Maude (27 page)

One day a few weeks after Bud went back to Fort
Knox, I was getting ready to go to grocery store. I put
on my hat, and Paul grabbed the canvas bags we used
to carry what we bought.

“Tell your father I’m ready,” I said. Paul ran to
the door. George was in John and Bessie’s garage,
watching John as he worked on the truck.

I stepped out to the porch just as a car with a seal
on the door pulled up in front of the house. I stopped
in my tracks. Two men wearing Army uniforms got
out. One of them, an officer, had an envelope in his
hand. He looked at it and then up at the house. When
his eyes met mine, my knees went weak, and I leaned
against the door jamb for support.

I squeezed his shoulder hard. “I told you to go
get your father right now.” I clenched my teeth. “I
mean it!”

George came walking around from the side of the
house. “What’s wrong, Maude? Paul said I had to
come out here right away. I was just telling a good
story to John--” He stopped talking when he saw the
uniforms. He walked up the steps and put his arm
around my waist. It felt like he was doing it more to
support himself than to support me. It was the first
time he’d touched me since Bud left.

George leaned against me. “Yes, we’re the
Foleys. Maybe you should come inside.”
Right then, John came around the side of the
house carrying a wrench in his hand. His mouth was
opened to say something, but he snapped it shut when
he saw the car and the men. He ran to his house. I knew
he would bring Bessie. We would need her.
George’s voice rasped. “Why don’t we go
inside,” he said again. He stepped back and held open
the door for me and the soldiers.
We all went in the living room. Paul was the only
one who didn’t know what was happening. I took off
my hat, “Please, sit down. Can I get you something to
drink?”
“Thank you, ma’am. We’re all right.”
The two men sat on the sofa. I sat on the edge of
the seat of the easy chair and George stood next to me.
I could feel him shaking. Bessie and John came in the
door without saying anything. Bessie gripped my
hand.
One of the men cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to
inform you that your son, William James Foley, was
killed in the line of duty.”
George made a choking sound and sobbed, “How
did it happen?”
“They were on their way to ship out overseas. He
was on his way to the railroad station, riding in a
convoy with other GIs. His truck went over a big
pothole, and he fell off the back. He was run over by
the next truck in the line. You should still be proud of
him. He may not have died in battle, but he died in the
service of his country, just the same as if he’d been
killed in action.”
I didn’t ask, but I wondered if Bud had been
drinking. Of course, they wouldn’t tell me that, even if
it were true.
They filled in a few more details, like when the
body would arrive home and what the government
would provide. Then they stood, the officer handed me
an envelope, and took their leave. George walked them
to their car. I could see him through the window,
shaking both their hands. He stood for a moment,
watching the car drive away, before he came back in
the house.
Bessie and Paul were crying. John and George
held in their emotions. I sat in the chair and stared into
space, and when Bessie tried to comfort me, I waved
her away.
John patted George on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,
George. I know how you loved Bud.” George just
nodded, unable to talk.
John and Bessie went home, and George and
Paul went down to the basement. I sat in the chair and
felt sinful.
My oldest son was gone, and what I felt wasn’t
so much grief as it was guilt. Guilt, because when
George’s mother first put him in my arms I hadn’t felt
any love for him. Guilt, because for his whole life I
hadn’t really loved him the way a mother should love
her child. Guilt that I hadn’t tried harder, hadn’t done
more. Why didn’t I feel the love I should for my son?
Was it because George’s mother took him away from
me for that first day and a half after he was born?
I was still sitting there when Gene came in,
carrying Donna. Evelyn had gone over to see her
mother that morning, and he’d stopped on his way
home from work to bring them home. As soon as Gene
saw me, he knew something was wrong.
“What happened, Mom?” He knelt down on one
knee in front of my chair.
I handed him the letter, and he put Donna on my
lap and opened it. Donna seemed to pick up on his
distress. She leaned back against my breast and
watched her daddy while he read. As he took in the
words, he groaned and tears came to his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Evelyn asked.
