Love is a Wounded Soldier (43 page)

“Lizzie, why don’t you take Joshua and show
him some of your toys?” Maggie suggested. “If that’s alright with you,” she
added, looking at me.

“By all means,” I agreed.

Lizzie dutifully took him by the hand and
led him into the next room. I watched them leave the room, and when I turned
back to speak to Maggie, I saw we both had the same little smile on our faces.

“So, what brings you to visit me today?”
Maggie asked me.

“Well, this morning during breakfast, God
came to me . . .” I teased, and we both laughed. I quickly grew sober as I
began to speak of why I had come.

“No, the reason I’m here is that I made a
promise to your husband before he died,” I told her. I could tell what I’d said
touched a tender spot, but she nodded for me to continue. I pulled out the
brass casing from my pocket and set it upright on the table.

“This is a casing from a bullet for an M1
Garand rifle,” I told her. She looked at it interestedly as I continued. “But
this isn’t just any bullet shell, this is the casing from the bullet that
Johnny killed his first German with.” She reached for it slowly and picked it
off the table, holding it this way and that in her hand. She looked back up at
me, and I saw her eyes were cloudy.

“Many of us were a little superstitious.
Well, some of us were more than a little superstitious,” I corrected with a
little laugh. “Most of us had some sort of good luck charm we carried around.
Well, for Johnny, that shell was it. It was his lucky shell. That casing never
left his person for the better part of a year.” Maggie looked at the shell as
though she was holding a precious, holy artifact.

“He made me promise that when he—
if
he died,” I corrected hastily, “I would give it to you.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the piece of
brass in her hand. A tear rolled haltingly down her cheek.

“And so . . . there it is,” I ended
quietly. There was nothing more to say. I had delivered on my promise.

“Thank you,” she whispered through her
tears. She cried, not with girlish sobs, but rather with a certain dignity and
composure that spoke of a character acquainted with enduring hardship. I found
her pluckiness endearing, and had to blink back tears of my own when I thought
about how bravely she comported herself. She wiped her eyes with a hanky and
gently blew her nose.

“Thank you,” she said again. I nodded, and
was wondering when it would be appropriate for me to exit when she spoke up.

“Were you with him when he . . .” her voice
trailed off as I acknowledged she needn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes. Yes, I was there,” I said softly. I
hoped she wouldn’t inquire any further.

“How did it happen?” she asked, and
immediately looked like she was frightened to know the answer to her question.

I remembered what Preacher Moore had once
told me: “There are times when an answer is worse for the mind than a continual
question,” and I knew this was precisely one of those occasions.

I hesitated a moment, as the memory of
Johnny’s death rushed through my mind. I knew there would be no solace for her
in the truth, and so I comforted her with lies.

“It was a cold March afternoon,” I began.
Her eyes were fixated on me. “Well, it wasn’t that cold, but there was a wind
that was slicing us to ribbons. We were approaching a farmhouse that we wanted
to dry off in and take shelter in. I forget which town it was near, but it was
somewhere on the Cologne Plain.” My mouth was dry from being nervous, so I
stopped to take a drink of coffee.

“As we got close to the farmhouse, we
started taking on enemy fire. The yard was surrounded by a thick, stone wall,
so we rushed to get back to it. Well, everyone got back except for me. I got
hit.” I pointed to the scars on my face.

“So I was lying in the mud and the slush,
with bullets smacking the ground all around me. I thought I was going to die.”
Maggie stared at me raptly, her hand over her mouth. The story was obviously
very vivid to her.

“And then I heard someone splash his way
toward me. Someone picked me up and started hauling me back toward the wall.” I
paused. “It was Johnny.”

“Well, Jerry hadn’t stopped shooting at us,
and so just as we were almost back behind the wall, Johnny got hit.” I could
see the pain in her eyes, as though she was suffering vicariously.

“But he managed to drag me behind the wall,
where I could receive medical attention, but him—his wounds were just too bad,”
I said. Her emotion was contagious.

“I remember both of us lying there on the
ground, looking at each other, eye to eye. He was like a brother to me. He
wouldn’t last long, and I suppose he knew it, but before he passed away, he
looked over at me and said, ‘Robert?’ And I said, ‘Yes, Johnny?’ He said, ‘Tell
Maggie I’ll meet her under the maple tree.’” I stopped and wiped my eyes. “And
then he was gone,” I finished.

Maggie cried quietly, but then she smiled
through her tears as she wiped her face again.

“Under the maple tree,” she murmured
softly, and she fell silent for a moment, her face telling me she was pondering
something dear to her.

“You know,” she said softly, when her tears
had been dried, “I never wanted to think about Johnny getting killed . . . but
I always knew that if he did, he would die just like he did—a hero.” I felt my
throat begin to tighten again. I smiled gently at her and said, “I guess you
knew him well.”

She smiled back at me with trembling lips.
“Yes,” she said wistfully, “he was so noble. Such—such a
good
man.”

“No,” I replied, my voice quivering with
feeling. “He was
great
!”

We both sat quietly, as if observing a
mutual moment of silence. She smiled faintly, as though thinking back fondly on
Johnny. I was happy that in her eyes, he had died with dignity, an honorable
man.

“Mr. Mattox, Joshua stinks,” Lizzie
announced as she entered the room with Joshua in tow.

Maggie and I both laughed. I picked up
Joshua and confirmed Lizzie had a case.

“I suppose I should change him before we
leave,” I said. “I have diapers in the car.”

After I had Joshua cleaned up, we went back
into the kitchen and were prepared to leave. For some reason, I felt reluctant
to leave. It had been so long since I’d had good, adult conversation, and I
felt a connectedness to Maggie.

“He’s such a sweetheart!” Maggie exclaimed,
looking at Joshua. I couldn’t help agree that he looked like a handsome little
man. Maggie picked him up and gave him a motherly squeeze.

