All Manner of Things Read online

  Joel smiled the rest of the evening.

  Dear Annie,

  Thanks for writing back to me. I don’t receive many letters from home, believe it or not. It was nice to have my name shouted out at mail call for once. Caroline isn’t one to write much. If you see her around, could you let her know I’d like a letter from her?

  When you write back, would you tell me about the books you’re reading? Maybe even tell me what you think of the world, politics, this war, ANYTHING.

  I miss intellectual conversations. The guys I’m stationed with aren’t exactly the smartest around.

  Yours,

  Walt

  Dear Walt,

  To be honest, I don’t see Caroline very much. Even if I do, I don’t know that she’d listen to me, but I’m willing to try. If nothing else, I could have my oma write to you. She loves nothing more than sending letters.

  Today was my grandfather’s funeral and I’m not too keen to write much more. It’s been an exhausting day.

  Sincerely,

  Annie

  PS: I’m currently reading The Outsiders. It’s about the conflict between poor greasers and rich kids in the same town. It’s pretty good.

  20

  There were three meals Mom made well. Two more that were edible. And a host of dishes that she could render poisonous just by thinking of them. Of those recipes, meat loaf was her best.

  Still, that wasn’t saying much.

  She’d come home early from work that afternoon, making sure that everything was just right. When I’d offered to help, she’d given me a list and sent me to the grocery store.

  “Don’t take too long,” she’d said. “I’m going to need you to make the potatoes.”

  By the time I got home from the store, the house was tidied, dusted, floors swept and windows cleaned. Mom made short work of unpacking the groceries and dumping the ground beef into a bowl.

  “Get started on those taters,” she said, cracking an egg into the meat.

  I tried not to see the bits of shell that fell into the mix.

  She measured oats and salt and pepper while I peeled potatoes. She mixed with her hands while I chopped. She fit the mess into bread loaf pans and I filled the pot with water and put them on the stove. While I was glad it hadn’t gotten too hot that day, it was humid, making the kitchen feel awfully close.

  Steam fogged up my glasses, making them slip down my nose. “I wish I didn’t have to wear these things,” I muttered.

  “Don’t complain,” she said from behind me. “They make you look smart.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “A man doesn’t underestimate a woman he thinks is smarter than he is.” She washed her hands in the sink, working the soap into a rich lather. “But then again, most men would never admit that a woman was smarter than they are.”

  “‘Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses,’” I said.

  “Don’t use Dorothy Parker against me.” She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “You aren’t the only one who reads around here.”

  “I know that.”

  She set her timer and I knew I’d need to check on the meat loaf when she wasn’t looking. Mom had a habit of overestimating how long something needed to cook and I didn’t want to end up eating charred bricks that evening.

  “After supper, we’ll let Joel open his presents,” she said. “I can’t wait for him to see what I got him.”

  “Tell me,” I said, intrigued by the smile in her voice.

  She cupped her hands around my ear and whispered, “I had Opa’s guitar fixed and restrung for him.”

  “You did?” I turned to her, pushing up my glasses again. “He’ll be so surprised.”

  “I even asked the man at the music store to polish it.” She sighed. “It looks brand new.”

  It wasn’t often that Mom talked to me like we were a couple of girlfriends. When she did, it was like looking behind the curtain at a softer-edged, more fun version of her. The Gloria she’d been before life reshuffled the deck and gave her a worse hand of cards.

  “Bernie said that you have a new regular at the diner,” Mom said, pouring a splash more of milk into the potatoes.

  I stopped mashing. “Oh, that’s David.”

  “Oh.” She made a short humming sound through her nose. “Where is he from?”

  “Lansing.”

  “Huh.”

  I went back to work, trying to figure out what Mom was getting at.

  “Does he have a family?” Mom asked.

  She watched my face, scrutinizing it.

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “I mean, is he married?”

  “No,” I answered. “He’s only a few years older than me.”

  “Bernie seems to think the man comes to see you.”

  “I think he just wants lunch.”

  “Hm.”

  When I chanced a glance at her again, I couldn’t help but blush.

  Frank arrived just when Mom told him to and stood on the other side of the screen door with a cardboard carrier full of Pepsi bottles and a package of Oreo cookies. It seemed strange, him standing on the porch of that house. I couldn’t decide if he belonged or didn’t.

  I pushed the door open for him, holding it until he walked past me and into the living room. Looking around, he handed me the cookies and one of the bottles of pop.

  “Nice house,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I nodded for him to follow me into the dining room. “Didn’t Grandma want to come?”

  “She said she wasn’t up for it.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t going to force her.”

  “That’s fine.” I looked out the door. “Joel went to get Oma.”

  “Oh, good.” He bit at his lip.

  The screen door swung open, Joel holding it for Oma to walk through. She acknowledged Frank with a nod of the head and went directly for a seat at the dining room table. Never in my life had I witnessed her give anyone a sour look before that.

  “Hey, Dad,” Joel said, oblivious to the tension. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Happy birthday, son.” Frank clapped Joel on the back, relieved to have at least one person excited to see him.

