War and Hope
This is a short story I wrote during Mr. Amazing Dude's deployment to Iraq in 2008. May it be a reminder in this new year to continue to keep in prayer the families of troops serving overseas, as well as those who live after loss.
WAR & HOPE
If her fragile smile wasn’t enough
to nearly give her away, then the APO address confirmed my suspicions. She was young. But I had been younger than that when I wore
the same smile. When my heart earned the
same scar.
Mrs. Kondrake’s bleary eyes were
not as astute.
“My, that’s an interesting package.
Decorated real pretty.” My former Sunday
school teacher craned her wrinkly head over the girl’s shoulder, eyeing the
brightly colored stickers and marker drawings.
Pink and purple hearts hugged the corners of the address label while Harvey
Ball’s iconic yellow smiley faces blanketed the tape lines on all sides of the
box. I wondered absently if she knew
about the appropriateness of her selection. Mr. Ball had been a WW2 veteran. I had one of his commemorative stamps the
office had issued back in 1999, the year I first started as a postal clerk.
The girl darted another brief smile
at Mrs. Kondrake. Maybe it was her age
or maybe Mrs. Kondrake truly had no understanding of body language, but I
suspect she flat out ignored the girl’s defensive stance shifting away from her
bent 90 year-old frame.
“You must have put a lot of work
into coloring those hearts. Who’s the
lucky man?”
I briefly debated trying to deflect
the questions away from the girl by engaging Mrs. Kondrake in a conversation
about her husband’s recent hip surgery, but my current customer was a phone
call about passport photos. My office
didn’t handle passport photos.
Unfortunately, my fellow clerk, Mary was out on a late lunch, so I
needed to juggle both the phone and the counter.
I missed the girl’s reply, trying
to direct the customer to the Baroda office.
They handled passports. Hanging
up, I straightened my powder blue collar which had flattened during the phone
call, and beckoned the girl towards me.
“Oh—I only need to buy a book of
stamps, and Herbert needs me to give him his next dose of pain medicine. Do you mind?” Mrs. Kondrake’s plea almost
sounded like a whine. Almost.
I raised my eyebrows, looking at
the girl, who stepped back, motioning the older lady forward. The stranger looked rather relieved to comply
with the request. I didn’t blame
her.
“Miss Mildred,” I greeted her as
patiently as I could. “How are you this fine afternoon?” Funny how even though
I thought of her differently than I did when I was a fourth grader in her class
at church, I never got out of the habit of calling her “Miss Mildred” to her
face.
“Just fine, Joan. Just fine. Although, Herbert needs me to give him his
medicine,” She repeated, all the while eyeing me seriously, as though the grown
man couldn’t open a bottle of pills himself.
I acted like this was news to me. I was more than happy to hurry her out of the
office. “Well, don’t let me keep
you. What stamp do you want?”
“Oh, well, those new ones with the
young lady on them look nice.” She pointed at the Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
stamps. Thankfully, she paid quickly and
hobbled out, leaving no conversation trails behind her. That was a small miracle.
The girl gave me her package,
waiting passively.
“Sorry about that,” I nodded toward
the exiting figure. “She used to be the
sweetest lady around, but in the last couple of years…well…” I trailed off,
feeling slightly perverse for even thinking of gossiping about a former Sunday school
teacher with a perfect stranger.
Everyone was certain Miss Mildred had dementia, but of course, no one
ever talked about it.
I picked up the package. Not quite heavy enough to justify spending
$8.60 for a flat rate box. Especially,
since she had decorated this one so nicely.
The address was some base in Iraq, so the normal domestic rates applied.
“For your husband?” I asked
brightly while weighing the package to be sure my estimate was correct. Sapphires guarded the diamond glittering on
her hand as she tucked a strand of nutmeg hair behind her ear and nodded at me.
“How long has he been gone?” As I
began to ramble through the usual litany of questions, I could almost detect
that familiar mixture of resentment and gratitude in her quiet grey eyes. Resentment over the invasion of her privacy,
yet gratitude for someone recognizing her pain.
“Eight months.” The matter of fact reply was accompanied by a
quick, half-smile—the same one she’d pasted on upon entering into the post
office. A vartiation on a theme to the one she’d flashed
to Mrs. Kondrake.
