by J. L. Salter
She smiled softly and turned. They embraced. “Yeah. But not tonight, Mitch. This flashback stuff has my head spinning.” She feared he might sulk a bit.
But he didn’t. Mitch drew her closely to him… full length. Though standing so closely that a sideways paper clip couldn’t slide between them, they were not really touching… except where her breast met his stomach. Not actually embracing. He looked down into her eyes deeply and touched the sides of her face very lightly. His entire mood had seemed to change abruptly. “Kelly, I love you so much.” He seemed to be looking past her eyes and into her soul. He seemed to want to say a lot more.
Kelly had expected him to pout at being told goodnight. But he obviously had something on his mind. Something important.
He started to speak, but stopped. Then he gulped. “And sometimes, Kelly, I get… scared…”
That caught her off guard. “Scared of what?”
It took him a while to reply. “Lately, a feeling. A sense that something’s about to happen to you.” When he cleared his throat softly, his expression seemed unusually heavy.
She wondered if he was thinking about his late wife’s sudden illness and death. “What, Mitch?”
His voice got husky. “That something bad is going to happen and I won’t be there to…”
Kelly grasped Mitch like he was about to plunge from a landing. She held on, so tightly that her face pressed into his chest and she could barely breathe. “That won’t happen, Mitch. I know it won’t.”
His shoulders trembled slightly. “I know, Kelly. It probably won’t. But I can’t shake this sudden feeling…” He clung to Kelly and they held each other until both could speak again.
Kelly was first to contain her emotions and realized she needed to retreat from the uncomfortable territory of their conversation. She pulled back from their tight embrace so she could see his face and dabbed a knuckle at her eyes. “Well, you ought to scoot. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, finishing up my notes from that lo-o-ong interview with Coffey. Plus I need to go to that funeral and nab whatever interviews I can squeeze in.” She wanted to shift Mitch’s attention from the sudden foreboding which seemed to have upset him so. “And I’ll need some time to figure out what to wear to a graveside of somebody I never met.”
“Kelly…”
“Nothing’s going to happen, Mitch. Tomorrow’s just a long day for me, with hopefully a bushel of interviews, but otherwise uneventful. Remember, this is the little city of Somerset.”
Though he hugged her again tightly before he departed, Mitch did not say another word.
Chapter Six
October 9, 2007 — [Tuesday, late evening]
Somerset, KY
Several hours after Mitch had departed and Kelly’s stomach had settled from their pizza buffet supper, she brewed a pot of Aunt Mildred’s stale tea. Well, maybe it wasn’t actually stale, but it certainly was old. Kelly swore she recognized some of those very same paper envelopes from the summer she had stayed with her aunt in Somerset, over a dozen years before.
Warm in a heavy jacket, Kelly sat on her porch alone except for the little watchdog, Perra. Between sips of hot tea, she gazed at the small blinking red lights atop radio towers on the knobs to the south and east. As she swirled the remaining tea around her china cup, she thought she heard June Allyson’s voice saying, “Edgar’s friend was killed. The commander can help you.”
Kelly looked up as though the late actress might have been right beside her. Perra seemed alerted, but only at Kelly’s sudden movement. “Okay, Aunt Mildred, if you say Coffey can help, I’ll give him a call.” She re-entered her cabin, removed her coat, and checked the time on her cell phone: 9:51 p.m. Well, he said I could call anytime.
Coffey answered on the seventh ring and Kelly identified herself.
“I had a feeling you might call. Hang on a sec and let me get comfortable.” Over the phone Kelly could hear Coffey’s efforts to get situated in a seat. In the process, he obviously bumped his sore foot. “Okay, shoot.”
“At your office this afternoon, you suggested my understanding for this special section might be clearer if I could think of the veteran experience from the standpoint of a loved one. My dad died young and was never in the military, but my Uncle Edgar had a long career in the Army Air Corps. I had intended to mention him when we spoke earlier.”
