The Homecoming (16 page)

Ida always thought the best of people, even her doctors. But they had never done a thing for her, far as he could see. Just kept her holed up in that sick ward, day after day, as the life ebbed out of her.

So he wasn’t going to call any doctor. Not now anyway. He walked over to the telephone in the dining room and pulled out a little white card with all his important numbers. He would call his lawyer, then maybe his accountant. He wasn’t going to say much. They’d try to talk him into all kinds of things he wanted no part of.

He would just tell his lawyer he wanted to change his will as soon as possible. Make sure Shawn and Patrick got everything he owned. Maybe a little bit for the church.

As he dialed the number, he was glad he got to say what he said to Shawn just before he left. Been meaning to say that to him for weeks. Now, if something did happen to him before Shawn finished this fancy train ride of his, Shawn would always have those words to hold on to.

Course, he could do all this and live another ten years. But that didn’t matter. This was the right thing to do. The phone picked up on the other end, his lawyer’s secretary, Betty something.

“Hey, this is Ian Collins. I need to set up a time right away with your boss, I’ll pay extra if he can make it this week.”

“Well, I’m sure we can get you in, Mr. Collins. Can I ask what this is in reference to?”

“Well, I just want to change my will. That one he wrote up for me a few years ago, you can tell him to throw it out. I don’t even wanna see it. Tell him I want to start off from scratch, and I want to do it soon as he can.”

Twenty-two

What a strange day. Katherine had no reference point for all the conflicting feelings going on inside. For starters she was a nanny. What was a nanny anyway? A mom, but not a mom, with the added warning from Major Collins not to get too close to Patrick over the next four months. But it was too late; she already loved him like a mom would. At least the way she thought a mom would love a child.

She was a nanny working for a real-life war hero. She had never seen anything like the scene at the train station this morning. They treated Shawn like a celebrity, and he looked the part. And he deserved the part. After hearing about his last mission, she wasn’t at all surprised about the medal, the promotion, or the War Bond tour with the Hollywood stars. But seeing and feeling the thrill of that crowd up close . . . how would he handle all this adoration over the next four months? Would it change him?

But then, why should she care if it did? There was no relationship, no understanding between them. She was the nanny; right now, the four-month nanny. He had never given her the slightest notion that he cared about her on any other level. And why would he? He was a grieving husband, mourning the loss of a woman he clearly loved with a passion. To even think this way made her feel stupid.

But she did care. Every time she was around him, she cared a little more.

She sighed.

“Katherine, are you all right?”

She turned from the living room window, where she had been staring out at nothing. “I’m fine, just a bit overwhelmed by all this.”

“I know,” said Mrs. Fortini from the sofa, “you’re going through a lot of changes right now. Losing your job, starting a new one, moving to a new place. Why don’t you take your coat off and relax. I could make us a cup of coffee.”

“I told Patrick I’d take him for a walk. School’s out for the day, so he wants to take me there, show me where his classroom is, where I need to drop him off and pick him up. I thought I’d let him play on the swings a bit. Maybe by then Mr. Collins will be through with his nap and I could go over and start dinner.”

“Do you have the recipe I gave you?”

“In my purse. You sure he has everything I need over there?”

“Checked it all myself yesterday. Tomorrow morning we can plan out the meals for the next few days, then go shopping. Don’t forget to get his coupons.”

“I am so glad you’re here.”

“It’ll be fun.”

Just then Patrick came running down the stairs.

“You wash your hands?” Katherine asked.

“Oops.” He turned and ran back up. “We still going for a walk?” he yelled at the top of the stairs.

“Soon as you’re finished. I’m all ready.” She heard the water in the bathroom sink turn on.

“What a delightful boy,” Mrs. Fortini said. “I think you are going to like your new job.”

“I know,” she said, then thought,
As soon as I can figure
out how to stop caring.

