50

Mom was in the kitchen, the water for the pasta already boiling on the stove top in the biggest pot we had. She stood at the sink, peeling carrots.

“That took you long enough,” she said, not looking up at me. “Did you buy the whole store?”

I slid the two paper bags of groceries onto the counter.

“Oh, I just ran into somebody,” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“A friend of mine.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the living room, where I’d told David he could have a seat. “Don’t be mad, okay. But I invited him to dinner.”

“You did what? Him? Who’s him?” She lifted her face. “Annie.”

“I thought since we already had company, it wouldn’t matter.” I pulled the macaroni out of the bag, tearing open the tops and dumping the noodles into the water. “The house is clean at least.”

She sighed. “What’s one more? Who is it? Please tell me it isn’t Walt.”

“Good news. It’s not,” I answered. “Do you remember David?”

“The David I still haven’t met officially?” She put a freshly peeled carrot on her chopping block. “Him?”

I nodded.

“Well, at least you didn’t bring Walt home. I don’t think I could endure a meal with that boy.” She smoothed her apron and glanced around me toward the living room. “You’re sure he won’t expect something fancier?”

“He can’t cook,” I answered. “I think he’ll be happy with anything.”

“Well, I guess I should get the leaf for the table.”

Stirring the pasta, I blew out a sigh of relief.

Mom did her best to observe David without being too obvious. From the way she smiled at his stories or offered him another helping of macaroni and cheese, I thought he was winning her favor little by little.

As for Joel and his mop-top–headed friends, they scarfed their food, earning Mom’s cautions about choking to death on hot dogs. Once they’d polished off all that we’d offered by way of dinner, they scrambled their way upstairs, claiming that they had a song to write.

“They started a band,” I told David.

“How about that,” he said. “Are they any good?”

“They’re loud, that’s for sure,” Mom said. “John Tyler—the one with the dark hair—he likes to think he’s the next Elvis Presley.”

“I think I heard them say that they’re what would happen if Jimi Hendrix played a gig with the Rolling Stones,” I added. “And with a little of the Beatles mixed in for good measure.”

“Huh. Sounds outta sight.” David wiped his lips with his napkin. “Thanks for supper, Mrs. Jacobson. It was nice to have a home-cooked meal.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call this home-cooked,” she said. “But you’re welcome just the same.”

“At least it was nice to have a little company for a change.” He folded his napkin and tucked it under the edge of his plate. “It gets lonely always eating in front of the TV in my apartment.”

“Well, we would be happy to have you come again.” She nodded. “Next time I’ll have my mother bring a dessert.”

“That would be nice.”

From upstairs we heard a loud crashing sound and an uproarious round of laughter. Mom’s eyes grew wide and she bared her teeth. “I’d better see what that was.”

David and I sat across the table from each other, alone in the room and hearing Mom’s voice as she got after the boys for whatever they’d managed to break upstairs.

I sighed. “Boys, huh?”

“It wasn’t too long ago that I was just like them,” he said.

“I can’t imagine that.”

“I was as wild as a pastor’s kid can get away with being.”

“Your dad’s a pastor?” I asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yup. My father was a preacher all of his life.” David nodded. “Passed away a couple of years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.” He rubbed his forehead. “It was a hard time. That’s another reason my mother was upset about me moving all the way over here.”

“Do you see her very often?” I asked.

“I try to get over there a couple of times a month.” He grinned. “I have a little niece who lives down the street from her, so I don’t stay away too long. That little girl is so fun.”

“How old is she?”

“Just turned three.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Her name’s Naomi.”

He opened the wallet, handing it to me so I could see a little black and white photo of a sweet girl. She had her hair in braids tied off with ribbons, and her face was stretched into the sweetest smile I’d ever seen. Held tight in her chubby arms was a little stuffed kitty that looked as if it had seen better days.

It looked well loved.

“She’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“She gets it from her Uncle Davie,” he said, taking the wallet back. “If I can ever talk my family into coming out here, I’ll make sure you meet her.”

“I would like that very much.”

“No doubt they’d be interested in meeting this Annie Jacobson I’ve told them about.”

“You’ve told them about me?” The room seemed to rise in temperature at least a hundred degrees.

“Of course I have.” He grinned. “You were my first friend here in Fort Colson.”

Friend, I told myself. Just a friend.

It was a title I could be happy with.

After David left, Mom had driven all of Joel’s friends back to their respective homes, and when she returned, she came into the kitchen, shaking her head.

“Those boys have watched more than their fair share of John Wayne movies,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I pulled the plug from the sink to let out the dirty dishwater.

“Oh, they were sitting in the back of the station wagon, talking about growing up to be war heroes or some such ridiculousness.”

“Don’t all boys dream of that?”

“I don’t know.” She grabbed a couple of clean glasses and put them up in the cupboard. “But I let it be known that war isn’t glamorous like they’ve seen in the movies. There’s nothing glorious about dying in battle.”

“I’m glad you were there to set them straight.”

“If nothing else, at least I can do that.” She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “I was glad to meet David.”

“You were?”

“For what it’s worth, I think Mike would approve.” She sighed. “As for Frank . . .”

“We’re just friends,” I said, interrupting.

“That’s a fine thing to be.” She swatted her hand at the drainer where the dishes sat. “Leave those. I’ll put them away in the morning. You should get some sleep.”

I told her good night and gave her a kiss on the cheek before going up to my room. She smiled and looked at me as if she was trying to take in every detail of my face, my hair, my everything. It was the way she’d looked at me when I was little and sang my first solo at church or when I’d learned how to ride a bike on my own. When I came in second place at the school spelling bee and the day I graduated from high school.

If I read it right, it was of love and pride and maybe a little bit of mourning. As if she knew that each step I took was a step away from needing her so much.

It both warmed my heart and broke it at the same time.

Hi, All-Of-You!

Well, believe it or not, I have sustained my very first war wound. Some Neanderthal (me) slammed my fingers in the door of one of our transport vehicles. Don’t worry. None of them are broken—my fingers or the vehicles. They’re just sore and look like something Dr. Frankenstein might have sewn onto his monster.

I asked if this could get me sent home. No dice. And it didn’t earn me a Purple Heart, either. But I will get a week or two off from taking rides on the dust-off. Instead, I’m stuck on base, rolling gauze and divvying out malaria pills. Believe you me, I don’t mind this dull and uneventful work at all. It sure beats getting shot at.

I bet by the time you get this you’ll be getting ready for Sinterklaas Day. I sure will miss taking part in that. There’s just something about hanging some tinsel on a light pole that gets me into the spirit of Christmas.

Do me a favor, will you? Have somebody take a picture of you with whatever tree they put up in town this year. Please? And make sure Oma’s in it too. She always makes any picture prettier.

I love you all,
Mike

PS: Mom, don’t let Annie spend another minute with that Walt Vanderlaan character, all right? He’s bad news. Joel, if he comes around again, I give you permission to give him a right uppercut to the eye. Remember how I taught you.