Love is a Wounded Soldier (41 page)

That afternoon I took a long walk. I
thought, and I prayed for the first time in a very long time, but the tempest
within me could not be quelled. When I got back to the house, I had resolved
nothing.

“What’s on your mind?” Pa asked me as I
stood absentmindedly by the fridge and drank a cold glass of water. I could
tell from his tone that he felt my pain. It was hard to know where to start.

“Going home,” I finally replied, sighing as
I looked down at the floor.

He sighed too, as though my burden weighed
heavily on his heart. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,” he said
sincerely.

I felt like laughing. It felt like I was
miles away from making the right decision. Then I felt like crying.

“In a lot of ways, I feel like I should go
back,” I said, “it’s—it’s just—” my throat tightened so quickly it choked off
my words.

“What?” Pa gently urged me to continue.

“Even if she is sorry,” I continued, my lip
quivering, “even if she gives the baby away, it’s—it’s never going to be the
same, Pa,” I finished tearfully.

Pa winced as though that thought caused him
physical pain. “No, no it won’t be,” Pa agreed softly. “And maybe the hardest
thing for you to accept is that what you had is gone. Things will never be like
they were.” I nodded and wiped my eyes. He was right on the mark.

“Sometimes, you just have to give things
some time,” Pa mused. “I know when you showed up here, I couldn’t look at you
for the first few weeks without thinkin’ ’bout your scars. Now, I know they’re
there, but I hardly think about ’em. And sometimes, scars ain’t all bad.
Sometimes scars remind us of an ugly time that made us into more beautiful
people.”

I let out a shaky laugh. At that moment, it
sounded like an absurd statement.

“Yeah, I know,” he acknowledged, “it’s hard
to think of it like that now. Give it time. Give it some time.”

~~~

Supper didn’t interest me that night. I
went to bed early, but sleep was elusive. For hours I tossed and turned. Like
Jacob wrestling with the angel, so I fought all night long.

Finally, I realized there would be no rest
until I made a decision, so I got dressed and went to the kitchen. I really
wanted a coffee, but Pa was sleeping, so instead, I quietly poured myself a
glass of milk, sat down at the kitchen table, and had a smoke. I talked to God,
and I talked to myself, debating the pros and cons of starting over by myself,
or trying to start over with Ellen. But it didn’t seem to matter how I looked
at things, it felt as though my world was tilted toward one inevitable
conclusion, and that the only factor within my control was how long I would
delay that which I knew must happen. The battle raged on and on, and in the
darkest hours of the night, I surrendered.

The sun was peering into the kitchen window
as Pa walked into the kitchen, looking sleepy-eyed. He looked surprised to see
me sitting there, but only for a moment.

I sat at the table, where I’d sat in
terrified contemplation for hours. Pa looked at me as if he knew I had
something to tell him. He started boiling some water, and looked at me
questioningly. “So?” he prompted.

I took a deep breath, and could hardly
believe it was me saying the words as I said them.

“I’m going home to raise my son.”

Tears instantly welled up in my pa’s eyes,
and seeing his emotion produced the same in me. His whole face trembled, and he
opened his mouth several times to say something, but he hadn’t the composure to
say anything, so he just looked at me in a way that said, “I’m so proud of you,
son.”

Neither of us said anything as he finished
making the coffee. He poured two cups of coffee and sat down at the table
across from me. His cheeks were damp, his eyes still shiny. I lifted my cup to
my mouth with both unsteady hands. I managed to take a sip and put it back down
without spilling it. The enormity of what I was about to do made me feel
nauseous. My insides chased each other around and around. I’d been afraid
before, but this was a fear worse than the fear of death. This fear I felt was
the fear of life, the fear of choosing a life I knew might be harder than
anything I’d experienced yet. Chills ran down my clammy back, making my whole
body shudder.

I looked over at Pa, who was just drying
his eyes.

“Well, you have an ol’ man’s prayers,” was
all he said.

There was no point in trying to sleep or
going to work. As tired as I was, I knew I couldn’t rest until I went home. At
least I hoped I might be able to rest then.

I went to my room and packed up the few
belongings I had. My heart waited for the heaviness it felt to be replaced with
peace, or joy, or some sense that I was doing the right thing and things were
going to be alright, but the dread remained.

Pa was stuffing some sandwiches, an apple,
and some cookies into a brown paper bag as I walked back through the kitchen
with my stuff.

“Thanks,” I said gratefully as he handed it
over to me, though I wondered if I’d ever have any appetite.

I laced up my boots, picked up my satchel,
and walked out to the car. Pa slipped on some shoes and followed me. I got into
the Buick and rolled down the window.

 Pa leaned up against the car. “You drive
safe now,” he said as I slipped the key into the ignition.

“I will,” I said, starting to turn the key
but stopping. I wasn’t sure what to say, so a lengthy pause ensued as I
wondered if I should start the engine. A good-bye is a tricky thing. You’d like
to say all the things you’d like to say, but drag it on too long and it just
becomes awkward.

Just as I was about to turn the key again,
Pa spoke.

“Well, God bless you. I’ll be prayin’ that
things work out for you, but if they don’t . . . I’ll be here,” he said.

“Thanks, Pa,” I said sincerely. “Thanks for
everything.” He dismissed my thanks with a wave of his hand, as though he’d
done nothing worth mentioning, and straightened back up, hands thrust deep in
his pockets. I started the engine and put the car in reverse.

“Robert,” Pa said above the sound of the
motor, “I think you’re an honorable man.” I could only nod as I furiously
blinked back the tears.

~~~

It seemed the drive home would never end,
yet it still felt like I was getting there too quickly. I felt more like a
wanted fugitive about to turn himself in than a man who was going home to do
the right thing.

