Dipping my head, I tried to see if the clouds had cleared enough for the stars to poke their way through. All I managed to accomplish, though, was bumping my head against the window frame.
“You think they’ve got the same stars in Vietnam?” That was Joel. It was exactly the kind of question he was apt to ask. “You know, because it’s all the way on the other side of the world.”
“Don’t know,” Mike answered. “I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out.”
“I should’ve asked Dad what stars he saw in Korea.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it, pal.”
“You’re probably right.” Joel’s voice was tinted with disappointment. “You think he’ll ever come back home?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “The thing is, Frank never got over the war. I think being here just reminded him of another thing it stole from him. Thing is, it’s probably better if you don’t wait around for him. You know? You could spend your whole life hoping he’ll come around, but he most likely won’t. I’m not sure he can. It took me a long time to realize that. He’s not a dad. He’s just Frank.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You don’t have to.” Mike cleared his throat. “You just have to choose to be a better man than he is.”
“He’s not so bad, I guess.”
“Well, you’re the one who saw him. You and Annie, who might as well stop snooping on us and get herself up here.”
“I’m not snooping,” I said.
“Sure.” Mike hung over the roof, his face a foot from my window. “Bring some towels. It’s wet up here.”
Mom had a stack of rejected rag towels that she kept on a shelf in the laundry room. Most of them were a wedding gift from Aunt Rose. Long before that night they’d been a bright, egg yolk yellow, and Mom hated them at first sight. Partly because she didn’t like yellow. Mostly because they’d come from Aunt Rose.
I grabbed the stack of them, trying to be as quiet as I could so as not to wake Mom, and stepped out the back door.
Mike and Joel had set the ladder against the edge of the roof, and as soon as I started to climb, towels hugged close to my body with one arm, Joel’s face popped up over the edge, a smile spread from ear to ear.
“Hi,” he whispered.
“Hello,” I whispered back. “You boys are nuts.”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
When I got to the top of the ladder, he helped me up. I didn’t protest, even though I could have managed fine without him. Mom had told me years ago that I needed to allow the boys to be gentlemanly to me so they’d have practice for how to treat a lady.
Because of this, I hardly had to open a door for myself when they were around, and they always made sure to pull out a chair for me. For growing up without their father, my brothers had turned into really great young men.
I handed each of them one of the ugly yellow towels, and we spread them across the shingles as if it was the beach. On our backs, knees bent, feet flat, we lay side by side, looking up at the stars.
It had cleared up after all.
“Remember that time I told Mom I was running away?” Joel asked.
“Yeah. How dare she make you eat your Brussels sprouts.” Mike turned his head toward Joel.
“They smell funny.” Joel pulled a face. “And they taste worse.”
I didn’t tell him it was because Mom typically boiled them to mush.
“Anyway,” Joel went on, “I couldn’t figure out where to go.”
“Remember how you packed your stuffed puppy dog?” I asked. “What was its name?”
“Willow,” he answered. “Anyway, I packed Willow in my pillowcase—”
“And nothing else, if I recall,” Mike interrupted.
“I was five.”
“Six,” I corrected him. “You were in first grade.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you wrote your own runaway letter.”
Better than Frank did, I thought.
“Anyway,” Joel said, exasperated. “I didn’t know where to go, so I climbed up here.”
“Remember whose idea it was?” Mike asked. “It was mine. I told you Mom would never find you up here, especially if I put the ladder away.”
Joel chuckled and nodded. “I started crying because I was tired and cold and I couldn’t get down.”
“Yeah. You ran away for a whole ten minutes. Such a prodigal son.”
“I remember being so mad at you,” I said. “Mom served Brussels sprouts every night that week to teach you a lesson.”
“The house smelled like moldy socks.” Joel shuddered.
“Did you notice that Mom never ate them?” Mike said.
“You think they’ll make you eat them in Vietnam?” Joel asked.
“Gosh, I hope not.” Mike rolled his head so he was looking straight up again. “Although they’re a heck of a lot better than the C-rations they’ll give us when we’re off base.”
“See, Mike,” Joel said. “Mom was just getting you ready for the Army.”
“Who knew?”
Crossing my arms, I shivered, feeling the goose bumps rising under my sleeves. I was glad I’d thought to grab my jacket, but I could have kicked myself for not bringing out a blanket too.
“I wish I didn’t have to go,” Mike said, his voice so quiet. I wondered if he’d meant to say it out loud. “I wish I could stay here with you kids and Mom. I wish I still had my job at Bernie’s and that I could maybe take a couple of classes at college or something. I wish the whole darn war was just over already.”
Neither Joel or I said anything to him. It wouldn’t have seemed right, whatever we could think of to say. But we all knew that President Johnson had no plans to bring our boys home. Not yet, at least. And we’d all heard on the news how the bigwigs in Washington DC had said there was no use in talking peace with North Vietnam.
The war would go on.
And on.
And on some more.
And for it to go on, they required our boys—our Mike—to leave us.
