Stars Over Clear Lake

by Loretta Ellsworth

  “When?”

  He shook his head. “Soon.”

  We were quiet for a while, listening to the sound of the wind creaking through the slats in the barn and the scurrying of cats among the haystacks.

  “Jens, I don’t want you to go.”

  His hand rested on my face. “I do not want to leave you.”

  “Please do something for me?” I asked.

  “Anything,” he said.

  I was tired of pain and emptiness. I wanted to feel again. And there was only one person my body responded to.

  “Kiss me,” I said.

  He kissed me then. His lips were soft on mine, a whisper-kiss. It was delicate, as though he was afraid of hurting me. He pulled back and looked at me.

  “Günther give me your letter. You must not wait for me. You must go to university. You must find happiness.” His eyes searched mine. “I will never forget you.”

  I held his face in my hands and felt his lips against my fingers. I kissed him then. A long kiss of passion. A kiss he would remember so that he’d find his way back to me someday.

  “I won’t forget you, either,” I said, gripping his neck, and I kissed him again. He pushed me back against the door and our kisses became more urgent. My throat ached with longing. I pressed into him and felt his body shudder. He kissed my neck and his hand was under my blouse, cupping my breast. Then, suddenly, he pulled away.

  I reached out to him, but he kept my arms back. He was breathing raggedly; his face was flushed.

  “No,” he said, but I could see that he wanted this as much as I did. He was shaking with desire.

  “Jens,” I said. “We may never see each other again.” This was reason enough for me.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled, letting go of my arms. “Not this way,” he finally said.

  “I want this,” I said, even as I wondered if people were missing me inside. Jens ran his long fingers through my hair, caressing individual strands as though memorizing them.

  “I love you, mein Schatz,” he said softly, and I understood that he was going to leave me, that he wouldn’t be coming back to this farm, which already felt empty and desolate because Pete was gone.

  Jens kissed me again, but it was a leaving kiss, one that held sorrow and loss. He stepped away. “I must go back.” He pressed a picture into my hand. It showed him bending over in our field, stripped down to his T-shirt and pants, his blond hair reflecting the light and the dog tag dangling from his neck.

  “Norman took picture and give it to me. I give it to you so you can remember me. Remember that I love you.”

  He touched my face and forced out a sad smile. Then he left.

  Twenty-three

  2007

  I’m looking through the old photo album when Daisy arrives.

  “I’m double-parked,” she says. “Aren’t you ready yet?”

  I continue to flip through the worn pages, trancelike and mesmerized, and am reminded of a line an author had quoted at a library talk Sid and I had attended: “Memories are poetic truths that blur the line between reality and fantasy.” After speaking to that man at the dance last night, I’d hoped that seeing these old photos would help me distinguish what was true and put the past to rest. I was sure there was a picture of Jimmy Dorsey here somewhere.

  “I was going through these while waiting.” I finally look up from the floor, a stack of albums beside me.

  “Why did you start this when you have an appointment?” She unfolds her arms and picks up one of the albums. “These are ancient.”

  The pictures are mounted on black paper with the dates written underneath.

  “They’re pictures from my youth, thank you very much. Old, not ancient.”

  “Who’s this guy in uniform?”

  “My brother Pete. You’ve seen pictures of him before, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t remember. He looks so young.”

  “He was young.”

  “Is this you, Mom?” Daisy holds a picture of me in front of a microphone. “Where was this taken?”

  “The Surf.”

  “I didn’t know you sang there.”

  The words are on my tongue, the cutting reply that she doesn’t know because she’s never been interested in my past, but I swallow them down.

  “Why did you quit singing?”

  I shrug. “I was too busy. I made a choice, I guess. I’ll put these away later,” I say, grabbing a sweater. Daisy looks as though she wants to protest. She never leaves her house in the tiniest bit of disarray. But I stand at the door and she sighs and follows me out.

