by Vickie Hall
She spoke first, Glen still numb with their meeting. “Glen?” she asked, extending her hand. “Please, come in. I was so surprised to hear from you.” Glen took her hand and shook his tongue loose. “Hi, Amy,” he said, making his way inside the apartment.
Amy motioned him toward a chair. “I feel as though I already know you. Charlie’s letters talked about you all the time. Glen said this, and Glen did that, and Glen…” She broke off and sat down on the sofa opposite him. “Well, he thought very highly of you. He looked up to you.”
Glen smiled and skimmed his eyes over the small apartment. It was furnished with family handme-downs, sparse of extras and knick-knacks. On the table near the window sat a framed picture of Charlie in his uniform. He looked so dashing, so young and innocent. There was a sparkle in Charlie’s eyes that even the camera caught, and Glen had to force himself to look away.
Amy pointed at him and smiled. “You do have dimples,” she said with a half laugh. “Charlie wrote me about them.”
Glen blushed now and rubbed a dimple with his fingers as if he could smudge it away. “I, uh, do have dimples, yes, I’m sorry to say.”
“Sorry?” she said. “You shouldn’t be. I rather like them.”
He blushed again, and Amy reached for a pot of coffee she had prepared and placed on the side table. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked, taking a cup from the tray.
“Sure,” he said, finding his nerves calming a bit with her pleasant way.
“I wish you’d let me know sooner that you were coming to Helena.” She handed him the coffee. “I would have made arrangements to meet you at the depot, had a place for you to stay.”
Glen took the offered cup and scooped a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want you to go to any trouble. I knew you’d be thoughtful that way.”
“Did you?” she asked, her eyes dancing with curiosity. “Well, it wouldn’t have been any trouble.”
Glen tugged at his necktie and eased it back from the collar. He felt a knot of apprehension settle in his gut, one that had been growing since the day before. She was so beautiful, so alluring to him. He fought back his urge to touch her and reminded himself why he had come. He knew she’d want to know how Charlie died, what he’d said, what had happened afterward. He knew she’d probably cry and he would be the cause of it, dredging up fresh salt to grind into her wounded heart. He’d hurt her again, he imagined, and he didn’t like the thought of that.
“How have you been?” Glen asked. He winced and wished he hadn’t asked her such a stupid question.
Amy took a sip of coffee and waited a moment before she spoke. “I’m okay,” she said, her words softened with sadness. “I just take one day at a time.” She sipped again as if to still the shaking in her voice. “We talked about it…before Charlie left…just in case he…” She sipped again. “I can’t say I was prepared for it, but, well, it’s something that never leaves the back of your mind…that your husband might not come home.”
Glen felt a crushing weight land on his chest. How he wished it had been him who’d died instead of Charlie. “Amy,” he said as he set down his cup, “I have a letter for you.” He braced himself as he retrieved it from his pocket. “Charlie asked me to deliver it in person.” He saw his hand trembling as he extended the letter toward her, and for the first time he noticed some dried blood on the back of the envelope. It was Charlie’s blood. His heart lurched as she took the letter, too late to do anything about the stain.
Amy’s eyes welled with tears as she placed the envelope in her lap. “I’ll read it later…when I’m alone…” She looked at Glen, and for a moment their eyes locked in shared sorrow. Amy bit her lip in an effort to force back her tears. “Charlie never had a better friend, Glen. I know this can’t be easy for you…”
Glen scrubbed his face with some annoyance. It couldn’t be easy for her either, he thought. “I was happy to honor his wish, that’s all. He was the best friend I ever had.”
Amy picked up the coffee pot and topped off Glen’s cup. “How did it happen? How did he die?”
“You don’t know?” he asked with some surprise.
Amy shook her head. “The telegram only stated that he’d been killed in action.”
“You didn’t get a letter from the CO?”
She shook her head again. “Should I have?”
Glen huffed out a breath. “Not necessarily. Some wrote the families, some didn’t.”
