If you want a Sunday Sundae I could bring one to your house. ☺
So I won’t fish at your cottage, but I’ll be in that great blue water swimming in the sun. You ought to come down to Gray’s Bay to spend the day with us.
We’ll be there tomorrow in case you want to come.
Counting Down the Hours,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. If you’re counting hours with me, we’re at nineteen now. Gram’s gone to Ladies Aid, and Billy’s helping Mr. Casey, which means I’ve got a long dull day at Gram’s all by myself. Don’t you think on Sunday a family should stay home?
P.P.S. In case you don’t remember, you didn’t answer about Mom. I don’t mean to be a nuisance, but my memory is good. I can’t forget a question I want answered.
Sunday, June 30, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
I did something that I shouldn’t have, and it’s night and I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep because my stomach’s sick with worry, and there’s no one else to talk to now, but you. I hope you’ll listen and forgive me. I hope you’ll say things will be fine. Asa Carver always told me, “Wait to worry,” and every time he said it, my mind would ease a bit. Maybe you could say that to me now, or something else that calms a kid. I’ve said it to myself, but it didn’t help.
First off, I need to tell you that I snooped through Billy’s things. Billy hates a snoop, and I knew better than to do it, but Gram’s house was gray and lonely, so I gave in to the urge to look under the cushion of Gram’s couch. I knew Beth’s letters would be tucked there, because that couch in Gram’s small living room is all the private space that Billy has.
Beth and Billy have gone steady since Billy was thirteen, and I expected in her letters she’d be writing about love. “Kiss, kiss, kiss. I miss you so much, Billy. When should we get married???”
Why else would Beth drench them in perfume and Billy hide them?
I was right about the love, there was plenty of that there, but mostly there was talk of Vietnam, and how Billy can’t give up on Mizzou in the fall. Beth said she’d heard Ace Turner was shot in Vietnam last week. He was two years ahead of Billy, an All-State pitcher, too, but now folks say Ace Turner might never walk again. Beth said if Billy went to war he could be next.
Beth has $180 saved, and she offered it to Billy. She said she’d give up college to keep Billy from the draft. “Mizzou is the only sure way you’ll stay out of this war.”
Beth’s letters made it sound like Billy has dropped his dream for college, like he’s given up on Mizzou because we don’t have the money to pay for it this fall.
I KNOW we’re short on money, but all of us are working, and every single cent I earn on my paper route is his. (It’s not a lot, but I’ll save every dime.) Dad went to North Dakota because that roadwork pays so well. Billy’s working full-time. Gram has a full-time job at Brindle Drug. Isn’t that enough to pay for college, Mr. Marsworth? How much could Mizzou cost?
Beth’s letters were a worry, but her letters WEREN’T the worst of what I found. The worst thing was a letter from the Army urging Billy to enlist. A letter, and a bright brochure full of happy, clean-cut soldiers, boys in crisp, fresh uniforms that look nothing like my picture of Jackie Moon and Skip, or the photos of our pen pals tacked up on the board.
If the Army’s after Billy, maybe they ought to show Skip dirty on his birthday, or Kyle Smith’s sad family at his funeral, or Ace Turner in a wheelchair forever. They ought to show our Army pen pals, lonesome for their homes, or Lt. Gerald Walker without that leg he surely loved. Maybe they should show those wounded soldiers from Walter Cronkite’s news. Or add in the rain and mud and snakes that Skip described.
Shouldn’t they show that war to Billy and every other boy?
Whenever war was on the news, Mom would reach for Billy’s hand. “Promise you won’t go,” she’d beg, and Billy always did. I’d like to do the same this minute, wake Billy from his sleep and beg him not to go to Vietnam. But if he wakes up to my crying, he’ll know for sure I snooped.
Maybe I’ll go out in the rain and talk to Dare.
No, I can’t confess to Dare.
I know that you can’t help me, Mr. Marsworth. Still, it helps to have you listen.
