The only thing that would have made it more perfect was if Mike had been there to hear it.
At ten seconds before midnight we counted down, all of us yelling at the top of our lungs. 1968 was so close, I could feel it. It seemed as if in just a few moments the whole world could change for the better, that only good things lay around the corner for us.
“. . . Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . .” we yelled. “Happy New Year!”
The regular band played “Auld Lang Syne” and the couples all around us shared kisses. I tried not to turn toward David, not wanting him to think he had to kiss me and unsure if I would survive something like that in front of half the town.
That was when he took my hand in his and lifted it to his lips.
It took me what felt like a whole minute to breathe again.
Dear Annie,
Hey, pal. I’ve been writing you some real doozies lately, haven’t I? If I’ve caused you nightmares, I want to apologize. That wasn’t very nice of me, was it? Listen, if you still have those letters, go ahead and burn them or tear them to shreds or use them to line the birdcage. I guess you can hold off on the last one.
I know you love birds, but I draw the line at keeping one inside.
Anyhow, I’ve just had a few really good days and I wanted to tell you about them.
The other day we opened up a makeshift clinic and let some of the locals come to get a little medical care they might not otherwise have. I let the real doctors take care of giving shots and pulling teeth. What I got to do was play games with kids while they waited to see the nurses or when their folks were receiving treatment.
It sure didn’t feel like being in the Army and for a little while, I was glad to be right where I was.
I’ve been reading my Bible a lot more lately. On days that are especially hard, it just seems to help me breathe again. Did you know Oma sent me a pocket-sized one a couple of months ago? It’s been a real life saver the past few weeks.
Anyway, I was reading and a certain verse stuck out to me. I’ve never in my life written in a Bible. I just thought it was disrespectful, I guess. But I took the pen right out of my pocket and underlined that verse and wrote the date in the margin.
“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.”
This is a terribly dark place, Annie. And it’s real easy to get lost in that darkness. But even in the worst days and the terrors, I can see a light. I swear to you, I can.
It seems real corny to say, but when I think about that verse, it just seems like God is so close. Like I can reach out and grab hold of him.
I don’t know if I’m explaining this right at all. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I feel at peace. Whatever happens over here, even with a war exploding all around my ears and death everywhere I look, I know that God is with me.
Everything is going to be all right. I just know it.
Happy New Year, sis.
Love,
Mike
PS: I know this envelope is thick and you might think I wrote all of this just to you. But I didn’t. Sorry to get your hopes up. I wrote something to everybody (you, Joel, Mom, Frank, Oma, Grandma, Bernie, even our sweetie pie Auntie Rose). If I don’t make it out of here, I want you to make sure they each get their letter.
Can you promise me that?
And I’m going to ask something really hard. Don’t read them unless, well, you-know-what happens. Can you do that? Put these in your sock drawer or hide them away in the attic or whatever you have to do to keep them safe.
They’re important.
Dear Mike,
Happy New Year! Can you believe it’s already 1968? Golly, this decade is speeding past in a hurry, huh? It seems like just yesterday we were little kids, sneaking downstairs to hide behind Mom’s chair and watch Guy Lombardo ring in 1960. Do you think she knew we did that?
The Legion put on a boss party this year. It was a real gas. You would have been really proud of our baby brother. His band played two songs and didn’t even get booted off the stage when they played the Stones.
Maybe when you get home we’ll throw a bash and they can play for it. They really aren’t half bad.
I wish we could sit at the kitchen table with a couple bottles of root beer to talk about all things. Truly, I don’t mind you telling me about the dark days. Not really. Sure, those letters rattle me a bit, but I’m sure not nearly as much as they do you. Don’t ever feel bad about writing those kinds of things to me.
But, I don’t mind saying that hearing good news from you makes me happy. I’ve always loved that verse that you wrote about. Your take on it reminded me of something that happened a few months ago.
I sat on the public access dock, watching a storm that raged from miles away. The clouds loomed large, white hot lightning splintering from them followed by the crash-boom of thunder. The sound of it echoed across the water.
No rain fell where I sat. From the way it seemed, I didn’t think the wind would press the storm my way. It was all far off, distant.
I didn’t tell anyone this because I was afraid it might not make sense to them. And it seemed a special moment that I didn’t want spoiled because someone thought I’d lost my marbles. Something tells me you’ll understand, though.
As I watched that storm, I just kept thinking, “That’s how God is.”
Sometimes he feels so far, as if to never reach us. We call for him, we beg him to come. And when he seems to stay away, we might even ask where he is.
Then we see his power on display and remember, he has gone nowhere. And he’s lost not one bit of his strength.
I don’t know if that makes any sort of sense to you at all. If it doesn’t, just don’t tell me or look at me funny.
Just remember, there’s a light in the darkness. The darkness cannot understand it. But that light isn’t for the darkness. It’s for you. It’s so you can find your way home.
I love you.
Annie
PS: The letters for the family are tucked away in my drawer. I hope that’s where they stay forever.