Early afternoons on Tuesdays tended
to see a light flow of customers in my rural post. In fact, having a phone call and Mrs. Kondrake
at the same time was a bit strange. Then
again, the area had seen a weekend long bout of snow. The Lake Effect tended to cause the bizarre
to occur. I figured I might have about
ten minutes until anyone else would join us.
Today was the first time I’d seen this young woman and I couldn’t place
her in any of the local families I’d come to know so well.
“Is anything in here liquid,
perishable, fragile, or potentially hazardous material?” I rattled off trying
to discern what the best approach to crack her open was. Would she even respond to me? I felt something deep inside urge me to at
least try. Maybe it was my maternal
instinct. Or maybe my rushed lunch earlier.
Age was akin to the Lake Effect. It
did strange things to one’s digestive track.
She shook her head, probably
annoyed at the question. After all, the
package contents were neatly printed in straight, precise pen strokes on the
customs declaration. Standard practice
for combat zones. I glanced over the
form—a bottle of vitamin C, a bag of trail mix, three pairs of men’s socks, two
issues of Astronomy and Progressive Farmer, a Max Lucado book on CD, and the
ever necessary chocolate chip cookies.
Homemade no doubt.
“Do you want delivery
confirmation?”
Another shake to the negative.
“Insurance?”
“No.”
“Do you need any stamps with today’s
purchase?”
“No.”
“Do you want to cry?”
A startled, blank stare.
“If you do, it’s fine by me. You’ve got maybe eight minutes before the
next customer meanders through,” I offered, slapping USPS tape across the box,
trying to avoid covering up her artwork, yet still secure the customs
form. “It’s hard when your private pain
is public property.”
A short, tense silence exploded
into: “That’s the first real thing any stranger has said to me since my husband
deployed.”
I dared to meet her eyes—bravely
holding back tears—and decided to wait to see if she would “spill her guts” as
my grandkids called it. Thirty seconds
passed before I realized she was waiting on me.
To explain. To confirm that I
knew how she felt. Had walked in her
shoes.
Resting my hands lightly on her
package, I jumped into my story, “I was twenty when my Luke went to
Vietnam. I cried all the time, sometimes
on the outside, sometimes on the inside, until he got back. But I had to learn it was ok to cry on the
outside. It was a lot easier to push it
away and pretend I wasn’t hurting.”
Her eyes watered even more and her
nose reddened a moment before she regained control. “My husband is a Luke, too.”
I couldn’t help but grin and marvel
at the Lord’s mysterious ways. “Isn’t that
something?” She laughed softly in agreement.
“I bet you’re ready to scream from
all the questions and good wishes you get.”
She
paused, seeming to deliberate whether or not to open up to me. “Yeah, I am.” Then she hastened to add, “But
it’s kind of them. I mean, everybody
means well. I really do appreciate the
kind thoughts and prayers.”
“But…” I prodded.
A bashful grin slid across her face
and she ducked her head. “But, yeah. I
get tired of the same questions. And I
have my menu of ready answers to select from depending on the situation and my
mood.”
I nodded, understandingly, but
wishing to warn her that this was nothing compared to the intrusions I endured during
my four pregnancies. I opted not
to. Instead, I ventured, “It’s a fine
line to walk between the real pain and falling into a pity party.”
Guilt washed over her face. “Yeah.” Another pause, followed by a deep
breath. “Sometimes I feel rotten because
I get all this attention about my situation.
And I really don’t want the attention.
Usually. Partly because everyone
has problems. I don’t feel like I should
be singled out when my ‘problem’ is only there for a year and other people face
the same difficulty for their entire lifetime.”
“Their problems do not minimize the
effect of your problem on you,” I challenged her quietly. “If anything, it can give you the strength to
encourage someone else.”
She chewed on her bottom lip for a
second, thinking. That was probably
enough moralizing for now. I wondered
what branch her Luke was a part of—there weren’t any bases nearby. Just the Coast Guard station in Saint Joe and
the local National Guard armory in Dowagiac.
“What branch is he in?”