  The tests are exhausting. The cardiologist assures me he’ll call with the results, but I hear Daisy talking to him in the hallway. It makes me feel like an invalid when she takes it upon herself to have private conversations about my health without consulting me. I know she’s worried after losing her father just last year, so I let it pass.

  After Daisy drops me back at home, I’m too tired to clean up. Instead, I take a short nap on the sofa, surrounded by black-and-white photos of people who are long gone.

  I wake up feeling confused, as though I was dreaming and my dream slipped away before my mind could make sense of it. Something about the Surf.

  I have a nagging headache that sleeping during the day often gives me. I hope fresh air and a change of scenery will provide some relief, and find myself driving back to the ballroom. I can’t help but feel drawn to the place.

  It’s dusk when I arrive. The front door is unlocked and the lights are on, but I don’t see anyone else around. I peek in the outer office. I can hear voices coming from another door inside; it appears as though they’re in a meeting.

  People in North Iowa have always loved to dance. The White Pier Dance Hall was the first ballroom to be set up in 1911 and offered dime dances, but it was destroyed by a tornado. The Surf took its place until 1947, when it burned down, and the rebuilt Surf has lasted almost sixty years. I have no doubt it will outlast me.

  I wander down one of the hallways filled top to bottom with pictures on both sides. Most of them are signed photos from musicians recognizing the Surf or one of its managers throughout the years. A young-looking Lawrence Welk, the Clooney sisters, Glenn Miller. All the great musicians have played on this stage. How lucky I’ve been to see so many of them.

  One picture is of the original building with old jalopies parked out front. On the corner of the building is a sign: Beer—Eats. Decker’s. My mouth waters at the memory of their delicious hamburgers. Did they really taste better back then or is it just the nostalgia?

  I come to the picture of Jimmy Dorsey and stop. I have to make sure it was really him. I run my finger along the glass over his handwriting:

  To Alvin

  Sincerely,

  Jimmy Dorsey

  He has that same twinkle in his eye that makes me grin now as I think of dancing with him. This place makes me feel young, as though the air is charged with an energy that I can’t identify.

  What was it that strange man said to me the last time I was here, that the magic is part of all of us, that it’s in our blood? Is that why the Surf has lasted so long?

  “Skippy.”

  I jump. A sudden chill runs up my arms. I haven’t heard that voice in over sixty years and yet I still recognize it.

  I turn and he’s standing beside me in his dress uniform with the woolen shirt, black tie, and black belt that fastens over the jacket, one that he doesn’t quite fill out. His cap sits straight over his dark hair. He’s so young and thin, with the same crooked smile as Daddy.

  “Aren’t you going to say hi to your big brother?”

  “Pete,” I croak, tears filling my eyes.

  He reaches over and wipes a tear rolling down my cheek. “Hey, don’t go getting all mushy on me now.”

  I put my hand on his, resting it on my cheek. “Either you’re real or I’m having one hell of a hallucination.”

  “Little sister learned to cuss,” he says, raising his eyebr
ows. “It’s me. In the flesh.” He winks at his joke.

  “I can’t believe it.” I shake my head. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I miss you too, Skippy. You’re looking good.”

  I let out a short laugh. “I’m old, Pete.”

  “And you’ve aged well. Living has been good for you.”

  “You were so young when you died,” I say, my voice filled with sadness. “So many things you didn’t get to see or do.”

  He tilts his head. “My timeline was different than yours. Doesn’t mean I didn’t have a good life, though.”

  I have a sudden revelation. “I thought of you today and here you are,” I say. “That’s why you’re here.”

  He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way, Skippy. I’m not here because you summoned me.”

  “Why are you here?” Although I don’t really care what the reason is. My big brother is standing in front of me.

  “Come on,” he says, and takes my arm. He leads me down the hallway to another large room, the one that used to be a restaurant. The Surfside Six Café sold hamburgers, French fries, and old-fashioned malts. Now it’s an empty room, a museum of sorts, dedicated to rock and roll. There are guitars on the wall and memorabilia, and hundreds of pictures, including a large tribute to the legends who died in the plane crash after the famous Winter Dance Party of 1959.

