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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Survival / Healing / Renewal
- Published: 12/05/2016
Brenda sat in the dark. The Christmas tree dark and forlorn sat as a silent witness in the corner. All three kids were huddled in her bed, warmed only by each other’s body and the tiny space heater in the corner. They were asleep- finally. Brenda had gone downstairs to sit by the tree and try and figure out what to do next. They were out of money, the roof leaked, the furnace had stopped working weeks ago, and yesterday the transmission went on their only car. If it wasn’t for the kids Brenda was certain she would be hanging from the end of a rope. She couldn’t take any more.
She sat on the only good piece of furniture they had left, a rocker. His rocker. Built with his own two hands as a wedding gift to her. Had he lived long enough, the house would have been finished with the same solid craftsman ship of a shy Master. She hated the war that took him. As far as she could tell, nothing over there had really changed. Only a husband, father, lover, friend, and companion was missing from her life. He died over there , on some deserted desert road. That was five years ago on December 23d. Exactly five years ago today. It tore Brenda’s heart out then, and time wasn’t able to put it back. There were no more tears. Those had been shed so hard, for so long, that only the feeling of crying remained, but not the evidence.
She turned the business card over again in her hand. It was a simple card. She got one like it every year on the mail. It always came on December 23d. There was always $500 in cash in the envelope, a picture of her husband, and his best platoon buddy- DeWayne Williams. Both looking young, athletic, and proud. No shirts, just the ripped bodies of youthful men, short hair styles, and one arm draped over each other’s shoulders. Besides the picture and the cash, was the same short note, and the business card. The note said:
“Rick was my best friend. If you ever need help- call. I loved him too. “
On the business card was a neatly typed phone number, and the name: DeWayne Williams. Brenda had saved the picture every year, and the business card, and the cash was a blessing every year. Without that $500 bucks, the kids wouldn’t have had a single Christmas present in five years. There was never an address to write a thank you too. Just the phone number and name. She had never met DeWayne. Rick had talked about him, of course.They had trained together at Ranger School, and did two deployments together. But DeWayne lived far away in Mississippi , and well, he never made it up to Ohio, on the short trips they were home. When they volunteered to go back for a third deployment, Brenda was dead set against it. Rick had just shrugged it off:
“Honey, I will be safe. I have done this before, and come back safe. Besides I got DW to watch my back. “
Brenda never told Rick that sometimes- just sometimes- she thought DW and those other boys were more important to him than her and the kids. When Rick died, she blamed DeWayne. Oh not consciously, but sub consciously, she thought that DeWayne was the major reason Rick decided to go back: “One more time.” So Brenda flipped the card over, and over again. This December had been the worst. The roof. The furnace. The Car. No money except the $500 dollars still neatly stacked in the envelope that had come in the days mail. The tree was dark, because they had to scrounge the budget for every single penny they could save, or eek out. The tree, like every year, would only be lit when they came down to open their few gifts. The gifts that DeWayne’s five hundred dollars had bought every year. She flipped the card over one more time, and made her decision.
“Hello?”
“DeWayne, this is Brenda. I…I…wanted to call and say thanks.”
There was a silence on the phone. Brenda almost hung up in embarrassment. The man had loved her husband as his best friend. He had sent money every year for five years, and here he gets a call at midnight on the fifth anniversary of his friend’s death. It his friend’s widow, finally saying thanks. Brenda felt small. It was just that she couldn’t take it anymore, and she needed someone to talk to. Someone who knew. Not some glib: “Thank-you for your Service, sorry for your loss.” But someone who KNEW. So she waited in the silence ready to blame herself for everything, and take any berating, or belittling spiel that DeWayne might dump on her. She had steeled her thoughts before she even called. That’s why his words, when they finally came, broke a dam , a dam she didn’t even know what there.
“How can I help?”