I guess you’re like Dear Abby except that you’re a man.
Sleepless in the Attic,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. Could you write back ASAP? Twice I’ve sent my troubles to Dear Abby, but she never writes me back.
P.P.S. Don’t tell me to talk to Gram, she won’t be ANY help.
Monday, July 1, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
I am a far cry from Dear Abby, but I do not like to see a child awake with worry in the night.
May I suggest you share your heartfelt fears with Billy? Could you tell him you’re increasingly concerned about this war? Or perhaps you might remind him that your mother’s dream of college is your dream for him as well? Mizzou is the place for him this fall.
You don’t need to tell him that you "snooped." As you describe too clearly, you are well aware of war.
He must make his way to college at all costs.
In the meantime, please go play down at my cottage. This war is always with us; your worry won’t change that.
And perhaps a nap this afternoon? A nap can help with nerves.
Yours Kindly,
H. W. Marsworth
Monday, July 1, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
You wrote back ASAP! And thank you for that “kindly.” That one word helped a lot.
I just couldn’t go to your cottage with Billy on my mind, even though I hate to think that Dare will see it first.
Thanks to your good advice, I didn’t wait to talk to Billy, instead I walked down to the Conoco and asked if he could talk. He was busy pumping gas and wiping down the windshields and checking air and oil, but I waited. It’s still strange to see my brother pumping gas. Nearly straight-A Billy should be reading at his old desk, or flirting with Beth Harvey, or sitting on Gram’s front steps strumming his guitar. He shouldn’t be grease-stained in a uniform sweating in the sun.
“What’s up, Pup?” he said, concerned. That’s the nickname Billy calls me when he’s being double-sweet. I guess he read the worry in my eyes.
“I just stopped in to say hey,” I lied. “Dare went fishing at the lake, but you know I hate to fish.”
“We can’t do a Sunday Sundae here,” he said, stealing a glance at Mr. Casey, but Mr. Casey had his top half slid beneath a Ford. He couldn’t see us chatting near the pumps. “That’ll have to wait until I’m home. And besides today is Monday.” Billy’s sweaty curls were sticking to his forehead, and rings of sweat spread underneath both arms. “Why don’t I take you to the Tastee for a sundae after work?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “We need the money, Billy.”
“A sundae’s twenty cents, Reen. I can blow a couple dimes on my best sister.”
“You shouldn’t.” I felt guilty and ashamed standing at that station with the truth of all my snooping weighing on my heart. “We need to save all that we’re earning to get you to Mizzou.”
“Twenty cents won’t get me there.” Billy looked over my shoulder like he was hoping for some cars. “I hate to break it to you, Reen, but college and a crunch cone aren’t quite in the same league.”
“I know,” I said. “But you’re going off to college, right? You’re heading off to Mizzou like Mom wanted?”
The only answer I wanted him to give me was a YES. Instead I got, “We’ll see.” And if there’s two words that I hate, those are the words. “We’ll see” is just a sneaky way of mostly saying no. (And you know that I hate no.)
“You see this in the paper?” I pulled a clipping from my pocket and offered it to Billy. “‘Three Minnesotans Killed in Vietnam.’”
Billy looked down at the newspaper, but
he didn’t take it from my hand. Instead he shook his head like he wished I’d left that headline back at Gram’s. “Why’d you clip this, Reen? Please don’t start obsessing on those soldiers like Mom did.”
Every time a soldier’s death was in the paper, Mom would point it out to Dad. “Another boy gone, Frank,” she’d say, and then they’d say a prayer.
“They’re boys,” I said to Billy. “Boys with names,” because that’s what Mom always said. “And these three were on the front of the Tribune.”
“You don’t need to read the paper, just to do that route. Most paperboys don’t read it. Leave it on the doorstep, right where it belongs.”
“Three more dead,” I said. “I just don’t ever want this story to be yours. I need you to be safe at Mizzou in the fall. You know college was Mom’s dream for you.”
