Silent Star (7 page)

Estella led the way. Knocking on his bedroom door, she called out, “Are you ready for a visitor?” She knew he’d be stunned to hear who the visitor was, so she quickly added, “Mary Beth Iseman has come to see you.”

At first Andy said nothing, so Estella pushed open the door a tiny bit. “Andy?”

“Mary Beth is here?” he asked, the color once again drained from his face.

“She sure is. Do you want to see her?”

Andy looked down at the tray and then back to Estella. “I . . . uh . . . sure.”

Estella beamed him a smile, then turned to Mary Beth. “He’s just finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Estella watched Andy as Mary Beth went to his bedside. “I’m so sorry you were sick. Mrs. Nelson said you’re feeling better now.”

Andy nodded and looked away. His voice cracked a bit as he answered, “Y-yes. I’m better.”

Estella thought the young woman was remarkably pretty in her blue print dress. A black belt cinched her waist, accenting her petite figure. “Andy should be up and around in another couple of days.”

“I need to be back to work tomorrow,” he said softly. There was no enthusiasm in his voice, however.

“Nonsense. You aren’t recovered enough to go back to walking in this cold. They can spare you another day or two. I told your boss you’d be back when I decided you were well enough and not a moment sooner.”

Mary Beth pulled up the bedside chair and sat down. “I think Mrs. Nelson is right, Andy. You need to get your strength back. I didn’t even know you were sick, but now that I do, I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

Andy blushed. “Thanks.”

They were silent for several seconds, and then Mary Beth
launched into her speech. “Andy, I came here because I wanted to apologize for the way my mother acted the other day. I didn’t realize until later that people were being so mean to you. My friend Anne told me that most folks avoid you because they’re afraid you might have a telegram for them. They treat all the delivery boys that way. Mama explained on the way home that with Sammy at war, we were just asking for trouble to have you over. I told her I thought it was superstitious nonsense.” She paused and grinned. “Well, I didn’t exactly say it that way, but that’s what I meant.”

“It is nonsense,” Estella encouraged. “God doesn’t work that way.”

“Exactly. That’s what I said. I told Mama that God knew exactly which person would live and which would die and that it wasn’t Andy’s job to determine that. She agreed but said being near Andy only served to remind her that Sammy could be next.”

“What complete hogwash,” Estella said. She saw the surprised expressions on the two young kids but stood her ground. “Well, it is. For people to alienate Andy solely because of fear or reminders of the war . . . well, they might as well get rid of their radios and stop eating. After all, ration coupons will remind them of the war as well.”

Mary Beth giggled. “They’d have to tear down their black-out curtains too.”

Estella nodded. “And sew cuffs back on their sleeves and pants. Oh, and we could stop saving fat and keep all our pots and pans to ourselves.”

“Exactly!”

The two women burst into a fit of laughter. Only Andy remained sober. Estella came around his bed and gently patted his head as she would a small child. “I find Andy a pleasant companion—not at all a reminder of the war.”

It was Mary Beth’s turn to blush. “I do too.”

Andy finally spoke. “Well, the entire town would call you
crazy. I don’t blame them for feeling the way they do—I blame them for the way they handle themselves, the way they act.”

Estella nodded. “It isn’t right. They are blinded by the problems and trials of their own lives. They cannot see or feel anything else. It isn’t at all how God would have it be. God calls us to bear one another’s burdens, to help those in need, minister to those who are suffering. People seem to have forgotten all about that.”

“Well, maybe we need to remind them,” Mary Beth said sternly.

Estella met the young woman’s eyes. “Yes. Maybe we do.”

FIVE

“Baking with you is so much fun, Mrs. Nelson,” Mary Beth told the older woman as they worked to make some Christmas treats. “My mother isn’t interested in even putting up a tree this year. She’s so worried about Sammy.”

Estella pulled a pan of simmering raisins and dates from the stove and poured them into a bowl. “I’m sure she is worried. It can’t be easy to have him so far away, especially at Christmas.”

“Bing Crosby was singing ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ on the radio, and I thought Mama was going to cry her eyes out. She finally stopped just before Poppy got home, but he knew just the same.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It can’t be easy on you either. Sammy’s your only brother, right?”

