“Did it help?”
“Not according to Mom.”
“How did she get well enough to get out?”
“My grandparents got a lawyer when they found out that Dad had put her in an institution, and just in time. He had just consented to a lobotomy.”
“Oh, my gosh. And her parents didn’t know she was in the hospital?”
“Dad told them the same thing that he said to me, that she had just abandoned us, and he had no idea where she went. Thank goodness, they won the court battle and moved her to another hospital where they stopped the shock treatments, removed the drugs, and gave her lots of love and encouragement.”
“She’s better now?”
“Still a little slow…but well enough to live without assistance.”
“Have you talked to your dad about all of this?”
“Oh, yeah. But Dad only sees things one way…his way. He will go to his grave believing that he did the right thing. When I told him that his carousing and indifference to her feelings triggered her depression, he said that I had gotten ‘weak, a disgrace to the Corps and a fool for believing her lies.’ Haven’t talked to him since.”
“He just dropped you, right there?”
“Oh, no. He tried. That’s how I got the car. His Christmas peace offering.”
“You accepted it.”
“He owed me…but I don’t owe him nothin’.”
Buddy was glad that Eddie shared his story. He thought about Sally’s warning about Eddie and wondered what made her believe that he was ‘a snake in the grass.’ This was a changed man, not the same Eddie she knew in ’53. Not only was he making an effort to correct his errant behavior, but he also knew the cause. Now it was time for Buddy to share the demons in his life. “Guess I best get this off my chest.”
“What’s that?” asked Eddie, surprised that his flawless friend had any skeletons in his closet.
“Since I was a child, I’ve been having these recurring nightmares. They’re so real I can’t get them out of my mind.” Buddy went through the dream sequence in greater detail than he had ever told anyone. “And in the most recent dream, I heard what sounded like a gunshot and people were lined up, dressed in black, crying, and filing by a casket. When it came my time to view the body, I saw a Marine in uniform, and suddenly realized it was me. And I can’t get that vision out of my mind…or the sound of the gunshot.”
“Awe, man. Just a dream. That’s all. Just a dream. Don’t pay it no mind.”
“Ever heard that old superstition that if you see yourself in a dream, it means you’re going to die soon?”
“No. Never heard it but it’s nothing more than an old wives’ tale. Whoever told you such a thing?”
“My mama.”
“With all due respect to your mother, that’s about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Buddy checked another ID and waved the vehicle through. “Today, when I saw you loading your gun I about freaked out. No way for a Marine to be thinking.”
“I’m no shrink, but heck, I’d feel just like you. You’re going to be OK.”
After spending the better part of their shift talking about their problems, they decided to move on to something happier which led to a debate over the famous young actor, James Dean.
Eddie thought he was “cool, a genius, best actor of our times.”
Buddy begged to disagree. ‘A punk. A bad example. Ne’er-do-well.”
On his way back to the barracks, it occurred to Buddy that his new best friend was once his worst enemy. Hopefully, someday the enmity between Eddie and his father would come to a similar outcome. He wondered if he had shirked his Christian duty to advise Eddie to forgive his dad.
Buddy hadn’t had a really close friend since his relationship to Donnie went south. It occurred to him that if he was going to preach forgiveness to Eddie, then he needed to get his house in order. The next morning, after his daily note to Sally, Buddy wrote a lengthy letter to his old friend, Donnie. In it, he requested forgiveness for the way that he abruptly ended their friendship. “My feelings were hurt, but I should never have let that be more important than all the good times we shared. I hope you are well and that one day soon we can get together again.”
Signs - May 1955
Monday, May 23
Back home in Strasburg, Mable was doing what she did every Monday, washing clothes. She still made good use of an old washboard, a throwback to farm life. At least, she had abandoned lye soap and switched to a box detergent. 20 Mule Team Borax was her brand of choice since the product’s parent company sponsored one of the family’s favorite TV shows, Death Valley Days.
On the back porch sat a more modern washing device, a Maytag Ringer Washer, which she hated. It wasn’t that it didn’t work. She was scared of it, as were many women. Once the clothes were washed in the agitator, then they were fed between two rotating cylinders that made up the ringer. All too often, fingers or an apron were caught in the machine. Her sister, Ella, broke her arm in a ringer washer. Now, with Buddy out of the house, her laundry duties had diminished enough to abandon, as she called it, “The Green Monster.”
Her complex laundry process included soaking, scrubbing, rinsing, hand wringing, and then hanging the wash on a clothesline in the backyard. Nothing stopped her, not even inclement weather. And when she brought the clothes back in the house, they were ironed immediately. But she had to hurry because she never missed her soap operas and game shows on TV.
The wrinkles were just about out of Charlie’s pants when the doorbell rang. Who is that at this time of day, she wondered as she put down her iron and headed for the front door?
“Mrs. Polk,” said a strange man standing on the porch.
“Yes,” she said while looking at the large truck parked in front of the house.
“Where do you want it?”
“Want what?” said Mable, still trying to determine the intent of her visitor.
“Your delivery,” said the man, who then pointed back to his truck.
“I didn’t order nothing.”