Help? Help? She almost screamed into the phone: “Help, what is that? No one has ever helped us. Not in any real way. I am alone. I tried to be the rock for my kids, for Rick’s memory, for his Mom, now, I am a pebble, worn away by the waters of time, trials, tribulations. I am nothing Help? Ha!” She did not yell that. In fact, there was a long moment of silence, followed by giant chest heaving sobs. Sobs of a soul torn lose from the anchor of denial, of delay, of death. Brenda was surprised to realize those sobs came from her.
After a while, the sobs settled into just exhausted exhales. Her face, neck, and blouse wet with the tears of five years, she heard a voice over the phone saying over and over again, in gentle, sing-song, comforting tones, like one might sing a lullaby to a sick child, or ease the pain of a big hurt :
“Let it go, Brenda. Let it go, Brenda. That’s it…let …it…go. Good girl. Let it go. “
The litany went on and on, it wasn’t demanding, demeaning, or distracting. It was a comfortable command, one backed with certain knowledge of what those body wracking sobs meant, and what it took to let them go. A part of her listened. A part of her followed the words advice. All of her was grateful for the chant: “Let it go, Brenda. Let it out. Good girl. That’s it. “ On and on it went. The tree a silent witness to a broken soul cleansing a wound so old it should have a name. It does: despair.
The tears finally stopped. Her body was lighter now. No longer wracked by a nightmare she wouldn’t accept. When somebody says: “The Truth hurts,” she now knew what that meant. She was empty now of false bravado. All thoughts of being a rock, a symbol, a tower of strength were gone. What was left, was an open heart, bereft of all deceit, of phony hopes, of pretend dreams. She was back in the world now. Present in her own life, sad, but proud that she survived. The litany stopped. She heard his voice again. It was a simple question. One that he had asked as soon as she said who she was:
“How can I help?”
It was so simple a question. So loaded with compassion. She felt compelled to answer from this new place. This “I am not a rock. I am a little girl with troubles. I need help, a hug, to feel safe again, place. “ A place new to her. It is called: honesty.
Brenda let it all out. The loneliness, the long nights, the kids trying so hard to cope. The roof, the car, the furnace. The lack of money, of support, of connection. All of it. At first the words came out lightly, as if it was no big deal. But then, they gained weight, substance, and leaked out as the wounds sucking her life, joy, and any hope from her. When she finished her cascade of challenges, listed without any malice or deceptive self deprecation. Just statements of facts. This is what I have left to give- nothing. Not asking for pity. Not for empathy. Not for salvation. No, not asking for anything. Just telling, for the first time since Rick died, what life was, is, and might always be, for her.
It was a comfortable silence now between the two of them. Somehow, she didn’t know how, but she knew that DeWayne had been where she is now. That he had seen the same darkness, the soul shattering sense of disconnect that left you functioning, but not you. They were, in this silence, bonded.
“I will be there in the morning around seven. Have the girls dressed for work. Get Rick’s gloves out for yourself. Wear old clothes, and be ready. I will be there in the morning. Brenda. It is going to be Okay. I made a promise to Rick. I would take care of his family. You are ready. I am too. Good night.”
Brenda trusted those words. For the first time in five years, she fell asleep natural. Sitting in the rocker that Rick built for her.
“Beep. BEEEP.”
Brenda, already in old work clothes, with Rick’s heavy gloves hanging from her belt, looked out from the Garage. The girls, who had all been helping her bring out tools of all kinds, power tools, saws, tool boxes from different places in the garage, were a bit wary. Mom seemed to have changed over night. Something was going on. It didn’t feel bad or scary - whatever was going on, but when she woke them all up with a smile and a playful : “Get up sleepy heads! We have French toast and bacon to eat!” Well, none of the three girls was going to mess with her mood today. Mom was using the Stove! The stove, not the little camping stove she used to save money. The stove! Bacon? They hadn’t had bacon in years, it was way to expensive. Mom was a good cook, but they didn’t get to taste it often. She made the simplest meals, meals that wasted nothing. Now? French toast, as much as you want, with real Maple syrup, and bacon? Oh, yeah, today is different.