Gene handed her the letter and asked me,
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s downstairs with Paul,” I said.
Gene left me holding Donna and went to be with
his father and brother in the basement. I could hear
them sobbing. I wished I could have the same release,
but it didn’t come to me.
I took Donna to the kitchen and put her in the
high chair. Donna watched me, never making a sound.
I made a meal out of leftovers. There would be no
happy dinner.
When the food was ready, I called down to the
basement. Paul and Gene came up and sat at the table.
I didn’t ask where George was. I understood too well.
They ate quietly, and then Gene picked up Donna. “I
think I’ll go on back to the Mayse’s and tell them,” he
said. “They’ll want to know.”
I nodded.
That night George slept in the basement on the
bed he’d made for Bud. He didn’t go to work for a
week, went out drinking every night, and came home
late. At almost any other point in history, he would
have been fired, but his job was secure. I suppose
during wartime, no employer would have been
unsympathetic to a man who’d sacrificed his son.
On Sunday, I rode home from church with
Bessie. She always knew what was happening in her
brother’s house, and she asked me, “Is George
showing any sign of sobering up yet?”
“Not that I can tell,” I answered.
“I’ll talk to him,” Bessie said.
When we got home, I went to the kitchen and
Bessie went down to the basement. I opened the door
and leaned over a little so I could hear what was being
said.
Bessie’s voice was loud, “George, wake up!”
George mumbled something. Bessie raised her
voice and said, “Wake up. I have something to tell
you.”
George said, “--lost my son, don’t care about
anything…”
“You had a week, and that’s enough.” Bessie told
him. “Drinking your life away won’t bring Bud back.
Now, you get yourself sobered up and get back to work
in the morning--”
He mumbled something and then her voice
changed to one I’d heard before, the one that made the
men’s faces go white. “Or else!”
Bessie came back upstairs and gave me a hug.
“He’ll be all right now,” she said.
George stayed in the basement all day and night
Sunday. On Monday morning, he came upstairs,
cooked his breakfast, and went back to work. Nothing
was said about Bud.
I think now, I was grieving as much for the way
things should have been as I was for losing a son, but
I had to hold it all inside. I wanted us to put our arms
around one another and find comfort. That didn’t
happen. I wished George would talk about it, but when
I brought it up, he went down to the basement.
I talked to Bessie, but that wasn’t enough. I
shared this loss with George, and even though it didn’t
mean the same to both of us, I felt the need to discuss
it with him. I didn’t have the slightest idea how to
bring up the subject in a way that would break through
his silence.
We replaced the blue star on the banner with a
gold one to signify our loss. It was a while before
Bud’s body came home. The funeral director set up a
platform in the living room to hold the coffin. It was
plain wood, covered with a flag. Chairs were set up in
rows. Neighbors and church members brought food
and paid their respects. Brother Els, the pastor from
my church led a service, and then they took him out to
Forest Lawn Cemetery for the burial. Soldiers fired
guns in the air. Then it was over, and we came home.

We thought the war would end soon, but it went on and
on. There was a big invasion of Europe on June 6,
1944, they called D-Day. I guess they were planning
that for a long time, and it must have been the reason
they were sending Bud overseas, to help. The papers
said it was a great success, but I wondered how many
mothers and fathers lost their boys.

Everyone on the home front did what they could
to help the war effort. In my house, there was nothing
new about the slogan, “use it up, wear it out, make it
do.” We’d always been frugal. I considered waste a
sin, but even I tried harder not to waste anything.
Everyone I knew did what they could to support the
war effort.

When Paul’s shoe soles wore out, I couldn’t find
leather pieces to mend them, so I cut a stack of
cardboard in the shape of the insoles and padded them
so they would last longer. He changed the liners every
night. I wore heavy cotton stockings instead of nylon,
and when the elastic garters wore out I learned to stick
my finger in the top of the hose, twist it several times
and tuck it in the binding to make it stay up. I wore
them until the toes and heels were completely gone
and I had blisters on my feet. It wasn’t long until every
one of the women in my house was wearing white
anklets. They lasted better than stockings.