  “Time stands still here,” he says as we walk past the phone that Buddy Holly used to call his wife the night he died.

  “I suppose it does.” I want to freeze time and stay here with him.

  He gives me a slight push. “Do you remember when I first learned to dance? How I used you as my guinea pig?”

  “You were horrible,” I say.

  “I didn’t want to bring you to the Surf,” he says. “I didn’t want the other girls to think you were my date.”

  “Then why did you let me tag along?”

  “Because you could dance and you made me look good. I wasn’t as self-conscious about asking them to dance after I’d twirled around the floor with you.”

  “Lucky you had good looks or no girls would have ever danced with you.”

  He twirls me around. I laugh as he catches me.

  “See? I learned a few things without your help.”

  “Oh, God! I’ve missed this!” I feel the sudden pang of regret for all those years we lost, all the experiences we didn’t get to share.

  “No tears, Skippy. Your big brother is here to help. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

  “Help? I don’t understand.”

  “How come you never listened to my record player?”

  “It was too painful,” I say, thinking of how the player is still stored in a box in the back of my closet. “It was yours.”

  “Darn tootin’ it was mine. But I left it to you, Skippy. Now it’s an artifact in your own miniature museum.”

  “My museum? That makes me feel even older than I am.”

  He laughs. “You always cracked me up.” Then he frowns. “But I meant for you to listen to my records and remember me.”

  “As if I could ever forget you, Pete.”

  “To hide who a person was and what they loved is the same as forgetting. Still, I forgive you, sis. And you’ll figure things out.”

  “I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to figure out,” I say. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  He takes both my hands in his. “Don’t fret about it. It’ll come. I gotta go now.”

  “No! Don’t leave me.”

  He nods toward the office. “Meeting’s over. I don’t want them wondering what a World War Two soldier is doing wandering around the place.”

  “But I still don’t understand,” I object.

  “You will. I have faith in you. You’re the smart one, remember?”

  “Please,” I beg him. “Stay with me a little longer.”

  “I’ll promise you a dance,” he says. “Next time. Hey. Who’s in that picture?” He points at the wall.

  I glance away for just a second. “What picture?”

  When I turn around he’s gone.

  “You tricky Pete,” I say, my eyes filling again.

  I cry all the way home.

  *

  I lock the door behind me when I get home, a city thing. We never locked our door on the farm. It’s dark out and I’m exhausted, but I can’t go to bed. I don’t want to dream, not when my whole life has become one, when I’m having trouble discerning what’s real or not.

  I end up looking through the old photo albums again, studying Pete’s face. I look at pictures of us swimming at the lake, standing in front of our barn, which seemed old even when we were young. I come across a picture of our whole family on Pete’s birthday. The last picture of us all together.

  Mom and I are standing in front, and Pete and Daddy are behind us. We’re all dressed in our Sunday best, Mom and I in sleeveless dresses and the two men in suits. Mom has a round hat on her head, one with a bow on the front. Pete has his hand on my shoulder and he’s flashing a tolerant smile, as though we’re keeping him from something more important. He enlisted the next day.

  I search my closet and find Pete’s old record player. I wipe off a layer of dust from the tan lid and open it. The vinyl record still sits on the turntable, the same one Pete had played before he’d left. I locate the plug and fit it into the socket, wondering if it will even work after all these years. Then I turn the switch.

  Dick Robertson’s voice sputters and comes to life with the static haziness of bygone technology. I lean back and listen to the scratchy song, feeling melancholic for my youth. I dread being alone every day, getting older and more out of touch with the world, becoming a walking relic.

  Life was so much easier back then. At least that’s how I remember it.

