Thomas Newsome put his dinner tray on the table. Harriet could cook and she loved to indulge herself. Tonight it had been prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, and a lobster salad with artichokes and avocado. He leaned back and closed his eyes, still savoring his dinner. Edmund, his youngest brother, had always loved lobster. Gentle Edmund. One day he saw Cook throwing them alive into a pot of boiling water and never ate one again.
After Warren Junior was killed in France, it did not surprise him when Edmund came to him one night and said, “Dad wants me to enlist, take Warren’s place on the front line, but I can’t.”
Whenever Warren wrote, Dad read the letters to them, so they knew what it was like.
“Warren shot children, Thomas. I could never kill a child, not even if he, too, had a gun and would kill me if I did not fire first. I would rather be dead than do the things Warren Junior did. I will not go to war. I will not. I don’t care that Dad believes that’s unpatriotic and calls me a coward. I cannot kill.”
As bravely as Edmund spoke, Thomas knew that Edmund wanted just one person to support him, to stand up to their father with him. Mother was too passive, used to Dad having not just the last, but the only word, to say anything. She was overwhelmed by Warren’s death. There was nobody but him to speak up for Edmund, and he did not.
Two days later they got up and came down to breakfast and Edmund was not there. There was a sealed envelope at his place at the table. Dad tore up the note without telling them what was in it. Whatever Edmund said, he didn’t need the note, or any other reminders. They never heard from Edmund again. He would never escape the knowledge that it was his voice that was never raised in defense of his brother. He would never forgive himself for that silence.
He was equally responsible for his father’s death. He would never know what made Dad stop the car, get out, and step on the downed line. He would never forget he was the cause of Dad leaving the house during that storm. It was a minor accounting error that could have waited, but just once, he wanted to be as important to his father as Thomas Warren Junior had been— and still was, even in death. He had insisted that Dad had to come to the office immediately, told him that the problem could not wait.
Thomas stood. His joints were stiff from sitting so long. He went to the cabinet and took out the carved chest. The patriarch would be in Skokie on Sunday. Harriet was driving him there for the Liturgy. He would bring this, and after the Liturgy, he would give this and half his fortune to the Church. Harriet would be furious if she knew, but there would be enough money left to keep them in caviar for the rest of their lives.
He opened the chest, took out the sheaf of paper, and looked at the jewelry. He would have to make his confession when he returned them. Dad came home from work with packages from Warren until just before Warren died. All Dad ever said was that they were originally from Romania, where his parents had been born. He knew Warren Junior could not have come into possession of them by any legitimate means. He knew Dad was proud of Warren’s ingenuity, not ashamed of his pilfering. He didn’t think any of it had any monetary value. He just knew that it wasn’t theirs to keep. It did not belong to Dad or to him. Warren Junior’s medals and commendations were displayed downstairs. His room was just as it had been the day he went off to war. Dad had found solace in that. Somewhere, perhaps in Romania, there might be someone who would be equally comforted by what was in the chest.
He stared at the Theotokos—the Bearer of Christ—the Mother. Why was she sent here? She did not accuse him. She did not judge him. Why did she look inconsolable in her sorrow? Did the contents of the box belong to someone especially dear to her? They said a mother’s love was unconditional, but his mother had not been strong of heart. The pain caused by Warren’s death caused hers. She could not bear the weight of it. This mother had born the weight of much pain.
“I see forever.” She always said that to him, or at least that was what he heard in his mind. “I see forever.” He was beginning to understand what that meant. The pain of forever was unbearable. The pain he had caused Edmund seemed small in comparison to her pain, but loving Mother that she was, she understood that it was almost more than he could bear. He touched the chipped, discolored wood. He touched her face, yellow-brown with age. He would be alone without her. He wished he did not have to give her back.