33

The church ladies had lost no time in organizing an after-service potluck in Mike’s honor. All during the sermon, they checked their wristwatches as if they were anxious about the pastor going even a minute longer than usual. The aromas of creamy casseroles and sweet ham and fresh-baked rolls mingled and filled the sanctuary.

The pastor’s sermon ended right on time. If not a few minutes earlier.

We held back, letting the ladies get to the fellowship hall ahead of us to put all the food on the long tables. Mom thought they’d want Mike to make a bit of an entrance so they could make a fuss and clap for him.

“They like doing that sort of thing,” she said.

“They shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” Mike said, standing stiff and straight in his dress uniform. Mom had convinced him to wear it to church.

“Everyone wants to see you before you go.” I nudged him with my shoulder. “Besides, I think Mrs. Kaiser made French silk pie just for you.”

“I’ll be too nervous to eat it.” He sighed and furrowed his brow. “I don’t like all this attention.”

“They’re going to miss you,” Mom said. “They wanted to give you a good send-off.”

“I don’t know what I’ll say to all of them. I’d rather just go home and be with you.”

“Michael. These people have known you your entire life. They’ve prayed for you and sent you birthday cards with dollar bills in them and taken care of you during the worst days.” Mom widened her eyes the way she did when she wanted to make sure we understood that she was serious. “You will go to this potluck and you will eat a bite from every single one of the casseroles on that table and you will compliment each of the cooks.”

“Gosh, Mom,” he said. “All right. I didn’t mean . . .”

“Son, these little old ladies might not look very big to you.” She blinked fast. “But they promised to pray every day for you. And I’m going to need them to pray so hard so that you come home in one piece.”

He nodded, swallowing.

“Don’t take them for granted.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t go a day without thanking God that he put them in our lives. All right?”

“Yeah. You’re right.” He excused himself and went into the restroom just outside the sanctuary doors.

When he came out, his tie was straightened, his shoulders pulled back, and he wore his most winning smile. He offered his arm to Mom and led her into the fellowship hall.

I followed behind them, watching our mother’s backbone straighten as they walked through the doors.

By the end of the potluck Mike and Joel were seated at a table to the far corner of the room, surrounded by the elder men of the congregation. They’d long since shed their suit coats, loosened their ties, and rolled up their shirtsleeves.

I stood at the buffet, collecting casserole pans and serving spoons to carry into the kitchen, where some of the church ladies were washing dishes in sinks, sudsy with detergent. Lingering there, I tried to hear what the men said in their low voices.

“Probably telling all their old war stories,” Mom said, standing beside me, her arms crossed. “Or at least the ones that made them out to be heroes.”

I couldn’t see Mike’s face, his back was turned toward me. But Joel’s was in clear sight. He stared, mouth agape, at the man who was speaking and his eyes were wide behind his glasses.

“He’s going to have nightmares tonight,” I said, shaking my head.

“Maybe.” She picked up a stack of dirty plates. “Come on. Let’s leave the men to their talk.”

She turned and went back into the kitchen.

I stayed, watching them for a moment more. The one telling the story clapped his hands for emphasis, and Joel flinched before breaking into a smile, his eyes brightening.

At the far end of the table sat Bernie, leaned back in his chair. He kept his eyes on Mike as if he was trying to read something from his face. When he caught me watching him, he gave me a nod and the kind of frown-smile he used when passing someone along the street.

The whole group of men erupted in laughter at however the storyteller’s tale had ended. I hoisted my load of casserole dishes and headed into the kitchen, where the chattering of women’s voices bubbled as much as the dish soap.

Two women parted, making room for me to rinse as they washed and dried.

Warmth bloomed inside my chest, something between gratitude and belonging.

By the time we had the kitchen cleaned up, most of the men had moved outside to the church lawn. One of them had a new car and several stood around it, the hood propped up with the engine running, rumbling into the Sunday afternoon quiet.

Mike wasn’t in that group. He and Bernie stood off to the side of the church, their backs to me. Bernie had his hand resting on Mike’s shoulder.

“Mom wants to go home,” Joel said, coming up from behind me.

“Go ahead,” I answered. “I’ll wait for Mike.”

“Cool,” he said. “Later.”

Standing alone on the sidewalk, I tried tuning my ears to hear what Mike and Bernie were talking about, but the Cadillac only grew louder as its owner revved it to the delight of the men standing around with hands on hips or arms crossed.

Those men of shed jackets and gray hair had once been young, sent to fight in a war far bigger than they. They’d gone and returned to get married and hold down jobs, to build houses and buy cars. They raised kids who got married and had children of their own.

Mike had every chance they’d had to come back. It was the hope I held on to for dear life.

“Were you waiting for me?” Mike asked, walking toward me.

“Nah.” I nodded at the half circle of men around the Caddy. “I’m just admiring that fine piece of American engineering.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Mom’s probably getting impatient. We should make our way home.”

“So, what did Bernie have to say?”

He started walking and put his hands in his pants pockets. “Nothing much.”

We left the churchyard and traveled along the road that would lead us to Lewis Street. I didn’t believe him. Bernie never said anything unless it had meaning. He was the kind who weighed his words before using them, making sure that they’d count for something before he let them out.

“Just man stuff,” Mike said after a few yards of walking. “He told me he’d check in on you three while I’m gone.”

“We’ll be okay,” I said. “We’ll manage.”

“I know.” He let out a big, thick sigh. “I’ll just feel better if I know he’s keeping an eye on you.”

Bernie Jager played the part of a grumpy man to a T. Had since I knew him. Mom said it was because he’d put his whole life into running the diner and hadn’t taken the time to get married and have a family.

That may well have been true.

But underneath that crusty attitude and gruff grimace was a tenderhearted man who had made it his business to take Mike and me under his wing. And he’d taught us more about what a godly man was than any sermon could have.

He hadn’t wasted his life. He’d spent a good amount of it on us.