Shawn sat comfortably in his seat on the train, heading north from Philadelphia to Boston. When he’d stepped on board the first train at Allingdale, the passengers had stared at him for the first few miles, trying to make sense of all the fuss at the station. Soon everyone returned to their book, newspaper, or conversation. But every few moments, Shawn had caught someone looking at him, like they were trying to figure out who he was. They’d instantly look away, but it got on his nerves so he walked back to a different car.

When he’d arrived at the 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, he half-expected to find another crowd gathered to welcome him, then laughed at his paranoia. No one cared, no one even said hello. He was just one of hundreds of GIs mingling in the crowd, trying to find the right train to their next destination.

He was happy to be a nobody again.

The car wasn’t crowded. Shawn had the aisle to himself. To get his mind off the aching loneliness, he picked up a newspaper. He’d been out of touch for most of the last two weeks. As usual, war news occupied the headlines. Apparently, General Eisenhower had been made Supreme Allied Commander in Europe a few days ago. Shawn saw that coming. He read another article about the war raging in Italy. The 36th Infantry Division was attempting to cross the Rapido River. Sounded like an Italian river. They were meeting stiff German resistance. The article was very upbeat, highlighting all the positives, but Shawn knew how to read between the lines. Didn’t sound like things were going well there at all. He looked out the window. His train was crossing a river just north of Newark, meeting no resistance at all.

It didn’t seem right that he was traveling on a leisurely train ride to stay at a high-end hotel in Boston. To be wined and dined with celebrities and stars. To have almost no duties other than to smile and say a few words about war bonds. What a shocking contrast to the contribution he’d been making just five weeks ago.

He wondered what his crew had been doing over the last five weeks. Or his buddies back at Bassingbourn airfield in England. How many missions had they flown? How many planes had been shot down? How many of his friends had been killed or captured? What would they say if they knew what he was doing right now?

He looked up as a heavyset man almost tripped into the seat beside him, trying to navigate his way through the narrow center aisle. “Excuse me,” the man said. “I’m such an oaf.”

“No problem, sir. Here’s your hat.”

“Thanks,” the man said and kept walking.

Shawn looked at his watch. The train should pull into Boston in about three hours. He opened his briefcase, noticed an unopened letter addressed to him. As he read the return address, he remembered getting it a few days ago. It was from Captain Albert Baker, the pilot buddy he’d bumped into at the Crystal Tea Room. He’d slipped it in his briefcase intending to read it later but had forgotten all about it. He opened it and read it.

Dear Shawn
,

Really sorry about being so insensitive there at the restaurant (couple of weeks back, when you were there with Miss Townsend). It had been so long since we last saw each other. I even forgot you were married. I’m really sorry for your loss. Can’t imagine how it must feel. Anyway, you were always a good friend.

I wanted to ask your permission to contact Miss Townsend. To be honest, I can’t stop thinking about her. I’m being sent back to England in a month, thought I might touch base with her before I go, see where it leads. But if you have any objections, I’ll drop it like a rock.

You can write back to me at the return address
.

Hope you’re doing okay
.

Your friend, Al

Shawn slipped the letter back in the envelope. For some reason it annoyed him. Why should he care if Al wanted to ask Katherine out for a date? And why was Al asking him for permission? He wasn’t her father.

He reached back into his briefcase for the folder Colonel Simmons had given him at the Pentagon. He decided to read about the lieutenant who would serve as his aide on this tour. He was supposed to be picking him up in Boston. The least Shawn could do was find out a little more about him, like maybe his name.

As he flipped through the papers, he stopped at one he hadn’t noticed before. It was a schedule for their time in Boston. It said the first War Bond rally was January 21st at 3:00 p.m.
That’s tomorrow afternoon
. It was at Fenway Park, where the Red Sox played. There was a list of big bands that would play and the times for each, then the Hollywood stars who would come out, some doing song and dance numbers, some just stirring up the crowd.

Then he saw his name. And beside it the words “War Bond fund-raising speech.”

Speech, Shawn thought. What speech? Colonel Simmons didn’t say anything about making a speech. He quickly thumbed through the rest of the pages, looking for anything that might resemble a fund-raising speech. There wasn’t anything. The few sentences he’d said at the train station this morning were the first words he’d ever uttered in public. And that was before a small crowd of hometown fans.