“Army National Guard. His enlistment term was just about up, but
well, he got caught in the stop-loss once the mission started,” she
sighed. “It’s actually his second
tour. He was in Afghanistan for a year
and a half in 2004. I didn’t know him
back then. I’m really proud of him, but
honestly I’ll be happy when he gets home and is done with soldiering for good.”
“You’re not from around here, then,”
I stated. Our local guard unit had just left
for training last month before eventually heading to Iraq. My nephew was in that unit.
The girl let out a little
giggle. “Did my accent give me away?” She did have a soft slur when she spoke.
“Well, no, not really. We’ve got a number of transplants up here for
Whirlpool and the nuclear plant, so a southern accent isn’t that much of an oddity
anymore.”
“I’m from North Carolina. Just staying up here with my parents during
the deployment.”
“Do you
have a job to go back to when he returns?”
There
was frustration hidden in her next words.
“No. And Luke doesn’t either,
actually. He was in the middle of his
last year of school when they left for training. Thankfully, his unit let him join the company
a few days late in order for him to finish up his final exams.”
“Well,
that was kind of them. And what about
you? Are you in college? Are you working up here?” I hoped I didn’t sound like Mrs. Kondrake.
She
shook her head. “No. I graduated last year. Luke encouraged me to just take a year off
and do whatever I wanted.”
“Sounds like a good man.”
A shy grin accompanied by a blush
crept up her cheeks. “Yeah, he is.”
“Well, home is always a good place
to be. I can’t imagine having lived on
my own away from my family while my Luke was gone. Granted, I did live in my own home, but it
was only a couple blocks away from my parents.”
I remembered all the lonely nights, the half-empty queen size bed
reflecting the condition of my heart.
She broke me out of my reverie by
leaning forward on the counter. Setting her
purse aside, she whispered conspiratorially, “I don’t actually care about the
war.”
If she was trying to provoke a
shocked reply, she had failed miserably.
I wasn’t about to lecture her on the geo-political ramifications of our
presence in the Middle East, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Living with my husband fulfilled that need. Besides, she didn’t need a political
lesson. She needed a listening ear. Sensing my acceptance of her words, she
continued.
“There are times I do feel
unpatriotic for thinking that way, but it is how I feel. I’m not really into politics or anything like
that. I don’t really care. But it’s really funny since everyone I meet
is compelled to tell me their opinion of the war once they hear about my
situation. Anti-war. Pro-war.
Pro-US action. Anti-acts of
aggression. And they ALL assume that I
share their position. They never ask,
they just assume.”
“Kind of like the need of some
people to pat a pregnant mother’s stomach.
They don’t ask, they just pat—so mesmerized by the baby they forget
there is a mom behind that big belly,” I murmured.
The girl-woman laughed, her eyes
alive now. “I’m not a mom yet, but I can
imagine you’re right. I’ll have to
remember that analogy. And I’ll remember
to never pat a baby bump without asking first.”
Then something akin to guilt snuck into her expression. “Everyone, regardless of their opinion of the
war, has been supportive of Luke as a person.
I mean no one has been nasty to my face about him being a soldier.”
This, unfortunately, had not been
my experience. For a moment, I faced the
memories of scorn, derision, hate, and arrogance. And my own internal confusion over the
question of a “cold” war gone “hot.” I was grateful that, whatever the
rightness or wrongness of Afghanistan and Iraq, at least the spouses, families,
and friends of today’s military did not have to deal with the shame of a
country turning its back on its own soldiers in the same way it had during
Vietnam. Those wounds hadn’t ever fully
healed in my heart. But the words of
this girl, her experience of encouragement somehow lessened the burn of my
past. I opted not to share this part
with her, though. She did not need extra
burdens in her time of need. I did find
it ironic though, how someone who could care less about the war could end up
being such a unifying figure in the debate.
“How long you been married?” I
hoped to steer her toward a more pleasant topic.
From her glimmer of joy, I guessed
she was still a newly wed. “It’ll be a
year next month. Not a long time, I
know.” She then laughed at herself. It was a sad laugh. “You know, if this was all a movie I was
watching, I’d be thinking it was soooo romantic. Sorta like those old black and white World
War Two movies where the couple gets engaged and then he’s draft and shipped
off to war. Only, they get married the
night before he leaves, and so she pines away for him until he returns a couple
years later.”
