All Manner of Things Page 6

  The last thing I needed was for her to know that I’d written to Walt.

  For the slimmest of moments, I contemplated tossing the letter into the lake and watching it sink to the bottom. But I thought better of it, tightening my hold of it and standing up.

  I’d already affixed a stamp to the upper right-hand corner of the envelope, and my Dutch heritage prevented me from even entertaining the thought of wasting it. I was committed. I left the dock, making my way to the main street of town. I dropped it into the mail slot of the post office just before I walked toward work.

  I had more than a few twinges of regret throughout the morning.

  Bernie had hired a high school boy who I didn’t think had ever been made to wash dishes in all his life. When Bernie told him to get to scrubbing, the kid looked at the soapy water and the stack of breakfast dishes as if they might attack him should he get too close to them.

  “He’ll toughen up,” Bernie whispered to me as we stood back and watched the kid pull a pair of yellow rubber gloves onto his hands.

  “Let’s hope,” I said.

  The kid winced when he put his hands into the hot water.

  Bernie kept the “help wanted” sign close at hand just in case.

  I spent most of the morning showing him how to scrub and wipe, rinse and dry. While we worked, I asked him questions, and he was more than happy to provide me with answers. His name was Larry Roberts and he lived in a neighborhood on the other side of Old Chip with his folks and three little sisters. His dad had been in Vietnam for about three months. A career Marine whose shoes Larry was eager to fill once he was old enough to enlist. Once he got talking, the words came tumbling from him, and I wondered if having three sisters in the house left little room for him to say much of anything.

  In fact, by the time I left his side to prepare the dining room for the lunch rush, he was still chattering on about something or another.

  I thought Larry was going to work out just fine. For the rest of the summer, at least.

  I’d left Larry to the dishes after the lunch service was done and stood at the counter to wrap clean silverware in paper napkins for the next morning’s breakfast crowd. Bernie had found himself in a good mood and let us turn the radio on. Not only that, but he’d allowed me to pick the station.

  My back to the door, I hummed along with the Beatles about holding hands and feeling happy inside. I couldn’t hardly help but let my head bob along with the music. Caught up with the song, I didn’t hear the bell above the door as it jangled a welcome. I didn’t realize anyone was standing at the counter, waiting for me, until he spoke.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said.

  I spun around, gasping and holding my hand to my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  The man on the other side of the counter had dark skin, brown eyes behind a pair of Coke-bottle lenses, wide smile.

  “It’s all right,” I said, reaching for the radio and turning down the volume. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure.” I breathed in deeply. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if it was too late to order lunch.”

  “Of course not.” I looked at my wristwatch. “We’re open for another hour or so.”

  “Great. Should I just find a seat?”

  “Right. Yes. You can sit wherever you like.”

  “Thanks.” He took the table closest to the coffeemaker and unrolled his silverware. “So, what’s good here?”

  “Everything,” I said, stepping out from behind the counter and to the end of his table. “The special is an open-faced roast beef sandwich with either french fries or mashed potatoes.”

  “That sounds good.” He looked around at the empty tables. “Is it always this quiet?”

  “Only at two o’clock in the afternoon,” I said. “Fries?”

  “Sure,” he answered.

  I scribbled his order on my pad of paper. “Are you just in town for the day?”

  “Well, it looks like I might be moving here,” he answered. “I just took a job with the parks department.”

  “Congratulations, then,” I said. I put out my hand. “I’m Annie.”

  “Hi there,” he said, taking my hand. “I’m David Ward.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I’ll have him get this started for you.” I went behind the counter and called through the window to let Bernie know we had an order.

  While I waited, I hummed along again with the radio. Just not loudly enough for anybody to hear me.

  David paid for his lunch, standing at the register waiting to hand me his money. It took a little persuading for the cash drawer to come out. My persuasion came in the form of shoving it with the meat of my hand more than a few times before it shot out, the coins jangling violently in the slots.

  “I think this thing was made at the turn of the century,” I said, trying to distract from my embarrassment.

  “Maybe it’s time for a new one,” David said, waiting for me to make change.

  “Oh, the boss will keep this one as long as he can still order parts for it,” I said, dropping three quarters and a penny into his outstretched palm. “Dutch thrift.”

  “Dutch what?”

  “You haven’t been around many Dutch people, have you?”

  “Not that I know of.” He leaned his elbows on the counter.

  “Well, you’ll have to get used to us if you’re moving into this town. Most of us are at least a little Dutch.” I slammed the drawer shut again. “Dutch people are frugal.”

  “You mean cheap?”

  “Don’t let anybody hear you say that,” I warned, half-smiling. “They just don’t like spending money if they can help it.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Well, I think that makes a lot of sense.”

  “I suppose so.” I grabbed a round, white mint from the little dish Bernie kept by the cash register and popped it into my mouth. “So, where are you from?”

  “Lansing,” he answered. “Have you ever been there?”

  “Yes. Just once or twice.”

  “Let me guess, you went to see the Capitol?” He pushed up his glasses. They were black framed like the ones Buddy Holly had always worn.

