I told him how the Merchant of Venice in London had taken me back to our days in Italy. What a great listener—nodding, chuckling, eyes intent. I’d pause, and he’d whisper, “What else? Where did you go next?” And “The Thames. Tell me about the Thames. Is it like the Danube? The Rhine? I never made it to London, you know.”
Late that night, at 85 Osborne Street in Johnstown, his mom put her arm around my waist and whisked me upstairs to a slanted dormer room overlooking the backyard. She and Jack’s dad embraced me as if I were their own daughter, returned from distant lands.
After the eleven-hour flight from Amsterdam and the five-hour drive from the airport, I slept until noon Thursday. Jack, his parents, and I talked away the afternoon. Before dinner, Jack’s father, Bud, gave me a tour of his garden as if it were the grounds at Versailles. His small garden was bursting with summer’s yield of peas, green beans, onions, carrots, sweet peppers, and tomatoes. Blackberry and raspberry bushes sprawled across trellises.
He paused at a stand of corn. “You want a feast, girl? This is it. First, you start up a fire and put on a pot of water—as close to this cornfield as you can get. While it boils, you get your plates, your salt, your pepper, your butter, your knife. Have ’em ready. Once that water’s boiling, you harvest the exact number of ears you’re going to eat, then you race back, shucking the cobs as you run. Don’t worry about the husks—you collect them later. Then you plunge that corn into the pot the moment you get there. You leave it just a minute or so, then slather it with butter, salt, and pepper, and you’ve got a feast for a king. You want seconds? You go back and harvest more.”
Seconds? I had fourths. Corn was my entire dinner.
Bud and Peggy Sigg’s white frame house whispered You’re home now—overstuffed olive sofa, matching chair and ottoman, the secretary’s desk and wooden chair, the high-fidelity record player with a generous library of 33 rpm records. The living room was a tableau from an earlier era, maybe when Jack was born, twenty-six years before.
On Friday, Jack’s parents—like not-so-subtle matchmakers—sent us off on a bike tour of Johnstown, and we pedaled toward the Carnegie Public Library. While we paused to rest on our handlebars at the Conemaugh River, Jack blossomed into tour guide, historian, and barker, casting his hometown as a case study of an industrial American city.
“Dad was an engineer for Bethlehem Steel’s Conemaugh and Black Lick Railroad. In the boom years of the steel and coal industries, we lived comfortably.” Jack paused, scowling slightly. “In the bust years, you see, we all contributed, scraping by as best we could, with help from the union. That’s when I became an expert house painter.” He smiled at a memory.
“But enough about us. Here’s a bit of history you don’t know. Eighty years ago, the city’s steel barons—the likes of Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Frick—frequented the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club in the steep hills up above town, there. Kicking back at the clubhouse, they snagged fish from the private lake they created by damming the Conemaugh.
“In 1889, biblical rains fell, if you’ll excuse the religious reference.” He glanced sideways, looking for a rise out of me. “The river swelled, and on May 31, the dam collapsed. Rushing down the hillside, the waters rose to the third floor of city hall, splintered the building, and swept it away. The flood obliterated our town. More than 2,200 people died.”
I tried to imagine an entire town mourning so many family members and friends.
We stitched a zigzag trail past historic buildings. Our destination, the local library, was an elegant three-story structure built after the flood. Andrew Carnegie donated funds to rebuild it. “Johnstown’s library was the fourth of our country’s many Carnegie libraries,” Jack said.
At a grassy spot nearby, we spread an oilcloth, laid out the picnic Peggy had packed, and imagined ourselves back in the German countryside, this time with fried chicken and potato salad rather than lunch meat and cheese. We snacked on homegrown cherry tomatoes, freshly plucked sugar peas, and peaches, slurping the juices off our chins.
“You’re so passionate about this town,” I said. “I love it.”
“Love me, love my town.” He smiled. “This world would be a better place with more people like the folks of Johnstown.”
Our bike tour was interspersed with cheery conversations with people along the way. One, his high school English teacher, pronounced him, “My smartest student ever.” Two people whose houses he’d painted in high school declared his work “the best paint job” and “the best deal in town.” They all praised him, the local boy turned West Point man.
