Until Tomorrow, Mr. Marsworth
Page 17
Thursday, August 15, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
It’s nearly eight o’clock at night and still no answer from you yet.
Didn’t you see me out there checking? I was at your box three times. If you started it this morning, your letter must be LONG. Or is there someone else you type to, Mr. Marsworth???
D.?
Do you have other children? Grandkids? (I really want to know about those grandkids.)
How can I have you as a best friend, and still have so many mysteries? Don’t best friends tell each other ALL? I’ve told you ALL and MORE and then MORE STILL.
Here’s the MORE STILL from today, in case you want a little Kelly news tonight. (Does Clyde still listen to my letters?)
This morning, when Snow Cone, Dare, and I were walking to your cottage, the sheriff pulled up in his squad car to ask what we were doing on that road. “Just walking,” Dare said, and I knew he didn’t mention your cottage, because somehow that horrible sheriff would destroy the place we love. “No law against that, right?”
“You got a license for that mutt?” The sheriff nodded down toward Float.
“Sure,” Dare lied. “But he don’t like a collar, so he mostly goes without.”
“Not in this town. In this town that dog wears a license or he’s going to the pound.” Sheriff Cutler pulled a Camel from his pocket and lit the cigarette. “You out here looking for some tires you can tack?”
“No sir,” I said. “But someone took a knife to the tires on Gram’s Plymouth. Slashed three of them. That ought to be a crime.”
“Ought to be.” He blew a cloud of smoke into my face. “But I didn’t think the Kellys cared much for the law.”
We all knew he meant Billy’s letter to the paper, but no one said a word. I didn’t want him smacking us, the way he’d smacked Steven in Gram’s kitchen while we watched.
“We don’t take to cowards in Lake Liberty,” he said. “A man fights for his country, or else he’s not a man. He’s not even an American.”
“Well, technically, if he’s a U.S. citizen—” Snow Cone started in that lawyer voice she likes to use on Dare, and I squeezed her hand to tell her to shut her up.
“Who the h— are you?” the sheriff asked, disgusted. He took a good long look at Snow Cone’s face, and then he moved on to her outfit: the homemade tie-dyed T-shirt, a fluorescent peace medallion just like the one she’d made for Billy, those always dusty shoeless feet. “You live here in Lake Liberty?”
“Moira Parks from Hillcrest.” Snow Cone answered strong. (Do you think she’d act so strong if she’d been there when he hit Steven?) “And my mother is a lawyer.”
“Well, good for you,” the sheriff said, “because that Kelly kid will need one when the draft board’s done with him. And he’s going to need a doctor before that.”
“He ain’t sick,” Dare said, even though we knew that wasn’t what the sheriff meant.
“You can bet your a— he will be when we’re done.” (I’m leaving out the words that you won’t like. Or maybe I should skip it all, because I didn’t like A THING the sheriff said.)
Then he drove off down Tuxedo, leaving us in dust.
It spoiled our whole day at the cottage. We kept waiting for the sheriff, or else his terrible kid, and we kept thinking of the sheriff hurting Billy because we know that’s what he meant.
In case we get attacked, Dare built two sturdy slingshots out of rubber bands and sticks (Snow Cone doesn’t want a weapon) and he’s collecting ammunition, including mud bombs made of rocks. He’s stashed it all up in his tree stand so we’re ready if they come. (I know you don’t like weapons, but we need to be prepared if someone comes to hurt us, or your cottage, Mr. Marsworth. Don’t you think we need to be prepared?)
While Dare worked on his arsenal, I sat with Snow Cone on your front porch and planned a Main Street March for Peace to show that we’re on Billy’s side against the war in Vietnam. The signs we’d paint. The chants she’d learned in San Francisco. “1, 2, 3, 4, we don’t want your stupid war.” Dare swears that he’s not marching, but he didn’t say we shouldn’t. Doesn’t that surprise you, Mr. Marsworth? I guess his crush on California Snow Cone is changing Dare’s rough heart.
