Mama and Papa never open the envelope, although neither are able to throw it out. The next day, when I finally unseal it myself, I read the words We regret to inform you… and I stuff the telegram back in its sleeve. I feel empty.
Three days later, we have another visitor. It is two o-clock in the afternoon and I am in my bedroom re-reading the last several letters that Nicholas sent, looking for clues, when I hear my mother yelp. It is a weekday, and she and Papa would ordinarily be at the restaurant. But they have closed the Atheneum for the week, possibly longer, and we have not left the house since Sunday. I look out my bedroom window and see Sargeant Hawkins striding up the sidewalk. I run out to the kitchen, hoping to intercept Mama before she confronts Hawk. But she is already outside, and Papa is with her.
You can save your breath, Mama squeaks. We already received the telegram. We know what you people did to my son.
Hawk has not noticed me standing on the porch. Or if he has, perhaps he does not remember me. Mr. and Mrs. Pappas, I’m here to tell you that your son was a hero and that he died a hero’s death. And that I’m deeply sorry for your loss, but your son’s sacrifice was not in vain. It served the cause of freedom.
Mama takes a menacing step forward. Oh, please, she says. My son didn’t have to die at all. Is it supposed to make me feel better, knowing that his death was heroic?
Hawk is speechless for a moment. He finally notices me, nods and gives me one of those grim, determined looks I remember so well.
I knew your son from boot camp, says Hawk, his eyes returning to Mama. I don’t usually make personal visits to families. But Nicholas was a special young man. I wanted to tell you that, and I wanted to tell you about his service. If you want to hear that. If you would rather not, I will get back in my car and drive back to Fort McCoy.
I walk over to Mama. Papa and I are standing on either side of her, ready to support her if she should collapse – although in some ways, Mama seems stronger and more resolved than I have ever seen her.
I want to know, I say, without looking at my parents. I sense that Papa feels likewise. And as angry as Mama is, I think she would regret it if Hawk left without sharing the details of Nicholas’ final days.
After a brief standoff, Mama invites Hawk into the house. Papa brings him a glass of ice water, and we all sit and hear the story of how and where Nicholas served.
My brother was sent to Okinawa during the first week of May. Okinawa, Hawk explains, is the largest in a chain of islands off the southern coast of Japan. And although the island appears relatively remote and insignificant, as I had learned in studying the World Atlas, it has become vital to the Allies as a base and staging ground for attacks on the Japanese mainland. I suppose there is more about Okinawa that Hawk could be telling us, but he can see that Mama is becoming impatient.
The fighting on Okinawa, Hawk says, has been some of the heaviest of the war. And some of the most difficult, he adds. As it was described to me, the battlefields were like the battlefields in the Great War. When the monsoons hit Japan at the end of May, our men on Okinawa had to wade through muck and mud just to advance a few hundred yards. Your son. These are the finest men we have.
I am certain, when Hawk says this, that he is deliberately avoiding eye contact with me, although that could be my imagination, and my shame.
A few hundred yards, Mama repeats, shaking her head.
Hawk pauses for a moment before resuming his narrative. I can’t tell you exactly how and where your son died, but the momentum in the battle to control Okinawa, which we have been fighting for two months, has begun to turn in our favor and against the Japs. I can tell you that the Japs have been trying desperately to reposition and resupply their forces, and this was something we could not allow. If that happens, they regain the upper hand. When he died, Nicholas was part of a unit that was fighting to keep the enemy from gaining strategic position. With his brave sacrifice, we believe that we are achieving that objective. The battle for Okinawa will be over soon, and so will the war itself. I have every confidence that your son will be posthumously awarded one of the Army’s highest medals of distinction, and I hope that I have the honor of presenting it to you. It was a privilege to be part of his development as a soldier at Fort McCoy, and it was a privilege to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Pappas.
And now, finally, Hawk does look at me. His expression is inscrutable, as always.
