Until Tomorrow, Mr. Marsworth
Page 8
I haven’t bought a bite of candy this whole summer, I haven’t seen a movie, I haven’t bought a Mr. Freeze or Popsicle even when Dare did. Now twice I’ve paid for papers those two swiped.
They roughed me up before they left me, and by the time I’d finally delivered my last paper, I’d made up my mind I needed help from Dare. When you’re one girl against two boys you need a scrappy brother.
The only good part of this story is Dare beat Cutler bloody down at Weber Park—bloody nose at least—and I’m proud I had Rat facedown at home plate eating dirt. That skinny twerp can’t fight alone to save his soul.
I hope you’ll understand we HAD to do it, Mr. Marsworth. These morning sneak attacks have got to stop. Please don’t say to give up on the route. Dare wouldn’t ever quit his route, and I won’t either. That’s part of being equal, and it’s equal that I want. If you tell Gram she’ll call Sheriff Cutler, and calling Sheriff Cutler will only make things worse.
We gave peace a chance, we really did. Shaving cream. Snatching back my papers. Dropping that dead chicken outside the Cutlers’ door.
Talking with our fists was all that we had left.
I don’t mean to disappoint you, Mr. Marsworth. I want a better world, but a better world won’t come without a fight.
You won’t like this letter, so I’m not going to send it. There’s not a grown-up in the world that likes to hear about kids’ fights. Even Skip said they were stupid.
Good-bye, Mr. Marsworth, this True Confessions letter isn’t really going in your box. I’m going to grab a clean page, and write one that you’ll like.
Friday, July 19, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
That’s nice about the praying, and I told Skip that you would.
You can pray for me, too, if you want. I’d be happy for some prayers.
Peace can’t always be the only way to make things better. I just thought you ought to know that, in case you believed it was. Sometimes you turn the other cheek, and you get punched.
We’re on our way down to the cottage. Did I get a chance to tell you how much we like your shed? It’s like an old-fashioned antique shop packed full of dusty mysteries. Questions will be coming. You know how much I love an answer, Mr. Marsworth. ☺
Your Friend,
Reenie Kelly
Friday, July 19, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Please don’t think I’m nosy (or I should say WE’RE NOSY, because even dumb Dare Kelly likes the stuff inside your shed) but I can’t help but wonder about the old days at your cottage, the years you must have come here, and if you had a family, and if you have one still, and if you do, why are you alone in that big house with that assistant? (By the way, I would make a great assistant, if you ever want my help!!!!)
We’ve been friends since June, and there’s a lot I still don’t know. (Like how well did you know Mom???? Hint, hint, hint.)
Here’s some of what I’m wondering, and I hope you’ll answer at least a couple questions, but if anything’s TOO personal, just tell me to GET LOST. (Please don’t REALLY tell me to get lost!) Or we could have a fair trade if you want. My questions for your questions, even-steven.
Who owned that baseball mitt on the hook inside your shed? (Dare thinks a boy once lived here, but a girl could have a mitt. I have a mitt.)
Who owned that blue scooter in the rafters of the shed? It’s a pretty cool scooter, and Dare thinks it might still work.
Who owned that flowered garden glove? Why is there only one? (It’s too small to be a man’s glove, Mr. Marsworth.)
Are you the one who liked to fish? Dare’s sure keen on that old tackle box he found up on your shelf. Would you mind if he borrowed an old-time, wooden bobber from that box to catch more fish? You can tell us no.
What is Brandenbrook exactly? And why is that red pennant tacked up to the wall? Dare swears that it’s a team, but I’m not sure.
Are you an artist, Mr. Marsworth? I have a hunch you are. I love all those cottage paintings, and I’m sorry they’re covered now with dust. I’ll take one for my room if they’re just going to go to waste. They look exactly like the lake looks when the sun hits it just right. White and green and blue. And I love the winter paintings. Is that the way the lake will look six months from now?
I hope these questions aren’t too nosy. You can say MYOB like Gram does, but I’m hoping you don’t.
Just Curious,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. Have a happy weekend. On Sunday, Billy’s coming to the cottage to help Dare fix your mower!!!! That’ll be our first time for a FULL day at the lake, just the three of us together swimming in the sun. I’m packing up a picnic, and we’re going after church. When I drop your Monday paper, you’ll get the full report.
Saturday, July 20, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
The Office of Financial Aid said no. ☹ ☹
Mizzou said they won’t help.
I waited all these days to get a no???
It’s worse than that, but I can’t write another word or else I’ll cry, and I’ve cried my share already.
Did you hear me out there clanging? Just once I wish you could come outside when I need you. I don’t want to write this letter.
Reenie Kelly
Saturday, July 20, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Here’s the story I couldn’t write in my last letter, but I’m too sad for sleeping so I’ll tell it to you now. Billy knows that I wrote Mizzou. After all these days of making sure I got the mail while Gram and Billy were at work, Mizzou’s letter came for me while I was at the store with Gram.
Billy got it and he read it even though it was addressed to “Reenie Kelly.”
“I’d like a word with Reen,” he said to Gram when we pulled into the driveway, and I could hear in that short sentence he was mad.
