Letters from War (8 page)

The cackle fills the van. “She's got your sense of humor, huh? Korea is the unsexy war. Even Vietnam got all them movies made about it. I think it's better being known for something than nothing.”

He's in one of his feisty moods today.

“You got a chance to go back to Korea a couple of years ago, didn't you?”

The eighty-four-year-old man lets out a curse as naturally as he might sneeze. “They tried to make it into an Alaskan cruise. I think I gained ten pounds going back to Korea. And I was surrounded by a bunch of old people. It was embarrassing.”

Beth and Emily both laugh.

“Murphy, do you know that Emily here goes to Tennessee?”

This, of course, is the absolute wrong thing to say. It prompts the wrath of Murphy, a longtime Vols fan who doesn't quite appreciate the way the team has gone.

“That last coach of ours—he set us back a good decade.”

“I'm sorry,” Emily says. “I can't comment on the team. I'm just a cheerleader.”

Murphy lets out a good-natured curse. “If you're a cheerleader, I'm a priest.”

“What? I don't have the look of a cheerleader?”

“You have more important things to do,” Murphy replies. “Right?”

“How are you feeling today?” Beth asks, trying to steer the conversation away from what might turn into bickering.

“How do you feel when you're dying? I don't know. They told me I was going to die in Korea when I got shot. But I don't know.”

“Maybe the good Lord has still got some plans for you.”

“Sure doesn't feel like it,” Murphy says, a spotted relic of a hand wiping his mouth for a minute. “If He does I wish He'd get on with it.”

When they arrive at the hospital and Beth goes around to get his wheelchair, she can see him extending a hand to Emily.

“Never get old, pretty lady,” he says. “There's nothing good about age except memories. And those just get you down.”

“Well, now you even have me depressed,” Emily says, smiling. “Come on. We don't want you to be late.”

“Amazing how I have to hurry just to sit in some room and wait on a doctor to come.”

“Those doctors know what's best for you,” Beth says.

The bony figure with the oversized shirt and pants
lets out a sound that resembles an old man's version of “Whatever.”

With attitude, of course.

“What's wrong with him?” Emily asks shortly after they watch Murphy wheel himself away.

“He must not have had his V8 this morning.”

“No, I mean, what's he suffering from?”

“Pancreatitis. He says it's from years of drinking. He blames the war, and he blames the government for sending him to the war. Ultimately he blames God, yet in the same breath says there is no God.”

“Great attitude.”

“It's sad. He's a good man. He's just alone, in a lot of pain, having to deal with this by himself.”

“That's why you do this?”

“He knows our story, Em. The one thing is he can't complain too much around me. He can't have this woe-is-me attitude because he knows I'll call him on the carpet. He's knows where we've been.”

“Was he ever married? Really?”

“He was pulling your leg. At least I think he was with that story. His wife died years ago. He has some kids and grandkids but they don't live close by.”

“So he's sorta adopted you?” Emily asks.

“He served in the army and he respects the sacrifice
and the service that your father and James gave. He talks about James as if he's still alive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don't know why, of all people, Murphy is one of the few who still believe.”

“He could be a bit senile.”

“No. He might be a lot of things, but he's as sharp as anybody. He's a realist, too. But he believes in the power of the military. He knows the strength of the men and women serving.”

“That doesn't mean he should believe that James is alive.”

“Emily, don't.”

“Don't say the obvious?”

“That's not fair.”

“Not fair?” Emily asks.

“Not fair to who? To you?”

“That's not fair to James.”

“To James? Mom, please.”

They drive in silence for a long time, Beth trying to figure out what to say, trying to make sure she doesn't widen the already growing gap.

“Why is hope a bad thing?” she finally says to her daughter.

“I'm not saying it is. But why is letting go such a bad thing, either? I've done it and it's worked for me.”

She wants to hold back and probably should, but
her mouth and her tongue already move faster than the speed limit.

“Well then, I'm really sorry that it's worked out so well for you.”

It's nice to know that Beth isn't the only fool to still believe that James is alive.

Love has the ability to do that. To suspend all belief. To cling to hope, to persevere.

Even when the signs and reason tell you not to.

Yet even though Beth refuses to give up, she wonders if Britt maybe should.

How can I even think such a thing?

She pauses for a moment as she turns off the car. The modest driveway in front of the modest house is a pale representation of the anything-but-modest love held inside of it. Beth opens the door and feels the coating of humidity cover her instantly. She notices the lawn that needs cutting, flowers that desperately need water.

A home needs a family to fill it. All members of a family.

It's one thing for Beth to keep hoping, but Britt's hope means she'll never move on, never be able to live a normal life.

They barely had enough time to say their wedding vows, much less start a family.

