The Homecoming (2 page)
“Are you sure your dad said it was okay?”
“Honest.”
“Is there anything I can bring?”
“You’ll come?”
There is nothing in this world that could stop me, she thought. “Yes, I would love to.”
“Yippee!”
Katherine laughed. “Do you know what time? No, don’t worry about that. I’ll call Mrs. Fortini and get the details.”
“I’m so glad you’re coming,” said Patrick. “Remember how to get here?”
“Of course I do.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Me neither. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“Okay, bye.” And he hung up.
Just like that.
And just like that, Katherine felt alive again.
As a rule, snow improves the scenery of most settings.
But not graveyards, Shawn thought.
Graveyards were cold, hard places on the best of days. The snow just made the entire scene colder and bleaker. The white erased all color from view. Headstones and monuments peppered the landscape, condensing entire lives down to a few words or a phrase. Even the trees didn’t help in their wintry, skeletal stage. They looked more like dead sticks stuck oddly about the perimeter. No wonder children were afraid of cemeteries. Shawn certainly didn’t want to be here.
It was mid-afternoon. He had just arrived after making the five-hour drive back from Penn State. His last stop had been the theater along West College Avenue. So many dates with Elizabeth had begun there. Dinner and a movie. She loved the movies. He’d thought about stopping in to catch the afternoon matinee, but
Gung Ho
was playing, starring Randolph Scott. The last thing Shawn needed was some Hollywood rendition of a war movie. He just sat across the street for a while, reliving some pleasant memories.
But Shawn knew this stop—his last stop before heading home to see Patrick—would be anything but pleasant. He hadn’t visited Elizabeth’s grave since he’d come back into town on Christmas Day. It was an appointment he knew he must keep, but one he’d been dreading, even the thought of it, every time it crossed his mind.
He walked through the main iron gate and looked for the cemetery caretaker. The woman in the office said he shouldn’t be too far away, maybe just up the first hill. Shawn noticed a man wearing a gray overcoat and carrying a shovel, coming down the nearest walkway. He walked toward him, but before Shawn could say a word, the man saluted. Instinctively, Shawn returned the salute.
“Sergeant in the last war,” the man said, smiling. “Couldn’t be prouder of you fellas and what you’re doing over there.”
“Thank you,” Shawn said. He mentioned why he had come and whose grave he’d come to see.
“I remember that day very clearly,” the caretaker said. “Just a few weeks before Christmas. Personally dug the grave myself, a week later set the headstone.”
“I appreciate that, sir. Could you take me to it?”
“Be happy to.” He started walking back the way he came. “I remember reading about the car accident a few days before in the paper. Read about the little boy being left behind. Your boy, I guess. Talked about you being in England, a bomber pilot, if I recall.”
“Yeah,” Shawn said. “I flew a B-17.”
“Great plane. Call it the Flying Fortress, right?”
“They do.”
“Tell you one thing,” he said as they climbed a small stone stairway. “I’ll never forget your boy, the way he handled himself at that funeral. Would have made you proud.”
Shawn tried not to let the images form. He needed to keep his composure intact, at least a few minutes longer.
“At first I thought it must be a military funeral, when I saw the little boy standing next to that brunette. Usually is these days, you see a woman that age with a child. Then I saw there weren’t any soldiers around, no flags or anybody playing ‘Taps.’ Just that woman, your boy, and a few friends. A very impressive young man, your boy.”
“Thank you,” Shawn said.
“I’ll take real good care of things for you. This place will be a lot nicer to visit in the spring.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s right over there,” he said, pointing. He turned to go then reached out his hand. “I’m honored to do anything I can for you fellas. And . . . very sorry for your loss. Glad you’re home to look after your boy. They gonna give you any time off?”
“Not sure how much. We’re working on that now,” Shawn said.
“Well, you have a nice day, take all the time you need.”
“Thanks.”
He had escorted Shawn to within fifty feet of Elizabeth’s grave then headed back down the hill.
Twenty minutes later, Shawn was still standing there, fifty feet from Elizabeth’s grave, still staring at the headstone.
