At home, Andy was relieved to find that the coal delivery had come. They’d dumped the load through the basement chute, just as arranged. Taking a bucket load upstairs, Andy got the stove fired up and waited while the warmth spread across the room. He was more tired than he could remember ever being. He even contemplated forgoing supper, but the rumbling of his stomach finally won out over the soreness of his feet and back.
He opened a can of beans and while they heated, Andy made a small pot of coffee. The aroma reminded him again of the old woman he’d met at the cemetery. Mrs. Nelson. Estella Nelson. He almost smiled as he thought of her. She had been so very persistent—tempting him with cream, not caring about his job duties. For just a moment he tried to imagine what it might have been like to share her hospitality.
Spreading his mother’s well-worn red gingham cloth across the kitchen table, Andy couldn’t help but think of Mary Beth Iseman as well. She looked nothing like the scrawny girl he remembered. She had grown up and she was quite pretty, but it was her spirit that attracted him most—the joy in her expression and the delight and excitement in her voice.
Andy let the memory of their meeting wash over him again and again. How could she be so happy in the middle of a war? How could she be happy, not knowing what tomorrow might bring?
Setting the table with the beans, coffee, and a few crackers, Andy continued to think of Mary Beth. She’d wanted to have him over for supper. She hadn’t understood her mother’s negative reply. It was clear Mrs. Iseman had wanted to think up some excuse for why it wouldn’t work for Andy to join them. She would probably tell her daughter that he would only bring a curse upon their household, or perhaps she would comment that Andy’s lowly station in life was no match for Mary Beth. Whatever she came up with, it didn’t matter.
As much as he would have loved to share supper with anyone, Andy knew he would only hurt people in the long run. Better he stay by himself—alone.
He poured the coffee and again thought of Mrs. Nelson and her cream. She seemed lonely, he thought. Like knows like, he supposed.
“It would do her little good to know me better, to share her cream and coffee. It’s just better this way. Better for her. Better for Mary Beth.” The words echoed back at him in the otherwise silent room.
“But what of you, Andy?” He could almost hear his mother’s voice. “Even the Lord said it wasn’t good that man should be alone.”
He put the thought away, as if it were some unpaid notice of an overdue debt. “If the Lord thought it wasn’t good for me to be alone, He should never have taken away the people I loved.”
THREE
November spirits darkened with word that the 28th Infantry Division had recently been involved in a terrible battle. Information trickled in with no great reliability. Rumors ran rampant . . . and then the telegrams began to arrive.
Andy had never seen the likes. As Thanksgiving neared, there were more and more confirmations of the dead, and the community seemed to lose all hope as spirits fell to grief and sorrow. There was little to be thankful for.
All across town the tale was told in the stars. Blue changed to gold as heart after heart was broken in loss. Then snow fell with a vengeance, burying the town in white. But it seemed ill fitting. Its purity and freshness mocked the dark ugliness of war.
Then the news went from bad to worse. Most all of the 28th was feared dead or wounded on the fields of glory. The boys who once were going to stomp the Germans all the way back to Berlin now lay lifeless on the battlefields of Europe. The wind went out of the patriotic sails of Haven, Pennsylvania. The people had given their sons—their best—and the war had taken them and greedily demanded more.
In Bob Davis’s barbershop, men gathered for discussions of war efforts and military strategies while the women met together behind closed doors for bouts of tears and prayer sessions. The town seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was to come.
Andy found himself working overtime to deliver all the messages. People seemed to watch out their windows for him. The white banners trimmed in red, bearing the stars of their loved ones, seemed like a beacon, pulling Andy magnetically to each house.
Blue to gold. Gold for death.
The cadence rang in Andy’s ears as he marched through the snow. Once in a while there was good news. A telegram would announce that a soldier had been found wounded but alive and put in a military hospital. There was relief in such letters but also great frustration and anxiety. There was no possible way to go to their loved ones, to bridge the miles that separated them.
On the first of December, Andy went to work to find nearly a dozen telegrams already waiting. They were stacked neatly on the counter—innocent enough in appearance.
“They’ve been coming in steadily since I got here,” the receptionist, Hazel, told Andy.
Eyeing the envelopes, Andy wanted to run in the opposite direction. Most of these telegrams were confirmation of the dead. There was no doubt about that. Two weeks ago the onslaught had been regarding the missing in action. The notifications now could only mean one thing.
Hazel worked on affixing message strips to plain paper. She seemed to have taken it all in stride. Andy wondered silently how she could sit there so peacefully, so perfectly at ease.
“Are any of them . . .” Andy couldn’t finish the sentence.
Hazel looked up and shook her head. “Most are confirmation. There are a couple of new missing in action.”
Andy’s spirits sank further. How much more could the little town take? Until a few weeks ago, no one had even heard of such a place as the Huertgen Forest, much less knew a battle there had stolen their loved ones away. People rushed for maps, for any piece of evidence to show where the fighting had been. The newspapers reported what they knew, but the details were so sparse it never answered the questions the people so desperately needed addressed. Did he suffer? Was it quick? Was he afraid?