He had to make a decision. He could tell Amy the truth, that Charlie died on the last day of the war, beneath a collapsed balcony, saving the lives of three prostitutes, or he could tell her he died a war hero, had given his life for a comrade. The truth didn’t seem a fitting way to die in a war. He believed Amy deserved a memory that would honor her late husband as a warrior. It didn’t take Glen much deliberation before he began to speak. He hoped he was helping Amy.
Glen stared at the coffee in his cup, then forced himself to look at her. “We were advancing just outside Verona. We were taking some fire. One of our guys got hit, and Charlie took off after him. The guy was hurt pretty bad, but Charlie managed to get him to his feet. He was bringing him back where we were dug in when Charlie got hit.”
Amy pressed her fingers to her lips, tears staining her cheeks. Glen couldn’t take the look of pain spreading over her face. He pushed himself to complete the story. “I got to him just as the medic arrived. He didn’t suffer, Amy. I promise you that. And he died a hero.”
Amy swiped at her eyes. “Did the man make it? The one Charlie saved?”
Glen suddenly wished he’d just told her the truth. He weighed the option of telling her the man lived, that Charlie saved his life, but then she might want to know his name, write him a letter, call him, something, and the man didn’t exist. “He died the next day. He’d lost too much blood, but that doesn’t mean Charlie wasn’t a hero. It took a lot of courage to do what he did.”
Amy nodded, her eyes rimmed in red now. “And you were with him at the end…when he…”
“Yes,” Glen said quietly. “He gave me your letter and asked me to bring it to you. The last thing he said was, tell Amy I love her…”
“Where was he buried?”
Glen felt as if his insides were being carved out of him with a dull knife. “We buried him in a little church cemetery there in the village. He had a proper funeral, Amy. We sent his buri al location on and he’ll be returned to you eventually. He’ll come home to his final resting place here.”
Amy’s chin began to quiver and she burst into sobbing tears. Glen didn’t know what to do. He’d been afraid this would happen. He pushed himself up from the chair and went to her. Sitting beside Amy, he draped his arm around her shoulder. She turned to him, laid her head against his chest, and wept. Glen pulled her close, his arms holding her tight. He could think of nothing to say that would comfort her, nothing that would ease her pain. But having her in his arms was weakening his will and he felt himself trembling.
“I loved him so much…” she sobbed. “So much…”
Glen stroked her hair. It smelled of lavender and felt like strands of silk beneath his finge rs. He was holding the woman Charlie had loved, the woman who adored Charlie. In that moment, he knew he could take advantage of her vulnerability. He could sample what Charlie had known, taste her lips, feel her body beneath him. He could tell when she looked up at him that he could taste her lips right now, that she wouldn’t push him away. But he couldn’t do it. He had no right to Amy, not even if she was willing—no matter how much he wanted her.
Glen withdrew from her, pushed her gently back as he got to his feet. “I’d better go,” he said abruptly, reaching for his cap. He had to leave now before it was too late.
Amy gave him a beseeching look. “No, please don’t…not yet…”
Glen went to the door. “I’d better go, Amy. If I don’t, I might regret it.”
She held out her hand and walked toward him. “Please, Glen, stay…”
He glance
d to Charlie’s picture, feeling his presence in the room. It was enough to cool off his rising passion. “I’m sorry, Amy. I can’t.”
Glen closed the door behind him, left the building, and turned at the corner, veering from the route he’d taken to the apartment. All he wanted was distance now, and a way to assuage his guilt. He felt as if he’d somehow betrayed Charlie, not in actions, but at least in thought. He wanted Amy, and he knew he could have had her. But not this way. She was lonely and hurt, and the only connection between them was a dead man. Amy deserved better, and so did he.
Chapter 16
Bonnie heard footsteps overhead. She looked at her watch—it was a little before eight o’clock. Why were Don and Irene up so early on a Sunday morning? Baby Girl stirred from her pillow as Bonnie rolled over to get up. The kitten mewed, stretched her front legs out until they we re twice the length of her body, then jumped down.
