August 15th, 1945. V-J Day.
Japan’s surrender came as no surprise to Will. This thing, this bomb, was a terrifying weapon. He didn’t understand it. He’d read about the devastation to Hiroshima and Nagasaki. No country could take punishment like that for long.
Even though it was a Wednesday night, the village was full of people. Will and Mary joined their neighbors in celebration. Mary agreed that Will could visit his friends at the Midtown Waterin’ Hole. “Only one drink,” she said. And Will vowed to please his wife this time. He remembered the night that first war ended. He remembered the empty sugar bag, but he didn’t recall much else.
Will paused before entering. Oh, Lord, give me wisdom—so much grief in the midst of celebration. He stepped boldly inside and looked around. James Henning was there. So was McPherson, Snell, Roberts, and McGried. It was good seeing his neighbors together again.
And to Will’s surprise, Rich Turner, his friend from Ashley Springs, sat among his neighbors. “Rich, what are you doing this far from home?”
“Just passin’ through, and when I heard the news, I decided to stop. I wouldn’t miss a good celebration.”
Henning jumped up. “Will, you old goat, come over here. I’m buying the first round. What’ll it be?”
“A Jameson. What else on so glorious an occasion?”
“My namesake,” Henning said.
“Namesake my rear end, James,” Will said. “You’ve not a drop of Irish in that big Norwegian carcass.”
Henning laughed and held his glass high as the bartender poured Will’s drink. “A toast to victory.”
“To victory,” McPherson said as they touched glasses.
“Victory, yes, but a terrible one,” Will said. “A toast to the boys who won’t come home. A toast to Jimmie, Jake, and Franklin.”
“Aye,” Jackson said. But he didn’t raise his glass.
The men sat silently, sipping on their drinks and absorbing the noise that bounced off the walls around them.
They drank until their glasses were dry—except Will’s, who wanted his one drink to last.
Finally, Snell broke the silence. “What do you think of the co-op expanding?” he said.
“I’ll be looking for some good milk cows,” Will said. “Now’s the time to grow.”
Henning pushed away from the table and raised his empty glass. “Let me know if you find some. Bartender, over here.”
“Your brother’s selling his herd, didn’t you know, Will?” Rich said.
“Frank? I knew his arthritis was hurtin’.”
“Says he’s going to beef.”
The bartender approached and held out a bottle. “This one’s on the house, fellas. The boss says I should ’liven your celebration. Our boys’ll soon be home.”
Earl Roberts looked away.
Will held his hand over his half empty glass. “Just this one, my friends. No more.”
“Drink up, the night’s young,” Snell said.
“Did I ever tell you how I almost lost my good wife?” Will said. He stopped short—knew it was no time for levity.
“One more,” McPherson said. “It’s on me.” He motioned to the bartender. Snell grabbed Will’s empty glass and rushed a full one forward to take its place.
Will studied the full glass, clutched it, and then he unhooked his fingers and pushed himself from the table. “Goodnight, boys. I promised Mary I’d get into bed on my own tonight.”
He started toward the swinging doors. After a step, he turned back. “I’m sorry, Earl. Jackson. A terrible cost.”
* * *
Will was surprised when Jesse began hauling steers that fall. He hoped this job would give Jesse money to live a little better, would help reconcile the estranged brothers. He understood, as well, that the hostility may be seated too deeply, the gap between them too wide to bridge… a gap only God could heal.