Are you still working on that letter? The longer that you take, the more I think that E.E.B. is DEFINITELY Mom. Wouldn’t it only take one sentence to tell me I was wrong?
Still Impatient,
Reenie Kelly
Friday, August 16, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Billy got fired from the Conoco. ☹ The best summer boy Mr. Casey said he’d ever had, and still he let him go!
I knew it when I saw him after sunset trudging up Gram’s hill. (I was waiting on Gram’s steps to make sure he got home safe.) Even in the darkness, I saw the slow way he was walking, staring at his feet, his hands stuck in his pockets, his shoulders drooping forward like he’d taken a bad punch.
I raced halfway down Gardner with worry weighing on my heart. “Did someone hurt you, Billy?”
“Just my pride,” he said. “I lost my job at Casey’s, Pup.” He wiped his greasy hand under his nose to catch a sniff. (Billy always sniffs when he feels sad.) “Mr. Casey’s customers don’t want a coward—”
“You’re not a coward, Billy.” I looped my arm through his so we could walk to Gram’s together. “It was brave to write the paper. And all the things you’ve had to face since then—”
“You might think so, Reen, but you’re just one. That brick through Gram’s front window. Her car. Those hateful letters folks are sending. The phone calls. The customers at Casey’s. If you heard the names they called me, you’d know ‘brave’ isn’t one. And now I can’t even help Dad pay—”
Billy stopped, and I knew he dreaded telling Gram and Dare he’d lost his job.
“At least it’s better than the draft,” I said. “All of this. At least you’ll be alive. And if that letter helps you stand against the draft, or keeps you out of prison—”
“All this hatred just for peace?” He sighed the same way Mom used to, when she wished the world were better than it was. “All this for one letter?”
“It’s this terrible town,” I said. “Everybody’s mean.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him what Sheriff Cutler threatened this morning on the road.
“No,” Billy said. “It’d be the same in Denton, only worse. You’d be making enemies of friends. And Dad would be ashamed of me, just like Gram is now. The things they’ve done to Gram because of me—” Billy hung his head. “Gram’s car needs three new tires, and who else is going to hire me?”
“We’ll be okay,” I said, even though I’m not so sure that’s true. I laid my cheek against his arm and smelled his Casey’s summer smell of gasoline and sweat. “And pretty soon you’ll leave for Brandenbrook.” (I admit I choked a little on that last part, because Billy gone to Pennsylvania is a thought that I can’t bear. I really can’t.)
“Oh, Pup,” he said with a sad laugh. “How exactly would that happen? I don’t even have a job.”
“Tomorrow morning,” I told Billy, “we’re sitting at Gram’s table until those papers are filled out. You get started on that essay. Remember how you sat Dare down after school to make him do his homework, and quizzed me on my spelling, and always checked my math?”
“It’s not the same,” he said. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll be looking for a job.”
And I guess that must be true, because it’s now tomorrow morning, Mr. Marsworth, and Billy’s on Gram’s front steps circling HELP WANTED ads, and Gram’s gone off to Brindle Drug with her face stuck in a frown, and Dare’s filling up a bucket with big rocks out in Gram’s woods.
I’m dropping off this letter, hoping for your answer, and coming back ASAP to fill out those college papers. If Billy isn’t going to do it, then I AM.
If you don’t
want to tell me about D., or why D.W.M. + E.E.B. didn’t last forever, then don’t. I’d rather drop the question than lose you as a friend. Please please please, oh please just write me back.
Lonely for My Pen Pal,
Reenie Kelly
Friday, August 16, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
I do not wish to exacerbate your sorrows, and somehow I fear our friendship does just that. Please know there are days when I can’t answer, and things I cannot say, but that does not mean I do not wish you well. I will always wish you well. FOREVER.