The temptation to buy something to drink
dogged me every mile of my journey. Every exit I saw enticed me to turn down it
and drive off in any direction but home. But though I remained firm in my
commitment to try to start over again, the doubts and questions still
persisted. I was scared I would take one look at Ellen’s baby and recognize its
father. I wondered if I’d ever be able to accept her child as my own. I
wondered if I would ever be able to trust her again. I wondered if things would
ever be like they’d been. But mostly, I wondered if I’d ever feel like making
love to her again.

The steering wheel was slick with sweat as
I pointed the Buick down the final stretch of road that lay before me and an
uncertain future. My guts were as unsettled as they’d felt on the boat when
we’d been headed for Omaha Beach. I tried to script what I would say when I got
there, and rehearsed different lines out loud, but none of them sounded right,
so I finally decided I would simply say whatever was on my heart. I lit a
cigarette to calm my nerves, but for some reason it only caused the tumult I
felt inside to intensify, so I threw it out the window. My chest tightened
around my madly pulsing heart as I turned into the drive.

“Help me!” I whispered to the heavens.

There was no sign of life in the yard. I
parked in front of the house and walked to the door.

This is it, I told myself, standing in
front of the door and taking a moment to muster the courage to knock. I took a
deep breath and rapped on the door. I held my breath and listened for the sound
of footsteps, but there was no sound from inside. Once again, I knocked on the
door, louder this time. Once again there was no response. I knocked a third
time, now beginning to wonder if Ellen wasn’t home, or if she’d seen me pull up
and didn’t wish to talk to me. Silence. I grasped the door handle and turned it
gently. It was locked, which seemed strange, since a locked door wasn’t
encountered often in those parts in those days.

I walked over to a window and peered
through a crack in the curtains. Nothing stirred inside.

I walked back to the car and sat down,
thinking I’d sit and wait until she got home. A fly buzzed around my head and I
swatted at it. The sound of cooling metal popped under the hood of the car.
Something didn’t feel right.

I looked over the yard and realized there
were no chickens scratching at the dirt, no ducks quacking, no cows or horses
grazing—there was no life at all. The chirp of crickets was the loudest thing I
could hear. The garden looked neglected, and the yard was unkempt. The place
looked deserted. I began to doubt if Ellen had lived there at all recently.
Perhaps
she’s left to start over someplace else
. That thought appealed to part of
me. I’d made an effort to repair things, so if she had left to start a new
life, maybe I could do the same in good conscience. There was a measure of
relief in that thought, because it allowed me to duck out of finding Ellen and
sorting out our messy marriage. But I inwardly knew that I wouldn’t find rest
until I’d finished what I’d come to do.

~~~

“Robert!” Mrs. Moore gasped as she opened
the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but she slammed the door in my face.

Stunned, I stood on the front porch for a
moment, unsure of how to interpret what had just happened. I turned to leave,
but realized I deserved some sort of explanation, so I turned back, and was
about to knock again when the door opened. It was Preacher Moore. He looked so
much older than I remembered him.

“Hello, Robert,” he said in a subdued
voice.

“Good afternoon, Preacher,” I returned,
reflexively addressing him by title. His hair had thinned, and his eyes were
hollow.

“I was wond—” I began, but he cut me off.

“Sit down,” he said, nodding toward a
couple of sturdy pine chairs that sat on the porch. He closed the door quietly
behind him and we sat down. I waited for him to speak.

“You were saying?” he asked finally.

“I stopped by the house and Ellen wasn’t
there,” I said. “Thought maybe she might be here.”

I looked at him. He turned his head away,
as though he was looking at something off in the distance. But there was
nothing to look at. He said nothing for a minute, and I heard him swallow as
his Adam’s apple bobbed. When he looked back at me, those hollow eyes of his
were deep, glistening wells of pain.

“Robert . . . she’s gone,” he said, his
voice low and shaky. His words jolted me like a live wire.

“What? Where?” I asked, desperate to know what
he meant by “gone.” I waited for a century as several seconds elapsed.

“She’s gone,” he repeated. He sat hunched
over, wringing his hands, staring down at the ground.

“You mean she’s . . .” I began, but
couldn’t finish my own sentence. I didn’t need to finish. He nodded slowly, as
though dazed. I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands. It was too much.

I sat for several minutes in shock,
overloaded to the point of numbness with a stream of strong and conflicting
emotions. When the feeling returned, I felt sorrow, regret, and guilt.

“When . . . what happened?” I broke the
silence.

The preacher leaned back in his chair and
rested his arms on the arms of the chair. The tortured look on his face made it
seem as though the words he was about to say were being forcibly extracted from
his vital organs.

“She . . . took her own life,” he said,
almost gutturally, as he tightly gripped the arms of his chair with his hands.
“Hung herself . . . six weeks ago, tomorrow,” he finished. His breaths were
fast and shallow.

There was no numbness now as a fresh wave
of emotion pummeled me. “Six weeks . . .” I murmured, “it—it was her birthday.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry, Robert. I’m so very
sorry,” he said, as though he felt in some way responsible.

“On her birthday!” I whispered in
disbelief. “Why?” I addressed my question to the universe in general. “Did—did
she leave a note . . . anything?” I asked, wanting my questions answered, but
yet afraid that hearing why she’d killed herself would heap even more guilt
upon me.

“Yes,” the preacher replied heavily, and I
waited for him to elucidate, but he didn’t.

“Can I see it?” I finally asked. I needed
to know what she’d written. My father-in-law looked at me, and I realized he
had been thinking carefully about what to tell me, so I shut up.

“No . . . I don’t think you’d be any better
for it.” He sighed. “There are times when an answer is worse for the mind than
a continual question,” he told me honestly.