All Manner of Things Page 7

  “You know who Jimi Hendrix is?” Joel asked, turning his head to look at me.

  “I don’t live under a rock,” I answered.

  “Do you know what the Monterey Pop Festival is?”

  I sighed. “Yes, but I know you’ll tell me anyway.”

  “It was in California. All the rock stars were there. You know what Jimi Hendrix did?”

  “Nope.”

  “He lit his guitar on fire.”

  “Why would he do that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Joel smiled. “But it’s pretty groovy, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s stupid.”

  “I bet he has a hundred guitars.” He crossed his arms. “If I had a hundred guitars, I wouldn’t think twice about setting one on fire.”

  “You don’t even have one.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He smacked a mosquito on his neck. “As soon as I save up enough to buy one, I’m getting a band together. Andy said he’d teach me how to play.”

  “That would be cool.”

  Purple sparks blasted across the sky, the sound of it echoing off the trees and houses.

  “What do you think Mike’s doing now?” Joel asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe the same thing as we are.”

  “I bet the Army’s got better explosions than we do.”

  I smiled. “Probably.”

  Green blazed, then yellow and blue.

  “Do you think he’ll have to shoot anybody?” He rolled his head on the shingles, looking at me. “I mean in Vietnam.”

  When I shrugged, I felt the roughness of the roof scratch at my shoulders through my sweater. “He might.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

  “I guess you’d do what you had to in order to stay alive.”

  Orange bloomed, then red and white.

  “Some guys go over there and just dig latrines all day,” Joel said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Pete.”

  “How would he know? He’s what, twelve?”

  “Maybe Mike’ll do that,” he said, ignoring my question. “Then he won’t have to kill anybody.”

  We watched the last of the fireworks before climbing back down the ladder to the ground. Mom and Oma were heading inside for cups of hot tea. Joel went in for a cookie that Oma had promised earlier in the evening.

  I stayed outside, sitting on the porch steps, pulling my cardigan close around me.

  All the happenings of that day—the parade and fireworks and hot dogs and Fort Colson full of red-white-and-blue—were to celebrate independence. Independence won through fighting.

  Every American war, including the Revolution, had required a Jacobson. Not all of them had made it home.

  I was no hippie or flower child or anything like that. Not by a long shot. But I would have been happy if the war would just end.

  As much as Uncle Sam thought he needed Mike, we needed him more.

  Fort Knox

  Davidville, Kentucky

  Dear Mom, Annie, and Joel,

  Well, I made it through the first two weeks here at basic training. You wouldn’t recognize me if you saw me now. My hair is cut all the way down to the scalp (all my beautiful curls, swept into a pile in the corner of the barber’s shop) and I’ve grown muscles where I never knew they existed before. I’ve done more sit-ups and push-ups over the last fourteen days than I have in all my life. I’m not even going to mention the pull-ups. Gosh, I’d like just one day when I don’t have to run or jump or anything like that.

  Between training and drills, we’ve been taught how to make a bed properly and that cleanliness is next to godliness. Mom, you’d be impressed by how tight I can pull a sheet over a bed now. You’d be surprised what a neatnik I can be with a drill sergeant breathing down my neck.

  Don’t get the idea that I’ll keep this up at home, though.

  We did some tests to figure out our jobs for the Army. Go figure, there’s more than just shooting up the enemy. Who knew? Anyway, they say they want me to train as a medic. How about that? I guess it was a good thing I stuck with the Boy Scouts after all. Tell Mr. Riggs thanks for teaching me first aid in Scouts. I’m sure I’ll put all he taught me to good use.

  At the end of basic I’ll be headed to Houston for Medic Training. I heard somebody say that some of the medics get stationed in Japan or someplace like that. Gosh, I’d sure hate to be sent somewhere like that and miss out on Vietnam altogether. That would be the pits.

  Just joshing, Mom. I know you want me to avoid war if I can manage it. Believe me, I feel the same way.

  I guess I better go. Lights out comes early here and, golly, am I ever ready for it when it comes. I’ve never been so tired in all my life. And hungry. They sure don’t feed me so well as you do, Mom.

  Joel, stop laughing about that. You’ll hurt Mom’s feelings.

  I love you three. Annie, take care of Joel. Joel, take care of Mom. Mom, take care of Annie. All of you, take care of my car. That should do.

  Mike

  11

  Twenty minutes from my front door was the sandy beach of Lake Michigan. Twenty-two minutes and I could have my toes in the cold water, hearing the rushing of the waves and the call of the seagulls soaring above my head. Twenty-five minutes and I’d ignore the shock of the frigid lake and run in up to my waist, my armpits, shoulders, and dive under the rush of water.

  Bobbing up and down, I’d lose myself in the freedom of weightlessness.

  I’d lose track of time, floating on my back and looking up into the endless blue sky above me.

  The best of summers in Michigan were spontaneous trips west, to look out at the lake, never being able to see to the other side. Wisconsin seemed forever far away when squinting for it along the horizon.

  The summer hadn’t been hot enough to warm up the Big Lake. Still, Jocelyn and I had packed up our beach towels and a couple bottles of Coke. We wore our swimsuits under our clothes just in case we felt daring.