“If it’s none of my business, tell me,
but—” she halted, as though already regretting she’d opened her mouth, but felt
compelled to finish, “—does he have a mother in his life? I mean . . . it’s
just . . .” she trailed off, as though she felt she’d already said more than
she should have. Had anyone else asked such a question, I would have thought
they were prying, but I didn’t take it that way coming from Maggie.

“No,” I answered carefully. “His mother
passed away this past summer.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she replied in a
horrified whisper. She looked at Joshua with a maternal pathos and squeezed him
tightly.

“He’s not actually my real son,” I blurted
out, stunned that I had just volunteered such sensitive information. She looked
at me, wide-eyed.

“It’s—it’s a long story. We really should
be on our way,” I said, but made no move to act on my own recommendation.

“I have all day, and lots of coffee,”
Maggie assured me kindly. “Why don’t you at least stay until supper?” she
coaxed. It wasn’t hard to convince me. I simply wasn’t looking forward to going
home.

“Alright, until supper then,” I agreed.

I sat back down, and we chitchatted as
Maggie prepared supper. Conversation with her flowed easily.

After we had finished supper and done the
dishes, we retired to the sitting room. I sat down on an ancient sofa, and she
curled up on a faded old easy chair.

“So, tell me a story,” she said to me, and
waited expectantly for me to begin speaking. I suppose she could sense that I
wanted to tell her it, because she didn’t seem like the type to ask for a story
for the sake of gossip.

So, I slowly began to tell her how the last
few years of my life had unfolded. She listened, spellbound, nodding earnestly
to encourage me when I related the difficult parts. Talking to her felt
comfortable, natural, as though I didn’t need to hide anything from her. And so
I didn’t. By the time I finished, we were both glossy-eyed. She looked at
Joshua, who had fallen asleep in her arms, and then back up at me.

“You’re a good man, Robert,” she told me. I
laughed.

“No,” I shook my head, “if you only knew
some of the things I’ve done . . . no, I’m—I’m terrible . . . rotten to the
core.” Maggie laughed lightly.

“But Robert, you’re an
angel
!” she
teased. She smiled at me in a way that suggested genuine admiration.

“I think I’m entitled to my opinion,” she
added adamantly. It made me feel good about myself, but also made me slightly
ill at ease, so I quickly changed the subject.

“Enough of my whining already. How about
you? How have you been?” I asked. The smile fled quickly from her face.

“Well . . . it’s been alright,” she hedged
evasively. The brave face she was putting on hid the truth poorly.

“Really?” I asked, raising my eyebrows
skeptically at her.

“Well . . . yeah, it’s been tough,” she
admitted with a sigh. “Losing Johnny was just . . . well, I guess I don’t need
to tell you how hard it was. How lonely it’s been.” I nodded. If she could talk
to anyone that would understand, it would be me.

“And then trying to raise a little girl by
myself and make both ends meet at the same time has been so hard. Johnny was
always a good father and a good provider, but we really didn’t have much of
anything when he got killed.”

“What about his life insurance?” I
interjected. She frowned

“Johnny and his brother lost their business
in the Thirties. Creditors took pretty much everything I got. We had a house,
but I couldn’t make the payments on it with the money I make working as a
seamstress, so I had to sell it and move into this rental. I also make some
money cleaning, but it’s not a lot.” I could tell by the way she talked how
burdensome things were.

“So I guess we’re doing alright. It’s just
a little . . . tight, that’s all,” she ended, trying to smile cheerily, but I
saw fear and worry in her eyes, and her lip trembled almost imperceptibly.

“Tight? How tight?” I interrogated sternly.

“Um, pretty tight,” she admitted slowly.
She looked at me, and the look on my face must have told her that her answer
was unsatisfactory.

“I’m behind on some bills . . . OK, all of
them, actually,” she said dejectedly. She looked down woefully.

“OK,” she finally said, as though coming
clean, “we’re getting evicted.”

“Evicted?!” I almost shouted. “When?”

She hesitated.

“Wednesday,” she said meekly.

“Wednesday?” I repeated. She nodded.

“You mean
this
Wednesday?!” I bellowed.

“Yes,” she said, almost cowering now, as
though afraid I was going to be angry at her. I was a little put out at her
that she hadn’t told me sooner, but more upset that some coldhearted landlord
would put a poor young widow with a child out on the street in the winter, and
so close to Christmas.

“Where will you go?” I boldly meddled
further. Maggie averted her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she said in a whisper. Now
I was angry. My Sir Galahad complex had been activated, and I felt there was
only one thing to do. I cleared my throat nervously.

“Maggie, I’m about to say something,” I
began. “What I’m about to say may sound like absolute lunacy to you, so if it
does, will you promise me that you’ll pretend I never said it, and we’ll
continue the evening like it never happened?”

She looked at me quizzically. “OK, I
promise,” she laughed.

I paused, trying to find words to carefully
phrase what I wanted to say, but finally abandoned that futile effort and drove
bluntly to the point.

“Will you marry me?” I blurted out, feeling
my face grow hot as I heard myself speak. It sounded even more ridiculous to
hear it out loud.

Maggie looked at me with a stunned look, as
though what I had just said was, well, lunacy. I felt like such an idiot. When
she recovered, she let out a sound that sounded like it came from somewhere in
that narrow no-man’s-land between a laugh and a sob.

“Gee, Robert, I thought you’d never ask!”
she said, but her words, tone, and facial expressions were so contradicting I
couldn’t decipher if she was mocking me, serious, or somewhere in between. I
felt like an even bigger buffoon.

“I’m sorry!” I apologized embarrassedly.
“I—I just thought we’re both lonely, and have children to raise, and you’re—”