Doing My Part

by Teresa Funke

and the arthritis in his hands gets worse every year. He does what he can, but he spends most of the day reading the newspaper and listening to the radio. As bad as the war is, at least it has given Grandpa something to do. He follows it in detail and reports on it throughout the day, though sometimes I think Grandma wishes he wouldn’t, and sometimes I wish he wouldn’t either. I don’t like to think about the war.

  “I got you something,” I tell Grandma. “For your birthday.”

  She cocks her head and looks at me sideways, like she does when she thinks I’m up to something. She’s tall too—I definitely get my height from Mother’s side of the family—and very thin, probably because she never stops moving. She wipes her hands on her apron and approaches the box cautiously. She turns it around and studies the picture on the side, then inspects it as if she’s looking for something wrong. I grin at Mother, who stands up slowly and moves closer to her mother. “Are you going to open it, Mama?” she asks.

  “Should I?”

  There’s a long pause, and I realize everyone is thinking about the money I spent, and now I’m thinking about it too, wondering if I made a mistake. But then Grandpa George speaks up. “Of course you should open it, Kate. It wouldn’t do to hurt your granddaughter’s feelings.”

  When Grandma still hesitates, my words rush out. “I know you’ve been wanting one, Grandma. It’ll make things easier now that Mother can’t help you cook and I’m working all day. And it’s not so much money, really. It’s . . .” I look down.

  Grandma Kate lifts my chin gently. I can see in her eyes she’s still a little worried, but then her face goes soft. “I wouldn’t dream of taking it back, Helen. It’s a wonderful gift. Here now, help me get it out of the box, George.”

  While Grandpa helps Grandma, I pull Mother aside and show her my paycheck, eager to redeem myself.

  “Would you look at that?” she says with tears in her eyes. “Did you know you’re making more than I do at the plant! Oh I wish I could hug you, you sweet girl.”

  I rest my head lightly on her shoulder, and she lowers her own head down on mine, and it’s almost as good as a hug. Grandma pushes aside the bread box and moves the coffee pot to make room for the Mixmaster. Its shiny white surface stands out new and sleek against the speckled, grey counter. Grandma stands back for a moment to admire her gift, then rounds us all up with a clap and herds us into the dining room, where she’s already set the table.

  “You sit,” she says to me. “I’ll put the food out tonight.”

  This I can’t believe. Helping put the food on the table has been my responsibility since I was a little girl.

  “But you will help me clean up,” Grandma adds, with a tap on my shoulder.

  As we dish up our dinner, I talk excitedly about how I plan to cash the check the first chance I get and give the rest of the money to Mother. I tell them how I almost dropped the mixer thanks to Hal, and Grandma says that boy doesn’t use the sense God gave him.

  Then it gets quiet for a moment as everyone cuts into the duck that Grandpa shot this morning, everyone except Mother, who ate before I got home. I’m still so wound up that I don’t think before I ask, “Grandpa, is it true that Mrs. Osthoff killed her husband?”

  Grandpa’s fork clanks down hard against his plate. They’re all staring at me now. “Helen Faye Marshall,” Mother says, “I’m surprised at you.”

  My cheeks burn. “I just thought . . .”

  I can say no more. In fact, I wish I’d never said anything at all. The mood is spoiled now, and it’s all my fault. Mine and Hal’s.

  Grandma Kate picks up the bread basket and takes it back into the kitchen for more rolls. I risk a glance at Grandpa, who is wiping his mouth with his napkin. He clears his throat and asks, “Have you ever seen Mrs. Osthoff, Helen?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Fine looking woman, wouldn’t you say, Barbara?”

  “Yes, Papa. Calvin used to say she looked like that old movie star, Lillian Gish.” Mother’s voice perks up, as it always does when she talks about my father. “‘Course it’s been many months since I’ve seen Mrs. Osthoff.”

  Grandma returns with more rolls, and Grandpa reaches for one. As he pulls it apart, the steam rises up and drifts across his weathered face. “Mrs. Osthoff came here with her husband as a young woman, Helen. She’d led a hard life in Germany. She’s always been a homebody, but that doesn’t make her strange. She just never saw the need to go out much, and she never learned more than a few words in English. Her husband, Otto, spoke English very well, though. He took care of everything for her.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He caught pneumonia one winter and died,” Grandpa says. “After that, Mrs. Osthoff's son, Frederick, was her ticket to the outside world.”

