61

Joel was in the living room, playing Opa’s old guitar on the couch in his stocking feet. He looked up at me when I came in through the front door.

“Where’s Mom?” I closed the door behind me, careful not to let it slam.

“Doing laundry,” he said. “Golly, Annie, are you all right? You look sick.”

“Joel, you have to go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have to go to the store for Oma.” I dug a dollar in tip money from my apron pocket. “You need to get her some flour. The big bag, all right? And you need to go right now.”

“Why right now?”

“Because she needs it right now.” I shoved the money into his hand, closing his fingers over it. “Hurry.”

“Okay.”

“Where are your shoes?”

“In my room.”

I opened the closet off the living room. There were a pair of Mike’s old work boots. I tried not to think, tried not to feel. I grabbed them, putting them in front of Joel.

“Wear those. They’ll fit.”

“They’re too big.”

“That’s okay. Just hurry.”

My heart pounded and I couldn’t draw in a deep breath for the life of me. I checked out the window as he tied the laces and then pulled his coat off the hanger. A dark blue car turned down our street, moving slowly toward our driveway.

He can’t find out this way.

“Go out the back door,” I said, pushing Joel in that direction. “Cut through the yards to get to her house.”

“What about the flour?”

“Just forget it,” I said. “Just go to Oma’s.”

“Why are you acting so weird?” he asked, struggling against me.

“You’ll understand later.”

“Fine, just don’t push me anymore.”

He went out the back way, Mike’s boots clonking on the floor with every step.

As soon as he closed the back door behind him, I heard the car door close from our driveway.

“Mom,” I tried to call, but my voice was too weak.

He sat in Mom’s chair. Mom and I were next to each other on the couch. She held my hand. She nodded as he spoke, holding herself together with such courage, I could hardly believe it.

He said a lot. Not one word of it made any sense to me. His voice was garbled, unclear, like the times when Mike and I would dunk our heads under the surface of Old Chip and yell at each other, then we’d try to guess what the other had said.

But with that Army man, I didn’t want to guess what he was saying. More than that, I didn’t want to be right about what I thought it was.

“Thank you,” Mom said after he’d stopped talking. “May I ask you something?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

“Were you over there?”

“I was, ma’am.”

“This is harder than being at war, isn’t it?” She leaned forward.

“Yes, ma’am. I’d take a battle over this any day.”

“I’m sorry you have to do this.” She reached for his hand. “What a truly difficult job you have. But you do it so well.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He met her eyes. “And I could not be more sorry about your son.”

“Me either.” She pushed her lips together tightly, as if catching a sob. “You can go. You’ll forgive me if I don’t see you out.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

And, just like that, he was gone.

“Mom,” I said, my voice sounding as if it was coming from all the way across the room. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” she said.