  Mom stood in the kitchen doorway, one of the meat loaf tins held between her oven-mitted hands. She hadn’t changed from her pedal pushers and everyday blouse, hadn’t bothered to put on lipstick. There was no set of pearls at her neck and her hair was falling loose out of her rubber band. Still, Frank looked at her as if she was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

  “Gloria,” he said.

  “Have a seat.” She put the meat loaf on a trivet with a thud. Then she turned and went back into the kitchen.

  Frank looked at the chairs set around the table as if he didn’t know what they were. Oma turned her face from him as if to say that he’d better not even think of sitting next to her.

  “Not that one,” I whispered when he put his hand on the back of where Mike always sat. Then I pointed at my seat.

  By the time we were all settled, Mom came back with the mashed potatoes.

  “Joel, go ahead and say grace,” she said, pulling her chair out and sitting down.

  “Lord,” Joel started, “thank you for this food and for the hands that prepared it. Be with Mike and thank you for having Dad come home. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

  “Amen,” Oma repeated, putting her napkin in her lap.

  “Thanks, son,” Frank said, his voice deep and quiet.

  Mom reached over the table, serving up slices of the meat loaf right out of the tin, grease dripping off the bottom of each. When she dropped a chunk of it on Frank’s plate, she looked up at him, almost daring him to say something.

  “Any ketchup?” he asked, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his knee.

  “I’ll get it.” I jumped up from my chair and retreated to the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator, all the bottles in the door clanging together. I grabbed the Heinz, giving it a gentle shake as I walked back
into the dining room. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” he said, twisting off the cap. He held it over his meat loaf and slapped the bottom.

  “Hit the 57 on the bottle,” I said, taking my seat. “It comes out better that way.”

  “Who told you that?” Joel asked.

  “Bernie. It works every time.”

  “Just use a knife.” Mom closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose as if all her patience was tried.

  “I know how to get ketchup out of a bottle, thank you.” He shook it and a blob of red hit, splat, on top of the meat.

  Joel took the bottle next, whacking it just like Frank. Mom pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. I served myself a spoonful of potatoes and passed the dish to Oma on my right.

  “Have you heard when Mike will get back from basic?” Frank asked, cutting his meat loaf into a dozen square bites.

  “They’re sending him to medic school,” I answered. “Somewhere in Texas.”

  “Fort Sam Houston,” Mom added.

  Frank shook his head in a way that made me think he disapproved.

  “What?” Mom asked. “You think he should have done something different?”

  “No,” he answered. “It’ll be fine.”

  His tone was less than convincing.

  Clinking forks and knives on dishes, Joel’s sipping of Pepsi and the ice knocking against the glass, and Mom’s occasional sighs were the only sounds for longer than was comfortable. I spun the gears in my brain, trying to think of something to talk about. Nothing. I had nothing.

  “You know how I went over to Andy’s house yesterday?” Joel said, shoving a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

  “Who’s Andy?” Frank asked. “Is he the kid who used to live next door to us?”

  “That’s Walt Vanderlaan,” I answered.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Andy Ferris,” she answered. “You wouldn’t know him, Frank.”

  “Well,” Joel went on. “He let me try out his guitar. He taught me a couple things on it.”

  Mom glanced at me, pushing her lips closed so she wouldn’t give away her secret. I could tell she was pleased with herself.

  “He told me I was pretty okay at it.” Joel shrugged.

  “Well,” Frank said, “how about I give you your present now.”

  “You didn’t have to get him anything,” Mom said before scooping a bite of potatoes with her fork.

  “Sure I did.”

  “He can wait until we’re finished eating,” I said.

  Frank’s eyes sparkled and his mouth was held in the widest smile I’d seen on him. “I’d like for him to have it now. Go on out to my truck. It’s lying on the front seat.”

  Mom pretended not to notice when Joel hopped up from his chair, bounding for the door. She looked down at her dinner, pushing the creamed corn around on her plate.

  The front door creaked open and shut, Joel’s footsteps sounded on the living room floor. He stood in the entryway with a look of utter shock on his face. In his hand he held the neck of a shined-up, sapphire-colored electric guitar.

  “You aren’t joshing me, are you?” he said.

  “I’m not.” Frank grinned at Joel. “That’s for you.”

  “To keep?”

  “If you want.”

  “Thank you.” Joel’s voice cracked, but he didn’t seem embarrassed by it. He was just that excited. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  My mouth hung open, and my eyes went right for Mom’s. But she kept her eyes lowered.

  “I love it.” Joel’s smile was wider than I’d ever seen it.

  “Go ahead, show us what your friend taught you,” Frank said, pushing his chair back a few inches.

  “Come finish your supper.” Mom still hadn’t looked up from her plate, at least not that I could tell. “You can play with it later.”

  Joel shot a look at me, and I widened my eyes, hoping that he’d know that meant he better do what she said. Her tone might have been pleasant and even, but I knew her temper wasn’t. From where I sat, I watched him turn and place the guitar as gently as possible on the couch in the living room.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Joel said, returning to his seat.

  Mom flinched at the word.