59
Frank had written to tell me that he wouldn’t be able to come home for my birthday dinner. He had loads of work to do and it was an awfully long drive.
“The end of January is a busy time around here, believe it or not,” he’d written. “But I’ll make it up to you next time I’m over that way. I promise.”
It seemed like any other reasonable newly turned nineteen-year-old would understand. That she’d be a grown-up about it and not pout. For the most part, I did well with it. And any pouting I did do was in private so no one would see how immature I was.
Mom picked up burgers on the way home from work, and Oma made me a cake with whipped cream frosting. Joel set the table and David brought a bouquet of flowers. They sang to me and Mom turned off the lights so the candles could flicker in their fullness of beauty before I blew them out.
All in all, it was a good day, even with Mike and Frank not there.
Oma and David had long since gone home and Joel had gone to bed. Mom sat in her easy chair and I on the couch, each with a cup of hot cocoa and a second slice of cake.
“Why not?” Mom asked, serving them up. “My girl only turns nineteen once.”
“Do you want to watch the news?” I said.
“Sounds good.”
“David picked out pretty flowers for you,” she said.
“He did.” I glanced at the bouquet of daisies and carnations with a little bit of baby’s breath here and there. “I’ve never gotten flowers before.”
“It was sweet of him.” She took a bite of cake.
“Mom?”
“Hm?”
“How do I know if we’re going steady or not?”
“Oh, I don’t know how kids do it now.” She put down her fork. “I knew I was Frank’s girl after he knocked Bill DeVries’s lights out.”
“Well, to be fair, Bill wasn’t a doctor yet.” Mom smiled and got a faraway look in her eyes. “They were fighting over me. Bill said something about how a nice girl like me wouldn’t choose to be with trash like Frank.”
“I just can’t imagine Frank hitting anyone.”
“Oh, he was a bit wild.” She shook her head. “It was that fire in him that I fell in love with. Oma, though, wasn’t too fond of what she called his ‘ill temper.’”
“And Dr. DeVries didn’t have it?”
“Heavens no.” She covered her mouth when she laughed. “If Frank was fire, Bill was room-temperature water.”
“That’s not flattering,” I said.
“I guess not.” She took a sip of her cocoa. “As far as David goes, he brought you flowers on your birthday and endured a meal with all of us. I’d say that’s all the evidence you need.”
“You think so?”
“I do,” she said. “And you have my blessing. I saw the way he looks at you. He’ll treat you well, I can tell.”
“I didn’t tell you about New Year’s Eve.”
“Did he kiss you at midnight?”
“He kissed my hand.” I blushed and shrugged. “It was nice.”
“His mother must be an incredible woman to have raised such a young man.”
I nodded. “We should turn on the TV or we’ll miss the beginning of the show.”
She reached out from her seat, changing the channel to NBC.
But it wasn’t Johnny Carson on the screen. Instead, an announcer with a larger-than-life voice said, “NBC News presents ‘Viet Cong Terror: A Guerrilla Offensive.’”
“What’s this?” Mom whispered, turning up the volume.
A man with silvery white hair and dark-rimmed glasses spoke of raiders and terrorism and snipers. The communist violence was widespread. Ten provinces, at the American embassy in Saigon, air bases, in civilian areas.
Two-hundred-thirty-two American soldiers dead. More than nine hundred wounded.
“. . . the bloodiest two days we have known in Vietnam thus far,” he said. “And while we were meant to be under seven days of truce for the Vietnamese new year, otherwise known as Têt, it appears the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army have broken the truce with offenses that span the whole of South Vietnam.”
“Did you hear about this?” Mom asked.
I shook my head. “I haven’t had the television on all day.”
She put her plate on the end table.
The footage of men running across streets or crawling over grass was blurry at best. I had to squint to see what was happening. But the sounds of gunfire were clear, and there was a lot of it. As hard to see as it was, I knew when I saw men carrying stretchers to an ambulance or a body lying on the ground.
A man slouched among the American GIs, gun pointed in a window of what I imagined to be the embassy, shooting at whoever he could hit inside. He moved with no hurry from window to window, shooting in through the bars.
At one point, he held the shoulder of a kneeling soldier, steadying himself as he went to shoot through another window. It seemed the most normal thing for him to do, firing a gun into a building. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought he was spraying poison into a wasp-infested shed, for how casually he went about it.
The picture changed to a zoomed-in image of a man I assumed to be dead, lying in a fountain. Then more dead, lying on the ground.
“All of the Viet Cong terrorists, nineteen of them, were killed,” the reporter said.
“They had lots of ammunition,” a man in fatigues told the cameraman. “Had enough to snipe at helicopters and airplanes as they flew overhead.”
A helicopter hovered nearby and the man pointed at it. Squinting, I hoped to see if it was Mike on it, even though I was sure there were hundreds of machines just like that one. All I could manage to see were shadows of men on board.