Jack was charming, confident, thoughtful. I imagined myself embracing and being embraced by these people. “How grand to have that sense of community,” I told him. “I never had that.”
“Sure you did. Yours was mobile, that’s all. The army’s a huge family. Think about the Kirtleys.” He was right. “And speaking of family, how’s Bonner?”
Two thoughts collided. First was Jack’s use of “Bonner,” my brother’s middle name. His friends called him by his first name, Ralph. Did that make Jack family? It felt like it.
The second thought was Hofbräuhaus and that wretched ride back to Landshut. “Uh, we had our moments.”
“More stories for the family lore?”
“Maybe not. Some are better exorcised.” I spilled the sordid story of the bacchanal at Hofbräuhaus—everything except the close call with Mr. Politics. “I drank more beer that night than in my whole life,” I confessed. “Good thing the German cop didn’t ask me to walk the line.”
“You mean you were drunk? Not Supergirl, not the girl with willpower of steel.”
The word drunk clanked like a cowbell in church. Sure, I’d had too much, but never for a moment had I applied the D-word to myself. Drunk was to my life like a fan dance would be to a nun. “I didn’t see myself as drunk. But you’re right. Now I’m more disgusted than ever.”
“You were with your brother, not some predator. You got drunk and gained some wisdom. Nothing lost. Not even your virginity.”
My virginity? “Is that still stuck in your craw?”
His Cheshire grin evaporated under my glare, but he looked so chagrined that I steered us past as quickly as I could. “No, sir,” I said. “Getting drunk is not normal. Not for me.”
“We all do things we aren’t proud of. You’re not permanently flawed. More important is what you choose to do with it. Wallow in your mistake? Or learn from it?”
He wasn’t getting it. It was the fact that booze was as common to an officer’s life as snappy salutes, spit-shined shoes, and the ever-present threat of war. “It’s not what I learned, but what I fear: a lifestyle where drinking is the norm, where that temptation repeats itself.”
“You know that’s not who I am. Together we can slay that dragon. We can. I have such high hopes for us.”
He was so earnest I would have marched down the aisle then and there if he had asked me. I trusted him. And if I wanted him to trust me, I had to cough up the rest of the story. “You’re right. But I haven’t told you the worst part.” I spit out the rest, how I’d swallowed a line from that flirty German guy. “My judgment failed me completely. What if I had gone with him? I may well have been robbed of that virginity you seem so preoccupied with—or my life.”
Jack tensed. He started to speak, but I waved him off. “Would Bonner have left me to that guy? Probably. He was on his way to the door. Talk about impaired judgment.”
No hint of a smug grin now. “Well, that is serious. I’ll talk to him.”
“No need. I’m the wiser for it. Let’s not dwell on it when we have so little time.”
“Agreed. I apologize for my uncalled-for remark.” He took my hand, kissed it. “Friends again? Better yet, more than friends? A lot more?” He leaned in toward me. I expected to kiss, but he paused, sighed, and looked away as if distracted by an unseen intruder.
We were off balance. Was it him? Or me? Why did he seem so distant?
<
br /> I couldn’t read his mind, but at least I could cheer him up. “Absolutely. Far, far more than friends, Lieutenant Sigg. But we’ve been gone too long. Should we head back before your folks send out a search party? By the way, what do your parents know about us?”
“Mom’s already grilled me about our grand tour.” He pulled me to my feet, wrapped me in a bear hug, and kissed me—no peck on the cheek. “You belong here. Mom and Dad agree.”
“So do I.” I meant it. I wanted to be at his side, part of his family and his community.
Dinner conversation Friday night flowed like a mountain stream through our times in Europe—Jack’s two years, our two months. Bud and Peggy played tag team bringing us up to date on the headlines in America: Mickey Mantle hit a 461-foot homer. President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act. The Gulf of Tonkin Resolution authorized full-scale war against North Vietnam.
The Gulf of Tonkin! We all fell silent. I exchanged looks with Peggy. Bud turned to Jack. “That resolution sounds serious, son. What do you make of it?”
“It is serious, Dad. I’ve been thinking about duty in Vietnam. I need to do it sometime, might as well be sooner than later.” He tried to skip it into the conversation like a pebble on a still pond, but it landed like a mudslide, damming the stream of chitchat.
