32
It rained nearly every day that Mike was home. The skies cast a gloom over all things and the red-orange-brown of autumn leaves hung from the fingertips of trees, drenched and sad.
Still, there was sunshine and laughter and good feelings inside our house while Mike was there. Every evening Mom ordered takeout if Oma hadn’t made something to bring over. We sat at the table, sharing stories that we’d told a hundred times over. But then they were fresh, new. Joel’s homework went undone. I lacked sleep. The mail stacked up, envelopes stayed sealed.
“We’ll get to that later,” Mom said about nearly everything that needed to be done. “Let’s not worry about that right now.”
And whenever someone brought up Mike going to Vietnam, she’d say the same thing.
Time was shorter than we wanted it to be. The days fell into each other, ending before we were ready for them to. Before we knew it, Mike would have to go.
I felt on the edge of panic whenever I remembered it.
It had to have been after two in the morning. Something had jostled me from sleep. Thinking it was from my dream, I shut my eyes, trying to settle back into my deep slumber. But then I heard it again, a thunking sound. A scratching, rustling thud from above me.
When I heard the laughter, I groped around on my bedside table for my glasses. Sitting up, I pushed aside the curtain over my window, flipped the lock, and pushed up the pane. Sure enough, I heard Joel and Mike, their deep voices coming from the roof.
“Shhhh,” one of them hissed. “Don’t wake up Mom.”
“All right.” Then another bout of laughter.
Their voices had the same tone and, just from listening to them, I couldn’t tell which was which.
“Oh man,” one of them said. “It’s wet.”
“Don’t worry,” the other said. “Your rear end’ll dry out eventually. Just lay back and look at the stars.”
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.
“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