I held the milk carton over Paul’s cereal bowl
until the very last drop drained out, and when I broke
an egg for breakfast, I took my fingertip and wiped out
every bit of egg white from the shell. George tried to
tease me about it. I didn’t care. Mostly, I felt his
tomfoolery was just a way of covering up his laziness.
After a while, he let it rest.

George had his own streak of patriotism. He cut
back on his beer and smoking. He stopped buying
cigarettes in a package and went back to rolling his
own the way he did in Missouri.

Betty Sue graduated from high school in late
June. I made a special dinner, borrowing ration stamps
from Bessie to get enough sugar to bake a cake, and
held a little party for her with just the two families.

The friendship between Betty Sue and Evelyn
was completely over, but Evelyn smiled and
congratulated her. I couldn’t help but see the sorrow in
Evelyn’s eyes and knew she was thinking about what
she’d missed. For once, I felt sorry for her.

The week after Betty Sue’s graduation, she got a
job making Jeeps on the assembly line at the Willys
plant. We went shopping for two pair of slacks for her
to wear to work. Betty Sue had never worn a pair of
pants in her life, but she wouldn’t be allowed to help
make an automobile wearing a dress.

We found some trousers that fit, in dark colors
that wouldn’t show the wear and the dirt. They had
pleats on the front and zipped up the side.

Betty Sue reported to work the next Monday
with her long black hair tied up in a scarf. She came
home bubbling over with stories about her job
installing the little windshield in each Jeep as it rolled
by her station. I envied her. Betty Sue would have a
life I’d never dreamed possible, working alongside
men and women in the outside world.

By the fall of 1944, Donna was running all over
the house. She ran to meet her daddy when he came
home from work each day. Gene would scoop her up
in his arms and hold her close to him.

He would sit down at the kitchen table and play
“This Little Piggy” with her toes, and she would
squeal with laughter when he got to the end of the song
and wiggled her little toe. They would sing “Itsy Bitsy
Spider” and play “Pat-a-Cake.” I watched them play
and it made my heart glad. Gene was happy with his
family, and bowled over by his love for Evelyn and
Donna. Maybe I was wrong to be afraid that Evelyn
would bring grief to all of us.

Betty Sue began dating a young man she met at
the factory. Ellis Marshall was from Kentucky, tall,
well-built, and good looking. He had wavy blond hair
that fell over his forehead. He had a gentle way about
him. He had a bit of a limp, but he seemed in good
health otherwise. I asked why he wasn’t in the service.
Betty Sue explained he’d been in the Army, but
wounded in the knee and sent home for good.

That made me wonder if other people looked at
Gene and thought he was a draft dodger. You couldn’t
tell by looking at him that he was 4-F.

Betty Sue came home from work one day with a
tear in her blouse and scratches on her arm.
I dabbed mercurochrome on her and asked,
“What happened?”
“We were in the lunch room. That witchy Maris
Tavers was rubbing herself all over Ellis. When I told
her to stop, she shoved me and told me to mind my
own business, so I punched her in the nose. She hit me
back, and the next thing you know, we were rolling
around on the floor, and Mitch, the foreman, had to
pull me off her. When I stood up, I had a fistful of her
mangy hair in my hand.”
“Are you going to be in trouble?”
“No, everyone in the room told how she started
it. When Mitch asked me if I wanted her fired, I said
no. I was over being mad by them. I wouldn’t have
minded pulling out all her hair, but I didn’t want to be
responsible for the girl losing her job.”
Why didn’t you punch Ellis?”
“He didn’t do anything wrong. He was trying to
push her off him.”
I’d seen Betty Sue’s outbursts of temper ever
since she was a baby. This Maris person was lucky she
got out of it with only a handful of hair missing.