)

  Could I make a small confession? I’m a little scared to march this afternoon. I’m scared of what might happen when folks see us with our signs, and hear us singing peace songs, and saying war should stop. I can’t forget those teens that marched for PEACE in the parade, or that soldier in the wheelchair with the sign against the war, and how angry people acted, or how mean Sheriff Cutler might be to us all.

  But then I think of Skip, and how scared he was of war, and how his left arm has been mangled, and that bullet in his lung, and I think of Billy hated for one letter to the paper, and I know they need me standing with them, so I will.

  You’d think the right thing would be easy, but it’s not. I’d feel so much better if I had you at my side.

  Piggly Wiggly, 2:30.

  War Protestor,

  Reenie Kelly

  P.S. I just found out that Dare and Billy are both coming!!!! Dare marching for peace??? You better come to Main Street to see that for yourself!!!!

  Monday, August 19, 1968

  Dear Mr. Marsworth,

  I wish you could have seen it, the first part and the last part (the middle was a mess), but the very very best news is that we didn’t march alone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  At first it was just the four of us standing down on Main Street with our signs, and singing “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” while Billy played guitar, but then a mother with a baby in a stroller and a young boy clinging to her leg crossed the street to say how proud she was to see us all. She picked up a sign, and gave one to her son, and then three bikinied girls jumped out of a Mustang to stand there with us, too. “Keep playing,” one told Billy, and the three girls started singing, and then two more women came from Piggly Wiggly, and one shaggy, pimpled boy dropped his bike against the curb and grabbed a sign. Folks were gathering on Main Street, but no one said we had to stop.

  When fancy Mrs. Brindle got out of her Cadillac to march with us, I couldn’t believe my eyes! She didn’t pick up a sign, but she spread her two gloved fingers in a peace sign.

  That’s the first good part that I promised.

  Once we started down the sidewalk, angry men from Parker’s Barber came out to curse us all, and the Legion men did, too, and Mr. Rash yelled that we belonged in Russia. Kids rode up on bikes and started booing with the crowd. In the middle of that mess, Rat and Cutler grabbed hold of my Skip sign, and ripped it right in half while people cheered. Dare tackled Cutler to the ground, and I had Rat by the neck, and mothers started scolding, and Billy handed his guitar off to a stranger and stepped in to stop the fight. Gram ran down from Brindle Drug, because someone must have told her, and Sheriff Cutler pulled up in his squad car and said we were all under arrest. Except he only handcuffed Billy, before he shoved him in the car.

  “You better take me, too,” I said, climbing in the backseat of the squad car next to Billy. “This was my idea.”

  “
You arresting all the Kellys?” Dare said, and he squeezed in next to me, and then Gram got in the car.

  “For heaven’s sake, you kids!” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “Get out,” Sheriff Cutler ordered, but nobody would move. I was glad we’d left Float safe inside Gram’s house.

  “You may as well arrest me, too, Stu,” Mrs. Brindle said. “I’m not going to send my sons to Vietnam.”

  “We have a right to peaceful protest,” Snow Cone added. “My mother is a lawyer.” But before she’d hardly said it, Steven Cutler plowed her facefirst to the ground.

  “Snow Cone!” I yelled, trying to shove my way past Dare and Gram, but then we were all out of that backseat except Billy, and Dare was pounding Steven Cutler’s ugly face with his big fist.

  “Darrel Kelly!” Gram yanked Dare by the T-shirt, and Sheriff Cutler grabbed his arm.

  “Everybody calm down.” It was Mr. Brindle’s low voice rising in the crowd. He’d come down from the drugstore wearing his white smock. “Can we have some calm here, please?”

  “You’re all under arrest,” Sheriff Cutler growled again.

  “Really, Stu,” Mr. Brindle said, taking hold of Mrs. Brindle’s elbow. “You can’t arrest women and children. You’ve got mothers in this crowd.”

  I looked over at the squad car, where Billy still sat handcuffed, and hoped somehow he counted as a kid.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Sheriff Cutler said.

  I helped Snow Cone to her feet and wiped her bloody palms clean with my shirt.

  “These good folks just want peace,” Mr. Brindle said. “Including Gwendolyn. We might not agree—”

  “You can bet your life we don’t.” Sheriff Cutler spit down at the sidewalk.

  “You can’t take one without them all,” Mr. Brindle said. “And you don’t want them all. That little blonde in the bikini is Mayor Hanson’s youngest, Suz. You think he wants to pick his daughter up in jail? Let the Kelly boy go free, send these good folks home.”

  “Good folks, my a—.” Sheriff Cutler snorted, but he yanked Billy from the squad car, unlocked those horrible handcuffs, and told him to get lost. “All of you,” he said to our whole crowd. “And next time you want to protest, don’t do it in my town. Get into the squad car,” he snapped at Rat and Cutler, and they ducked into the backseat still sneering at us all.

  I guess that’s the middle and the end, but the end was so much better. Gram was mad as a wet hen, but she went back to the drugstore, and Billy made friends with those bikini girls, and Snow Cone’s hands were scraped bad, but she said they hardly hurt, and a few of the young mothers told us we were brave, and all of us agreed we’d march again to stop this war.

  I guess not everybody hates us, Mr. Marsworth!!!

  “1, 2, 3, 4, we have friends against this war!!!!”

  Peace Marcher,

  Reenie Kelly

  P.S. I’m going to write this all to Skip now, because I know he’ll be glad to get a second letter while he’s sick!!!!

  P.P.S. I hope you’re proud we stood for peace. Please tell me if you are.

  P.P.P.S. Did people march for peace when Danny went to war?

