Though None Go with Me (16 page)

Elisabeth knew Bruce wasn't perfect. He'd had two speeding tickets, and even with his apparent ability to drive fast was often unable to get in by his curfew. He was never more than twenty minutes late. Art and Frances's beautiful adopted daughter was the love of his life. When Elisabeth instituted a rule that every minute he showed up past curfew would cost him an evening without Trudy, he was never late again.

But what she so treasured about Bruce was not just his many accomplishments. She loved noticing the open Bible on his bedstand. She cherished how he cared for her, talked with her, listened to her. He even went with her to see Will a couple of times a month. True, Bruce found it so painful to see his father, now curled into a pitiful mass of skin and bone weighing less than a hundred pounds, that he did not go near him and barely looked at him.

Elisabeth dug for her husband's curled-up fist every day, pried open the fingers, forced her hand into his, and lovingly rubbed and patted it as she spoke to him. Sometimes it was more than Bruce could take and he would leave the room. “Mom, he's gone,” he would tell her on the way home. “I wish God would take him and spare you this torture.”

“Do you think he suffers, Bruce?”

“I'd be surprised if there was brain wave activity.”

“The doctor says there is or he wouldn't breathe on his own.”

“But he's not conscious, Mom, and he hasn't been for years. He wouldn't know whether you were here or not. I know you come for yourself as much as for him, but—”

“Bruce, don't you, of all people, tell me to stop coming. He's still my husband and I still love him. I
need
him, need to be with him. I don't care whether anybody else understands, but I need you to support me.”

“I'm sorry, Mom. I know.”

One day she turned off the car in the driveway without getting out. “Do you remember him, Bruce?”

“A little, sure.”

“Come on, you were old enough that you should still have some memories.”

“It's hard to talk about, seeing him like that.”

“He used to pray with you.”

“Every night. I remember, Mom.”

In December of 1941 the United States had responded to the attack on Pearl Harbor by declaring war on Japan. Elisabeth would never forget hearing, four days later, that the Axis powers of Germany and Italy had declared war on the U.S. The second great war to end all wars finally included the U.S., and the local paper predicted it would starkly affect commerce and manufacturing and the economy yet again.

Three Rivers, like the rest of the country, mobilized for the war effort. Elisabeth lost her long-time job at the pharmacy but quickly found a job making weapons at Fairbanks-Morse. Meanwhile, she had maintained interest payments on the home mortgage through the years but had never been able to further dent the principal. In January of '42, the bank finally called the loan.

Bruce, in the midst of his junior year of high school, urged her to sell and move into a smaller place. “It's just two of us now, Mom, and as soon as I'm eighteen, I'm enlisting.”

“You're going to college. Anyway, the war will be over by then. Everyone says so.”

“I'd go now if they'd let me. I want to be a marine.”

Elisabeth tried to explain why the house was so important to her, telling Bruce the whole story of his father's gift to her the day they returned from their honeymoon. He was silent for several minutes, busying himself in his room. Then he asked for the name of the loan officer at the bank and permission to talk to him.

“Bruce, you needn't involve yourself. I'm making more money now, and maybe I can start paying on the principal.”

But he insisted and she relented. He returned from the bank beaming. “You have to sign, because I'm underage, but look what he agreed to.”

Elisabeth was dumbfounded. Bruce had renegotiated the remaining principal into an eighteen-month loan with much higher monthly payments. If they could meet the payments, the house would be hers free and clear by the time Bruce graduated from high school. “And join the marines,” he said.

“And go to college,” she said. “But how will I ever make these payments?”

“You won't,” he said. “I will.”

“You barely make enough for your dates now.”

“I'm going to drop extra-curricular stuff and—”

“No! You love sports and all the rest!”

“Now let me do this, Ma. It's what I want to do.”

“At least stick with baseball.”

“I do hate to give that up with them counting on me.”

“I'll let you do the rest if you stay with baseball.”

