All Manner of Things

by Susie Finkbeiner

  I’ll never make it out of here if you don’t.

  I love you.

  Mike

  PS: You can’t ever let Mom or Joel see this. Burn it, eat it, throw it in the lake, but don’t let them read it. And promise you’ll never tell them about this, either. They don’t need to know.

  Dear Mike,

  Don’t be angry. But Bernie read the letter you wrote to me. He opened the envelope, not knowing that it was for me until he’d already seen enough to know what happened.

  He told me that I should write you back. When I asked him what I should say, he told me “Anything that might get his mind off it.”

  When I asked him if that was what he’d want me to do, he shook his head and said, “That’s what Mike would want, though.”

  So, here goes. Consider this your five minutes of distraction from your current reality.

  We had our first freezing rain of the winter on Sunday. The loons hadn’t left yet. You better believe they took off for warmer climates directly afterward. I already miss them.

  Not as much as I miss you though, I guess.

  Joel has gotten pretty decent on his guitar, and his rock and roll band isn’t half bad. They’ve even come up with a name. They call themselves the Bus Drivers. Mom thinks they’ve lost their minds. But the kids are certain that they’re the next big thing.

  Wouldn’t it be something if our baby brother became a rock star?

  Mom tried a new recipe a few days ago. It had something to do with pork chops, sliced apples, and garlic. To make a long story a whole lot shorter, the fire department came and we never did find out if the recipe was any good. Mom sure has a knack, doesn’t she?

  Next week we’re going to Aunt Rose’s mansion for Thanksgiving dinner. Frank’s going to meet us there. Even Mom is going and Oma too. Thank goodness Aunt Rose insists that we don’t bring anything but ourselves. I don’t know that Mom’s stove top could take any more abuse for a while.

  You remember Walt Vanderlaan, don’t you? I guess he’s coming home from Vietnam next week. The church is holding a dessert reception for him. You know who organized that?

  You’ll never guess.

  It was Mom.

  Apparently she and Mrs. Vanderlaan are back on speaking terms. When I told her that it was nice of her, she told me it was something she’d want someone to put together for you. It’s still nice, if you ask me.

  How am I, you ask? Fine. There’s nothing new for me. I’m just working at Bernie’s. That’s about it.

  Take care of yourself, will you? And try not to carry the whole world on your shoulders. That’s an impossible thing to ask of you, I realize that. But try.

  You can’t save everyone. But I know you can save some.

  I’m proud of you.

  Annie

  43

  Three long tables were covered in every kind of dessert imaginable. Trays of cookies, all varieties and shapes. Sheet cakes and layered cakes and cupcakes, all with different colored frosting. Pies with fancy lattice tops and perfectly pinched crusts. Chocolates molded by hand and filled with creams of many flavors.

  Along the far wall of the church fellowship hall was a hand-painted banner. Welcome Home, US Marine Vanderlaan!

  Nearly the whole town had come to give Walt the welcome worthy of a war hero. They milled around, chatting with each other as we waited for the Vanderlaans to arrive.

  “Annie,” Mom said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Could you get another stack of coffee cups from the kitchen, please?”

  “Sure,” I answered. “This will be some party.”

  “It certainly will be. Do you think we’ll have enough dessert?”

  “I think we’ll be fine.” I shook my head. “Let me get those cups for you.”

  I wove through the masses toward the kitchen, amazed by how many people had come for Walt. Sure, he’d been popular. But popular didn’t always mean the same thing as well-liked. Either way, I was glad that so many had come. It would have been horrible if the crowd had been thin.

  Once I made it out of the fellowship hall and into the doorway of the kitchen, I breathed easier. It wasn’t usual for me to feel claustrophobic. But that mashing up of people had done it.

  That was when I saw someone coming down the steps from the corner of my eye. Walt stepped off the last stair, his lanky arms hanging rigidly at his sides. The brass buttons of his uniform jacket caught the light, standing out against the dark fabric. Reaching up, he removed the white hat, holding it by its black bill. His white-blond hair was cut so short I could see the pink of his scalp.

