“They could fine us,” she said. “Or take away shifts. Or add shifts. And most certainly write us up.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble over some cigarette butts and beer bottles,” Betty said. “Good thing I don’t smoke or drink.”
There was a smattering of laughter around the table as she took a swig from the bottle in her hand and adjusted the cigarette behind her ear. Marlene sighed.
“I’m going. I’m going,” Betty said, pushing back from the table to go clean up her mess.
“Truly, ladies,” Marlene said, her eyes taking in each of us. “I don’t want to mother you, but it’s on me if this house isn’t kept in tip-top shape.”
There were several nods and murmurs of understanding, and then one by one we got up from the table and began to clean before making our way to our bedrooms for the night.
“You okay?”
I turned to see Beatrice behind me on the stairs.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice quiet.
“You miss him.”
It was a statement, not a question, and I nodded. I missed him in ways I couldn’t put to words. It felt as though I’d lost a limb, the thought reminding me of what I’d learned about people who’d actually been through it, and the ghost limb phenomenon many experienced after. The itching of a leg that no longer existed. The ache of an invisible arm. William had become that for me. But instead of a limb, I felt as though I’d lost my heart, the beating inside merely an echo of the organ that had once resided inside me.
It was shocking to me how fast it had happened. One day he was just another face in a sea of so many others. The next, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Imagining a life with him. Aching to be with him again.
“You on tomorrow?” Beatrice asked.
I shook my head.
“Me neither. Wanna go into town?”
I wanted to say no. But my plans to lie in bed all day wallowing in grief and wasting our dwindling sunny summer days would only put me in a worse mood.
“Sure,” I said, and waved good-night as she passed me to go to her own room two doors down.
Hazel was already asleep when I opened the door and I grinned and shook my head. I didn’t know how she did it. The girl could talk right up to the very second she passed out.
“It’s a gift,” she’d told me when I’d mentioned it a few weeks ago. We’d been having a conversation and, as usual, she was prattling on, my brain trying to keep up with her mouth. When it was my turn to talk, my own words were met with silence and when I glanced her way, I saw that she’d fallen asleep, mouth open as if she’d been waiting to respond but sleep had moved even faster and stolen her away.
I pulled my aunt’s letter from my pocket, set it on my bedside table, and changed quietly into my pajamas. Slipping into the hallway, I waited my turn in line for the bathroom, then padded back down the hall when I was done, and climbed into bed to read Aunt Vic’s letter.
Usually the pages were filled with the normalcy of life in Manhattan, just like I’d asked of her.
“Won’t it make you feel bad?” she’d asked.
“No,” I’d said. “It will remind me of what I get to come home to.”
And so, in previous letters, she’d regaled me with the latest ailments of the neighbor’s dog, Mr. Bones. Mr. Bones was always having something treated. A sore on his paw, a scratch on his nose, a sniffle...
I was told of new shops coming to the neighborhood, and old ones going out. Who’d gotten married, whose daughter or aunt or cousin had had a baby. And who had received telegrams, telling them their loved one wasn’t coming home. As always, Aunt Vic’s letters, with small scrawled notes and drawings in the margins from Uncle Frank, were filled with details I could practically see and smell.
But this letter was different. In place of the usual jovial greeting was a more serious one. No notes from my uncle in the margins. No terribly drawn pictures of Mr. Bones. And instead of flowing thoughts and funny tidbits, there were halting and unsure sentences that made my blood run cold.
My Dearest Kate,
I am at a loss and unsure how to write this letter. The news I must convey is not happy, but there is some good to share as well. Please bear with me.
An old associate of your uncle’s, thought to be dead these past many years, resurfaced. Apparently his work made it impossible for him to come forward sooner. He made contact and passed on some news. I wish I were there to tell you myself. It seems cruel to put it all in a letter, but I can’t bear to keep you in the dark.
Your father has been killed. The circumstances at this time are unknown. Your mother is alive, but has apparently been ill for some time and the prognosis is not good. She is not expected to live another year. Possibly not even through the next six months.
