Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [91]
Chapter 50
From his back pocket, he pulls a piece of paper.
“She has beautiful penmanship. But when the ink started to fade, I typed this up. That was probably 1954. I’ve retyped it a few times since.”
I take the piece of paper.
I read:
September 5, 1942
Dear Harry,
I’m sitting in the park where the boys play baseball. I have a bench to myself, but there are lots of people around. One nearby picnicking couple just stood up and started to sway to music coming from a speaker somewhere. The song is Moonlight Serenade by Glenn Miller, and it is making me sad.
The man is wearing a Navy uniform. I want to ask him where he’s going. I wonder if you’ll meet him, and save his life. (Could I be any more dramatic?)
I got the letter you sent to the post office. Your poem was so funny (“occasion” has two c’s). I’m sure you’re making your bunkmates laugh. They don’t expect it from you.
I’m not sure I should be writing in response.
Two nights ago, two men in uniform stopped by the house on the corner of the block. The Bensons live there. You probably never met Tommy. He went by “Stork” because of his long neck. He’s a year older than you, or he was a year older. He died crawling across a field in Italy to help an injured friend. That’s what the men in uniform told Mrs. Benson. I haven’t slept in two nights. I hope you are safe. I just know you are taking care of yourself. But I worry that you think you are invincible. I read an article that said all young men think they are invincible and immortal and that’s the reason why we send them into war. You’re different from that, maybe worse. Sometimes I think you don’t mind finding out what’s on the other side. You’re very curious and genuine about exploring the world and I mean that as the highest compliment. You were genuine and curious about discovering the real me.
Every day in the paper I recognize the names of people who have been killed.
When you shipped out, I was sure I would see you again, and I still want to believe that is the case.
I decided that I should write to you because I have something I should tell you. I don’t want you to be hurt by it. I wouldn’t ever want to hurt you. But I feel you should know everything.
I married Irving.
Irving is a good man. He’s not going to go into the war because he had his appendix removed when he was very young and the surgery could create medical problems if he were sent into combat.
He’s going to take good care of me and our family. He doesn’t like to have adventures and he doesn’t like to lose himself in the world, if that makes sense. But he has things under control. He doesn’t mind if I say the things that I think, and sometimes he doesn’t even notice exactly what I mean. I guess that’s a good thing and a bad thing. You seem to pay such close attention to me. You hear things that I don’t even realize that I’m saying, and then I realize how good it feels to be heard.
I know I shouldn’t be writing these things or even thinking these things. I feel like a harlot. But the worst part is that I don’t totally mind. I find it exciting to feel like I am alive. You make me feel that way.
I am trying to have it both ways. That is worse than being a harlot.
That’s enough sad talk. I wish they’d turn off the stupid music.
Please wear your helmet. Don’t drink water that isn’t clean. Change your undergarments! Don’t volunteer for any adventures or give any other girls secret books. I know that I am not entirely making sense, but there are things I’d like to tell you that don’t belong in this letter. Please just know that you have made a great impression on me, much bigger than you can know at this moment. You are alive inside of me.
Sincerely,
L.
I look up from the letter at Harry. He is pale, his skin pallor betraying tension beneath his unflinching demeanor.
“One time you threw up on a snake,” he says.
It’s a jarring statement and it takes me a moment to adjust to it. He’s referring to the time I was at the reptile zoo with Grandma. The curator forced me to touch a boa and I got scared and threw up.