by Teresa Funke
something to say, say it so everyone can hear,” she says.
“Sorry, Grandma Kate.” I glance at Janie, trying not to laugh.
As soon as everyone is out of the car, we walk down toward the barn, where the band is already tuning their instruments. Grandpa George says Mr. Russell brought the band all the way from LaSalle just for tonight, and I can’t wait to hear them. At the church dances in Hayden’s Valley, all we have are fiddlers and Mr. Hollis, who plays the accordion. I can’t wait to hear this city band with their horns and drum set. Evidently I’m not the only one. There’s a steady stream of cars heading down the dirt road, some of them honking their horns, which sets the cows bawling in the corral nearby.
At the entrance to the barn, there’s a long, wooden table set up with bowls of punch and plates of molasses cookies with a little sign beside them that reads Only One Per Person Please. You never would have seen a sign like that before the war.
“Come on,” Janie says. “Let’s get one now before they’re all gone.”
She eats hers right away; so does Grandpa George. Grandma Kate passes. She’s never had much of a sweet tooth anyway. Mother says she’ll pass too, but then changes her mind and snatches a cookie off the plate with a sheepish grin. I decide to savor mine. I take a little bite and hold it in my mouth, letting it melt on my tongue, tasting the full flavor as Janie and I walk through the big barn doors.
The machinery has been parked out behind the barn and the dirt floor swept clean. There are hay bales stacked two deep in a U-shape around the center of the barn and more placed carefully just within each of the cleaned-out stalls. The band is set up on a raised platform near the front of the barn, and there’s just enough room to dance within the U. In fact, there are already a few couples milling around inside it practicing their steps and waiting for the music to start. There’s a gaggle of girls standing just inside the U on the far end, their heads together chattering excitedly, and a handful of teenage boys standing behind the hay bales, hands stuffed in their front pockets, watching the girls. And just inside the door, off to the right, there’s a young man in a marine’s uniform whom everyone keeps clapping on the back as they come in. It must be the Russell boy. He’s talking to two girls a bit older than Janie and me, but he doesn’t seem to favor one over the other. I can see Janie has noticed him too. She may be smitten with John, but John’s a long way away tonight, and Janie’s not about to pass up on a little fun. When Grandpa leads us over to greet the Russells, Janie tilts her head just slightly to the right and gives Jimmy Russell one of her prettiest smiles, and he can’t help smiling back. Before we turn away, Jimmy makes Janie promise to save him a dance.
Grandpa goes off to find the other men to talk crops and the weather and the war. Grandma and Mother take a seat on a hay bale on the outside circle, sipping the punch they brought in with them from outside. Janie and I are too excited to sit. We stand behind the bale, eyeing the group of girls gathered in the back. They are eyeing us too. I smooth the pleats of my skirt self-consciously and reach to pat my hair, but Janie pulls my hand down. A murmur of excitement stirs the room as the local auctioneer takes to the makeshift stage and announces that the music will begin. The band comes on loud and strong, and the dancers push up close to the stage, their feet kicking up a fine dust.
Just then, a young marine circles the outside of the U, heading right toward us. We all see him coming. We hadn’t expected any other soldiers here tonight. He nods to the adults and smiles at Janie, but it’s me he speaks to. The first thing I notice about him is that he’s tall, very tall. He says his name is Paul Ellis, and he asks if I’d like to dance. I glance at Mother for permission.
“Yes, yes, go!” she says.
Paul takes my hand and leads me into the U. The dance is a jitterbug, my favorite, and as we jump and hop around the floor, I step on his foot only once. It’s hot in the barn, and the scent of women’s perfume and men’s hair tonic mixes with the aroma of freshly cut hay and the smells of animals. There are sounds of happiness all around us, whoops and hollers from the dancers, shouts of encouragement from the audience, someone shooting off a gun outside in celebration. Paul asks me for another dance and then another, and only when I’m thoroughly out of breath do I pull him off to the side to rest.
“What brings you here?” I ask when my breath returns.
“Jimmy. We met at basic training. I’m from a little town just west of Chicago. I hitched a ride up here for the party.”
“Where you stationed?” I’m looking somewhere just over his shoulder, so I don’t have to meet his eye.
