Silent Star (2 page)

The house seemed huge and so very silent as Andy ate his supper. He thought of how small he’d thought the house only three or four years ago. He remembered asking his dad why they couldn’t move so that he could have a big bedroom like his friend Ray. His father had laughed, saying most boys
his age would have just been glad to have a room of their own—some would have even coveted a bed of their own. Andy knew that was true enough. He remembered when the Harrison boys had slept three to a bed. It was one of the reasons Matthew went into the service. He’d joked that he could finally have his own bunk. And now he was gone.

When he finished his meager meal, Andy quietly washed the dishes, rinsed out the milk bottle, and then checked the stove one last time. He switched off the kitchen light and walked through the pitch-blackness to his bedroom just down the hall. The utter silence of the house held him captive, and he paused for a moment and closed his eyes against the darkness. It was like being entombed alive. The darkness . . . the stillness . . . the cold.

Minutes later he lay in his bed, the same darkness and silence as his companions. He thought of his mother and father. They’d worked all of their lives to make this house a home. To make it their own. Now they were gone, leaving Andy and the house as awkward companions.

“I miss them so much,” he whispered, breaking the stillness.

He might have borne their absence easier had he friends who rallied round to ensure that he not grow too lonely. But most of his boyhood friends had gone to fight. It was the patriotic thing to do, after all. But Andy’s classification was 4-F, thanks to his unpatriotic lame foot. And because of his job and the gloom that seemed to surround him, even the families he’d known all of his life wanted very little to do with him.

He was reminded of an event that had happened only two days earlier when he’d passed by a mother and her two children. He’d been walking to work, the snow making it impossible to bicycle. When the woman noticed him, she quickly grabbed her children by the hand and pulled them close, almost as if Andy could take their lives in a glance. He’d heard the smaller child ask his mother if Andy was the
boogeyman. He hadn’t heard her reply, but the look in her eyes as he’d passed by made her thoughts clear.

He was the boogeyman.

****

The next day Andy awoke to a frosty chill, the temperature suggesting the fire had most likely gone out early in the night. He snuggled down into the quilts, having no reason to hurry his rising. There was no more coal, so until the delivery truck could bring it around, Andy would just have to bundle up and make do. Staying in bed a little longer than usual was far too tempting on this cold morning.

Sundays were always hard and this Sunday was no exception. When his mother had been alive the routine had been simple: They would attend church services together at the Eleventh Street Methodist Church and then come home to enjoy a quiet day. Then she’d gotten sick, and with each passing week her frailty had increased with the pain.

After a month, maybe two, she’d been unable to get out of bed to go anywhere. When that happened, Andy had stopped going to church, choosing instead to sit by her side throughout most of the day. The pastor, a young man named Bailey who seemed ill at ease with sickness, had come to visit on many occasions, but he was never any comfort, and Andy finally suggested he not return. He hadn’t seen Bailey again until the funeral.

Andy’s mother hadn’t even realized that the man had stopped coming. Her days blended one into the other as the doctor strived to keep ahead of her pain with his limited variety of medications.

With his mother gone, Sunday seemed strange . . . almost foreign. It was good to have the day to himself, but there was also an awkwardness about it. He liked to read the newspaper and see what was happening in the war, but at the same time he dreaded it. There were a few books in the house, but Andy had reread those so many times he knew them practically by
heart. During the summer he toyed with a small garden in the backyard. His own little victory garden, he called it. He was a poor farmer, however. He’d managed nothing more than a few potatoes and onions and a handful of very scrawny beets.

So spending his time was often a simple matter of listening to the radio and napping. He’d grown old before his time—weary from the weight of responsibility and no one with whom to share it.

Yawning and stretching as best he could under the covers, Andy forced himself to sit up. For the first time in a long month of Sundays, he actually had a purpose.

He decided to forego trying to figure out anything for breakfast. Instead, he dressed warmly and took up a saw that hung in the mudroom. In his backyard, a large pine tree offered shade in the summer and the hope of springtime green in the winter.

