The cold air shocked me back to awareness.
I had to get home.
61
Joel was in the living room, playing Opa’s old guitar on the couch in his stocking feet. He looked up at me when I came in through the front door.
“Where’s Mom?” I closed the door behind me, careful not to let it slam.
“Doing laundry,” he said. “Golly, Annie, are you all right? You look sick.”
“Joel, you have to go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You have to go to the store for Oma.” I dug a dollar in tip money from my apron pocket. “You need to get her some flour. The big bag, all right? And you need to go right now.”
“Why right now?”
“Because she needs it right now.” I shoved the money into his hand, closing his fingers over it. “Hurry.”
“Okay.”
“Where are your shoes?”
“In my room.”
I opened the closet off the living room. There were a pair of Mike’s old work boots. I tried not to think, tried not to feel. I grabbed them, putting them in front of Joel.
“Wear those. They’ll fit.”
“They’re too big.”
“That’s okay. Just hurry.”
My heart pounded and I couldn’t draw in a deep breath for the life of me. I checked out the window as he tied the laces and then pulled his coat off the hanger. A dark blue car turned down our street, moving slowly toward our driveway.
He can’t find out this way.
“Go out the back door,” I said, pushing Joel in that direction. “Cut through the yards to get to her house.”
“What about the flour?”
“Just forget it,” I said. “Just go to Oma’s.”
“Why are you acting so weird?” he asked, struggling against me.
“You’ll understand later.”
“Fine, just don’t push me anymore.”
He went out the back way, Mike’s boots clonking on the floor with every step.
As soon as he closed the back door behind him, I heard the car door close from our driveway.
“Mom,” I tried to call, but my voice was too weak.
He sat in Mom’s chair. Mom and I were next to each other on the couch. She held my hand. She nodded as he spoke, holding herself together with such courage, I could hardly believe it.
He said a lot. Not one word of it made any sense to me. His voice was garbled, unclear, like the times when Mike and I would dunk our heads under the surface of Old Chip and yell at each other, then we’d try to guess what the other had said.
But with that Army man, I didn’t want to guess what he was saying. More than that, I didn’t want to be right about what I thought it was.
“Thank you,” Mom said after he’d stopped talking. “May I ask you something?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.
“Were you over there?”
“I was, ma’am.”
“This is harder than being at war, isn’t it?” She leaned forward.
“Yes, ma’am. I’d take a battle over this any day.”
“I’m sorry you have to do this.” She reached for his hand. “What a truly difficult job you have. But you do it so well.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He met her eyes. “And I could not be more sorry about your son.”
“Me either.” She pushed her lips together tightly, as if catching a sob. “You can go. You’ll forgive me if I don’t see you out.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
And, just like that, he was gone.
“Mom,” I said, my voice sounding as if it was coming from all the way across the room. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
62
I didn’t remember moving off the couch and to the floor on the other side of the room and I couldn’t recall who made me a cup of tea or having sipped any of it. Somehow Oma was there, holding Joel’s head to her shoulder where he sobbed. The minister and his wife sat with Mom at the dining room table.
I noticed that, not only did I have tea, but it was also in my favorite cup. The one with the rooster cock-a-doodling into a sunless morning.
David came from the kitchen, right toward me, putting his hand out to me. “Let’s get you off the floor, huh?”
I let him help me up, and I took a seat in Mom’s chair. He squatted beside me, still holding my hand.
“Bernie’s in the kitchen making some soup,” he said. “In case you wanted to eat some.”
“Okay,” I answered, feeling as if in a fog. “I don’t know.”
“That’s all right.” David let go of my hand and pulled a straight-back chair from the corner and sat on it right beside me. “Is it okay with you if I stay for a little bit?”
“Don’t leave.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m so tired,” I said, turning toward him. “That’s all I can feel. I’m just tired.”
“It would be all right if you closed your eyes.” He took my hand again.
I shut my eyelids.
When I woke, Frank had taken Oma’s seat next to Joel. My brother was leaned over, holding his head in his hands. His fingers worked through his hair that had grown into a mass of long curls.
“Like Bob Dylan’s,” Joel had said just the day before when Mom had complained about it.
Just the day before.
Before.
Frank caught my eye. He held his jaw clenched, his eyebrows lowered. But his eyes were watery and red.
“You came,” I whispered.
He nodded.
“Then it’s real?”
He looked away from me before nodding that time.
“Why?” I tried to ask, but no sound came out except a groan. “Why Mike?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said.
We sat at the dining room table, sipping the soup Bernie had made, more out of politeness than hunger. But the hot broth seemed to awaken me from the numbness in my chest. As much as I hated to feel the terror and heartache and loss, it was better than suffocating in the void.
Elbow to elbow, none of us complained about being tucked around the table so tightly. It was as if the nearness was important, as if it was what kept us from falling to pieces right there in the dining room.
