It was fall. Only the oak trees were stubbornly clinging to their leaves, despite the night before’s first bone-chilling frost. High winds swooped across rooftops telling of approaching winter. The days were getting colder.
My little son Billy was 6 years old. I think he looked a lot like Will, his father, had looked. He had the same bleached-blond hair that never would lay straight, and the same deep hazel eyes.
He came home from 1st grade one day asking for a picture of his father for something at school. It took much of my will power to pull down the old photo albums. I brushed away five years of dust and turned page after page, hardly seeing the smiling faces. I finally found the one I wanted, the last one I had of him. He was boarding the plane for Vietnam; waving at the camera. I closed the album and shoved the photo at Billy.
“Here,” I said, not looking at him. I took the albums and set them back up on the top shelf of the closet, under the box of old scarves and hats.
I went back to sitting in my chair at the kitchen table. I ignored the pile of dishes in the sink waiting impatiently to be washed. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating all of the corners of the room. I pushed some stray strands of hair out of my face and sighed. Memories were not as easy to push away, and memories seemed only to make me sad and angry. But the picture had triggered them, and they crowded into my mind; dark, ominous shadows that came back to me as though it was happening all over again.
“Will, did you get the mail?” I called to him from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” he called back from the door. He had just gotten back from his new job at the university. He had just graduated from college a few months ago. Because of his excellent grades, he had gotten a job instantly. Things were finally going right for us. He kicked off his shoes and fell into the nearest chair.
I looked up, surprised to see him there just staring at me. He had this funny look on his face.
I was rooted to the place where I stood. “What is it, Will?” was all I could ask, but I already knew.
“Maggie, I’m going to Vietnam. I’ve been drafted. They pulled my number.” His voice was soft. He showed me the letter. For a moment I just stood there with all these terrible thoughts flooding into my head. I took a few steps forward and hugged him for a long time, but he didn’t seem to notice that I had done it awkwardly.
It took me a while to realize that Billy was still standing there, across the table from me. He hadn’t even moved.
“What’s the matter, kiddo?” I asked weakly.
He hesitated a moment, then said in his quiet, reserved way, “What was Daddy like?”
“While I’m gone,” he said looking at me closely where I sat, not looking at him, “I’ll write you and Billy every day.”
“Uh-huh. Remember to pack some paper,” I answered absent-mindedly, and was silent.
He stared at me strangely. “What is the matter with you?” he complained. “Ever since I got that letter we haven’t had a single conversation-a decent one, that is. I’d be surprised if you’ve said more than 10 words to me!”
“Sorry. But what was I supposed to say? There’s not much conversation material in `I’m going to write to you every day.’ Maybe we could talk about different quality stationery. I always use No. 2 pencils, don’t you?” I said sarcastically. This seemed to make him angry.
“All I get from you is back talk. I don’t like your attitude.”
I burst into tears. “Please, let’s not argue. I’m sorry I said anything. Let’s just not talk about anything, OK?”
His voice was strained as he said: “Geez, Maggie, stop crying. I hate it when you cry.”
“Mommy?” Billy asked. I snapped to attention.
“Oh, sorry, Billy. What was Daddy like? He was kind and loved you very much, and . . . .”
Will stood with his back to me, gazing out the kitchen window into the small back yard with the apple tree and the picket fence that he had painted white last year. Now the paint was dirty and peeling.
I was afraid of many things, but at that point I was most afraid for him. Only yesterday our next door neighbor had gotten word that her son was dead in Vietnam. But I was angry too. Why didn’t he speak his mind? He always looked like he wasn’t saying the same thing that he was thinking. He was leaving Billy and me, and he hadn’t once said he’d miss us. We hadn’t even discussed my having to get a job. And what would happen to Billy and me should we ever lose him? But I stayed silent. I was afraid for him. For all of us.
“Well, I guess we’d better go.” He stood up. “We should get to the airport early to find the terminal. I can’t wait. I’ve never been on a plane before, did you know?” He bent down to put on his shoes. “Why don’t you go get Billy ready?”
I stayed where I was seated. After a moment of silence, he looked up from his shoes. “What’s the matter?”
“I talked to Jane Randolf yesterday. You remember her, don’t you?” I began in a rush. “She says she has a friend who can get us all into Mexico. We could all be safe.” I looked up at him, asking him with my eyes.
Will’s face turned a shade pale, but he recovered so fast I wonder if I had imagined it. “No. Tell her no,” he said indifferently. “Now get Billy so we can get to the airport on time.”
“What? You mean . . . . You’re saying-“
“Tell your friend no. I mean it,” he said impatiently.
“We’re not going to Mexico? Come on, Will. It could be fun! We both took Spanish in high school. Besides, I know how you love tacos. We could learn how to do the Mexican Hat Dance and go to bullfights. . . .” I was crying.
“Bullfights are in Spain,” he corrected. He couldn’t even tell that I was crying. “Just forget it, OK? I don’t want to go to Mexico. Now go get Billy. Hurry up, OK? The last thing I need is to be late because of you. If you aren’t ready in five minutes I might just go without you.” He was being cruel because he was embarrassed.
“Then just go. I don’t care. You’ve been so rotten,” I said into my hands. My tears were really flowing now. All the feelings that had been bottled up inside me since the letter arrived catalyzed them. “We could have a great life in Mexico. And, best of all, we’d all be together and safe.”
“What? I can’t hear you when you talk through your hands.”
I looked him straight in the face. I had made a decision. “We-Billy and I-will not be accompanying you to the airport this morning. Since you choose to be unreasonable, your wife chooses to be unreasonable. Now go. I wouldn’t want to make you late for your plane.”
