All Manner of Things

by Susie Finkbeiner

  I did up Joel’s dishes, thinking about how easy it had been for the mother and father in The Parent Trap. All it had taken was remembering how good it had been before. Kiss, second wedding, happily ever after.

  Putting the dishes in the drainer to dry overnight, I wished it was that simple, putting a family back together. But then again, I wondered if I’d even want Frank to live in our house again, to upset the rhythm of our life.

  I hung up my apron and grabbed my jacket.

  Frank didn’t come for supper that night. I thought for sure that he’d pulled up stakes again and went back to Bliss. Mom had me warm up three frozen dinners in the oven and we ate off of TV trays in the living room, watching the news.

  The Christmas tree was still up, looking stark and gray without the colorful lights shining at it.

  I wondered how long it would take to fly from Michigan to Vietnam. If they’d fly straight over the Pacific Ocean or if they’d swoop up over Canada and Russia. Did they stop somewhere to refuel the plane? How many boys were with him? Had he made any friends?

  As I chewed a rubbery square of turkey, my stomach turned. I spit the meat out into my napkin, deciding that I couldn’t eat one more bite of it.

  Joel’s head perked up. “Frank’s coming,” he said.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “I can hear his truck.”

  Neither Mom or I questioned him. Since he was little, Joel had an uncanny ability to recognize a vehicle by its rumble or growl or whine.

  Sure enough, around the corner came the dull headlights of Frank’s truck. He parked in front of the house and cut the engine. Joel and I watched him from behind Mom’s flossy sheers as he sat a moment longer. I half feared that he’d give up, start the engine again, and drive away.

  But he didn’t. He got out, slammed the door shut, and made his way up the walk.

  Mom didn’t turn off the television or stop eating the mashed potatoes from her dinner.

  Joel let Frank in without waiting for him to knock. Frank had on a red flannel shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans. He glanced at Mom.

  “Did you have supper?” Joel asked.

  “I’m all right,” Frank answered. “I can’t stay long.”

  “Close the door,” Mom said, not looking away from the TV. “I don’t pay good money to heat the outdoors.”

  Frank and Joel moved, doing as she’d asked. The program went to a commercial break, and I pushed out my TV tray to turn it off. Mom gave me a dirty look but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” Frank said, not meeting eyes with any of us. “First thing in the morning. I have to get back to work.”

  Joel’s smile fell.

  “Sorry, son. I wish I could stay.”

  Joel nodded. “You’ll come see us again?”

  “I will,” Frank said. “I promise.”

  Frank stayed until Mom told Joel it was time for him to get to bed. The two of them shook hands, Joel no longer having any hope for a hug.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I said, grabbing a sweater off the end of the couch and pushing my arms through the sleeves.

  I followed him onto the porch, pulling the cardigan tighter around me. The air was crisp, the way an October evening should be.

  “He wanted a hug,” I said after shutting the door behind me.

  “You think so?” Frank asked.

  “He wants to know you.” I turned toward him. “And he wants you to know him.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Not in those words, but yes.”

  “I figured I’d missed my chance.”

  “Not with him, you haven’t.”

  We walked down the porch steps and along the path toward his truck. He put his hand on the top edge of the tailgate as if holding on for dear life.

  “Do you ever wish you hadn’t left?” I asked. “I mean that first time.”

  “Every day.” He turned and looked into the truck bed as if he might find something there. “But I couldn’t have been a fit father to you kids.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if an unfit father would have been better than no father.”

  He rubbed a hand along his jawline and furrowed his brow. “I asked your mother if she wanted me to give her a divorce.”

  I swallowed, regretting that I ate even one bite of that frozen dinner.

  “Why did you ask her that?”

  “In case she wanted to get remarried.” He shrugged. “Some other man could give her the kind of good life she deserves.”

  “What did she say?” I leaned my hip into the back of the truck, looking up into his face.

  “She said she has to think about it,” he said. “I told her she could have as much time as she needs.”

  “Do you really want a divorce?” I lowered my voice when I said the last word, it felt wrong coming from my mouth, like a cuss word.

  He cleared his throat. “Not if she doesn’t want one.”

  He let go of the truck and crossed his arms.

  “Will you come and visit again?” I nudged up my glasses with my knuckles. “You won’t be a stranger again, will you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, I’d better get going. It’s a long drive.” He turned toward me, looking me full in the face. “Do you want me to hug you?”

  Without answering him, I took a step forward, lifting my arms and putting them around his neck. He put his hands between my shoulder blades. It was only a second, but it didn’t matter.

  I thought about how a normal father wouldn’t have had to ask. That a normal daughter wouldn’t have felt awkward in his arms. That the usual thing for a girl to say to her dad was how she loved him. It would have been ordinary for him to say it back.

  It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that I couldn’t have an ordinary life with Frank.

  I’d long given up that hope.