“I know Mom’s dream.” He draped his arm across my shoulder, but I didn’t mind the sweat.
“So you’re going?” I insisted. “You’re going off to college like Mom wanted, and we’d planned. You won’t enlist?”
“Reen.” Billy sighed like he wanted me to drop it, but I couldn’t.
“Dad’s in North Dakota earning good money building roads. And Gram has her job at Brindle Drug. And Dare and I have papers, and I’ll give you every cent.”
“We’re flat broke,” Billy said. “We can’t live at Gram’s forever. When Dad comes home from North Dakota there won’t even be room. The money Dad is earning already goes to bills.”
“I know,” I said, because once your family’s bankrupt there’s always talk of bills.
“Dad still owes tens of thousands to Mom’s doctors. We don’t even have a house.” Billy ran his rag over his forehead, and left a streak of grease. A truck was signaling on Broadway, pulling into Casey’s, and heading for the pump. “We’ve got until September,” Billy said. “We don’t need to talk about this now.”
“We do,” I said. “Now that you’re eighteen you could get drafted. You hate this war.”
“So does Skip. And lots of guys they’re drafting. And even some that are enlisting, trying to beat the draft.”
“Don’t sign up for the Army. Promise me you won’t.”
“You’ve got to hit the road, Pup,” he said, forcing a weak smile. “Go off and be a kid while you still can.”
And that’s the worst part of this story, because Billy Kelly never ever makes a promise he won’t keep. And when I asked him for that promise, he just said to hit the road.
Now I really need Dear Abby. I really truly do.
Desperate,
Reenie Kelly
Monday, July 1, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
It’s nearly dark, and I’ve already left one letter, but I’m going to walk this over so you’ll know how things turned out. I hope you’ll check your milk box before morning. I hope you’ll peek out of those curtains to see me at the gate. I hope one little clang won’t be too much.
Just in case you planned to say it, I already talked to Gram. I did it during dishes when I had Gram to myself. (Shouldn’t boys have to do dishes? Yes, they should!!!!) Anyway, I didn’t pussyfoot around because that doesn’t work with Gram, I just said Billy HAD to be in college come September, or else he could get drafted like everybody else.
“He could,” Gram said. “It happens.” She said it plain and flat like a cold fact we couldn’t fix. I know Gram loves her grandkids in the gruff way that Gram loves, but how can she love Billy and not be scared he could get sent to Vietnam? “Billy owes his country service, the same as every healthy boy his age. Your dad and Uncle Will were on the front lines in Korea. Grandpa Kelly’s brother—”
“I know,” I said. “But Billy—”
“The young men of our country have a duty.”
“But we’re talking about BILLY. BILLY KELLY.” I set my cloth down on the counter and stepped back from the sink. I wasn’t staying in that kitchen with a heart as hard as Gram’s. Gram’s gray-haired and wrinkled, but she’s not cuddly or soft like other grams. “Boys are dying in this war,” I said. “You want Billy dying, too?”
“Don’t be cruel.” Gram frowned like she was hurt. “No one wants Billy harmed. No one. But isn’t every soldier a Billy to his family? Don’t you think so, Reen?”
“No,” I said. “Not every boy is Billy. We only have ONE Billy, and I don’t want him dead.”
“Not everyone is dying,” Gram said. “Soldiers do survive. And freedom isn’t free. You can’t love this country and not fight.”
“But we’re not fighting for this country. And we’re already free.”
“Don’t you think that’s selfish, Reen?” Gram said, trying to sound patient. “What if we’d said the same in World War II? When all those Jews were killed.”
“I don’t know,” I said, because I don’t. Except I know for sure this isn’t World War II. Or the Civil War. Or the Revolutionary War, when we threw those chests of tea into the harbor. That war was right in Boston. We fought that war for us.
I can’t say why we’re at war in Vietnam, and Skip can’t exactly either. Billy doesn’t have an answer, and all Gram says is “liberty and freedom.” Even Mrs. Lamb couldn’t say for sure what we’re trying to win in Vietnam.
