“Tell me again why you want your hair done,” I said, still running the iron over the pillowcase.
“I don’t know. Just to see what it’s like.”
“Should I do my hair too?”
“If you want.”
“Let’s see how yours turns out first.”
“Have you gotten another letter from Walt?” she asked.
“No. It’s been a long time since I heard from him,” I answered, lifting the pillowcase to see perfectly flattened hair under it and glad that it was still attached to her head and not burned off. “Honestly, it wouldn’t break my heart if he didn’t write again.”
“Hm. That’s interesting.”
“What is?” I took up another handful of hair, smoothing it out on the ironing board.
“Oh,” she said. “I figured you knew already.”
“Knew about what?”
“Haven’t you heard?” She fingered the smooth section of hair I’d just finished. “Caroline sent him a ‘Dear John’ letter.”
“No.” A sinking feeling pulled at the space behind my sternum. If I’d had to assign a name to it, I would have called it pity. It wasn’t the first time I’d ever felt sorry for Walt, but it had been years. When I took in a breath, it was gone. Just like that.
“I’m sorry. I thought you would have heard by now.” She sat up, her half-smooth hair hanging against the side of her face. “It’s actually the talk of the town.”
“Do you know why she dumped him?”
“All I know is that her parents came to the paper last week to cancel the wedding announcement they’d already paid for.”
“Poor Walt. I’m sure he did something to deserve it, though,” I said. “Put your head down. Let me finish or you’ll look like Cousin Itt.”
Mom pulled Jocelyn and me aside before we left the house. She spoke in low tones with her arms crossed, her face as serious as it got. It was the same talk she’d given us a hundred times over. Still, she delivered it with the utmost intensity.
“There might be drinking at this party, girls,” she said. “There might even be drugging. If there is, you come right back here. Understand?”
We both nodded.
“If by chance you drink something you shouldn’t and you can’t get yourselves home, use the pay phone and call me.” She pursed her lips and handed each of us a dime. “I’ll come get you. No questions asked.”
We both nodded again.
“And if a boy tries to get you to go off with him alone, you’re to say ‘no.’” She put her fists on her hips. “There’s only one thing a boy wants, being by himself with a girl, and ladies, it isn’t to hold your hand.”
“What’s that?” I asked, smirking at her. “What do they want?”
“Oh, you know.” Mom swatted a hand at me. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“It’s just the Beach Bash, Mom,” I said. “The hardest drink there will be cream soda.”
“There probably won’t even be that many boys,” Jocelyn said. “And I think they all go to church.”
“You think that makes a difference?” Mom crossed her arms again. “Listen to me, girls. Boys who go to church are not immune to, well, desire.”
“I promise,” I said. “If a boy finds himself overwhelmed with desire for me and tries to get me drunk and drugged up so that he can kiss me, I will sock him in the nose.”
“You aren’t funny.” Mom rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Sure I am.” I gave her an exaggerated wink. “See you in a few hours.”
Mom gave me the hairy eyeball, but I knew she was holding back a laugh. “Have fun. Just not too much.”
For all the fears Mom held that I’d give in to the dangers and temptations of my generation—free love, acid trips, and war protests—the riskiest activity in which I engaged was participating in a potato sack race in the sand.
The party hadn’t attracted too many people. But enough had come so that we had fun. It was the kind of gathering I much preferred. After the sun went down, a few of us bundled in blankets and beach towels and sat in old camp chairs, our sneakered feet propped up on the bricks of the fire pit.
Conversation turned, as I’d expected it would, to Walt and Caroline. Not much happened in Fort Colson, especially not the joining of the two most popular kids in town. But when that union was smashed, it was double the news.
“Oh, she sent that letter a month ago. I guess she told someone that she didn’t want to go to Michigan State having a boyfriend,” one girl in the circle said. “She wanted to keep her options open.”
“It seems pretty hard of her,” a boy piped in. “Letting him down while he’s at war.”
“I heard that he’s been writing to other girls,” someone else said. “I wouldn’t like that either.”
I peeked at Jocelyn, knowing she wouldn’t have told anyone. She’d kept all my secrets up until then; I knew she wouldn’t betray my trust over something small like that.
“Maybe they just weren’t a good match,” Jocelyn said. “Better to realize it now than after getting married.”
The girls in the round nodded their heads and the boys crossed their arms and we all looked into the fire for a while, not saying anything. Then, from the other side of the pit, a girl a year behind me in school sat up straight and cleared her throat.
“If I were her, I’d be afraid to have a boyfriend over there,” she said. “Can you imagine if he got killed? Wouldn’t that be awful for her?”
“How about we go for a walk?” Jocelyn whispered into my ear, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the bonfire.
As soon as we were away from the glow of the flames, I felt the chill of the evening. I pushed the buttons through the holes of my jacket, trying to trap at least a little warmth.
The sounds of the fireside gossip faded the closer we got to the public access dock. Jocelyn pointed out a couple who were kissing under a tree.
“You’d think they’d need to come up for air,” she said, giggling. “Or at least try to hide a little better.”