“Frank, do you remember the day Michael was born?” Mom asked, her voice shaking.
“I couldn’t forget it if I tried.” Frank gave her his half grin. “It’s the same day I got this.”
He angled his face upward and pointed at a scar that cut through the stubble on his chin.
“You fainted when I told you it was time for him to come,” Mom said, laughing even as the tears collected in her eyes. “I thought I’d have to drive myself to the hospital.”
“Five stitches,” Frank said. “If only you could have experienced the agony I suffered that day.”
“Oh, you.” Mom cringed, grinding her teeth together and letting out a sob. “He was the most perfect baby, wasn’t he?”
“He was. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.”
“He didn’t like to sleep,” Oma added. “I remember Gloria coming to my house and crying over how tired she was because he cried all night long.”
“And you didn’t believe me,” Mom said. “You told me all babies did that.”
“So I took your invitation to come spend the night.” Oma shook her head and laughed. “He cried from dusk until dawn.”
“Unless Frank had him,” Mom said. “He loved being with his daddy.”
Frank’s brows gathered in the middle and he looked into his nearly empty bowl of soup. “He was protecting a wounded soldier,” Frank said. “He shielded him with his body. He saved that boy’s life. That was what the officer who came to my house told me.”
“They didn’t tell me,” Mom whispered, then covered her eyes with her hand. Leaning down, she rested her elbow on the table.
“Why would he do that?” Joel asked. “He w
as supposed to take care of himself so he could come home. Why would he risk it?”
“It was the right thing to do,” Bernie said. “It was his duty.”
“But why’s it right that the other boy gets to live and Mike doesn’t?”
“Joel,” I said. “You know how Mike is. Always putting somebody else before himself.”
“Then he should’ve thought of us,” Joel said. “Shouldn’t he have? Aren’t we important enough?”
No one answered him. Maybe that was because there wasn’t an answer to give.
63
I slept in fits and starts, finally giving up on trying somewhere around four in the morning. Sitting up in bed, I turned on my lamp and grabbed my glasses. My closet door was open from the morning before when I’d dressed for work.
Looking down, I realized I still had on my work clothes. At least I’d had enough sense to take off my apron.
I walked to my closet and took a fresh blouse off one of the hangers, feeling of its starched collar and deciding that it was the last thing I wanted to feel on my skin. Not even bothering to hang it back up, I tossed it on top of my dresser and opened the drawer that housed all of my T-shirts.
Bending down, I pulled open my pants drawer, picking up my pair of bell-bottoms. A whisper of paper against paper caught my attention and I squatted down. There, at the bottom of my drawer, were the letters Mike had sent, “Just in case.”
Dropping the jeans and shirt to the floor, I picked up the stack of envelopes and sat at my desk, pushing aside my journal and a few books to make room. I set them out, making rows of envelopes, seeing all of our names in Mike’s handwriting.
Annie Banannie.
I brushed my fingertips across the letter, feeling the lines and curves of the name Mike had called me when we were little. Picking it up, I turned it over.
Don’t duck and cover, pal, he’d written on the back. Keep your eyes open.
I broke out in a smile at the memory before my eyes filled.
Using a nail file, I cut open the top of the envelope, careful not to mar the slightest bit of handwriting. I hadn’t held many treasures in my life, but I knew one when I did.
My hands shook and I worried that I’d tear the letter before I even got it out of the envelope. After setting it down, I rubbed my palms together, blowing warm air on them from my mouth.
Don’t duck and cover. Keep your eyes open.
The papers slid out of the envelope, and I unfolded them, smoothing them against the top of the desk, my hands still trembling.
Dear Annie.
To read more was to admit that it was true. To believe that Mike’s body didn’t move anymore, his heart no longer kept the rhythm of pumping blood, and his lungs had no more need to take in air. Letting my eyes move beyond my name was to know that Mike was dead.
Hands in my lap, gripped together so hard it hurt my knuckles, I resisted folding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope. I fought the urge to stack them all and hide them in my bottom drawer.
Don’t duck and cover.
I read until my vision was blurred with tears. Then I wiped my eyes and kept reading.
And in that reading, I knew that it was true.
Mike was gone.
He wasn’t coming home.
Dear Annie,
Good for you! I’m proud of you for being brave enough to read this far. I can’t imagine what this day has been like for you. Or, if you’ve delayed reading this, I can’t imagine how this time has been like for you.
If you need to take a breather, I understand. But, listen, chum. Don’t quit reading it altogether. Remember, I spent time writing this and thinking about what exactly I wanted you to know. It would be a shame if you didn’t finish.
You asked me a while ago if I’m scared. If I remember correctly, I answered that I was all right. I spent a lot of time trying so hard to not be afraid. There’s certainly a lot of macho posturing around here sometimes.