The driver scanned the service order. “Looks like this came all the way from Japan…from a PFC Charles F. Polk.”
“Oh, my goodness. That’s my son.”
The man ran to his truck, pulled out a dolly, and removed a large wooden crate. “Won’t fit through your front door, mam,” he called from the street. “How about I set it on your porch and you can unload it from there?”
“I expect you’ll have to. My husband’s sleeping right now. He works the graveyard shift.”
After some considerable effort, the man placed the crate on the porch. “Sign here, please.”
Before the truck pulled away, Charlie showed up beside Mable. “How am I supposed to sleep with all this racket? What’s going on?”
“Buddy sent something from overseas,” said Mable. Too big to fit through the door.”
“I’ll get some tools,” said Charlie, who then stepped into his shoes and went out back to the storage shed. Moments later he returned with a hammer and a crowbar.
“Be careful,” she said. “It says, ‘fragile.’”
Charlie hummed his tune of displeasure. “Now Mable, I ain’t gonna break your precious box. You want me to open it, or not?”
“Well, of course, I want you to open it. What could it be?”
“I reckon it’s your birthday present.”
Mable was surprised that Charlie remembered that it was her birthday. He had stopped giving gifts and cards years ago.
“What could it be?” she said while Charlie loosened the lid.
“Maybe it’s a muzzle to keep you from talking so much.”
One more pry with the crowbar and the lid opened revealing a cardboard box. Charlie pulled a knife from his pocket, squatted down by the container, and made an incision from the bottom to the top.
“Please, be careful,” said Mable.
Charlie stood up and glared at her.
“Sorry. I’m just excited
.”
“I don’t have to do this,” said Charlie with a frown.
“Why do you want to ruin this for me? I didn’t get in the way when Buddy sent you a present.”
Charlie went back to work and seconds later Mable got her first look at her gift. He pulled a china dinner plate from the box and handed it to her.
“How beautiful,” she said, inspecting the pattern of rust and white flowers with branches. “Must have cost a fortune.”
“Good Lord, Mable. That boy must have thought that we were gonna feed an army. Never saw so many dishes. Where you gonna put ‘em?”
“We can stack them on the kitchen table for now,” she said and then propped open the screen door.
Carefully, each plate, cup, saucer, and accessory were removed from the box, carried through the living room into the kitchen, and stacked on the table. Mable was so overcome with joy that she cried.
“What’s the matter with you woman?” said Charlie. “Thought this would have made you happy.”
“I am happy. Never been so happy. I’ve never seen something so beautiful.”
Charlie hummed his favorite melody again and returned to the front porch for another armload of china. When the task was completed, there was no room left on the table. It looked like a city of dishes.
Mable stood by the table, surveyed the collection, and smiled at her husband.
“What?” he asked. He hadn’t seen that impish grin in years.
“So, when company comes and I put out these fine dishes, are you still gonna use that broken fork and your old chipped plate?”
“Expect so.”
“Charlie Polk. Why would you want to go and embarrass me like that?”
And then Charlie smiled and looked at the pile of dishes for a moment and then back at her. “Go change your dress.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to Winchester to get you a proper cabinet for them dishes. Got to hurry though ‘cause I’d like to get a little sleep before I have to go to work tonight.”
Mable was flabbergasted, but she wasn’t about to argue. It didn’t take them long to pick out the best china cabinet they could afford. In fact, it was the cheapest shelving piece on the showroom floor. But it was special, a birthday gift from Charlie. When they got home, she even attempted to hug him for his surprising generosity. He didn’t exactly welcome her embrace with open arms but, at least, this time, he didn’t push her away.
“This was the best birthday ever,” said Mable. Moments later she called Helen to tell her the good news. “Gonna put the china in the cabinet until Buddy comes home again.”
Wednesday, May 25
Mable was cleaning up the kitchen after serving Charlie his breakfast, part of the daily ritual when he worked the graveyard shift. He was already in bed, sound asleep. His snoring could be heard at the kitchen sink where Mable was applying considerable elbow grease to a heavy iron skillet.
While wiping off the table, she admired her new china cabinet and her incredible gift from her son. Helen was taking her good old time coming over to see the 12 piece setting. Mable could sense that her daughter was jealous about the extravagant present and made it a point to rave over the Betty Crocker apron that Helen had given her. “It’s the thought that counts,” said Mable.
Once the kitchen task was completed, Mable’s next chore was waiting for her on the back porch. A bushel of snap beans sat by a cane back chair. They still needed to be snapped and hulled. Later that day she planned to “put them up,” which meant that she was going to can the beans and then put them up on shelves in the cellar.
Mable swore by snapping beans. “Good for what ails you,” she would say. Often, she prayed while she worked and on this day, she was expressing a prayer of gratitude for her wonderful birthday. Even Charlie gave her something, which she believed to be about as close as you get to a real miracle.
About the only thing to bother her was a pesky fly that seemingly had an affinity for her nose. But Mable was prepared. On the floor by her chair was Old Betsie, so named by her grandson, Dickie, after Davey Crocket’s rifle. Dickie was impressed by his grandmother’s accuracy with her fly swatter.
