Creola's Moonbeam (5 page)

Creola responded, “We’re doing fine. I can take care of this.” She blotted the tea with a dish rag. “No harm done.”

She sat down next to me. “I know, I know your heart is broken in pieces. Saw that so many times when you were little. I just wish I could fix it as easy as I did in those days.”

“Me, too.”

“Your Beau—
our
Beau—is coming home to us, safe and sound. I pray for him every day.”

“Oh, Crellie,” I threw my arms around her. “I hope you’re right.” How I wanted to believe her.

“Now, let’s get the dessert and carry it into the living room. Best not to share our conversation. Your parents have enough on them right now.”

“Tell me, Crellie. What’s wrong with Mary Pearle?”

“It’s that Edgar again. He’s a fool. Tom-cattin’ around, just like always.”

“My brother-in-law thinks he’s God’s gift to women!”

“That’s right. God’s
curse
, as I see it,” she frowned. “I pray for him in the opposite way I pray for our Beau.”

“Crellie!”

“Now, don’t you be letting on to Mary Pearle that you know about this situation. Your sister wants everybody, especially you, to believe things are fine, especially with her baby coming.”

“I’m sure the baby will bring her and Edgar together,” I affirmed.

The wise Creola knew better. She said nothing, just knocked on the living room door. “All right then, who’s ready for some peach pie?”

“We are!”

The four of us ate dessert as if all were right with the world.

I worried about Mary Pearle and Edgar, but as promised, I said not a word whenever Mary Pearle and I talked. Besides, despite only two years’ difference, my sister still seemed so much older to me! We weren’t as close then as we would become during the next few years. I confidently told Mother and Daddy that the problem would surely resolve itself.

As Creola quoted,
The days are long, but the years fly by
. I was convinced that in a year’s time, we’d all be one happy family.

Creola’s harsh but well intentioned words about my “Vietnam attitude” made me realize how much worse things must have been for Beau. To think, just the Christmas before, we’d gotten engaged, celebrated with our parents, with Creola, and again with our fraternity and sorority friends on New Year’s Eve. Would it be cold in Bien Hoa? Probably not, just rainy. But lonely.

Beau was half a world away from me, from his family, and from everything he knew and loved. Like me and like my family, Crellie, his sister and his dear parents were also grieving themselves sick with worry. It was
Beau
who needed consolation, not his bride.

I soon started to occupy myself with helping others. Instead of weeping at the sight of a Salvation Army volunteer, I rang the bell with all my might as a volunteer for the organization. I drove to Alabama and spent more time with Beau’s folks. And, in addition to my daily letters to him, I determined to start sending my husband some cheerful surprises.

One such gift turned around as a joke on me. More of a
revelation
, it was. Until that point, I’d never thought of myself as having much of a southern drawl. A friend at the newspaper let me borrow her tape recorder. First, I practiced the mechanics of operating the machine. I then recorded a romantic and witty holiday message for Lt. Newberry.

After he listened to my gift, Beau wrote back to me:
Dear Magnolia
. I could practically hear him chuckling.

That was the
last
tape-recording from this Southern belle that the young lieutenant — and his insensitive army buddies — was to hear. Magnolia, indeed! Mad? Offended? Let’s just say this Mrs. Newberry was more far comfortable with the written word, after that.

If this is a confession about my shortcomings, I must add that baking goodies had never been my long suit either. Nevertheless, I decided to send my soldier some Christmas cookies. These were to come from me and from me alone, so I stubbornly refused any assistance from Creola or from Beau’s mother, Mary, a cook extraordinaire. For
Magnolia
, this was another mistake.

Oh, I baked the cookies, all right. My kitchen looked like there’d been a blizzard come through. It and I were covered in flour and butter. Tiny silver candies spilled and rolled into every nook and cranny of our house. At the end of the day, let it be written, those
darn
cookies filled two large tins and were ready for shipping. Proudly, I deposited the box at our neighborhood post office.

Two weeks later Beau wrote back. I could hear the laughter in his
ink
.

Dear Honey,

I love you. Thank you so much for the cookies. I know how hard you must have worked. They were delicious. There must have been some trouble in shipping. The guys and I had to eat them with spoons! Ha Ha.

I do love the baker with all my heart, Beau

Dauntless, I remained single-minded in my mission to help him celebrate Christmas. As my spoken word and my attempts at baking had bombed — other than to provide a few chuckles — I decided to mail my groom a fully adorned Christmas tree. Decorating has always been my
forte
.

A trip to the corner drugstore netted the perfect three-foot fake tree. I covered it with miniature ornaments and topped it with a gold star. Stroking my engagement and wedding rings, I added sentimental messages about our previous Christmas and shared my hopes for the many, many happy holidays to come.

I carefully boxed up the tree with all matter of packing materials and took it to the post office. Giving the package to the lady behind the desk, I mentioned the disastrous results with the cookies.

“Not to worry, ma’am,” she assured me. “Your package will arrive in excellent shape. Trust me; I’ll see to it myself.”

