CHAPTER 32

The next day, after church, Grandma asked Ricky and me to pick the early lettuce leaves. She showed us how to only take the bigger leaves that wrapped around the lettuce head, by pulling them down and cutting them off, giving the rest of the plant another few weeks to keep growing.

Cutting my last leaf off and stacking it with the others in the basket, I was surprised how pretty the loose lettuce looked—crisp and wavy and green.

We sat down on the grass to rest a minute from all that bending over. I could hear Betsy chasing after Buster, calling him somewhere near the barn.

Ricky picked up a piece of lettuce and took a bite, so I did the same. Through the crunch of my chewing, I heard him ask, “Is your pa visiting Charlotte today?”

I swallowed and nodded.

Ricky must’ve understood I didn’t want to talk too much about not being able to visit again, so he changed the subject. “Guess what?”

I shrugged. “What?”

“My ma’s getting better—a lot better.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. And . . . there’s something else—got me a letter!”

I gasped. “From your brother?”

“No,” he answered in all seriousness. “From the president of the United States of America.”

My eyes grew bigger.

“Of course it’s from my brother, nitwit!”

“Are you gonna read it to me, or do I get to read it myself?”

He wiped his hands off and put them both over his pocket. “Maybe neither.”

As much as that frustrated me, I was happy figuring his joking and his mama feeling better probably meant the letter didn’t have bad news in it. “You’re the nitwit! Now give me that letter!”

I reached into his pocket to grab it but only got a piece of it. We both heard the sound of ripping paper. If any two people knew how important it was to take good care of letters, it was Ricky and me.

I put my hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry! Did I rip it? I’m so sorry!”

Reaching into his pocket, he held his breath as he pulled out the letter. The tightness in his face relaxed as he looked at it and exhaled. “Just the envelope ripped. The letter’s okay.”

I exhaled, too, and I didn’t even know I’d been holding my breath. Then I waited.

Ricky looked at the letter the same way I look at each of Charlotte’s letters. He held it tender in his hands, looking it up and down, like he was inspecting it. Then he handed it to me. “You can read it out loud if you want.”

So I did.

Dear Ricky,

I’m sorry I got hurt. I promised you, Betsy, and especially Ma I wouldn’t, but I guess it wasn’t up to me. I don’t really remember what happened. All I know is I was in France and we were getting ready to charge—we had the target picked out, we were waiting for the command. And the next thing I know, I’m waking up in a hospital in New York City, back in the United States of America.

I was shot in the back. Guess it didn’t look good for a while. They flew me to New York on an army jet. Wish I could remember that. I was on a plane in the sky! When they sent me to France, it was by boat, and it took a long time. But when I was unconscious, they flew me on a jet. Can’t believe that.

Still can’t remember what happened when I got shot. The doctor here says that’s normal—says stress from trauma can make you forget. One of my army buddies wrote me that he’s okay today because of what I did that day. But I don’t remember it none, so I can’t be sure. I’m just glad he’s okay. He’s a good man—has a baby back home and a wife.

I get a bit stronger each day. There’ve been a couple of setbacks with infections and stuff. My legs are a little messed up after being shot, but the doctor says I’ll be walking real soon, and if I keep getting better, I’ll be home by summer.

I want to make sure I’m all better by then, and I’m working hard to make it happen.

Please give Ma and Betsy a hug for me. And your teacher.

I miss you all. I miss home. Thanks for taking care of everyone.

Love,

Bill

I handed the letter back to him. “See, your brother is a hero!”

Ricky nodded as he carefully put the letter back in his pocket.

I was curious why Bill kept talking about Miss Beany, but just as I opened my mouth to ask, I heard a commotion in the barn, followed by Granddaddy’s voice bellowing, “Pixie! Come get your lamb!”

We arrived in the barn to find Buster weaving in and out of Molly’s legs while Granddaddy, sitting on the milking stool, tried to shoo him. Betsy tried to help by clapping her hands and calling over and over, “Here, Buster!”

The commotion made that old cow shift her weight back and forth so much, she knocked Granddaddy off the stool.

“Pixie!” Granddaddy hollered like I’d made him fall.

But I understood. “Come on, Buster,” I said. “Come here!”

But right then, my lamb just plumb sat down in front of the cow.

Granddaddy righted himself on the stool again and went back to milking Molly. “Job’s easier without an audience,” he declared. Buster looked at him. “Yeah—I’m talkin’ ’bout you.” And to prove his point, he pointed Molly’s udder at Buster and squirted milk in his face. But if that was meant to scold him, Buster couldn’t tell. He jumped up and came to Granddaddy with his mouth wide open.

Betsy squealed with laughter as Granddaddy chuckled and obliged Buster with a few well-aimed squirts of milk, right into his mouth. “That’s enough, now. Leave some for the rest of the family.”

I put Buster back in his pen, smiling at him being called a part of the family.

And looking around, I started to wonder if a family might also include more than just kin.