They found out they were expecting in February, a couple of months before James went to Afghanistan. It was bittersweet news, of course, knowing the possibilities that followed in the father's footsteps. James had told her he didn't want to know what they were having, not until he was holding the baby in his hands for the first time. Because of this Britt had decided to be surprised along with him.

James went missing in August, three months before Britt found out that they were indeed having what he had hoped: a son.

Beth knocks and sees the beautiful redhead at the door. Her smile is weighted, certainly different from the smile on her wedding day three years ago.

No matter how many times I come to this door, the reality will always travel with me like some mangled suitcase of despair. I shouldn't be here. Someone else should be.

“How are you?” she asks as they hug.

“Hanging in there,” Britt says.

Beth is going to ask what's wrong, since Britt normally doesn't answer this way, at least not right away and in this tone. Then she remembers when she hears the little footsteps on the floor and the jangle of a collar.

The black and tan puffball runs toward her and then back and around. Britt bends down and scoops him up.

“Come on, Bailey.”

It takes them only a minute to find the little puddle Bailey left behind.

“He's not quite used to company yet.”

“He just likes seeing me. Don't you? Here—I'll get it.”

“No, it's fine, really.”

“It's barely a few drops,” Beth says. “Please.”

“Can you picture James's reaction to this dog?”

Beth laughs as she gets some paper towels. “I'd love to see that.”

“He always wanted a big dog.”

“When he comes back, he can get one.”

The sound of other footsteps and a joyful shout come as Richie greets his grandma. Beth scoops him up.

“Who needs a big dog when you have a big man of the house?” Beth says. “He's sure growing. You must be feeding him something I don't know about.”

“I follow strict rules. I'm an army wife, remember.”

Britt looks as trim and vibrant as she did on her wedding day. Perhaps a bit too trim, in fact. She pets the dog and kisses it as Beth holds Richie.

“How's the lady of the house doing?”

“Keeping busy with my little guy and our new pet.”

The nine-week-old puppy has been with Britt for only a few weeks. It seems to still be getting used to its feet, bouncing around and sniffing Beth.

“You taking care of yourself?”

“I already have several women asking me that daily at work,” Britt says, smiling.

“How is work?”

“It's good. It takes my mind off things. Sometimes.”

Along with babysitting for Britt on weekday mornings, Beth visits her daughter-in-law once a week. When Richie was first born, Beth stayed over many nights. As he's grown older, this is the tradition that remained. The weekly visit feels as natural and vital as that first cup of coffee in the morning.

For a while, they talk about Richie. Beth gives her a weekly update, telling Britt about different things he's done or said or funny stories. It's a nice thing to have something to talk about besides James. Sometimes the same conversation with the same questions becomes more and more draining.

Life can and should be about more than James. We are family now, friends, and it's important to create new memories as that.

James and Britt bought the house shortly before getting married in June of 2008. Just as with any couple, the future seemed as bright and wide open as the sky above.

Life can be deceptive like that.

“So Emily couldn't come?”

“She had to work at O'Malley's.”

“How does she like it?”

“It's okay. I think some of the guys she has to serve irritate her. But most of them are the big tippers so she has to live with it.”

“They have great food. A bit pricey. Not that I've been there since James and I went last.”

It's only been a year since she graduated from East Tennessee State with a degree in nursing. Though Britt hasn't ever said so, Beth likes to think that the degree comes from wanting to help people in need just like her husband is doing.

Not everybody needs a gun to help people.

That was something Richard had said years ago to encourage Beth when he was off at war.

It was a thought she carried around like a license and a key.

For a while, Britt shares about her job at the hospital, about the part-time hours that feel like they're full-time, and how she's adjusting to taking care of a puppy now along with a toddler.

“How is Emily doing?”

“With school?”

“With things.”

It's nice to hear Richie and Bailey playing on the floor in the kitchen. Beth knows that this house would have been very different, very quiet, had they not been blessed with Richie nineteen months ago.

“Sometimes it's hard to know beneath her endless sarcasm,” Beth says. “She says she's ‘moved on.'”

For a moment, Britt doesn't say anything.

“And I think that's great, even if I don't exactly believe her. She takes after her father. She's tough that way.”

“And you're not?”

“I'm different. No. I think she's a lot like Richard—a realist. I'm stubborn but I'm also sentimental.”

“Believing that James is alive isn't sentimental.”

Beth nods. She doesn't want to discount anything that Britt says. “It's amazing how certain traits in parents show up in different ways in their children.”

“James is a lot like you.”

“They both are, yet for half their lives they've only known me. So of course it's easy for them to be influenced by me.”

“He sees the world through your eyes.”

“I think Emily does the same through her father's eyes. Sometimes something she says or does reminds me of him and it will be this bittersweet moment… that is ultimately too painful to dwell on.”

“I wish I could have known him.”

She takes Britt's hand and squeezes it. “I wish you could have known—that you could
know
James better.”