When Alfredia turned seven, she got a new pair of shoes and couldn’t stop sniffing the leather. Carol baked a cake with the years written in red. Rusty whistled the song instead of singing it, then watched as Alfredia blew out seven small fires in two breaths.
That’s it, said Joe, one puff for each lung. Now you get two wishes.
They sat on the porch and ate slices of cake with milk poured on to soften it. Alfredia was thinking about her wishes. One of them was to start school. That way she’d be able to show off her new shoes. She was already a year late in going. In late spring her parents had received a letter from the county, explaining that formal schooling begins no later than six, and that Alfredia had been automatically enrolled for the fall at such and such elementary school in town. And so Carol had spent a good part of that summer sewing so that Alfredia would have a different dress to wear every day, in a style that was modern and not frilly. Joe had been bringing empty feed sacks home from the farm. Carol had learned to trace out a pattern, then cut and sew the pieces to make dresses. The cattle feed companies had learned what mothers were doing decades ago and begun printing patterns on the sackcloth. Mostly it was flowers, but sometimes there were rabbits or stars or cherries or buckets of green apples.
Alfredia loved all the clothes her momma made and couldn’t wait to show them off at school. With her feed-sack dresses and her birthday shoes, she was ready to meet her classmates.
There were many other things that made Alfredia feel proud. She could milk any cow. She had been knocked down by a mama goat and gotten back up. Without crying. She could make soap from pig fat. And she’d once caught a chicken with her bare hands—though when her daddy cut its neck she wept bitterly.
Alfredia wondered if other children’s parents owned such a pretty house as theirs. Or did some of them come from the shacks they passed on the way to town. She knew she was the first in her family to be born in a hospital and to have lived in a house in the center of town with people and cars going past all day and all night. It had been a brick house, with a staircase that went on forever and ever. Rusty told her there was a big table they used to play under, but Alfredia couldn’t remember that.
For Alfredia’s seventh birthday, Rusty let her sit on his bed in the tiny room he occupied at the back of the house. It was more a large closet than a room, but he loved it. On every surface there was something red with the name Coca-Cola written on it. He had been collecting bottles, cans, signs, and paper advertisements since he could remember. Anything branded that he found—even a piece of torn paper, came home in his pocket and went up the next day.
At the end of summer, a week before school started, Joe drove into town to buy his daughter notebooks and pencils for her first day. Alfredia had to stay home with her mother and try on dresses, but Rusty was allowed to ride along with his dad.
After choosing things from a list, they had lunch on chrome, vinyl-topped stools at Druthers’, the biggest, newest pharmacy in the county. Rusty had his own way of eating egg salad, which made people stare at them. But he didn’t mind that, for above his head was an advertisement with the two most important words in the world.
C’mon, said Joe. Eat your sandwich, Rusty . . . or we’ll be here all day.
Then a man wearing a white hat and apron came over to them. I’m Dale Druthers, he said. The waitress is on her break so I came to ask if you need anything else.
Joe smiled and shook his head.
The man focused on Rusty. Did you enjoy your sandwich?
It was okay, Rusty said, not looking up from his plate. Say, mister . . . can I keep this pop once I finished?
The man looked at the glass soda bottle in Rusty’s hand.
Well, sure . . . if you want.
Joe took some coins from the pocket of his overalls. Appreciate that, he said. My son collects anything with Coca-Cola printed on it. Anything at all.
Well that’s neat, said the man. Then he paused, and a look of intense fear took over his face.
You okay? Joe asked.
Your voice, said the man, swallowing. Do I know you?
I don’t think so. But we sure enjoyed our lunch, mister.
You’re not on the radio?
The radio? No, sir, I’m not. Just plain old Joe, that’s me.
The man put his palms and elbows on the counter and sank down. I could have sworn we’ve met. Your voice . . . I can’t place it, but—
I ain’t even from these parts, Joe admitted. You must have me confused with somebody else.
Probably right, the man said, straightening himself up with a long sigh. He counted the coins Joe had put down with his eyes, then slid them into his palm. I’ll be right back with your change, big guy.
Joe thanked him again for letting Rusty keep the pop bottle.
The man was gone for some time. When he came back, he was no longer wearing his apron or paper hat. He looked solemn, as though he was about to deliver some bad news. Then he set all the money Joe had given him back on the counter.
I do know you, the man said. And I know where from. Your money is no good here.
Joe stood quickly, towering over the manager by almost a foot. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and slightly shaken. I sure hope we ain’t done nothing to offend anyone.
Rusty was oblivious to any tension, cradling the Coca-Cola bottle in his arms like an infant.
Rusty, I want you to give the bottle back . . .
No, no . . . the man said. It’s not the bottle. It’s nothing like that. Would you mind sitting down for a second?
The other people at the lunch counter had stopped talking and were chewing their food in silence. Joe sat back down. The man could not take his eyes off him.
Does the name Leyte mean anything to you?
Joe felt his chest tighten and everything around him, the shelves of medicine, the cabinets of pie, even light tumbling from high windows, seemed to go out of focus, as though reality was stretching or coming apart entirely.
Well, said Joe, catching his breath. I never thought I’d hear that name again.
So, you remember it then?
Yes, Joe said, his large hands shaking. But . . . if you’ll excuse me, we have to get on . . .
I knew it was you, said the man, throwing his hands over Joe’s hands to prevent him from leaving. Now shoppers had stopped to see what Dr. Druthers was doing.
I’m sorry, said Joe, but I don’ know you from Adam.
