by Tess Grant
Maddie’s tail swept across the floor, driving sawdust before it, and the earth hummed in the heat. Kitty rose and brushed the sawdust off the seat of her shorts. She clicked her fingers at Maddie, and they started down the driveway.
Here she was, going back to Phinney’s. At least he knew what she had been through the last six weeks.
Of course he was there, sitting on the porch in the old green metal lawn chair. He leaned forward and gave a wave of his arm. Maddie loped across the meadow and wagged her way up the steps. Kitty looked with surprise at her feet. She and Maddie had actually worn a path through the deep grass.
Going up the steps, she managed to catch her toes on the second tread and stumbled. She smacked her shin hard on the last step, and the sharp pain was enough to undo the dam she had built. Tears started running down her cheeks, and she sat down in a huddle. At first, she tried to stay quiet and put her face down on her knees, wrapping her arms around her head. Phinney’s chair squeaked as he rocked it back for the boost that would propel him out of his seat. His footsteps padded by her, then receded on the other side of the banging screen door. She sniffed and rubbed vainly at her cheeks, hiding her face again when she heard his tread coming back her way.
“Here, kid,” he rumbled, and she felt the soft touch of fabric against her hand. It was another of his old bandanas, a battered faded red but clean and smelling of sunshine. “Let it out. These things have a way of coming out one way or the other, that’s what my Grace used to say.”
He walked down the steps whistling for Maddie, and the two cut across the meadow heading for the woods. Kitty watched them go, him swinging a hand over the tops of the timothy grass and Maddie’s chunky back end swaying. She climbed up into his battered couch glider, laid her head on the hard flat pillow and cried herself to sleep.
She woke up to a cold nose pushing at her hand. Maddie stared intently at her from less than three inches away. She could hear Phinney banging around the kitchen through the open window above her head. Still groggy, she sat up and swung her legs to the floor. Clenched in one fist was a tightly wadded soggy bandana. She spread it out on one rust-flecked arm of the glider. Setting the couch to swinging with a push of her toes, she eyed her watch. Three-thirty. She had been asleep for nearly an hour, and knew she needed to be home by five. It was shaping up to be an omelet night; good thing she hadn’t made them recently. There was a snapping sound from above her, and she looked up in surprise. Phinney had knocked the bottom of the screen out of its track. From the gap between the screen and the window frame, his arm hung out with a pint jar of sun tea. She grabbed it. He came out a moment later with his own jar. He gave the screen a backhanded whap with his fist, and it popped back in. Then he took up residence in his flaky metal throne. They sat in silence; Kitty rocked the glider with her toes.
“Who’s Grace?” she asked suddenly.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, brows raised.
“You said Grace said things would come out one way or the other. Who is she?”
He turned back to the meadow. “Grace was my wife.” The words came off his lips slowly as if he wanted them to last a long time.
Kitty felt the shock down to her toes. It had never even crossed her mind that Phinney had ever been more than what she knew.
He stood up suddenly and disappeared into the cool recesses of the cabin. When he came back out, he carried two photos in his hand. He handed one to her. It was a shockingly young Phinney, all inscrutable eyes and angular jawbones. He was in uniform, and his hair was cut tight to his head. Immediately to his front and to his side was a willowy girl. Dark hair swept up to a pile atop her head, and her mouth parted in a joyful smile.
“You’re not smiling.”
“I was heading for the war after that weekend, and I was going to propose that night.” Phinney sat down with a sigh. “Scared on both accounts.”
“She is so pretty,” said Kitty. More than anything, she wanted to say beautiful but felt suddenly shy.
“She was. Right to the end.”
Kitty waited, hoping he would continue. After a pause, he did.
“She and I went to school together. I guess we were always sweethearts, but never made it anything official while we were in school. She actually graduated the year before me, as smart as she was pretty. Back in ‘39, most people were still denying the war was coming. Grace knew; it was sitting out there like a big thundercloud, and everybody ignored it. She went off to nursing school, and I thought I would never see her again.