  “Annie?” he said.

  “Hi,” I answered, smoothing the burnt orange fabric of my A-line dress.

  “You look nice.” His voice wasn’t nearly as loud as I’d remembered it. It lacked his usual bravado. Instead, he was tentative, almost shy. “I like your dress.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My parents are still in the car,” he said. “They’re arguing. Typical, huh?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “They told me to come in without them.” He looked down at his hat. “It seems odd, walking in by myself.”

  “No one would even notice,” I said. “All they care about is seeing you.”

  He shrugged. “Some way for a boy to come home from war, huh?”

  “I can walk in with you,” I said. “If you’d like.”

  “Just like kindergarten.” He reached up and scratched the back of his head. “You remember that, don’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  “It was Mike’s and my first day of school.” He swallowed. “You and your mom were there to see him to his classroom. My mother told me to walk with you. She didn’t want to come in.”

  “I think I remember now.”

  “Mike ran into the school like he owned the place,” he said. “I was scared.”

  “And I told you that I’d go with you.”

  “You held my hand.” He put his hand out to me, stepping forward. “Just like kindergarten?”

  “Sure.”

  His hand was warm and rough with calluses. He squeezed mine just as we walked into the crowd.

  He only let go after I squeezed it back.

  Mom got after me for keeping my window open to talk to Jocelyn.

  “It’s too cold for that nonsense,” she said, standing in my bedroom door.

  “But she just got home from college,” I said from where I sat on my bed. “I have so much to tell her.”

  “Then just have her come over here. And keep that window shut, for goodness’ sake.”

  So, Jocelyn had come and sat at the foot of the bed while I sat at the head. It was late and we both wore our nighties. Jocelyn’s coat hung on my doorknob.

  “Now, tell me again how he convinced you to hold his hand,” she said, hugging my old teddy bear to her chest. “I’m so sorry I missed all of it.”

  “Why do you want to hear about that?” I asked.

  “Because it’s romantic.”

  “Not really.” I grimaced.

  “Come on, Annie. Just humor me, would ya?”

  “Oh, all right,” I said, resting my head against the wall. “He reminded me of when we were little.”

  “Uh-huh.” She sounded skeptical. “You didn’t feel anything when you took his hand, did you?”

  “Just that his palm was rough.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I mean, was there an electric charge or anything? Like in the movies?”

  “Not that I remember. Should there have been?”

  “I’m not sure.” She scrunched her lips to one side of her face. “You said he seemed different?”

  I nodded. “Not so arrogant.”

  “Hm. Maybe the drill sergeants beat it out of him.” She shrugged. “You just never know how being at war can change a man.”

  “He asked if he could take me to the movies or something,” I said, hoping the cool wall would keep the blush from burning in my cheeks. “I told h
im he could.”

  “Annie Jacobson.”

  “What? I told him we’d go just as friends.”

  “I don’t know what to say to you.” She leaned forward. “Will this be your first date?”

  “It won’t be a date,” I answered. “Besides, what about when I had lunch with David at the diner?”

  “Do you want that to count?” she asked. “Because it counts if you want it to.”

  I nodded my head.

  “Then this is your second date.”

  “Jocie, it’s just as friends.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said.” She put both hands on her cheeks. “Oh, what will you wear?”

  “I don’t have the slightest clue,” I said. “Golly, I should have said no.”

  “Just because you don’t know what to wear?” She laughed. “Don’t worry. You could wear a flour sack and look beautiful. Besides, you know that boys don’t care what a woman wears, right?”

  “That’s not it.” I shook my head. “He’s going to get the wrong idea about me.”

  “Hold on,” she said. “This is about David, isn’t it? You really do like him.”

  I nodded, rubbing at my temples with the meat of my hands. “I just wish it was different. Mom would have a stroke.”