Only Cindy, the oldest at fifteen, understood that Mom must have walked the two miles to the grocery store to get the fixings. She knew there was no syrup, no bread, and no bacon in the house when they went to bed. She knew that the fridge held exactly one pitcher of water, and a half full, half gallon of milk, and one roll of crackers when she went to bed last night. Mom must have left before sun up to be back to wake them up at Seven AM. Cindy was wary, but when Mom made them get on old clothes, and that they better plan on working their little butts off today, well, Cindy almost cried with the hope that brought. Cindy heard her mom whistling. It brought back childhood memories, and Cindy had to choke of both her own tears, and her own dark corners to enjoy that sound. "What ever is going on, I hope it lasts. “ She thought. Then for some unknown reason, she started whistling too.
“Beep…BEEP.”
All the girls and Brenda went to the opening of the garage. A truck pulled in. Then another. Then a tow truck. Then two motorcycles. Finally, a last truck. Ten men and four women got out of the assorted vehicles. All of them in work clothes and wearing gloves. Some had hard hats on, some had goggles, all had big smiles. Brenda and her small brood gathered, arms clutching each other like wings of little chicks hovering near Mom as the band of strangers clumped into a somewhat organized mob, and moved towards them. Leading them was DeWayne. A little heavier muscled than in the pictures Brenda had seen of him, and her husband, but with a thinner face, and eyes that held both the joy of life, and the hell of death in them. He looked, well, like a wise man. He marched right up to Brenda, and without preamble, began introductions.
“Brenda, Cindy, Connie, Carla, all of these men and women served with your Dad. ( All the girls hugged tighter , Dad was a long ago memory for all but Cindy and Connie, but the fact that these men and women knew him- brought life to the memory. He was real. He was our Dad…and eyes got shiny, ) They are here to help:
“Mike here is a roofer. Barbra , the chubby one at the end (and Barb through a sausage croissant at DeWayne with mock anger and lousy aim) is a heating and cooling expert. She has her own company, and is going to put in a new furnace, and water heater for you. The tall guy (and man, he must have been six foot ten inches tall barefoot. With his boots on, he towered over seven feet!) is named Stretch (chuckles all around) is a mechanic. That is his two truck. He is going to take your car, and he swears he will have it back to you, all fixed up by Christmas. Stretch, never given much to talking, simply asked for the keys, and went about taking Brenda’s car to the shop.
Sally there, well, she is an architect and designer. You girls are going to work with her. Nothing fancy, but by tomorrow, all the interior dry walls, should be hung an painted. Your Dad was one of the best men with tools I ever knew. I know what he wanted this house to look like. You are his children, I know you can use the tools he left to build his house back up.”
The girls, all of them, including Brenda straightened, stood just a bit taller, just a bit more confident. “We are Rick’s family, we have the genes, we will do the work, and do it right. “ They never said that out loud, but it was in their body language for the next week. They did do him proud. NewYears was celebrated in their house. One built by their Dad, themselves, and a few new friends. Christmas dinner was on two doors placed as table tops over sawhorses in the living room. All of them squeezed in their to eat. Stretch stood by the island to hand things over to the table, as he could reach both the kitchen and the living room through the cut out that would be a breakfast island. Kids were everywhere, and stories of Rick and the other Vets were scattered throughout the day too.
It was, they all decided, as they looked at the logs in the finally working fire place, the best Christmas ever. Brenda and DeWayne sat on the couch not quite spooning, but as close as you can get with children in the room. Barbara and Stretch, the only two without families, were sitting in the big chairs, everyone was sipping hot chocolate, only Stretch refused the marshmallows, but he did pop one or two in his mouth from the bag left near the chair.
“ I wish Rick was here to see this.”
