December 8
Elizabeth wanted to yell at him that morning. “You are too old,” formed in her mind, but never made it to her lips. She knew he would not listen.
After the President spoke at noon, Thomas drove to the capital and parked three blocks from the recruitment office. It was cold, even for December. The department stores were festooned in Christmas regalia, hopeful signs of the season. The line was out the door, but they processed everyone who showed up, finishing just after midnight. Most of the men were younger than he, but he spotted some familiar faces from college and exchanged terse, closed face greetings and wishes of good fortune.
They didn’t turn anyone anyone away under fifty. World War I veterans showed up in the uniforms, some stretched taut across bellies that had not existed when first worn. Others were faded and hung loose as symbols of hunger on those who had suffered more during the Depression than others. A few Spanish-American war vets tried to sign up, but were gently rebuffed. One walked by Thomas, his eyes vacant. He could hear fragments of an ongoing one-man conversation. “”..don’t know what they’re signing up for.... “ The mood was tense, but hopeful: Fear was the enemy and it now had a face.
A few of the younger men whooped and hollered every so often, but the quiet reactions of Thomas and some of the others tempered it as it arose. The voice of the old man stayed in his head as he moved up the line, though he never wavered on his decision. He didn’t know how right the man was.
He made it home around three a.m. and crept as carefully as he could across the front porch. He had always joked with her that he couldn’t stay out late as the old wood creaked every time his 200 pounds stepped on it and she would have plenty of warning to grab an iron to brain him. Tonight was no different and he winced as the sound seemed to pierce his ears. The dogs followed him up the porch steps, curious at this turn of events.
When he opened the door, he saw her sitting in the wingback chair in the sitting room. She was still awake. “You should be in bed, butterbean,” he said.
Her face didn’t change. It was as serious as he had ever seen it. “When do you leave,” she asked flatly.
“I have two weeks to wrap up things before I have to go.”
She stood and took three steps towards him, just out of his reach. “Then I have two weeks to sleep in that bed. After that, I will be right here in this room, in that chair or on the sofa until you come home.
“Don’t be silly. You’ll be sleeping in that bed two nights after I’m gone.” He said it with a smile, trying to get one in return, but he knew she was telling the truth. He stood silently as she continued to look up at him.
“As you are doing what you damn well please for god knows how long, I will be sleeping where I damn well please until you come home.” With that, her face finally cracked slightly and he saw the moisture form in her eyes in the dim light of the parlor.
She fell into his arms, her head on his chest. They wrapped their arms around each other and stood for an eternity of moments that passed in an instant, both silent, both trembling. Finally, without speaking, he picked her up and carried her up the stairs.