“Must’ve got sidetracked with my war stories…”
Kelly ignored his interruption. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about my uncle a lot lately. In fact, I’ve been having what my boyfriend calls flashbacks.”
“What kind of flashbacks?”
“Oh, the first was remembering his funeral. There were twenty soldiers in uniform at his memorial service, including about a dozen who participated at his burial…”
“Sounds like full military honors.”
“But the other flashbacks were when I visited him in the hospital, and some lovely afternoons at different city parks in Anderson.”
Coffey groaned, which probably meant he’d bumped his gout-inflamed foot again. “Those sound like wonderful memories. Have you recalled any experiences which might help you understand the issues that veterans face? Both while they’re serving and afterwards?”
“One of my flashbacks was to a Vets Day parade he took me to, shortly before he got so sick. I was just a little girl and didn’t understand a lot, but I could tell he was proud of his service and truly devoted to our country.”
Coffey paused. “Were there any other experiences when he might have discussed any of his military years?”
“Uncle Edgar once told me that he was blown out of his boots by one of the bombs as he ran to a chow hall at an airfield near Pearl Harbor. But I didn’t remember this other part until just a few minutes ago, right before I called you. Years after he died, my Aunt Mildred — his sister — finally told me the whole truth. Uncle Edgar was blown out of his boots all right, but it was by an explosion immediately behind him which completely disintegrated his good buddy as they both ran from a hangar toward one of the gun pits out on the flight line. He was at Hickam Field.”
The Commander cleared his throat softly but did not interrupt.
“I was proud of him for running out to that gun pit, but I felt cheated… to find out how my uncle had lied to me. It really made me angry. So angry that I actually forgot the part about his friend dying… until a few minutes ago. Why on earth would he make up the story about the chow hall and leave out the part about the gun pit and his friend being blown to pieces?” Kelly shivered a bit; her cabin seemed unusually chilly inside.
There was another long pause on the other end of the call. “Your uncle’s first version conveyed the drama of that awful, historic moment and also personalized it, but it didn’t mention any of the military and civilian casualties — twenty-four hundred horrible deaths and nearly thirteen hundred with burns and other injuries.”
“But why lie about it? Seems like it would’ve been better not to say anything at all, than to distort it so much.”
“Your uncle sanitized the story so it could be digested by civilians, generally… and by family in particular. Like his young niece.”
Kelly’s eyes were moist. “Do you think that was the right way to, uh, depict the experiences he’d been through? I mean, by cleaning them up so much?”
Coffey paused a good while, as though he were remembering something. “I can’t say if it was the right thing to do, but most all of us did it. Most everybody in combat anyway. I know I did.” He sighed heavily.
This time, Kelly did not interrupt.
“You see, most of the World War II vets didn’t talk about the blood. We all did what we’d been trained to do, but most of the truly courageous fighters didn’t say much about their own valor. I didn’t even tell my Junie about what I’d been through until she asked me, specifically and privately, fifty-some years later. When that Private Ryan movie came out, all the write-ups made reference to vets finally revealing their true stories and it
encouraged their relatives to start asking questions.” Coffey cleared his throat like it contained a lump. “That was the first time I’d ever said much of anything except what countries I’d been to and which battles I’d fought in. That film got me and these other old guys talking. Your Uncle Edgar evidently died before he had a Private Ryan chance… with you.”
It took Kelly a few minutes to compose herself. With all the time they’d spent together, why hadn’t Edgar had a similar intimate moment with her? Had she been that young, that frivolous? Would he have told me if he’d lived a few more years?
Aunt Mildred had been right; the commander could help explain. And Coffey had been right; examining the war through a loved one’s eyes surely brought it home. Kelly realized she was shivering, despite being indoors.
Coffey waited a few quiet moments as Kelly processed her insights and feelings. “Did you get a chance to meet with Master Sergeant Pete Henley?” The commander made a noise like he was chewing on something. “He’s the vet I mentioned who received his Silver Star some fifty years after the war.”
