“Look in the very back of the closet, on the left. There’s a black-and-white pin-striped dress.”
She stepped into my closet and pulled it out. “This?”
“Yes.”
She brought it to me. It was rayon, had long sleeves, a patent belt, and a flared skirt, and it used to fit me within an inch of my life. I’d always felt so polished and professional when I wore it. I fingered the fabric. “Lay it on the bed, dear, and have a seat.”
She picked up her mug and settled on the bed beside the dress.
I leaned back in the rocker, closed my eyes, lapsed into storytelling mode. “Two days after I got back to New Orleans from my trip with Joe, I got a phone call from my mother. In those days, a long-distance phone call was a rare thing indeed.”
1943
I’d been in my room, composing a letter to Joe, when Lucille called me to the phone. I’d raced downstairs, hoping it was Joe, but that dream was squashed as soon as I dashed into the living room and saw Lucille’s cloth-curlered head pressed against the receiver, her forehead creased. “But I’m sure she said it was an uncle who died,” she was saying.
Oh, dear Lord. As the kids say today, I was busted. I’d told Marge all about the trip and Joe’s proposal, of course, but not Lucille. She’d no doubt offered my mother condolences on Uncle Leo’s passing. My chest felt like a truck was parked on it as she extended the phone to me, her gaze reproachful. “It’s your mother.”
I hesitantly took the receiver. “Hello, Mother. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes. But what was Lucille saying about you going to an uncle’s funeral last week?”
“Uncle Leo? He’s a, uh, jazz musician. Everyone calls him that. He’s the uncle of a, uh, close friend.” For a person who never lied, I was spinning quite a spiel. I turned my back to Lucille, who was hovering nearby, obviously listening. I needed to change the topic, and fast. “I’ll tell you all about it in a letter—I don’t want you buying out the phone company. What are you calling about? Is everyone okay?”
Fortunately, the news that had spurred the call was more urgent than Mother’s curiosity about my weekend. “We’re great. Charlie’s coming home on Friday!”
My heart rolled in my chest like a ship in high waves.
“You have to be here,” Mother said. “He specifically asked.”
My heart lurched again. “But, Mother, I have to work.”
“You can come afterward.”
“But...”
“No buts, Adelaide. He specifically asked for you, and I’m not telling Virginia that you can’t make it.”
“But, Mother—I—I’ve met someone else. In fact, I’m writing you a letter telling you about him, and...”
“Stop right there, young lady. This isn’t the time for that kind of thing. You put that aside for now, you hear me?” Mother’s voice was as commanding as General Patton’s. “Put that aside, and come home Friday. And I expect you to be the girl you’ve always been with Charlie. He’s lost enough already.”
My throat tightened. “What do you mean? Did he... did he lose his leg?”
“No, but they had to amputate some of his toes.”
Relief poured through me. Toes were so much better than an entire leg! And yet, it was still a loss. “Poor Charlie.”
“Yes. His leg is very weak, but he still has it. He’s on crutches, but they expect him to be able to walk on his own eventually. Now I expect to see you Friday night. There’s a bus that leaves New Orleans at six thirty in the evening and gets here at nine thirty. See that you’re on it. The town is doing a big party in his honor Saturday, and you have to be here.”
There was really no help for it. How could I not go to Charlie’s welcome home celebration? He was my childhood friend, my high school sweetheart, the only child of my mother’s dearest friend.
I hung up the phone, despondent. I had no choice.
Was life always going to be like this... a good thing happens, and then a bad one? At what point did everything start to be okay?
Back then, I thought there was some golden moment I would arrive at, a turning point after which everything would be fine and dandy. During most of my youth, “after the war” had looked like that moment.
It was naive and juvenile, I know now. It probably came from reading too many books and watching too many movies with happy endings. But when Joe left and Charlie came home, that was the first time I began to realize that maybe there was no such thing as a trouble-free ever after. Maybe life would always be a constant mingle of good and bad. Maybe no matter how perfectly I dreamedand planned, something would always be undone, missing, lacking, or askew. Maybe I would always think, “I’d be perfectly happy, if only...”
