by Dan Walsh
“Patrick,” Mrs. Fortini said loudly. “Come in, come in. What are you doing here?”
Patrick looked into her eyes, relieved to see a gentle smile. He collapsed into the folds of her apron as she hugged him and rubbed his head. “Let’s get these wet clothes off. How’d you get so much snow on your face? One of those older boys hit you with a snowball?” She stepped out onto the porch and gave a menacing look up and down the street.
“I just fell.”
He had never been here, but as he looked around, he was surprised at how familiar the rooms were. Then he realized it was just like his grandfather’s place, only the opposite. It also had more furniture and throw rugs down the hall and into the dining room. The entire room smelled of things baking and thick perfume. Why couldn’t he live here while he waited for his father to come home?
“You take off the coat and boots and put them on the towel by the door,” she said as she closed the front door. “Warm yourself up by the radiator a few minutes. I’ll get you a little snack, but nothing too heavy so close to dinner.”
Patrick did what she asked. As he walked toward the radiator, he was captivated by three framed photographs propped on a dark wooden table. The center one showed two young men smiling, leaning up against a black car, waving at the camera. The man on the left was a sailor, the other a soldier. On either side of this picture were photos of each man by himself, from their shoulders up, still in uniform. Must be her sons, he thought.
The sailor must be Frankie, the one who died at Pearl Harbor. He could see Mrs. Fortini’s smile in his face. Frankie looked so alive when this picture was taken, thought Patrick, like he would always be alive, like he was alive right now. But he was not.
Then he remembered his talk with Mrs. Fortini by the cemetery. Frankie was gone . . . but he was still alive. Alive but very far away. He wondered what good was it if you couldn’t touch them or see their eyes blink, their smiles move, or their heads turn when you talked to them. He wondered if Mrs. Fortini ever talked to Frankie’s picture. He’d have to tell her how much it helped him.
“I see you’ve noticed my boys. Remember I told you about my Frankie?”
“The sailor, right?”
“That’s right. He’s in heaven now. Every day I pray for his brother Dominic to be safe. He’s in England where your father is.”
“Is he a bomber pilot?”
“Thank goodness, no,” she said, then seemed to regret it. “He is just a mechanic. He fixes planes. Dominic was always good with engines and tools.”
“Maybe he works on my father’s plane.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Here, sit down and have a cookie, but only one. The milk is fresh, just came this morning.”
The oatmeal cookie was delicious, and the milk made the experience complete. His smile grew as he looked at all her Christmas decorations. He’d almost forgotten it was Christmastime. There was a large nativity scene spread across a small table by the window. Holly branches covered the arches of each doorway. Scattered on every ledge and shelf were Santas, angels, and elves. “Are you getting a tree?” he asked.
“Of course. What would Christmas be without a tree? A nice man across the street, Mr. Murphy, is getting one for me on Christmas Eve. If you’re still here, you can help me set it up. Would you like that?”
“Would I.”
“You could come over the day before and help me make some new ornaments.”
“You make ’em?”
“Since the war, they haven’t been selling any new ones, so each year I make a few new ones to replace the ones that break. It’ll be fun. We’ll roll up pieces of cardboard into little balls and wrap tinfoil around them. Then I’ve got some pinecones we could paint.”
“I would like that.” He got up and walked his plate and glass out to the sink.
“What a gentleman,” she said.
“Mrs. Fortini? What are all those things poking out of the snow?” Patrick asked, looking out the back window.
Mrs. Fortini came and stood behind him. “Those? That’s the top of my little fence.”
“That’s only how big your yard is? My grandfather’s yard is way bigger.”
“No, silly. That’s not my whole backyard. It’s my Victory Garden. See how the posts are shaped like a V? Do you know what a Victory Garden is?”
“We didn’t have any backyards on Clark Street.”
“It’s a way of helping with the war. People with yards are supposed to grow as much food as we can so the farmers can give more food to the soldiers.”
Patrick looked again. He still couldn’t make out the V.
“Last spring I grew all sorts of things. Tomatoes, carrots, zucchini. I had to put a fence around it to keep the dogs out.” She walked to the sink and rinsed off the plates, then they walked back to the living room.
“I’ll ask your grandfather then.”
“Ask him what?”
“Ask him if you can help me decorate my tree in a few days. How long did he say you could visit?”
Patrick looked down at the rug. He didn’t want to answer.
“He doesn’t know you’re here?”
“I was afraid he would say no. But I had to see you.” He looked up.
After a pause, she said, “That’s all right, Patrick. But we’ll need to get you back over there somehow. Maybe he doesn’t know you’ve left yet. Let’s get your coat on.”
It was his last telegram of the day. The Western Union driver waited at the traffic light, glancing down at the map, trying to ignore the stares. The curious passersby. Drivers and passengers in cars throughout the intersection. He turned right onto Clifton Ave., double-checking the map.
The weatherman had predicted more snow to hit later that evening. The wind was expected to pick up too, bringing with it almost blizzardlike conditions. Hopefully, he’d get this last telegram out and be back home before the storm hit.