He agreed and began spending nearly every spare minute shoveling snow, washing windows, mowing lawns, even clerking at F-M. By the time he graduated in June of 1943, the loan was paid. Bruce had been so busy he had nearly lost Trudy (though she thought his plan to become a marine was “dashing”). He was at the recruiting office the next day.

Elisabeth couldn't imagine another loved one off at war, but if the country had rallied around the cause the first time, morale now was ten times that. Adolph Hitler and his Nazi storm troopers signed peace agreements with neighboring countries, then made a mockery of them, smashing through Europe. Germany's agreement with Italy and Japan against the U.S. was the last straw. Prime Minister Churchill was standing against them in Britain, and America could do no less.

The tragedy was that too many young men were going and too few coming back. Though it had been a quarter century, the horror of what had happened to Ben Phillips seemed like only yesterday. She anticipated hours on her knees until Bruce was safely home.

The war machine seemed to gobble teenagers like appetizers, and already friends and neighbors had suffered losses. All over town, stars appeared in windows, signifying a son at war. Gold stars indicated he had paid the ultimate sacrifice. Three families at Christ Church had already lost boys in the war, and U.S. involvement was just heating up.

The marines loved a healthy young man with ambition and conviction like Bruce, and he came home from the recruiting office with orders to report to Parris Island for six weeks of basic training before shipping out.

“To where?” Elisabeth asked that evening as she served Bruce and Trudy dinner.

“I hope to the front,” Bruce said. “Of course, there are lots of fronts.”

“I'm hoping to an office somewhere right in the good old U.S. of A.”

“Me too,” Trudy said, her long, dark hair framing a thin, pretty face. “But Bru has the makings of a hero.”

“He's already a hero,” Elisabeth said. “And you remember your promise, young man.”

“Straight to Moody's as soon as I get back. Then seminary. Then my first church.”

“You forgot one step,” Trudy said.

“Oh, yeah. Did you show Mom?”

“I was hoping she'd notice.”

Elisabeth froze. “Let me see it,” she said, and Trudy produced her left hand. “It's beautiful, kids. I knew this was coming, but I thought maybe you'd wait, you know, until—”

“Until he comes back. But there won't be any Dear John letter, Mrs. Bishop. We're in it for the long haul.”

“There are no guarantees. You wouldn't want to be faced—”

“Here, look at the inscription.” Trudy slipped off the ring.

“I can't believe I need bifocals already,” Elisabeth said. “Let me see here.”

Inside the band was etched, “Bru and Tru forever.”

“How nice.” She hated those ridiculous nicknames, but they had caught on with their friends and Elisabeth was powerless to stop them. “I prayed since before Bruce was born that his spouse would love God and want to serve him. I'll be proud to welcome you to the family.”

Trudy was crying by the end of the night and promising to stay very close to Elisabeth while Bruce was away.

“I'll be fine,” Elisabeth said. “A little lonely, but I'll keep busy.”

Elisabeth's description of her life as lonely but busy soon began to seem inadequate on both counts. From the painful day she and Trudy saw Bruce off at the bus station—looking as young to her as on his first day of grade school—to the day she got word he was coming home, Elisabeth felt as if she were living in a tomb.

Oh, she loved her home. She had insisted after the fire that the rebuilt house duplicate the original design—except that the fireplace was now fake. When linoleum was the rage, she had it installed upstairs, hoping it would provide a little insulation between her feet and the wood floor. But how the place echoed when she was the only one there.

Trudy's promise to check in on her quickly faded. Elisabeth didn't blame her. They had given each other space and time at the bus station, and then Trudy joined her for a light lunch. Without Bruce it was awkward and uncomfortable. Trudy was a little too forward and more talkative than Elisabeth liked. She was also less inclined to bring up spiritual matters.

Trudy seemed overly interested in Bruce's “rising” within the Marine Corps. “Oh, I don't know,” Elisabeth said. “Since he doesn't plan to make a career of it, I wouldn't mind seeing him blend into the crowd, keep his head down, come home in one piece.”

“You don't know Bruce then,” Trudy said, insulting Elisabeth more than she could know. “He'll never shrink from a challenge.”