That’s because when we met I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t open my eyes neither. My face would have been all blood and sand. But I knew it was you when I heard your voice.
Joe looked at Rusty, who was half sitting and half standing, still clutching the Coca-Cola bottle.
I went down on the beach, the man said, taking a napkin to wipe his eyes. I don’t know how long I was lying there, but when I couldn’t feel pain anymore, I knew as a medic, and I made my peace with God . . . then you come along and start jabbering on about chickens and feed and God knows what. And when there was nothing left to say, in the middle of a battle, with bullets flying ever’which way—you started whistlin’.
When it was all over, in those first months off the ship and home again, Joe did a lot of crying himself. In his bed, in the bath, on the floor in a heap—even as he worked fixing up the old house. It was sometimes hard to focus on the nail he was putting in. The sound of birds in trees, the slap of a paintbrush, dogs barking down the street, a sudden breath of afternoon light through the side window. Anything was liable to set him off. Everyone he thought was dead had come back and was living in the house with him. Not only the men he knew, but the men he’d brought down.
The only thing that kept them at arm’s length was whistling.
They would follow him up the hill to work, stare from inside the bubbles of paint, wander through every cavern of his sleep. But whistling was like a wall they couldn’t see over or get past. Sometimes Joe woke in the middle of the night and could feel them breathing on him, in the darkness. That was when he’d had to whistle the loudest.
The awkward silence was broken when a girl skipped through the door from the kitchen.
This is my child, the man said. Hazel Druthers. He steadied his young daughter by cupping both of her shoulders, but she ducked under and rushed back through the kitchen door.
Sometimes at night, Dale said, I still hear you talking to me, Joe . . . still . . . to this day. Ain’t that something?
Sure it ain’t your wife reminding you to take out the garbage?
He had meant it as a joke, but Dale didn’t laugh. No, it’s your voice I hear, Joe, when I’m lying in my bed next to my wife in some dream, back on the beach, more afraid than I ever thought possible.
At dusk, they ate sandwiches on the porch and Joe told Carol and Alfredia the whole story. Around them insects were winding up, preparing themselves for the coming darkness.
Before we left, he wanted to know if there was anything he could do for us. I said no, we was fine, but he insisted. Told me to come home and talk to you about it.
But there is something he can do for us . . . don’t you see? Carol said, motioning with her napkin toward Rusty. Let’s talk later when everyone’s in bed.
Do you mean me? Alfredia said.
No, Carol whispered. I mean your brother. Now go and check all your school things are in order, give your daddy and I some peace.
When the first day finally came, Alfredia woke at dawn and tried on all the various things her mother had made. With every feed-sack dress arranged on her bed, Alfredia chose the one with daisies. It would match her shoes, she thought, perfectly.
Her older brother was going to ride with her on the school bus to town.
At Carol’s suggestion, Joe had returned to see Dale at the pharmacy and asked him to give Rusty a job.
You can pay him in Coca-Cola if you want to, Joe had said, but he’s twenty-three years old, and his mother and I think it’ll do him good to be out of the house. He can ride the bus each day with his sister if the school board allows it.
Okay, Dale said. That’s fine. Now, he’s special, your boy, ain’t he?
Yes, he is. I know he looks mean when you see him from a distance, but he’s a gentle creature with the mind of a first grader. Trust me when I tell you he wouldn’t hurt a fly.
When her first day of school was over, Alfredia hurried nervously to the drugstore where she found Rusty sitting on a crate outside the back door. He was still wearing his paper hat and white apron.
You have to come on the bus, she said. Like Momma told us. Did you enjoy your first day of working, Rusty?
No.
You gonna come back tomorrow?
I have to if I want free Coca-Cola.
Well I wish we could switch places, Alfredia sighed.
Don’t you like school?
Lunch was okay, I guess.
What did they feed you?
Meatloaf. But if I could stay home tomorrow, I would.
Me too, said Rusty, as his sister pulled him up off the crate.
They didn’t talk on the ride home. It was dusty and loud with the diesel engine. Other children were leaning over the seats, shouting things at each other. On the floor, someone had dropped an uneaten bologna sandwich and it had been trampled.
Joe and Carol were waiting at the top of their dirt driveway when the bus came.
That’s an awful sour look on your face, Carol said as Alfredia came down the bus steps holding the satchel with all her new school things.
Joe took the bag and ruffled her hair. Your momma and I can’t wait to hear what happened. You hungry?
But Alfredia just stood there, fixed to the spot. When the bus was far away she opened her mouth.
I had no idea we were poor!
Carol looked at her husband. What does she mean by that?
Joe scratched his head.
Alfredia was tired from the journey. Her throat was dry and her legs were itchy under the dress. For your information, she scowled, I was the only person in my class wearing a dress made from a cattle-feed sack!
Well, what was they wearing? asked Carol.
Woolworth’s.
What’s that? asked Joe.
Carol folded her arms. Store-bought clothes.
Joe picked Alfredia up and put her on his shoulders. But you don’t feel poor, do you? I mean, we always have enough to eat, wood to burn, and a house that’s owned outright.
No, but we are poor, Daddy, that’s clear to me now. Like—we use soap made from pig fat. No one has done that for a hun’ed years.
So we’re poor . . . Joe said, mulling it over.
We ain’t poor, Carol snapped. We’re jus’ country is all.
Joe’s face brightened. That’s exactly what we are, just like the music Rusty plays on his radio, he said, looking around for his son, who was still sitting on the bus, halfway to the next stop.