Here was the next street. He glanced at the map once more as he turned the wheel. That’s the one, he thought, Chestnut Street. He hoped this last telegram might bring good news. Every now and then it happened: a son missing in action had been found safe; a son missing and presumed dead had been identified as a POW. Moments like these were the only bright spots in his day.
He looked down at the name above the address:
Mr. Ian Collins.
Twenty-One
He didn’t even feel the biting cold anymore. Standing there in the vestibule, Ian Collins read the words but could not register their meaning. Western Union Telegram. What was he holding?
“Have a good evening, sir,” the young man said nervously as he backed out of the doorway. “Merry Christmas,” he said as he turned and walked away.
Collins heard the door latch click. He looked up and noticed several neighbors standing on their porches, others looking out their windows. Two women had stopped on the sidewalk a few doors down and turned. Vultures, he thought, every last one of them. None of them liked him, not even when Ida was here. He gave them each his meanest glare until, one by one, they pulled back into their homes.
He backed into the living room and slammed the front door. It’s probably just a note from Shawn telling me when he’ll be home, Collins thought. Shawn wouldn’t call; he wouldn’t want to talk in person; he’d send a telegram. That’s all this is. Wrote to tell me when he’d be in to get the boy. Still, the hand holding the telegram trembled. He tried to make it stop, but it wouldn’t mind. He shuffled toward his chair, staring down at the envelope. He sat, then stood up again, thinking a person should read a telegram standing.
He took a deep breath, tore it open.
Before he read the first line, he got a feeling something was missing. He scanned the ashtrays in the living room until he saw it in the pewter tray on the fireplace mantel. He hurried over and shoved the cigar in his mouth. He remained standing as he slid the yellow telegram out of the envelope and read the first line. His stomach tensed up; he felt his heart beating in his temples.
&
nbsp; The telegram wasn’t from Shawn. It was about him.
PAL37 49 GOVT=WUX WASHINGTON DC DEC 22 112P
MR IAN COLLINS=235 CHESTNUT ST=
THE SECRETARY OF WAR HAS ASKED ME TO EXPRESS
HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON CAPT SHAWN
COLLINS WAS REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION
DEFENDING HIS COUNTRY OVER GERMANY
A CONFIRMING LETTER FOLLOWS=
E F WITSELL ACTING THE ADJUTANT GENERAL OF
THE ARMY.
MISSING IN ACTION.
The words repeated over and over in his mind, finally sinking in at about the fifth revolution. Collins was not an emotional man, save for his anger. But he felt like a man standing too close to a rising stream and the ledge beneath his feet just gave way. He blinked back tears that suddenly appeared, literally willing them away. It says “Missing in Action,” he thought, not “Killed in Action.” There’s no reason to assume Shawn is dead. Missing means missing. It doesn’t mean—
Suddenly a picture of a black-and-white newsreel began to replay in his mind.
Collins was back in time two weeks ago, before the boy had arrived. He had just slipped into the Clifton Theater on a Saturday afternoon, taking a seat in the back row. He didn’t know what movie was playing and didn’t care. He had simply walked past the shops bordering the theater in search of a deli sandwich. He looked up and saw the word “Newsreels” at the bottom of the movie marquee.
Here the war had been raging for two full years and he still hadn’t seen any newsreels. He knew the air war over Germany was in full bloom. Allied planes were being sent across the English Channel almost every day. He knew Shawn was on some of those missions. Shawn’s plane was dropping some of those bombs. Curiosity got the better of him. The next thing he knew, Collins was standing in line. Once inside, he walked past the lines at the concession stand. In a few minutes, the lights dimmed and the newsreel began, a Fox Movietone production.
The sights astounded him, far more gripping than he’d expected. He watched ship convoys, one after the other, helplessly attacked by German U-boats. He’d never seen such a thing. The stricken vessels sank so quickly, like bathtub toys, tossing sailors into the frigid waters.
The scene shifted.
Allied destroyers rose and fell in the rough Pacific waves. Battleships blasted their huge guns. The center of a Japanese ship erupted like a volcano, then split in two, sending both halves quickly to the bottom.
The scene shifted again.
Air Force generals pored over battle maps, rubbing their chins, pointing to selected targets. Collins’s hands tensed around the armrests at the next scene: ground crews loaded bombs onto B-17s and B-24s. The bombers taxied out to runways and slowly lifted off the tarmac. Hundreds of planes gathered in the skies, majestic contrails streaming behind them. Then Collins realized . . . Shawn was in one of those planes. Could he have just seen his plane in the film?
The scene shifted again, now inside one of the planes.
Gunners dressed like Eskimos wrestled with machine guns as spent shell casings hit the floor. The camera moved outside, into the skies. The film vibrated violently, then focused on little black specks that quickly became Nazi fighter planes darting through the bombers.
Collins tensed again as one Allied bomber, smoke pouring from two engines, fell off to one side then began spinning wildly out of control. The camera followed its descent. Collins didn’t see any parachutes. From his mechanical background, he understood a little bit about what was going on. Those poor young men, he thought, stuck inside a spinning airplane, aware they were going down, probably screaming in terror, pinned by centrifugal force against the fuselage wall. They had almost no chance of escape.
