by Dan Walsh
When he arrived at the end of the street, he leaned against a mailbox on the corner to catch his breath and hide briefly from the wind. He squatted down and buried his face in his coat, hoping to catch a few minutes warmth for his face. His cheeks stung like the dickens, and his jaw felt like it had frozen in place.
The normally busy street had become so quiet, hardly a single car had passed by. He was the only one walking the snow-covered sidewalk. A gust of wind whistled through the mailbox opening, sounding very much like an angry ghost. It startled Patrick, and he quickly got up and moved away.
He looked across the street, trying to spot Hodgins’s Grocery through the sheets of blinding snow. But something was wrong. It’s just the snow, he thought. It was blocking his view to the other side. He didn’t see any lights from the many businesses that lined the street. Even the Christmas lights were off. Only the streetlights were lit, and they seemed to blink on and off in the swirling snowfall.
Patrick looked both ways. A lone city bus pulled away from the curb, leaving an empty bench behind. He began his trek across the street, dragging his suitcase as before. As he reached the curb, he realized . . . the lights didn’t just seem like they were off across the street—they were off! Every business was closed. He sighed and tried to fight back the tears.
What would he do now?
He turned at the sound of the bus driver forcing the gearshift into place and watched as the bus also faded into the darkness.
But this gave him an idea.
He could take a bus downtown, where Miss Townsend worked. He could show her business card to the next bus driver that came along and ask the driver to take him to where she worked. His spirits momentarily lifted, Patrick reached back and picked up his suitcase, making double time to the bus stop bench. He wiped off the several inches of fresh snow and sat down, huddling in the corner, wondering how long he’d have to wait before the next bus came along.
Patrick could not have known that the Philadelphia Transit Authority had, just one hour before, cancelled all remaining routes for that evening due to the fierce snowstorm.
Moments ago, Patrick had witnessed the departure of the last bus of the night.
Back at home, safely snug in a drunken stupor, Collins had moved to his chair after putting on a sweater to ward off the chill. About the only thing the whiskey seemed able to warm was his throat and stomach. He took another drink, deciding to keep a steady flow until it put him to sleep.
The house was quiet at least, the boy upstairs where he belonged. He was not a noisy lad, Collins thought. At least there was that. And he did clean up after himself right well, even better than Shawn did at that age, if he could recall. Shawn. Why did he have to recall Shawn to mind? His eyes fixed on the big cardboard box lying in the corner by the stairway.
There was no reason to restrain his curiosity any longer. The storm would keep Mrs. Fortini and that Townsend woman from stopping by, and the boy was asleep upstairs. He remembered the little cigar box full of Shawn’s letters to his wife. A new thought was driving him now, a desperate craving. He wanted to know Shawn again, to know the son he had so completely shut out of his life. His only son.
What had Shawn been like in the years since they parted? What kind of man had he become? What had it been like for him over there, up until the end? Collins had to know. The letters could help him find out.
He stumbled as he got out of his chair, but he didn’t care. He crawled to the big box and opened it quickly. He lifted the shoe box carefully from its hold and carried it back to his chair.
“Shawn,” he said aloud, staring at the box. “I have missed you so much.” He lifted the lid and untied the shoestring holding the letters together. “We used to be so close,” he muttered. “I’ve been such an old fool.”
After thumbing through a handful, it was obvious they had been sorted by date, the oldest at the top of the stack. Each letter was a single page, folded in thirds. Collins noticed the word “V-Mail” printed at the bottom and remembered reading something about this in the newspaper. In order to conserve cargo space, the military microfilmed the GIs’ original letters, then reduced them in size before reprinting them. Centered at the heading of each letter was a square with Shawn’s Philadelphia address on Clark Street.
There must’ve been at least fifty of them. He couldn’t read them all, but perhaps he could read at least five or ten tonight, a small sampling from front to back. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his trembling hand as he unfolded the first letter and began to read.
January 28, 1943
My darling Liz,
I try to fling myself into whatever I’m doing, try not to think about how much I miss you and Patrick, but nothing works. I did get the picture you sent. I’m guarding it with my life. Is it possible you’ve grown even more beautiful in the four months we’ve been apart?
We’ll be heading to England soon. That’s as much detail as I can say. You can send future letters to me using the same address and they’ll forward them to me until I get a new one. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be going. We’ve been told to say to our families “somewhere in England.”
I did so well in my flight training, they’re promoting me to pilot. I really enjoy flying, seems to come naturally to me. We’ll see how I do in the real world. Needless to say, keep the prayers flowing.
Tell Patrick I loved his letter. I can’t believe how well he’s writing. I understood every word. He’s my little man. There’s this little boy I see in town sometimes. Every time I see him, I think of Patrick. I know I’m doing the right thing being here, but it is so hard trying to get along without you both.
I love you so much,
Shawn
P.S. I wrote a separate letter to the landlord, pleading with him to be patriotic and get off your back about the rent. I told him the money is on the way. Let me know if he gives you any more trouble.