We walked to the end of the dock and sat. The wood slats were wide enough that we could sit cross-legged and face each other without fear of falling off the side.
“Do you think Caroline knew that Walt was writing to me?” I asked.
“Who knows,” she answered. “Either way, you can’t blame yourself for their breakup. I won’t allow it.”
“They were just friendly letters. Nothing else.”
“I believe you.”
The water of Old Chip was calm that night, as it was most of the time. Every minute or so, we’d hear a plip and plop of a fish surfacing or the sploosh of a duck landing on top of the lake. The loons were quiet, most likely shy because of the music and laughter from the shore.
“Annie?” Jocelyn said. “I need to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
She gathered her silky hair in her hands, pulling it over the front of one of her shoulders. She sighed and met my eyes.
“I decided that I should go to college after all,” she said. “It took her a while, but my mother finally agreed that it was a good opportunity.”
“It is,” I said, taking her hand. “You are too talented to write another article for the Chronicle.”
“Actually, I still have a few to write.” She rolled her eyes. “Next week is the tractor pull out at the fairgrounds.”
“You’ll miss the simple and quaint stories you write here, won’t you?”
“Maybe a little, if I’m completely honest.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I just wish you could come with me.”
“I do too.”
“You’ll write to me, won’t you?”
“Of course I will,” I said.
We didn’t stay at the end of the dock much longer. Someone had turned up the radio, and the sound of horns blasted from the speakers along with Aretha Franklin’s no-nonsense voice. A bunch of girls left the fire, squealing and running to th
e makeshift dance floor in the sand to sing along, spelling out R-E-S-P-E-C-T at the top of their lungs.
Jocelyn and I jumped up, dashing down the dock to join them. None of us could dance to save our lives. And most of us couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But it was summer and we were young and for just a minute or two we could forget about all the madness in the world.
Dear Annie,
I haven’t written in a long time, I guess. We’ve had lots of missions to go on and we haven’t been back to base in so long I got lost going to the mess hall. War isn’t for sissies, I can tell you that.
You’ve probably heard by now—I’m sure the whole town knows—but Caroline called it off with me. I got her letter a while back, but it’s taken me a week or so to really understand what happened.
Are you sure you never see her? Does she come to the diner sometimes? Has she been with another guy? It would kill me if she has, but I’ve got to know.
Write back soon, please.
Walt
Walt,
I was sorry to hear about you and Caroline. But, if I were you, I’d focus on getting back home in one piece. You can’t let yourself be distracted right now, especially since you’ve only got a few months left to go.
Caroline hasn’t been around much this summer. Sorry. I don’t think she comes to my side of the lake very much, really. If she did, I doubt that she’d want to talk to me about something as personal as her decision to break up with you. I would try, though, for your sake.
I know this must be so hard for you. But it will be okay in time. I promise. You’ll have no trouble finding another girl. I’m sure there will be a dozen to choose from once you get home.
You just have to make sure you survive until then.
Take care, Walt.
Annie
23
One Sunday out of every month, Mom and Oma helped out in the church nursery. They’d rock babies while their parents sat in the service, cooing to them or feeding them a bottle of milk. It seemed there were never more than five babies at a time; still, Mom liked me to lend a hand every once in a while.
“So you have some practice,” she’d say, winking at me. “Not that I’m rushing you.”
That morning three came to the nursery. One for each of us. Oma had the Martinezes’ two-month-old, Donna. Mom sat on the floor, rolling a ball to an eighteen-month-old named Sammy. I had little Joanne, who had chosen that day to be a bit fussy.
“Take her for a little walk,” Mom said. “She might like a change of scenery.”
As I stepped out of the nursery, I could hear Oma singing a Dutch lullaby to Donna.
“Slaap, kindje, slaap,” she sang.
I smiled, humming along to the tune of the song I knew as well as any hymn, the words as well as a Psalm. Oma would have thought it sacrilege to compare a lullaby to Scripture. But when I was little, I heard the song—sleep, baby, sleep—imagining it in the voice of God singing to a little shepherd boy—outside there is a sheep—who would one day become the king of Israel.
The shepherd guards him day and night—the song of a Lord promising care and gentleness and rest—sleep, baby, sleep.
Joanne and I bobbed our way around the narthex, looking at the pictures of missionaries displayed on the bulletin board and the stack of gold-plated offering trays. It only took a few minutes before she rested her head into my neck and fell asleep.
I turned to go back to the nursery to see if she’d let me put her in a crib when I saw David walk in. He had on a short-sleeve dress shirt and a black tie. Quite a change from his everyday clothes. He looked from me to the baby, narrowing his eyes and cocking his head to the side.
“Is she . . . ?” he started, his voice just above a whisper.
“Not mine,” I said. “I’m helping in the nursery today.”
He formed his lips into an “oh” and nodded.
“You’re just a little late.”
He looked at his watch. “I got a call about a fawn who got herself trapped in somebody’s yard. I had to rescue the poor damsel.”