Elisabeth knew that well enough. In fact, she told herself, she knew Bruce better than Trudy would know him until they'd been married half a lifetime.
That boy was in my womb,
Elisabeth thought but dared not say.
I suckled him, taught him to walk and talk, led him to Christ, saved his life—twice!—and you have the audacity to say I don't know him?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

F
inally alone again, Elisabeth fell into a routine she had not enjoyed for decades. She rose early for Bible reading and prayer, ate breakfast, and packed herself two lunches—one for noontime at the plant and the other to eat while sitting with Will at the State Hospital in Kalamazoo. She was as much a fixture there as the long-term employees, known by everyone. She knew they pitied her and likely thought her batty.

Elisabeth left the hospital most evenings in time to get back to Three Rivers for many church activities. Prayer meeting on Wednesday night was back on her schedule. She still taught Sunday school and also maintained frequent letters to missionaries, sharing their replies with Pastor David Clarkson for inclusion in the weekly bulletin. One evening she handed one to him in his office. He thanked her and asked if she minded a personal question.

In fact, she did mind. He was much younger than she, and Elisabeth believed a question that needed permission ought not be asked. “Go ahead,” she said as she sat down.

“I was just wondering if you are aware that there are at least a couple of single men in our congregation—around your age—who have privately asked about you.”

Elisabeth stiffened. Dare she ask who? “How would I know that,” she said, “if it was private?”

“I'm sorry, I guess I should have asked if that would surprise you.”

Surprise was not the word. Was it possible, after all these years of loneliness—? “What would surprise me, Pastor, is that you would allow it. You know I'm married, and if they don't, you should tell them. Can they not see my ring? Do they not know my history? My life is no secret.”

He held up a hand. “Mrs. Bishop, I—”

“Mrs.
Bishop is correct, sir, and I would appreciate it if you would not forget that.” Elisabeth didn't want to forget it either, and the chill that went through her troubled her.

“I apologize, ma'am. I—”

“Accepted, but I'm shocked that you would even inform me of such inappropriate questions. What did they want, to know if I was dating in anticipation of my husband's passing?”

“No, I really—”

“Does everyone know he was originally given ten years to live? Is there now a death watch? Feel free to inform anyone insolent enough to ask that my doctor feels the disease has done everything it can to Will but kill him, so now it's a matter of how long he can last. He's only forty-four years old, so you can tell the hopefuls it could be twenty more years.”

“Mrs. Bishop, I—”

“And while you're at it, you might tell anyone else who thinks it's their business that I have not looked to the right nor to the left since the day I married that man. I have never been interested in anyone else, and I can't imagine I ever will be.”

It was true Elisabeth had never been interested in anyone else, but she wondered if she was being honest with herself about the future. Pastor Clarkson sat staring at her, apparently realizing it was futile to try interjecting a thing until she was really finished. Elisabeth was shaking. “I trust you know me well enough,” she said, “to know that it is not my practice to fly off the handle like this.”

He nodded. “Well, I—”

“I've embarrassed myself, and now—”

“Not at all.”

“I would know that better than you, Pastor, if you don't mind my saying so. I shouldn't take it out on you. I get questions and comments about Will all the time, and I've long since quit stating my case.”

“If you'll permit me …”

“I'm sorry. Go ahead.”

“The fact is that I did tell both inquirers they were out of line, and for largely the same reasons you stated. But I mentioned it to you to encourage you.”

“To encourage me?”

“This is difficult, Mrs. Bishop, but I talked it over with my wife, and she thought it would be appropriate to express to you. She even volunteered to be here when I said it, but since you happened to come by, well …”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

He blushed. “Let me get this out now. I'm sure you're aware that you're much beloved and admired around here.” Elisabeth wasn't so sure. “But you may not get the encouragement the typical wife receives.”

“God is good,” she began.

“Now, excuse me, but I'm going to ask that you let me finish, because this is hard enough as it is.” He smiled. “You probably don't have people telling you how attractive you are.”