  “It’s a Gibson,” Frank said. “Les Paul Custom, the man who sold it to me said. They don’t make those anymore. That one sat on the display for a year and then went right into the box. Never played. Just like brand new.”

  “How do you have money for something like that?” Mom asked, putting her fork down on her plate.

  “Mom—” I started.

  “A guitar that nice must have been pretty expensive.”

  “I don’t want to say how much I paid,” Frank said, tossing his napkin on his hardly touched plate of food. “But my boy’s worth it.”

  “Your boy.” Mom crossed her arms.

  “Fourteen is a big year.”

  “And the last you saw him was before he’d even turned two years old.” Mom cocked an eyebrow. “Were all the birthdays in between less of a big deal?”

  “Gloria,” Oma said.

  But she didn’t hear her. Or she didn’t listen, which was more likely. “Twelve years, Frank. Twelve.”

  He didn’t look at her but instead lifted the napkin to examine the remaining meat loaf, frowning at the sight of it.

  “You didn’t send us a dime,” she said. “But you come home for two days and spend a hundred dollars on a guitar.”

  “Actually, I’m sure it was more like two hundred,” Joel said.

  “That’s not going to help,” I whispered to him.

  “It was a gift.” Frank dropped the napkin again and looked up at her, his eyes hard and narrowed. “That’s all.”

  “A two-hundred-dollar gift.” Mom put a hand to her forehead. “Do you know how many mortgage payments I could have made with a two-hundred-dollar gift so that your children had a roof over their heads? Or how many bags of groceries to feed them? Goodness, two hundred dollars would have come in handy when Michael’s appendix burst when he was thirteen or when Joel broke his arm falling off the slide at school.”

  “Mom, please,” I said.

  “If I’d known, I could have sent a check,” Frank said.

  “If you’d known?” Mom pushed back her chair and shifted to the edge of it, her hands on the table, palms down. “If you’d known? How could you have possibly known?”

  She waited for him to answer, tilting her chin down and opening her eyes wider.

  “Oh, that’s right.” She stood. “You never called. You never wrote. You stayed away. You couldn’t have known.”

  Oma murmured something in Dutch, but Mom waved her off.

  “No, Mother,” she said. “I will not calm down.”

  I folded my hands in my lap and breathed through my mouth, wishing the windows weren’t open so wide and hoping that none of the neighbors were listening too closely. If only the rain hadn’t stopped.

  “If you’d wanted to know so badly,” Mom said, her voice icy, “all you had to do was ask.”

  She took up the pan with only half a meat loaf left in it and turned to go into the kitchen.

  “Gloria,” he said. “You know it wasn’t easy for me.”

  “You could have called anytime,” she said.

  “And get scolded like this?” Frank crossed his arms and wrinkled his nose. “No thanks.”

  Not missing a beat, Mom turned, her hand digging out the remaining meat loaf, which she threw with a pitcher’s precision right at Frank’s head. If he hadn’t ducked, it would have smacked him right in the face. Instead, it hit the wall, sliding down the plaster and leaving a greasy yellow trail behind it.

  Without another word, Mom walked into the kitchen.

  “She hasn’t changed one bit,” Frank said under his breath. In his eye was a spark, not of anger, but of something else that seemed akin to awe.

  When Mom slammed the door to her
bedroom, it shook the whole house.

  Frank stayed to help Joel clear the table while I took a sponge to the wall, working out the grease stain as much as I could. Oma had gone to Mom’s room, knocking softly on the door until she was let in. We didn’t speak, but if we did, it was in whispers as if we didn’t want to wake a sleeping dragon.

  It was less than half an hour later when Mom and Oma came out of the room, the fury passed. Mom bundled the tablecloth, the last thing Frank and Joel had to do, and took it to the laundry room. Milk carton in one hand, she pulled five glasses from the cupboard and carried them into the dining room.

  “You brought cookies?” she asked, her voice even, without a trace of fierceness. It had all been spent.

  “Yes,” Frank answered, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

  “Put them on a plate,” Mom called to him.

  The sound of crinkling plastic and tearing paper followed by the plinking of cookies hitting dish came from the kitchen.

  “Leave that.” Mom nodded at the mess on the wall, most of it gone. “I’ll finish later.”

  We sat at the table, the plate of Oreos in the middle, glasses of milk in front of each of us. When Frank reached for a cookie, I saw how his right hand shook. Just like it had when I was a little girl.

  He still hadn’t outrun Korea.

  Mom noticed too.

  Without a word, she took his glass of milk and moved it to his left side.

  Mom made me promise that I would never tell Joel about Opa’s guitar. I told her that she could give it to him at Christmas or for another birthday in a few years.

  “Maybe,” she’d said.

  She wrapped it in an old blanket and stowed it on the shelf in her closet right above her wedding dress.

  “Maybe,” she’d said again before sliding the closet door closed.

  Fort Knox, KY

  Dear Joel,

  Happy Birthday, little brother! Fourteen years old. Gosh and golly and holy smokes! I’ll bet you’re a good two inches taller, now that you’ve gotten so old. I expect you to write back and tell me all about your day. What did you get? Did Mom make you something “delicious” for dinner? Did you take the Corvair for a spin in the graveyard?