by Aubrey Wynne
The silence was broken by a teeny hiccup then they all talked at once.
“Is she all right?” her father asked with concern.
“Oh, she needs a burp,” said her mother.
“She spit up. Oh, it smells!” gasped Laura.
And then they were a family again, laughing together. “Can I hug my little girl?”
Laura nodded and held up the baby. He shook his head. “I’ll take her next. I want to hug my little girl.” Her mom took Lizzie, and her father sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her in his arms. His hug was so tight, she could barely breathe.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Can you forgive a grumpy, stubborn old man?” He leaned back and swiped at his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I backed myself into a corner with my pride and didn’t know how to get out. I was so afraid you would end up a widow. And then when I heard you were pregnant, the child might not ever know his father…”
She hugged him again, tears of relief spilling down her cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much, Daddy.”
“I love you to the moon and back,” he whispered in her ear. “To the moon and back, my baby girl.”
Elizabeth let out a wail, letting everyone know she wanted to be the center of attention. “Now let me see my beautiful granddaughter.”
December, 1953
South Korean
Joe tossed in his sleep, the rough wool blanket coiled around his legs as he kicked to free himself. His head moved and back and forth. He mumbled unintelligible sounds and cried out occasionally.
The wheels hit another rut, jarring his bones and splashing a muddy slime across the jeep. Joe swiped at his eyes and adjusted his helmet. His partner, Butch, sat dozing in the passenger seat. The fighting had lasted five days, and no one had slept much. One more sweep to make sure they hadn’t missed anyone. The clouds and thick mist blurred his vision as he peered into the ditches and slowed along a line of scrub. He thought he saw a fence in the distance but wasn’t sure.
He turned the jeep off the road, and as he drew closer, a dark image clung to the barbed wire. Bile rose in his throat. A body dangled in the cable, face down, arms and legs twisted as if he’d struggled violently to free himself. His helmet straps dangled in the whipping wind. Joe threw the clutch and left the motor running.
“Butch, wake up. Found another one.” He heard a grunt and the plop of boots hitting the mud. The click of the rifle told him Butch scoped the area while Joe tried to untangle the body.
He grabbed an arm and pulled the body around, seeing the gut wound that must have killed the man. As he tried to pick the barbs from his face, the soldier’s eyes opened.
“Son-of-a—” Joe’s hands flew up as if in surrender, and he took two steps back. The soldier spun face down again. “He’s alive. This one’s alive.”
He started talking to combat the shock in his gut. “We gotcha, soldier. We gotcha.” He turned him over again, this time hoping the eyes still had life. “What’s your name?”
“Fffred,” he croaked.
“This will hurt Fred, but we have to get you out of this wire.” Joe looked over his shoulder. “C’mon Butch. I need some help.”
A hand grabbed his jacket and pulled him down with surprising force. “Don’t let,”—the soldier coughed then gasped for air—“me die. I can’t…die.”
“i won’t, Fred. I gotcha.” He looked over his shoulder. “Butch, did you hear me?”
His partner was looking at something on the ground. He kicked at it, and the earth exploded in slow motion. Debris, rifle, and helmet sprayed over them as the earth shook. A rifle landed near Joe’s foot. He turned back to Fred. The soldier’s eyes were wide open and unblinking. His mouth hung open, blood dripping from the side.
“NOOOOO!”
Joe sat up, his t-shirt damp with a cold sweat. He blinked, his chest heaving as he struggled for air. He hadn’t had that dream in a month, had hoped it was gone. But his mind told him that scene would haunt him until the day he died. He understood why soldiers held their tongues and didn’t talk much about their experiences. And Joe only had a taste of what some had lived through.
He reached for his photo of Laura Beth, holding it to his chest like an antidote for his racing heart. Until both feet were safely on Texan soil, he didn’t feel safe. They patrolled the countryside and hills, informing civilians and soldiers that the war was over. Snipers were still a daily occurrence, and he heard stories of men dying the day before they shipped home. Leaning on his elbow, he reached for his jacket and fumbled in the pocket for her letter.