Mary Beth continued kneading her dough. “Yup, he’s the only boy. He used to say having three sisters was a real pain in the neck.” She sobered and met Estella’s gaze. “But he didn’t really mean it.”

“Of course not.”

Mary Beth’s expression grew distant. “I’m scared something will happen to him. I’m afraid he’ll get hurt . . . even die. I can’t talk to Mama about it because she’s just as scared.”

“Something very well could happen, Mary Beth. It’s the way things go with war. You have to accept the fact that Sammy is in a very dangerous place and he might get hurt—might not come back.”

“I was hoping the war would be over by Christmas, like they talked about on the radio.”

“Wishful thinking,” Estella murmured. “I think that’s everyone’s favorite thing to say. Why, they were saying it after Pearl Harbor was bombed. With great patriotic indignation the boys marched off to war shouting, ‘Remember Pearl
Harbor!’ while their folks sat at home and said, ‘Surely it will be over by Christmas.’ Everyone needs to have hope, Mary Beth. You too. It might not be over by Christmas, but it
will
eventually be over and done with, and we’ll have our boys back home.”

“Some of them won’t be back.”

Estella put her arm around Mary Beth. “No. Some of them won’t be back.”

“So many of the boys from Haven and the surrounding area are dead. It won’t ever be the same, will it?”

“I suppose it won’t,” Estella replied. “But we must trust God. Even in this, He has a plan. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that. Sometimes it’s hard to have hope. But, Mary Beth, we have to have hope—hope keeps us going.”

The young woman looked to Estella. “I’ll keep having hope—if you will.”

Estella smiled. “It’s a deal.” She looked at the table and gave Mary Beth one final squeeze. “We’d better get to work or all of this will go to waste. Then we’ll have the government at our doors.”

“That’s right.” Mary Beth giggled and crossed her arms against her chest in a purposeful manner. “Waste is out! We’re at war!”

****

Andy went back to work the week before Christmas. There weren’t as many telegrams now, but they came steadily nevertheless. As the week progressed, news came of a major German offensive in the Ardennes.

“What’s that mean?” Bob Davis asked as he gave Mr. Harrison his trim. “What’s an Ardennes?”

“It’s a place, Bob,” Ralph Moore threw out, getting up to go to the wall map.

Andy sat quietly waiting his turn in the barber chair. He didn’t want to hear about another battle or another place where soldiers from the 28th might be fighting and dying.

“I don’t see Ardennes on the map,” Ralph announced, obviously feeling somewhat important, “but from what I’ve heard it’s in Belgium.”

“Reconnaissance in force,” said Grandpa Hurley suddenly. The man was of few words, but when he spoke, people listened.

“What’s that, Gramps?” Bob asked.

“The Germans.” He paused and looked at them as if those two words said it all. “Like old J. E. B. Stuart did at Gettysburg. It’s a ruse to throw us off and test our lines.”

They all nodded knowingly.

Andy looked up at the wall map. Bob Davis had put it up in January of ’42, and it had proved to be a point of interest for anyone who wanted to know where the battles were taking place. They even used pins to mark where battles were or where their boys were stationed. Names like Corregidor, Midway, Guadalcanal, and Normandy were places now known in every household. Bob had always said it was a terrible way to learn geography. Andy agreed.

“Say, Andy, maybe you know where it’s at,” Bob suggested.

All gazes turned to Andy and the room went silent. Only the steady
tick-tock
of the clock could be heard. Andy didn’t know what to do or say.

“I . . . umm . . .”

“Well, do you know where it’s at or not? Don’t they tell you nothin’ over at the telegraph office?” Ralph questioned.

“Simmer down, Ralph,” Bob said as he turned his attention back to Mr. Harrison. “I’m sure they don’t just hand out that kind of information. You have to worry about spies and such. No sir, you can’t just be telling everybody that kind of thing.”

“Say, isn’t it that place where the Nazis went through when they invaded France in 1940?” Mr. Harrison finally piped up.

“It’s not an invasion,” Grandpa Hurley threw out, stomping his cane emphatically. “Reconnaissance in force.”

Bob completely ignored the old man. “So is that where it’s at, Andy?”

Andy felt his face grow hot as they all looked again to him for answers.