Carefully, Andy trimmed branches from the pine. He only needed a few. Gathering the pieces in his arms, Andy took them to the kitchen table. For the rest of the morning he worked to fashion a wreath for his mother and father’s grave. The project gave him a feeling of accomplishment and passed the time in a bearable way.

Outside and across the alley, Andy heard the laughter of the neighborhood children at play. A quick glance at his watch showed the hour to be after one. Church was out and lunch was over. No doubt the kids were building forts and snowmen. They would probably play all afternoon. Andy envied their happiness—their ability to keep thoughts of war from overshadowing the beauty around them.

As he walked through the neighborhoods toward the cemetery, Andy could see the bustle of activities going on in the houses that he passed. Families were gathered for a day of rest—making plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas, enjoying their time together.

He found it hard to keep walking, knowing that he had no part in the warmth and love that could be seen there.
He wished they would all just pull the drapes and close the shutters.
It’s better not to even look,
he told himself.
It’s less painful not knowing what’s happening than to watch and know that I have no place.

But even when the drapes were pulled there was the stark, unforgettable reminder of the blue and gold stars that represented those in the service. Blue for the living. Gold for the dead. Banners of recognition and pride. Banners of hope . . . and of sorrow.

Andy knew a sort of fatal attraction to those silent stars. He watched for them—searching the windows of each house where he delivered those horrible little telegrams. He felt personally responsible for every gold star he saw that day on Chester Street, Washington Street, and all the others across the town.

No wonder the residents of those houses hated the very sight of him. It was no different from when the Williams family, who lived across the street, had lost their three-year-old son to meningitis. Mr. Williams finally took down the swing where the boy had played, for the sight of it was too painful. Just as the sight of Andy was too painful. If they could remove him, Andy had no doubt they would do exactly that.

The walk to the cemetery gave Andy plenty of time to consider his plight. He often thought of running away. After all, there were others who delivered telegrams, just as he did. There were other telegraph stations across the nation where other lonely 4-Fs worked to keep the lines of communication open. Someone would keep spreading the message if he decided to walk away. Someone would continue to bear the bad news. Why should it be him?

But then he remembered how hard his father had worked to buy the house.
“This will be yours one day, Andy,”
his father had told him with great pride.

And now it was his. His alone. Bought and paid for. How could he just walk away from it? Sell it and leave for another part of the country? He’d only find other mothers and wives
who were dreading those horrible slips of paper just as much as they dreaded them in Haven, Pennsylvania.

Andy opened the wrought-iron gate to the cemetery and shuffled through the snow. The uncleared path surprised him. The caretaker was usually quite good about tending the walkways. When he drew near to the place where his parents’ graves lay side by side, Andy cut across the field and came to stand directly at the head of their resting place.

He cleared away the snow from his parents’ simple headstones. He gently traced the letters of each name.

Placing the wreath between them, Andy spoke softly. “The war is still on. Our boys from the 28th have the proud distinction of being some of the first Americans in Nazi Germany. They’re fighting hard and no doubt they’ll be dying hard too.” He paused momentarily to adjust the piece of ribbon he’d tied to the greenery.

“I’ll be delivering a lot of those telegrams,” he continued. “I’d just as soon not do it. But, Pop, you always said to see a job through to the finish. I don’t know when this war will end, but I’m trying hard to see it through and make you proud.”

Somehow just talking to his parents like this helped Andy. He could almost imagine them sitting there listening, nodding and sympathizing.

“The president tells us to keep our spirits up, but to be truthful, I’m having a real hard time with it. With both of you gone, I’m just not sure why it matters anymore.”

“Excuse me.”

Andy looked over his shoulder, stunned to find an elderly woman standing directly behind him. He jumped up and stared at her, openmouthed. She smiled sweetly.

“I couldn’t help but notice you here. There’s no one else,” she said, waving her arm at the expanse of the small cemetery.