March 14, 1943
My beautiful wife,
This is the hardest letter I’ve had to write so far. Do you see the date? I’m trying to imagine where you are right now as I write this. The way you’ve set your hair, what dress you’re wearing, what perfume. I know you like to think more of the anniversary of our first date. But this is the date I have to start with, the day I first laid eyes on you, sitting there across the Carnegie library from me.
I think I knew I loved you right then. Everything else from that point just intensified that first awareness. There must have been a thousand pretty girls at that college, at least that’s what I’m told. The moment I saw you, they all faded away. I don’t know where I would be if you hadn’t finally returned my affections.
Even now with my life so uncertain, the realities of war confronting me on all sides, I only need to think back to that first moment, and what came after, to be carried away into bliss. I don’t mind that you put me off for so long, that you held out until I came to the same faith. Your convictions became part of my deep, abiding attraction.
Now it is only God’s love that sustains me on a day like today, when we must be apart. Give our little man a big hug for me. Tell him I think of him many times a day. As always, only the passing of days is needed for my love for you to grow.
I love you,
Shawn
May 5, 1943
My darling Liz,
Just read your latest stack of letters. Tell Patrick the drawings he sent are wonderful. Especially like the one where he and I are playing catch out front of our apartment (at least I think that’s what it is, better ask him first). I guess I don’t mind you working part-time while Patrick’s in school. I prefer that to asking my father for help. When I get my next promotion, it should be enough, or at least make it so things won’t be so tight for you. Battlefield promotions happen a lot in wartime. So it shouldn’t be long before I can send you a bit more.
Hopefully you can find a job working around a lot of old ladies (that would be ideal), so none of those 4Fs give you a hard time. You know they w
ill, the way you look. It’s not your fault. I know you don’t flirt. You can’t help it if you’re stuck being beautiful. But really, I do trust you, and that’s a major load off my mind. Almost every week or so a guy over here gets a “Dear John” letter from some gal back home, saying how sorry she is but she’s just too lonely to wait anymore. Makes me so mad. It devastates these guys. What are these girls thinking? We’re over here on a vacation? Happened to one of my crew a month ago, Tommy Hastings. He’s still not over it. Ran out of space, sorry.
Thanks for your timeless love and devotion.
You know you have mine . . . always,
Shawn
“I prefer that to asking my father for help.”
Ian Collins read this line over several times in his head, then set the letter aside. Up until now he’d been drawn into Shawn’s letters with genuine interest, even a growing sympathy. He didn’t think he’d show up anywhere in the letters, and was offended by the one place so far that he did. Apparently, Shawn’s wife had asked Shawn in an earlier letter to consider asking him for financial help.
Collins didn’t know how he would have responded if she had asked. But that wasn’t the point. He had a mattress full of money, money stashed all around the house, and big heaping bagfuls of it down at the bank. And here things were tight for Shawn’s wife and child and Shawn forbids them from even asking him for help.
Collins lifted his head and worked out the kink in his neck. How many letters had he read? The room started coming back into focus. He heard the wind whipping up outside, a banging sound against the porch. That big maple tree branch; he knew he should have had that thing cut down. He listened for a moment for the boy. Didn’t sound like it woke him up.
Then he remembered how he’d spoken to him earlier. He should have kept his tongue. It was just the strong drink talking, or else the depression about Shawn’s plane going down. He looked over at the Western Union telegram. My poor boy, he thought. Where are you now? Are you with your mother and the angels?
He took another drink. As it warmed his insides, he decided he had to read on. He realized even worse things might be said, but he had to know. These letters may be the only link that remained between him and Shawn.
For Ida’s sake, if not for his own, he had to read on.
May 24, 1943
Dear Liz,
Saw the sun for the first time yesterday in I don’t know how many months. I just wanted to sit there in my chair by the airfield and let it beat on my face. I blocked out the noise all around me, and it was like I was there with you at the shore. Remember the summer before last at Wildwood? For a few minutes we were together on the beach again, holding hands, eyes closed, listening to the waves brush against the beach, Patrick building a little castle around my feet.
My dream ended when a mechanic working on my plane dropped a monkey wrench, almost hitting me in the head. I opened my eyes, and there I was, so very far away from both of you. But for a moment, we were near.
So much is happening around here, most I can’t talk about (loose lips sink ships, etc.). But I am trying to keep a decent journal, so that when I’m home you can get a clearer picture. Let’s see if the censors let me say this much (if the next few sentences are not blacked out, you’ll know). On yesterday’s mission it was the strangest thing. No flak or enemy fighters the entire time, all the way there and back. After a while, I felt like an airline pilot taking a nice ride across the European countryside. Perhaps one day I can bring you back when this is all over and do just that. Take you and Patrick for a scenic flight over Europe. Breakfast in London, dinner in Paris.
