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FRIGID WIND DROVE BETWEEN the storm windows—the early winter Mr. Olsen predicted had arrived a day after Twila’s Halloween birthday. Before the war, streetlights or headlights flickered here and there, the café’s hours had increased, and the Mercantile started staying open until eight.
But then came the blackout and so many other changes—rubber, gas, and sugar restrictions; no more hoods or full sleeves on dresses. The War Department Production Board encouraged the military look, allowing slacks for women, but the school still required dresses.
Since the Japanese controlled kapok production, the Navy called for milkweed floss for life vests. Twila’s high school crew collected the fluffy white stuff from ditches and fencerows last summer, and won a county contest for the most bags.
The water kettle jiggled on the burner, so she poured Mom’s tea and delivered a plate of reheated stew to the living room. Another letter from Aunt Margaret languished against the overstuffed chair, but Mom’s hand fell slack. Dad’s request in his latest letter came back full-force.
Your Mom wouldn’t like me appealing to your sympathies—you’re just like her, though you won’t appreciate me saying so. She’s carrying a heavy load and still keeping the books for the lumberyard. Anything you can do for her will make me proud.
Graying ginger-brown strands loosed from normal tight victory roll along Mom’s temple. Setting the tray down jiggled the teacup and startled her awake.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into me. I fell asleep on the trip home tonight, even with Luella’s motorized tongue. Her supervisor says she never shuts up.”
“Never?” Twila sank into Dad’s armchair and inhaled the tang of his pipe tobacco.
“Yum. You did something with the leftovers.”
“I experimented.”
“Whatever it is, I like it.”
“Me, too. Mr. Olsen adds turmeric to his soups. It’s his secret ingredient for a little pizzazz.”
A wan grin crossed her mom’s lips. “We can use some of that.”
“Another letter from Aunt Margaret so soon?”
The twist of Mom’s lips said more than words.
“Did she say anything more about Paul?”
“Just that she read about an Army nurse who escaped when Corregidor fell. Here’s the gist of it:
They herded thousands toward some northern camp, sturdy Wisconsin, Iowa, and Michigan men whose ribs stood out like chicken bones. These GIs faced an insufferable trek through malarial jungles.
“Her last letter said Paul was one of them, right?”
“She’s not sure he made it to land after the Japs sank his ship. He might have been picked up by... Otherwise...”
Her shudder was contagious. Drowning at sea—what could possibly be worse?
“She still sends a box to him every week. I should pack him one, too, and another for Butch.”
“Two cousins over there—I can bake cookies tomorrow. We still have enough sugar, I think.”
“Great—getting something from home must mean the world to those boys.”
The howling wind interrupted the evening quiet. Then she said, “It’s my fault you don’t remember Paul.”
The look in her eyes, as though she’d traveled too far away from the here and now, made Twila’s neck itch. Funny, she’d always wanted to know more about Mom’s side of the family, but right now, she wasn’t so sure.
***
“TELL ME AGAIN HOW A nice Wisconsin boy like you ended up in this sunny spot?” Recovered from his latest bout of Dengue fever, Cap needed some human interaction as he and Stan waited in a steep ravine for Carlos and some Filipinos.
Cap already knew the details of Stan’s younger days backward and forward, but seemed never to tire of hearing them. “It’s like a good book. Every time you read it, you find something rich that you’d overlooked.”
To that, Stan shrugged. How many ways can you describe chopping down a tree? But he started in, covering everything from long days in the north woods hauling wood with his father and brothers, to his mother’s determination to prepare him to attend college, to her fury when he signed up with the National Guard.
“That couldn’t have been easy for you.”
“Nope—the hurt in her eyes when I told her still comes to me out here. She’s set on at least one of her sons escaping the lumbering life. Don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.”
“My folks took my draft notice in stride, but it helped that the army sent me to officers’ training.”
“Yeah.”
“But your mother must have known you’d have been drafted eventually.”
“Believe me, I reminded her, but she took no comfort in that.”
“Umm, Poe used that theme in The Raven—refusing to accept the truth.” Cap waited for agreement.
“If you say so, prof.”
“All right, go on.”
“You know about my unit’s dead ends and delays, I’ll skip that this time. And then, at long last, we arrived on Bataan.”
“December of ’41, right?”
Once Cap heard the tale for the umpteenth time, he’d be satisfied. Or would he? His mental lapses worried Stan. Only a doctor would be able to attribute these symptoms—Dengue, malaria, or some other tropical disease attacking his body?
From the beginning, everyone dumped water from empty gasoline drums, coconut hulls—anything that could hold liquid to breed mosquitoes. Those little tyrants carried all manner of ailments, and mosquito nets sure weren’t foolproof.
As if to prove the origin of his ailment, Stan slapped a mosquito on his arm, leaving a bloody trail. “Bet I know something about the army that you don’t.”
“Bet you do, too.”
“Word has it they sprayed Australian ponds with kerosene guns when an outrageous number of soldiers came down with Dengue last year. Wish they could do that here, but...”
Do what you can. How many times had Stan’s dad said that? But right now, what he could do seemed paltry—stay close to the Filipinos and learn from them, keep watch on Cap, and recite stories.
“So, what was it like being a college teacher?”
Cap scratched his head. The draft had pulled him from instructing literature at a college. The Army’s call came when he was halfway to his goal, immersed in words. Of course he longed for stories.
“All I ever wanted to do was teach.”
About to ask another question, Stan opened his mouth, but Cap beat him to the punch.
“So, what did you think about all day while you worked out in the woods with your dad?
His first response was “Food.” But that failed to satisfy Cap, who made him drill down deep. Interestingly enough, more stories unfolded. Supplying fodder for Cap to consider forced Stan to embellish his family history, until he began to believe some of the innovative details himself.
Hopefully Carlos would soon be back with the guerillas they’d joined. Sitting still drove him into cases of nerves, so Stan volunteered to stay with Cap. When Carlos returned, he took over for a while.
Carlos always had another story to tell. His tales of growing up in the big city overflowed with just the type of intrigue that satisfied Cap’s endless hunger.
