Chapter 4

Emm stood in front of his eldest child’s grave. Frankly, Arvil was the only child he could fancy himself living with. Not because he planned to join him in his grave, of course, but because he remembered how wonderful he’d been as a boy and pictured the sort of man he would be now. Smart, strong, and successful. Admired by the community and adored by his family.

Mrs. Cray, likely assuming he’d come to seek his late wife’s advice, had walked ahead to Izora’s grave, on Arvil’s left. She pivoted back when she saw Emm stop at his son’s headstone, then read the words below the large cross: Arvil Denner Benbow, Private, 3rd Canadian Infantry Division, Born December 25, 1926, Died June 6, 1944, Beloved Son and Brother, Taken Too Young Fighting for Freedom. “I was twenty-five when the war ended,” she said. “I only have a younger sister, so my family didn’t lose any sons in the war, but many of my classmates perished. Five alone on D-Day, like Arvil. It must have been a terrible blow. He was your first-born?”

Emm leaned over to trace the long inscription, his tear-stained finger darkening the letters’ grooves. “I would have had a quarry’s worth of stones carved for Arvil if I could have afforded it. As it was, it took me ten years to pay off the engraver, even with the discount he gave to families of veterans. If I’d saved and invested that money three decades ago, I could afford to live at Woodmere today.” Emm glanced up at Mrs. Cray before bowing his head and wiping his eyes.

She helped him straighten up and balance his walker on the soft spring earth. “I’m sure many other parents made the same financial sacrifice, but the words must have brought a lifetime of comfort. I’m sorry I didn’t think to buy flowers before I fetched you at the hospital.”

“It’s kind enough that you brought me here. I wish I could come more often, but I’m dependent on my children to take me and visiting graves isn’t on their list of things to do.” Except for one child, who often visited a grave in another part of the cemetery, where Emm had never been. He did not mention this to Mrs. Cray. Nor had he ever spoken of it to anyone else.

“What was Arvil like?” Mrs. Cray settled her wide body in a comfortable stance and fixed her gray eyes on Emm. She appeared ready to listen.

Although he often thought of his son, it had been years since anyone had asked Emm about him. He took a minute to collect his memories, but once he started talking, the words poured out. “Arvil was the pride of the family. A real go-getter, like me. When he was ten, the paper had a contest to see which delivery boy could sign up the most new customers. Other kids knocked on a few doors after school when housewives were distracted cooking dinner. Arvil got up early every day for two weeks to catch their husbands when they left for work. He signed up five times as many houses as the second-place winner.” The prize had been a new bicycle, to deliver the additional papers. “Izora wasn’t happy about it. She wanted Arvil home more.”

“Most mothers are like that. They worry about their children when they aren’t close by.”

“I think Izora got the notion from her father, actually. Lewis stayed home a lot. My father-in-law never pushed himself to work hard. He settled for being a clerk at a haberdashery.” Emm grinned. “The man did wear spiffy hats, but they looked out of place with his bargain rack suits. If clothes make the man, then Lewis was a fedora with little mora.” Mrs. Cray smiled at the rhyme.

“The one good thing Arvil got from Izora’s side of the family was his sweet nature. He helped her a lot with the younger children. I wager my son changed more diapers than me.”

“Robert and I never had children, but my little sister was a hellion. I love her dearly now, but Jorgie made my life miserable growing up. She broke my toys, helped herself to my clothes. It was hard on my parents too. She often got into trouble at school for mouthing off.”

“Not Arvil. He was always respectful. Not that my boy was a goody two-shoes. He raided his friend’s parents’ liquor cabinet and got caught stealing cigarettes. But he was smart and very well-liked. A versatile young man who played football as well as French horn. Good dancer too.”

Emm tried to shuffle his feet, but the soggy ground trapped his heels. “Arvil wanted to teach me and Izora to jitterbug. She was pregnant, I forget who with, so he demonstrated with me as his partner. We did fine until the step where the man throws the woman out and reels her back in?” Mrs. Cray nodded; she knew the move. “I was caught off guard and flew across the room into a pail of soaking diapers. I’m afraid that forever put the kibosh on pop doing the lindy hop.”

Mrs. Cray’s laugh was a tonic to Emm. Warm blood rushed through him the way it had in the old days, right after he’d swallowed that first shot of whiskey. He still missed it, especially when he was feeling down in the dumps, like after his recent fall. On the other hand, Emm was sure he would have been down on the floor a lot more the last ten years if he hadn’t given it up.

“Goodness gracious, Mr. Benbow. Arvil sounds like a delightful child. No wonder you and your wife were proud of him. I’m sure his grandparents were too.”

“As far as my folks were concerned, nothing was too good for that boy. They came to every ball game and concert too.” Emm shook his head. “I can’t say the same for Izora’s parents. They couldn’t afford to give him as much as mine, but they didn’t even compensate by spending more time with him. Or the others. Lewis claimed he was too tired from working.” Emm snorted. “And we’d practically beg her mother, Clara, to visit. I don’t know if she was more frightened by the kids raising a ruckus, or by my mother, who was pretty strict about keeping them in check.” Emm shrugged. “Izora could be a little lax that way.”

“You said Arvil got good grades.”

“Math was his favorite subject. He’d have made a fine accountant. He helped me figure out the family budget when I got laid off during the Depression. Then, instead of complaining when there wasn’t money for the movies, he got a job as a ticket-taker and watched for free.”

