To Have and to Hold

by Fern Michaels

  She had just finished and was settling in on the couch when Ellie came in at eleven o’clock.

  “How’s it going, Mom?” she asked, curling up on the floor at her mother’s feet. Kate told her. “Wow, I bet Betsy gets some results. Nobody shuts that girl up. In this instance it might be good for her, for us, too. Do you believe Dad is still alive, Mom?”

  “Part of me believes it, part of me doesn’t. If your father was alive, I think we would have heard something by now. I know you don’t believe it. You always were the realistic one.”

  “If he did come back, I wonder what he’d be like? How would he react to us? We’re all grown up now. And look at you, Mom, you’re a smart dresser these days, you’re fashionable and worldly, too. You have a job and are going into business for yourself. You went back to school, got a degree. He wouldn’t know what to make of you.” Ellie giggled.

  “I don’t think he’d like this new person I am,” Kate said sadly.

  “Aw, Mom, now you sound like Betsy. He’d be so proud of you he’d just bust. Are you really going to type up those letters and mail them out?”

  “With copies to everyone I can think of. It’s damn well time I received an answer I can live with. We need to lay your father to rest. It’s that simple.”

  “We can do that, Mom. We can have a private service, buy a plot in a cemetery, put up a stone and visit. You never did go through Dad’s things. Those two metal boxes are still in the cellar. Maybe what we could do—what we should do—is bury those. On Sundays we can take flowers, or when you feel the need to talk to Dad, you can have a place to visit. If you think it’s a good idea, I’m for it.”

  “Betsy will never agree.”

  “But the way I look at it, she’s outnumbered. It’ll be private, just us. No one else needs to know.”

  “What if ... if by some miracle your father does come back? What do we do then?” Kate asked.

  “Then we take down the stone, dig up the boxes, and ... and say Betsy made us do it,” Ellie said, breaking into a fit of hysterical laughter.

  Kate smiled in spite of herself.

  “I think Dad would understand,” Ellie said. “Look, you don’t have to decide now, but the new year would be a good time to ... to make a new beginning. Maybe ... maybe we could do it between Christmas and New Year’s. We can start fresh then. Think about it, okay?”

  “Sure. Now I think you should be in bed, young lady, tomorrow is a school day.”

  “Would you like me to make you a cup of tea before I go upstairs?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll be up soon. Ellie, did you ever ... feel like I neglected you, that I didn’t do my best? Do you think I should have done more where your father is concerned?”

  “No, to all your questions,” Ellie said, hugging her mother.

  “Betsy does.”

  “Betsy expected you to be her slave, as well as her mother and father. If she had her way, she would have had you grow a telephone out of the side of your head and single-handedly take on the U.S. government and the entire Air Force. Mom, you did your best. Someday Betsy will understand that. And if that day never comes, we’ll live with it. ‘Night, Mom.”

  “Good night, Ellie, sleep tight.”

  Alone, Kate added another log to the fire, then curled back up on the couch. How many lonely nights she’d sat like this, dreaming and hoping for the impossible. And on most of those nights, she’d cried herself to sleep. Memories were wonderful, but they could also be one’s undoing. It was time to lock up those memories. Ellie was right, the new year would be a perfect time for a new start on life.

  There was one decision she had to make before she could contemplate Ellie’s plan. She had to make the decision to give up Patrick’s pay and file for his insurance. She’d need a lawyer for that. It wouldn’t do any good to declare Patrick dead and continue to take his monthly pay. Either she was going to do it right or not at all. Numbers swam behind her weary eyelids. The government would fight her, that much she knew. Therefore she couldn’t count on her husband’s insurance. She’d truly be on her own. If I have to, I can get a job working evenings as a waitress, she told herself. I can do whatever I have to do to make a clean start.

  When Kate, Donald, and Della entered the house on Friday evening at six-thirty, the phone was ringing. Kate knew it was Bill Percy before she picked up the receiver.

  “What do you have for me, Bill?”

