“Here, have some cookies or cake,” he offered, setting down a plate of leftover sweets on the table that some kind ladies from the church had sent along with him.
“Oh, no thank you, I had too much already,” I declined. “I will take a cup of coffee, though,” I added.
“Comin’ up,” he said, pouring coffee into two mugs and setting them down on the table.
He started nibbling on a piece of cake and I lit a cigarette. Neither of us spoke for a while. I wanted to apologize, but I delayed and procrastinated like swimmer trying to coax himself to jump into cold water. Finally, I put one toe in and started wading in slowly.
“You picked me up last night, didn’t you?” I asked him rhetorically.
“I did,” he replied, as if he didn’t want to make a big deal about it.
“Thanks,” I said. “It won’t happen again.” He nodded, but didn’t look convinced.
“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve been. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think you’re right about some things. Well, a lot of things,” I corrected with a crooked grin.
If he was flattered he didn’t let on.
“So what does that change?” he asked, almost challengingly. I was taken aback.
“Huh?”
“What does that change?” he repeated. “What have you thought about that you’ve decided to change?”
“Oh, well, uh, I guess drinking. No more drinking,” I offered.
“That’s a good start,” Pa agreed, but looked at me as though a good start was all it was.
“And I guess try to let go and stop feeling sorry for myself,” I ventured. That was a hard one.
“Good,” Pa nodded his approval. I felt I was coming close to over-extending myself already, so I stopped before I made too many promises.
“I guess I’ll start with those,” I said.
Pa took a sip of his coffee, set it back down, and traced his finger inside the ear of his mug.
“Have you thought about forgiveness?” he asked. That was a tough one.
“I’ve thought about it,” I said hesitantly. “I don’t know, I just haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“So what’ll it take for you to ‘get that far’?” Pa asked pointedly.
“I don’t know,” I sighed, “time, maybe?” I hazarded. I looked at Pa as though wondering if he had the answer. He did.
“No!” he said forcefully. He continued speaking with passion. “Time ain’t the answer, because you’ll die before you feel like forgivin’. And forgiveness ain’t somethin’ you do when you ‘get somewhere.’ Forgiveness is a choice you make. And it’s a choice you can decide to make the moment you’ve been wronged, or it’s a choice you can decide you’re never gonna make.”
Instead of being slighted and becoming defensive as I had been in the past, I listened to his counsel without resistance.
“You say you’ve decided you ain’t gonna feel sorry for yourself no more. Now if you really mean that, then you will forgive. Because the only thing that’ll keep you from forgivin’ Ellen is feelin’ like you got a right to hold onto your hurt.” Now he had things moving along just a wee bit faster than I was comfortable with.
“Well, how can I forgive her if she hasn’t asked for forgiveness?” I countered weakly. His smile scolded me.
“You know better than that,” he chided. I knew he was right.
“Besides, if she could, she would beg you for forgiveness,” he added quietly. I looked at him through a veil of smoke and waited for him to expound on what he had just said. But he just took another sip of coffee and popped the last bit of cake into his mouth. I needed more than that. I needed an answer to a question that had been on my mind for weeks.
“You said she was tore up when you talked with her,” I said. “What did she say?” Just talking about Ellen was painful enough, but waiting to hear the answer almost terrified me. I was allowing myself another opportunity to feel compassion toward her, and part of me still fought against it.
“She said she loves you, Robert,” Pa said. “She said she would do anythin’ if she could only turn back time. If she could only make things right. She’s repented, there’s no doubt about that,” Pa stated with certainty.
“She wants you to come back home, son,” he said with feeling, as though interceding on her behalf. “She said she’d do anythin’ if only you’d come home. Even give up her son for adoption.”
“She said that?” I asked.
Pa nodded. “She told me the baby is like a curse, a reminder of her sin that she has to care for day and night. And Lord knows she don’t need a reminder—she can’t stop thinkin’ about it to begin with.”
I felt my throat tighten. Pa looked at me kindly, and I could tell he had compassion for both me and Ellen.
“You still love her, don’t you?” he didn’t ask so much as state. His eyes were shiny.
I let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, then sighed deeply. “You know, for the longest time, I didn’t think I did,” I replied. “I didn’t see how I could have so much anger, and bitterness, and—and hate against someone I loved.” I shook my head.
“Carin’ hurts, don’t it?” Pa asked the bottom of his mug.
“Like hell,” I replied fiercely.
We lapsed into a silence that must have lasted 10 minutes. I allowed my mind to travel places it hadn’t been in ages, back to days when our young love had thought it was immortal.
Memories I’d forced into the shadows crept back out into the light. Memories that were so beautiful I almost cried out in pain. I wondered if Ellen had spent the past year thinking back about those things that I was only beginning to think about now. I thought about the guilt she must be carrying. Tears pooled in my eyes and finally spilled over. I cared. I’d cared all along.
“It’s funny,” I finally commented, wiping my eyes. “I’ve seen more things, felt more things, than most men will in their lifetimes, and I don’t wish what I’ve been through on anyone. I’ve seen death, I’ve felt fear, and despair, and—and pain—things that made me want to die. But I’d have never guessed in a thousand years that it would be love—love, of all things—that would make me wish I’d never lived at all.” Pa and I both took a minute to ponder what I’d just said.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Pa concurred.