I walked away convinced that my tree would arrive and be the delight of Beau’s barracks.

The beaten-up thing was returned to me in February. A single ornament remained unbroken, a tiny plastic Santa. A good omen of sorts, actually, because years later, Beau himself would become Santa Claus. For the last five years, he has played Santa for the children of his office workers and for those of our friends. “That little ornament was spared as a sign,” Creola told me. She was right.

Beau did have a good Christmas in Vietnam. He heard from family and friends. Best of all, he got to see Bob Hope in person. The USO show was telecast. My parents, Creola, and I sat glued to the television on that December night. No, we didn’t get a glimpse of Beau, but we did see the faces of many, many young soldiers just like him, who were serving their country.

On Christmas Day, I, my parents, Mary Pearle and Edgar — who’d behaved well since their baby daughter, Susan, had arrived — gathered to spend the afternoon with Beau’s family and members of the Newberry clan. Yes, of course, there were tears, many tears. Yet, there was also joy in the anticipation and the absolute belief that our Beau would be safely back home with us in a few more months.

I had Daddy take my picture in front of the Newberry’s beautifully decorated Christmas tree. In the shot, I held out my empty arm indicating the exact place where Beau should have been. Thankfully, my life-sized Santa Claus returned home from Vietnam the following fall. On December 25, 1968, he and I posed in the exact same spot.

Beau was holding a plate of delicious holiday cookies, whole ones, silver candies in place, no crumbles.

He’d baked them himself.

During that lazy morning on the beach, memories of my last birthday also drifted into mind. The event had upset me more than I cared to admit. Now, what bothered me most about the passing of another year was not my age but the fact that I had blown the short story project. I might not be good at cooking or other hobbies, but I could pride myself on an ability to weave together words. I worried about losing that knack.

Hadn’t Creola let me languish long enough? When was her spirit going to tap me on the shoulder and give me some fresh advice?

Get back to work, Miss Moonbeam!

Well,
that
wasn’t the advice I wanted. Go away, Crellie
.

I took a sip of my drink.

Prior to leaving Atlanta for the summer, I’d announced to everyone, including my publisher, that I was done writing.
Done
. As I told Beau, our children, my sister, my friends, and anyone else who asked, “The truth is, I’ve said all I’ve got to say.”

I was lying.

The reality was that I feared I didn’t have another story in me.

You’re on a sabbatical
, I comforted myself.

I picked up the latest bestseller and began to read. Not able to concentrate, I tossed it aside without finishing the first chapter. Seeing another writer’s work only made me feel guilty. The book had been a birthday present. Inside was the card from a well-meaning friend.

Happy Birthday, Honey. Bet you could write one just as good. No, yours would be much better!

Love, Pam

My friends have traditionally exhibited blind and enduring faith in me.

I recalled my last birthday, the family dinner, and the luncheon given me by my girlfriends, now a tradition, along with their painstakingly and thoughtfully selected greeting cards.

Egads, those cards with their tasteless jokes about aging! Years ago, cards with flaming cakes and bosoms cascading onto withered knees used to bring down the house at our lunches. Now those same giggling girlfriends of mine, well into our maturity, tend to purchase more
gentle
reminders of the passing years; cards with pastoral scenes, cute little animals, vows of friendship, and birds.
Birds
! Cardinals, wrens, bluebirds, robins and chickadees. Birds and the love of birds is a dead giveaway that a girl is far, far from her girlhood!

This year, Pam’s card for me featured an entire
flock
of red birds.

I gulped my diet drink with the bravado of a cowboy in an old-time episode of
Gunsmoke
throwing back a hearty swig of sarsaparilla. Unlike the cowboys at Miss Kitty’s saloon, however, I got choked. I spat and coughed as cola spewed from my nose. Covered with the sticky substance, I looked around to see if anyone were watching. A woman had been walking toward me, but quickly turned around and headed off in the opposite direction. I assumed she was being kind.

I waded into the surf to rinse off. It was still too early in the season for this cold-natured gal to swim, but the splashes of water refreshed me. I made footprints in the cool, wet sand as busy little sandpipers scampered around adding their miniature pricks near my feet’s outlines. Securing my hat, and with the breeze at my back, I started up the beach for my daily constitutional. The Gulf glistened a brilliant gold in the morning’s sunlight.

I watched the seagulls and pelicans as they windsurfed effortlessly over the water in search of prey. Spotting small fish, the birds would dive in and sail up with a tasty breakfast gripped in their bills.

“It’s easy for you birds.” I called. “You have no diets to observe, no meals to cook, and no dishes to wash!”

A pelican dived in for his fish.

Pelicans occupy a special place in my heart. I see them as exclusively male, strong, determined, and dependable. To me they are exactly like Beau. Though my own
pelican
is clearly more handsome than the bird variety, there was something oddly familiar in the eyes of one pelican I was able to observe up close. In the bird world, that pelican was the closest thing to the man of my life emulating his expression, his personality, his friendliness, and his resolve to eat well.