39

October had gotten cold all of a sudden. Every time someone opened the door, walking into Bernie’s, a chill came along with them, making me shiver even as I rushed around delivering plates of eggs and bacon and refilling cups of coffee. I almost looked forward to submerging my hands into the hot dishwater.

The door opened as I carried a stack of used dishes to the kitchen. Turning to bump the door open with my rear end, I saw that it was Walt’s mother, Mrs. Vanderlaan, her winter coat gathered together in her hand at her neck as if she hadn’t thought to button it up.

Shoulders slumped forward, she found a seat at one of the far tables, her back toward the window. When I brought the coffeepot, filling her cup, I saw that her face was drawn, her eyes wet. She’d lit a cigarette and smoked it as if desperate, her fingers trembling. I’d never seen her smoke before. Of all the people in town that I least expected to light up, it was her.

“Mrs. Vanderlaan, are you all right?” I asked.

“Don’t tell my husband. Please,” she said. “Vince would kill me if he knew I was smoking.”

“All right,” I answered. “Would you like a little breakfast? Bernie still has pancakes going.”

She shook her head, staring off into nothing. “Just the coffee. I don’t need any cream.”

“Is everything okay?”

She shook her head and pulled on her cigarette again, holding the smoke while she talked.

“I just couldn’t stay home. Not while they are in the neighborhood.” She let the smoke out before dropping the cigarette into the ashtray. “I saw the car coming down the road and I was sure it was going to pull into our driveway.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The men who come to bring bad news about our boys.” She used the knuckle of her thumb to wipe under her eye. “You know that they send men to give bad news if something happens to the boys over there.”

“Is it Walt?” I asked, my voice sounding far away from my body, as if it came from someone else altogether.

She shook her head. “They went to the house across the street. Do you know the Robertses? They moved in just a few years ago.”

I put the coffeepot down, feeling light-headed. “I know Larry.”

“His father was killed in Vietnam. Alan. Alan Roberts.” She shook her head. “They came to their house first thing this morning. I was sure they’d come for me. I was just sure.”

“Oh no.” The two smallest of words came out, riding on my sigh, holding very little meaning. And yet, all the meaning I could muster. “Oh no.”

“I was so relieved when they didn’t come to my house.” She looked up at me. “I didn’t think to be horrified for that family. All I could feel was relief.”

I nodded, not knowing that there was anything I could or should say to her.

“What kind of a monster thinks that way?” She opened her purse and fished out her pack of cigarettes, lighting another one and pulling on it as if it would keep her alive.

I walked from her table, hardly noticing that I still carried the half-full pot of coffee, its weight feeling like nothing to me. All over, I’d become numb. Numb except for the sick feeling in my stomach.

Putting the pot back on the warmer, I pushed my way into the kitchen, rubbing the palms of my tingling hands on my apron, feeling nothing, but hearing the whisper of skin on soft cotton. Bernie’s low, growly voice sounded far away, underwater, even.

“Annie?” he said. “We’ve got customers, you know.”

“What?” I asked, turning. “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

“You sick?”

“No. It’s just . . .”

I didn’t finish. To speak the words would give the truth more reality than I could handle.

To say that Larry’s father was killed in Vietnam was to admit to myself that it really happened. Not just to his dad or to some kid who lived across the country.

It could happen to my brother.

It could happen to Mike.

Stepping back out of the kitchen, I swallowed against the bile and begged God to spare my brother.

Water boiled in Mom’s stockpot, waiting for her to drop in the box of dried spaghetti. It bubbled and hissed, but she seemed to have forgotten all about it. The telephone receiver to her ear, she bit on her thumbnail and said, “Uh-huh . . . Oh heavens . . . How awful . . . Yes,” to whoever was on the other line.

When she caught sight of me, she pointed at the pot and covered the mouthpiece. “Could you do that?” she whispered.

I was glad to have something to do, hoping I’d hear more from her end of the conversation without her thinking I was eavesdropping.

