And then Mr. Sutcliff is bringing someone else Jamie’s way. We all step aside.
We eat a supper of fried chicken and succotash, beaten biscuits and coleslaw, and chocolate cake—all Jamie’s favorites. Charlie, who considers Papa and Uncle Fred his employers, sits with us. After the meal, everyone stands with a glass of punch to toast Jamie and we sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” The reverend from the Sutcliffs’ church prays a blessing over Jamie, asking God to protect him and bring him safely home when this time of conflict is over. Then Mrs. Sutcliff hands out little cards with the address of Jamie’s army unit so that we all might write him letters so he won’t feel so far away. She was going to give our family just one card, I think, but Maggie holds out her hand after Mama already has one. Dora Sutcliff smiles and gives her one.
When people start to put on their hats to go, Mrs. Sutcliff begins to cry and excuses herself to the kitchen. I understand why. Once everyone leaves, the party will be over. The next big thing the Sutcliffsmust do is take Jamie to the train station in the morning and say good-bye. Dora Sutcliff doesn’t want the party to end.
Once we’ve come home Willa wants to know where Jamie is going after training camp. I take her up to my room, get out the atlas, and show her where France is. Maggie lingers over the page, too, even though she knows the geography of Europe. Willa wrinkles her brow and says she hopes Jamie isn’t afraid to go so far away from home to fight in the war.
“It’s a stupid war,” Maggie mutters.
“Don’t let Uncle Fred hear you say that,” I tell her.
“I don’t care if he does hear me,” Maggie says. “All wars are stupid. They don’t fix anything.”
“What do the Germans want?” Willa’s forehead is puckered by curiosity.
“It’s not just the Germans, Willa. It’s... it’s complicated.” I close the atlas to end the conversation. I don’t want our voices to carry downstairs and perhaps provoke a lecture from Uncle Fred.
“But what do theywant?” Willa persists.
I have no answer other than they want to win. The assassination of some faraway heir to a foreign throne as the reason Jamie must leave his family seems impossible to explain to a seven-year-old. But Maggie seems to be waiting for my answer, too.
When I say nothing, Maggie walks to my bedroom door with Jamie’s address card still in her hand. Sleet begins to fall outside as she leaves the room and I slide the atlas back into its place.
“Show me my insides.” Willa points to Uncle Fred’s anatomy book on the shelf. I withdraw it and open the volume to a page that shows us what we’re all made of.