  Frank,

  Why did you tell Annie that you asked if I wanted a divorce? Doesn’t she have enough to worry her with Michael being away? She’s not your friend and she’s not your confidante. She’s your daughter. You would do well to remember that.

  As to your question of divorce, I still have no answer to give you. You’re just going to have to wait.

  Gloria

  Dear Gloria,

  I didn’t realize I’d upset Annie. That wasn’t my intention. I shouldn’t have told her, I know that now.

  Take all the time you need. I’m in no hurry.

  Sincerely,

  Frank

  39

  October had gotten cold all of a sudden. Every time someone opened the door, walking into Bernie’s, a chill came along with them, making me shiver even as I rushed around delivering plates of eggs and bacon and refilling cups of coffee. I almost looked forward to submerging my hands into the hot dishwater.

  The door opened as I carried a stack of used dishes to the kitchen. Turning to bump the door open with my rear end, I saw that it was Walt’s mother, Mrs. Vanderlaan, her winter coat gathered together in her hand at her neck as if she hadn’t thought to button it up.

  Shoulders slumped forward, she found a seat at one of the far tables, her back toward the window. When I brought the coffeepot, filling her cup, I saw that her face was drawn, her eyes wet. She’d lit a cigarette and smoked it as if desperate, her fingers trembling. I’d never seen her smoke before. Of all the people in town that I least expected to light up, it was her.

  “Mrs. Vanderlaan, are you all right?” I asked.

  “Don’t tell my husband. Please,” she said. “Vince would kill me if he knew I was smoking.”

  “All right,” I answered. “Would you like a little breakfast? Bernie still has pancakes going.”

  She shook her head, staring off into nothing. “Just the coffee. I don’t need any cream.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  She shook her head and pulled on her cigarette again, holding the smoke while she talked.

  “I just couldn’t stay home. No
t while they are in the neighborhood.” She let the smoke out before dropping the cigarette into the ashtray. “I saw the car coming down the road and I was sure it was going to pull into our driveway.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The men who come to bring bad news about our boys.” She used the knuckle of her thumb to wipe under her eye. “You know that they send men to give bad news if something happens to the boys over there.”

  “Is it Walt?” I asked, my voice sounding far away from my body, as if it came from someone else altogether.

  She shook her head. “They went to the house across the street. Do you know the Robertses? They moved in just a few years ago.”

  I put the coffeepot down, feeling light-headed. “I know Larry.”

  “His father was killed in Vietnam. Alan. Alan Roberts.” She shook her head. “They came to their house first thing this morning. I was sure they’d come for me. I was just sure.”

  “Oh no.” The two smallest of words came out, riding on my sigh, holding very little meaning. And yet, all the meaning I could muster. “Oh no.”

  “I was so relieved when they didn’t come to my house.” She looked up at me. “I didn’t think to be horrified for that family. All I could feel was relief.”

  I nodded, not knowing that there was anything I could or should say to her.

  “What kind of a monster thinks that way?” She opened her purse and fished out her pack of cigarettes, lighting another one and pulling on it as if it would keep her alive.

  I walked from her table, hardly noticing that I still carried the half-full pot of coffee, its weight feeling like nothing to me. All over, I’d become numb. Numb except for the sick feeling in my stomach.

  Putting the pot back on the warmer, I pushed my way into the kitchen, rubbing the palms of my tingling hands on my apron, feeling nothing, but hearing the whisper of skin on soft cotton. Bernie’s low, growly voice sounded far away, underwater, even.

  “Annie?” he said. “We’ve got customers, you know.”

  “What?” I asked, turning. “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

  “You sick?”

  “No. It’s just . . .”

  I didn’t finish. To speak the words would give the truth more reality than I could handle.

  To say that Larry’s father was killed in Vietnam was to admit to myself that it really happened. Not just to his dad or to some kid who lived across the country.

  It could happen to my brother.

  It could happen to Mike.

  Stepping back out of the kitchen, I swallowed against the bile and begged God to spare my brother.

  Water boiled in Mom’s stockpot, waiting for her to drop in the box of dried spaghetti. It bubbled and hissed, but she seemed to have forgotten all about it. The telephone receiver to her ear, she bit on her thumbnail and said, “Uh-huh . . . Oh heavens . . . How awful . . . Yes,” to whoever was on the other line.

  When she caught sight of me, she pointed at the pot and covered the mouthpiece. “Could you do that?” she whispered.

  I was glad to have something to do, hoping I’d hear more from her end of the conversation without her thinking I was eavesdropping.

  “How old are the little girls?” she asked then paused, listening. “Oh, they’re so little. And three of them? Plus the boy?”

  I assumed she was talking about Larry and his younger sisters. How would such small kids be able to understand, I wondered. It couldn’t be possible. It was just too horrible.

  “Oh, bless their hearts.”

  Turning, I saw her in profile as she ran a finger under her eye and blew a sigh out between her lips.

  “You take care, Elizabeth, all right? I know you’ve had an incredible shock.” She swallowed. “Let me know if they need anything. Do you promise?”

