Silent Star (3 page)

“I might as well be a murderer. I bring the news of death and people hate me for it. You have no idea how they avoid me. You couldn’t understand or you would never have approached me.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Estella questioned.

“Isn’t it enough?”

Estella stamped her feet to warm them a bit. “I hardly think so. So you are the bearer of bad tidings. Someone has to do it. Surely you aren’t the only telegram delivery boy in town. How do the others feel?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Andy replied curtly. “I’ve never asked them.”

“Hmm.” Estella nodded. “Then it’s probably fair to guess that they’ve never asked you either.”

“Of course they haven’t.”

She nodded again. “Then that would explain it.”

Andy’s frustration was apparent. “Explain what?”

“The fact that you feel so alone—so awkward in trying to explain this situation to me now.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. People fear me, turn away from me because I bring them the news that their child or husband is dead. They want nothing to do with me and neither should you.” He turned to walk away, and Estella let him proceed several paces before calling out to him.

“I have some cream—it’s not much, but it would be enough for coffee.”

Andy stopped in his tracks and turned. “Why?” The depth of his anguish rang out in that one word.

“Why what? I offer you coffee and you ask why? Because I’m a lonely old lady and I like redheaded boys.” She grinned. “Do you need more of a reason?”

He never even cracked a smile, and Estella’s heart went out to him. Poor miserable child. So full of pain and sorrow, so unloved and forgotten.
God, I see now why you sent me out here on this cold day. This poor boy is dying from loneliness and the wounds others have inflicted on him.

“Look, Andy Gilbert, you needn’t turn down perfectly good coffee and cream just because some people have made you feel unwelcome. They’ll get over it and so will you. You aren’t the reason their children are dead and they know this only too well. They are in pain, Andy, and people in pain often do not understand the wounds they give others. They lash out, cutting and maiming, mindless of their actions because they are blinded by the anguish that fills their souls. You mustn’t judge them too harshly.”

“They’ve judged me harshly . . . and falsely,” Andy murmured.

She smiled. “It happened to our Lord as well.”

Andy shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about God. It’s His fault that all this is happening to begin with.” He met her face, his expression hard. “I don’t want any part of talking to God.”

“I never said you had to talk to God, Andy.”

He appeared confused. “But you said . . .”

“I said they judged Jesus harshly and falsely. I was merely pointing out that you aren’t alone.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Nelson. I’m very much alone . . . and I intend to stay that way.”

This time she let him go. She watched him limp down the road, his left foot dragging along in the snow.
Oh, the pain
he suffers is so great, Father,
she prayed.
I could feel it just standing across from him. I could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He’s slipping away from life, Lord. He needs your help. Maybe even my help.
She moved down the street toward her own little bungalow, a plan formulating in her mind.

****

Andy thought of the old woman the next day as he stood in line for his groceries. He couldn’t express how much it had meant to him that she would stand there and talk to him even after knowing about his job and the way other people felt about him. He had wanted so much to go with her—to share her coffee and cream. He could almost taste it even now.

Andy didn’t recognize any of the people in line with him. He’d gone to a grocer on the other side of town where he wasn’t as well known. He’d kept his father’s coat tightly buttoned and hoped no one would notice his uniform pants. No one spoke to him much, but neither did they turn away from him. He blended rather obscurely into the crowd.

“Did you hear the news?” one man asked the woman in front of Andy. “They say our boys in the 28th are stompin’ those Germans all the way back to Berlin. Let Hitler deal with
that.
”

The woman smiled and answered in animated excitement, “I know, I know. My sister telephoned to tell me. Maybe the war will be over by Christmas. Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

The man nodded and stepped up to pay for his purchases. As with every other customer, the man had to present his ration book and identification. Finally the cashier tore out his coupons and told him how much he owed her. The procedure was repeated for the woman, and finally it was Andy’s turn.

“You’re saving your cans for the war effort, right?” the cashier asked as she sacked several cans of beans. She was a cheerful sort with a heart full of enthusiasm.

Andy nodded but said nothing. He gave the woman a weak smile.