  When Grandpa says his name, I suddenly remember Frederick. He was older than me by ten years at least, but he used to cross into our yard when I was little and push me on the tree swing. He wasn’t much of a talker, I recall. Must have been shy, like his mother, but I do remember he was kind-looking, with dark, wavy hair and a soft smile. “Where is Frederick now?”

  “He left when you were seven,” Mother answers. “No one’s sure why. Some say he went off to college. He was always a smart boy. Others say he had a falling out with his mother and left home. Still others say he met a girl on the train coming home from LaSalle and never got off, just rode on with her to a new life.”

  Grandma huffs. “That’s a romantic notion, Barbara, but not very practical.”

  I mix my peas into my mashed potatoes, though I know Grandma hates that. I don’t look at her in case she’s glowering at me. I look straight at Grandpa George instead and say, “Is that why Mrs. Osthoff cries so much? She’s missing her son?”

  “It’s none of our business why that poor woman cries,” Grandma interrupts. “And that’s quite enough of this conversation, young lady. I won’t have gossip and speculation at my dinner table.”

  I risk a glance at Mother, hoping for support, but she’s looking down, which means she’s letting Grandma have her way.

  We eat in silence for a moment, and then Grandpa says, “So what do you think, Helen? Will the corn be knee-high by the Fourth of July?”

  I sigh. Next to the war, the corn crops are Grandpa’s favorite subject. He owned a farm before his health turned, and he and Grandma sold it to move into town. In his heart, though, he’ll always be a farmer. I know he wishes I’d take an interest, but other than the sweet smell the corn lends the summer air, I have no use for it, even though I know it’s how many folks around here make their living.

  While Grandpa drones on about the amount of rain the farmers will need soon, my own thoughts turn back to Mrs. Osthoff. I wasn’t exactly truthful when I told Grandpa I’d never seen her. I’m not sure why I said that, except maybe I worried Grandma would think I’d been spying. It’s nothing like that, though. I’ve happened to see Mrs. Osthoff a few times on those nights when my dreams wake me up and I go to my bedroom window to study the stars and think about what they mean. Mrs. Osthoff sometimes comes down her back steps in her nightdress and robe after most everyone is asleep, and gazes up at the night sky for a minute. I think she closes her eyes to feel the breeze on her face, though I can’t see well enough from this distance to say for sure. Then she bends over a small garden she grows near the house, working only from the light from her kitchen window, which she shouldn’t have on most nights because of the blackout rules.

  She never stays out long, and she keeps her back to me all the while, yet somehow I’ve always felt she knows I’m there. Every time she goes back inside, she pauses on her top step, one hand on the screen door handle, and looks slightly over her right shoulder. I always shrink back a little from the window, thinking she’s looking at me. Then she goes quietly inside, so quietly that I can almost forget she’s the same woman who lets loose those high, piercing screams that sometimes shatter my dreams.

  4 - Hal’s Secret

  A couple of week
s later, Mother, Janie and I are talking excitedly in the movie theater, waiting for the four o’clock show to start. We know we’ll have to endure the newsreels first. Unlike Grandpa George, I try not to think about the war too much, except to wonder how John is doing and to see if he will answer the letter Janie wrote. Sometimes I find the newsreels interesting, especially the ones about the Hollywood stars like Bette Davis or Clark Gable giving their all to the war effort. Other times they’re too hard to watch. Not a showing goes by when you don’t hear someone in the theater sniffling or even crying during the worst of the footage. We all know too many men fighting in the war now. It’s too close to home.

  I can stand the pictures of burning cities and bombed-out buildings. I can even stand the scenes of artillery firing at enemy ships or planes—though I hate to see the planes come down because it reminds me of John—but I can’t stand the pictures of the starving people or the way the children in those torn- up countries look into the camera with hollow eyes. That’s when I look away.

  But today, even I am interested in the news footage. Mrs. Fuller, who lives next door to Mrs. Osthoff, says she saw a soldier in this week’s newsreel who looks exactly like Frederick, Mrs. Osthoff’s son. He’s wearing a helmet and is seen only from the side, but she’s sure it’s him. He appears only for a second, in a clip