“We’re shipping out for the Pacific,” he says. “Jimmy and me.” He leans his elbow on a stall railing and grins. “You’re a good kid,” he says. “You remind me of my little sister.”
I look away so he won’t see my disappointment. It’s not exactly what I want to hear, of course. I search out Janie on the dance floor. She’s not faring much better than me. She’s doing a basic foxtrot with a boy we know from Hayden’s Valley, and it’s clear by the look on her face she’s not anxious to dance with him again. She nods me toward the other side of the U and makes her excuses to the boy.
“I need to go now,” I say to Paul.
“How ‘bout a dance later? There aren’t many girls tall enough to dance with me.”
“Sure,” I say, and dash over to where Janie is waiting for me. She holds out her hands and pulls me in to ask me what my soldier was like.
“He thinks I’m a kid,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But he’s a good enough dancer, I guess.”
“You should offer to write to him,” Janie suggests. “Lots of girls are writing to the soldiers. It cheers them up to get mail.”
“Maybe,” I say, watching Paul saunter over toward Jimmy, and I might just do it. The troop trains are coming more and more often through our valley now. There will be lots more soldiers like Paul just passing through on their way to battle, and some of them, like Frederick, won’t come home. If I can do something to make them feel better, maybe I will. If any of us had taken that sort of interest in Frederick, maybe Mrs. Osthoff never would have left.
I look for Mrs. Osthoff every night, but it’s been a month since she left, and still her house remains dark and silent. Before Mrs. Osthoff, I thought war casualties were only the people who died or were injured in the fighting. Now I know that in one way or another, we are all touched by the war. A couple of weeks ago, we held a memorial service in our parlor for Frederick Osthoff. We had no body to bury, but Grandma Kate said it didn’t seem fitting not to honor him in some way. She said we should have done something when we first heard the news. Several of the neighbors came to pay their respects. I had each of them sign a journal with their condolences, and I keep it in the top drawer of my dresser in case Mrs. Osthoff returns. We eat the produce that I’ve been growing in her little patch of garden, and come fall I’ll dig it up and turn the soil in case she ever wants to use it again. I guess I’m still hoping she’ll come home someday.
“What’s the matter?” Janie asks. “You look sad.”
“I was just thinking about Mrs. Osthoff, hoping she’s all right.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Janie insists. “There’ll be no melancholy moods tonight. School starts on Monday. Summer’s over. This is our last chance to let loose. Come on, let’s dance.”
She pulls me back onto the dance floor, and we dance together, with me leading, until our feet hurt. Then we collapse onto the hay bale next to Mother and Grandma Kate, slipping off our shoes and rubbing our feet.
“It’s good to see you having a little fun, my sweet,” Mother says.
“Yes, you’ve had a lot on your mind this summer,” Grandma Kate adds. “You’ll get a bit of a breather now that school is starting again.”
I lean against her and smile. Now that I know how much I can accomplish when I set my mind to it, I have no intention of slowing down. I’m no longer scared of the war. Now I just want to do my part. I’ll be busy with homework and rehearsa
ls for the operetta soon, but some of the kids and I are going to organize a war bonds drive at the school, and Grandma is showing me how to knit so I can help with the socks and mufflers. Janie has suggested we set up a map at school like the one Grandpa hung in the hallway to help the students better track the war. I think that’s a good idea.
And from time to time I’ll still stand at my window and close my eyes and try to feel John and Hal and even Mrs. Osthoff. It’s childish, I know, to think I could actually know if something had happened to them, but that’s okay. At the beginning of the summer, all I cared about was proving how grown up I could be. Now I have nothing to prove. There’s a place for all of us in this war.
Meet the real Helen Marshall
Shirley Brand
Shirley Brand grew up an only child in a small town called DePue, Illinois. It was very much like my fictional town of Hayden’s Valley. Like Helen, Shirley was very tall, and she did sing in operettas at school. She was often given the part of the mother because of her height. She was a good student when she wanted to be. Her mother worked hard in the town’s zinc plant. It was her goal to send Shirley to college. But it’s true that Shirley did work at Westclox in the summer and, at one point, made more money than her mother! And it’s true the first