  We hadn’t left until after we both got out of work, but summer days were long and our eighteen-year-old energy never fading. We rode in Mike’s car, the radio turned up as loud as it could go to beat out the sound of air rushing through the windows. We sang along with Mama Cass and did our best to do the twist with Fats Domino. Our hair danced around our heads, wild in the wind, as we shimmied our shoulders and flubbed up the words to most of the songs that came on the radio.

  Neither of us cared one little bit. No one was there to stare or to correct us.

  The best part of having a kindred was knowing that it little mattered how silly I was. I would be loved regardless—liked, even—for being just the way I was.

  When the sun was about to set, we made our way down the pier, sitting at the very end, letting the waves of the lake wet our bare feet and ankles. The sun seemed to melt into where the water met the sky. Orange and purple and pink and blue. The colors reflected in the rippling surface of the waves.

  “Have you heard from Mike?” Jocelyn asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “He’s doing pretty well, I guess.”

  “Good. Do you know if they’re going to send him to Vietnam?”

  I nodded. “I’m sure they will.”

  “Maybe it will end before he can go.”

  “Maybe.”

  I looked back to the water; the sun sank into it and glowed orange on the whitecaps. The waves were rough that day. Still, eager swimmers had risked the undertow.

  You can’t worry about something that might not happen.

  We stayed to watch the Musical Fountain along the channel. Spouts of water shot in the air, backlit with colorful bulbs. Music played over loudspeakers, and the crowd that came in their cars or sat on blankets on the lawn oohed and ahhed as if it was the Fourth of July.

  Jocelyn and I sat on the roof of Mike’s car.

  After the show was over, the people picked up their chairs and blankets, making their way to the parking lot and pulling aw
ay into the night toward their homes. We stayed, waiting for traffic to clear up. I was glad we’d thought ahead to bring a couple of blankets. The chilly evening had only grown colder.

  “I got a letter in the mail this week too,” Jocelyn said, keeping her eyes on the docked boats bobbing up and down in the channel. “Mine isn’t from the Army, but it’s still exciting.”

  “Oh yeah?” I pulled the blanket around me closer. “Where was it from?”

  “Taylor University,” she said. “In Indiana.”

  “Did they accept your application?”

  She nodded and then turned toward me. “They did. And they offered me a scholarship.”

  Even with the evening so dark, I could still see the way her eyes lit up with the news.

  “That’s great,” I said, feeling both that it was and that it wasn’t. “For the fall?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know if I’m going.” She talked fast, as if she’d prepared what she was going to say. “It’s just so far away. It’s a three-hour drive. Besides, what’s the use of getting a degree just in time for me to get married and start having babies?”

  “You don’t even have a steady boyfriend yet.”

  “I know.” She let her shoulders slump. “I guess I’m trying to talk myself out of being excited.”

  “Why?”

  “Mother doesn’t want me to go.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked. “Besides, I’m perfectly happy writing up stories about the water level of Old Chip and who asked whom to the homecoming dance.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Well, no. But it’s something to do for now.”

  “I think you should go,” I said, hoping she’d hear the sincerity that added weight to each of the words. “It would be so good for you.”

  “But what about you?” she asked. “Don’t you want to go to college?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I can just take over the library when Mrs. Veenstra retires. I don’t know that I have to go to college for that.” I pulled the blanket up over my shoulders. “But if I can’t have it for me, then I want it for you.”

  We went back to watching the sky and the way the stars mirrored dots across the rippled water.

  12

  The telephone rang in the middle of the eleven o’clock news and Mom reached it before anyone else, standing in the kitchen, the receiver to her ear, saying things like, “Uh-huh, okay, don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

  “Is it Grandpa?” Joel asked me.

  “I think so,” I answered.

  “He’s gone off again,” Mom said, coming in and grabbing the keys to the station wagon. “Bring a flashlight.”

  We’d been told that it wasn’t abnormal for someone in Grandpa’s mental state to wander. Still, it was alarming whenever he did. Fort Colson wasn’t a large town, but there were woods in which one could become lost and more than a few rivers or ponds to fall into.

  The year before, he’d gotten all the way to the ice cream shop a mile and a half away from his house, throwing a fit because the girl behind the counter wouldn’t give him a malt if he didn’t have any money. Six months after that, he’d knocked on the door of an unsuspecting widow’s house, asking for a glass of orange juice. He’d made it as far as the other side of town more than once. If I’d had to guess, he’d taken off at least half a dozen times.

  And each time he’d been found within an hour of going missing.

  But that night was dark and it would have been easy for him to get lost in the shadows, unseen by anyone who didn’t know they should be looking for him.

  “Your grandmother said the back door was wide open when she realized he was gone,” Mom said, keeping her eyes moving from one side of the road to the other as she drove her station wagon, as if she might see Grandpa shuffling along on the shoulder.

  Joel tapped his thigh with the flat of his hand. All the way down the country roads and around the sharp curves. Tap, tap, tap. Up the long drive to Main Street. Tap. Tap. Tap. Any normal day I would have sniped at him to stop.