Stretch, Barbara, and DeWayne shared a look:
“He is Brenda. He is.”
by Kevin Hughes
A Soldier's promise.(Kevin Hughes)
Brenda sat in the dark. The Christmas tree dark and forlorn sat as a silent witness in the corner. All three kids were huddled in her bed, warmed only by each other’s body and the tiny space heater in the corner. They were asleep- finally. Brenda had gone downstairs to sit by the tree and try and figure out what to do next. They were out of money, the roof leaked, the furnace had stopped working weeks ago, and yesterday the transmission went on their only car. If it wasn’t for the kids Brenda was certain she would be hanging from the end of a rope. She couldn’t take any more.
She sat on the only good piece of furniture they had left, a rocker. His rocker. Built with his own two hands as a wedding gift to her. Had he lived long enough, the house would have been finished with the same solid craftsman ship of a shy Master. She hated the war that took him. As far as she could tell, nothing over there had really changed. Only a husband, father, lover, friend, and companion was missing from her life. He died over there , on some deserted desert road. That was five years ago on December 23d. Exactly five years ago today. It tore Brenda’s heart out then, and time wasn’t able to put it back. There were no more tears. Those had been shed so hard, for so long, that only the feeling of crying remained, but not the evidence.
She turned the business card over again in her hand. It was a simple card. She got one like it every year on the mail. It always came on December 23d. There was always $500 in cash in the envelope, a picture of her husband, and his best platoon buddy- DeWayne Williams. Both looking young, athletic, and proud. No shirts, just the ripped bodies of youthful men, short hair styles, and one arm draped over each other’s shoulders. Besides the picture and the cash, was the same short note, and the business card. The note said:
“Rick was my best friend. If you ever need help- call. I loved him too. “
On the business card was a neatly typed phone number, and the name: DeWayne Williams. Brenda had saved the picture every year, and the business card, and the cash was a blessing every year. Without that $500 bucks, the kids wouldn’t have had a single Christmas present in five years. There was never an address to write a thank you too. Just the phone number and name. She had never met DeWayne. Rick had talked about him, of course.They had trained together at Ranger School, and did two deployments together. But DeWayne lived far away in Mississippi , and well, he never made it up to Ohio, on the short trips they were home. When they volunteered to go back for a third deployment, Brenda was dead set against it. Rick had just shrugged it off:
“Honey, I will be safe. I have done this before, and come back safe. Besides I got DW to watch my back. “
Brenda never told Rick that sometimes- just sometimes- she thought DW and those other boys were more important to him than her and the kids. When Rick died, she blamed DeWayne. Oh not consciously, but sub consciously, she thought that DeWayne was the major reason Rick decided to go back: “One more time.” So Brenda flipped the card over, and over again. This December had been the worst. The roof. The furnace. The Car. No money except the $500 dollars still neatly stacked in the envelope that had come in the days mail. The tree was dark, because they had to scrounge the budget for every single penny they could save, or eek out. The tree, like every year, would only be lit when they came down to open their few gifts. The gifts that DeWayne’s five hundred dollars had bought every year. She flipped the card over one more time, and made her decision.
“Hello?”
“DeWayne, this is Brenda. I…I…wanted to call and say thanks.”
There was a silence on the phone. Brenda almost hung up in embarrassment. The man had loved her husband as his best friend. He had sent money every year for five years, and here he gets a call at midnight on the fifth anniversary of his friend’s death. It his friend’s widow, finally saying thanks. Brenda felt small. It was just that she couldn’t take it anymore, and she needed someone to talk to. Someone who knew. Not some glib: “Thank-you for your Service, sorry for your loss.” But someone who KNEW. So she waited in the silence ready to blame herself for everything, and take any berating, or belittling spiel that DeWayne might dump on her. She had steeled her thoughts before she even called. That’s why his words, when they finally came, broke a dam , a dam she didn’t even know what there.
“How can I help?”