“There’s just so much we can do to help, you know. The ladies at my church are having a scrap drive. We have a box here in the store, so if you come back before the twentieth of this month be sure and bring any fabric you don’t need or old rags. Oh, and the Girl Scouts are having a clothing drive. There’s a box for that too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Andy said, showing her his identification and offering his money.

With sacks in hand, Andy walked back home. The store windows had cheerful displays, proof that owners were trying their best to rally everyone’s spirits. Amidst the routine accouterments declaring sales on various products there were also the ever-present signs of a country at war. A poster embracing the spirit of Christmas declared, “The Present With a Future—WAR BONDS” as a jolly Santa sprinkled war bonds down on the holiday houses below his sleigh.

Since the house was paid for, Andy had used some of his extra money to purchase some bonds. He knew it was his patriotic duty, but more than this, he felt it was almost an atoning. He couldn’t be with his buddies fighting in the 28th, but he could help support them from afar.

Knowing he still needed toothpaste, Andy crossed the street to the five-and-dime, finding the store surprisingly busy with customers. He edged his way through the crowd, quickly locating what he’d come for. He juggled the sacks to free his hand.

“Andy Gilbert!”

He looked up to find a young woman, long blond hair streaming. “Don’t you remember me? It’s Mary Beth Iseman. I was a year behind you in school.”

Andy nodded, feeling very shy. “Yeah, I remember you.”

“Well, I haven’t seen you in a long time. We moved into town from the country. We’re even going to a new church and everything. Poppy said we couldn’t make the long drive to our
old church since he needs to conserve gas and tires for work. So here we are.” She barely paused to draw a breath. “Did you know that Sammy is in Europe with the 28th? They’re doing very well. We had a letter . . . well, actually Sammy’s wife, Kay, had a letter just the other day. She lives with us, you know.”

“No, I don’t suppose I did,” Andy said, still completely taken aback by her chatterbox conversation.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and continued. “Sammy says everything is going really well. We don’t know exactly where he is, but he’s always trying to tell Kay with little coded words. They agreed before he left that certain words would be for some of the countries and such.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t suppose I should have said that. Just don’t tell anyone. Mama says it might cause problems—loose lips and all, don’tcha know.”

Andy looked around, feeling like someone was watching him. He spied Mrs. Iseman. She looked the same as he remembered from his school days. Sometimes Mrs. Iseman had actually come to substitute for some of the teachers. She’d always had a smile and kind word for everyone, but today she was reserved. Speaking in hushed covered-mouth whispers to the barber’s wife, Mrs. Davis, Mrs. Iseman nodded, all the while watching Andy. A sense of dread washed over him as the woman finally made her way toward them.

“Mary Beth, what do you think you’re doing?” her mother questioned, coming upon them. Andy cringed at the tone in her voice.

“Mama, this is Andy Gilbert. I went to school with him.”

“Yes, I
know
who he is.” Her words took on a deeper meaning for Andy.

“Can we invite him home for supper?” Mary Beth asked her mother. “I want to tell him all about Sammy and show him the letters.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Iseman said in a stilted tone. “I . . . well . . . it isn’t convenient to invite him tonight.”

“But, Mama . . .”

“Excuse me,” Andy said, pushing past the two women, “I need to be going. I have other plans.”

He then exchanged his old empty tube for the new tube of toothpaste and paid for the purchase. He hurried from the store, not even bothering to bid good-bye to Mary Beth. Her gentle voice and sweet smile had brightened an otherwise dreary day. How long had it been since he’d seen her and talked to her? At least three years.

The Isemans had lived on a farm just at the edge of town. It had been in the family for many generations, with Mary Beth’s father and uncle helping their father run the place. Mary Beth’s father, however, had taken an interest in running a freight service and gradually left the farm to his father and brother. After the passing of Mary Beth’s grandfather, Andy recalled there had been some concern that the farm would be sold to pay debts. The brothers, however, had rallied and managed to hang on to the place. Andy thought it sad that Mr. Iseman should find it necessary now to leave and move into town. He was no doubt freighting things for the government and military now, as the cost would probably be too prohibitive for civilians.