Hawk stays for another fifteen or twenty minutes. He shares a letter he received from one of the officers who served with Nicholas in the Philippines, before he was repositioned to Okinawa, which talks about what a fine young man Nicholas was, and how America can be proud to have soldiers of such good character defending her. The officer writes about an early morning incident in which Nicholas ran across an open field to assist a comrade who had been wounded. Hawk pauses before offering the letter to Mama, who takes it, refolds it, and puts it in her apron pocket without saying anything. Papa offers Hawk a refill on his ice water, which he declines. I have never been more anxious for a visit to be over.
We make it through the week without leaving the house. We are spared from having to make trips to the market by neighbors and friends who come by with covered dishes – lasagna, beef casserole, baked beans, sausages and sauerkraut. It is more food than we can possibly eat, given our diminished appetites, and more than our refrigerator can accommodate, so we nibble and reheat and nibble again and throw the rest of the food in the garbage. The phone seems to ring all the time. Usually, we let it ring. Occasionally, Papa answers it, listens and nods and grunts and then hangs up. A full day passes without a call, and then I discover that the cord has been disconnected.
There are two callers that I am expecting, and I feel very different and conflicted about them. First, I am expecting a call or a visit from Lynette Markey. I wonder, in fact, if we should be calling her to ask how she is doing, rather than waiting for her to call. When Lynette came for dinner on Christmas Eve, she said nothing about her plans to marry Nicholas when he returned, and I have said nothing, so Mama and Papa may not know how far things had advanced. But they must certainly suspect that marriage was discussed. I am sure that the news about Nicholas devastated Lynette as much as it did Mama – although a confidential fiancé does not occupy the same social position as a mother, so her grief cannot be put on public display in the same way.
Second, I am expecting a visit from Father Gregory. I am fairly certain that his was one of the unanswered phone calls we received earlier in the week, but he will be anxious to plan a memorial service at the church for the heroic son of one of his flock. If he does not see us at St. Spyridon on Sunday morning, I would put money on seeing him at the house that afternoon.
Around noon on Saturday, there is a knock on the door. I look out the kitchen window and see that it is Lynette. She is holding a bouquet of yellow flowers in a vase. I wish we had something to give her in exchange.
Mama opens the door and gives Lynette a hug before she can step into the house. We should have called you, Mama says. I’m so glad to see you.
Lynette hands the flowers to Mama, who takes Lynette by the elbow and leads her into the living room. Lynette looks drawn and tired, as if she has not slept in days. My heart breaks, but then it occurs to me that Mama and Papa and I must look the same. One of the women who brought food to the house told Mama that her own son died last year in Europe, so that makes us members of an enduring society of grievers. Those were the words the woman used – an enduring society of grievers – as if it had scheduled meetings and bylaws and membership cards. And now Lynette has been inducted into this sad group, forever bound by lost love.
I meant to come by sooner, Lynette says. I’m sorry, but it took me a long time to even get out of bed.
Mama blinks and dabs at her eyes. You and Nicholas. You were going to be married when he returned. You were going to have children. All that…
I do not know if Nicholas said something to Mama before leaving home, or if Mama simply intuited his intentions, but I am relieved that this is a secret I no longer feel obliged to keep. Papa is sitting in his easy chair looking confused.
Lynette nods. We wanted to tell you together. She chokes out the words and then begins to cry. I have these dreams, she goes on. I dream about him being over there. What it was like. In my dream, I was there with him, at the end. I don’t think I want to know how it happened. I want to hold onto that dream of us being together at the end.
I know how much he loved you, says Papa, weakly.
Lynette shakes her head. We loved each other. The end for Nicholas was the end for me.
Mama grabs ahold of Lynette’s hand, squeezes it tightly. That’s not so, dear. You’re young. It feels now as if your life is over. But it’s not. You’ll have a long life. A good life. You won’t forget Nicholas but you’ll move on, as you should. As you must. He would want that for you. I know my Nicholas, and he would want that for you.