Her focus on the fly was suddenly interrupted by the sound of growling and barking in the backyard. Fearing that a dog had attacked Inky or had gotten in the hen house, Mable grabbed a broom and threw open the back door. What she witnessed was far worse than she imagined. A red fox was standing just outside Inky’s pen and when Mable yelled for him to “git” he paid her no mind.
“Shush, git out of here,” she shouted, but the fox didn’t budge, and continued to growl at Buddy’s little dog. Inky didn’t seem to be bothered, even in the slightest. He just poked his nose through the wire fence as if excited that a friend had come to play. Mable rushed down the steps and into the yard, ready to take a swipe at the angry fox with her broom. Just as she arrived the fox latched hold of Inky’s outstretched snout, clamping down so hard that the little dog was barely able to make a sound. Mable swatted the fox with the broom but to no avail. The wild animal continued to hold his vice-like grip.
Getting no response from the fox, Mable grabbed the animal and frantically attempted to pull it loose from the little dog which already had become lifeless. Charlie was awakened by the commotion and when he saw Mable’s hands on the fox, he yelled. “Let loose. I’ll get my gun.”
While Charlie ran back in the house, Mable stood back, realizing that her efforts at saving Inky’s life had failed. Soon after, Charlie returned and ordered her to get out of the way and then he shot the fox that still had its teeth firmly embedded in the little dog. “Go inside, Mable. Now.”
Once inside, she heard a second gunshot, sat down at the kitchen table, and cried.
Charlie went about the sad task of burying Buddy’s dog in the backyard. When he entered the house, he told Mable he was sure the fox had rabies. “That was a fool thing you did out there. That fox could have killed you.”
“All I could think about was saving Inky,” she said while wiping tears with her apron.
They were both upset over the tragedy. Charlie didn’t even bother to go back to bed. He slumped into his recliner and grieved over Inky, who had become just like a member of the family. Mable stayed in the kitchen for nearly an hour, trying to regain her composure. Then, she asked the question that was on both of their minds. “Should we try to call Buddy or tell him in a letter?”
“Let’s just wait until we can think better. We need to get a vet or somebody with the town of Strasburg to come out here and check that fox for rabies.”
Friday, May 27
At 8:00 p.m., Mable went to the kitchen to prepare a snack for Charlie to take to work. While pulling a slice of bologna from its wrapper, she heard a series of three loud knocks at the front door. Too late for company, she reasoned. Visiting this late at night is rude.
She dropped what she was doing, walked through the living room, and opened the door. But no one was there. She stepped onto the front porch, thinking that her delay in getting to the door had caused the visitor to leave. Still…no sign of anyone.
Like most country folks of Mable’s generation, she was superstitious. Enough so, that she never stepped on the cracks of sidewalks. If a black cat crossed her path, she immediately responded by making the sign of the cross. Spilled salt was always a concern, for which the remedy was to sling some salt over her shoulder. But the omen that she just heard was the worst of all. Three knocks on a door signaled the imminent death of a family member. In her mind, it wasn’t something that might happen. It was a sure thing. Who could it be?
While returning to her snack-making chore in the kitchen, Mable inventoried the sick members of her family to determine if there were any prime candidates for a rapid demise. But, to her knowledge, there were none. She tried to avoid thinking that it might be her children or grandchild. Couldn’t handle that. Time to turn on the TV and put it out of her mind. That still didn’t keep her from expecting the phone
to ring.
How she hated Charlie’s graveyard shift at the Viscose. He didn’t leave until after 10:00 p.m. and the Plant bus didn’t return until 9:30 the following morning. It’s not that Strasburg was a dangerous place to live, but those lonely hours at night were unsettling. In light of the recent death omen, tonight would be exceedingly disconcerting.
She watched television as long as she could. Made it all the way to the National Anthem and the test pattern at midnight. Since Buddy’s 2-week leave in March, Mable had initiated a nightly ritual in which she envisioned her son, sitting on the red vinyl stool in the living room, shining his shoes, just as he did when he was home on leave. And although she never told anyone, for fear of people thinking that she was out of her mind, she could actually feel his presence. In those moments, she talked to him, especially when something troubled her. She still hadn’t gotten up the nerve to share the bad news about Inky, not in a letter, and not in her imagined meetings.
The conversation began, like always, with the sound turned down on the TV, to avoid the annoying audio that accompanied the snowy screen after signoff. She settled into her favorite chair and began to think about Buddy. She had a laundry list of questions that she went over in her mind, one by one. How was your day? Are you getting enough to eat? Have you made any new friends?
There were never any audible answers to her inquiries, and even though he wasn’t there in body, she was convinced that he was there in spirit. She reasoned that a mother’s love was supernatural and unlimited by distance and circumstances.
However, that night there was something strangely different. She felt a sense of dread and panic that she had not experienced in previous visits. Mable closed her eyes, thinking that she just needed to try harder to reach him, but this time, the message was even stronger than before. Buddy was in danger. She just knew it. Something terrible was about to happen and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. And then there was that awful omen.
Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2) Page 20
