Dwarf: A Memoir (29 page)

When I finished the most recent letter one frigid afternoon, Papa pulled out a piece
of paper from his pocket. It was a picture of a dog making snow angels. Beside it,
he had written:
An officer on duty,
a good-natured dig at the men in charge of my enlisted boyfriend.

“Give this to him in your next letter. It’ll make him laugh.”

I showed my audience, who’d gathered, as always, in the pastel chairs. They laughed,
and then Papa and Mr. Rochette began playfully chiding one another about their respective
military ranks.

Soon, it wasn’t just Papa asking how Eric was doing, but also Mr. Rochette, Marion,
and Connie, too.

“I got one!” I’d tell Mr. Rochette as he passed by the desk on his way to dinner,
showing off my latest letter.

“You did? I’ll let everyone know.”

At six p.m., I’d leave the phones again and join the group in the living room to read.
We’d all help ourselves to a cup of coffee first, and then meet by the piano. One
night, Trudy took the longest to join us, so I waited for her to begin. When she finally
came around the corner, urging me to begin in her usual peppy tone, I noticed she
was carrying a framed photo with her.

“Go ahead, Tiffie,” she urged again, settling into her spot by the fireplace. “Go
ahead.”

I got a phone account, baby
, I began, stealing a glance at Trudy, who had propped up the photo next to her.
I’ll finally be able to call you over here.

The group murmured with happiness at the news.

I told my buddy about all the letters you write me. He said, “Wow, she must really
love you.” And I replied, “Yes. She really does.”

When I finished the letter Trudy was the last to return to her room. She slowly followed
me to the reception desk and revealed what was in the frame: her wedding photo.

With tears in her eyes and her hands shaking slightly she said, “He was an airman.”
She touched the glass softly. “He would have loved to hear your letters.”

I stared at his pale face and wavy blond hair, thinking how alike he and Eric might
have been. Despite the generations between us, the residents and I bonded each night
in the living room, supporting one another and listening to one another’s stories
about loved ones either overseas or long gone. They became my closest friends.

After I read Eric’s letters, our conversations often turned to the war going on in
the Middle East and how much we’d all like to help. That Christmas, we figured out
a way to do just that. Since the troops couldn’t be home for the holidays, we would
ship the holidays to them, in individual stockings stuffed with goodies. We called
it Operation Stocking Stuffer.

We set a date that winter to have an event at Whitney Place to stuff the stockings
and ship them to Iraq. I reached out to local schools and asked if teachers would
help their students to make holiday cards for the men and women in Eric’s unit. I
called popular rock radio stations and asked if they’d mention the event to help bring
in donations. The response was overwhelming. Teachers jumped at the chance to help,
and not only were the radio stations helpful, but they also sent us supplies of their
own: CDs, band merchandise, gift certificates, DVDs, and books. Soon our little idea
had grown so big that the closet that Whitney Place had lent me to store our supplies
was overflowing and I had to take on a second, then a third, then an entire room to
store supplies. People from around town came to Whitney Place with beef jerky, crackers,
and cookies to send. Local coffee shops and even the big chains delivered coffee by
the pound. The love and support was monumental.

So was the cost to ship all this stuff to Iraq. I needed help. Luckily, all it took
was one phone call to the Marine Corps League in Worcester— the people there promised
to ensure every package was sent by setting up fund-raisers of their own.

Finally, on a cold, blustery afternoon, the main event for Operation Stocking Stuffer
had arrived. The crowd came in droves. The Junior Marines attended, and community
members funneled through the Whitney Place doors. There were teachers, students, family
members of residents— everyone came and they brought piles of stockings and supplies
with them. In the bustling sea of people, I made out a woman with long blond hair
tied in pigtails underneath her baseball cap. My mouth dropped open and I felt my
eyes water when I finally placed her. It was Mike’s sister, Maureen.

“I heard about the event on the radio,” she said with a smile when she saw me.

I hugged her tightly, sobs escaping me.

“Don’t cry,” she said. “He would be so proud of you and he’d want to be here. I’m
proud of you, too. And I brought friends,” she added with a wink.

A group of people next to her grinned broadly, each one holding stockings, snacks,
and handwritten notes.

“Where do you want us?” Maureen asked.

I led her and the rest of the team past a reporter and cameraman from the local news
station, a line of people picking through items for their stockings, and Edna Sinclair,
a resident who was sneaking a pack of cigarettes and a five-dollar bill into her stocking.
Another resident, a man named Ed, had squeezed into his half-century-old sailor uniform
just for the occasion. Papa was there, too, standing with my mom and smiling, observing
everything and everyone as he always loved to do. That Christmas would be the last
time I saw him that way.

On February 6, 2007, on Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville, North Carolina, Eric and the
rest of 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marine Division, Lima Company were scheduled to arrive
at seven p.m.
The clock on my mom’s dashboard read 6:40 and we were still trying to find a parking
spot in the massive lot on Camp Lejeune. The scene looked nothing like I had pictured.

It was a million times better.

There were big white tents with tables full of food and drinks underneath them. A
DJ got the already excited crowd even more pumped with patriotism. Moms, dads, wives,
girlfriends, and children all danced and jumped up and down, anxiously awaiting the
big arrival. I was trying to find a spot among them all. Then the DJ interrupted the
music.

“Everyone! I just received word that the buses have pulled through the gates of Camp
Lejeune!” she shouted into the microphone. The crowd roared. Mom looked panicked.

“The camera!” she shouted. “I can’t find the camera! I think I left it in the car!”
She bolted back to grab it.

