ask him for something; the times he had a wrench or a hammer in his hand; the times when he was just a boy with a fascination for all things mechanical, and a curiosity that could not be sated.
Should I reveal how utterly helpless I was on those nights when he turned to me first, or those rare days when he reached for me, just to hold my hand for no reason at all?
No, I did not have to tell him, I decided. Not yet. There would be time enough for the children to learn who he was, firsthand, after the war; there would be time enough for them to decide who their father was, or was not.
“No, Father didn’t cry,” I told Jon, even as I pulled him close to me in a hug. “But he was sad. Very sad. He loved the baby, just as he loves you.”
“Have you ever seen Father cry?”
“No, I haven’t, but I never saw my own father cry, either.” Which was the truth; the difference was I somehow always knew my father was capable of it.
“I haven’t, either. I just can’t imagine it, can you? Father, crying?” And Jon laughed, shaking his head, as if he’d just been told a whopper of a lie. “Father simply isn’t the type!”
“No, he isn’t,” I agreed, then let him go with a sloppy kiss.
Jon wiped it off, very manfully, but with a sympathetic smile for me. Then he trotted over to the bedroom door, ready to go do his homework. I never had to remind him.
“Make sure Land does his reading,” I called after him.
“I will. Moms, you know what?” Jon paused, his hand on the doorknob.
“What?”
“I can’t wait until Father comes home, so I can figure out exactly what type he is!”
I exhaled—as if I’d been holding my breath this entire time—and laughed.
“Good luck with that, dear.”
And then I waved him away, waiting until he had closed the door behind him to whisper, as I walked back to my desk to start another letter to my husband of fifteen years, “When you do find out what type he is, will you let me know? For I’m still not quite sure, myself.”
SIX MONTHS AFTER HE LEFT, in September 1944, Charles came home.
We had moved once more, back to the east coast, Connecticut. I had never felt as if we belonged in the Midwest; everything was on such an expansive scale there—the sky, the land, the lakes, the people—that it frightened me. I was glad to be closer to home, back in the world I had grown up in, even as I scolded myself for not being able to appreciate the experience we had been given in Detroit.
But we had hardly settled in our new home, a rental once more—in fact, the children were still staying at Next Day Hill while I dealt with furniture and utilities and the chaos of unpacking—when I got the telegram from Charles saying that he was back in the States, safe and sound. In a comical dance of anticipation and dread—I couldn’t wait to sleep next to him again; would he approve of the way I arranged the living room furniture; would he find me changed, older—I rushed to get the house in order.
Two days later I heard the taxi pull up outside; I was running through the dining room with a table lamp in my hand. I froze, and stared as a tall brown figure came up the sidewalk, sure and confident, as if he had walked those steps every day. And then he was inside—not even a tentative knock on the door, he just came inside, already king of the castle, calling, “Anne? Anne?”
And I was in his arms, he was picking me up and swinging me, burying his head in my hair. I thought I had never seen him before; I was knocked over, as I had been the very first day we met, by the startling clarity of his eyes, that suddenly bashful, boyish grin. But he was so tan! So handsome! Bronzed by the sun, lean, a few more crinkles edging his eyes, a few less sandy brown hairs on his head.
“Oh, I missed you,” he whispered, and my heart couldn’t contain my joy; it overflowed, and my eyes brimmed over with tears.
“I look a fright,” I sniffed, pushing myself away from him, suddenly shy; I cupped my hand over my nose, my horrid, horrid nose; I was sure it was red as a clown’s.
“You look beautiful.” And he wouldn’t let me go; he pulled me back, claiming me and even though there was no one else to see, I glowed with pride and belonging. And love.
We had one beautiful, sacred night together, before the children arrived.
At first they were shy around him, asking polite questions like: “Did you have a very long journey?” “Was the train crowded?”
But then Land asked, his eyes wide and hopeful, “Did you kill any Japs?” And the ice was broken; Charles laughed, a deep belly laugh, and ruffled Land’s hair, assuring him that he had. Then Charles picked up Scott and tossed him up to the ceiling—and my heart froze, overwhelmed with a memory. A memory of Charles doing the same thing to little Charlie, who had always called, “ ’Gen!”
“ ’Gen!” Scott shrieked the same thing, and if I shut my eyes, I wouldn’t have been able to tell their voices apart, the one a ghost, the other a squirming, crowing reality in his father’s arms.
“Now, Charles, be careful—”
“Women!” Charles rolled his eyes, and Jon and Land laughed delightedly. Ansy, still bashful, stuck her finger in her mouth and clung to my skirt. “Let’s say we take this outside, okay, fellows?” And Charles sat Scott carefully on the floor before grabbing Land and Jon, tucking each beneath his strong arms. He rushed outside, the boys screaming with joy, and he tumbled around on the ground with them, a pack of young wolves.
“He’s so
I laughed, and kissed the top of her head. “I suppose he is. It will take some getting used to, won’t it? For all of us?” I had never seen this Charles; this relaxed, embracing father, rough-housing with his boys. The war must have changed him.
With a contented smile, and slightly loose limbs after a satisfying night of reconciliation, I moved around the house, pausing now and then in my tidying up to look out the window at my husband and sons. Ansy played quietly in a corner of the living room with her dolls. Scott cooed happily in his playpen, piling up blocks and knocking them down.
And I thought,
Since our firstborn was taken.
Finally at rest, his part in the war over, with growing children to keep him moored, Charles would be home for dinner every night now. He would teach the children things only a father can teach—how to play catch, how to make a radio out of crystal and wire. At night, he and I would talk about our days, just like we used to when we were first married. And we would share our thoughts, equally—for the war had changed me as well, although Charles did not yet know it.
I had run the household. I had rotated the tires, kept the accounts, learned to make a meal out of a can of chipped beef, an egg, and stale bread. When there was a strange noise in the middle of the night,
I had accomplished this. All of it. I had steered my family through the war, and now it was over. It was all over—the kidnapping, the exile, the clumsy, stridently wrong years before the war, and then, the war itself—we were headed for better times. For the first time in years, I felt strong and confident, unafraid of the future. Charles’s equal, not his crew.
With a happy little sigh, I continued my work. His regulation duffel bag was still in the hallway where he had dumped it last night, so I lugged it downstairs to the washer and dryer. Pulling out his dirty socks, his ragged T- shirts—even his old travel bag, which he’d somehow wedged in next to a bedroll—I came across a heavy vest, like an umpire’s. A flak jacket.
“
“Of course,” Charles had answered. And it finally hit me. He had been in danger. I’d known it, of course, but somehow hadn’t been able to imagine it. The heavy, sweat-stained flak jacket made it real, and I began to shake. Then laugh. Because he had been returned to me. My husband, my Charles; the one loss I knew from which I could
