Chapter Text
Columbus, Ohio, United States
July, 1944
She looked at the telegram, which was faded in places from having been folded and refolded too many times. She did it a lot, as though she hoped that in the past five months the words on the page may have changed into something more palatable.
The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that your Son Private Reginald T. Wilkins, has been reported missing in action since Two February in Italy if further details or other information are received you will be promptly notified.
There it was: scant few details that gave her neither hope nor closure.
These five lines in a form letter was all the news she’d received of her son. Might even be all the news she ever would receive from the people who had sent him away: her young, bright, compassionate boy had never had a chance.
It had changed her: now, she was not just the widow who had to look after such a big house and two young children on her own. When Red had been drafted, it was almost more than she could bear: he’d looked so much like his father, the man for whom he was named, that having him taken away from her opened that old wound again. And with him missing in action—stuck in that limbo—meant her hope was clouded by grief, and her grief was clouded by hope.
But today she was going to leave the house. She wasn’t going to hide from the pitying looks, from the gossip, from the well-meaning offers of casseroles from mothers whose sons were spared. She wondered what the other people would see when they looked at her at in the church. Would they see a destitute widow who had lost her son a few months earlier? Or did they see a proud mother, delighted at the occasion of her only daughter’s wedding?
She was both, for they were each a part of her in their own way.
And today, at least, the happiness and pride would win out.
It was a bittersweet day for Dorothy.
It was happy—joyous, even—for her, that was true: getting married to the man she loved, in the old church. She stood outside, admiring it.
It was the church she had been going to all her life, with her mother and with her brother.
Her brother, who was probably dead.
Why, oh why hadn’t they decided to have the wedding in November, when Red got his letter?
She took a deep breath, adjusting the borrowed white dress as she prepared to go inside.
She, at least, learned from her mistakes: when the doctors had gently told her that her mother’s illness was severe, she and her fiance decided to get married the very next weekend.
As she walked down the aisle, she saw her mother’s beatific smile.
She knew she had made the right decision. She forgot her mother was ill; she forgot she was walking down the aisle alone.
She felt the love that filled the church. From her mother. From her groom. And from the faces that shone upon her with their twinkling, smiling eyes.
She felt tears of joy pricking at the edges of hers.
“Oh, I’m so glad we got it done!” Dorothy said, holding the wedding photograph close to her mother’s face so she could see it clearly.
Ida smiled. “Yes, I love how happy you both look.”
“We’ll have to get a frame for it…” She mused. “We could put it above the fireplace, next to the one of…”
Ida cast her eyes to the mantelpiece, where the last picture of her only son was. There was no use denying it anymore: he was never going to come home. She forced a smile. “That sounds wonderful.”
Dorothy followed her gaze, staring at the photo of Red in his army shirt and hat, and trying not to dwell upon the sour feeling it put into her stomach. “It will be nice to have a happy memory up there,” she added.
“He did his duty when his country called upon him. He was a brave boy, my Reginald.” Ida recited.
Dorothy chuckled, the type of hollow laugh that erupted as a respite from grief. “Mom, you and I both know he was terrified!”
“And yet he still went. Didn’t try to register as a conscientious objector or anything cowardly like that. Just hopped on the train and went off to fight the Germans!”
“You’re right. I guess he was brave, in the end.”