All my love,
Shawn
June 3, 1943
Dear Liz,
Just finished reading your latest batch of letters. Everything was going great till I got to the last one. I’m sure you know the one I mean. Maybe it’s just coming at a bad time (had a rough week). I know you’re only trying to help, as you have so often in this issue. As my wife, you have a right to inquire. And I’m not questioning your motives. I’m just not sure I’m ready to take the step you’re suggesting.
In my heart, I think he has to be the one to make the first move. I’ve always had to be the one to do it. All my life. It was right growing up, when I was under his roof, but he had no right to treat me, treat us, the way he did after we got together and certainly not after we got married. I haven’t even told you all the things he said. Years don’t change what is right and what is wrong. I feel if I’m made to give in now, he will never change, and it will establish a precedent in our relationship that will never be undone. There’s a difference between showing honor and coming under someone’s control.
I’m sorry to go against your wishes on this, love. Your heart is clearly more merciful than mine. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no at this time. If he contacts you, and you sense there’s been a heart change of even the smallest degree, you have my standing permission to respond. But, please, don’t initiate anything from your end. At least not now. I’m sorry.
All my love,
Shawn
Collins set the letter down. Obviously, Shawn was referring to him in the letter. How could it be about anyone else? He read it through again, then once more. His anger percolating, seeking permission to ascend, but he kept it at bay. He wasn’t even sure why.
Then he realized.
He knew of Shawn’s stubbornness; like Ida always said, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But something he had always been certain of, had always counted on, had just dissolved in a moment. He wasn’t sure what should fill the hole left in its wake. He had always believed Shawn’s wife had been behind the conflict between them, the root cause of him pulling away. She had used her beauty to lure him from their world into her own. And Collins was sure she had been the reason why Shawn hadn’t even attempted to apologize all these years.
Had he been wrong about Elizabeth all this time?
Elizabeth.
He realized he had never even said her name before. She was always “that woman.” But that woman had apparently been trying to talk his son into reconciling with him, not trying to keep them apart.
Maybe she had never been.
His anger released its tension in a sigh. He lifted his head back, drew in a deep breath, and continued to read.
July 29, 1943
My lovely Liz,
Had a strange thing happen earlier today, got a sense of what it must be like for our ground crews every time we get sent out on a mission.
Our plane was getting some repairs, so we couldn’t take off with our bomb group today. I went out to the airfield just the same to watch everyone take off. After the last plane flew out of sight, all the ground crews just stood there, dozens of them, staring off into the sky for several minutes. Then one by one, they made their way back to the barracks. I hung around the base a few hours until word spread the bombers were returning. You should have seen the crews running to the edge of the airfield, straining to get a glimpse. Different ones would yell out and cheer as their particular plane came into view and touched down.
Then you saw the crews waiting for the planes that didn’t come back, the grief and heartache on their faces, as they tried to console each other that there still might be hope (the hope that they might at least be POWs). Never realized how hard it was on them until today.
How hard it must be on you, my darling, when waiting is all you can do.
All my love,
Shawn
Collins set the letter down, reflecting on the last paragraph in particular.
It dawned on him . . . he had not been waiting for Shawn.
His only son had been living in harm’s way, valiantly fighting for his country for well over a year. But Collins had not been home pining away about Shawn’s safety. Other families had. All over town. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and cousins. It was all they talked about. How’s your boy doing? Have you heard from him lately? What’s the latest from the front? I�
�m sure he’ll be okay.
Collins had dismissed it as so much idle chatter. Street noise, like the rumbling of car engines or the screeching of trolley cars. It was as if he had no stake in this war. As if he had no son.
No son . . . and now that might just be the case. No wife, and now . . . no son.
In his mind he saw a small group of unnamed mechanics in England, staring at the edge of a runway, staring off toward the horizon, longing for a glimpse of Shawn’s plane at the end of that last mission. He felt, for the first time, what they must have felt when all the planes had returned safely home that day. All except one.
Shawn’s plane.
Collins and this crew shared the same grief. Only Collins’s grief was but a few hours old.
And already it was becoming unbearable.
Tears began to roll down his cheeks again. What was he doing? Why put himself through this torture? He wiped his face on his sleeve and forced the tears to stop.
Then a new disturbing thought came . . . if Shawn’s plane never came home, would there ever be a body sent home to bury?
Did Shawn’s body still exist? Had it disintegrated in some terrible fireball in the sky? Was it lying in some cornfield, twisted and mangled in some wreckage? How does one grieve properly without a proper funeral?
All Collins had to show for his son’s life was this telegram . . . and these letters.
But that wasn’t all.
There was the boy. Patrick. He said his name aloud. “Patrick.”
He looked up the stairwell. He thought about going upstairs, just to look in on him. Maybe he could whisper in his ear how sorry he was for treating him so badly. Tell him what he really thought of him: that he was a fine lad, with good manners, hardworking, handsome. The boy—Patrick—shouldn’t be made to pay for the falling-out he’d had with his father. It wasn’t his fault. And he was all the family Collins had left now.