He was speechless. When he found his tongue he pleaded, “Please, come. I’d like to have my family at the airport to see me off.”
My anger rose as I began to feel guilty and regret my hasty decision. “No, I won’t. That’s it,” I snapped.
He recoiled, as if bitten. “All right then, I’m calling my parents. They care enough to see me off.”
“Go right ahead,” I answered defiantly.
They arrived in 10 minutes. I barely had time to nod at them as they rushed in and out like a whirlwind: my father-in-law, who kept playfully punching him in the shoulder and calling him “Private Blake,” and my mother-in-law, asking stupid questions like whether or not Will had remembered to pack his clothes.
Will paused for a moment at the doorway, gazing at me a minute. “I’ll be back, Maggie. I promise. Just because I’m going to ‘Nam doesn’t mean that I’m going to . . . get injured. I’ll be careful. Take good care of Billy,” he murmured. Then, without so much as a hug, he was gone.
I slammed the door and leaned against it. Somehow I felt that I was never going to see him again, and I had blown it all. Now he would die thinking I hated him, and probably hating me. At that moment, I hated him. I hated his parents who gave me funny looks. I even hated Billy, who was crying softly upstairs. But most of all, I hated myself.
Did you take this picture, Mommy?” asked a faraway voice. I looked down to see Billy in my lap, studying the picture carefully. All around me the angry scene vanished, blending into the shadows.
“No,” I answered, only vaguely remembering the question. “Someone else.”
“Who did?”
“His mom and dad, I mean, your grandma and grandpa.”
“Oh. He doesn’t look so happy.”
I examined the picture. “You know, kid, you’re right. He doesn’t look so happy.”
I hadn’t cried when they told me he died. Crying wouldn’t help anything. So, I hadn’t cried. Not through the funeral, nor on the way to Arlington Cemetery. I vowed that I wouldn’t cry, and I planned to keep that promise forever. I would never cry again. I barely remember anything about that day. Then, like some kind of morbid, cruel joke, the last letter from him came.
The letter! I stood up so fast that Billy fell from my lap. The letter was a fluke. It had gotten lost in the mail, but it had still come; even the day after the sender was dead and buried. I tripped over poor Billy in my rush down the stairs into the basement. I pulled out the rolltop desk drawer so quickly that it came entirely out of the desk and fell to the floor with a crash.
I dug through paper after paper until I found the letter, postmarked May 15 of five years before. The paper was yellow and brittle. The cheap, old glue on the envelope had long since dried out, and I could remove the letter without even tearing the envelope. On an equally old and aging sheet of notebook paper was written:
Dear Maggie,
I am fine and healthy, so don’t worry about me. I miss you guys a lot.
In bed at night I get to thinking about you and Billy. I remember the argument before I left, and I realize I have a bit of explaining to do. All that time I was making a decision that I didn’t want you to know about. A man told me at work how his brother had escaped to Canada when he was drafted. He told me that he could make the same arrangements for me. I hope you can understand why I didn’t take up the offer. Then you spoke of going to Mexico, and I reacted so badly. I felt like I’d already made that decision, and I didn’t want to be confronted with it again. But, I’m telling you this now: I did it all for you and Billy, and I guess for myself too. I don’t want you or Billy to ever have to be ashamed of me, and I sure don’t want to be ashamed of myself. If I became a draft dodger, I’d never be able to look myself in the face again. I’ve never done anything illegal in my life, and I sure don’t want to start now. Please don’t make me go against my morals, Maggie. But nothing is as important as you and Billy. When I take my leave, we can talk about everything all over again, if you want to. In the meantime, give Billy a kiss for me, and tell him to give you one for me.
Love,
Will
I read that letter twice, then stuffed it into my pocket. Why hadn’t I read it when it first came? I was stubborn. Scared. I hadn’t wanted to cry. I had just buried Will, and I didn’t want to dig him up again. But then, suddenly, I was crying.
I put Billy in the car and climbed behind the wheel. The whole ride there, Billy was silent. He always knew when I wanted him not to speak. An hour later we were in front of the gates to Arlington Cemetery. I parked the car and started walking, with Billy at my heels.
I knew which hill it was on, the one with the beautiful shade tree. Now the leaves on it were a golden brown. With every little gust of wind, leaves would fall from the tree, twirling to the ground like little dancers. The big tree cast a long shadow over my husband’s grave and the bench beside it.
I sat on the bench with Billy beside me. Billy was very quiet, watching me closely. He followed my gaze to the grave. He couldn’t read much, but he recognized one thing. “William Joseph Blake!” He looked at me. “That’s my name too!”
“Was he my dad?”
“Yes,” I answered, and looked away. Coming here hadn’t made everything right, as I had hoped. I wondered if anything ever would. Those five years where I had felt only anger at Will were lost forever. Five years. I looked across the rolling fields with rows and rows of white graves and searched for a reason for all that misery.
Billy was still looking at Will’s grave with wide eyes. “What is that?” he asked.
“What? The hand?” He was pointing to the picture carved on the stone that showed a hand pointing upward. “That means your daddy is in heaven.”
Billy smiled. He pointed to the sky and said, “Daddy!”
I smiled too. I lifted him up on my shoulders so he could be closer to Daddy. He laughed and said, “Daddy’s watching!” He pointed to the biggest cloud in the sky.
I took the letter from my pocket. “Give this to Daddy, Billy,” I told him, handing the letter up to him. He instantly knew what I meant. He raised the letter high in the air and let it go. Sailing through the air, dancing on a November wind, it swirled with the colored leaves over the rows of white graves until Billy, Will and I lost sight of it on the horizon.