“It’s only a year,” Joel said, his voice quiet and flat. “You’ll be back before we even start missing you.”
“Sure wish that was true, pal,” Mike said.
We stayed there on the roof until we were all too cold to stand it anymore.
Dear Annie,
Thank you for the invitation. I’d like to come see Michael before he goes, but only if he wants me to. And I wouldn’t want to impose on your mother. I’m sure she’s less than pleased with me.
I’m sorry for the way I left. I needed to get back to work and I’m awful at good-byes.
But you’re smart and I guess you’ve realized that.
I’ll be there Sunday.
Only if it’s okay.
Frank
Dear Frank,
Mom said it was okay if you came. But on one condition. That you promise not to leave again without letting us know. You don’t have to say “good-bye.” Just tell us that you’re going.
Mike wants to see you. Joel does too.
And I might miss you too. Just a little.
Annie
33
The church ladies had lost no time in organizing an after-service potluck in Mike’s honor. All during the sermon, they checked their wristwatches as if they were anxious about the pastor going even a minute longer than usual. The aromas of creamy casseroles and sweet ham and fresh-baked rolls mingled and filled the sanctuary.
The pastor’s sermon ended right on time. If not a few minutes earlier.
We held back, letting the ladies get to the fellowship hall ahead of us to put all the food on the long tables. Mom thought they’d want Mike to make a bit of an entrance so they could make a fuss and clap for him.
“They like doing that sort of thing,” she said.
“They shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” Mike said, standing stiff and straight in his dress uniform. Mom had convinced him to
wear it to church.
“Everyone wants to see you before you go.” I nudged him with my shoulder. “Besides, I think Mrs. Kaiser made French silk pie just for you.”
“I’ll be too nervous to eat it.” He sighed and furrowed his brow. “I don’t like all this attention.”
“They’re going to miss you,” Mom said. “They wanted to give you a good send-off.”
“I don’t know what I’ll say to all of them. I’d rather just go home and be with you.”
“Michael. These people have known you your entire life. They’ve prayed for you and sent you birthday cards with dollar bills in them and taken care of you during the worst days.” Mom widened her eyes the way she did when she wanted to make sure we understood that she was serious. “You will go to this potluck and you will eat a bite from every single one of the casseroles on that table and you will compliment each of the cooks.”
“Gosh, Mom,” he said. “All right. I didn’t mean . . .”
“Son, these little old ladies might not look very big to you.” She blinked fast. “But they promised to pray every day for you. And I’m going to need them to pray so hard so that you come home in one piece.”
He nodded, swallowing.
“Don’t take them for granted.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t go a day without thanking God that he put them in our lives. All right?”
“Yeah. You’re right.” He excused himself and went into the restroom just outside the sanctuary doors.
When he came out, his tie was straightened, his shoulders pulled back, and he wore his most winning smile. He offered his arm to Mom and led her into the fellowship hall.
I followed behind them, watching our mother’s backbone straighten as they walked through the doors.
By the end of the potluck Mike and Joel were seated at a table to the far corner of the room, surrounded by the elder men of the congregation. They’d long since shed their suit coats, loosened their ties, and rolled up their shirtsleeves.
I stood at the buffet, collecting casserole pans and serving spoons to carry into the kitchen, where some of the church ladies were washing dishes in sinks, sudsy with detergent. Lingering there, I tried to hear what the men said in their low voices.
“Probably telling all their old war stories,” Mom said, standing beside me, her arms crossed. “Or at least the ones that made them out to be heroes.”
I couldn’t see Mike’s face, his back was turned toward me. But Joel’s was in clear sight. He stared, mouth agape, at the man who was speaking and his eyes were wide behind his glasses.
“He’s going to have nightmares tonight,” I said, shaking my head.
“Maybe.” She picked up a stack of dirty plates. “Come on. Let’s leave the men to their talk.”
She turned and went back into the kitchen.
I stayed, watching them for a moment more. The one telling the story clapped his hands for emphasis, and Joel flinched before breaking into a smile, his eyes brightening.
At the far end of the table sat Bernie, leaned back in his chair. He kept his eyes on Mike as if he was trying to read something from his face. When he caught me watching him, he gave me a nod and the kind of frown-smile he used when passing someone along the street.
The whole group of men erupted in laughter at however the storyteller’s tale had ended. I hoisted my load of casserole dishes and headed into the kitchen, where the chattering of women’s voices bubbled as much as the dish soap.
Two women parted, making room for me to rinse as they washed and dried.
Warmth bloomed inside my chest, something between gratitude and belonging.
By the time we had the kitchen cleaned up, most of the men had moved outside to the church lawn. One of them had a new car and several stood around it, the hood propped up with the engine running, rumbling into the Sunday afternoon quiet.
Mike wasn’t in that group. He and Bernie stood off to the side of the church, their backs to me. Bernie had his hand resting on Mike’s shoulder.
“Mom wants to go home,” Joel said, coming up from behind me.