Peggy caught her breath. “Oh, Jack, no! That Tonkin stuff means war.”
“That’s what I’m trained to do, Mom. Can’t shirk my duty.”
“But now?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “I thought we . . . now, Jack?”
Jack focused squarely on me. “I’ve thought about this a lot. Might as well go while I can do some good, before Communism spreads its tentacles to another Asian country.”
This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment conversation stopper. He was a soldier facing war. I leaned in. His mom and dad faded away, as if Jack and I were alone, negotiating our future. “So, have you already signed up?”
“Yes. Combat zone duty is essential if I’m going to move up the ranks. I’ll be an adviser to the Vietnamese army. A teacher, not a dogface leading the charge up San Juan Hill.”
Whoa. He had decided. Duty and career first! Was this a warning shot to me—a tangible illustration of the life of a soldier? And a soldier’s wife? Was he driven to the decision by training and inclination? Or had he concluded things weren’t going to work out for us, and Vietnam duty would put a dramatic end to things? “When do you leave?”
He was sitting ramrod straight now, that West Point stance I had seen on the parade grounds in Landshut. “Early next year. After I finish counterintelligence at Fort Holabird and three months in Monterrey learning Vietnamese. Then Saigon.” He spoke in a monotone, as if he would divulge no more than name, rank, and serial number.
We three pelted him with questions. How long—a year, two? Just you? You and Bonner? Where would you be? Saigon? The countryside? A Vietnamese military school? Behind the lines? Out in the jungle?
As if we could build a barricade of questions against the inevitable.
Saturday, 2:20 a.m., August 15, 1964, Johnstown. Jack’s bombshell explained so much: his distraction the last two days, maybe even why he hadn’t proposed. Silly me. I thought he was bugged about Terry’s proposal. If that were the case, why hadn’t he made a counter proposal? All night, conflicting thoughts swarmed me like a flight of Valkyries:
Maybe he believes he already proposed.
Oh, sure. Like he simply “forgot” he hadn’t!
No, he laid out his case in “the girl I want to marry” letter and then lathered it up with foamy dreams of living in Paris, going to school together, raising kids—our kids—fanciful visions trailing overhead in sparkling bubbles. Only hours ago, he said we could slay that alcohol dragon together. No doubt—he’s committed.
Yes, but we agreed the summer was a trial run. When did that change?
We survived Saint-Tropez and Lake Garda. And the letters, the gifts, the trip, the romantic Paris dinner, the shared love have spoken volumes.
Is he supposed to get down on his knee?
That thought made me grin.
Well, sure. A little drama would be swell.
That’s silly. He loves you. You love him. Better yet, get down on your knee and beg him. He’s worried it’s over between you two.
That’s ridiculous. He has his rules—a man proposes, a woman accepts.
But what about this single-handed decision? Shouldn’t he have discussed it with me—before he signed up? Or at least with his parents? Did he see it as his decision alone? Okay, so we’re not married or even engaged. But still, it doesn’t bode well for a lifetime together as partners.
Before dawn, Jack slipped into my room. “Morning, princess. How’d you sleep?”
“Poorly. No, actually miserably. Nothing serious, though. Vietnam . . . more Vietnam . . . a bit of Vietnam. Are you bringing better news? A new plan? Or at least a good morning kiss?”
Better than that, he lay down beside me. Kissed me. Stroked my hair and whispered, “Don’t worry. I won’t be in the line of fire.” I wanted to lambaste him for not consulting me before he decided. But what was he supposed to do—ask his “maybe-yes, maybe-no” girlfriend for permission? No, I didn’t have that right. But would it have been different if we were married?
He laid his arm across my chest and pulled me close. “We need to leave for the airport by seven. What time do you want to get up?”
“Five. Stay with me till then?”
“That was my hope.”
I didn’t fall back asleep. Neither did he. We lay there spooning, him behind me, his hand clasped tightly to my breasts as if to imprint them forever in his mind. Or maybe we did sleep—not long, a few minutes at most, but long enough that we had to rush through breakfast, wave goodbye on the run, and race to the airport in Pittsburgh.