“I guess that’s a good excuse.”
“Well, I guess I should catch the tail end of the sermon,” he said, pointing at the sanctuary.
“Right.” I nodded. “I hope it’s a good one.”
When I turned back toward the nursery, I saw both Mom and Oma looking out at me, two sets of blue eyes open wide.
“You know him?” Mom asked when I neared the door.
“He’s the regular at the diner,” I answered, handing Joanne to Oma. “The one Bernie told you about.”
“Him?” Mom shifted her head to try and see him.
“He’s nice,” I said.
“I should think so,” Oma whispered, carrying the baby to the corner and lowering Joanne into one of the cribs.
Mom leaned into the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “Is he the one who drove you home that day?” she asked. “Mrs. Chapman called me at work about that, you know.”
“I was upset . . .” I started. “About Frank.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me.” She rubbed her lips together. “It would be very difficult, you know.”
“What would be?”
“If the two of you—”
“Gosh, Mom,” I interrupted her. “There is no two of us.”
“Okay. If you say so.” She turned and went back to Sammy where he sat stacking blocks. “What’s his name?”
“David.”
“All I’m going to say is this—and then I’ll be quiet about it because I’m sure you don’t want me to interfere—guard your heart, honey.”
I felt numb, not knowing what to say or even what she meant by that.
Oma’s clear voice took up the lullaby again.
Sleep, baby, sleep.
24
August was nearly spent before we knew it. Most of the people in Fort Colson tried to hold on tightly to the last days of summer even if it wasn’t terribly warm and Old Chip had already gone too cold for swimming. The sun set earlier every night, it seemed, reminding us that, soon enough, autumn would come to usher us into winter.
I wasn’t ready for summer to be done.
Joel and I took turns checking in on Grandma Jacobson, taking her cans of soup or fixings for sandwiches, sitting with her to make sure she’d eat. Each time I went, I hoped she’d have gotten a letter or phone call from Frank. Whenever I asked, she denied that she had.
The problem was, I wasn’t sure if I should believe her or not.
It was a Thursday and I used Mike’s car to drive to her house. Bernie had wrapped up a burger in tin foil for me to take to her. I didn’t knock on the door, instead I opted to let myself in. It seemed better than making her get up to answer it.
I found her in the living room, where she sat in Grandpa’s chair, staring out the window. She’d left a full cup of tea on the side table at her elbow. It had gone cold.
“Would you like me to make you a fresh cup?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I can’t keep anything down,” she said.
“How long has that been going on?”
“Don’t worry about me.” She waved me off as if it wasn’t important. “I’ll be all right.”
“But if you’re sick, we should call the doctor.”
“I’m not sick in that way.”
Sighing, she turned her face from me. Instead of pushing her to say more, I took her cold cup of tea into the kitchen and washed what few dishes she had used in the days since I’d last been there.
On the small table that stood flush against the kitchen wall was a box of old photographs. A layer of dust had settled on the top, which lay removed and discarded on the other side of the table. A few photos lay fanned out and face up. Gathering them in my hands, I recognized the young man in the first picture—tall and thin and grinning—as my grandfather. The beautiful woman on his arm was my grandma. In each picture they stood as close together as they could get. In a few, she held a baby that was either Frank o
r Aunt Rose, I couldn’t always tell. I flipped through a stack of them before I heard her shuffle in and stand beside me.
“I got those out last night,” she said. “I haven’t been sleeping, and it seemed like something to occupy my time.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen these before.” I looked at another. “Is this Grandpa?”
“He was handsome, wasn’t he?”
She had a hanky held tightly in her hand, raised to her chin. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought she might have been wearing the same housedress she’d had on the last time I’d visited. The sour smell of her told me she most likely was. Her typically set-perfect hair was flat in the back and dingy looking, as if it hadn’t been touched since the funeral.
“You miss him?” I asked.
“Of course I do.” She said it as if I was stupid for asking it. “I’ve missed him for years, though, haven’t I?”
I nodded, putting the stack of pictures down and turning to face her.
“It would have been better if he’d died five years ago,” she said. “He suffered so.”
“Grandma, don’t say that.” I swallowed hard, trying to push down the heaviness that threatened to erupt out of me. “You don’t mean it.”
“Maybe not. I don’t know. But, Annie, there are some things worse than dying.” Her dark eyes filled with tears, and she made to leave the room. “Lock the door when you leave. I won’t have you barging in here again. An old woman deserves a little dignity.”
“Have you heard from my father?” I asked.
She stopped, her shoulders tensing. “No,” she said. “He hasn’t contacted me. But I’m sure he’s back in the same place he’s been for twelve years.”
“Why did he leave?”
“How would I know?”
She left me in the kitchen, alone with a box full of memories that stung me to riffle through.
I did as she asked.
I locked the door behind me.
Fort Sam Houston
San Antonio, Texas
Everybody,
Remember in my last letter how I said medic training wasn’t near as bad as basic training? Well, I hate to admit that I was wrong. But I was. And how.
All Manner of Things Page 14