“Go ahead,” I answered. “I’ll wait for Mike.”
“Cool,” he said. “Later.”
Standing alone on the sidewalk, I tried tuning my ears to hear what Mike and Bernie were talking about, but the Cadillac only grew louder as its owner revved it to the delight of the men standing around with hands on hips or arms crossed.
Those men of shed jackets and gray hair had once been young, sent to fight in a war far bigger than they. They’d gone and returned to get married and hold down jobs, to build houses and buy cars. They raised kids who got married and had children of their own.
Mike had every chance they’d had to come back. It was the hope I held on to for dear life.
“Were you waiting for me?” Mike asked, walking toward me.
“Nah.” I nodded at the half circle of men around the Caddy. “I’m just admiring that fine piece of American engineering.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Mom’s probably getting impatient. We should make our way home.”
“So, what did Bernie have to say?”
He started walking and put his hands in his pants pockets. “Nothing much.”
We left the churchyard and traveled along the road that would lead us to Lewis Street. I didn’t believe him. Bernie never said anything unless it had meaning. He was the kind who weighed his words before using them, making sure that they’d count for something before he let them out.
“Just man stuff,” Mike said after a few yards of walking. “He told me he’d check in on you three while I’m gone.”
“We’ll be okay,” I said. “We’ll manage.”
“I know.” He let out a big, thick sigh. “I’ll just feel better if I know he’s keeping an eye on you.”
Bernie Jager played the part of a grumpy man to a T. Had since I knew him. Mom said it was because he’d put his whole life into running the diner and hadn’t taken the time to get married and have a family.
That may well have been true.
But underneath that crusty attitude and gruff grimace was a tenderhearted man who had made it his business to take Mike and me under his wing. And he’d taught us more about what a godly man was than any sermon could have.
He hadn’t wasted his life. He’d spent a good amount of it on us.
34
Mom had once told me about the day Frank came home from the Korean War. Mike and I had been playing in the yard over at our old house. She’d said that Mike got all full of dirt that day, as was usual. But that I’d managed to find even more of it, making my white-blonde hair a muddy shade of brown.
It little mattered, though. Mom’s solution to dirty kids was to send us into the lake to rinse off before supper. Sometimes she even brought out a bar of soap and gave us our bath right there among the minnows and the seaweed.
“Frank came around the corner,” she’d said. “I didn’t even know he was coming home that day.”
She’d told me how she dropped the spade she’d been using to dig holes for her violet plants. She’d run to him, gardening gloves still on.
“When Michael saw us kissing, he cried,” she’d said. “He didn’t know Frank. Didn’t remember him.”
The way she told the story, it had taken Mike a full week to stop eyeballing Frank as if he were an intruder. And a whole month before he’d speak to him.
I thought of that story when Mike and I turned the corner at Lewis and Pine and I saw Frank’s rust-red–colored truck parked in front of our house.
“Whose truck is that?” Mike asked.
“Frank’s.” I glanced at his face. “He said he’d come.”
“I know.” Mike grinned. “I guess I didn’t believe him.”
He ran the last few yards home, hopping up the porch steps and pulling the screen door open so hard, I worried he’d pull it right off its hinges.
I hung back, taking my time, wanting to give them a chance to meet. I imagined that Fran
k looked up at Mike’s face, his brows knit and his eyes brooding the way they did. He’d have taken Mike’s hand and told him how smart he looked in that uniform. Mike would pull his shoulders back, standing as tall and at attention as he could.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t what happened. Not at all.
When I got to the front door, I saw the two of them sitting in the living room. Mike on the couch, Frank in the easy chair. Mike was looking at Frank as if he were an exhibit in a museum. Frank inspected his hands folded in his lap.
Neither of them looked up when I walked in, not even when I cleared my throat. I headed toward the kitchen, where I heard Mom fussing with something. Joel was there, too, sitting at the table with a glass of milk.
“I don’t know what either of them expected,” Mom said when I joined her at the counter. “Cut of the same fabric, those two.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“As soon as they shook hands Frank asked why Michael didn’t join the Navy.” She rolled her eyes. “And Michael refused to say anything.”
“Oh boy.”
“I moved Mom’s good vase from the mantel just in case they get into a fight,” Joel said.
“They won’t,” I said. “Will they?”
She lifted both of her hands, palms up, and shrugged. “Who knows with those two.”
I peeked around the corner to see them still in their seats, not speaking or moving so much as an inch.
“Hey, Joel. You feel up to playing a song on your guitar?” I asked. “You know a few, don’t you?”
“I guess so.” He smirked. “Why?”
“Come on.” I tugged on his arm. “We’ve got to do something about that.”
“All right.”
Joel brought his Les Paul down from his room, insisting that we didn’t need to plug it into the amp.
“They’ll still be able to hear it well enough,” he said, walking toward the living room.
As soon as he entered, both Mike and Frank lit up. There was something about Joel that was special to the two of them. Another thing they had in common.
All Manner of Things Page 18