  “We went to the zoo too.”

  “Well, I grew up down the road from that zoo.” He wrinkled the space between his eyebrows and shook his head. “I’ll tell you, it’s strange to wake up in the middle of the night to the roar of lions.”

  “I’ll bet it is.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “All my life,” I answered.

  “This might seem like a funny question, but are there any other black people around?”

  “Um, maybe a few,” I said, thinking. “Not very many, though.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He tossed the change up and down in the palm of his hand. “It’s a whole different world from Lansing.”

  “Hopefully you’ll like it here.”

  “I do so far.” He handed me two of the quarters. “Nice to meet you, Annie. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “I’m here every day but Sunday.” I held up the coins. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I watched him walk out the door, hoping he might turn and look at me. When he did, I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Did you know that they hired someone new at the parks department?” I asked through my window. “He had lunch at the diner.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Jocelyn answered from her side of our screens. “What’s he like?”

  I leaned my chin on my hand. “Nice.”

  “Annie Jacobson!”

  “What?”

  “I know that face.”

  “So?” I narrowed my eyes at her but couldn’t help but smile. “He’s nice.”

  “Uh-huh. You already said that.” She shook
her head. “What does he look like?”

  “Well, he wears glasses and has a friendly smile and kind eyes.” I sighed. Then I lowered my voice to a whisper. “And he’s black.”

  “He’s what?” she asked.

  “He’s black.” I shrugged.

  “What would your mother think, though?”

  “She doesn’t have to think anything. I’m sure he didn’t even notice me.” I tilted my head. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”

  “Hope can be pretty nice sometimes, though.”

  “Maybe.” I sat up straighter. “Anyway, I sent Walt a letter.”

  “Really?” she asked. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing much. Just that I’m praying for him.”

  “Well, I think it’s nice of you.” She nodded. “Did you tell your mother about it?”

  I shook my head. “And I’m not going to.”

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  Of all the things that Mom had to worry about, I didn’t want to be one of them. More because I didn’t want her fussing over me and insisting on one of her sit-down talks. She’d see the letter as the cry of a lonely, lovesick girl in need of attention, even though nothing could have been further from the truth.

  No matter how I protested, Mom would find a way to fret over me writing a handful of sentences to a boy eight thousand miles away.

  I hoped she wouldn’t hear about it.

  For at least the tenth time that day I regretted dropping the letter in the mailbox.

  Dear Mike,

  Happy Birthday! I highly doubt that anyone sang to you or let you blow out candles. Bummer. But we’re thinking of you here at home, wishing we could feed you more cake even if it’s one Mom made (ha ha).

  Mom said the reason we haven’t heard from you was because you needed to focus on your training. I understand. But Joel’s antsy to get a note. I guess he had a bad dream the other night. Something to do with you, but he wouldn’t tell me anything else. He made me promise not to say anything to Mom about it.

  If you have even a minute, could you please write him so he knows you’re okay? I half wonder if he thinks you’re already fighting the communists. Poor kiddo.

  Take care of yourself, all right? And don’t forget to write to Joel.

  Love,

  Annie

  PS: Oma wants to know when she can send you cookies.

  9

  If Fort Colson legend was to be believed, the town started as an outpost for fur trappers before Michigan had even joined the union. Eventually, for reasons I never quite understood, Dutch immigrants settled the land. Following God’s call to be fruitful and multiply, they brought forth upon the earth as many children as they could bear. It wasn’t long before houses and shops and such popped up all along the shores of Chippewa Lake.

  Right in the middle of the town they’d constructed a church. Over time it was leveled and rebuilt. Ours was a modest church with clear glass windows instead of stained and blocky wooden pews with no embellishment. But what we lacked in fancy, we made up for with heart.

  The people of the First Christian Reformed Church of Fort Colson were rich in mercy and generous with their love.

  It was the Sunday before the Fourth of July and all of the hymns listed on the register board were of a patriotic flavor. “God Bless America” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” closing with all four verses of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The ever-present American flag was moved from behind the pulpit to right beside it.

  When I looked through my bulletin, I saw that on the prayer card the secretary had included “Pray for our boys over there.” In bold type was my brother’s name. I dragged my fingertip over the letters, asking God for some way that Mike might be able to stay over here.

  When I looked up from where we sat in the second row on the right-hand side of the sanctuary, I saw that Mrs. Vanderlaan held her prayer card up, reading it. When she noticed that I was looking at her, she flashed me a small smile, like she wasn’t sure it was all right to.

  I smiled back.

  From the first time Walt had made fun of me, Mom had blamed Mrs. Vanderlaan. She’d called her on the telephone to ask her if she could keep her son in line. When Walt’s mother had denied that her son would ever say such a thing, Mom had hung up on her, vowing to never speak to the woman again.

  Mom’s grudge didn’t have to be mine.

  “Gloria,” Mrs. Vanderlaan said, approaching us in the narthex after the service. “Hi.”