“How old are the little girls?” she asked then paused, listening. “Oh, they’re so little. And three of them? Plus the boy?”

I assumed she was talking about Larry and his younger sisters. How would such small kids be able to understand, I wondered. It couldn’t be possible. It was just too horrible.

“Oh, bless their hearts.”

Turning, I saw her in profile as she ran a finger under her eye and blew a sigh out between her lips.

“You take care, Elizabeth, all right? I know you’ve had an incredible shock.” She swallowed. “Let me know if they need anything. Do you promise?”

I popped the top off the Ragu bottle and poured it into a saucepan, setting it on one of the back burners.

“All right, you too,” Mom said. “Buh-bye.”

She hung up the phone and clasped the clip-on earring back on her lobe. “Heat up both jars, if you would,” she said. “Joel has a friend coming for supper.”

“Who?” I asked.

“His friend Andy. You know, the tall one. They have a test to study for.” She looked into the pan. “Should we add anything to that sauce? Some peppers or carrots?”

“No,” I said. “This is fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“They’re boys. They won’t want it fancy.”

“I’ve got meatballs in the oven.” She crossed her arms. “Don’t worry, I didn’t make them. I got them premade from Huisman’s.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“Uh-huh.” She covered a yawn with her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“Was that Mrs. Vanderlaan on the phone?” I stirred the noodles as they softened in the water. “Are you suddenly on speaking terms again?”

“Don’t be smart.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“You worked with the boy, didn’t you?”

I told her that I had.

“Do you know if they go to church?” She touched her temple as if she had a headache coming on. “Mrs. Vanderlaan seemed to think they don’t.”

“I don’t know.”

“They’ll need a place to hold the funeral. Maybe they can have it at ours.” She nodded. “And Oma could arrange for the luncheon.”

“I think that would be nice.”

“Mrs. Vanderlaan told me that Mrs. Roberts fainted when the men came this morning.” She opened the cupboard and counted out plates. “I can’t blame her. They knocked on the door before the kids had even had breakfast. Those little girls had to hear about their father that way. It just breaks my heart.”

“How awful.”

“It would be the worst thing for you and Joel to hear news like that.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said. “I don’t want to think about it.”

I put the lid on the saucepan harder than I’d meant to. It made a slamming sound and the pot clattered against the grate. Without any sense of control, I’d started crying. A heaving, messy, bending-at-the-waist kind of cry.

“Honey,” Mom said, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me upright. “Annie, it’s all right.”

“I’m just scared for him.” I leaned against her, knowing she was strong enough to keep me from falling. “I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

“I know. I know.” She rubbed circles on my back with the palm of her hand. “He’ll be fine. He’s special. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”

But they were all special. Every single one that went over there. All the ones who wouldn’t come home. They were special to somebody.

Dear Annie,

Your visit with Mike sounds like it was absolutely perfect in every way! I’m proud of your mom for thinking up Christmas in October, especially considering her aversion to seasonal decorations. Please tell her that I say, “Bravo, Mrs. Jacobson!” What a wonderful idea.

I’m sure you’re missing him and I know that you’re worried about him. To be honest, I would be too. But I know that no matter what happens, God sees your fears and he knows your heart. At the very same time he has his eye on Mike’s every move, no matter what he’s doing over there.

I stumbled upon a quote that I think might help. It happened in the library when I borrowed a book for one of my history assignments. In the front cover, someone had written in pen. (Pen! Can you believe someone would do such a thing?) At first I was aghast (see previous parenthetical). But when I read the words three or four times over, I was glad for the defacement of library property.

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

I don’t understand why, but those words brought peace to my heart.

I asked the librarian what she knew of the quote (because we are well aware that librarians are knowledgeable about all things). She told me that a mystic from the fourteenth century wrote it. And, get this, it was a woman! Her name was Julian.

Anyway, Annie my dear. When you become afraid or worried or even just tired, think of our friend Julian’s words.

“All manner of things shall be well.”

I love you,
Jocelyn