Carefully, Joe unfolded the paper. He rubbed his finger across the tiny lock of dark hair, tied in a knot and taped to the bottom of the page. The creases in the letter were so worn, he was afraid it might rip. Too many times opening and closing, reading and rereading. But it got him through. Some guys drank, others smoked weed, Joey had his letters and this knot of hair.
My dearest Joey,
We have a daughter. A beautiful, perfect, loud, and demanding daughter. Elizabeth Dixie McCall burst into the world on October 3 at 1:17 in the afternoon. She has your dark hair and coffee eyes and my heart-shaped face and small ears. (Yes, I was a little worried she’d have your adorable Dumbo ears.) No one can look at her without falling madly in love.
My father came to the hospital the day she was born. He took one look at her and melted. He comes with Mom now every Sunday for dinner. Leroy is starting to warm up to him. Daddy says he will wait until he can see you in person for apologies. Mom sends her love, and your dad is enclosing another page of jokes and crossword puzzles.
I love you, Joey. I am counting the days before we are together again. It’s been less than a year but feels like a lifetime. I swear when I told you I loved you, the stars whispered back last night. But maybe it was Lizzie, sighing in her sleep. Come home to me soon, darling.
Your loving wife,
Laura Beth
P.S. Lizzie sends butterfly kisses to her daddy.
Joe continued to rub the small lock of his daughter’s hair until he fell asleep. This time he dreamt of Sweet Grove and backyard barbecues with a baby on his knee.
Chapter 10
“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”
Nelson Mandela
April 1954
Sweet Grove, Texas
“Here comes the train, here it comes, Beth!” Leroy ran back to the small group, waiting anxiously on the platform. The baby began to cry, and Laura bounced her soothingly
“Good job, son,” Max called. The boy had needed a job after they were informed the train was running late. He’d kept busy, ear to the ground, playing Indian tracker and listening for the vibration of the train on the tracks.
Laura’s stomach twisted. What if he had changed? What if he was no longer her Joey? Max said men often came back from war different: grown up, cynical, their dreams shattered. Would her husband be relieved to be home? Indifferent or angry?
“Let me take Lizzie,” her mother said. “I think you’ll be busy in a moment.”
Joey stepped onto the platform, the sun glinting off his silver buttons and looking so handsome in his uniform. There were lines on his face that had not been there before. When he smiled, crow’s feet framed his eyes and a slight crease appeared below each cheek. But when their eyes locked, the love was there, undimmed.
“Joey, oh Joey.” She ran then, ran with all the fear and hope and longing she’d kept inside the past year. Throwing herself in his arms, he picked her up and held her tight. His face, buried in her neck, was warm and wet. His tears or hers? She laughed and cried and swiped at her face until his lips were on hers, and all thought was gone. Oh, Joey. My Joey. You came home to me. It echoed in her brain over and over.
“Laura Beth, my sweet Laura Beth,” he whispered, his voice low as it caught, then he claimed her lips again.
She heard the muffled sounds of their family behind
them. Pushing gently away, Laura nodded her head at the group. “I think it’s their turn now.”
He smiled over her head, and it was the cue Leroy had been waiting for. He did a rocket launch into his big brother’s arms. “You look old, Joe. I do, too. Don’t you think? Beth said I’ve grown a bushel and a peck since you left.”
He set the boy back on the ground and looked him over. “Why I do believe you’ve aged a year or so.” He ruffled Leroy’s hair and looked at his father. “Pa?”
Max clutched his oldest son in a tight embrace, slapping his back several times as if to reassure himself Joe was really home. “So happy to see you back, son. I told your mama to watch over you.”
“She did a real good job. A few scratches but nothing fatal, and no matching limp.” He gave the group a crooked smile. “What I wouldn’t give for some ribs and a cold Lone Star right now.”
“And how about some of my homemade potato salad?” Shirley stepped up, holding Lizzie. She gave him a one-armed hug and then handed over the baby, who had somehow fallen asleep. “Meet your daughter.”