  Mrs. Vanderlaan was of sweet face, soft features, hazel eyes. She dressed like they had money, always had. It was the way Mom had dressed before Frank left. I sometimes wondered if Mom resented the reminder of how her life had once been.

  “Elizabeth,” Mom said back to her.

  “I saw Michael’s name on the list.” She held up the prayer card as if Mom wouldn’t have seen it. “Was he drafted?”

  “He enlisted,” I answered. “In the Army.”

  “Good for him.” Mrs. Vanderlaan kept her eyes on Mom. “Walter is in the Marines.”

  “Yes.” Mom raised an eyebrow. “I read the article about him.”

  “Well, I’ll pray for Michael.” Mrs. Vanderlaan slipped the prayer card into her purse. “Do you need a service flag? Someone gave me an extra one, and I certainly don’t need two of them hanging in my window. I’d be happy to let you have it.”

  “I have one,” Mom said.

  “Of course you do,” Mrs. Vanderlaan said with not a hint of condescension, although I was sure Mom heard one. “Well, I’ll be going now. Nice to see you.”

  Mom turned her eyes away, looking at a brick wall across the room.

  “Nice to see you too, Mrs. Vanderlaan,” I said.

  As soon as she left, walking out the heavy wood door, Mom turned toward me and whispered, “You don’t have to be nice to her.”

  “You don’t have to be rude,” I said back.

  Mom pursed her lips in irritation and made her way to the door. I followed after her, thinking how exhausting it must be to hold so tightly to conflict.

  10

  Fourth of July morning was unseasonably cool. Opting for my navy-colored pedal pushers and pulling a red cardigan over my white T-shirt, I headed downstairs for the morning. An excitement swelled in my chest for the day. It was childish, I knew that. But I couldn’t help but anticipate the crowds at the parade, the floats and later the fireworks.

  I was glad that Bernie had decided to keep the diner closed for the day.

  In the kitchen, Mom had a box on the table, its contents strewn around it. She was still in housecoat and rollers, the slippers she’d gotten for Christmas on her feet.

  “It’s cold out,” she said, not looking up at me as I went to the cupboard for a mug. “You’ll want a sweater.”

  “I’m already wearing one.” I took down my favorite cup, a white one with an orange rooster crowing at a rising sun that had long ago worn off the ceramic. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No,” she answered. “Thank you, though.”

  “What are you looking for?” I asked, grabbing the kettle from the stove and putting it under the faucet.

  “Oh, the old service flag. I’ve been looking for it since Sunday.” She picked up a cubed jewelry box, considered it, then put it among the rest of the items. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”

  “No.” I put the kettle on to boil and moved to stand next to her, looking into the box. “What is it?”

  “It’s just a cotton rectangle with a red border and blue star in the middle,” she said. “We had it in the window when Frank was in Korea. It just lets everyone know that a family member is at war. I wanted to put it up for Michael.”

  “Are you sure you kept it?” I asked.

  Years before while packing up the old house to move to the new one, Mom tossed nearly everything she found that reminded her of Frank. His shaving kit and Brylcreem. The underwear he’d left behind in his drawers and all of the records he’d enjoyed l
istening to. If anything was of value, she sold it. All other things went out to the curb for the trash collector to gather. She’d said it was so we’d have fewer things to move. But I knew that wasn’t the whole reason.

  “Maybe I’ll just have to order a new one.” One by one, she picked up what she’d unloaded, piling it back into the box. “I guess I didn’t think ahead. Your water’s boiling.”

  The kettle stopped its high-pitched whistle when I turned off the gas. I poured the water over my tea bag, the steam full of the scent of herbs and earth.

  “I wish you’d known him before,” she whispered.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Frank.” She shook her head. “I’m sure you hardly remember him.”

  “I do. Mostly the way he was after the war.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  She picked up the box, carting it back to her bedroom closet where she kept it hidden among the skirts of her wedding dress.

  That dress was almost another casualty of what Mike sometimes called “Operation Frank Removal.” But, all those years before, as she crumpled it in her arms to dump in the trash can, her face had changed, as if something inside had let loose. With just a hint of emotion, she had carried it right back to her room, smoothing the bodice and the train, fitting it back into its protective case.

  From the kitchen, I could hear her wrestling with it once more as she fit the box back into the space where it would be cloaked by the skirt.

  The Frank she’d worn that dress for hadn’t come back from Korea. Instead, a different man returned. One haunted by explosions and death and the stink of war.

  Blowing over the top of my tea, sending wisps of steam over the water, I prayed that Mike wouldn’t have to go to Vietnam. And if he did, that he’d come home just the way he’d left.

  If we climbed onto the roof of our house, we could see the fireworks light up the sky over Old Chip. Ours was a modest display. I was sure it was nothing compared to the one Grand Rapids or Lansing put on. Still, it was our celebration, and no amount of mosquitoes could keep us from it.

  Joel and I reclined on the roof, our knees bent and heads resting just on the peak. Mom had opted to sit with Oma on the porch swing, the two of them chatting quietly, not as interested in the show as we were.