The citizens of Haven craved information—demanded it—but there was often nothing to be had. The saying that “no news is good news” passed out of favor. Any news was better than being left to wonder in a state of near panic. Even the telegrams that would be delivered today would allow grieving families to know the truth about their sons, husbands, and fathers. It might be tragic, but it was better than never knowing.
Andy gathered the telegrams and headed out the door. The day was dreary; the clouds hung heavy and dark. The temperature dropped throughout the day as Andy made stop after stop. At noon he came back to find even more telegrams.
“Any sign of it slowing?” he asked the key operator. Hazel apparently was at lunch, as her desk was deserted.
The man shook his head. Andy couldn’t be sure, but he thought there were tears in the older man’s eyes as he added, “I think they got all of us.”
The snow was now coming down in a blinding fury, a blizzard of massive proportion descending with a vengeance. The wind picked up, whistling through the trees, stinging Andy’s face and eyes. He should just give up and go home, but he knew he couldn’t. Folks deserved to know the truth as soon as possible.
The next telegram in his hand was marked to his high school principal. Andy hadn’t gotten to know Mr. McGovern very well in school, but he knew the man from church, where Mr. McGovern was an elder and a member of the choir. He could still remember Mr. McGovern singing a moving rendition of “Silent Night” the previous Christmas.
Andy looked again at the message in his hand. He hadn’t taken any telegrams to the McGoverns before, and he wasn’t aware of any of the other delivery boys taking them either. Mr. McGovern’s son Kyle was in the navy in the Pacific. He was a fighter pilot and everyone in the family was proud of his accomplishments. Several years Andy’s senior, Kyle had been the all-American boy around Haven. He was the favored son in the McGovern household—a fine example of what a man could become if he put his mind to it.
Andy wearily climbed the snow-covered steps to the McGovern front porch. His hand trembled as he rea
ched out to knock on the door. School had been cancelled for the day, so he hoped fervently that Mr. McGovern would be at home. He knocked loudly, solidly. It was a knock that announced importance—demanded attention.
The youngest member of the McGovern household, Amanda, came to the door. She was only ten, but she knew what Andy’s presence represented.
“Daddy!” she cried and ran from the door in tears. “Daddy, come quick.”
Mr. McGovern came to the door and opened the screen. He met Andy’s gaze and stepped out onto the porch.
“Afternoon, Andrew.” He seemed to age before Andy’s very eyes. Shoulders slumped, the man reached out for the telegram.
For a moment time stood still. Andy felt he should say something—do something. He waited to see what Mr. McGovern would do and watched as his eyes filled with tears.
“He’s just twenty-four,” the older man whispered. “Just twenty-four.”
Without warning, the big man, who had always seemed strong enough to bear the weight of the world, collapsed to the floor. Sobbing, he clutched the telegram against his chest. “He’s just a boy . . . just my boy. Oh, God, help me.”
Terror struck Andy’s heart. He’d never in his life seen a grown man break down like this. He reached out his hand and then pulled it back quickly. How could he possibly comfort this man? Without waiting to see what else might happen, Andy turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
Blinded by the snow, he pressed through the storm, mindless of the remaining telegrams. When he reached the Jackson Street Bridge, he sought shelter under it. He gasped for breath while his heart pounded in his ears. Opening his mouth, he gave a primal scream from deep within his dying soul.
****
Estella put her wartime cake into the oven and smiled. She hoped Andy would like it. She planned to take him several pieces tomorrow. Hopefully the snow would stop by then.
She looked at her watch and noted the time. It would take just under an hour for the cake to bake. That would give her plenty of time to finish her ironing and maybe even dust the front room.
Picking up the iron from the back of the stove, Estella tested it. She smiled as she noted it was perfect and hurried to the board, where her best Sunday blouse awaited her tender care. Many had been the afternoon she’d stood and ironed while her mother knitted sweaters for the war effort. Her mother had been good company after Howard’s death—especially since Estella had no children. In fact, Estella wasn’t sure she could have made it through without Mama’s tenderness. Her mother understood what it was to lose the man she loved—she understood the loneliness and longing for companionship. Now Mama was gone and Estella was alone again. She tried not to be maudlin about it, however. God had a plan, even in this.
She smiled to herself. Yes, God had a plan, and she wasn’t going to go getting weepy just because old memories were stirred up by ironing. Goodness, but she’d have to give up ironing altogether if she allowed such things to be a stumbling block in her spiritual walk. She laughed out loud. “I’d give up ironing—wouldn’t break my heart one bit.”
Estella had just started to press the front of the blouse when a strange sense of urgency washed over her. Gone was the humor of the moment.
Andy.
It was the only word—the only thought—that came to mind.
Andy is in trouble. She stood silent, iron poised in midair, listening—waiting. What is it, Lord? Is he in danger? Oh, please go to him. Comfort him, Father. He needs you so.
A couple of days earlier, Estella had made a trip to the telegraph office. She’d inquired about Andy and obtained his address, telling the young man behind the counter that she planned to bake a cake and wanted to share it with Andy. She figured if Andy wouldn’t come to her, she’d go to him. The only problem was, she didn’t know where he lived. For almost two weeks she’d been trying to figure out exactly how to accomplish that feat and then it had dawned on her. Andy worked for the telegraph company. It should be fairly easy to find out where he lived. And it had been.