Andy looked away, almost frightened by the woman’s pleasant voice and winning smile. She obviously didn’t know who he was. Of course, he wasn’t wearing his uniform and there was always the possibility that she was new to the area.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” she continued. “My name is Estella. Estella Nelson.”

Andy looked up, still not sure what to say. Estella smiled and adjusted her scarf. “And you are?”

Andy felt his mouth go dry. “Ah . . . I’m . . . ah . . . Andy. Andy Gilbert.” He couldn’t be sure, but he thought his voice cracked as if he were thirteen all over again.

“Andy, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Who were you visiting just now?”

He shifted uneasily, his feet growing colder by the minute. “My parents.”

“I see,” she said, glancing past him to the stones. “You seem so young to be without them.”

Andy nodded. He could think of nothing to say in reply. Thoughts flooded his mind, overwhelming him with questions, but words failed to form on his lips.

“I was visiting my husband’s grave. He’s been gone ten years now,” Estella told him. “Some days it seems as though he left me only yesterday, and other times it feels like he’s been gone for a hundred years.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Is that how it feels for you—with them?”

Andy still didn’t know what to say. This type of conversation was awkward and startling all at the same time. Even his mother’s dear friends had very little to say to him when they met him in the ration lines or at the bank. Harriet, in fact, had moved away just last week to live with her daughter in Milwaukee. She promised to write and keep in touch with Andy, but he doubted she would. That left just Miriam, and she had a house on the other side of town. It was not only inconvenient to go visiting, but the cold weather made it downright dangerous.

“I’m sorry if I’ve intruded,” Estella said softly. “It’s just
that I’ve only been back to Haven for about three months. I lived in Pittsburgh for almost ten years with my mother after Howard died. When she passed on a few months back, I came back here to the house Howard worked so hard for.” She looked around and smiled. “I thought perhaps you were in need of company as much as I am.”

Andy shook his head. “You wouldn’t want my company if you knew who I was.”

She chuckled. “Sounds intriguing.”

“No,” Andy whispered. “It’s not intriguing at all. Just painful.”

TWO

Estella saw the anguish in the boy’s eyes. He was such a sweet-looking fella, red hair peeking out from beneath an overly large fedora. The hat had probably belonged to his father. A memento, she thought, of a man whose role the young boy hoped to fill.

“I find that misery is eased when it’s shared with another,” she offered.

Andy shook his head. “Not this misery.” He walked back toward the gate and Estella knew what she had to do.

“Wait, please,” she called. Following him to the street, she smiled again. “It’s terribly cold out here. Why don’t you come home with me and have something hot to drink? I have plenty of coffee.” She watched the emotion play on Andy’s face. He seemed to want her company, but at the same time there was something about him that appeared uncomfortable in her presence.

“I can’t,” Andy finally answered. He pushed his gloved hands down into his coat pockets and began walking away.

“But it’s Sunday. Surely there’s nothing too pressing that can’t wait until later,” she added, hurrying to catch up with him.

Andy stopped and stared at her for a moment. “You don’t understand.”

Estella reached out and gently touched his arm. “Maybe not, but I’d like to.”

He looked to the ground. “No. This isn’t the kind of thing you’d ever understand. No one does.”

“Try me. It hardly seems fair to judge me by the standards of other people.”

“Fine,” he said sternly. “Just remember, you are the one who forced this. Obviously you don’t know me or what I do.”

“So tell me.” Estella had always been a woman who dealt
with life matter-of-factly. Her husband said it was her Italian background, but she doubted it; she always figured it to be her own nosiness.

Andy struggled for several silent moments before he finally blurted out, “I deliver telegrams.”

She frowned. It made little sense. She’d figured with the weight of guilt—or whatever emotion it was—that wore this boy down that at the very least he was some kind of confidence man. “I thought maybe you were a bank robber or a murderer,” she said in a joking tone. “Delivering telegrams is nothing to be ashamed of.”