Again, Lynette shakes her head, as if she wants to believe Mama but cannot conceive of life without Nicholas, life beyond this moment.
I think about what Lynette said, that she does not want to know how Nicholas was killed so that she can hold onto whatever story her mind invents. Between the telegram that Mama and Papa never read, and the visit from Hawk, and yesterday’s special delivery letter of condolence that looked as if it were personally signed by President Truman but probably was not, we still know nothing really about how Nicholas died. We will eventually know the details, I suppose – or at least the version that the Army chooses to report. But I cannot blame Lynette for constructing her own reality, and wanting to protect it from whatever truths might try to erode it.
We have also not yet been notified about when Nicholas’ body will be returned. When it is, I expect there will be a military service with dignitaries and pomp, speeches, soldiers in dress blues firing their rifles in the air, American flags being folded and presented to my parents. And then Father Gregory will need to hold his own memorial at St. Spyridon, so he can quote his favorite scriptures and orate about the special connection he had with my brother. I can imagine Mama tolerating all this, with difficulty, and I know that things will not get much easier in the days ahead.
But the Pappas family endures. We have no other options.
Nicholas is finally returned. Mama and Papa and I sleepwalk through the funeral service, with all of its ceremony and farewells and ritualistic tributes. Mama cries openly, but she is through with the public recriminations. She and Papa were extended the offer of having Nicholas buried at Arlington National Cemetery, but Mama made clear that she will not have her son buried far away, where she cannot visit him when the spirit moves her. So Nicholas will rest forever in the ground at Calvary Cemetery, which is quite a peaceful and beautiful place. I am not sure that I can see myself strolling the grounds, standing over my brother’s grave and having a conversation with him. But if Mama and Papa want to visit him, at least they will not have to drive a thousand miles to do it.
And the Atheneum reopens. And life goes on.
In early August comes the news that the United States has dropped an atomic bomb on Japan, followed by a second atomic bomb a few days later. The destruction, when the images begin appearing in the newspapers and news magazines, is almost unimaginable. The thought that a single weapon could cause such total devastation and kill so many people defies logic. The weapons we were training with at Fort McCoy now seem like the toys that little boys play with. I want to pity the Japanese people for what they have experienced, but I cannot find pity in my heart. Not yet. When the war finally ends with Japan’s unconditional surrender, Mama launches off on one of her tantrums, demanding to know what it was all for. But I see her, when she is alone, looking at photographs of the bombed-out Japanese cities, and I can tell that she is scared. We all are.
At the house, Lynette takes Nicholas’ place at Sunday supper, and this continues through the summer. But at the beginning of September, she tells Mama that her parents would like her home on Sundays. So Lynette withdraws a little more from our lives, as I knew she had to, although she remains an honorary member of the Pappas family and of the larger enduring society of grievers. And the imbalance at our dinner table reverts.
I go back to work at the restaurant, working alongside Papa in the kitchen and taking over when he is not feeling well. Before, Papa rarely missed a day of work, but now he complains regularly of headaches and dizziness that are bad enough to send him home and to bed in the middle of the afternoon.
One day in early October, a plain white envelope addressed to the Pappas Family, bearing no return address, arrives in the mail. I am the first one home, so I open it and read the letter inside. It is short, and it is written in block letters, as if trying to disguise the author. It reads: Nicholas was not killed in battle and he was not killed by Japs. Thought you should know.
I have no idea what this means and what to do with the information, if it is true. It feels like a huge cruelty. If Mama and Papa had gotten home before me, they would have opened and read the letter. I cannot imagine how Mama especially would have felt. There is nothing about the letter itself to suggest who it was written by, so I take another look at the envelope. The postmark is St. Louis, Missouri. I am sure there are ways to figure out who from the St. Louis area served with Nicholas, and who was with him in Okinawa, but I am not sure how to go about it and what good it would do knowing. The letter feels like a taunt, ending as it did with the line Thought you should know. That leads me to wonder if more letters will follow, and this worries me. It is a seed planted in soil, and even if I refuse to water it, I know that it will take root.