“Something wrong?” Gram asked, because she could hear it, too.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said to me, and we left Gram to carry groceries while we headed for the hill. Billy always helps with groceries, but that’s how mad he was.
“What is it?” I asked worried. I thought it was my fight with Rat and Cutler, or my snooping in his things, but when he pulled the Mizzou envelope from his pocket, I didn’t have to wonder anymore.
“Financial Aid?” he said. “You wrote my college, Reen?”
“Did they say yes?” I asked, reaching for the envelope. (I feel stupid I had hope still, Mr. Marsworth, but I did. All that mattered at that minute was the hope that they could help.) “Are they giving you a scholarship? Is there more money for this fall?”
“No,” Billy said. “They aren’t. You had no business, Reen.”
He shook his head the same way Dad does when he’s disgusted. Or disappointed. Or fed up with my “stupidity.” (Please don’t be fed up, Mr. Marworth. You already told me I was wrong to write.) “Because you said we didn’t have money for your college,” I told Billy. “That day down at the Conoco. And you and Uncle Slim said the same thing on the Fourth. And all that talk about enlisting—”
“I’m not going to college, Reen,” he said, and we stood there in Gram’s street with my heart stopped in my chest. I swear to you it stopped. “I’d already withdrawn when you wrote.”
“Withdrawn? Withdrawn from college, Billy?” (I told you it was terrible, Mr. Marsworth.) “But what about Mom’s dream? And the draft? Don’t you have to go to college to stay out of this war? Skip says to go to college.”
“Can Skip send me the money? I don’t think so. Our family’s bankrupt, Reen. No matter what I earn this summer, it’s not enough for tuition, room and board, books—all the costs of college. Plus, we’re going to need a place to live when Dad comes home. I’m already sleeping on Gram’s couch. You think Dare and Dad should be sleeping on Gram’s floor when winter
comes?”
“Dad and Dare can sleep up in Gram’s attic,” I said. “I’ll take the couch. If you’re at college, you won’t need a bed.”
“I WON’T be at college,” Billy said like he might cry. “Why can’t you get that through your head, Reen? I’ve already withdrawn.”
“But the draft,” I said. “You know how many people are dying in this war? It’s dangerous in Vietnam. Skip says—”
“I know all about it, Reen,” Billy said, and his big eyes were glistening with tears. “Don’t tell me again about all the people dying. It doesn’t help to hear it, it just doesn’t. And don’t write letters to my college, or any other place that’s not your business. You’re eleven. I’m eighteen. I’m the one who has to be a grown-up now. Go play down at that cottage.”
“You have to go to college.” I tried to take his hand, but he just brushed me off. “Mom’s dream.”
“Mom isn’t here to help,” he said, and both of us were crying, Billy less than me, but he still cried.
“Billy,” I begged. “Don’t give up this easy. Dad will find the money. Dare and I are saving—”
“For once just stop it, Reen,” he said. “You can’t make the whole world go the way you want.”
Then he headed back toward Gram’s without another word, even with me pleading and saying I was wrong. Once we’d reached the driveway, he climbed into Gram’s Plymouth and took off.
“Well?” Gram said, stepping out the kitchen door with Dare and Float beside her. “What’s eating Billy, Reen?”
“Did you know he gave up college?” I asked Gram. I was nearly screaming-crying, I was ready for a tantrum that’s how mad I was.
“Gave up college?” stupid Dare said, baffled. “You mean he don’t need the money that we’re saving after all?”
“He didn’t have any choice, Reen,” Gram said. She wiped her hands dry on her apron. “I’m sorry, college isn’t something the Kellys can afford. Not this year, at least.”
HE DIDN’T HAVE ANY CHOICE????????
I don’t believe that, Mr. Marsworth.
I don’t, and never ever will, not now and not until I die, and Mom wouldn’t believe it either. Do you believe it, Mr. Marsworth? Please tell me it’s not true. Please say there’s something more that can be done.
If you loved Mom, you’d love her dream. I know you don’t want Billy in this draft.
Your Wrecked Friend,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. Adding Part 2 to this story Sunday morning, before Mass. I’ll drop this letter at your house when church is done.
Part 2: Billy woke me in Gram’s attic in the middle of the night, to say that he was sorry, and he knew I only wrote to Mizzou because I thought it might help. Even in the darkness, I heard how sad he was.
“Lie down,” I said to Billy, the way he used to say to me in Denton, and I handed him my pillow and my quilt so he’d have something soft beneath to curl up on the floor. It’s what he always did for me all those nights in Denton when I went into his bedroom worried about Mom. Or all those nights I wished I had her still. I slept better on his hard floor just listening to his breath.
“We’re going to get a plan,” I said, tucking my hands beneath my cheek to make a pillow. “I’ve got ingenuity, remember?”
“This draft is bigger than that, Pup,” he said. “I’m just one of thousands. Skip probably felt the same, and so did all those other pen pals serving with him now.”
“He didn’t have me as his sister,” I told Billy. “He even said so in his letter. His sisters didn’t do anything to help.”