How could he face thousands of strangers at a major league baseball stadium, coming after a string of famous celebrities, and give a speech?

What would he say?

Twenty-three

Katherine set the kettle to boil, added a pinch of salt. A nice white sauce was already simmering. Soon she’d add the pasta. Where was the garlic and pepper? She looked quietly through the cabinets to find the spices.

“You sure you got this?”

She turned to see the elder Collins as he popped his head through the kitchen doorway. “I’ll be fine. Mrs. Fortini checked all the ingredients. Got the recipe right here on the counter. She promised me you will love this. Now go do something for about thirty minutes, and I’ll have it ready.”

“I’m going to take Patrick with me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, just out to the garage.”

“He’s all clean; don’t get him dirty.”

“We won’t get dirty.”

She looked at the water in the kettle. Little bubbles were already starting to form at the bottom. “Better be back in twenty-five minutes. Give yourselves time to wash your hands.”

“Let’s go, Patrick.”

Collins walked past her in hurried steps toward the back door of the kitchen, wearing an overcoat. The door led out to the backyard, down a few wooden steps, to a freestanding garage. Patrick was right behind him. Collins had this look on his face. Hard to place it. Maybe . . . mischievous. She walked over to the window and pushed the sheers to the side. She couldn’t help smiling as she watched them disappear into a side door of the garage. What a difference, she thought, between now and the way things were before Christmas. The old man really had changed. Almost a Scrooge-like transformation.

Almost.

She quickly walked back to the stove to check on things, glanced down at the recipe lying on the counter to the right, held down by a salt shaker. She’d already studied it a half dozen times. That exchange with Mr. Collins went rather smoothly, she thought. Once again, the wisdom of Mrs. Fortini had been vindicated.

Her last words to Katherine as she’d left to come over here were about how to handle the old man. “It’s really very simple,” she had said. “Use gentle tones but be very firm. Like you’re talking to a child just a bit older than Patrick. I watched Ida handle him for years. He’ll fall right in line.”

It worked.

“Watch your step, Patrick. It’s a bit messy in here. Boards all over the floor. Stand there by the door till I find this light.” “Okay.”

“There it is.” He grabbed it and pulled. “Still not much light.”

“I can see okay.”

“All right, come on in then. But watch your step. I got something to show you.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise.”

“Really?”

“Come here. Stand right there and close your eyes.”

“They’re closed.”

“No peeking.”

“I won’t.”

Collins pulled the leather pouch from his coat pocket and held it right in front of Patrick’s face. “Okay, open ’em.”

Patrick did. “Wow,” he said then looked puzzled. “What is it?”

Collins untied the leather strap and unraveled the pouch. “They’re my wood-carving tools.”

“They what you used to make my wooden soldier?”

“Yep, and a whole lot of other things.”

“But why you showing them to me?”

“That’s the surprise.” Collins was glad Shawn had said yes. He decided to get started right away, give Patrick a diversion, get his mind off his dad leaving. “How would you like to make something like that wooden soldier yourself someday?”

“I could never do that.”

“You could if I taught you. Before your dad left, I asked him if I could teach you how to carve things with wood.”

“You did? What did he say?”

“He said I could . . . but on one condition. That I teach you all the safety things I’ve learned so that you don’t get hurt.”

“How would you get hurt?”

He really doesn’t know anything, Collins thought. Better take this real slow. “These tools are very sharp. Here, let me show you something. Come over here right under the light.” Collins held out both hands. “Tell me what you see.”

Patrick looked closely. “Fingers and thumbs.”

“That’s right, fingers and thumbs. How many?”

Patrick counted. “Eight fingers and two thumbs.”

“And how old am I?”

“I don’t know, a hundred?”

“No, but I’m real old,” Collins said. “And I’ve been carving things in wood all these years, and I still have all my fingers.” Patrick didn’t seem to get it. “See, Patrick, some of these tools are sharp enough to cut the ends of your fingers right off if you’re not careful.”