“Okay,” she said to the cat. “I’ll get your breakfast.”
Bonnie went to the closet where she’d placed the sack of food on the top shelf. She scooped out a handful into Baby Girl’s bowl and saw that the cat had tipped the water dish upside down. “Look what you did,” she said with a mock scolding. “I’ll get you some fresh water and clean this up.”
The cat was oblivious as Bonnie slipped into her robe and picked up the empty bowl. She climbed the stairs and gradually opened the door into the kitchen. She was grateful no one was there and went to the sink. Just then, she heard a rustling noise and turned to see Irene coming in from the living room.
“Good morning,” Irene said, smiling. She was already dressed, had her hair done and a splash of lipstick on. “How did you sleep? I hope it wasn’t too strange for your first night.”
Bonnie turned off the water and faced Irene. “No, it was just fine. You’re up early,” she commented.
“Church,” Irene said, opening the refrigerator. “Don and I go to church every Sunday. Would you like to come with us?”
Bonnie held up her hand to fend off the idea. “No, thanks. I’ll get dressed and take a walk or something.”
Irene rooted around in the fridge and came out with a package wrapped in butcher paper. “I’ve got sausage today,” she said, wagging the wrapped package in the air, “ground fresh. Why don’t you get dressed and at least join us for breakfast?”
Bonnie started back for the basement. “Oh, no thanks. I’m not much of a breakfast person. I’ll just pick up something out later. I don’t want you to bother about me.”
Irene shook her head. “Now, Bonnie, that won’t do. Everyone needs a good breakfast. It’s the Orton way. Around here, we eat breakfast in the morning, go to church on Sunday, and then Sunday afternoon, the family comes over for dinner, the whole bunch. It’s a tradition my mother started when I was a girl and I’ve carried it on with my children. No matter how old they get, I hope they’ll always come home for Sunday dinner.” She approached Bonnie and laid a hand on her shoulder. “And that goes for you, too. I want you to feel at home here and hope that you’ll feel comfortable enough to join us, be a part of us.” She smiled and angled her head. “I bake a pretty mean pork roast.”
Bonnie considered the offer. She’d enjoyed the interaction with Irene’s family the day before, liked the way it made her feel normal. It would seem rude to turn down Irene’s offer, even if she preferred to keep to herself. So long as she was living in Irene’s house, the least she could do was participate when invited. “All right, thank you.”
“That’s a girl.” Irene grinned. “Now take the water to your kitty and get dressed. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.”
Bonnie went to the door, stopped, and turned. “Irene?”
Irene paused in opening the butcher’s package. “Hmmm?”
Bonnie suddenly welled with tender emotion. She couldn’t explain the overwhelming sensation of gratitude that had snagged in her throat. She saw Irene’s eyes soften and that only weakened her tenuous self-control. “I just wanted to say…” She gritted her teeth and swallowed down her tears. “Thank you…”
She didn’t wait for a response from Irene and hurried downstairs as fast as she could without spilling the water. Irene’s kindness made her think of her own mother. She imagined her there in Irene’s kitchen, cooking breakfast, wearing a brightly colored apron and a warm smile. Why couldn’t it have been like that? Why didn’t she save herself, save me? Bonnie’s thoughts went dark with anger, anger at her mother for lacking the courage to leave, to love her enough to take her away. Everything could have been so different. Her tears turned bitter and stung her eyes. She sat on the edge of the bed and hated herself for hating her mother.
Baby Girl trotted to her and began circling figure eights around Bonnie’s legs. She reached down and picked up the cat. “I would have left him,” she whispered to the kitten. “I would have lived in a cardboard box before I’d let him do to my daughter what he did to me…”
She stroked the kitten’s soft fur. “Why didn’t she love me enough…” Bonnie’s tears welled again, spilled down her cheeks. “Maybe…maybe I wasn’t worth saving…”
//////
After Irene and Don left for church, Bonnie intended to take a walk. It was a comfortable September temperature outside, and she thought the fresh air would do her some good. She made sure Baby Girl was happy and went upstairs, through the kitchen, and into the living room.