I know nobody attacked us, so it isn’t like Pearl Harbor.
I HATE this war. I hate everyone who made it. I hate the Army and their letter. I hate Rat and Cutler and this entire stupid world. I even hate Gram just a little for what she said tonight. “Isn’t every soldier a Billy to his family?”
NO! NOT EVERY BOY IS BILLY!!!!!
Billy is MY BILLY. He’s been my watcher and my teacher since the day that I was born. In every picture in my baby book, I’m held in Billy’s arms. “Maureen sure loves her oldest brother,” Mom wrote under “Baby’s First Month.” And right under “Baby’s First Word,” Mom entered “Ba, for Billy.”
If Gram doesn’t understand that, she doesn’t have a heart.
I’m writing Skip this minute because I know he’ll understand.
Still Desperate,
Reenie Kelly
Tuesday, July 2, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
Please don’t give up hope for Billy, and please don’t hate this world.
I admit, there are days when it is easier to hate it than to love it, but there is beauty to be had here, and happiness ahead. In the main, I’m afraid Blanche Kelly is quite right. Every family loves the boy they might be losing, and every family grieves when that beloved boy is gone. I believe you know that, too.
What better reason do we need to work toward peace on earth?
Perhaps for now, we should make sure Billy gets to college. Surely there are scholarships for a nearly straight-A student who can pitch and play guitar. The university’s Office of Financial Aid should help. I know the Kellys won’t take charity, but a scholarship is earned. It wouldn’t be charity, Miss Kelly, not at all.
Have you been down to the cottage? That should cheer you some.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
Tuesday, July 2, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!!
I’m glad to hear Financial Aid can help.
I’m going to find the money, I swear to you I am. Cross my heart and hope to die, I’ll keep my brother from this war.
Do you know how much Mizzou might cost?
Billy says it doesn’t matter when you’re bankrupt.
Dad’s bankrupt, Mr. Marsworth, but I’m not.
You got any work down at that cottage? We’re going in an hour once I drop this in your box.
I’ll collect this week, and Dare will do the same, but I know that’s not enough to pay for Billy’s school. I hope that I make twice the tips as Dare.
For Hire,
Reenie Kelly
&
nbsp; P.S. Could you come to Gram’s on Thursday to celebrate the Fourth? Fried fish. Rhubarb cake. Gram’s creamy coleslaw. Aunt Kate and Uncle Slim are driving down from Willmar with their twins. I’m sure we could make room for a neighbor at Gram’s house. ☺ Wouldn’t you like to meet the Kelly kids?
P.P.S. I’m glad you’re good at letters, because Skip hasn’t sent one yet. Once a week Dad writes a “family letter,” even though every week we each send letters of our own. (Even Dare writes Dad.) And Dad always says the same thing: “Be good. Don’t make Gram mad. Stay out of trouble, Dare and Reen. Help Gram around the house. Have fun in Lake Liberty. Glad things are going well at Casey’s for you, Billy. Wish I could be with you kids. Working day and night, I love you, Dad.” It’s that last line I like best. Short and sweet, but at least Dad sends his love.
Wednesday, July 3, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth?????
You didn’t leave a letter ☹, and this morning I was ambushed in the lot beside your house. ☹ ☹ ☹!
The first BB hit me in the ribs, and the next one hit my leg. “Go back to Misery,” Cutler shouted from the tree, and Rat echoed down a yeah, then they both laughed.
When another BB hit me, I broke Dad’s rule and ran. I couldn’t stand my ground against a gun.
Please don’t say that I deserve this from the Aero Shave last week. A foaming isn’t shooting, I wouldn’t shoot a kid.
Dare won’t say that I deserve this, but he won’t agree to Aero Shave this time for our revenge. This time he’ll want to get those boys back good.
Please write to me this morning! I really truly need a letter from a friend!
Until Tomorrow, Mr. Marsworth Page 4