I don’t know if you’ve realized it yet, but I stole a book from you, bringing it in my pack all the way to the other side of the world. Forgive me, sis, will ya? Gosh, it sure takes a long time to read a whole book around here with all the business we get into. But I remembered that you’d told me to read it, so I thought I’d give it a whirl.
Guess what it was.
A Wrinkle in Time.
Surprised?
It was a little hard for me to get into with Mrs. Whatsit and such. But I kept going. Then this certain line stuck out at me.
“Only a fool is not afraid. Now go.”
Every morning, I get up and before I even put my soles on the dirt floor of my hooch, I feel that stab of fear. But then I remember what Mrs. Somebodyinthatbook said and I get up anyway. And all day long, I ask God to keep me going.
So far, he’s pulled through for me.
Well, until now, when you’re reading this.
I’m sorry, Annie. I tried to make it. I swear I did.
But, you know what? Neither of us has to be scared anymore. Not really. If you’re reading this, then the very worst has happened. It can’t get harder than this. Right?
Don’t duck and cover, sis. Keep your eyes open because even though this is really hard right now, there’s still so much good going on around you. See it, will you? Notice it in that special way you have of observing the world.
And on the days when it just seems too hard, do it for me, will you? Remember it all. Because when you get to heaven, I’m going to want you to tell me all about it.
Keep your eyes open, Annie.
And know that you were the best of the world to me.
Love,
Mike
64
The telephone had barely stopped ringing all day. It stood to reason that an announcement was made at church, the prayer list altered so that everyone would know about Mike. We’d stayed home that morning, and I was glad for it. The last thing I could have handled was a hundred pairs of eyes watching to see if I’d crack.
Undoubtedly, I would have.
As soon as Aunt Rose arrived, she played secretary, answering the calls and writing down messages on slips of scrap paper from our junk drawer. It was a wonder, watching her work, hearing her insist that we were not able to come to the phone at the moment.
Never in my life did I think I’d find myself so thankful for her.
“You got a few calls already,” she said, handing me little pieces of paper. She pointed to the top one. “He had a nice voice.”
I nodded. “Next time he calls, I’ll talk to him.”
She made a note of it on a tablet. “Annie wants to talk to David. Got it.”
“And if Jocelyn Falck calls,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“Thanks.” I stepped back half an inch, unsure of what to make of her term of endearment. If anything, Aunt Rose wasn’t known for her affection.
“Your brother’s been on the porch for nearly an hour,” she said, nodding toward the front window. “I don’t think he has a coat on.”
“I’ll check on him.”
“Annie,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I really am sorry. Mike was a good boy. I know how much you loved him.”
I nodded and turned from her, feeling as if she’d stuck a hot poker into my chest. The burning radiated through my torso and into my arms, legs, neck. Gasping, I tried to breathe deeply enough to expel the heat, but it only seemed to make it worse.
I know how much you loved him.
I did. She was right.
You loved him.
But not in the past tense.
Loved.
My love for my brother hadn’t ended. It wasn’t over. It wouldn’t stop.
“Do you know how much I love him still?” I wanted to scream. But there was no fight in me.
“Annie?”
Oma was at my elbow, her arm wrapped around my waist. Concern lined her face. Lack of sleep circled red around her eyes.
I knew she meant Aunt Rose.
Oma took me into Mom’s room and closed the door, even going so far as to turn the lock so no one could come in.
“What did she say to you?” she insisted.
“That she knows how much I loved Mike,” I answered.
“And?”
“That was all.”
She sat on the edge of Mom’s unmade bed and patted the mattress for me to sit beside her.
“Is it wrong if I still love him?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t think so.” She took my hand. “Are we not made for eternity?”
I nodded.
“Then Mike still is,” she said. “Even if he isn’t here in this house or riding a helicopter over the jungle or doing who knows what, he still is.”
My shoulders curled down but Oma caught me, her arms stronger than I ever expected them to be.
“You can love him,” she whispered through my crying. “It’s right to.”
I let her hold me, her words stuck in my head.
Mike still is.
65
Mom had a new pack of Luckies on the kitchen table. Half of them were gone and the saucer she’d used for an ashtray was full. Little flecks of gray were scattered around it. She sat at the table, resting her forehead in her hand.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I had too many. Now I’m dizzy and sick.”
“You shouldn’t have any.” I picked up the saucer and dumped the ash into the trash can. “Who bought those for you?”
“Rose,” she answered. “Just throw these away too.” She handed me the rest of the pack.
“Is she gone?”
“Just for the night.” She glanced up at me. “She and your grandmother are staying at the inn.”
“And Frank?”
“Joel talked him into staying in his room.”
“That should be interesting.” I tossed the pack into the garbage. “No digging these out, okay?”
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