“Elizabeth, I don’t think I can do this.” Tears began to roll down his face.
In his hand, he held the last letter she had written him, written on the day she died. He hadn’t read it yet but knew its basic message. His dad had actually cried explaining it. From Shawn’s childhood until that moment, he couldn’t recall ever seeing his father cry. Knowing the hostility his father had previously felt for Elizabeth, Shawn knew this must be a powerful letter indeed.
He wanted to pray for the strength to close these last fifty steps, but he found it hard to pray about anything lately. Really from the first moment he’d gotten the news of her death back in England. Shawn knew he needed God’s help, probably more now than at any other time in his life. His struggle was ironic in a way, because he had been surrounded by death, almost nonstop, for well over a year. Even the death of close friends. Then he prayed constantly. Many times he’d felt the power of God’s sustaining grace and would have told anyone who asked that it was only the comfort he’d received through prayer that had kept his sanity intact.
But this was different. This was Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was supposed to be off-limits to harm or danger. Shawn was the one they had both worried about making it through this war alive. They’d talked about it many times. What Elizabeth should do if Shawn didn’t come back, what she should do with Patrick, what she should do financially, and so on.
There was no plan for this.
Shawn vividly remembered the last conversation they’d had on the subject, sitting in a Horn and Hardart’s Automat in downtown Philly, an unusual restaurant that functioned more like a huge vending machine. It was all he could afford at the time. She was eating macaroni and cheese, he a chicken potpie. At least the food was fresh.
“You most certainly are going to remarry,” Shawn had said.
“Don’t even say it,” Elizabeth had replied. He could still see her beautiful face, lit up by the sun pouring in the big glass window. And that adorable pout she’d make with her lips. “I’m not going to remarry, because you’re coming back.”
“Liz, we have to talk about this. We don’t know what’s up ahead. It’s a war, things could happen.”
“But we’ve already talked about this. Why are we going over it again?”
“Because you’ve never promised me you will remarry— after a respectable amount of time,” he said, smiling. “Maybe a year or so. I need to know you aren’t going to live alone the rest of your life. It’s not just for your sake but Patrick’s too.”
Elizabeth looked away. He could tell she was trying not to cry. He put his hand over hers on the table. “I’m hoping and we’re both praying I make it back okay. If it means anything, I believe in my heart I really will make it back. But you’re much too young and far too beautiful to live your life alone. And if the worst did happen, I’d want Patrick to grow up with someone he could learn to love like a dad while he’s still young. So promise me you’ll think about it, at least pray about it.”
“All right,” she said. “I can promise that. So we can stop talking about this now?”
And now standing there in this cold dark cemetery, Shawn realized that the feeling he had about making it home alive was real. God had remarkably preserved his life through the horrors of war. But why had he abandoned Elizabeth here at home?
He took a deep breath and walked straight to her grave. He forced himself to read the words on the headstone aloud. First her name, then the date. That’s all there was, apparently all they could afford. But Shawn would fix that. This was a woman who deserved so much more said about her.
He tried to remember . . . what was he doing that day, the day inscribed on this stone? Was he flying his plane? Filling out reports? Sitting around playing checkers to pass the time? He couldn’t remember. All that really mattered was . . . he wasn’t here and couldn’t be here to do anything about it.
He lifted the letter up and began to read, hands trembling, but not with cold. Barely through the first few words, he dropped to his knees, still clutching the letter. Her hands had touched this paper. When she was alive. The words written here were her words, written down with her own hand. And as she wrote, she had been thinking about him. With every word, every paragraph. He had thoughts similar to these when he’d get letters from her, when the gap between them was a mere ocean away. He looked down at the headstone, then up at the gray sky. The gap infinitely wider now.
“Where are you, Liz?” he cried. “I know you’re not here, not in this cold ground.” He looked around to see if anyone was watching. “I know I will see you again, but I want to see you now. It was supposed to be me coming home from the war, to you . . . and Patrick. The three of us starting our lives over. Maybe getting a house, having some more kids. Growing old together. Not me coming home to this. I don’t want this. Not without you.”