You have asked me about D., and that unexpected carving discovered in my woods. To that end, I have written, and rewritten, and perhaps I’ll write again if I fail yet tonight. There are occasions when the truth is hard to tell, and this is one.
D.W.M. is my beloved Danny Marsworth, our only child, a beautiful kind boy we loved more than life itself. Love. Even after all this time, it pains me to speak of Danny in past tense. As you know, young Miss Kelly, beyond loss love does endure.
And I’m afraid that Danny has been lost. Perhaps you’ve heard the term "missing in action”? MIA? It’s a military term for lost soldiers who may be dead or living, no one knows. In August 1950, our beautiful young Danny went missing in Korea in another senseless war. In truth, he is considered missing still, along with many thousands of our soldiers missing in Korea, and many more missing now in Vietnam, and like so many of the families, I have found it slow and painful to accept the possibility that Danny must be dead. Even as I type these words, I feel like I’ve betrayed my missing son. Surely it’s a father’s job to never give up hope his child lives.
And yet every day that Danny’s missing is another day I grieve my son is gone.
His mother, my dear departed Ruth, left this world sick with fear and grief. On my better days, I tell myself Danny’s true home is in heaven, and his mother is there with him, just as she would want. God willing, I will see them both when my time comes.
So I have told you now of D., and may I ask a question in return?
Don’t you think the answer to that carving is already in your heart? You’re a girl like Betsy Brighton, someday you might carve M.E.K. into a tree with someone else. Or maybe Dare and Snow Cone will carve another heart inside my woods. In fact, I hope they do. Does that mean that it’s FOREVER? Forever is a long time, dear Miss Kelly, when you’re young.
And your father? Does it help to know he was a loyal friend to Danny? The best a boy could have. True blue like Reenie Kelly. Betsy, Frank, and Danny spent so many happy summer days down at that cottage; sometimes I see them still silhouetted in the sunset sitting on the dock wishing on the stars. How I hoped their carefree days as youth could last forever. FOREVER.
The heart can’t help but wish.
Perhaps I could have told you sooner, but the story of that friendship was your father’s first to tell. I hope someday he does. He loved Danny like a brother; I know he loves him still. When people taunted Danny for being the son of the town "trator," you can bet Frank Kelly was always at his side.
Frank and Betsy Kelly.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
P.S. As I wrote once, the apple didn’t fall far.
Friday, August 16, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
I’ve crumpled up so many bad starts to this letter they’re all over my floor.
I’m so sorry you lost Danny, even though I know my sorry doesn’t help. And I’m sorry if I made your heart hurt worse by asking nosy questions, and bugging you for answers when the story is so sad.
I know that Mom and Dad loved Danny, and I know they love him still, and I know they will love him FOREVER, just like you do. And I’ll love him forever because he was your boy. And he’s still at the cottage, he really truly is, and every part of him that lives there—his bear, his mitt, his scooter, his baseball cards, the jacket on the hook, the little fishing rod against the wall—I’ll keep them safe from harm. No one can hurt Danny while Reenie Kelly’s here. I won’t let them hurt you, either.
Never ever ever ever ever, Mr. Marsworth.
I just want Danny to come home. And I want Mom to come home, too. And I want to see the three of them wishing on the stars just like you said.
I wish we all could live forever.
I wish we never had to lose the people that we love.
I wish this letter could be better, I really truly do. I hope you know it means that I love you, Mr. Marsworth, and you’ll always have a family as long as I’m alive. I don’t want you all alone with so much missing in your heart. I know Mom wouldn’t want it either. Mom would want the Kellys and the Marsworths to be one.
Forever,
Reenie Kelly
Friday, August 16, 1968
Thank you, dear Miss Kelly.
Your friend,
Howard Marsworth
Friday, August 16, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Here’s a little jar of wildflowers I picked out in Gram’s woods. I’m sorry it’s not fancy, but I remember something beautiful and blooming can be solace for the soul. (I’ve saved every letter, every single one.)