Now, however, she felt only the overwhelming need to pray for him. Putting the iron back on the stove, Estella hurried to the living room to retrieve her Bible. She sat down and opened the book to the thirteenth chapter of Hebrews.
“ ‘Let brotherly love continue,’“ Estella read aloud. “ ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’“ She smiled to herself. Her husband had never known a stranger because of this passage. He’d brought home all manner of folk to share their dinner table and company.
“ ‘Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them; and them which suffer adversity, as being yourselves also in the body.’ ”
She looked upward. “Yes, Lord. Andy is in bonds—his heart is tied up tight and he suffers great adversity. You see him. You know where he is and how much he hurts. Lord, let me share his pain—let me help bear his burden. He’s hardly old enough to carry it alone . . . like so many of our young men right now—boys, all of them.
“I can’t help each one, but I can help this one.” Estella’s spirit calmed within her as she reread the same passage of Scripture.
“Oh, Andy. Please know that I care,” she whispered, putting aside the Bible.
FOUR
Andy couldn’t remember how he’d made it back home. He could barely call to mind delivering the remaining telegrams after seeing Mr. McGovern break down. Now the entire thing seemed like a hazy bad dream.
Andy coughed and rolled over in bed. His foot pained him greatly. Not only that, but all of his joints ached and his head throbbed with a steady pounding rhythm. He coughed again, this time wracking his entire body. Struggling to sit up, his chest felt heavy.
I’m sick, he thought and fell back against his pillow. The reality of it began to sink in. I’m sick and I’m not getting out of bed. He pulled the cover high and moaned softly.
Maybe I’ll die.
He thought of that prospect for several moments. Maybe he would die. Maybe he would die right there in that very bed. No one would even know about it for days, maybe weeks. He would be long gone before anyone missed him, and then it would only be the telegraph office that would question his absence. No one else would care.
He thought momentarily of Estella Nelson. She would care—if she knew. She’s that kind of lady, Andy reasoned.
“But she doesn’t know,” he whispered and gave in to another round of coughing.
He thought he should get up and at least telephone the office, but he’d have to go next door, and the prospect of getting up, much less getting dressed and actually going somewhere, was beyond comprehension. He chided himself for cutting off the telephone service to the house after his mother died. But there had seemed no reason to keep it. It was an added expense and the money was better spent elsewhere.
He tried again to sit up, but his chest hurt so much that he quickly abandoned the idea. Let someone else play the Grim Reaper, he told himself before allowing the sickness to draw him back into sleep.
****
Estella couldn’t shake off the feeling that Andy was in trouble. The need to pray roused her repeatedly throughout the night. And pray she did. She prayed for Andy and for the other people in the town. She’d heard the news—read it in the paper. The town was in deep mourning.
When the clock chimed nine the next morning, Estella decided she could wait no longer. If Andy wasn’t in trouble, then he’d be at work and about his business. But if something was wrong . . .
She packed up some of the cake and set it aside with her purse. Next she drew on her galoshes and coat, finishing up with a heavy scarf and gloves. She smiled at the winter wonderland that greeted her outside. The snow was at least a foot deep.
“It’s just a little snow,” she said aloud in the same manner Howard would speak upon rising to such a scene. “Snow will never slow me down.” She mused over the memory of her husband shoveling snow in his shirtsleeves.
“Where’s your co
at, Howard Nelson?” she’d ask.
“Why? Is it lost?” he’d tease. “Look, woman, I’m working out here. It may only be thirty degrees, but I’m sweating up a storm and I’m not wearing any coat.”
“Fine, then you’ll just come down sick,” she’d counter. But he never did. He had the constitution of a horse. Always able to get out there and do the job at hand. Until a heart attack changed all of that.
“Mornin’, Miz Nelson!”
Estella smiled and waved. The little boys next door had come to shovel her walk and were even now finishing up the job.
“Good morning, Timmy. My, but we had a nice snow, didn’t we?”
“Yup. School’s closed for another day. Isn’t it great?”
She smiled. “Just so long as you don’t let your head gather cobwebs.”
The boy looked at her strangely, but it was his little brother who questioned her.
“How would cobwebs get in your head, Miz Nelson?”
She chuckled. “Jimmy, any time you allow yourself to stop learning, cobwebs tend to gather. It’s all well and fine to have a day off, but remember, you can always read a book and take a little adventure on your own.”
“I don’t like to read,” Timmy interjected. “It’s hard.”
She patted the ten-year-old on the head. “It’s hard because you don’t practice. And you don’t practice because it’s hard. You have to try—you have to give it all you’ve got. I have to go run some errands right now, but if you like, you may both stop by my house later this afternoon. If you will come and read to me, I’ll give you each a piece of cake.”
“Real cake?” Jimmy questioned, his eyes widening.
Estella knew the family was very poor and completely unable to have such luxuries. “Real cake,” she said, bending down. “And we’ll send a piece home for your mom and dad. How about it?”
They nodded enthusiastically. “But what book should we read?” Timmy asked. “We don’t have many books.”
Silent Star Page 3