“They couldn’t help him.” Billy sighed. “And I’m afraid you can’t help either. But I thank you for it, Pup, I really do. I’m sorry I was mean about that letter.”
“You weren’t,” I said. “Don’t worry.” Then I whispered, “Go to sleep,” which is exactly what he told me all those nights in Denton.
I had to add Part 2 so you’d know Billy didn’t stay mad. I couldn’t stand to have him mad at me for long. I’ll check your milk box for an answer when we come home from the cottage.
Please say what I should do if Mizzou isn’t going to help.
Hoping You Can Help Me,
Reenie Kelly
Sunday, July 21, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
Sunday is a day of rest, and rest is what I wish for you today. All this constant worry is too much for a young girl. I shall hope this very minute you’re all down at my cottage: sunning on the dock, or splashing in the lake, or eating your fine picnic, warm bologna sandwiches and all. I hope this summer Sunday, your brother Billy knows how deeply he is loved.
I’m sorry your heartfelt letter to Financial Aid failed to help Billy as you’d hoped, and I share your great distress over his decision to withdraw from Mizzou before funding could be found. I agree your mother’s dream for Billy’s college must be honored. In whatever small way I might assist, please rest assured I will. Billy’s safety in September weighs on my heart as well.
For today, please be a child. Some Plan B is in your future, I feel confident of that. You are not a child short on plans.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
Sunday, July 21, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Thank you for that hope, and for sharing Mom’s dream with me. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll put on my “thinking cap,” as Mrs. Lamb would say. While Billy’s working at the Conoco, I’ll be busy working on a scheme to save him from the draft.
We shared a good day at your cottage, even though the cloud of Billy giving up on Mizzou hung over us all, including dopey Dare who knows deep in his heart that Billy’s not cut out for war. For all of Dare’s tough talk, I know deep down it’s college that he wants for Billy, too.
Billy made me triple swear I’d drop the subject for the day. “Swear,” he said, “or else I’m staying home.”
So I didn’t say ONE word about the draft, I really didn’t. Instead, I tried to make believe Billy was too young to go to war. He was thirteen still, or fourteen. He was the kick-the-can-young Billy, the boy who still played baseball with the neighbor kids at night. I held on to that dream while the three of us cracked open a watermelon and split it into fours so Float could have his share. Billy picked out most of the seeds so Float wouldn’t end up sick, and we ate it all together stretched out on your dock.
We showed Billy all the work we’d done—scrubbing, sanding, painting—and he helped Dare tune up your mower, and he taught us how to use that scythe inside your shed to clear the weeds before we mow. He agreed with us, a fresh coat of colored paint on those old shutters would be nice. Dare likes black, and I like green, but Billy thought the best was cobalt blue. Would you like those shutters painted, Mr. Marsworth?
I had Billy look through your back window at that worn bear left on the pillow, the baseball on the dresser, the patchwork quilt over the twin bed. He studied that small room like he was looking for a clue. “We shouldn’t be snooping, Reen,” he said abruptly.
“I’m not snooping,” I told Billy, and I wasn’t.
That child’s room, the bear, all the stuff inside your shed—the baseball mitt and scooter, the paintings and the garden glove, it’s all right there for us to look at, Mr. Marsworth. I can’t help that all these objects make me curious, I can’t.
Anyway, except for that quick second when Billy said I was a snoop, I wish every summer day could be like this: watermelon endings, staying at your shore to swim under the stars, me tucked between my brothers on your dock, Billy saying that a man might walk up on the moon before too long.
Do you believe a man will walk up on the moon?
Still Looking for a Plan B,
Reenie Kelly
Monday, July 22, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Did you read that story on the front page of the Tribune? It’s the story o
f a St. Paul family divided by the war: one brother joined the Army, and the other brother objected to the draft. The brother who enlisted believes the war in Vietnam is right. The one against the draft believes it’s wrong.
The father in the story was on the side of both his sons.
If this were Dare and Billy, I think Dad would take Dare’s side. I know for sure Gram would. They’d both be proud that Dare enlisted just like Dad did at eighteen.
Were you a house divided during World War I? Was your family on your side? Did you get sent to federal prison while your brother went to war?
How long was your sentence during World War I? The peaceful brother in this story got five years in prison. FIVE YEARS! Plus he has to pay a $10,000 fine. Did they fine you all that money back in World War I? We couldn’t pay $10,000! We can’t even pay for Mizzou in the fall!
Five years would be too long for Billy in a prison. In five years, Billy would be twenty-three, and I’d be seventeen. Would Billy even know me when his prison time was done?
Was your time in prison terrible? I wish you’d answer that.
How come they never taught us this in school? We’ve learned some U.S. history, and we’ve learned about old wars, and we know the names of famous men that fought: George Washington, Robert E. Lee, Ullysses Grant. (Sorry if I spelled that strange name wrong.) But not a single teacher, not even Mrs. Lamb, said they sentenced peaceful men to prison during wars. She didn’t even mention Muhammad Ali and he was in the news! I’m going to write to her this morning, to tell her that she should. We ought to learn about good men who objected to those wars.