  I popped the top off the Ragu bottle and poured it into a saucepan, setting it on one of the back burners.

  “All right, you too,” Mom said. “Buh-bye.”

  She hung up the phone and clasped the clip-on earring back on her lobe. “Heat up both jars, if you would,” she said. “Joel has a friend coming for supper.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “His friend Andy. You know, the tall one. They have a test to study for.” She looked into the pan. “Should we add anything to that sauce? Some peppers or carrots?”

  “No,” I said. “This is fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They’re boys. They won’t want it fancy.”

  “I’ve got meatballs in the oven.” She crossed her arms. “Don’t worry, I didn’t make them. I got them premade from Huisman’s.”

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Uh-huh.” She covered a yawn with her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  “Was that Mrs. Vanderlaan on the phone?” I stirred the noodles as they softened in the water. “Are you suddenly on speaking terms again?”

  “Don’t be smart.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You worked with the boy, didn’t you?”

  I told her that I had.

  “Do you know if they go to church?” She touched her temple as if she had a headache coming on. “Mrs. Vanderlaan seemed to think they don’t.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They’ll need a place to hold the funeral. Maybe they can have it at ours.” She nodded. “And Oma could arrange for the luncheon.”

  “I think that would be nice.”

  “Mrs. Vanderlaan told me that Mrs. Roberts fainted when the men came this morning.” She opened the cupboard and counted out plates. “I can’t blame her. They knocked on the door before the kids had even had breakfast. Those little girls had to hear about their father that way. It just breaks my heart.”

  “How awful.”

  “It would be the worst thing for you and Joel to hear news like that.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I said. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  I put the lid on the saucepan harder than I’d meant to. It made a slamming sound and the pot clattered against the grate. Without any sense of control, I’d started crying. A heaving, messy, bending-at-the-waist kind of cry.

  “Honey,” Mom said, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me upright. “Annie, it’s all right.”

  “I’m just scared for him.” I leaned against her, knowing she was strong enough to keep me from falling. “I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

  “I know. I know.” She rubbed circles on my back with the palm of her hand. “He’ll be fine. He’s special. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”

  But they were all special. Every single one that went over there. All the ones who wouldn’t come home. They were special to somebody.

  Dear Annie,

  Your visit with Mike sounds like it was absolutely perfect in every way! I’m proud of your mom for thinking up Christmas in October, especially considering her aversion to seasonal decorations. Please tell her that I say, “Bravo, Mrs. Jacobson!” What a wonderful idea.

  I’m sure you’re missing him and I know that you’re worried about him. To be honest, I would be too. But I know that no matter what happens, God sees your fears and he knows your heart. At the very same time he has his eye on Mike’s every move, no matter what he’s doing over there.

  I stumbled upon a quote that I think might help. It happened in the library when I borrowed a book for one of my history assignments. In the front cover, someone had written in pen. (Pen! Can you believe someone would do such a thing?) At first I was aghast (see previous parenthetical). But when I read the words three or four times over, I was glad for the defacement of library property.

  “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

  I don’t understand why, but those words brought peace to my heart.

  I asked the librarian what she knew of the quote (because we are well aware that librarians are knowledgeable about all things). She told me that a m
ystic from the fourteenth century wrote it. And, get this, it was a woman! Her name was Julian.

  Anyway, Annie my dear. When you become afraid or worried or even just tired, think of our friend Julian’s words.

  “All manner of things shall be well.”

  I love you,

  Jocelyn

  40

  For all the attention the hippies got on the news and television programs, I’d only seen a handful of them in real life. The fact was, they mostly kept to the big cities and university campuses. They weren’t too interested in our small town, not really.

  The few times they had made their way to our neck of the woods, they were met with suspicion and sideways glances. Most of the adults in town believed the hippies had come to indoctrinate the youth of Fort Colson to put flowers in their hair and dance, stoned and scantily clad, to psychedelic music that was sure to melt our brains and common sense completely away.

  The fact was, when they did come to stay at the campground or to take a swim in Old Chip, they mostly kept to themselves. I thought that was due to the tepid welcome they received. Mom, though, was of the opinion that it was so they could engage in their “drugging” without anybody getting in their way.

  In the weeks after Mike left, most every news report had some kind of story about the hippies. In fourteen days I’d seen more of them on the TV screen than I had in the first seven years of the decade. They marched in Washington DC more than once, in New York City, in San Francisco. They even protested in Wisconsin. They held signs touting “Free Love” and “Peace.” They burned their draft cards and pushed back against police.

  The clips of them on the news were soon followed by a report on Vietnam, including how many American boys had been killed that day. The contrast was stark, jarring. I couldn’t tell which riled Mom more, the daily death count or the hippies.

  Most nights, they showed film footage from the war. Mom would lean forward, closer to the screen. She never said so, but I knew she was hoping to catch a glimpse of Mike. It was a long shot, her seeing him. But I was quite certain there were mothers all across the country doing the very same thing.