  Tuesday, August 20, 1968

  Dear Miss Kelly,

  I am quite proud you marched for peace, and as far as I’m aware, you would be the first to organize a peace march in Lake Liberty. I shall dare to hope it’s not the last.

  At the same time, a march for peace that devolves into a scuffle has clearly missed its mark. I am troubled by the violent image of your hands around Rat’s neck.

  If you continue with this squabble, someone could be seriously hurt.

  Peace begins with peace.

  Have you learned that lesson yet?

  Sincerely,

  H. W. Marsworth

  P.S. Carl Grace carried word home of the melee. He’d arrived late to your protest, just in time to see Dare tackle Steven Cutler to the ground. You can imagine my dismay when I’d heard your march had taken that bad turn.

  Tuesday, August 20, 1968

  Dear Mr. Marsworth,

  I’m glad our peace march made you proud, even if you think we wrecked it with a fight. (We’re not the ones that wrecked it.) And I understand the lesson: PEACE BEGINS WITH PEACE. Billy said the same thing, and Snow Cone said it, too.

  Next time I’ll let Rat and Cutler rip my sign. (Or at least I’ll do my best.)

  Gram’s crabby with us too, not because we fought, but because of all the other ways that we’ve gone wrong.

  Here’s our WRONG LIST from the lecture Gram gave to us last night:

  We are . . .

  Wrong about the war

  Wrong about our country

  Wrong to protest down on Main Street

  Wrong to use Skip’s Purple Heart on any kind of sign

  Wrong to drag in mothers and their children

  And Mayor Hanson’s daughter

  And for heaven’s sake—even Mrs. Brindle

  Wrong to write that letter

  Wrong to “compromise” Gram’s reputation

  Wrong to bring this kind of chaos to her town

  Wrong enough to get her tires slashed

  And a dead squirrel on her doorstep

  And a brick through her front window that isn’t even fixed

  Shaving cream and eggs

  Wrong enough that Father Gleason came by after supper to say this nonsense had to stop

  Neighbor against neighbor

  Wrong enough that Ardis Lindstrom called Gram to say the bridge club doesn’t want her anymore

  Thirty-seven years of bridge, and Gram’s best friends kicked her out

  Wrong enough that Gram just can’t go on

  She didn’t make this war in Vietnam and she can’t stop it

  And neither can three kids

  And what will Billy do in prison?

  And how will Dare and I make a single decent friend when school starts?

  She doesn’t mean that ragged, shoeless girl from California

  But good kids from Lake Liberty

  Who will want to know the Kellys now???

  Nobody, that’s who!!!!

  Gram’s list was probably longer, because she ranted through our supper, and she kept up with the ranting after Father Gleason left, and in between her rant, she kept saying that she loved us, but when it came to the war in Vietnam she’d finally had ENOUGH. ENOUGH. E-N-O-U-G-H.

  When she’d finished with her ranting, she went into her bedroom and closed the door again, and we could hear the muffled sounds of sobbing, but when we asked if we could help her, she just said it was too late.

  “We’re sorry about your bridge club,” Billy said through the closed door, then he opened Gram’s directory and dialed Ardis Lindstrom on the phone. He said Blanche Kelly loved her country, and she loved folks in Lake Liberty, every lifelong friend, and she wasn’t on his side against the war. Not even one small bit. He begged her not to blame Gram for something he had done. “Gram agrees with you,” he said, in his gentle Billy way folks love so much. “And your bridge club means the world to her.”

  And you know what, Mr. Marsworth? I think Billy got Gram back in her bridge club, that’s how sweet he was.

  This morning he’s driving to Excelsior to try to find a job. Gram says after yesterday no one in Lake Liberty will hire him again.

  Dare says he’s sick of all the trouble, so we’re heading to your cottage for a TUESDAY SUN-AND-FUN-AND-FISH DAY Dare says he’s earned in spades, and he’s made me triple swear I won’t waste the day on peace, or war, or Skip, or Billy and the draft. (Deep down, I know Dare agrees with Gram, but if he has to choose between this hateful town and Billy, it’s Billy’s side he wants. Also, he’s on the side of Snow Cone now—his great big summer CRUSH!)

  D.F.K. + M.J.P.


  Don’t be surprised to find that in your woods.

  Your Future Peaceful Marcher,

  Reenie Kelly

  Wednesday, August 21, 1968

  I had to tell you quick that Dare’s been hurt, and the doctor won’t say yet how bad it is. Once I drop your paper, we’re on our way back to the hospital to sit with Dare again. Gram wouldn’t sleep at home last night in case Dare went into a coma. Please pray for Dare this morning, and all day if you can.

  Wednesday, August 21, 1968

  Dear Mr. Marsworth,

  I’m writing from the lobby of the hospital while Gram’s upstairs keeping watch over Dare, and Billy’s sitting there beside her worried for them both. Billy sent me out for fresh air, because he knows this place reminds me of the last days we had Mom. I don’t even have to say it, Billy knows.

  And what if we’d lost Dare? That’s all I can think now.

  I don’t know where to start so this makes sense.

  Maybe with the ambush. I guess I should start there.

  Yesterday, when we got down to your cottage, Rat and Cutler were waiting in Dare’s tree stand with the weapons that Dare made. The slingshots and the mud bombs, but they also brought a BB gun, so we were beat out from the start.

  We’d barely walked into your woods when I was hit hard by a mud bomb, and I can’t explain how much that mud bomb hurt. (Dare had packed his bombs with rocks.) When the second one hit Snow Cone, she ran out of the woods. I wanted to run with her, but Dare headed toward the tree stand to fight them face-to-face, and I knew he’d need my help.