~~~
The struggle didn’t end that night. All week long I fought for and against forgiveness, debated whether I should try going home, and tried not to think about booze altogether. It was as though I’d been called on to fight multiple battles on several fronts, but I wasn’t certain which side I wanted to fight on, so instead of becoming victorious, I simply became tired, wildly flailing at anything that moved.
By the following Wednesday, I’d made enough money to pay off Pa, but that only added more weight to the load I was carrying. Since I no longer had a debt to pay off, I had no reason to stay, but the thought of going home was more than I could bear.
Instead of using alcohol to escape, I tried using sleep, but found my mind never slowed down enough to provide even the basic amount of sleep necessary for functioning normally. Depression pressed down on me, and my thirst only intensified. I began to feel helpless, as though I was going to get sucked back into despondency and alcoholism whether I wanted to or not. Things began to feel like they were coming apart, all over again.
The next Sunday morning I willingly tagged along to church. It seemed it couldn’t hurt, and I hoped I might hear something that would give me some sort of direction like I had the Sunday before. I knew I needed something, because I was beginning to feel as though my life was hurtling down an incline and the wheels were starting to fall off.
But though I listened intently all service, I didn’t hear what I thought I needed to hear. In fact, I was a wreck all through the service.
Some traveling evangelist named J.B. Smith preached the message, and the man was as close to a spitting image of Jedidiah Hankins as he could be without being kin. His ma
nnerisms, speaking style, and passion for lost souls and the gospel brought back memories of the soldier everyone had respected, and many had loved. I couldn’t look at the preacher without thinking of Jedidiah, and one thought would lead to the next horrible thought, and before I knew it, tears were flowing freely down my face. The evangelist must have thought the Spirit was moving in me something fierce, judging by how emotional I was. But when the service ended, I still had no direction, no peace, no anything.
That afternoon I took a long walk. I thought, and I prayed for the first time in a very long time, but the tempest within me could not be quelled. When I got back to the house, I had resolved nothing.
“What’s on your mind?” Pa asked me as I stood absentmindedly by the fridge and drank a cold glass of water. I could tell from his tone that he felt my pain. It was hard to know where to start.
“Going home,” I finally replied, sighing as I looked down at the floor.
He sighed too, as though my burden weighed heavily on his heart. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,” he said sincerely.
I felt like laughing. It felt like I was miles away from making the right decision. Then I felt like crying.
“In a lot of ways, I feel like I should go back,” I said, “it’s—it’s just—” my throat tightened so quickly it choked off my words.
“What?” Pa gently urged me to continue.
“Even if she is sorry,” I continued, my lip quivering, “even if she gives the baby away, it’s—it’s never going to be the same, Pa,” I finished tearfully.
Pa winced as though that thought caused him physical pain. “No, no it won’t be,” Pa agreed softly. “And maybe the hardest thing for you to accept is that what you had is gone. Things will never be like they were.” I nodded and wiped my eyes. He was right on the mark.
“Sometimes, you just have to give things some time,” Pa mused. “I know when you showed up here, I couldn’t look at you for the first few weeks without thinkin’ ’bout your scars. Now, I know they’re there, but I hardly think about ’em. And sometimes, scars ain’t all bad. Sometimes scars remind us of an ugly time that made us into more beautiful people.”
I let out a shaky laugh. At that moment, it sounded like an absurd statement.
“Yeah, I know,” he acknowledged, “it’s hard to think of it like that now. Give it time. Give it some time.”
~~~
Supper didn’t interest me that night. I went to bed early, but sleep was elusive. For hours I tossed and turned. Like Jacob wrestling with the angel, so I fought all night long.
Finally, I realized there would be no rest until I made a decision, so I got dressed and went to the kitchen. I really wanted a coffee, but Pa was sleeping, so instead, I quietly poured myself a glass of milk, sat down at the kitchen table, and had a smoke. I talked to God, and I talked to myself, debating the pros and cons of starting over by myself, or trying to start over with Ellen. But it didn’t seem to matter how I looked at things, it felt as though my world was tilted toward one inevitable conclusion, and that the only factor within my control was how long I would delay that which I knew must happen. The battle raged on and on, and in the darkest hours of the night, I surrendered.
The sun was peering into the kitchen window as Pa walked into the kitchen, looking sleepy-eyed. He looked surprised to see me sitting there, but only for a moment.
I sat at the table, where I’d sat in terrified contemplation for hours. Pa looked at me as if he knew I had something to tell him. He started boiling some water, and looked at me questioningly. “So?” he prompted.
I took a deep breath, and could hardly believe it was me saying the words as I said them.
“I’m going home to raise my son.”
Tears instantly welled up in my pa’s eyes, and seeing his emotion produced the same in me. His whole face trembled, and he opened his mouth several times to say something, but he hadn’t the composure to say anything, so he just looked at me in a way that said, “I’m so proud of you, son.”
