Then they’d climb onto the bank and talk while the sun toasted their bodies to a deep brown. He would tell James Martin about the nights on the porch and the conversations the grown-ups had, but he never mentioned the bad things he heard about the war. James Martin had a brother on a ship, and Will knew that James Martin was scared, even though he never said he was. Ever since Lucas Thorp was killed, everybody was scared. In May, a military man had come to see Lucas’s parents, and for a week afterward, Marie had cried and hung around the mailbox. She said she knew something had happened to Ben, but finally she got a letter from him and found out he was exhausted, but well enough. She was still a little edgy for the next few days, but then the heat set in, and by the middle of June, Marie had stopped going to the mailbox. She said she couldn’t bear the heat, so Will picked up her letters for her. Sometimes she got two at a time, but other times she didn’t get a letter for two weeks or more.
O
ne night he talked to his granddaddy about the letters. They were sitting on the porch, and since it was only the two of them, Will sat in a chair by the rocker. He liked to sit close to his granddaddy. In the shadows, the lines on his face looked dark, but the moonlight made his hair look shiny, almost silver. His granddaddy looked off in the distance, except when he bent his head to spit brown juice into an old tin can. But Will knew that he was listening. When a person talked, his granddaddy listened, and when nobody talked, he rocked and listened to the sounds of night. Will propped his elbows on his bare knees. “Granddaddy, when Daddy was in the first war, did you get many letters from him? Sometimes Marie gets about two a week, but other times she don’t get any.” His grandfather nodded. “That’s how letters are in war times. Some weeks a soldier is fighting and don’t have time to write. It’s hard to tell, son. It’s hard to tell when to expect a letter.” Will nodded. “Guess you’re right, Granddaddy, but it seems like we’re doing a lot of waiting this summer. Everybody’s waiting for rain, and Marie and other folks are waiting for letters.” He sighed and looked up at his grandfather. “I reckon it makes things hard sometimes.” The old man lifted the can to his mouth, and a brown stream hit the metal. “I reckon it does,” he agreed, “but we have to deal with it all our lives.” Will narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, Granddaddy? You mean like waiting for rain and letters?” His grandfather stared toward the fields, gently tapping the side of the can. “We’re always waiting,” he said. “We wait for a baby to be born. Then that baby spends the rest of his life waiting.” “Waiting for what?” Will pleaded. “What’s he waiting for, Granddaddy?” He leaned forward, trying to see his grandfather’s eyes, but the old man never looked away from the fields. “Oh, just waiting for something — or many things,” he finally said. Will squirmed in his chair. “But what things?” His grandfather shook his head. “He don’t likely know, and if he thinks he knows, he’s often fooled.” Will slid his chair closer to the rocker. “How’s he fooled? How’s a person fooled when he’s waiting?” The old man turned toward his grandson. He smiled and placed a gnarled hand on the boy’s smooth arm. “If you spend too much time asking questions, you don’t hear the answers. It’d be good to remember that.” Will began to speak, but stopped and reluctantly nodded. His grandfather patted his arm and looked back at the field. Will followed his gaze and watched the lightning bugs blinking in the yard. He didn’t hear any answers, but he heard the crickets and an owl in a tree. The next night, Marie came out on the porch. She had her dark hair rolled neatly off her neck, and she was wearing her blue dress with the puffy sleeves. As she sat down, Will thought he smelled his mother’s lilac toilet water. He peered at his sister. “Why are you dressed up? You going somewhere?” Marie glanced at him. “I just might be, not that it’s any of your business, mind you.”
“Come on, Marie, where you goin’?” Will looked at his grandfather. “What’s she up to, Granddaddy?” The old man shook his head. “Can’t say I know, but she’s looking mighty pretty.” He smiled, then put a plug of tobacco in his mouth. Marie giggled and glanced toward the road. In a few minutes, Will saw a car turn in by the field. He looked suspiciously at his sister. “Ain’t that Bobby Wheeler’s car? You ain’t cheating on Ben, are you?” Marie glared at him. “Bobby and me are friends, that’s all. He came by this afternoon — all dressed up and real polite — and asked if I’d like to go for a ride, which is exactly what I intend to do. I need to get some fresh air.” She smoothed the back of her hair. “Of course, you’re too young to understand that a man and a woman might be just friends.” Will straightened his shoulders. “I’m thirteen,” he said, “and I already know more than you do.” He scowled at his sister, but she was waving to the boy in the car. As Bobby Wheeler pulled up beside the porch, Marie smiled and ran down the steps. In a few minutes, they were gone, clouds of dust drifting behind them. Will saw his mother at the door. She walked onto the porch, looking grimly toward the road. “I don’t think a thing of that Wheeler boy, no matter how fine his clothes or manners are,” she muttered. “Made up some excuse so he wouldn’t have to fight and could ride around in that car all the time. And his sister up and run off with that salesman and left her poor husband and baby.” She took a deep breath. “Never heard of a meaner, crazier girl.” She sighed and sat down beside Will. “Them Wheelers have always been passionate, hot-headed folks, but Marie’s daddy told her to go on. Said she needed a little fun to get her mind off things.” The old man spit into his can. “Maybe he’s right,” he said. “Don’t worry so, Meggie.” Will looked at his grandfather. He hadn’t heard him call his mother that in a long time, and when he looked back at his mother, she seemed pleased. Her eyes had softened, and she reached over and squeezed Will’s hand. “Well,” she admitted, “Marie’s a grown girl, and I guess she’s old enough to make her own decisions, but … but I’ll be real glad when this war’s over and Ben’s back home.” For a moment, her voice was soft. Then she abruptly shook her head. “I don’t know how you two can stand it on this porch. The bugs are awful.” She stood and went to the door. “Don’t be long now, Will. It’s about bedtime.” “Yes ma’am.” He watched her rub her neck and walk into the house. He leaned toward his grandfather. “What’s Mama mean by calling the Wheelers passionate? Is that something bad?” The old man shook his head. “It’s not bad if it don’t hurt somebody. It just means that a person is real full of love, or sometimes hate.” “Granddaddy, are soldiers passionate? From what you said, it seems they’d have to be.” He glanced at the sky, wondering whether soldiers in Europe saw the same stars. The old man looked at his grandson. Then he mussed Will’s sun-streaked hair. “I reckon some of them are. Now you best be getting to bed.” Will smiled up at his grandfather’s weathered face. “All right. Good night, Granddaddy.” He leaned toward him as though he were going to hug him, but stood and held out his hand. His grandfather put down his tin can and firmly clasped Will’s palm. “Good night, son. Pray for rain.” Will nodded and ran into the house. In his small bed, he prayed for days of cool, pouring rain, but in the morning, the sky was blue, and the sun continued to blaze overhead. As the hot days passed, his father grew more solemn every day. Will would see him walking through the fields, and when he came back in the house, he was silent for a long time. His mother tried to be cheerful, but the corners of her mouth drooped, and her eyes looked puffy and tired. Her dresses were always damp across the back. Marie didn’t even try to act cheerful. She snapped at everybody, and moved sluggishly through the house for most of the day. Then in late afternoon, she would disappear into her room and emerge at supper, freshly dressed and made-
PineStraw : The Art & Soul of the Sandhills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2011
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