  Percy cleared his throat. “There is no news, Kate. Captain Starr cannot be declared dead until we have some sort of evidence from the Vietnamese government. Their position is the same, there are no POWs in Vietnam.”

  “Patrick isn’t a POW, he’s an MIA. Where is my husband, Bill? You sent him over there, so it’s up to you to find him. For eleven years you’ve been feeding me the same stale, sorry line, and I’m sick and tired of it. I gave you my husband, and now you’re telling me you can’t find him, that there are no records. Well, I’m telling you I want something. I’m mailing a letter to the President, to everyone in the world if I have to. I want to know what happened to my children’s father, to my husband. All you’re concerned with is your top-secret crap and the lies you tell us. It is so hard for me to believe how shabbily you’ve treated me and the girls. It isn’t fair. We’re in limbo. You’re ruining our lives, can’t you see that?”

  “Kate, when I have news, I’ll call you. Have a nice Christmas.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Kate’s hand flew to her mouth and she turned to face her friends. “I’m sorry, I never swore like that in my life. He makes me so ... so angry. He thinks he has me over a barrel, that I won’t do anything. He actually told me to have a nice Christmas. I’d like to drop a ten-ton rock right on his head!”

  “Now, calm down, Kate, you knew he was going to say what he did,” Donald said soothingly.

  “I hoped, Donald. God, how I hoped,” Kate said sadly. “I thought if I threatened, there would be some small kernel of information. But no one cares. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. Tomorrow, mail your letters. I called the church, and the service is scheduled for December twenty-seventh at ten o’clock. Della and I picked out a nice plot and ordered the stone. I know a handyman who will come over in the morning and transport the boxes of personal effects to the cemetery. Are you going to open them?”

  “I don’t think I can do that, Donald. No, no, I’m not. I don’t want to make this any harder on Ellie than it is. I called an attorney recommended to me by my old boss and he’s going to open the office and see me tomorrow. He’s a Vietnam vet. He said he wouldn’t charge me, do you believe that? He said ... he said he’d be honored to attend Patrick’s service and speak if I wanted him to. I said yes, knowing I would choke up. Somebody has to say something, not some strange minister Patrick didn’t know. I think it’s the right thing to do. At least it seemed like it at the time. What do you think?”

  “I think you did right,” Donald said. Della nodded agreement.

  “Then it’s settled. Nicholas Mancuso will speak at Patrick’s service. He’s nice, you’ll like him. He said all the right things, said he knew how I felt, said he knew how guys like Percy operated, and he said—and this is a direct quote—‘Don’t believe their bullshit, some of our guys are still over there.’ He was wearing an MIA bracelet like we all wear. He made me feel good, and said the burial will shake them up.”

  “Ellie’s working late,” Della said. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the child has been putting in extra hours so she can get you something nice for Christmas. Now don’t you let on you know or be cross with her for working the extra hours.”

  “Okay, Della. I don’t suppose there’s any mail from Betsy. I wonder if she’ll send us a card?”

  “I’m sorry, Kate, no. Just the usual mail.”

  Kate mailed her letters the following morning. She had no great hopes or expectations that either the President of the United States or the awesome New York Times would respond.

  She managed to
get through the days until Christmas, although she felt high-strung, irritable, and moody. She cried a lot as she packed up the things Patrick had left behind. She was doing, by her own choice, what millions of people did when a loved one passed on.

  “Maybe . . . maybe this is all wrong, Della,” she said with a catch in her voice. “Surely it won’t hurt if I put all these things in the cellar. I never go down there, I won’t have to see them, but I’ll know they’re there. It won’t be over then. I’ll still be Kate Starr, wife of Captain Starr MIA. Am I really doing the right thing?”

  “If you want to get on with your life, you’re doing the right thing. Does it feel right or wrong?” Della asked quietly.

  Kate kicked the box sitting at her feet. “It feels right and wrong. My God, what if by some miracle Patrick does come back? How will I ever explain? He’ll . . . Lord, I don’t know what he would think....” Her shoulders squared imperceptibly. “I guess it’s too late to worry about that now.”