Mrs. Cray sighed. “I wish I had your son’s head for numbers. I’m generally patient, but when the checkbook won’t balance, I fly into a rage. Or as close to one as a person like me gets.”

Emm couldn’t imagine someone as gentle as Mrs. Cray getting angry, let alone throwing conniptions. “Arvil liked chemistry too,” he continued. “He won the sixth-grade science fair for a project about the Toronto doctors who discovered insulin.”

“They won a Nobel prize. Perhaps someday he would have too.”

“The only prize I needed was for him to return home from the war.”

Mrs. Cray looked again at the headstone. “Arvil. It’s an unusual name, like Jorgie. My sister got teased a lot for hers. She likes it now, but I’m convinced it’s what turned her into a troublemaker. It was her way of getting back at my parents for giving it to her.”

“I taught Arvil to defend himself in case he got teased, but it wasn’t necessary. He had this aura that deflected criticism. It did the opposite; kids were drawn to him.” Emm grinned. “Girls especially. Halfway through high school though, he only had eyes for Jane. They planned to marry once he’d saved a little money. Then he got called up by the Army. Jane came with us to see him off at the station.” Emm swayed. “He was killed on the first day of the Battle of Normandy.”

Mrs. Cray helped him to a nearby bench and held his elbow as he lowered himself onto the seat. “Arvil sounds like a born leader. If he’d survived, he would have been more than a private by the war’s end.”

“He’d have gone farther than his old man, for certain, but not left me behind. Arvil would have taken care of me, either in his own home or at the best place in town. I wouldn’t be in this situation if I hadn’t sacrificed my son to my country.” Emm waited for a reaction. Getting none, he continued. “Arvil would have shown his father gratitude. I can’t say as much for the others.”

“Perhaps you underestimate them. You don’t know what they’ll say when you call.”

“To tell you the truth, Eudora. May I call you that? I’m having trouble deciding which child to ring up because Arvil is the only one I can imagine living with. Him and his wife, Jane.” Emm studied the mud on his soles. “We lost touch with her after the funeral.”

Mrs. Cray nodded. “The young get on with their lives. The old should too. I had to, after Robert died. We can’t get stuck in the past or live in the pretend world of what might have been.”

Emm gripped the arms of his walker.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Benbow. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“No. You’re probably right. He who treads water, no doubt, gets stuck when the tide rolls out.” Emm beamed in response to Mrs. Cray’s smile. “Besides, I’m only guessing what Arvil would have been like as an adult. Especially after the war. I imagine him as resilient, the same way I recovered from the Depression, gradually working my way up at the munitions factory. But many of the men I worked with said their sons returned from battle embittered. Especially those who saw comrades killed in front of their eyes.”

“It’s hard to see those you care about go down,” said Mrs. Cray.

“It’s hard to see yourself go down.” Emm stood and walked the ten steps to Izora’s grave.

Izora would not accept the Western Union telegram, so the boy handed it to Emm. He dug in his pocket for a tip, but the boy refused and retreated hastily down the front walk. Emm waited until the messenger had turned the corner before leading his wife to the couch and breaking the seal. “We deeply regret to inform you ...” He didn’t need to read any further.

A week later, a letter arrived from Chaplain Richard K. Morgan. “It is with real sorrow that I write following the death of your son, Arvil. Private Benbow played a gallant part in our fight against the Germans, helping comrades who had been hit get to a place of safety before being mortally wounded himself. There is no one here who does not feel his death as a personal blow. Arvil was unfailingly cheerful, an excellent soldier, and a fine example to us all.” The Chaplain’s letter went on to describe the importance of the sacrifice made by Canada’s youth, and their families, and assured the Benbows that their son was following in God’s footsteps, paying a worthy price for the world’s salvation.

Emm was the one who shed tears, copiously, throughout a beautiful summer that seemed as bleak as winter. To his surprise, Izora remained dry-eyed. At first, he thought she was being stoic for the sake of the other children, who ranged in age from seven to sixteen. But watching her listlessly smear fake margarine on toast, he concluded that she was numb. Gradually, what little energy she had disappeared altogether. She lost interest in taking care of her family. The house was a worse shambles than usual. Emm called on his mother for help, and advice.

Mrs. Benbow took charge. She cooked large pots of “Wartime Stew” (leftover bits of meat with cabbage and onions) for Emm and the children. Declaring that her daughter-in-law suffered from “weak blood,” she plied her with Lydia Pinkham’s tonic. After Izora left an open bottle on her nightstand and one of the younger children drank it all (Dr. Marsh had to be called in), Mrs. Benbow next advised her son to feed his wife iron-rich foods like beetroot and spinach. With vegetables being rationed, when they were available at all, Emm resorted to buying them from the black-market dealers who hung around the munitions plant at lunch time. Izora left the vegetables on the kitchen counter to rot until the flies outnumbered the children by a hundred to one.

Eighteen months after Arvil died, Emm buried Izora. The cause cited on his wife’s death certificate was a fatal combination of diabetes and anemia. Mrs. Benbow took the latter as confirmation that she’d been correct in diagnosing Izora’s ailment. Dr. Marsh declared, in plainer language, that his long-time patient was simply worn out. Emm, in a rare instance of disagreement with his mother, believed that his wife had died of a broken heart.