At home, Andy was relieved to find that the coal delivery had come. They’d dumped the load through the basement chute, just as arranged. Taking a bucket load upstairs, Andy got the stove fired up and waited while the warmth spread across the room. He was more tired than he could remember ever being. He even contemplated forgoing supper, but the rumbling of his stomach finally won out over the soreness of his feet and back.

He opened a can of beans and while they heated, Andy made a small pot of coffee. The aroma reminded him again of the old woman he’d met at the cemetery. Mrs. Nelson. Estella Nelson. He almost smiled as he thought of her. She had been so very persistent—tempting him with cream, not
caring about his job duties. For just a moment he tried to imagine what it might have been like to share her hospitality.

Spreading his mother’s well-worn red gingham cloth across the kitchen table, Andy couldn’t help but think of Mary Beth Iseman as well. She looked nothing like the scrawny girl he remembered. She had grown up and she was quite pretty, but it was her spirit that attracted him most—the joy in her expression and the delight and excitement in her voice.

Andy let the memory of their meeting wash over him again and again. How could she be so happy in the middle of a war? How could she be happy, not knowing what tomorrow might bring?

Setting the table with the beans, coffee, and a few crackers, Andy continued to think of Mary Beth. She’d wanted to have him over for supper. She hadn’t understood her mother’s negative reply. It was clear Mrs. Iseman had wanted to think up some excuse for why it wouldn’t work for Andy to join them. She would probably tell her daughter that he would only bring a curse upon their household, or perhaps she would comment that Andy’s lowly station in life was no match for Mary Beth. Whatever she came up with, it didn’t matter.

As much as he would have loved to share supper with anyone, Andy knew he would only hurt people in the long run. Better he stay by himself—alone.

He poured the coffee and again thought of Mrs. Nelson and her cream. She seemed lonely, he thought. Like knows like, he supposed.

“It would do her little good to know me better, to share her cream and coffee. It’s just better this way. Better for her. Better for Mary Beth.” The words echoed back at him in the otherwise silent room.

“But what of you, Andy?”
He could almost hear his mother’s voice.
“Even the Lord said it wasn’t good that man should be alone.”

He put the thought away, as if it were some unpaid notice of an overdue debt. “If the Lord thought it wasn’t good for
me to be alone, He should never have taken away the people I loved.”

THREE

November spirits darkened with word that the 28th Infantry Division had recently been involved in a terrible battle. Information trickled in with no great reliability. Rumors ran rampant . . . and then the telegrams began to arrive.

Andy had never seen the likes. As Thanksgiving neared, there were more and more confirmations of the dead, and the community seemed to lose all hope as spirits fell to grief and sorrow. There was little to be thankful for.

All across town the tale was told in the stars. Blue changed to gold as heart after heart was broken in loss. Then snow fell with a vengeance, burying the town in white. But it seemed ill fitting. Its purity and freshness mocked the dark ugliness of war.

Then the news went from bad to worse. Most all of the 28th was feared dead or wounded on the fields of glory. The boys who once were going to stomp the Germans all the way back to Berlin now lay lifeless on the battlefields of Europe. The wind went out of the patriotic sails of Haven, Pennsylvania. The people had given their sons—their best—and the war had taken them and greedily demanded more.

In Bob Davis’s barbershop, men gathered for discussions of war efforts and military strategies while the women met together behind closed doors for bouts of tears and prayer sessions. The town seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

Andy found himself working overtime to deliver all the messages. People seemed to watch out their windows for him. The white banners trimmed in red, bearing the stars of their loved ones, seemed like a beacon, pulling Andy magnetically to each house.

Blue to gold. Gold for death.

The cadence rang in Andy’s ears as he marched through
the snow. Once in a while there was good news. A telegram would announce that a soldier had been found wounded but alive and put in a military hospital. There was relief in such letters but also great frustration and anxiety. There was no possible way to go to their loved ones, to bridge the miles that separated them.