Sweat broke out on his forehead. Elisabeth's heart leapt and she laughed, a little too loud. How she had longed to hear that! But from this young pastor? “How attractive I am?” she said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“People have always considered you beautiful,” he said.

“Nonsense!” Could it be?

“Now, Mrs. Bishop, I've seen the photographs of you as a child and teenager, and you were very, very pretty.”

Elisabeth had calmed down. “My father says I favored my mother.”

“Well, then, she must have been beautiful, because you've gone past pretty now.”

“I have, have I?” Elisabeth said, enjoying Pastor Clarkson's discomfort.

“Age has only enhanced—”

“I'm aging well, is that what you're telling me?”

“No, I—well, I wouldn't—”

“Yes, you would. You just did.”

“I've not communicated well.”

Elisabeth stood. “Actually, you have. I'd rather not dwell on it,” she said, immediately convicted by that lie. “I know I look older than my years. To know there are those who believe otherwise is flattering, and I thank you for saying so.”

“Thank
you,
Mrs. Bishop.”

Elisabeth went home intrigued with how good it made her feel to know that some still found her attractive. “Surely, Lord,” she prayed, “I'm on the edge of vanity.”

After washing her face before bed, she stared at her too-early lined face. She still had what her father had called porcelain skin, and gravity had not given her jowls yet. She smoothed her hair back.
Agh! she
thought.
Too much thought of myself!

Elisabeth went to bed, staying on her side of the mattress still after all those years, and wished Will would tell her she was still beautiful. That was all she cared about. Whatever she had to offer anyone belonged to Will alone. Lonely, starved for affection and touch, she missed him so much! How she wished he still shared her bed.

When next Elisabeth saw Will she was certain she detected a flicker in his eyes. She ran for the doctor who refused to even come and see. “Impossible,” he said. “Mrs. Bishop, don't do this to yourself. The damage was done years ago and is irreversible. If we found a cure even now, it would have no effect on a man comatose for nearly a decade.”

“Just look and tell me what I'm seeing then!”

“I'm sorry. I really don't have time. If he seems to be making eye contact, it's coincidence. He's not seeing anything. Nothing is registering. Please.”

Elisabeth hurried back to Will's room. She took his face in her hands and stared into his eyes. He was staring back if there was a God in heaven! “Will,” she said, “you see me, don't you? You know who I am! I love you and you love me, don't you?”

He struggled to nod! She screamed for a nurse, an orderly, anyone. “Will! You know me!”

He nodded without her help. There was a trace of a smile! A nurse's aide came running. “What's happening?”

“Look at him! He recognizes me! Nod, Will!” He nodded. “See?”

“Unbelievable.”

“It's a miracle,” Elisabeth said. “Thank you, Lord!” Did she have faith to believe he might actually improve? “Will!” she said. “Nod for me!”

He nodded and tried to speak. “Elspeth” came the raspy whisper.

She whirled. “Did you hear that?” But the aide was gone. She turned back to Will. “Say it again, Will! Say my name again!”

He was smiling, trying to sit up! He spoke again and she bent to listen. “You're dreaming,” he said. “Elspeth, wake up. You're dreaming.”

She awoke with a shudder that threw her writing materials off her lap and onto the floor. A big black man in an orderly's uniform stood in the doorframe. “You all right, Miz Bishop?”

Gooseflesh had risen on her arms. It had been so real! She nodded. “Yes, Charles. Thank you.”

Charles helped pick up her stuff. “And how's the gentleman today?” he said.

She stood shakily and they gazed at Will. He lay in a fetal position, not moving, eyes open, staring out the door, unseeing.

“The same,” she said. “The same as always.”

Basic training was over, and the bad news arrived in a letter from Bruce. He was being shipped out. He couldn't say where, didn't know yet himself. But it would be overseas and it would be strategic. “Maybe they tell everybody that,” he wrote, “but it sure feels like something big.”

Elisabeth found herself melancholy. It seemed her prayers had been going only one direction for weeks. “I've given you my life,” she said to God. “I'll try not to look at circumstances. But who would follow you wholeheartedly if they see my life as an example? Is heaven the only reward for a life wholly given to you? Have I not obeyed in everything?”