I stood by myself— in my perfect outfit and without crutches or a cane, just as I’d
pictured— in the middle of the huge, happy surge of people. The white, unmarked buses
with black-tinted windows rolled through the gates and into the parking lot. I had
no way of knowing which bus was Eric’s. The crowd erupted in cheers. I craned my neck
and tried to see through the masses, asking Mom, “Do you see him?” over and over again.
Everyone was either crying as they found their loved ones or still holding handmade
signs high in the air so their marine could spot them. I walked through the throngs,
unsure of which direction to go. Maybe I should just stand still and let Eric find
me, I thought to myself, when his friend Martin spotted me first.

“Hey!” Martin shouted. “Tiffanie!” He hugged me and thanked me for the Christmas stocking.
“Turn around,” he said. “Turn around real quick.”

And there he was. Before I could say a word, Eric hoisted me
high in the air and then lowered me down to his chest. My tears soaked his camouflage
shoulders as I kissed him. Several minutes later, he gently placed me back on the
ground and my mom called to us.

“I got it!” she shouted, waving the camera triumphantly. “I got the picture!”

That night, we settled into the rental beach house that Mom and I had found for Eric’s
homecoming. It was nothing fancy, but it had a big deck overlooking the ocean. The
three of us ate dinner and Eric filled in my mom about all he’d done overseas. Then
he and I sat on the deck and listened to the waves crash, marveling at being back
together again. As I held Eric’s hand and breathed in the salty air, I felt as content
as I’d ever been. We’d planned to rent an apartment together in North Carolina just
outside of base when he returned. Eric was contemplating reenlisting into the Marine
Corps and that meant I would need to find a new job away from Whitney Place— away
from the residents I had bonded with over the past seven months.

“Marry me,” Eric said out of nowhere. “Marry me tomorrow.”

I sat up to face him. Marriage seemed a little ways off yet. There was so much we
still had to figure out.

“What?”

“I want you to marry me tomorrow. After we sign the papers for our apartment, I want
to marry you.”

“But what about the whole tradition thing?” I asked. “What about asking Dad for permission
and all that? What about a ring?”

“I’ll do all that, too. Just marry me.”

“I can’t,” I told him. “It doesn’t feel right.” It’s not that I didn’t want to spend
my life with him, though. I felt safe with Eric and, more important, I felt I could
be myself with him. I could expose my scars, both internal and external, and he appreciated
each
one of them. I could feel that love every time he looked at me. I didn’t have a single
question about him or about us. He was undoubtedly the one for me, but I couldn’t
see myself saying “I do” without the presence of the one man who believed in me from
the day I was born— Papa.

After Eric’s homecoming in North Carolina, I went back to Massachusetts to spend time
with my family for a few days before moving in with Eric down south. One night back
at my parents’ house, Mom tiptoed into my bedroom around four a.m. She squeezed through
the boxes I’d packed and sat on my bed and put a hand on my shoulder, waking me. Sleepily,
I inched upright to face her. Her cheeks were stained with tears.

“Papa’s gone.”

My uncles joked that it was just like Papa to see that a blizzard hit just in time
for his funeral. It made us feel better to think that he was there and making things
difficult, creating a huge winter storm so everyone wouldn’t feel so sad.

Of course, we cried anyway. Eric and I made our way into the cemetery in my uncle
Joe’s Lincoln Town Car. Eric was decked out in his dress blues, his white-gloved hand
resting on my thigh as we drove. I slipped my hand in his and squeezed as we pulled
into the cemetery. Everything was white, and in the distance a half dozen sailors
stood around an open plot with their rifles pointed upward. Eric helped me out of
the car, asked if I was okay to walk through the snow on my own, and excused himself
to speak to one of the sailors standing by Papa’s coffin.

I shuffled through the snow, shielding my eyes from the elements, and caught up with
my mom and Aunt Jean. Everyone huddled close together and I watched as Eric stood
at attention
next to the brass handles of the casket. People were sobbing all around me. My uncles
wrapped their arms around my mom as the pastor read aloud.

Soon, it was time to fold the flag that was draped over Papa’s casket. I watched as
the sailors worked in unison, hand over hand, to fold the flag into a crisp, perfect
rectangle. Then one sailor turned and presented the flag to Eric, who, stiffly at
attention, presented the flag to my mom, raising his arm to salute her. Through tears,
she smiled at Eric and thanked him. Mom would later tell us that she had to fight
the urge to leap forward and hug him.

I stood in front of Papa’s grave silently when it was all over, once everyone had
gone back to their cars. I wanted to tell him I’d never forget the movies we watched
and the lessons he taught me. And I wanted to assure him that I’d always keep fighting.
But no words came out. Eric stood at my side and rubbed my shoulders. Then he put
a hand on the casket.

“I’ll take care of her now. I promise.”

In the car on the way home, I wondered about my grandfather on my dad’s side. Pauline
had died from cancer years earlier. He was the only grandparent I had left.

After Papa died, I quit my job at Whitney Place. I couldn’t bring myself to return.
I knew I would struggle too much with the memory of him in the living room where we’d
gathered to read my letters. I was ready to leave, start anew, and begin my life with
Eric in our tiny apartment in Hubert, North Carolina. I had come a long way. It seemed
like centuries ago that I couldn’t reach light switches, faucets, or even my own ears.

Life was waiting for me.

One week after Papa died, Eric and I were preparing to head from Marlborough to North
Carolina in our rented U-Haul. While I got ready at my parents’ house for a dinner
date with Eric,
he was secretly looking for my dad. Dad, however, was doing his best to outrun him
in a fruitless effort to stall me from growing up. I think my father knew Eric’s intentions,
but he wasn’t ready to face them. So he kept moving in the hope that Eric would give
up and that I would stay a little girl for a little while longer.