Ralph shook his head. “Seems like he oughta know since he’s delivering telegrams.”

Andy couldn’t take any more. He got up and left the shop, barely remembering to grab his coat and hat. His haircut could wait for another day.

But the war wouldn’t wait for anyone. The next day Andy found himself at work once again, trudging through new snow, taking the word to the townspeople. He dreaded his next delivery. Looking down at the letter in his hand, he grimaced.

Mr. William McGovern

This was the second telegram, and Andy had forgotten to ask if anyone remembered whether it was good news or bad. Dread settled over Andy. He climbed the steps to the McGoverns’ and stopped in front of the wreath-decorated door. He took a deep breath and thought of Mrs. Nelson’s words of encouragement.

“Your job is very important,”
she’d said.
“Whether the news is good or bad, not knowing is far worse. In the long run, folks will be glad to know.”

Andy knocked three times and stepped back. It was nearly five o’clock and he knew Mr. McGovern would be home. Seconds ticked by and still Andy waited. He looked at the missive in his hand and then to the banner that hung in the front window. The blue star seemed dull, almost washed out.

The door opened and Mr. McGovern met Andy’s gaze through the screen. “Evening, Andrew.” He pushed open the screen and reached out for the letter.

Andy handed it over, unable to move. “Evening.”

The older man looked at the envelope. He slowly tore it open and pulled out the telegram. Andy waited, watching and hoping. He didn’t really understand why it was so important to know.

Mr. McGovern’s eyes filled with tears. Andy’s hopes faded and he turned to go.

“Wait, Andrew. It’s good news. They’ve found Kyle and although wounded, he’s alive.”

Andy turned back. The star would remain blue—faded and washed out, but wonderfully blue. “I’m glad, Mr. McGovern. I’m so glad.”

“Martha!” Mr. McGovern called out. “Martha, come quick!”

His wife, a short, stocky woman, appeared at his side. She bit her lip and turned her gaze to her husband.

“He’s all right. He’s in the hospital.”

She broke into a sob, but these were tears of joy, and Andy felt almost blessed to have witnessed this tiny miracle. So often the doors were closed to him; he never saw the good along with the bad. How precious it was to be a part of the good. It bolstered him for what he knew was left to do that night.

“Andrew, come in and have some coffee with us. You must be freezing.”

Andy stood momentarily stunned. No one had ever extended such an invitation. “Ah, no thank you, Mr. McGovern. I’ve got another telegram to deliver.”

His former principal nodded. “I hope the news will be just as good as ours.”

Andy knew it wouldn’t be, but he said nothing. Nodding, he turned and walked down the steps. Twilight had settled on the town and soon it would be dark. There was only one telegram left. It was the one he’d been putting off.

Pulling it from his satchel, he looked down at the name.

Mrs. Kay Iseman

Word had come regarding Sammy. It was a first telegram, so it would only announce that he was missing in action. It seemed a sick, demented game that the government played with people. Folks would wait in agony for that second telegram—the final word. Andy figured the military folk already knew who was dead and who wasn’t, but by sending the
first telegram they got folks ready for what was coming. The government might have thought it a rather merciful thing to do, but Andy just couldn’t reconcile it as such. He’d seen the anxious faces, known that people were watching and waiting. During the time between telegrams, their entire world stopped. How was that more merciful?

Andy walked with deliberate slowness to Mary Beth’s house. He could hardly stand to face her. She’d been so kind to him in the past, but now she’d no doubt feel the same as everyone else. She’d blame him for the bad news—maybe even believe her mother’s superstitious ideas. Maybe he believed them himself.

He made his way up to the large two-story house. Snow had been shoveled to the side, making deep drifts along the sidewalk. The lights shone from the front room window and reflected on the service banner in the window. Andy’s stomach tightened.

He knocked on the door, wishing he could have been anywhere else in the world but there.
I’d rather be on the field of battle than here telling these good folks bad news. What will she think of me after this? How can she help but hate me like the others?
Andy felt a deep regret for something that might have been . . . but now would surely be put to death.

Mary Beth opened the door. Her face lit up with a smile. “Andy!” Then she looked down and saw the envelope in his hand. “Oh no.” He saw the expression—the same one as all of the others. It was a mixture of fear, anxiety, and dread.