Taking a deep breath, I broke the silence above the roar of the Sting Ray. “I love your parents—and not only because they were so welcoming. Clearly, they adore each other, and you. That’s how a family should be. It’s how my family is, and—”
“That’s what I want for you and me.”
“That’s the ideal. But are we really meant for each other? How can we know?”
“How could you doubt? We have so much to live for.”
“We? We who?”
“You. Me. We? Remains to be seen. What are you going to tell my rival?”
I dug deep for the right words. “No clear answer. If I didn’t love you, the answer would be easy. But I do love you. And now you’re telling me you’re headed off to war.”
“And vice versa? Where are you headed?” His eyes begged for a no to Terry.
“To Denver today. After that, I’m not sure. Terry may delay his departure to Peace Corps training so we can sort things—”
“You’re going to see him on your way to Albuquerque? When did you decide this?”
“I haven’t decided anything. I won’t know until I get to Denver if he’s even going to be there,” I said. “He’s probably already left for Berkeley.”
“So help me understand: You’re hoping to go see my rival today. Then what?”
“If I see him—tomorrow—we have to put this proposal thing to rest. All I know for sure is I’m not ready to make this big decision about either of you. Not immediately.”
He was quiet for too long. “One reason I signed up for Vietnam now is I thought he would be safely on ice for two years. Long enough for us—for our relationship to fully bloom,” he said. “Our pen-pal romance worked wonders. But now Vietnam could kill any future for us.” He sighed that mournful sigh. “So after you see him tomorrow, or not, then what?”
“Home to Albuquerque, collect my stuff, and head to Arizona. I have to. I signed a teaching contract.”
At the airport, we raced to the gate, arriving with only minutes to spare. Panting, I turned, hugged him tightly, and whispered, “Thank you, Lieutenant Sigg. I’ll never forget our Sting Ray summer, for as long as I live. N
o matter what happens.”
He kissed me, a passionate kiss.
I cocked my eyebrow in surprise.
He winked. “No man goes off to war without kissing his girl goodbye.”
17
Conundrum in Colorado
Ann
Saturday, August 15, 1964, Denver. At Stapleton airport, I commandeered the first phone booth, dropped in a dime, and dialed zero. My hand was shaking. I gave the operator Terry’s number. Four rings. Five. Come on, Ter. Be there. Please. Six . . . seven . . .
“Marshalls.” His mom’s voice.
“We have a collect call from Ann Garretson. Will you accept the charge?”
She did. “Terry’s outside,” she said. “I’ll go get him.”
He postponed the Peace Corps! At least I’d get to see him, if only for a day or so. But then what? Jack’s warmth was still buzzing in my mind.
“Annie?”
“You’re there! I knew you’d figure out a way to see me before Berkeley. When do you leave? How much time do we have?” Silence. “Ter?”
“I’m not going, Annie. I sent the plane tickets back. I’m moving to Glendale.”
Oof. No! A double-whammy kick in the gut. First, he would never get another chance at the Peace Corps, not after he’d already turned down Colombia. And it was my fault. Second, I still couldn’t give him an answer. I needed space to breathe, to think, to come to my own conclusion. By myself. Without either guy around. I couldn’t tell Terry that, not after this news. Now a decision would be even harder with him where? Next door? “I . . . I don’t know what to say. Do you still want me to come?”
“Jesus, Annie, you’re why I’m still here. What are you thinking? Frontier has a morning flight to Alamosa. It gets here at ten. They’ve got seats. I already checked.”
I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be on it,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
Terry
Saturday late afternoon, 15 August, 1964, Center. I hosed down, scrubbed, and vacuumed the Falcon, then parked it in the potato cellar so it wouldn’t get dusty. In the fading light, I scoured the countryside to assemble the perfect bouquet for Annie’s arrival at the Alamosa airport Sunday morning. First, to represent our farm’s crops: a backdrop of forest green alfalfa, a spray of golden-tan malting barley, and a smattering of flowering Red McClure potato vines. And then to brighten it up: three cheery sunflowers from the barrow ditch, a fistful of daisies from Mom’s flower garden, and a softening pallet of pale green milkweed.
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