The national mood, in the fall of 1945, is upbeat. The war is finally over. Most of the young men who fought have come home. Most of them are finding jobs. There are reunions, weddings, celebrations. Young women are getting pregnant. Mama and Papa and I seem to be living in our own disconnected world, ignored now by all of Sheboygan’s happy souls. But business at the Atheneum has never been better, so there is little time to wallow in dark thoughts. By the end of the year, Papa’s afflictions have mostly disappeared. We are working long hours together in the kitchen, working hard, working always in a silent cocoon. I have tried to put the letter from St. Louis out of my brain. But every day, and usually at moments when I am unprepared, it pushes its way in.
Lynette drops by the restaurant now and then to see Mama. If things are not busy, she comes back to the kitchen to see Papa and me. I am glad that she seems better. She is not yet a happy person, but she is better. She tells me that she has signed up for two classes at the Sheboygan campus of UW Green Bay, and she thinks that I might like college. I think of all the reasons why it would not work. I have not been in a classroom since Nicholas and I were high school seniors a year and a half ago – which seems like an eternity. Also, a college class would mean dropping some of the hours I am working at the Atheneum, which would put my parents in a predicament. But Papa is overhearing our conversation, and he tells me I should listen to Lynette, sign up for a class or two. We can manage, he says. You should see what’s out there.
I am pretty sure that I know what is out there but Lynette is persistent, and I agree to sign up for an evening economics class. I have no interest in economics, little understanding or aptitude for the subject, and no expectation that the course will put me on some new career path. I sign up for the class because Lynette is taking it, and if I am going to be a student again I want Lynette to be with me in the classroom. I realize how this sounds. It sounds as if I have some romantic interest in Lynette. And perhaps I do, subconsciously, but I know that the feeling will never be reciprocated, so any inclinations on my part will be deeply and completely suppressed as long as I have a beating heart. The simple truth is, I miss Lynette’s coming to Sunday supper at the house because I miss Nicholas, and being with Lynette brings Nicholas back, for a time.
But the folly of my being a college student becomes quickly apparent. The economics course material soars far over my head. Lynette attempts to tutor me, but she realizes soon enough the hopelessness of the task. I sit in the back of the room and daydream through the classes, I watch the clock, I have private conversations in my head with Nicholas, I hand in half-finished homework, I race through the exams expecting a failing grade. I fail.
By the first week in February, Lynette has given up on me, and I formally drop the class, although I do not immediately inform my parents about my academic status. Instead, when they believe I am diligently learning economics, I am back at the breakwater with Vic. Another winter drinking beer on the Sheboygan breakwater with Vic Yarborough. It is depressing to think about what has happened in the past twelve months, and how circular has been the path of my life. When I finally tell Mama and Papa that I am no longer a college student, I have prepared myself for their reaction.
So I suppose you’ve been out with your friend, Mama says, as if she is not surprised. I had not mentioned that I was with Vic, but Mama obviously knows me as well as I know myself.
Papa’s only comment is that, if I am not taking classes at the college, I will need to put in more hours at the restaurant. I tell myself that Papa and I need to have a conversation about my wages. I am being paid the same as the high school kid who buses and washes dishes. But I am living with my parents, and they are feeding me, so I realize how the conversation would end.
If you want to move out and be on your own…I can imagine Papa saying. So, for now, the Atheneum is my life. The kitchen of Atheneum for lunches and dinners, and the breakwater with Vic Yarborough two or three nights a week.
See? Vic says one night. It is snowing for the third consecutive night, and we are sitting on a tarp that Vic keeps in the trunk of his car. The lights of Sheboygan give the falling snow a ghostly, unearthly appearance. We are each drinking our third beer, and Vic has been talking about a girl he has started dating. See? Life isn’t so bad.
I finish my beer and look out onto the dark waters of Lake Michigan. I think that I will be at the Atheneum the rest of my life.