“After I joined, I got sent off to Kansas for basic training. Middle of nowhere. I don’t remember how I found her, but I did. I started writing. We sent letters to each other three times a
week. I was heading off to Europe when we decided to meet for the weekend.”
Kitty leaned forward. “What happened?”
He waved the picture at her. “I proposed. She said yes. We got married the next day. The day after that, I left and she went back to nursing school. She couldn’t tell anybody she got married or they would kick her out of school. So she wore the ring I gave her on her right hand. She ended up wearing it that way the rest of her life.”
Kitty was incensed. “Kick her out? For getting married?”
He picked up his tea and took a sip, shrugging his shoulders. “Things were different back then. That’s just the way it was. I didn’t see her again until it was all over, more than two years later. When we got back together, it was like meeting each other for the first time.”
He leaned forward and handed her the other photo. At first Kitty thought it was a second photo of Phinney, but looking closely, she could see it was another man in uniform. Dark crew cut, chiseled face and unreadable eyes. A palm tree behind him, and tall grass caught forever bending in the wind.
“Vietnam?” she guessed.
“Yup. Our boy David. He was a good kid. Always wanted to do the right thing. Left college ‘cause he thought he should. He died over there, two months shy of coming home.”
Kitty looked at him, but his face was composed. “Gracie went a few years after that. The doctors said it was cancer, but I always knew it was a broken heart. Now.” He leaned over and collected the two photos from her. “What’s going on?”
Kitty rubbed at her eyes tiredly. “My mom’s been out protesting the war.”
Phinney put his head back and stared up at the porch roof as if contemplating the tongue-in-groove planking.
“It makes me feel rotten, and I don’t even know why. She never even told me. I had to hear it from my friends.” Kitty stammered in frustration. “And…and…I’m not even sure what it means. How could she do that to him?”
Phinney ran his tongue along the edge of his front teeth, sucking at them noisily. He seemed deep in thought. When he finally spoke, it was slowly, as if feeling for the words—a blind man with a hand out in front of him. “First things first, Kitty. I’m sorry she didn’t tell you. Sometimes people get mean at those things. Words get said, things get thrown, people talk behind your back. She probably didn’t want you to see that. But I don’t think that’s the important thing here.” He leaned to one side, pulled his flask and tipped it back, then looked at her long and steadily. “What’s important is that she wants your dad to come home because she misses him like crazy. That’s the bottom line: The war ends, he comes home. So do a lot of other people.”
Kitty balled her hands tightly, fists resting on her thighs. “Yeah, but—.”
“Listen,” said Phinney, and the way he said it made Kitty fall silent. “When you’re in the field, you may miss everyone and everything that got left behind, but there are other things going on that take up your time. Some of them are deadly things, and if you let your mind concentrate on something else, you die. When you’re home doing all the half-memorized jobs that you’ve always done and surrounded by all the shared places and things, all you have is time to think and worry.”
The picture of David was balanced on his Dickies-
clad thigh, and he looked down at it. When he picked it up and waved it at her, his voice was on the verge of anger. “I’ve been on both ends, kiddo. And for me, it was a whole lot easier when I was the one humping a pack through the mud, rather than the one sitting at home twiddling my thumbs wondering how my only boy was. Your mom needs to feel like she is doing something to help your dad. And sometimes, sending lip balm and shampoo isn’t enough.”
Kitty sniffed. She didn’t think Phinney was angry with her, but she wasn’t sure. His eyes glistened, and she knew the wet film was tears.
His voice was soft and far away as he repeated, “No indeed, honey, sometimes lip balm and shampoo just ain’t enough.”
He stared out at the meadow, but he was seeing someplace else entirely. She could tell by the vacant look on his face. A bloody beach or a poison-green jungle? A long-ago child playing in the grass?
