All Manner of Things

by Susie Finkbeiner

  “I asked Joel if he’d like to play a little for you,” I said.

  “Sure, bud,” Mike said.

  Frank sat up straighter, watching Joel sling the guitar strap around his neck and shoulders. He didn’t take his eyes off him while he played what he called riffs from a few different songs he’d heard on the radio. His was a stuttering “House of the Rising Sun” and a tentative “Purple Haze,” but with time and practice he’d get better.

  Mom stood in the doorway to the dining room, a cup of hot tea in hand. She looked back and forth between her sons and husband.

  Had I been a stranger just happening by our house, I’d have looked through the window and thought what a nice family we had, all in one place and paying all of our attention to the youngest among us.

  It almost felt normal.

  We all stayed up well past our bedtimes. Mom popped some corn and I made hot chocolate. Mike had changed out of his dress uniform and sat more comfortably on the floor in jeans and T-shirt, his back resting against the couch.

  Frank didn’t say a whole lot. He sat in the easy chair, bowl of popcorn in his lap, listening to the three of us kids tell story after story. The day Joel passed out after I convinced him to yank out his first tooth. Or the time when Mike told me that he was going to put rollers in my hair but instead used burrs. And the story of how, one spring Joel had sold all his baseball cards to buy Mom a necklace for Mother’s Day.

  Most of the stories earned half a smile from Frank. Still, his eyes remained far away, detached, and brooding.

  Mom watched his face through the telling of each story, her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. I was sure that if I could have heard her thoughts, they all would have been directed at him.

  You missed so much.

  You missed everything.

  35

  Mike had borrowed Bernie’s old fishing boat with the plans of staying out on Old Chip all day while Joel was at school and Mom and I were at work. It was his last day in Fort Colson for a year. He planned to catch and release every single fish in the lake. At least that was what he told Mom.

  “It’ll do him some good,” Bernie told me when I got to work.

  “He could have come here. He could have asked Mom to take the day off,” I said.

  “Nope.” Bernie shook his head. “He needed some time by himself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh well.”

  I left the kitchen, starting the first pots of coffee for the day. Outside, the sun still hadn’t risen and all I could think about was Mike’s boat in the water, oars dipping below the surface.

  It made me feel lonely.

  The day had never sloughed off the gloom of dark clouds and I wondered if it would rain. I went the long way home, the way that took me along the shore of the lake, hoping that I’d see Mike and that I could talk him into coming with me.

  What I didn’t expect was for him to call out my name, yelling for me to “hold on.”

  He rowed in to shore, which didn’t take too long. There was no current to push against his oars. Once he got close to where I was, he didn’t get out. Instead, he gave me his goofy grin.

  “Get in,” he said.

  Any other day I might have argued, resisted, told him he was off his rocker. I might have pointed at the laden clouds and asked if he noticed how chilly it was. I’d have told him we might freeze to death should we capsize.

  But this was no ordinary day. So, without a question, I climbed into the boat.

  The rubber soles of my sneakers clonked against the aluminum bottom, and the water on either side of the boat sloshed, making a sound that was as familiar to me as my own voice. Sitting, I felt of the damp wood of the seat, knowing that my pants would be wet by the time the ride was over.

  Mike rowed us all the way to the middle of the lake. When I looked to the south of us, I could see the house we’d lived in before and the Vanderlaans’ next door. To the north was the old campgrounds. West was a beach, and east the public access. And all the spaces in between were wild with reeds and cattails.

  “See them?” Mike whispered, nodding his head toward the cove carved out of the shore to the north of us.

  Sitting as still as I could, afraid to scare them off, I watched the loons with their chick. They regarded us but weren’t spooked because Mike had made sure to keep a respectful distance.

  “It won’t be long,” he said. “They migrate soon, don’t you think?”

  “Probably by the end of the month,” I answered. “If not, then at the beginning of November.”

  “You’ll miss them, won’t you?”

  I nodded.

  Soundlessly, the loons moved back into the cove, keeping their eyes on us. They were shy, and I couldn’t blame them. But what they lost in being shy, they made up for with their evening songs.

  “Can you believe I’m leaving tomorrow?” Mike asked.

  I shook my head. “You know Mom forbade this conversation, right?”

  “She’s not here,” he said. “And I need to talk about it.”

  Swallowing, I wished I’d brought a cup of coffee with me or some hot tea to take off the chill.

  “You know why they let us have these weeks before we go to Vietnam, right?” He leaned his elbows on his knees.

  “No,” I answered, not interested in venturing a guess.

  “So we can see our family one more time,” he said. “In case we don’t come home.”

  “You’re coming home.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Everybody at church is praying for you, Mike,” I said. “They started as soon as you went to training. And I know they’ll keep praying.”

  “Prayer is good. But it can’t make me bulletproof.” He looked up at me, his face serious. “Things happen. People die.”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Come on, sis.” He shook his head. “Don’t duck and cover now. I need you to think about what to do if I end up in a body bag.”