She should have known not to expect happiness. There was no payoff this side of heaven for a life of consecration. Others had tried to tell her. Would she have pursued obedience so resolutely if she had known how hard it would be?

How would a normal Christian life have been? Show up on Sunday and do your part. Maybe your husband is healthy and all your kids make you proud. When she was younger she would not have even entertained such doubts. Somehow now she found herself expecting more of God than he had given her.

With Bruce off to who knows where to engage in who knows what, and Betty more than a thousand miles away, Elisabeth received a letter from the chaplain at Jackson.

“Your son might be open to seeing you, finally,” he wrote. “Unfortunately, what has sobered him was a knife fight in which he nearly killed a guard. Benjamin was to have begun annual parole board hearings next year in anticipation of his release in 1947, or before. This latest will likely result in a change of his sentence to life without parole. He is asking to be read your letters now, rather than throwing them away. He also now keeps the trinkets you send and eats the cookies. I may be wrong, but you might find him receptive to a visit.”

Elisabeth wasted no time putting in her formal request to see Benjamin on the next visiting day, Wednesday, November 17, 1943, the day before Thanksgiving. But Benjamin vetoed the idea and did not suggest another date. Elisabeth sent him another package of goodies, including a Bible, and reminded him she still loved him and prayed for him.

She received several letters from Bruce in the Pacific theater, mostly when he was stationed in Hawaii. He warned her she might suddenly stop hearing from him, but not to worry. “That's easy for you to say,” she wrote back.

He told her how much he missed her, how much he looked forward to getting home, and how he and Trudy anticipated bringing their children back to the big house someday. “She says you seem to be doing fine,” he wrote.

How would she know?
Elisabeth wondered, but she left it alone. The last thing she wanted was trouble between her and her future daughter-in-law. Trudy's mother invited Elisabeth for Thanksgiving dinner, but she begged off and drove to Kalamazoo. All the way there she regretted the decision. Art and Frances had become wonderful Christians and good parents. From the State Hospital she called and asked if she could call on them the following Friday.

“We'd love it, Elspeth,” Frances said, and the name pierced her.

“I go by Elisabeth these days, Frances, if you don't mind.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Anyway, we'll see you then.”

Elisabeth sat gazing at Will. “Another holiday, love,” she whispered. “Another year come and almost gone. Bet you're getting tired of this, hm? When you're ready to be with Jesus, you just go. Don't worry about me.”

She brushed away a tear and realized she had turned a corner. She couldn't imagine having expressed that thought, given that permission, even a year before. Why had she so desperately hung on to the wasted body of a man once so vibrant and robust? The day would come when she would have to let him go whether she was ready or not, so she had to get used to the idea now. As well-intentioned but insensitive people had so often said, Will had been dead to her almost from the beginning. She prayed only that she be allowed the privilege of being there when he was ushered into the presence of Christ. That would be the greatest gift God could give her.

Elisabeth scoured the newspaper for stories about marine operations. Reports generally came several days after the fact. Often grieving families suffered anew when an account showed up on their doorstep with details of a battle that had already resulted in the dreaded gold star in the window.

At the Childs' home the next Friday, Elisabeth learned that Art read the paper the same way she did. “The other stuff doesn't interest me,” he said. “But I like trying to figure out where Bruce might be. Did you see today's?” Elisabeth shook her head and he handed it to her, thumping a front-page story with his thumb. “Who knows?” he said.

The article told of the Central Pacific Offensive, a U.S. operation begun at the Gilbert Islands. Earlier that month, not long after Elisabeth had quit hearing from Bruce, U.S. task forces attacked Tarawa and Makin Islands. Makin was taken in just days, but the wire service reported that five thousand experienced Japanese jungle fighters were prepared to battle to the death at Tarawa. Elisabeth held her breath when she read that on November 20, the same number of U.S. marines arrived. She looked at Art and read, “‘Fighting was ferocious and casualties high.'”