Neither of us said anything as he finished making the coffee. He poured two cups of coffee and sat down at the table across from me. His cheeks were damp, his eyes still shiny. I lifted my cup to my mouth with both unsteady hands. I managed to take a sip and put it back down without spilling it. The enormity of what I was about to do made me feel nauseous. My insides chased each other around and around. I’d been afraid before, but this was a fear worse than the fear of death. This fear I felt was the fear of life, the fear of choosing a life I knew might be harder than anything I’d experienced yet. Chills ran down my clammy back, making my whole body shudder.
I looked over at Pa, who was just drying his eyes.
“Well, you have an ol’ man’s prayers,” was all he said.
There was no point in trying to sleep or going to work. As tired as I was, I knew I couldn’t rest until I went home. At least I hoped I might be able to rest then.
I went to my room and packed up the few belongings I had. My heart waited for the heaviness it felt to be replaced with peace, or joy, or some sense that I was doing the right thing and things were going to be alright, but the dread remained.
Pa was stuffing some sandwiches, an apple, and some cookies into a brown paper bag as I walked back through the kitchen with my stuff.
“Thanks,” I said gratefully as he handed it over to me, though I wondered if I’d ever have any appetite.
I laced up my boots, picked up my satchel, and walked out to the car. Pa slipped on some shoes and followed me. I got into the Buick and rolled down the window.
Pa leaned up against the car. “You drive safe now,” he said as I slipped the key into the ignition.
“I will,” I said, starting to turn the key but stopping. I wasn’t sure what to say, so a lengthy pause ensued as I wondered if I should start the engine. A good-bye is a tricky thing. You’d like to say all the things you’d like to say, but drag it on too long and it just becomes awkward.
Just as I was about to turn the key again, Pa spoke.
“Well, God bless you. I’ll be prayin’ that things work out for you, but if they don’t . . . I’ll be here,” he said.
“Thanks, Pa,” I said sincerely. “Thanks for everything.” He dismissed my thanks with a wave of his hand, as though he’d done nothing worth mentioning, and straightened back up, hands thrust deep in his pockets. I started the engine and put the car in reverse.
“Robert,” Pa said above the sound of the motor, “I think you’re an honorable man.” I could only nod as I furiously blinked back the tears.
~~~
It seemed the drive home would never end, yet it still felt like I was getting there too quickly. I felt more like a wanted fugitive about to turn himself in than a man who was going home to do the right thing.
The temptation to buy something to drink dogged me every mile of my journey. Every exit I saw enticed me to turn down it and drive off in any direction but home. But though I remained firm in my commitment to try to start over again, the doubts and questions still persisted. I was scared I would take one look at Ellen’s baby and recognize its father. I wondered if I’d ever be able to accept her child as my own. I wondered if I would ever be able to trust her again. I wondered if things would ever be like they’d been. But mostly, I wondered if I’d ever feel like making love to her again.
The steering wheel was slick with sweat as I pointed the Buick down the final stretch of road that lay before me and an uncertain future. My guts were as unsettled as they’d felt on the boat when we’d been headed for Omaha Beach. I tried to script what I would say when I got there, and rehearsed different lines out loud, but none of them sounded right, so I finally decided I would simply say whatever was on my heart. I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves, but for some reason it only caused the tumult I felt inside to intensify, so I threw it out the window. My chest tightened around my madly pulsing heart as I turned into the drive.
“Help me!” I whispered to the heavens.
<
br /> There was no sign of life in the yard. I parked in front of the house and walked to the door.
This is it, I told myself, standing in front of the door and taking a moment to muster the courage to knock. I took a deep breath and rapped on the door. I held my breath and listened for the sound of footsteps, but there was no sound from inside. Once again, I knocked on the door, louder this time. Once again there was no response. I knocked a third time, now beginning to wonder if Ellen wasn’t home, or if she’d seen me pull up and didn’t wish to talk to me. Silence. I grasped the door handle and turned it gently. It was locked, which seemed strange, since a locked door wasn’t encountered often in those parts in those days.
I walked over to a window and peered through a crack in the curtains. Nothing stirred inside.
I walked back to the car and sat down, thinking I’d sit and wait until she got home. A fly buzzed around my head and I swatted at it. The sound of cooling metal popped under the hood of the car. Something didn’t feel right.
I looked over the yard and realized there were no chickens scratching at the dirt, no ducks quacking, no cows or horses grazing—there was no life at all. The chirp of crickets was the loudest thing I could hear. The garden looked neglected, and the yard was unkempt. The place looked deserted. I began to doubt if Ellen had lived there at all recently. Perhaps she’s left to start over someplace else. That thought appealed to part of me. I’d made an effort to repair things, so if she had left to start a new life, maybe I could do the same in good conscience. There was a measure of relief in that thought, because it allowed me to duck out of finding Ellen and sorting out our messy marriage. But I inwardly knew that I wouldn’t find rest until I’d finished what I’d come to do.
~~~
“Robert!” Mrs. Moore gasped as she opened the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but she slammed the door in my face.
Stunned, I stood on the front porch for a moment, unsure of how to interpret what had just happened. I turned to leave, but realized I deserved some sort of explanation, so I turned back, and was about to knock again when the door opened. It was Preacher Moore. He looked so much older than I remembered him.
Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 30