From their afternoon interview, Kelly recalled Coffey was partial to colorful hard candies, but she really wished he wouldn’t try to talk on the phone while eating them. “Not yet. But my landlord set up a meeting for tomorrow. I’ll be joining Pop Walter and the rest of the Honor Guard at a funeral in the morning. Mister Henley…”
“Sergeant Henley.”
“Right. Sergeant Henley will be there along with several men from Post 38. Should be plenty of good brief interview segments for my special. Provided we have time to speak, that is.”
“Well, if not at the funeral itself, maybe at the luncheon afterwards.” Coffey made a noise like he stretched in his chair. “Are you going?”
“Hadn’t decided. Pop said Mister, uh, Sergeant Henley had invited me, but I don’t want to intrude on their…”
Coffey interrupted. “Won’t be an intrusion. Pete and his wife host the after-funeral luncheon pretty often. Irene loves it when other people come. She’ll probably have the neighbors over, too.”
“Will you be there?”
“No. My gout is giving me fits. Plus, I usually visit my Junie at the hospital intensive unit about that time. Besides that, the big drill is tomorrow and we’re supposed to check in at our precinct, or something.”
“Yeah, that’s what I understood. Where you vote.” From her recliner, Kelly squinted to see the clock in her small kitchen. “They said most people don’t have an emergency rally point so they want to condition folks to collect info and contacts at the precincts.”
“Makes sense, I guess. Assuming the emergency is pretty major.”
“Well, it’s getting late, so I’d better let you go, Commander Coffey. I really appreciate…”
“Call me Gene, remember? And it’s no problem. The house is too quiet while my Junie’s been at the hospital.” Coffey paused. “But Mizz Randall…”
“Call me Kelly, remember?” She couldn’t restrain her smile even though it was not visible through their phone connection.
Coffey chuckled. “Yes, Kelly. Anyhow, I was going to say that it seems like there’s still something missing. I mean, I thought when you explained your uncle’s experience at Pearl, maybe the big picture was coming together for you. Yet it seems you’re still a bit confused.”
Kelly thought for a long moment. “I think I mentioned that I’d wondered if that’s why Uncle Edgar’s been walking around in my brain so much lately.” Even as she spoke it, she wondered how it would sound. “I think Edgar was trying to help me understand this big assignment I’m writing.”
“I don’t know much about spirits trying to communicate with living loved ones.” The commander coughed briefly like he’d nearly choked on a hard candy piece. “But if you’ve got a strong hunch about something, I’d say trust your gut.”
“I’ve heard of stranger things, I guess.” She didn’t mention anything about hearing Mildred’s June Allyson voice in her head when she brewed her aunt’s old tea.
“Someday, and I hope it’s soon, you’ll understand why your uncle raced toward that gun emplacement when they were under attack at Pearl.”
“I don’t see how. Not even if he was in a documentary and I could play his scene over and over.” She suddenly felt weepy. “It still wouldn’t make sense.”
Coffey’s silence suggested he was searching for the right words. “You’ll witness something someday — maybe you’ll even be involved yourself — that will demonstrate the same sense of sacrifice, duty, and determination which your uncle showed that day.”
“Don’t see how. Not here in Somerset, anyway.”
“We’re living in unusual times, Kelly. Sometimes strange things happen in the most unlikely places. When you least expect it.”
Kelly shivered slightly. “You’re scaring me a little. What do you mean?”
“Nothing in particular. I was just thinking about those short, tense briefings from our squad sergeant before a patrol. Sarge always said, ‘Extra ammo, extra socks, and move quietly. Keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and be ready to hit the dirt.’ He said the exact same thing every time.”
She tried to laugh it off, but something about Commander Coffey’s advice had raised goose bumps. “Well that’s probably good advice for a patrol in enemy territory, but I don’t expect any problems at a funeral and a luncheon. Not even with that complex drill tomorrow.”
Coffey was silent for a good while before he said goodbye.