  “The world’s changing, Annie. Every day.” She put her fingertips on my knee, so gently I hardly felt them. “Maybe this will change too. Who knows?”

  “I guess anything is possible, right?” I cleared my throat. “I’m not going to count this with Walt as a date.”

  “Then it isn’t a date.” She nodded decisively. “It’s just a movie.”

  “Exactly.” I sighed. “Now, I want to hear about you. How was college? Tell me every single thing.”

  We stayed up until far too late in the night. I knew I’d be beat when my alarm went off in the morning, but I just did not care. I had my dearest friend home for a few days.

  I felt like one lost in the desert who had just found a spring of fresh water.

  Dear Family,

  Happy Thanksgiving to all! I hope you have a good trip to Auntie Rose’s house. Give her a stiff, obligatory hug for me, will you? And give Grandma a kiss on the cheek. As for Frank, maybe a firm handshake will do, compliments of old Mikey.

  Gosh, I sure am going to miss eating myself silly with all of you and sitting down to watch the game. But don’t you worry about me. I’ve heard that on base we’ll have a turkey with all the fixings. If we’re lucky, Uncle Sam might even spring for a slice of pumpkin pie.

  Let’s just hope Charlie gives us a break for the day. He doesn’t like letting up, but maybe if we ask nicely, he’ll stop shooting at our boys for a few hours.

  That doesn’t seem like too much to ask, do you think?

  Say, I’m thankful for you.

  All my love,

  Mike

  44

  Frank’s rusty truck stood out like a sore thumb against the pristinely kept yard and the bright, white siding of Aunt Rose’s house. I imagined her nose wrinkling when she saw it parked there. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of it.

  Mom pulled our station wagon into the driveway. “Leave it to Rose to live in a house like this.”

  “Weggegooid geld,” Oma said, turning from her seat in the front of the car to wink at me before opening her door.

  “What did she say?” Joel asked.

  “That this”—Mom nodded at the house—“is a waste of money.”

  “This much house for only a few people?” Oma said. “I’m right, you know.”

  “Can you imagine how much it costs to heat this place?” Mom shook her head.

  The four of us stood on the porch, and Mom let Joel push the doorbell. Aunt Rose opened it before it stopped chiming.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said, pulling the door wide and holding it as we all filed inside. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you for having us,” Mom said, submitting herself to the air kiss Aunt Rose smooched next to her face. “Your house is lovely.”

  “How nice of you to say.” Aunt Rose touched her cheek to mine and make a mwah sound close to my ear. “I’m sorry to say that Eliot had to go out of town on business despite my feelings. He sends his regards.”

  Joel and I met eyes. My brothers and I had hardly seen Uncle Eliot more than a couple of times. Mike had Joel convinced for years that Uncle Eliot wasn’t real and that Aunt Rose made all her money working as an assassin during World War II. From the look on Joel’s face, I thought he still half believed it.

  “Frank is in the drawing room,” Aunt Rose said. “First door on the left.”

  “What’s a drawing room?” Joel whispered to me.

  “Just a fancy living room, I guess,” I answered.

  “Huh. Rich people are strange.”

  I shushed him. “You know she’s right behind us, don’t you?”

  He grimaced and covered his mouth with his hand. “Do you think she heard me?”

  “For your sake, I hope not.”

  Frank stood at a window in the drawing room, a mug in his hand with the tail of a tea bag dangling from the lip. He turned toward us, giving Mom his half grin.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said, lifting his mug in a toast.

  “I’m glad to see you dressed up,” Mom said.

  “Oh, this old thing?” He rubbed the front of his well-worn flannel shirt and grinned.

  “I asked him to wear something with a collar,” Aunt Rose said, crossing her arms. “I suppose I should have been more specific.”

  “Where’s Grandma?” Joel asked, his eyes darting across the room.

  “In the kitchen.” Aunt Rose sighed. “She insisted on doing all the cooking.”

