Unspoken Understandings

by Otahyo'ni

She answered the door and found Nick standing on the doorstep.  He looked military, even in civilian clothing, his shoulders stiff beneath his blazer.

They stared at each other for several seconds before he said, "Hello, Emma."

"Hello."  She stepped back and held the door open.  "Please, come in."

She led him to the living room where they sat in facing armchairs near the fireplace.  Emma folded her hands in her lap.  Nick's eyes roved the room.

"New curtains," he said.

"Not really.  Well, I suppose they are new since the last time you were here."

He looked at her, but said nothing.

She continued.  "Mother and Father went over to the Clarks' for their Fourth of July barbeque.  I told them I had a headache."

Nick almost smiled.  "You always have a headache when your parents visit the Clarks."

"If I didn't have one before, I'd have one after.  I'm saving myself pain."

The almost-smile disappeared and he simply watched her.

"I heard you'd come home," she said.

"From who?"

"I don't remember.  Just people."

"Oh."

"I don't think I really believed it, until now." 

Nick looked at the photos arranged on the mantle. 

She blinked several times then spoke again.  "It's good to see you, Nick."

"You too, Emma."  His voice was quiet.  His eyes returned to her.  "I thought I should stop by."

"I'm glad you did."

He looked at her.  She looked at the hands folded in her lap.  "Would you like something to drink?"

"No.  Yes."

She returned a few minutes later with two glasses of lemonade.  He was sitting just the same, his arms along the rests of the chair.  She handed him a glass.

"I figured you'd be married by now," he said.

"Who was there to marry?  Besides, I told you I'd marry you or no one."  Her voice was teasing; her eyes were not.

"That was a long time ago."

"I know."

He sipped the lemonade.  The clock on the mantle ticked loudly. 

"Mike?" he asked, glancing around the room.

She looked down at the ice cubes in her glass.  "He didn't come home."

"I'm sorry."  The clock ticked.  Down the street a string of firecrackers went off, crackling.  "When?"

"Almost two years ago.  One year, ten months."

"I didn't know."

"You stopped writing."  It was a statement, not an accusation.

"There was nothing good to write."

"I know."

He shifted in his chair. 

Her head came up. "Oh, I know I don't really know. I wasn't there.  I didn't go through what you did.  But I know a little.  I know what Mike told me.  He didn't stop writing.  Even when it got really bad." 

She paused.  He said nothing.  She continued.

"He wrote so small in my letters, so they wouldn't be fatter than the ones he wrote Mother and Father.  But he told me what he didn't tell them.  He told me about the fear and the blood and the pain and the smells.  He told me about the first time he used his bayonet, on a boy with brown eyes and freckles.  He told me about his friend Chris dying in a grenade blast.  How Chris's body shielded him from the shrapnel, so he lived and his friend, six inches away, died.  And he told me that he didn't think he was going to come home.  He didn't think he could.  And he didn't."

Nick didn't look at her.  She stared at him, leaning forward, waiting.  He drank his lemonade, emptying the glass in one pull, then gazed at the ice cubes melting in the bottom.

"I know a little," she repeated.  "I can imagine a little more.  But I don't know anything about now."

"Now?"
"What it's like now.  Being home.  What you go through now, every day."  She paused and he met her gaze.  "I think perhaps it's harder."

His eyes deepened, darkened.  "Don't try," he said.

She waited.

"Don't try to know.  You can't.  You don't want to."

"I know I can't.  But I do want to."  She lowered her head.  "If I knew, maybe I could help."

Nick stood and moved to the mantle.  The staccato pop of more fireworks muffled the ticking of the clock. 

"Do you want some more lemonade?"

He shook his head and picked up a picture of Mike.  "Is he here?"

"Yes.  Father used his plot."  She set her lemonade, untouched, on an end table.  "Would you like to go?"

"Yes.  If it's not any trouble."

"No.  I'd like to.  I'll leave Mother a note."

On the way to his car she stooped over the tulips growing along the sidewalk and broke two off mid-stem, the water inside smearing across her palm. 

They rode in silence.

The cemetery was on the edge of town, and they could no longer hear the fireworks.  The path they walked was winding, and chipmunks scurried out of their way.  They stopped in front of Mike's tombstone, and Emma laid her tulip at its base, next to a wilting bouquet of lilies.  Nick held onto his.  A small American flag hung limply on top of the tombstone.  A patriotic wreath hung off the corner of the stone, obscuring the last four letters of his name.

"His birthday was last week," she said, nudging the lilies with her toe.

"I remember," he said.

They stood in silence.  A cloud crossed the sun.  Emma closed her eyes.

"They kissed us, in Holland."

She opened her eyes but did not move her head.  He continued.

"The women.  They were so glad to see us they threw their arms around our necks and kissed us.  It took us hours to get through the town because of the throngs of grateful Dutch.  Three weeks later the Allies bombed that town into dust.  Germans had moved back in."

She didn't speak.  Didn't move.

"Every time someone pats me on the back and says, 'You've made us proud, son,' I see those Dutch women.  Children waving flags.  Boys with rifles.  A hero, they call me.  Gave me some medals.  Mike's the lucky one."

He dropped the tulip.  It rolled back towards his feet.

She stared at the dates under Mike's name: June 25, 1924- September 1943. 

"In his last letter," she said, "Mike told me about a vineyard they came across.  He and a bunch of other boys snuck out a few bottles of wine.  It tasted horrible.  Hadn't aged.  But he said it did the trick.  He could sleep."

"Where?"

"Italy."

Nick tilted his head back and stared up at the sky.  "It'll be dark soon."

"Not for another thirty minutes.  And I'm twenty-four years old.  I don't have a curfew."

"Fine.  We'll stay."

She watched the sunlight turn the tree trunks orange.  "What will you do now?"

"Work in my father's office.  Save enough to leave."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know."

She buttoned her cardigan.

"You should have worn a jacket."

"I'm fine."

He put his hands in his trouser pockets, then pulled them back out.  "Why are you still here?"

"Mike.  I was waiting until he came home.  Then I felt I should stay with Mother and Father.  And then…"

Nick knelt and picked his tulip up, then laid it on top of hers.  "Then what?"

She looked at the back of his head.  "And then I was waiting for you.  I needed to know, either way."

"And now that you know?"

"I don't know."

"I don't think I can give you what you want."

"I'm not asking."

"You are, a little."

She didn't answer.

He stood and turned to look at her.  "It's the faces.  That’s why Mike couldn't sleep."

"Why you can't?"

He turned back to look at the tulips lying on Mike's grave.  "Yeah."

She stepped sideways and took his hand.  It stayed limp in her grasp.  "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For telling me."

He pulled his hand from hers.  "Mike would have wanted me to," he said.

"You weren't that close."

"He'd still have wanted me to."

A cricket chirped.  Nick's head snapped up.

"It's getting late.  We should go."

"Okay."

They walked back to the car, listening to the crickets fall silent as they passed. 

He stopped the car in front of her house, but she made no move to get out.

"Will you come by again?"

"I don't know."

"You can, if you want." 

He rubbed his thumb on the steering wheel.

Through the windshield, the first of the night-works could be seen, golden sparks drifting to earth.  She looked at her hands, then at his face.  "Good night, Nick." 

She opened the car door.  He put his hand on her arm.  She stopped, half out of the car.

"Thank you," he said.  "For not saying 'Welcome home.'"