A modern day war bride. “I hope you don’t waste away while you pine.”
“Nope. And I’m not darning any socks either.” She
pointed at her package containing among other things, three pairs of
socks. “Wal-Mart did that for me.”
Now it was my turn to grin. “Luke and I were married a whole year before
he left. He was gone 2 years.” As I
spoke, my grin faded and the emotions of those wretched years coursed through
me. The intense sorrow, immobilizing
depression, near giddiness at receiving a letter....all of it numbing into the
nothingness, the apathy that distance brings when the heart is too tired to
keep processing everything.
I wondered if my face had betrayed
my past. But it didn’t have to. The girl understood. “I can’t imagine what two years would be
like. Luke comes back in just another
three months, and even that seems like forever.” She hesitated a moment,
obviously wanting to ask something, and then plunged forward. “Was it hard when
your Luke returned? I mean, was he
ok? Did you have a hard time
readjusting?”
I sighed, out of relief. Just like I had the first time I hugged Luke
to welcome him home. He was safe. And I had never wanted to let him go again. Ever. “Yes,
he was fine. Physically. And for that I’m forever grateful to
God. But there was a lot of adjusting
and re-adjusting. Getting to know each other again.” My gaze fixated on the
back wall, near the door, where a number of different posters hung advertising
everything from swing dance lessons at the local VWF post to a recent litter of
German shepherd puppies for sale at a farm near Berrien Springs. As my thoughts congealed into something I
could express to the girl, I slowly returned my focus back to her. “I had become quite independent while Luke
was gone, so it was a challenge to become a team again. And he struggled with some PSTD issues. Only it wasn’t called that back then. Wasn’t really talked about much. After a really rocky first year back
together, we managed by the grace of God to stick it out. It got easier over time. We’ve definitely had our bad years, but none
like that first year after his return. We
actually just celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary.” I tried to keep the
measure of pride in my voice to a minimum.
I was very proud of my marriage with Luke. We’d fought to make it happen. I fished for the right words, wanting to
encourage the girl. “While it will be an
adjustment, it isn’t that rocky for everyone.
Maybe it will be easier for you, since the deployment isn’t but a
year. There is always hope.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “There is always hope.” She suppressed a quirky grin. “Thank you for sharing that. It’s been a while since I talked to another
military wife. Well, former military
wife. And it’s good to hear about a
marriage making it. Luke told me that a
couple of the guys in his unit are planning on divorcing their wives when they
get back and another guy is expecting to be served papers. It’s so sad.”
Then she stared at me resolutely.
“We will get through this though.”
With that attitude, I didn’t doubt
her. “You should plan something special
for when he gets back. A second
honeymoon.”
This elicited a very happy, dreamy
response. “Oh, we are. I’m keeping myself busy planning a trip to
Italy. There’s a military base in Aviano
that we can fly into on Space A—you know, like flying standby, only on a
military plane. Probably not really
comfortable, but it’ll make the trip affordable for us. I want to ride on a gondola down the canals of
Venice.”
I wanted the conversation to
continue, but the front door jingled, slammed, and then jingled again. Two customers.
Deciding our time was up, the girl
grabbed a ten out of her purse and paid me.
As I handed back her change, I said, “Well, I’ll repeat what everyone
else tells you. And I mean it just as
much as they do. I’ll be praying for you
and Luke. And you know where I work if
you ever are feeling down and need to chat.”
I eyed her purposefully. But
something told me this was to be our only meeting.
Her face was finally fully
open. Genuine. “Thank you.
I know you mean it.” As she left,
I hollered out, “So I can pray properly, what’s your name?”
The quirky grin of before returned.
“Hope.”
2008. All Rights Reserved. Abigail Matthews. Please do not repost or use any of the above material without my express permission. Thanks!
So, did you really have a conversation with a postal clerk? (PS fantastic profile picture!)
ReplyDeleteNot that conversation. :-) But I did get to know a couple of my postal clerks because I was in there so much. One of them was the inspiration behind the narrator in the short story.
ReplyDelete