But now, with the wisdom of retrospect, I sometimes feel more empathetic about that girl, and the pain she was feeling, all of her own making. Perhaps this moment was her beginning. Twenty years old, the summer of 1944 coming to an end, the blood of countless boys darkening the soil of two continents, perhaps she was starting to grow up. Each person does it at their own pace, and maybe her time had come.
Every other letter from Charlie, I’d torn open the same way I unwrapped Christmas presents—fast as I could, to see the treasure inside. But this one? I placed it on the dresser unopened, angled against a picture of my brother holding up a fish he’d caught. My name in Charlie’s handwriting would be there to greet me in the morning.
But when I woke, all of my thoughts were on Chris. His fast talking, his quick stepping, his fearlessness. Stupid as it sounds, the authoritative way he threw his finished cigarettes down.
Though I disliked how bad he was at listening. Often when I told him something, his reaction was plain silence, no dialogue, then on we’d go to the next topic that interested him. And the boy was vain. I never knew the world had so many mirrors.
But the way girls reacted to him was amazing. How they ogled me, too, on his arm or sitting with him. I’d never felt prestige before, and I found myself standing taller.
I stayed in bed till my mother left for the armory, not dozing but avoiding. As soon as she closed the front door, I got up to open the letter. I expected innocence, humility, trustworthiness—traits I’d thought were vulnerabilities now revealed with all their power. For the first time since I’d met Charlie, I felt afraid of him.
Dear Brenda: Everything here has intensified. The hours, the difficulty of the work, the impatience of our directors, everything. July has been unspeakably hot, and possibly the thing that has intensified most is what everyone expects of me.
Although I am a tiny part of a large and complex organization, it turns out that my little contribution is an essential one. Imagine an automobile, and my job is to make the ignition key. I still do not understand what the entire vehicle will be, but I know that the leaders here are smart men, and they believe that if it works, it will prove decisive in ending the war.
How could anyone be opposed to that? How could anyone not work his hardest to help make it happen? Every day more boys die in France, in Poland, in Guam. Sometimes I feel like half the world is waiting for Charlie Fish to finish his work, so the planet can start spinning properly again.
I believe I could handle all the pressure, Brenda, if only you were beside me. I believe I could do a great job for this country, if only I could hear your voice. I could sleep at night, instead of worrying hour after dark hour, if I could see your face for a few minutes while you play something lovely on the organ. This place would seem beautiful to me, instead of barren, if you were here.
I’m writing you an awful corny letter today, I know, and maybe I should apologize for it. But I’m not sorry. I have finally admitted to myself how much being with you improves my life. I hope that hearing these things, in some small way, improves yours too.
And if it does not, would you please do me the favor of letting me know? I long for you so many times each day, if you do not feel the same way it would be better for me not to continue to pine. And I won’t be bothering you.
But boy, if it turns out you feel the way I do. . . .
Charlie.
It was too large for me to absorb. Too honest for me to accept. Somehow the period after his name meant that he knew—not about Chris, but all of the other things. That I had written one letter to his two. That mine were short, and more like journals than heartfelt communication. Here he was, mister sincerity, calling what I had not realized was my barely masked bluff. I felt about half an inch tall.
Folding the letter back into its envelope, I put it in a drawer and went downstairs. I had things to do. A list in my head.
My mother had left coffee for me and when I opened the icebox for milk, I saw the soup. Lighting a burner, I put the pot on the stove and stood waiting till the edges began to bubble, then ladled myself a bowlful. I brought it to the table, pushing the papers aside because I could not bear any news that morning. Spoon by spoon, I ate that soup, and drank the last drops.
Then I phoned Greta’s house. Her mother answered, and when she said hello it seemed to come from a great distance, as if I had actually been sick after all.
“Greta’s not here,” her mother told me. “Out with Brian, of course. The grand adventure. Four days left.”
“Would you please tell her that she made the most delicious soup I have ever tasted in my life?”
“Why, Brenda, that is sweet of you,” her mother replied, which told me that Greta had not revealed my lies to her mother. It deepened my guilt, that she’d remained loyal. “I know she’ll be pleased. She worked a long time on that one.”
“I could really tell. Please give her my thanks.”
“You get well soon,” her mother said.
I went to work though it was two hours till opening time, propped the store’s door open as if to welcome people in, and sat at the spinet model. But I did not play. Why prepare for a future I might never have? People could talk all they liked—Chris, Charlie, Greta—but nobody really knew when the war would end, and what things would be like. It was all guesses and fancy words.
My mother arrived promptly at one, took a long squint at me while unpinning her hat and stowing that giant purse. “I have to reconcile month-end numbers today,” she said. “You mind the floor, all right?”
“Of course,” I replied, my tone flat as a sidewalk, though she had already bustled back into the office. Also there were no customers who needed minding. Soon I heard her punching keys and pulling the crank on the adding machine. I rose and went to the front window, where I stood for the rest of the afternoon, willing myself not to check the time, watching the world go by.
Sometime in midafternoon I heard a match struck behind me. I turned and my mother was lighting a cigarette. “How long have you been there?” I asked.
“Long enough,” she said. “Are you all right?”
I faced forward again. “Not one person has come in today.”
She exhaled loudly. “The war has caught up with us. July numbers are terrible.”
“Are we going to have to close the store?”
She sidled up beside me. “Your father was smart, and bought the building outright years ago. So there’s no rent, no expense besides the light and heat.”
“We’re not making any money though, are we?”
My mother stood smoking for a while. “I have an idea, but it requires homework. If you don’t mind holding the fort, and locking up, I want to do some digging.”
“Fine. I have plans for this evening.”
She picked a bit of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. “I expected as much.”
“One way or another, this will be the end of the secrecy.”
“One way or another?” She blew smoke at the ceiling, then turned away to fetch her hat and purse. “Why does that description not give me a particularly good feeling?”
Perhaps it was some form of self-punishment: When Chris asked where I’d like to eat, I suggested the place Charlie and I had our first date. I knew what I wanted to do, I’d practiced the words I would say—we’ll figure it all out when the war is over. He wore his dress uniform, looking sharp and fit, and I stood taller just to be walking with him. When we reached the diner though, he drew back a step.