  Della patted Kate’s shoulder. “You used the right word a minute ago. It would be a miracle if Patrick came back, and miracles are pretty hard to come by these days. Donald and I both think you’re being brave and realistic. For you it’s right. You go upstairs and get dressed. I’ll transfer these things to that old trunk Donald had in the cellar. They’re due to be picked up any minute now.”

  Kate needed no second urging. Upstairs, Ellie was putting the finishing touches to her hair. “How do I look, Mom?”

  “You look nice, Ellie. Your father would ... he would be so ... Oh, I can’t think straight this morning,” Kate said distractedly. “Come into my room and talk to me while I get dressed.”

  Ellie watched as her mother slipped on a deep brown wool dress with a flared skirt. She cinched it at the waist with a gold and brown braided belt that Ellie had braided for her mother at the YWCA day camp when she was ten or so. Kate brushed her hair, added a slash of lipstick and a smear of rouge across her cheekbones. She finished off with a bright orange scarf around her neck. “We have to remember, this is not exactly a funeral, but a service. Or is it a funeral?” Kate asked jerkily.

  “I suppose it’s a little of both. We are burying something—all that remains of Dad.”

  Kate removed the orange scarf. “That’s how I think of it. Yes, that’s a good way for us to think of it. When we come home, it will ... it will be all over. We can cry for a few days. We’re going to cry, Ellie, at least I will. Then on New Year’s we’ll . . . we’ll get up and ... go on. I don’t know how we’ll feel that morning ... probably sad and ... probably guilty. For some reason I always feel guilty when I think about your father. I don’t know why that is. Do you?”

  Ellie shook her head. “If I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s because you’re still alive and Dad isn’t. Time to go, Mom.” She took her mother’s arm.

  “Betsy is never going to forgive me for this,” Kate said tightly. “Or you for going along with it.”

  “I know that. Do I look worried? I wrote her a letter last week. Don’t get nervous, it was a nice letter. I explained how I felt and how I thought you felt. I did kind of ream her out for not giving us an address or telephone number where we could reach her. Her going away for Christmas was unforgivable.”

  “Ellie, you do understand that I’m giving up your father’s pay by doing this? It’s going to be hard for us to manage, and I can’t keep taking from Della and Donald.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can live on baked beans and toast if I have to. I’ll be working full-time this summer, and I can go to the community college if I have to. None of that’s important to me. What’s important is that what we’re doing is going to affect the rest of our lives. Now wipe that grim look off your face or Della will start to cry, and when Della cries, we need towels,” Ellie said, striving for a light tone.

  “I paid cash for the cemetery plot. They wanted me to buy two, you know, for when I ... I had to say no, I didn’t have the money. My God, imagine not having enough money to bury yourself.” Kate stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked at her daughter. “That’s not important, either, is it?”

  “Not in the least. I’m kind of glad you didn’t take the plot on time payments.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Kate’s mouth.

  When they reached the cemetery, Kate was stunned to see a crowd of people around the spot she’d chosen for Patrick’s service. The minister was there in his clerical garb, along with a host of men dressed in suits and ties. The only person she recognized was Nick Mancuso. The others, she decided, must be friends coming to ... what? Pay their respects? Gawk at these unorthodox proceedings? No. She raised her eyes and met those of a man standing at the outer rim of the half circle. Even from this distance she could see the tears in his eyes. No, never to gawk, only to pay their respects. She could feel moisture build behind her own eyelids.

  Della pushed Donald’s chair over the spiky grass, and Ellie walked alongside her, her arm linked with hers. Kate acknowledged each man and thanked them for coming.

  The service began.

  Fifteen minutes later it was over. As the vets filed past Kate they handed her a white flower. She nodded her thanks, tears streaming down her cheeks. Nick Mancuso was the last to hand her his flower. “I don’t think this was wrong, Kate. I know how hard it is for you. I’ll talk to you in a few days,” he said, and drifted away.

  “I should thank the minister,” Kate murmured to Della as the crowd dispersed.

  “He’s already gone, Kate,” Della told her. “I think this was uncomfortable for him. It doesn’t matter. Who’s that man standing over by the angel stone? I saw him taking pictures before.”