Chapter Seven
A few minutes later
Kelly put her phone near her purse and carried the long-empty tea mug to the kitchen sink. With the extra chill inside, she briefly considered putting her jacket back on, as Perra watched and likely wondered why the schedule and pattern had changed. Kelly was tired but knew she would not sleep right away, not with all the thoughts in her head and feelings in her soul. If she was going to be awake, she might as well be warm, but a jacket was not the answer. Need another blanket tonight.
Other than certain dishes and a stale tea collection, all Kelly had salvaged from Aunt Mildred’s estate was an antique cedar chest and its few contents: a crocheted tablecloth, a few pillowcases of fine linen, and three homemade quilts. As Kelly lifted the quilt on top, she noticed a tip of an eagle’s wing design sticking out from near the bottom of the chest.
Extending her fingers along the edge of the stack, she grasped the quilt above the eagle and was able to retract the pieces on the topmost coverlets enough to see almost the entire corner of that eagle design. A victory eagle, likely from war time. But which war?
She carefully unloaded the top layers until she could see more of the pattern. Probably folded about four times, only one complete square was revealed. With a royal blue border and white background — presently off-white from its age — the stylized eagle hovered over a large V with the legend “for victory”. In much smaller lettering were the words, “Remember Pearl Harbor.” Inking for the eagle, the V, and the wording was all in a rusty, faded red. No doubt the quilt’s earliest days showed brilliant red, white and blue.
At the base of the huge V were three dots and a long dash. It took a few moments, but Kelly recognized the visual symbol for those famous four opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which had been co-opted by Churchill as Britain’s victory call.
Chills went up Kelly’s spine. Pearl Harbor — there must be a connection to her uncle, if only she could comprehend it.
Gently, reverently, she lifted the quilt and placed it on her bed. She carefully unfolded the lovingly hand-crafted heirloom and smoothed out the soft fabric. Inside the third fold was what looked like a packet of waxed paper plus a single sheet of writing paper, now quite faded. On the page, in Mildred’s handwriting, was a list of ladies’ names — most likely the friends who quilted with her — and a description: flocked silk, twenty-five squares. Also the month and year: January 1942. The first full month of America’s combat involvement in the war. Kelly re
membered that silk was one of many items rationed during the war years, so the material must have already been in Mildred’s possession.
Touching that paper, reading those words and names in Mildred’s handwriting — Kelly could hear her aunt’s voice. And it sounded exactly as it had when she “heard” it while drinking Mildred’s tea.
Next, Kelly studied the packet of waxed paper. It was neatly folded, apparently wrapped several times around something, which was barely visible through the multiple cloudy layers. The ends were not sealed or folded, but Kelly dared not squeeze the packet to peek inside for fear of damaging whatever was being protected. So she began unwrapping it.
The stiff waxed paper resisted her efforts to un-crease its long-time folds. One circuit, two full unwrapping circuits, plus an extra flip to expose the treasure inside. Kelly recognized it immediately — a clutch of willow leaves. Four, to be precise, and still connected to their thin stem. The elongated oval leaves looked almost like fingers of a hand, though brittle, cracked, and brown. It definitely was not the tree she had discussed with her uncle, because he’d been too sick by then to walk that far. She could only guess that either Edgar or Mildred had set those willow leaves aside at some other time. As she lifted the delicate array, a tiny scrap of paper fell to the unfolded waxed protection.
A few words were scrawled in a hand Kelly did not recognize: grows up fast, stands alone, and dies too young. A breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded; Kelly had to steady herself against the dresser behind her. “That could’ve been your epitaph, Uncle Edgar.”
As carefully as an archivist preserving a national treasure, Kelly resituated the note, the leaves, and then slowly wrapped them again in the brittle waxed paper. “If I had only been a few years older, I could’ve understood more of what you were trying to tell me. Why couldn’t you have lived a few years longer, Uncle Edgar?” She stared at the packet for a long moment.
Placing that packet to one side, near Mildred’s page describing the quilt, Kelly noted the bedside clock. Already after midnight. Time to put away all these memories.