He just knelt there awhile and cried. He didn’t know for how long. When he finished, he stood back up and read the letter.
The letter she had written to him on the day she died.
Dec. 18, 1943
My dearest Shawn,
Your last letter was so wonderful. You can’t imagine what it does to my day when the mail includes something from you. Every day I quickly rummage through whatever comes in, looking for only one thing. And when it comes . . . to know I’m holding something you wrote just for me. Something your fingers have touched.
Well, today is the big day. With your blessing now, I’m going to ride across town and pop in on your father for a visit. I don’t mind saying, I couldn’t be more nervous about this. I know you’ve told me not to get my hopes up, but I can’t help it. Something has got to give on this thing, and I know it grieves God that our family is so torn apart. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make an end to all this strife.
Perhaps today will just be a beginning. I’m not expecting your father to throw his arms around me and give me a big kiss on the cheek. In fact, I’m bringing Patrick with me but not telling him where we’re going, just in case it doesn’t go well. I’ll leave him in the car until I see how your father responds. Hopefully, he’ll at least invite us in, and I can begin to chip away at the dividing wall between us. But I don’t think I’m going to be the primary instrument of peace.
I don’t know how, but when I pray, I get the sense that Patrick is going to factor in on this somehow. He looks so much like you and yet he is so innocent (not that you are so guilty . . . you know what I mean).
Wouldn’t it be an amazing thing, though, if by this Christmas this long-standing feud would finally be over? That for the first time in Patrick’s young life he’d actually get a present from his grandfather? It doesn’t have to be a big one, just anything. And then 1944 would usher in a new beginning. The war would end, and you’d come home, and we’d all be together again.
I can just see your face as you read this, scrunching up in disbelief at my naiveté and optimism. Then you’d break into a smile as a glimmer of hope broke through that what I said could possibly come true (and then that smile would quickly return to a frown as you thought of the right words to say that would balance me out).
Well, don’t balance me out this time, my love. Hope with me. I don’t know what God is going to do, but I’m confident his wisdom and power will make a way. He is famous for “making roadways in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.”
I know we’re called to overcome evil with good. So, I’m going armed with a mincemeat pie (which I abhor), because you said it was his favorite (I’m trusting you on this). And I’m wearing my green dress and hat, even though I’m not Irish. I know this is what your mom wanted too, so that gives me strength. She told me herself just before she died. I promised her, if it took the rest of my life, I wouldn’t stop trying to bring us all back together again.
I’m holding on to this letter until tomorrow, so I can include with it another letter after the visit, to let you know how things went. So there should be two letters in this envelope.
And there will be something else in the envelope, not so easily seen but always present . . .
That is, my unending love,
Liz
Ian Collins stood in his living room, giving everything a good once-over, getting ready for the crowd coming over for dinner. It was still hard for Collins to get used to his new life, one that included other people.
But he wasn’t about to complain. He’d learned that lesson this past Christmas, when he’d almost lost his son and grandson in the span of one week. Some of the darkest moments of his life. He wasn’t about to let anything come between them again. And Collins had to admit, having a big meal every week or so wasn’t too bad, either. He’d never say it, but he’d come to believe Mrs. Fortini’s cooking—albeit an Italian version— was every bit as good as his wife Ida’s had been.
Collins glanced up at the mantel clock. Almost 4:30. Shawn had called a short time ago, saying he’d be home about 6:00. His grandson, Patrick, was next door helping Mrs. Fortini make some rolls. He wished he could’ve found a way to get her to prepare the meal over here, just to have the smells filling up the house. But every idea he’d come up with sounded too much like a compliment.
Before heading next door, Patrick had mentioned they’d invited Miss Townsend, the government lady, to join them tonight. It was the only sticky point in the evening for him. It was still his house, after all, and it might have been nice if they’d included him in the decision. She and Collins had some pretty harsh words in the weeks before Christmas, back when Patrick had first arrived.