“These attacks,” the reporter went on, “were meticulously planned and extremely well-coordinated. It may be that the communists are not winning this war, as we’re told by the Pentagon. However, they are not losing it, either.”
Mom turned off the television and picked up her plate and cup, headed for the kitchen.
“We won’t lose,” I asked. “Will we?”
“I don’t know, honey,” she answered. “We haven’t lost a war yet.”
“What would happen if we did?”
“Let’s not think about that right now, all right?”
As hard as I tried, I couldn’t put the idea out of my mind.
Reel-to-reel recording sent from Vietnam
Mike: This is Mike Jacobson and the date is January 19, 1968.
Annie! Happy Birthday, you sweet, smart, and supercilious sister of mine. You’ve somehow managed to singlehandedly improve the past nineteen years of my life. Although, I can’t remember a thing from before you came along, I’m quite certain I was miserable until I first met you.
Now, this next part is to all of you. Mom, you’ll have to make sure Grandma and Frank get a listen to it too. All right?
The care package of goodies came. Before Christmas Day, even. Oma and Annie must have spent a month making all of those cookies. But the guys in my hooch say thank you. After this whole thing is over, you might have a couple boys knocking on your door for a cookie and a glass of milk. I told them you wouldn’t mind that, Oma. And, Annie, I told those fellas to keep their distance from you. You’re too good for any of them.
Background voice:
Hey, what gives, Jacobson?
Mike: I’m recording over here, Smitty. Keep the language clean. (pause) Sorry about that, folks.
Ahem.
Great news! I’ve passed the halfway point of my six months as a combat medic. That means in just three short months I’ll be in a hospital somewhere for the rest of my time. Won’t that be nice? I’m holding out for Japan. I think that would be keen.
I don’t have long, I’m using my buddy’s machine and he wants to make a recording for his girl back home. But I wanted to let you all know that I’m doing all right. I’ve gotten my bearings here for the most part and I know I’ve saved at least a few lives in the process.
Since I had no choice in the matter, I guess this is the best situation for me. I’m making a difference, even if just a small one. But, then again, I’m sure the boys’ parents back home think it’s a big deal, having their sons alive, even if not in one piece.
I love every single one of you. Mom, Annie, Joel, Frank, Oma, Grandma. I even like Bernie some too. I think he’d clobber me if I said I loved him, even if it’s true.
Take care. I’ll see you all before you know it.
This is Michael Francis Jacobson signing off.
(click)
60
Bernie was in an especially foul mood that Saturday morning. It was something about the grill not firing up correctly, although I hadn’t really understood his grumblings fully. I hadn’t asked him to clarify, either.
All I knew was that any orders I took would require him to cook on the stove top or in the oven, which made more work for both him and Larry, not to mention longer waits for our customers.
“Just tell them we’re only serving baked goods this morning,” he grunted at me. “We’ll have to shut down for lunch, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Did you break it?”
“Well, no.”
“Then stop apologizing so much,” he said with a grunt. “You make me crazy for all the things you’re sorry about.”
“Sorry?”
“Very funny.”
Fortunately, most of the people who came for breakfast were happy to eat a doughnut or even a piece of pie in place of a fried egg and hash brown potatoes.
“Just as long as you have coffee,” a few of them said.
Right around ten that morning, the breakfast crowd thinned and David came in, sitting at his usual table. He had the pap
er in front of him, open to the Marmaduke comic, chuckling to himself.
“What’s that silly dog up to today?” I asked, walking up to his table.
“Same old, same old.” He folded the paper. “I was thinking about going to see a movie today.”
“Oh you were?”
“The new Jimmy Stewart one,” he said. “It’s a Western. Would you like to go with me?”
“Sure.” I looked at the clock on the wall. “I get out early. We’re not staying open for lunch.”
“Sounds fine.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home and change my clothes.”
“All right. Maybe I’ll get you around two o’clock?”
I told him that would be fine and he asked if he could have a doughnut and a glass of milk. Behind the counter I put a fresh pastry on a plate for him, using the can of whipped cream to make it into a smiley face. I poured his milk and turned to go back to his table.
That was when the bell over the door jingled.
The man who walked in was in full dress uniform. Deep green jacket and pants, lighter green shirt beneath. Shiny brass buttons and badges on the breast of the jacket.
“Hello?” I said, still holding the plate and glass. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so, miss,” the man said. “I’m looking for an address.”
“Just a minute.” I took the glass and plate to David, not feeling if I put it on the table or not. Then I went to the soldier. “What’s the address?”
I swallowed hard.
“I have it here in my pocket.” He reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a slip of paper and unfolding it. “It’s on Lewis Street.”
My body felt light, as if it might float away without me even realizing it. I looked at the paper.
Jacobson.
“David?” I said. “Tell Bernie I went home.”
“Miss?” the man beside me said. “Are you all right?”
“Bernie will give you directions.”
Without another word, without taking off my apron or grabbing my coat, I ran out the door.
All Manner of Things Page 28