  “God won’t let that happen to you,” I said, my voice sounding like it came from a little girl. “He wouldn’t do that to us.”

  “He might.” He grabbed my hand. “Annie, it’s happening every day over there. It could happen to me.”

  Had I not worried about hypothermia, I would have climbed right out of that boat. I would have gladly submerged in the water, letting it fill my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear him talk anymore.

  “I shouldn’t be saying all this to you,” he said. “It’ll just worry you.”

  I didn’t bother telling him that I was worried already.

  But I was sure he knew it.

  36

  Of all the things in the world that Mom had in plenteous supply, it was opinions. She held to them stringently, never wavering from them even if they were proved to be wrong. One such strongly adhered to opinion was that, under no circumstances, should Christmas decorations be put up before Thanksgiving. And, if she’d had her druthers, never before December first.

  “It’s indecent,” she’d said. “Decorating for Christmas in the fall is tacky.”

  When Joel had reminded her that winter didn’t officially begin until December twenty-first, she’d told him to go jump in the lake.

  So, when Mike and I made our way home to find the aluminum Christmas tree set up in the front window on that evening in the middle of October, we were both struck with disbelief.

  “My goodness,” Mike said, shaking his head. “She just can’t help but outdo herself, can she?”

  Stepping into the house was like a dream. Bing Crosby crooned carols from the record player, and on the floor beside the tree, the rotating color wheel sent blue, green, and red beams of light into the silvery boughs, making them glow. Mom had even hung Mike’s stocking over the fireplace, where yellow and orange flames made the logs crackle.

  The aroma of a pot roast came from the kitchen, rich and inviting. Mom’s card table was set up in the corner of the living room, covered with
windmill cookies and chocolates, no doubt made that very day by Oma.

  Frank stood by the cookies, hands behind his back like a little boy who’s been told not to touch. Joel and Mom were in the dining room, setting the table. Bernie and Oma sat on the couch.

  “Did you know about this?” Mike asked me.

  “I had no idea,” I answered.

  “You two never could keep a secret from each other,” Mom said, coming in from the dining room. Her smile was brilliant, wide. “Merry Christmas in October.”

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just for me,” he said.

  “If it makes you feel better, it’s more for me than you.” Mom winked at him. “We got you a present. Why don’t you go ahead and open it.”

  Mike sat down on the floor by the tree, reaching for the single present that lay there. Carefully, just the way Mom had taught us, he peeled away the tape, unfolding the wrapping paper and trying not to rip it.

  “Just tear into it,” Frank said.

  “But she’ll want to use this paper again,” Mike said. Then he grinned up at Mom. “Waste not want not.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, I don’t care about thrift today.” She sighed. “Just open it already.”

  For the first time in his life, Mike shredded the paper, laughing as if it was the most fun he would ever have.

  But as soon as he saw the box inside, he stopped, his mouth opened wide.

  “This is too expensive,” he whispered, holding the camera box.

  It was a Canon and looked like a million dollars. Mike held it in careful hands, as if dropping it would be the end of the world.

  “We all threw in a couple of bucks,” Bernie said. “It wasn’t too bad.”

  “Will you send some of your photographs home to us?” Oma asked. “We want to see what you see.”

  “Only if you promise to send me cookies sometimes,” Mike said.

  “Of course, mijn schatje.”

  Mike lost no time loading the camera with a roll of film that came in the box. “Let’s get a picture of us,” he said.

  “I’ll take it,” said Frank.

  “No.” Mike shook his head. “I want you to be in it.”

  Frank’s half smile pulled up one corner of his mouth and the brooding left his eyes, if only for a minute.

  “Annie,” Mom said. “See if Mr. Falck will take it.”

  I ran out the door and down the porch steps. But before I left our yard to enter the Falcks’, I looked through the picture window. Mom was directing everyone where to stand, her voice carrying through the front door that I’d left ajar. She arranged them in the space between the Christmas tree and the fireplace, men in the back, Oma in front of Bernie, Mom beside her. Mike, of course, in the dead center.

  “And Annie can stand in front of Frank,” she said. “This is going to be a beautiful picture.”

  From where I stood, looking in from the outside, it already was.

  37

  I said good-bye to Mike in the space between our bedroom doors. He had on his dress uniform and his pack was slung over his shoulder.

  “Don’t you want me to come to the airport?” I asked. “Bernie said he’d give me the time off.”

  “You’ve already taken so much time for me.” Mike shook his head. “It’s all right. Mom and Frank decided to take me.”

  “I don’t mind, really.”

  He scratched behind his ear, looking away from me. “Annie, it’s just . . .”

  I moved my head so my eyes were in his line of vision. “It’s just what?”

  “It’s already going to be hard for me to get on that plane.” He shifted his eyes to the ceiling. “If you and Joel are there, it’ll be that much harder.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll want to stay. If you two are there, I won’t be able to leave.”

  “Mike . . .”

  “You all made my leave so good,” he said. “Too good.”

  I leaned back against the doorjamb.