She looked at the cracked boards under her feet. An ant was crawling toward the cabin, and she pushed at it with her toe. It skirted her foot, marching on stolidly, soldiering for the colony. When Phinney’s voice came, it startled her.
“Some poet wrote—and I don’t know the words—but he said something about people on the home front serving the same as the soldiers. It’s all part of the deal.” His voice was gentle now. “You’re in, whether you know it or not. It’s time you started throwing in to help out.”
She felt her hackles rise and opened her mouth, but he waved a placating hand at her. “I know what you are going to say, Kitty. You’ve been helping with Sam and cooking. And God knows, every time there’s a full moon on the home front, we have our very own private little war. But take a good look at that house sometime when your mom is gone and see if you’ve been doing all you can.” He stood up and put a hand on her shoulder. “She isn’t trying to hurt you or your dad. She’s trying to get by. Go on home and let the dust settle for a little while.”
* * *
She started by looking—no, seeing—when she came into the house. Loose dog hair clustered in the corners of the entryway like a new pet. The laundry room was off to the right after the main door. Dirty clothes overflowed from the hamper, and the cute little rug in front of the washer was wadded in a dusty heap. Sam’s muddy rain boots were thrown on top of some white dishtowels on the floor along with one of his rocks. The kitchen was even worse. A pile of junk mail tottered on the corner of the counter. Dirty pans cluttered the sink. Phinney was obviously right; Mom needed some help. Kitty had never been a great one for helping around the house, much preferring to be out in the woods with her dad. It had never occurred to her how the laundry ended up clean and folded on the couch arm. All she knew was that it did, then it was hers to put away. Apparently it didn’t get there by magic.
Time to start throwing in, Kitty thought bleakly and went to pull the eggs out of the fridge to start supper. The cardboard lid caught the shelf edge, and she tugged at it. It came open with a jerk, and a single egg flew out, hitting the ground in a splatter. Maddie appeared, pulled to the shattered shell, and lapped eagerly at the mess. Kitty eyed the dirty linoleum tiredly.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I start throwing in.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Today’s the day, Sam.”
He squinted at Kitty over his oatmeal. “Day for what?”
Kitty took a faded striped dishtowel out of a drawer and tossed it over her shoulder. “I’m cleaning the house and doing laundry. I’m going to vacuum and wash the dishes too.”
He spooned up a mouthful, crammed it in and looked at her suspiciously. Waving the spoon vaguely in her direction, he asked, “Do you feel okay? Maybe you should go outside and lay under a tree or something. I could work on my rocks and keep you company.”
Well, that says a lot about how much I do around here. “No dude, today we’re working inside.”
She picked up Sam’s bowl and put it on top of the mound in the sink. The whole pile slid sideways and a glop of oatmeal flew out on the counter. No wonder Mom had come home last night, looked around, sighed and spent the rest of the night curled in a ball on the couch.
“Take your pick, kiddo.” Kitty collected the pile of junk mail and tossed it on the table in front of Sam. It spread out in a fan. “You can shred this junk mail or get the dishwasher rolling.”
His eyes lit up. “Definitely shredding.”
Kitty grinned and turned to the mountain in the sink.
* * *
The dishwasher whooshed rhythmically in the kitchen, and the shredder whirred. Sam yelled encouragingly at it when it threatened to bog down. She was pleased with the progress so far. It was only noon, and the clutter threatening to consume the kitchen had been brought to heel. She could actually see about ninety percent of the kitchen counter.
Next up, laundry. Theoretically, she knew how to do laundry. No time like the present to put it into practice. But the mess in the laundry room stopped her cold. Even the air smelled thick and fermented. She knew for a fact her mom had washed clothes two or three days ago, but the volume was astonishing. No wonder Anne always yelled at her when she wore a shirt for only a few hours before throwing it in the wash. Dragging the heavy hamper out of the corner, she pushed at it and, top-heavy, it toppled easily, clothes spilling in a heap. Mom always said to sort first, so she did. The piles formed a mini-mountain range across the tiled floor.