You can set this on your table to remember that you’re loved.
And you’re not alone in missing Danny. I miss him with you, too.
Your Faithful Friend Forever,
Reenie Kelly
Saturday, August 17, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
How are you this morning? Did those wildflowers help? Would you like some happy news while we’re so sad? (Sometimes one good thing can help your heart, and I know this is a good thing that you want.)
Yesterday, when I was crying in the attic over Danny going missing, and what if Skip went missing now in Vietnam, Skip MIA like Danny, and what if the draft board forces Billy to go to Vietnam, and what if just like Danny, he was lost for eighteen years or more, Billy came up to my bedroom to ask how he could help.
“Just apply to Brandenbrook,” I sobbed. “Don’t wait another day.”
And Billy swore he would just to make my crying stop.
Isn’t that the best news, Mr. Marsworth?
My eyes were pink and puffy, but I went downstairs to Gram’s table to make sure he kept his word. And there was Dare, sitting next to Billy, staring at the pictures of that leafy-tree green campus, and the baseball team, and boys in sporty sweaters with books tucked under their arms.
“I might play first base for the Quakers,” Dare joked when I sat down. “You going to get me into college, Reen?”
“You’ll have to get your grades up,” Billy said, like college might be possible for Dare.
Dare Kelly off at college???
“I can’t work a miracle,” I said. “You want to go to college, Dare, you better read a book.”
“It’s not just Dare that needs a miracle,” Billy said, like he was telling me a hard truth I didn’t much want to hear. “I’m not sure God himself could get me into Brandenbrook two weeks before September, or get us all the cash I’d need to go. You make that happen, Reen, you’ve got someone on your side.”
“Maybe Mom,” I said. “She could be a saint by now.”
I wish I could’ve added Mr. Marsworth, and I wish I could have told him all the ways you’ve tried to help me save him from this war. (I sure wish that we’d saved Danny.) Maybe someday all the Kellys will know the good you’ve done.
Your Friend and Second Family If You Want Me,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. You didn’t leave a note this morning, so I’ll check back in a bit. Write back ASAP if you like this happy news!
P.P.S. If Billy went missing in a war, I’d never give up hope. Skip either. I’d feel just like you do, Mr. Marsworth.
Saturday, August 17, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
Indeed, that happy news is most welcome at my house.
Even in a miracle, Billy must apply ASAP, as you would say.
Sincerely,
H.W. Marsworth
Saturday, August 17, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
It’s done!! It’s done!!!
I walked with Billy to the post office, and I watched with my own eyes while he licked the extra stamps, then slipped it in the box. He didn’t have the recommendations from his teachers, and he says his essay’s weak, and Denton High has to send his transcript, but he mailed what he could.
(Billy swears Brandenbrook won’t accept him in mid-August, but he put the application in the mailbox anyway because, “Saying no to you, Pup, is like talking to a wall.” I don’t care if I’m a wall. At least he sent it, Mr. Marsworth! If there wasn’t ANY hope for Brandenbrook, I know you would’ve said. You would’ve said so, right???)
Here’s a little bit more news I hope will make you happy: I’m on my way to Snow Cone’s to paint PEACE signs for our protest. We’re going to march on Monday at 2:30 outside Piggly Wiggly, because Snow Cone says mothers buying groceries might be on our side. Do you think you can come? Can Carl Grace march with us?
So far we’re keeping it TOP SECRET, because I don’t want Gram to tell me I can’t march. Gram’s tired of the trouble, and I don’t want more trouble, but I’m marching now for Billy, and for Danny, and for Skip and Jackie Moon, and all our pen pals in the Fourth Platoon, and all the people dying on both sides, including all those children Snow Cone says we’re killing. “No man is an island,” Mr. Marsworth, and every death diminishes me just like John Donne said, and I want the people in this town to know it isn’t just my brother who believes this war is wrong.