There, Bonnie detoured to the old upright piano that stood against the far wall. She’d often wished she could play the piano—or any instrument, for that matter. There had never been a time or a place for music lessons, nor enough money—never enough money. She’d never even been offered the opportunity. Her father thought of such things as a waste of time. Her fingers extended to the ivory keys, cool and smooth beneath her touch. She pressed one key and a ringing note sounded clear and bright through the room. The echo elicited a smile from her lips.
She looked up at a collage of picture frames resting on top of the piano, filled with photos of Irene’s family. How happy they all looked, she thought as she studied each picture. There were photos of Irene’s children at various ages, a family vacation shot of the kids lined up in front of a mountain-top campsite, Ann dressed in a snowsuit making a snow angel in the front yard, Don looking over the edge of the newspaper, caught in an unexpected moment, Irene holding a grandchild in her arms. They were fragments of the past resting there to remind them of who they once were, and who they were now to each other. Bonnie couldn’t recall one photograph of her parents or herself, not even a picture of her parents’ wedding day. She sighed and struck another piano key.
Her eyes wandered the room, saw the matching, well-worn chairs where Don and Irene sat to listen to the radio, read, and talk, the coffee table nicked and scratched with use. A tidy pile of magazines rested on the floor beneath a table between the two chairs, and a tatty braided rug snuggled up against the fireplace hearth. The sofa sagged with its edges frayed from all the hands and legs that had rested there, but none of that mattered. All Bonnie could see was a room filled with the things that made a home, all of it well used, all of it well loved.
///////
Bonnie finished rinsing the green beans in a colander and wiped her hands on a borrowed apron. “Now what do we do?”
Irene picked up a long bean. “Snap off one end like this. Then when you snap the other end, don’t pull it all the way off so you can do this.” She showed Bonnie how she pulled the broken end toward her, bringing the fibrous string from the center of the bean with her motion. “Do that and then snap it in half.”
“Okay,” Bonnie said, picking up a bean and imitating Irene’s movement. “Like that?”
“Perfect. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”
Bonnie grinned and threw the bean halves into a bowl. “I didn’t get a chance to do much cooking,” she admitted. “I had a job after school and on weekends that kept me pretty busy. I wanted to learn but, well, my mama had a tight schedule and d
idn’t always have time to show me.”
Bonnie didn’t mention the strict weekly schedule her father prepared for her mother to follow once they’d moved to Long Beach. There was to be no deviation, no free time, nothing to do but what the schedule allowed. He’d provided her an allotted amount of time to do each chore, including preparing meals. Her mother never had time to take things at her own pace, or spend the time to teach Bonnie how to cook.
Bonnie remembered the evening inspections her father performed when he came home from work, how he criticized his wife’s poor performance, often forcing her to scrub the kitchen floor for the second time that day. He regimented her life so completely that she never had time for friends or rest, not a casual cup of coffee at the kitchen table, not a moment for herself. And her mother never dared stray from the burdensome schedule, fearing what repercussions awaited her if she did.
Bonnie wasn’t immune to her tyrannical father, either. She had her own set of chores to perform before school and after she came home from work. Saturdays and Sundays were worst of all, she recalled, when he made her clean her bedroom floor with a toothbrush. Her knees ached even still when she thought of the hours she’d knelt on the hard wooden floor, dipping and scrubbing, wiping and cleaning every square inch of the room, even having to move furniture to clean beneath it. She knew it wasn’t the cleanliness he cared about, but the control he exerted over her.
“Bonnie?” Irene’s voice was soft, like a gently opened petal. “Where were you just now?”
Bonnie felt her cheeks redden. She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead. “Oh, I was just thinking…wishing my mama had had time to teach me these things.” Bonnie hoped Irene wouldn’t ask any further questions and was relieved when Ann and George came through the front door.