Collins witnessed two more bombers going down. Between the three planes, he counted only four parachutes. He’d read an article in Look magazine that said each bomber carried ten men. He quickly did the math. That meant four men had survived out of thirty that went down . . . in just those few minutes.
Only four . . . out of thirty.
Collins stood there now in his living room, holding the telegram. Five words seemed to magnify on the page:
MISSING IN ACTION OVER GERMANY.
Shawn’s plane had been shot down, just like those planes in the newsreel. That same Look article said the pilots were usually the last to get out alive. They kept the planes flying steady until the others could bail out. Shawn would have done that, Collins thought. He would have done his duty to the end.
These thoughts and images became an arrow pointing in one inevitable direction—Shawn wasn’t missing; he was dead. It was that simple. The confirming letter to follow would only confirm that fact, the army’s way of letting a family down easy.
He set the telegram on the end table next to his ashtray. He was sitting now, though he didn’t remember doing so. He looked at the floor; at some point, his cigar had fallen from his mouth. Tears began to pour down his face. He tried holding them back, then wiping them away, but there was no stopping them. He looked up at the door, then the windows, as if someone might see.
He finally gave up, buried his face in his hands, and let the tears flow. His whole body erupted into heaving sobs.
“Shawn,” he cried. “My boy. My poor boy.”
Twenty-Two
Katherine Townsend had cried nonstop since receiving the call from Major Jennings that afternoon. A few co-workers took notice. Several called out as she ran through the halls, asking if everything was okay, was there anything they could do. She had never been so grateful to find the elevator empty.
She had promised Patrick she’d bring his father home safe, and soon. Now she had hope of neither. Her only hope now was that she would beat the Western Union man.
As she drove along, she thought about the phone call. Major Jennings reminded her that Patrick’s father was reported only as missing in action. When she had pressed for his opinion on his chances of being found alive, a long, agonizing pause followed. “We can always hope” was all he’d said. She had to convince the elder Collins not to say anything to Patrick as long as there was a shred of hope his father would be found alive. Perhaps even someone as stubborn as he could see the wisdom in that.
The snow began to fall as she turned right onto Clifton Avenue. It was coming down heavily, suggesting a brewing storm. Her car didn’t have snow tires or chains. She’d have to watch the time so she could make it back before the roads became too difficult to manage. As she approached Chestnut Street, her heart sank even deeper in its despair. At the intersection, a Western Union truck had just turned going in the opposite direction.
She was too late.
Mrs. Fortini had just finished putting on her black coat, gloves, and boots. She reached for her fur hat on the hook by the front door and looked out the window. The storm the weathermen had predicted had started. At least twelve to fourteen inches with drifts up to two feet. With the snow already laying on the ground, it would make getting around very difficult over the next few days. “You need help with your boots, Patrick?”
“No, I got ’em.”
“It’s starting to snow. We better hurry.”
“Really?” He got right up and limped to the window, dragging his unlatched boot. “Wow. You think it will snow all the way to Christmas?”
“It better not. We’ll be buried alive. C’mon, let me help you with that boot.”
They made their way out into the cold, carefully holding onto the rail as they descended the steps. The wind whipped the snowflakes into their faces. “It hurts,” Patrick yelled.
“Come here,” Mrs. Fortini shouted over the wind, pulling Patrick close to her side. They reached the end of her driveway. She threw her scarf across her face and eyed the distance left to travel. “I think we should head back to the house until this wind dies down a bit.” She was nervous about covering the icy sidewalk, what with the wind and a frightened little boy clinging to her leg. “I can call your grandfather from the house,” she said as she turned
around. Patrick offered no objections.
Just then she looked down the street and noticed a truck trying to turn right at the intersection, its tires spinning in the sleet. She thought she saw the familiar Western Union emblem on the side panel as it cleared the curb. Instantly she remembered that terrible day she got her telegram about Frankie.
As she watched the truck disappear, she said a prayer for whatever family in the neighborhood might be receiving bad news this evening. This was her way of extinguishing sad memories before they unraveled too far.
So far, it hadn’t even occurred to Ian Collins that Patrick might not be in the house. The shock from the telegram still ruled the moment. His tears had dried temporarily, leaving him with puffy eyes. A heaviness, deeper than the heaviness that had visited him after Ida died, descended upon him.
His normal shuffle across the living room rug had slowed to a crawl. Presently, he was scouring the dining room pantry for a bottle of whiskey he knew he’d stashed somewhere for special occasions. It had never been opened. He certainly didn’t consider this occasion special. He simply wanted relief, actually to get drunk, and that as quickly as possible.
His trembling hands bumped a glass bottle of cooking oil. It tumbled from the shelf and shattered on the wooden floor. He swore as he heard the crash, looked down for a moment, but continued fingering the upper shelves in search of his prize. He finally located the whiskey bottle and carefully lifted it from its hold. He heard a loud pounding on the door and wondered why someone would be knocking so rudely. He sighed as he turned from his mission and stepped carefully over the puddle of broken glass and oil.
He suspected it to be Mrs. Fortini. He nervously wiped his eyes and stretched his face in a variety of exercises, hoping to achieve a normal expression. He looked out the front window and groaned. “Not now.”