  “I’d like to say hello to her,” Oma said. “If I may.”

  “Of course. Just this way.”

  Aunt Rose led Oma out of the room, turning and looking at Mom as if she wasn’t sure what to make of her. I was glad that Mom hadn’t seemed to notice.

  Joel crossed the room, taking Frank’s hand. “How ya doing, Dad?”

  “Swell,” Frank answered. “Isn’t that what you hip cats say these days.”

  Joel’s mouth spread in a wide smile. “Right on.”

  “You’re still playing that guitar, aren’t you?”

  “Sure am.”

  “He’s getting pretty good,” I said. “I should know, I hear him practice every single day.”

  “Well, anybody could play it if they wanted to.” Joel put his hands in his pockets.

  “I couldn’t,” I said.

  “You could. I’ll teach you.”

  Frank’s eyes went from Joel to me, observing the back and forth of our conversation as if it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

  You could have had this every day, I wanted to say to him. You don’t know what you gave up.

  But from the look in his eyes, the longing I read there, I thought he knew exactly what he’d lost.

  Grandma looked healthier than I’d seen her in years. She stood without a stoop and smiled wide enough to show her teeth. As she moved around the kitchen there was more life to her steps and she hummed every once in a while. I thought she’d even put on a few pounds. She hadn’t gotten plump, not nearly. But she looked as if she’d been eating better, which was an improvement over the last time I’d visited with Mike.

  It was the grandmother I remembered from before Grandpa had gotten sick.

  She busied herself, basting the turkey and filling the kitchen with the rich smells of stuffing and sweet potatoes, buttered mashed potatoes and yeast rolls. Oma whisked flour into turkey drippings for gravy while Mom cut a mincemeat pie. Aunt Rose and I filled relish trays with olives and pickles and radishes cut to look like flowers.

  “Mother,” Aunt Rose said. “Have you told them what you’ve done?”

  “Oh, they don’t care about that,” Grandma said, her glasses fogged up from the steamy oven.

  “I do,” I said.

  “Wel
l, if you must know, I’ve joined a Dorcas Society. Rose made me,” she told us. “We meet on Tuesday mornings to sew and then we have lunch together someplace in town. It’s something to do, I guess.”

  “Don’t let her fool you. She loves it,” Aunt Rose said. “It was a moment of genius on Eliot’s part, really. He saw the announcement in the church bulletin and knew it would be a good thing for Mother.”

  “What do you sew?” I asked.

  “Oh, some ladies make quilts and others knit sweaters,” Grandma said. “I’ve been working on making little dresses for girls. Then we send all of it to the needy.”

  “How nice,” Mom said, moving on to cutting up a pumpkin pie. “And you’ve made friends?”

  “I suppose you could say I have,” she answered. “There’s this one named Edith who comes and takes me to see a movie every once in a while. We have a good time.”

  “She’s doing well here,” I whispered to my aunt. “This is a good place for her.”

  “I’m trying,” Aunt Rose said, not looking up from the block of cheese she’d started slicing.

  “You’re doing a good job,” I said.

  She met my eyes. I didn’t think I’d ever before seen a more sincere expression on her face. Her lips trembled and she pulled them together as if to still them.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Grandma insisted that Frank carve the turkey, which he did with a surprisingly steady hand. He doled out the meat, light or dark. We passed seemingly endless dishes of all varieties, filling our plates with all things delicious and traditional. No matter how much food everyone took, there still was more. More than we ever could have eaten in one sitting.

  “Son,” Grandma said. “Bless the food, would you?”

  He nodded, taking my hand on his right and Grandma’s on his left. The tremor was slight, hardly noticeable. But when I curled my fingers around his hand, it nearly stopped altogether.

  His prayer was simple and full of thanks. And he asked God to watch over the ones who weren’t with us that day, especially Mike. It surprised me how true his voice sounded, how humbled and yet how confident. For twelve years I’d thought that when Frank walked away from us, he’d left God behind too.