  “I have so much to say,” I whispered. “I just don’t know how.”

  “Write to me,” he whispered back. “All the time, okay?”

  He put his pack down on the floor and reached for me, wrapping his arms all the way around me. “You’ll be okay,” he said.

  “So will you,” I told him.

  He let go of me far too soon and picked up his bag, walking down the steps, and only looking back at me once.

  Then he was gone.

  Bernie didn’t say a single word about me showing up late. And he didn’t get after me for wearing a pair of bell-bottom jeans instead of the slacks he required. But after I dropped my second plate, making it shatter across the kitchen floor, he pulled me aside and stooped so his face was level with mine.

  “Get your mind off him,” he said, his voice gruff. “Just stop thinking about him.”

  “I can’t.” I felt myself breaking and I breathed in deeply.

  “Okay, then.” He pushed his shoulders back and crossed his arms. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

  “My brother.”

  “I’m not dumb, Annie.” He rolled his eyes. “What are you thinking about him?”

  I stammered, trying to figure out what he wanted me to say. “I’m worried about him.”

  “All right.” He nodded. “What else.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “That something will happen to him.” I shoved my hands into my back pockets and blinked quickly, hoping that would discourage my tears.

  “Don’t tell me generalizations. Be specific,” he said. “What are you afraid will happen?”

  I couldn’t say the words. They were stuck. I started and stopped more than a couple of times before my breath became shallow and I could no longer deny the crying.

  “I’m afraid,” I started. “I’m afraid that he’ll get killed.”

  I shook, certain that I would fall down right there on the kitchen floor among the shards of the dish I’d broken. But Bernie put his thick, strong hands on my arms—his grip more gentle than I’d expected—holding me still.

  “I’m afraid of that too,” he said, all the harshness out of his voice. “Because it might happen. But it might not. We can’t know.”

  “What will we do if it does?” I cried.

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “We can’t plan for it. What we have to do is keep going. We have to live today and then tomorrow and then the next day. And if something happens to him, we’ll live that day too. Can we do that?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know how.”

  “The same way you’ve lived all the other days up until now.”

  He told me to go to the restroom and put a cold washcloth on my forehead.

  I let the water run in the sink to get good and cold and took off my glasses so I could wipe them clean on the bottom of my shirt.

  When I looked up in the mirror I saw my reflection, blurry from tears and not having my glasses on. Squinting, I got a clearer view. I moved my face from one side to the other, tipping my chin this way and that.

  It was like being face-to-face with my mother. My jawline and the slope of my nose. Cheekbones, eye shape, fullness of lip.

  She’d been a year younger than I was when she first met Frank and only one year older when they got married. A handful of years later and they had Mike and me. Then Frank had gone to Korea.

  Live today and then tomorrow and then the next day . . . the same way you’ve lived all the other days.

  Don’t duck and cover. Keep your eyes open.

  I put on my glasses and smoothed my hair. Turning off the faucet, I took one last look in the mirror.

  I made sure to turn out the light behind me.

  38

  Very rarely did Joel come to Bernie’s Diner. Partly, it was because he never had any spare money. He spent every penny, nickel, and dime on comic books and movies. Another reason was because Bernie would try to put him to
work washing dishes or cleaning windows.

  Joel wasn’t afraid of work, exactly. But he didn’t like the exacting standards Bernie Jager adhered to.

  But the day Mike left, he’d stood at the counter after school let out, eating a piece of pie and sipping a glass of milk that I’d paid for, waiting for me to have half a minute to talk to him.

  “Annie,” he said, shoving a mouthful of crust into his cheek. “Remember Parent Trap?”

  “Yup,” I answered, trying to count the money from the cash register but losing my place and having to start all over again.

  “Remember how they tricked their parents into having dinner together?” He grinned. “And it ended up being romantic, with candles and music. And then their parents fell in love with each other again.”

  “I remember,” I said. “And, no, we aren’t doing that to Mom and Frank.”

  “Come on.”

  “Joel, it would never work.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ve seen the movie.”

  “Mom has,” Joel said. “But are you sure about Frank?”

  I wrote down my total and tapped the stack of bills on the counter, making them even. “We are not going to trick our parents into getting back together.”

  Ever since he was small, Joel had a pout that could melt me into doing just about anything he wanted me to. So, I turned my back on him and stuffed the cash into an envelope for Bernie to put in the safe.

  “Come on, Annie,” he said, making his voice sound younger. “Please.”

  “Nope.”

  “He’ll leave soon, you know that, right?”

  “I know,” I said.

  “This is our chance.”

  Sighing, I turned back toward him. “We can’t trick him into staying. And we can’t force Mom to take him back.”

  Slumping, he leaned his elbows on the counter. “I just want to know what it’s like to have a normal family for once.”

  “Then you’re going to have to find another family that will let you join them,” I said. “Pal, we’re anything but normal.”

  “You sound like Mike.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” I took his empty plate and glass. “If you wait half a minute, I’ll walk home with you.”