“What will you…” Frankie didn’t understand. They were acting as if they were ashamed of her. But … that made no sense. “How many times have you gathered us in your office to talk about this family’s record of service, Dad? You told us how much you wanted to fight for your country. I thought—”
“He’s a man,” Mom said. “And it was Hitler. And Europe. Not some country no one can find on a map. It is not patriotic to do something stupid, Frances.” Tears filled her eyes. She dashed them away impatiently. “Well, Connor, she’s what you taught her to be. A believer. A patriot.”
At Mom’s rebuke, Dad left the room, trailing smoke behind him.
Frankie went to her mom, tried to hold her hand, but Mom stepped adroitly aside, not letting Frankie touch her. “Mom?”
“I shouldn’t have let your father fill your head with all that history. He made it sound so … epic, those family war stories. Although none of them were his, were they? He couldn’t serve, so it became … oh, for God’s sake, none of it matters now.” She looked away. “I remember when my father came home from the war. Broken. Stitches holding him together. He had nightmares. I swear it’s what killed him early.” Her voice broke. “And you think you’ll go over there and see your brother and have an adventure? How could you be so stupid?”
“I’m a nurse, Mom, not a soldier. The recruiter said I’ll be stationed at a big hospital, far from the front. He promised I would get to see Finley.”
“And you believed him?” Mom took a long drag off of her cigarette. Frankie saw how her hand was shaking. “It’s done?”
“It’s done. I report to Basic Training in January and then I ship out for my tour in March. I’ll be home for my birthday next week and for Christmas. I made sure. I know how much that matters to you.”
Mom bit her lip, nodding slowly. Frankie could see that her mother was trying to corral her emotions, trying to look calm. Suddenly she reached out, pulled Frankie into her arms, hugged her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.
Frankie clung to her, buried her face in the teased, sprayed hair. “I love you, Mom,” she said.
Mom drew back, wiped her eyes, and looked hard at Frankie. “Don’t you be a hero, Frances Grace. I don’t care what you’ve been taught or what stories men like your father have told you. You keep your head down and stay back and stay safe. You hear me?”
“I promise. I’ll be fine.”
The doorbell rang.
It was a distant sound, barely audible above the combination of their breathing and the unspoken words swirling in the silence between them.
Mom glanced sideways, toward the foyer. “Who on earth could that be?”
“I’ll go,” Frankie said.
She left her mother standing in the living room, alone. In the foyer, Frankie stepped around the gleaming rosewood table that held a large potted white orchid, and opened the door.
Two naval officers in dress uniforms stood there at attention.
Frankie had lived on Coronado Island all of her life, watched jets and helicopters roar overhead and sailors run in lines along the beach. At every party or gathering, someone told a World War II or Korea story. The town cemetery was full of men Coronado had lost in wars.
She knew what officers at the front door meant. “Please,” she whispered, wanting to back up and close the door.
She heard footsteps behind her, heels on hardwood. “Frances?” Mom said, coming up beside her. “What—”
Mom saw the two officers and let out a quiet gasp.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” one of the officers said, taking off his hat, tucking it under his arm.
Frankie reached for her mother’s hand, but Mom pulled away. “Come in,” Mom said in a husky voice. “You’ll want to speak to my husband…”
* * *
Sorry to inform you, ma’am, that Ensign Finley McGrath has been killed in action.
Shot down … in a helicopter …
No remains … all hands lost.
No answers to their questions, just a quietly spoken, It’s war, sir, as if that said it all. Answers are hard to come by.
Frankie knew she would remember this evening in startling, scalding images: Dad, standing tall, his hands shaking, showing no emotion until one of the officers called his son a hero, his voice quiet as he asked for details—as if they mattered—Where, when, how? Her mom, usually so elegant and cool, curling into herself on the chair, her carefully coiffed hair falling slowly apart, saying again and again, How can it be, Connor, you said it was barely a war.