Help? Help? She almost screamed into the phone: “Help, what is that? No one has ever helped us. Not in any real way. I am alone. I tried to be the rock for my kids, for Rick’s memory, for his Mom, now, I am a pebble, worn away by the waters of time, trials, tribulations. I am nothing Help? Ha!” She did not yell that. In fact, there was a long moment of silence, followed by giant chest heaving sobs. Sobs of a soul torn lose from the anchor of denial, of delay, of death. Brenda was surprised to realize those sobs came from her.
After a while, the sobs settled into just exhausted exhales. Her face, neck, and blouse wet with the tears of five years, she heard a voice over the phone saying over and over again, in gentle, sing-song, comforting tones, like one might sing a lullaby to a sick child, or ease the pain of a big hurt :
“Let it go, Brenda. Let it go, Brenda. That’s it…let …it…go. Good girl. Let it go. “
The litany went on and on, it wasn’t demanding, demeaning, or distracting. It was a comfortable command, one backed with certain knowledge of what those body wracking sobs meant, and what it took to let them go. A part of her listened. A part of her followed the words advice. All of her was grateful for the chant: “Let it go, Brenda. Let it out. Good girl. That’s it. “ On and on it went. The tree a silent witness to a broken soul cleansing a wound so old it should have a name. It does: despair.
The tears finally stopped. Her body was lighter now. No longer wracked by a nightmare she wouldn’t accept. When somebody says: “The Truth hurts,” she now knew what that meant. She was empty now of false bravado. All thoughts of being a rock, a symbol, a tower of strength were gone. What was left, was an open heart, bereft of all deceit, of phony hopes, of pretend dreams. She was back in the world now. Present in her own life, sad, but proud that she survived. The litany stopped. She heard his voice again. It was a simple question. One that he had asked as soon as she said who she was:
“How can I help?”
It was so simple a question. So loaded with compassion. She felt compelled to answer from this new place. This “I am not a rock. I am a little girl with troubles. I need help, a hug, to feel safe again, place. “ A place new to her. It is called: honesty.
Brenda let it all out. The loneliness, the long nights, the kids trying so hard to cope. The roof, the car, the furnace. The lack of money, of support, of connection. All of it. At first the words came out lightly, as if it was no big deal. But then, they gained weight, substance, and leaked out as the wounds sucking her life, joy, and any hope from her. When she finished her cascade of challenges, listed without any malice or deceptive self deprecation. Just statements of facts. This is what I have left to give- nothing. Not asking for pity. Not for empathy. Not for salvation. No, not asking for anything. Just telling, for the first time since Rick died, what life was, is, and might always be, for her.
It was a comfortable silence now between the two of them. Somehow, she didn’t know how, but she knew that DeWayne had been where she is now. That he had seen the same darkness, the soul shattering sense of disconnect that left you functioning, but not you. They were, in this silence, bonded.
“I will be there in the morning around seven. Have the girls dressed for work. Get Rick’s gloves out for yourself. Wear old clothes, and be ready. I will be there in the morning. Brenda. It is going to be Okay. I made a promise to Rick. I would take care of his family. You are ready. I am too. Good night.”
Brenda trusted those words. For the first time in five years, she fell asleep natural. Sitting in the rocker that Rick built for her.
“Beep. BEEEP.”
Brenda, already in old work clothes, with Rick’s heavy gloves hanging from her belt, looked out from the Garage. The girls, who had all been helping her bring out tools of all kinds, power tools, saws, tool boxes from different places in the garage, were a bit wary. Mom seemed to have changed over night. Something was going on. It didn’t feel bad or scary - whatever was going on, but when she woke them all up with a smile and a playful : “Get up sleepy heads! We have French toast and bacon to eat!” Well, none of the three girls was going to mess with her mood today. Mom was using the Stove! The stove, not the little camping stove she used to save money. The stove! Bacon? They hadn’t had bacon in years, it was way to expensive. Mom was a good cook, but they didn’t get to taste it often. She made the simplest meals, meals that wasted nothing. Now? French toast, as much as you want, with real Maple syrup, and bacon? Oh, yeah, today is different.
