In November- Chapter 1 (For Dawn)

For Dawn.  It's been since 1999 that I wrote the first paragraph of this.  Hopefully it will be done this century. 

 

In November Ch 0101

 

We gathered in the kitchen after the supper dishes had been cleared away. The kitchen was warm and still smelled of the meal and it reminded me of so many times in the past when we had gathered there to talk. It made my heart ache to think of all the times we had all been there, times I had taken for granted. But this time was different, we were here together, all of us, who knew if we would ever get this chance again.

We poured cups of coffee and ate slices of the apple pie I had baked for dessert and told stories. Before long, Charlie had brought out the picture box and we mused over the people we knew. Stephen told us that he was going to write a novel with all the funny stories we had told that night. He joked about wishing he had his notebook so he could write all the things we said. He didn’t have to, he wrote everything down anyway. I had already found notebook after notebook filled with his thoughts and odd scraps of information he was saving for that novel. He wanted to be a writer and I was convinced from what I had read that he would be a good one.
Stephen turned over a photograph of Charlie and his hound Bob and we laughed when he held it out to us. “Maybe I’ll write dog stories.” He said. “Lord knows we have enough dog stories to fill up a book. I’ll start with the story of Old Bob and how he was struck by lightning.”

I blushed and felt a pang of remorse. “No, no one will want to read about that!” I said too quickly and my words gave me away. The children laughed.

“Momma, you don’t still feel bad about that do you?” Sara asked over her coffee cup and I had to admit that I still did. It had been years ago and Old Bob was spending his golden years on our front porch, but I still felt a little bad about the lightning.

“Well he got better!” My husband prompted, trying to console me. But Charlie stuck out his lip and pouted. “He weren’t no good for nothing from then on though!” Old Bob might have forgiven me, but Charlie had not.

Stephen laughed and tussled his younger brother’s sandy hair. “Aw, maybe I’ll write a story about Ol’ Charlie here.” He said proudly and the boy’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll write about all the trouble you get yourself into.”

“Maybe you’ll write a war story!” Charlie said excitedly and the table grew quiet. He opened his mouth to elaborate but his father silenced him with a severe look. He was still too young to understand what this war was all about.

Stephen flipped through the photographs.

“Maybe.” He said quietly. No one else said anything. Probably, we were all thinking the same thing, but none of us wanted to admit we were thinking it. Stephen would be leaving tomorrow for basic training and soon he would be…we hated to think of it. I fought the fear that threatened to choke me if I allowed myself to think about my son leaving us.

I looked up at Alexander, my dear husband who had been in the first war, the one that was supposed to be the war to end all wars but who would tomorrow be sending his flesh to fight in another. I wondered how he could bear it, knowing what he knew, but he kept all his fears inside. I was acutely aware of his tenseness and his strained expression, but he fought to contain his true feelings.

Stephen paused on a photograph and his eyes narrowed. “There is one story. It would make a great novel.”

I fought tears and looked up from my coffee and tried to act interested.

Charlie was immediately intrigued; he sat up in his chair and leaned toward his older brother. “Is it a war story?” He asked.

Stephen nodded. “A war story, a love story…” He passed the photograph to his sister and a troubled look flickered in her dark eyes before she passed it back to him.

Stephen continued. “It’s a story of sacrifice and heroism and redemption. The great Southern novel!” He smiled broadly at Charlie who was enraptured by the idea already.

“Well, why don’t you write it then?” He demanded.

“Because it ain’t my story to tell.” Stephen said quietly and pushed the photograph across the table to me. “It’s Momma’s story and she is the only one that can tell it.”

I looked down at the photograph on the table and a ghost looked back at me. I looked into my face at seventeen years old and my eyes were drawn into the dark eyes of my first husband, the love of my life. My breath seemed to be caught in my throat and my heart seemed to stop beating. I tried to take the photograph in my hands but it fell from my fingers. Tears welled in my eyes and I covered my mouth with my hand.

“Oh,” I managed “I didn’t know that was in there.” I thought I had taken all the pictures of him and hidden them away. How had I missed this one? It had been more than twenty years since I lost him, and I had almost forgotten what his face looked like.

“What is it Momma?” Charlie asked, but I couldn’t reply.

Alex took the photograph and held it for the boy to see. “This is your momma’s first husband. I took this picture a long time ago. Stephen was just a baby, and Sara hadn’t even been born yet.”

“What happened to him?” He asked as he studied the picture, his forehead wrinkling.
“He died.” Alex said gingerly. “He wasn’t as old as Stephen is now.”
“Did he die in the war?”

“No, he didn’t go to the war.” A look of disappointment crossed the boy’s face but Alex continued. “He wasn’t old enough to enlist, but he helped a lot of people. Stephen is right, he was a real hero.”

I wiped my eyes and fought to keep my composure. Tomorrow, after he left, I would fall apart, I would cry until there were no tears left, but not now.

I looked up at him and tried to smile. Stephen’s eyes held mine and would not let me go.

