“I can’t make any promises.” He shrugged. “But I can talk to some people. Let me see what I can do.”
The next week when he was back in town, Calvin again suggested we go for a milkshake after I finished my shift. As we walked from the hotel toward the diner, he cut straight to the chase.
“I know this might not be what you had in mind, Lizzie, but has Henry considered enlisting?”
I stiffened.
“It’s hard to enlist these days.”
“It is. The military has turned away more men than they’ve taken over these past five or six years.” The Depression had even hit the government hard and military budgets weren’t what they once were. “I hoped I could find him some labor work on base, but there’s just nothing there to find. Not for a civilian. But if Henry were willing to enlist, I could put in a good word for him. I spoke with an Army enrollment officer and he said that would mean something.”
“Why would you do this for us?”
“I like you.” Calvin shrugged. “It’s lonely here sometimes. You keep me company. We’re friends now, aren’t we?”
“I guess we are,” I said, but then I hesitated. “But he’d have to go live on base, wouldn’t he?”
“Of course. And there’s no guarantee he’d be stationed here.”
“I just don’t think…” I trailed off, unsure of how to express my thoughts without insulting my brother. Henry couldn’t handle a jackrabbit drive. How would he handle a military career? I couldn’t even imagine him in a uniform.
“It would mean three hot meals a day, a roof over his head, and more importantly—structure and a reason to get out of bed. I know this much for sure—every man needs a purpose.”
When I opened the door that night, I was immediately hit by a wave of body odor. The apartment was still and silent, and the lights were off. On previous nights I’d turned the kitchen light on so as not to disturb Henry, but I offered him no such kindness that night. I turned the main light on, the one right above his bed. The blankets rustled, and then in a furious movement, he pulled them over his head.
“Don’t start, sis,” Henry mumbled, voice thick with sleep. I crossed the room in a few brisk steps, then threw the blankets back. Henry covered his face with his arms and made more sounds of irritation and complaint. He hadn’t shaved or showered, and he was still wearing his trousers from the previous day.
“You should enlist,” I blurted. Henry stilled, then gradually opened his eyes, squinting against the light of the bulb.
“I went to an enrollment tent when we first got here. I waited in line all day, didn’t even get the chance to sit down for an interview. They were turning almost everyone away.”
“But if they would accept you, you would want to enlist?” I asked, surprised.
Henry dragged himself into a sitting position, still rubbing his eyes.
“Dad once told me that there are some men who are cut out for that life, and some men who aren’t. I don’t know that I’m the right kind of man,” Henry muttered, idly scratching the scruffy whiskers on his cheek.
I stared at my brother, absorbing the shadows under his eyes and the bleakness of his gaze. I knew exactly what Henry meant—he was soft and sensitive in the very best kind of way. Wouldn’t those traits be liabilities for a man in the military?
But we were at peace, and anyway, Henry wouldn’t have to remain in the Army forever. All we needed was to force structure into Henry’s life—to prop him up for a few years until the economy recovered and he could find a civilian job.
“My friend at the hotel knows an enrollment officer and thinks he can get you accepted. You need to do it.” I drew in a deep breath. “I am asking you to do it.”
Henry blinked. Then he frowned.
“But, Lizzie—” he started to protest, but I reached to take his hand, squeezing it forcefully as I said, “We can’t go on this way. We just can’t, Henry.”
I watched the emotions play out on my brother’s face. First came shame and guilt and remorse, then frustration and irritation and embarrassment and anger. But all of this faded as quickly as it rose, and then Henry looked away as he nodded. By then, he simply looked resigned.
27
Lizzie
Huntsville, Alabama
1950
“How are you doing, Henry?” I asked one night a few weeks later. He was pushing his casserole around his plate, his expression distant until he looked up and gave me a tired smile. His mood seemed a little low, but it was hard to be sure since I’d barely seen him for more than a few minutes at a time in weeks. Henry had been going in early and coming home late, and he’d even taken some weekend shifts.