Near the bottom, she came across a set of Sam’s sheets wadded up in a ball. They felt damp, and the odor was unmistakable. Sam hadn’t wet the bed since he was at least four years old.
“Kitty?”
She turned toward the door, and Sam held out another set of sheets, rolled into a wad. His Red Wings hockey sheets; she had seen her mom putting them on his bed only the day before. “These need a wash.”
Kitty had been feeling invincible, but this was a boulder starting an avalanche, and her optimism fled down the hill in front of it. She considered working him over with some sisterly jabs, but his face was downturned and his shoulders slumped. She pretended not to notice the sheets were wet.
“Okay, throw them on that pile over there.” He started to leave. “Hey.”
He turned, still looking at the floor.
“Are you missing Dad, bud? ‘Cause I sure am.” She felt her eyes start to fill. Waterworks again.
He looked up, and his face was a mish-mash of emotions. She couldn’t sort out everything that was there—maybe sadness, maybe some relief. But she knew he looked older than a ten year old should.
“Oh man, Kit, Eric said now guys have to stay in Iraq for fifteen months, and that’s way longer than a year, and…” Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks. He launched himself into her belly, and her breath whooshed out as he hit her. Her arms folded around him automatically, protectively. She could feel her shirt getting damp with his tears and her own started sliding down her cheeks.
“Oh Sam,” was all she managed to get out. Together, they slid down the dryer, making a human puddle on the floor.
* * *
Kitty saw her mom pull in from the upstairs window. Anne sat in the car for more than a minute. The windows were wide open. Probably half-cooked, Kitty thought. The air conditioning in the car was dying. The last time Kitty drove, it hadn’t been more than a warm breath in her face, like driving with Maddie panting in the passenger’s seat.
Her mom got out of the car, moving like her feet hurt, and stood immobile against the open car door, head tilted to catch the wind. The angle of her head reminded Kitty of the way she craned her neck to look up at her taller husband, and it made Kitty’s heart ache.
There was a fresh gust of wind, and Kitty could tell from the way Anne’s head snapped to level that the clothes swinging on the line had registered with her. She had probably been looking at them since she drove in. The dryer had a full load, and Kitty had filled the outside line too. A full spectrum of colors rioted against the green grass. Kitty’s method of sorting wasn’t mom-approved, but at least the clothes were clean.
A
nne was going to walk into a house far different than the one she had left, Kitty knew. For starters, it smelled like it was burning down. And there was a loud voice singing from the vicinity of the smell.
Kitty started toward the top of the stairs, considering going to meet Anne but decided against it. As much as she wanted to see her mom’s reaction to the state of the house, she was still more than a little angry. Reversing direction, she went back to her mom’s room to make the bed.
Anne came up the stairs a few minutes later, shaking her head and laughing. Coming into her bedroom, she collapsed into the rocking chair, arms hanging over the sides and legs stretched out. She wiggled her bare toes appreciatively.
“Do you know what he told me?” she asked Kitty.
“What he was making for dinner?” Kitty answered, feeling as stiff as the sheets she was stretching to fit over the fat mattress. Before her stint in the laundry this morning, the sheets had been a soft cream with muted stripes of lilac flowers. Now they were the pale pink of a blown rose, but they smelled like one of Phinney’s bandanas—all sunshine and fresh air.
“Mm-hmm.” Anne nodded. “Grilled cheese and alphabet soup, and he made it all himself. He thought we might have to scrape the bread to get some of the black off. He said,” she started to giggle again, “he said I needed to clean the frying pan because it was making the sandwiches dirty.” She dissolved into hoots of laughter.
Even Kitty chuckled. “He’s burned enough toast that he knows better than that. Sounds like a cover-up to me.”
“I think so too. I’m going to go set the table. I’m starving and even blackened grilled cheese sounds good right now.” She stood up and stretched. “Hey, the house is gorgeous. Thank you.”