“It’s your story Momma.” He said again. “But it’s mine and hers as well.” He motioned to his sister. “When I come back, I want to read it.”

My throat was tight and achy from the unshed tears and I nodded. When I at last could manage my words, I told him I would. It was a lie, to make him feel better. I had no intention of telling all the things I had so carefully packed away in my heart.

We continued with our stories until at last, Alex mentioned that it was time to go to bed. I didn’t want to go, the sooner we went to bed meant the sooner morning would come and my boy would leave us. Reluctantly, we parted for our bedrooms but I doubted any of us would get any sleep.

I took the photograph back to my bedroom and opened my trunk, intent on burying it inside. Alex stopped me as I lifted the lid.

“Nicole, put it on the mantle where it belongs.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t. Not tonight. It hurt too much.

Alex looked in the trunk. “You’ve taken everything of his and you’ve hidden them away.” He said gently and put his hands on my shoulders. “Look around this house. There’s not one single photograph of him. It’s almost like you’re trying to erase him.”
I fought tears. That wasn’t true; I just couldn’t bear to think about it now. There was this war, it brought back so many memories, and soon our Stephen would be leaving us to be a soldier. Sara had met a handsome young man and would soon be getting married.

I was losing my children.

“Nicole, it’s been over twenty years and you’re still grieving, it’s not normal.” He said in exasperation and he pushed me away from the trunk and dug through its contents despite my cries for him to stop.

I knew what he was looking for. It was at the bottom, I had put it there purposely.

“Please don’t!” I begged. “Don’t make me-“

He pulled out the journal and held it as if it were made of gold. “He wanted you to write in it. That’s why he bought it for you!” I couldn’t write in it. It was the last gift he had given me, besides Sara. Alex held it out to me, open to the first page. I recognized Bryan’s handwriting and my eyes filled with tears again.

“Write it, like he asked.” He told me.

“I can’t.” I replied. “It would bring back too many memories.” I told him but he persisted and it angered me. “Don’t you think that these things are better left alone Alex?” I snarled. “Do you want the children to know what happened? Do you really?”

Alexander looked shamefaced and his shoulders slumped. “No. I don’t want them to know what I did.” I felt a smug satisfaction in his confession. “But they have to know what he did Nicole. He’s their father.”

“You’re their father! The only father they’ve ever known!” I protested.

“Exactly.” He whispered. “That’s exactly why you must tell them.”

I felt as though my heart would fall to my toes. I swallowed hard and looked up at my husband.

“Please.” He whispered. “I loved him too.”

I nodded. I loved him… I still loved him. I don’t know if I ever stopped loving him.

Dear Stephen,
Reluctantly, I take a pen in hand to write for you. It is very hard for me to do, but it is such a little thing, and I promised you that I would do it. I will try my best to tell the story, to write what I felt back then, but as you know, I do not have the gift of words as you do. I must tell you that there are things that I must explain during the course of this story, and even though I am telling it as I experienced it, I find it necessary to tell of things that happened while I was not present. I learned of these events later in my life, but they are things that you must know. I feel sure that you could write this better than I ever could, and perhaps when you return home, you will find yourself choosing to write his story, for it is your story too

My husband overheard me one night, telling our child a fanciful story as I sat in the ancient rocking chair that had been used for generations to rock away bad dreams. It was not a story that my mother had told me or even a story I had heard as a child. It was merely something that I dreamed up to chase away the monsters and soothe our baby's fears. I did not know that my husband was listening and just as the handsome prince and beautiful princess were to embark on happily ever after, I saw him standing in the doorway smiling. I was embarrassed, to say the least, his listening in on my fairy tale was somewhat akin to someone hearing you sing while you are bathing. He kissed my forehead, took the child from my arms and placed him in the crib without saying anything about it.

Several days later he presented me with two leather bound books. I opened them eagerly but found that they only contained blank pages. I looked up at him in surprise.
"They're for you." He sat down beside me and placed the first in my hands.

 "To write those little stories that you tell junior. So that one day when we're both gone, our grandchildren can read them." His eyes sparkled as he looked me and I blushed with pride.

He placed the second book in my hands. "This, " he said slowly "is for your thoughts." There was seriousness in his eyes that I seldom saw and I knew that this was important to him in some way.

" There are things…" he said carefully " I know… that you can't tell even me, the memories are too painful. You need to get them from inside you. Write everything… about your past, about his father, and about us. Tell the truth, Nicole, because the truth heals. Don't make what happened any better or any worse. Tell about how much we love each other, and him. One day Stephen will want to know. You can't propose to keep it from him forever, he will one day find out."

"Will you read it?" I asked uncertainly.

"Only if you ask me to." He said as he slipped his arm around me. I knew that he was telling the truth, that he would not read it if I asked him not to, not even if I left it lying open on his side of the bed. I could trust him completely. That was one of the many reasons that I loved him.

I opened it. Inside he had written my name and the date.

Sarah Nicole Bradshaw, February 11, 1918.

In November he died and he took part of my heart with him. I have never written in this journal until tonight.