Wonder passed over his face. “So much prettier than the photograph,” he murmured and rubbed her chin with a finger. “Hi Lizzie, I’m your daddy. I’ve been gone for awhile, but I’m here to stay now.” He kissed her soft, pink cheek, and then looked at Laura’s father.
“Mr. Walters,” he said formally, and put out one hand while he balanced his daughter. “Good to see you, sir.”
“Glenn, please,” his father-in-law responded. “It’s an honor to be part of this homecoming, Joe.” His eyes held the unspoken apology, and Laura knew there would be a private talk in the near future.
“Well, let’s get this party started,” yelled Leroy. “Pa’s had that meat soakin’ all morning, and Beth squeezed lemons for lemonade, and I have a new football.”
Laura closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks as she took Lizzie back into her arms. There was nothing like being surrounded by family. Her life had tipped upside down for a while, but everything was right again. Her world was once again secure.
June, 1954
Sweet Grove
“NO-O-O-O!”
Laura sat up in the bed, her heart pounding. Her mind went to the crib. The baby! But Lizzie snored softly. Her husband thrashed and rolled, the moonlight slanting through the shades, illuminating his pale, sweaty face.
“Joey, wake up. Wake up, it’s the dream again.” She pulled on his arm then got on her knees and shook both shoulders. His eyes popped open, wide and unseeing. His arms flew up, knocking her backwards against the pillows.
She watched as the rise and fall of his chest slowed, and the panting eased. Now he looked back at her as she leaned against the headboard, recognition in his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He held out his arms.
Laura slid next to him, her cheek against his slick, cold skin. He had her in a death grip, his lids closed now as she stroked his face. “I’m here, hon. You’re home, you’re home.” He silently nodded, and she continued her soothing strokes until his breathing steadied, and he snored softly.
Her husband had been home more than a month. In the light of day, all appeared normal. He joked, worked at the shop, played with his brother and daughter, and made love to her every night like a starved man. But when he closed his eyes, the haunting began. The nightmares that racked his body had decreased but still terrified both of them with their ferocity. The helplessness, as she watched the horror on his face and the pain in those unseeing eyes, ripped her heart in two.
In a few hours, the sun slanted across the crib—a new day. Lizzie stirred, spurring Laura into motion. She kissed Joey’s cheek and climbed out of bed. Sunday. How she loved Sundays. Hamburgers, spicy baked beans, guacamole, and whatever dessert Mom would grace them with today. The backyard had become her haven over the past year, and with Joey home it seemed more like heaven. She shuffled down the hall in her robe and slippers.
The aroma of brewing coffee floated from the kitchen. Laura smiled, knowing Max would be waiting for their morning talk. The ritual had begun when she was pregnant, and she wanted to know everything about Joey as a child. Max had shared so much with her. How he met Dixie, the birth of Joey, the arguments when he enlisted. She knew about his injury and homecoming and the blessing of Leroy, fourteen years after the doctor had told them it was impossible. “Our reward for keeping faith,” Dixie had always told him.
Max often spoke his own brand of philosophy over the rim of a cup. “Sometimes you’re fortunate enough to cross paths with an extraordinary person. A person who changes your life or completes you. Dixie completed me. I knew I could do anything with that woman by my side.” Max’s eyes went misty, a melancholy smile on his lips. “I think you are that person for Joe.”
She had balked at that. “I’m just a small town girl in love with the boy next door.”
“You are the glue that has held our family together. Don’t ever underestimate yourself, girl. There’s more strength in you than half the soldiers I’ve known.”
Today, Max had a grin on his face as he held out his hands for his granddaughter. “So I fixed up this puffy bolster for little Lizzie’s high chair.” Max had pulled Leroy’s high chair out of the garage, stripped and painted it white and yellow. He set her in the wooden seat while Laura put the tray on. Max pulled out a small rectangular pillow and fit it behind and around Lizzie. She gurgled and pounded on the tray while he adjusted it.
“There, that will keep her sitting up straight. We want the little chicken comfortable.” He chucked her chin and went to the cupboard, pulling out the Beechnut oatmeal and putting water on to boil. “I’ll start her breakfast if you’ll start ours.”