Only Cindy, the oldest at fifteen, understood that Mom must have walked the two miles to the grocery store to get the fixings. She knew there was no syrup, no bread, and no bacon in the house when they went to bed. She knew that the fridge held exactly one pitcher of water, and a half full, half gallon of milk, and one roll of crackers when she went to bed last night. Mom must have left before sun up to be back to wake them up at Seven AM. Cindy was wary, but when Mom made them get on old clothes, and that they better plan on working their little butts off today, well, Cindy almost cried with the hope that brought. Cindy heard her mom whistling. It brought back childhood memories, and Cindy had to choke of both her own tears, and her own dark corners to enjoy that sound. "What ever is going on, I hope it lasts. “ She thought. Then for some unknown reason, she started whistling too.
“Beep…BEEP.”
All the girls and Brenda went to the opening of the garage. A truck pulled in. Then another. Then a tow truck. Then two motorcycles. Finally, a last truck. Ten men and four women got out of the assorted vehicles. All of them in work clothes and wearing gloves. Some had hard hats on, some had goggles, all had big smiles. Brenda and her small brood gathered, arms clutching each other like wings of little chicks hovering near Mom as the band of strangers clumped into a somewhat organized mob, and moved towards them. Leading them was DeWayne. A little heavier muscled than in the pictures Brenda had seen of him, and her husband, but with a thinner face, and eyes that held both the joy of life, and the hell of death in them. He looked, well, like a wise man. He marched right up to Brenda, and without preamble, began introductions.
“Brenda, Cindy, Connie, Carla, all of these men and women served with your Dad. ( All the girls hugged tighter , Dad was a long ago memory for all but Cindy and Connie, but the fact that these men and women knew him- brought life to the memory. He was real. He was our Dad…and eyes got shiny, ) They are here to help:
“Mike here is a roofer. Barbra , the chubby one at the end (and Barb through a sausage croissant at DeWayne with mock anger and lousy aim) is a heating and cooling expert. She has her own company, and is going to put in a new furnace, and water heater for you. The tall guy (and man, he must have been six foot ten inches tall barefoot. With his boots on, he towered over seven feet!) is named Stretch (chuckles all around) is a mechanic. That is his two truck. He is going to take your car, and he swears he will have it back to you, all fixed up by Christmas. Stretch, never given much to talking, simply asked for the keys, and went about taking Brenda’s car to the shop.
Sally there, well, she is an architect and designer. You girls are going to work with her. Nothing fancy, but by tomorrow, all the interior dry walls, should be hung an painted. Your Dad was one of the best men with tools I ever knew. I know what he wanted this house to look like. You are his children, I know you can use the tools he left to build his house back up.”
The girls, all of them, including Brenda straightened, stood just a bit taller, just a bit more confident. “We are Rick’s family, we have the genes, we will do the work, and do it right. “ They never said that out loud, but it was in their body language for the next week. They did do him proud. NewYears was celebrated in their house. One built by their Dad, themselves, and a few new friends. Christmas dinner was on two doors placed as table tops over sawhorses in the living room. All of them squeezed in their to eat. Stretch stood by the island to hand things over to the table, as he could reach both the kitchen and the living room through the cut out that would be a breakfast island. Kids were everywhere, and stories of Rick and the other Vets were scattered throughout the day too.
It was, they all decided, as they looked at the logs in the finally working fire place, the best Christmas ever. Brenda and DeWayne sat on the couch not quite spooning, but as close as you can get with children in the room. Barbara and Stretch, the only two without families, were sitting in the big chairs, everyone was sipping hot chocolate, only Stretch refused the marshmallows, but he did pop one or two in his mouth from the bag left near the chair.
“ I wish Rick was here to see this.”
Stretch, Barbara, and DeWayne shared a look:
“He is Brenda. He is.”
by Kevin Hughes
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