  The rhythmic slapping sound only added anxiety to worry.

  We pulled into the driveway, and Mom threw the car into park, turning off the engine but leaving the key in the ignition in case we needed to leave fast.

  Grandma stood on the porch, waiting for us. Her usually perfect posture was slumped and she held her arms crossed tight against her body. She didn’t look at us but let her eyes swipe up and down the street, watching for him.

  “No one’s called,” she said. “I didn’t dare go looking for him by myself. It’s too dark.”

  “That’s okay, Gran,” Joel said.

  “I just went to the bathroom.” She breathed in sharply. “I thought he was sleeping in his chair.”

  “We’ll find him.” Joel sighed. “Don’t worry.”

  Mom climbed the porch steps. “Let’s go inside.” She put her arm around Grandma. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  Grandma didn’t argue but followed behind her. Mom looked over her shoulder at me, giving me a sympathetic smile.

  Joel and I went to the backyard. The garage door was open, hammers and screwdrivers pulled out of their chest and scattered across the workbench.

  “The ax is gone,” Joel said, looking out at the wooded area on the other side of the yard. “I bet he went out to chop wood.”

  “Let’s go.”

  We ran to the tree line, the wide beam of Joel’s flashlight leading the way. There was a well-worn path between the trees where we entered the woods. To the right was the clearing where Grandpa used to chop wood when he was well. Where Frank and Mike and Joel had, too, over the years.

  “Look there.” Joel pointed the beam to the chopping block. “He must’ve gotten tired of carrying it.”

  The ax lay, discarded, among last year’s fallen leaves.

  “Do you think he could have made it to the creek?” I asked.

  “Gosh, I hope not.”

  The underbrush crunched beneath our feet as we ran the direction of the creek. It wasn’t so deep that a full-grown man couldn’t stand up in the middle and it wasn’t so strong that it could drag him under. But with Grandpa’s mind the way it was, I didn’t trust that he had the sense to get out of it if he needed to.

  God, don’t let Grandpa be dead, I prayed. I don’t want Joel to see that.

  We made it to the edge of the creek, nothing but the nighttime noises of crackling tree limbs, scampering critters, and a stillness of dark around us. The sounds of Joel and my panting breath joined in, my own heartbeat pounding so hard in my head that I feared I’d miss a sound I needed to hear.

  Joel knelt, looking in the soft mud of the shore for footprints, any sign that Grandpa had been that way. Then he pointed his flashlight up and down the creek. Nothing but the still water and the rocks we used when we were little to hop across to the other side.

  “Should we split up?” I asked.

  Joel shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He stood, the knees of his jeans dirty. “Maybe he didn’t come out here—”

  I shushed him. “Did you hear that?”

  We both quieted, not moving a muscle until we caught the sound. A weak, faint call off to the right of us.

  “The tree house,” Joel said, taking off ahead of me.

  Nestled back in the woods was a tree house that Grandpa had built decades before. Frank had taken Mike on campouts there right after Korea. But not me. I’d never been allowed up there. The “Boys Only” sign had prohibited me.

  But the tree house hadn’t been used in a long time. Over the years it had fallen into disrepair. The only thing that spent any time there anymore might have been of the less-friendly variety. Opossums or raccoons, I imagined.

  Dodging trees and jumping over fallen limbs, Joel and I made our way to the smaller clearing where the tree house was. We saw Grandpa right away, sitting cross-legged on the ground, his head hanging. He didn’t move. But he gas
ped and cried.

  “Somebody please help me,” he whimpered, sounding the way I imagined he might have when he was a little boy. “Is anybody there?”

  He had on his pajamas. The faded red flannel ones he’d owned forever. And he had nothing on his feet, as if he’d forgotten the need of shoes when tromping through the woods.

  We knew better than to rush up to him. Anything sudden could scare him, confusing him even more than I assumed he already felt. So, we walked slowly, evenly, with soft feet on the ground.

  “Grandpa?” Joel called. “Are you hurt?”

  Grandpa looked toward us, his eyes wild and mouth open from his sobbing.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Rocky,” I said. “Hey there, Rocky. We’re friends.”

  “I don’t remember you,” he said, sobbing. “I can’t find my way home.”

  “It’s all right.” I got close enough to kneel next to him. “We’re going to help you out. Okay?”

  He let me take his hand. It was so cold, clammy. I rubbed my hands against his skin, hoping to warm him up even if just a little.

  “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was thick, garbled.

  “Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head no, he frowned and sobbed.

  “I just want to go home,” he cried.

  “Do you think you can walk?” Joel asked. “We know the way home.”

  “Help me up.” Grandpa raised his arms, and between the two of us, we pulled him to his feet.

  Walking was slow going, especially with his bare soles. He had one arm resting across Joel’s shoulders and put a good deal of weight on him. All along the way, he groaned, saying that it was taking too long.

  “Are you sure we’re going the right way?” he asked.

  “We are,” I told him. “I promise.”

  As soon as we got within sight of the house, he stopped, turning toward me.

  “Gloria? Is it you?” Grandpa asked, squeezing my hand but believing that it belonged to my mother. “Gloria, I’m sorry.”