42

Bernie had set up a television on one of the tables in the diner, and all our breakfast regulars gathered around, silent, watching NASA’s launch of Saturn V. I stood on a chair to see over their heads, holding my breath as soon as the twenty-second countdown started.

David rushed in, grabbing a chair and standing on it, right beside me.

“Good morning,” he said.

“You made it just in time.” I smiled.

The screen looked like it was on fire when the injectors went off, and everyone in the diner cheered as Walter Cronkite yelled out about the “terrible roar” of the launch. I held my hands folded together and over my heart.

David stood, unmoving and unblinking, not taking his eyes off the television, his mouth open in an awestruck grin.

Climbing down the chair, I couldn’t help but feel a measure of disbelief. How could such a thing be possible? I still couldn’t grasp it even after so many other launches. I pushed open the door of the diner and stepped outside. It was cold and I’d left my jacket inside, so I wrapped my arms around my waist.

David had followed me, offering me his jacket.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I have to go back inside soon.”

“No matter how many times I watch those launches, I’m always amazed,” he said.

“It makes me feel small.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Do you really believe they’ll be able to send a man to the moon?”

“I don’t know. It seems too wonderful.”

“Yeah.”

Staring at the sky, I wondered what it might feel like, blasting off so far and so fast away from earth. I couldn’t imagine it.

“Well, I better go,” David said, uncrossing his arms and checking his watch. “But if all goes as planned, I’ll see you at lunch.”

“See you then.” I watched him walk toward his office. He looked back once before opening the door and going inside.

For the first time in so long, anything seemed possible.

Just about ten o’clock Bernie locked the door and turned the sign to “closed.” When I asked him what he was doing, he just told me we needed to have a talk, pulling out a chair at one of the tables near the counter.

I took the seat across from him, worried that I was going to get in trouble for something. Worried that he couldn’t balance the books and that he’d have to close down the restaurant. Concerned that maybe something had happened that I didn’t even want to allow my imagination to picture.

“Annie,” he said, clearing his throat. “I got the mail a little bit ago. I didn’t look at the name on the front. I just opened it.”

“Okay,” I said.

“It was a letter for you.” He patted his shirt pocket. “From Mike.”

“He sent it here?”

Bernie nodded. “He did.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Some things are too hard to write to your own mother.” He took it from his pocket. It had been folded in half, still in the envelope. “I only read a little of it before I realized it wasn’t for me.”

“That’s all right.” I reached for it.

He held it just an inch from my fingertips. “Go someplace alone to read it. And don’t let your mother see it.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s not good.”

“Is he . . .”

“In one piece? Yes.” He put the air mail envelope in my hand. “You can read it in the office if you want. I won’t disturb you.”

“I’ll just stay here,” I said. My legs felt as if they’d turned to jelly, and I didn’t want to try to walk on them.

I waited until Bernie had gone into the kitchen and the door had stopped swinging before I looked at the envelope. He had used a straight edge to open it, his pocket knife, I would have guessed. The slice at the top was clean and crisp.

I put the letter on the table in front of me, smoothing it across the cold, flat top.

I took in a deep breath before I read.

Hey, Pal,

I have no idea what day it is. All I know is that it’s night because it’s dark and that means I can’t go out on missions anymore until the morning.

Gosh, I wish this night could go on until I can come home. My chest gets tight whenever I think about morning.

They still have me on the dust-off, picking up wounded guys, sometimes two or three at a time, and bringing them to base. Then we turn around and go back out. Over and over. All day long. Sometimes we’ve got to land in a hot LZ (that means a lively and terrifying landing zone with shots going off all around us).

We had to get this one kid today, gosh he looked young. He looked younger than me, even. I could’ve sworn he was no older than Joel. He was injured in his stomach and was bleeding so bad. I couldn’t stop it no matter what I did. Even with my training at Fort Sam, I didn’t know somebody had so much blood in them.

He asked me if he was going to make it.

He asked me that, Annie.

I didn’t know what to say, so I lied and told him he’d be just fine. He made me promise him and I did.

The kid was dead before we made it back to base. There was nothing I could do for him.

I’ve never seen somebody die before. It was awful. One minute he was there and the next he was gone. The glisten faded from his eyes. He was just dead.

At the end of our runs I had to clean all the blood out of the chopper. I don’t want to tell you too much about that, I don’t want you to have that picture in your mind. Just know that it’s the least pleasant job I have to do.

I didn’t get halfway done when I lost it. Never in my whole life have I cried like that. I was just glad that nobody was around to see it. It was the first time I’ve ever thought I very well could lose my mind.

It scared me. A whole lot.

Tomorrow I have to do it all over again and I don’t believe I have the stomach for it.

Pray for me, Annie. Please. Pray every day. Pray all day long. I need to know you’ll do that for me.

I’ll never make it out of here if you don’t.

I love you.
Mike

PS: You can’t ever let Mom or Joel see this. Burn it, eat it, throw it in the lake, but don’t let them read it. And promise you’ll never tell them about this, either. They don’t need to know.

Dear Mike,

Don’t be angry. But Bernie read the letter you wrote to me. He opened the envelope, not knowing that it was for me until he’d already seen enough to know what happened.

He told me that I should write you back. When I asked him what I should say, he told me “Anything that might get his mind off it.”

When I asked him if that was what he’d want me to do, he shook his head and said, “That’s what Mike would want, though.”

So, here goes. Consider this your five minutes of distraction from your current reality.

We had our first freezing rain of the winter on Sunday. The loons hadn’t left yet. You better believe they took off for warmer climates directly afterward. I already miss them.

Not as much as I miss you though, I guess.

Joel has gotten pretty decent on his guitar, and his rock and roll band isn’t half bad. They’ve even come up with a name. They call themselves the Bus Drivers. Mom thinks they’ve lost their minds. But the kids are certain that they’re the next big thing.

Wouldn’t it be something if our baby brother became a rock star?

Mom tried a new recipe a few days ago. It had something to do with pork chops, sliced apples, and garlic. To make a long story a whole lot shorter, the fire department came and we never did find out if the recipe was any good. Mom sure has a knack, doesn’t she?

Next week we’re going to Aunt Rose’s mansion for Thanksgiving dinner. Frank’s going to meet us there. Even Mom is going and Oma too. Thank goodness Aunt Rose insists that we don’t bring anything but ourselves. I don’t know that Mom’s stove top could take any more abuse for a while.

You remember Walt Vanderlaan, don’t you? I guess he’s coming home from Vietnam next week. The church is holding a dessert reception for him. You know who organized that?

You’ll never guess.

It was Mom.

Apparently she and Mrs. Vanderlaan are back on speaking terms. When I told her that it was nice of her, she told me it was something she’d want someone to put together for you. It’s still nice, if you ask me.

How am I, you ask? Fine. There’s nothing new for me. I’m just working at Bernie’s. That’s about it.

Take care of yourself, will you? And try not to carry the whole world on your shoulders. That’s an impossible thing to ask of you, I realize that. But try.

You can’t save everyone. But I know you can save some.

I’m proud of you.

Annie