  Twenty-four

  November, 1944

  “They’re gone,” Daddy said in a low voice so that Mom wouldn’t hear us, even though she’d barely left her bed since the funeral. “Shipped out to England. The camp offered us replacements, but I told ’em no.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same,” I said. The men hadn’t been back since we’d had the news about Pete. The farm was eerily quiet without them. Even the animals seemed restless.

  Grandma Kindred, who was readying herself to leave after helping out for a couple of weeks, made a tsk sound. “Good riddance. I never did feel comfortable with them on this land.”

  Daddy and I shared a silent look. We both knew differently.

  Grandma pointed upward. “Besides, I think having to see those men every day would upset Gladys more than necessary.”

  Whereas she hadn’t slept before, Mom barely did anything now except sleep. The blue star in our window was replaced with a gold one, and all the shades were drawn. Anyone who passed by our house would see the mark of death.

  Mom became thin and pale and had to be reminded to do basic things such as wash herself and eat and drink. Without Grandma, I’d have to take over the household chores until Mom recovered.

  “I wish she’d just yell at me,” Daddy finally said. “Anything is better than this damn silence.”

  “People deal with grief in different ways,” Grandma said. “She’s still in shock.”

  “She’s always been this way,” Daddy responded. “But losing Pete”—he shook his head and wiped at his nose—“this is too much. She might just curl up into her shell and never come back out. I don’t want to lose her, too.”

  “We won’t, Daddy,” I said, although I had no idea how to stop that from happening. Pete was the only one who had ever been able to get through to Mom. I could barely get her to eat. Despite coming from hardscrabble farm stock, Mom wasn’t a strong woman, but she was a stubborn one.

  “It might be time to call Doc Cornelius,” Grandma said as she picked up her purse and coat. Whatever we did, it was clear that Mom was our responsibility now.

  “We’ll make sure she eats,” Daddy said as Grandma walked out
the door. As though food could cure her.

  As soon as Grandma had left, Mom took up stalking around the house all night and sleeping during the day. I could hear her footsteps pacing in the hallway. Some mornings I’d find her asleep on Pete’s bed.

  Two weeks after Grandma left, Daddy finally called the doctor. I led him up to her room and knocked softly, opening the door a crack.

  “Mom, Dr. Cornelius is here to see you.”

  “Go away,” she said and pulled the blanket up to her nose.

  “Remember that I told you he was coming?” I said, feeling embarrassed by her behavior.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” she said. But I knew otherwise. Yesterday I’d noticed her ribcage through her nightgown, how the gown swallowed her like a bird peeking out from an oversized nest.

  Doctor Cornelius entered the room and instructed me to open the shades. “I may need your help in getting her undressed,” he whispered.

  The room smelled like sweat and, if there was an odor associated with it, sadness.

  He sat his black bag down and pulled up the chair that Daddy’s flannel shirt was draped across. Mom looked fearful, but when Doc Cornelius asked her to let him listen to her heart, she lowered the blanket. He nodded at me then. “You can wait in the hallway.”

  I paced outside the door, listening. At one point I heard Mom crying, and the doctor softly hushing her. When he finally opened the door to leave, he gave me a bottle of tranquilizers. “Make sure she only takes one at night.”

  He paused on the steps. “And don’t leave them out where she can get them.”

  *

  In December, when Pete’s friend Mike Schmitt died in the Battle of the Bulge, I didn’t think my heart could feel any more pain. Would the war last forever or until there weren’t any boys left?

  The darkness of winter surrounded the farm and our lives. Pete’s room was closed up, a mausoleum of everything Pete, of our lives before. For the first time we didn’t put up a Christmas tree. Instead, we attended Midnight Mass and had a quiet supper of oyster stew that Daddy and I made afterward as we listened to Christmas music on the radio.

  Mom didn’t cry at the news of Mike’s death. In fact, I hadn’t seen Mom cry since Pete’s death. She just became a blank surface. Daddy spent more time out in the barn, coming in late and sleeping on the couch. I went back and forth between feeling sorry for Mom and being angry with her. She still had a husband and a daughter. Weren’t we worth living for?