“Deal,” she said, laughing at Lizzie as she squealed and demanded Papa’s attention with his finger gripped in her hand. “She looks stronger, don’t you think?”
Max opened his mouth to speak then only nodded.
“Max, don’t you think so? It’s the coughing that worries me.” The baby seemed to cough more when she ate. They had thinned the cereal, hoping that would help. “Look at her beating up that stuffed elephant.”
“She sure does have some good arms on her,” Max agreed. “But Shirley said by nine months she should be rolling over and sitting up by herself. Maybe with the coughing, it wouldn’t hurt to take her to the doctor.”
Anger flared in her chest, and Laura tamped it down. “She’s fine. She’s our perfect little girl, aren’t you?” Lizzie’s dark eyes squinted as she giggled and hiccupped, clapping her hands. “But I suppose I could make an appointment.”
Later that week, Joey took the afternoon off and drove them to Doc Peters office. “He was our doctor when we were kids,” Laura told told Lizzie as they drove down Main Street. “He says he’s retiring next year.”
“He says that every year. He is pretty much retired except for check-ups for the little ones.” Joey gave both girls a side-glance. “He still likes to flirt with the young moms.”
Mrs. Peters greeted them in the entry of the house. “Come on in, he’s in his office. And isn’t she growing?”
They entered the paneled room, dwarfed by a huge mahogany desk with two leather chairs facing it. Dr. Peters sat in a larger leather chair that swiveled as he turned to greet them. A small exam table hid in the corner behind a screen.
“Well, isn’t this nice? The whole family.” The older man came forward, his dark eyes glinting with humor, his hand extended to shake Joe’s. He pinched Lizzie’s cheek and gave Laura a kiss on the forehead. His silver goatee tickled her nose. “How are the folks?”
They both answered “Fine” and sat down in front of his desk. Laura launched right in. “Mom says she should be sitting up. Kids develop at their own speed, right? I’m more concerned that she coughs when she eats sometimes.”
“Hold your horses. Let’s take her over to the exam table and get a look at her first.” The doctor went through the usual motions of a physical, then stood her up, laid her on her belly and
back, moved her arms and legs around. He made little noises that had Laura holding her breath. “What’s wrong?”
“Let’s go sit down and we’ll talk.”
Once the baby was dressed, they sat in front of the desk again. “I have to agree with Shirley on her mobility. I’d like to see her sitting up and even trying to crawl. Does she roll over?”
“Not really,” answered Joe. “She tries once in a while.”
“It’s my fault,” Laura blurted out, hating the panic in her voice. “I hold her all the time. I need to give her more opportunity—”
“This is not a blaming session,” Dr. Peters intervened. “It has to do with muscle strength. Has she had a fever at all? Been off, even just a bit?”
They both shook their heads. Laura swallowed. “You’re not thinking polio?”
“I wouldn’t rule anything out. But if she hasn’t been sick at all, I doubt it. It’s the lack of muscle tone that concerns me. Her chest is also congested, which could be why she’s coughing.” He tapped his chin. “Let me write you a prescription for that cough, then continue to work on standing her up and rolling over. Come back in a month, and we’ll see how she’s doing then. I want to keep an eye on this little one.”
Chapter 11
“There is no word for feeling nostalgic about the future, but that’s what a parent’s tears often are, a nostalgia for something that has not yet occurred. They are the pain of hope, the helplessness of hope, and finally, the surrender to hope.”
Michael Ian Black
September, 1954
Austin, Texas
Joey grabbed onto Laura Beth’s hand as the specialist rustled his papers. She rubbed circles on her belly with her other hand. A self-soothing habit, he had learned. They were expecting a second child in December. But right now, his mind was focused on his first child. There was something wrong. He’d had to pull teeth to get his wife to agree to tests. Doc Peters had recommended the hospital in Austin last July. For an intelligent woman, Laura continued to be blind to their daughter’s lack of progress. A nurse watched their little girl in the next room as they found out the results.