  “I have no idea. I assume he’s one of Mr. Mancuso’s people. Why don’t you three go back to the car. I need a few minutes here alone. I’m okay, don’t worry about me, I can handle this. I just need a few moments of private time.”

  “Mom, I don’t think—”

  “I need you to help me push Donald’s chair,” Della said to Ellie. “The ground is too rough here.”

  “Go along, honey. It’s all right,” Kate said soothingly.

  Kate stared at Donald’s old battered trunk and the two gun-metal gray boxes the Air Force had sent on that she’d never opened. She was dry-eyed now, almost angry. She started to shiver, felt her knees weaken when she felt a presence next to her. She raised defiant eyes to stare at the stranger who had been taking pictures. She stared at him for a full minute before she shrugged off his arm. He was young, twenty-eight or so, with summer-blue eyes and a thatch of unruly curls crowning the top of his head. Freckles marched across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, ending at his dark hairline. She just knew he hated the freckles and his curly hair. She sensed his tallness, his thinness, when her eyes returned to the three trunks in front of her. “I need to say good-bye alone. I appreciate your coming here, but you should have left with the others. Please, I don’t want to be rude, I just need to say good—good—bye alone.”

  His voice was deep, soothing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Starr, I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought you were going ... to faint.” She nodded, sensed him moving backward. And then she forgot him entirely.

  Kate moved forward to place the white flowers on top of the gray metal trunks. What should she say, how should she say it? “I love you, Patrick. I’ll always love you.” But was that true? Would she always love him? She squeezed her eyes shut and willed his face to appear. Satisfied with the vision behind her closed lids, Kate whispered, “Good-bye, Patrick.”

  She turned, stumbled, and would have fallen if the man behind her hadn’t reached for her arm. “Easy does it, Mrs. Starr.”

  “Thank you, Mister . . .”

  “Stewart. Gustav Stewart. My friends call me Gus. I’m from the New York Times, Mrs. Starr. Your letter was turned over to me. I’d like to talk with you and your daughter. I know this probably isn’t the best time, but I flew here at my own expense, and I have to get back to work. I’d like to do a hum
an-interest story on Captain Starr and your family.” He was leading her back to the car, and she was following him like a lost puppy.

  “Human interest!” she yelped when they reached the car.

  Stewart held up both hands. “Whoa, it’s not what you think. When I say human interest, I mean to make the world aware of what happened to Captain Starr and your family. This ... service is, to my knowledge, the first of its kind. I think people need to know about this. I’m a good reporter, Mrs. Starr. I’d like you to trust me. I’ll even show you the article before I turn it in, in case there’s anything you object to or want to change. You did write to us. Did you have something else in mind?” There was such compassion in the reporter’s eyes, Kate wanted to cry.

  “I don’t know what I meant, what I expected. I had to do something. No one was helping me, I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t think I really thought beyond mailing the letter. I guess I assumed your paper would research the MIAs and speak to the wives. Give us recognition. Eleven years is a long time to be told the same thing. We don’t know anything. It’s not just me, Mr. Stewart, there are other wives out there in the same place. We gave up our husbands, and now we’re like pariahs. Look, if you want, come back to the house with me. We can talk where it’s warm over a cup of coffee. Follow us.”

  It was nine o’clock when Gus Stewart left the Starr house. He felt as if he were carrying a hundred-pound burden on his shoulders. In his gut he carried an even heavier weight. He would do the story, but would it get printed? He’d been given this assignment because he was young, a cub reporter, and none of the pros wanted it. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Kate he was a good reporter. His eyes and ears were tuned to the world seven days a week. All the way home on the red-eye his stomach churned. If he handled this just right, it might turn out to be something really big. It wasn’t going to be something he dashed off to meet a deadline, either. He had names now, other leads, copies of letters, and he’d get more. He might get an entire feature article and really do some good for the MIAs. He’d even work on it on his own time if it would help. It wasn’t going to be the Pulitzer he dreamed of, but damn close.