The Homecoming (13 page)

He looked over at the boy on his right and noticed a gold star on a paper sticking out of a book.
Miss Fitzpatrick gives
out gold stars.
None of the teachers in his old school did that. They just wrote notes on the top of the page, red pencil if it was something bad, blue pencil if something good. Patrick decided he’d work hard to get gold stars every day. He’d bring them home and show them—

The next thought stung like a bee.

He couldn’t show his gold stars to his mom. She was still in heaven. And she would always be in heaven. He could show them to his dad, but it wouldn’t be the same. Dads didn’t make half as much fuss. Besides, Patrick knew—even if he didn’t want to think about it—the army wasn’t going to let his father stay home. So who would ever see his gold stars? Suddenly, all the kids rushed out of their desks and herded toward the door. The bell had rung. Patrick didn’t even hear it.

Shawn eyed the doorway to Patrick’s school from inside the car. The sky was dull and overcast. The temperature had dropped ten degrees since this morning. Had he sent Patrick out dressed warm enough? Elizabeth always listened to the weather report the night before. He’d have to remember that was his job now . . . at least for two more weeks.

A bigger wrestling match resumed in his mind: the big talk with Patrick. Should he lead with the news about Miss Townsend being his nanny, then slip in the part about being gone four months? Should he talk about the medal and the train tour with all the stars, then talk about Miss Townsend, and then tack on the part about being gone four months? Any way he tossed it, he still had to talk about leaving home.

His job was to make it sound like it wasn’t so bad, but it was. It could only come off sounding like it didn’t bother him. But it did, a great deal. His thoughts were interrupted by a loud bell, followed moments later by the school doors swinging open as dozens of children fled the scene.

He thought about how his dad would have handled it. He’d just say it.
I gotta leave for four months. It’s work. I
don’t have a choice. Stop crying.
It was a simple world. The world of duty. Don’t let relationships interfere.

After a few minutes, the stream of fleeing children slowed to a trickle, but still no sign of Patrick. Shawn was just about to get out of the car when Patrick finally came out. “Patrick,” Shawn yelled. “Over here.” Patrick looked down from the top of the stairs, then waved. He walked down the steps, holding on to the rail like he was told.

“Hey, buddy,” Shawn said as they connected at the base of the stairs. “You warm enough?”

“Huh?”

“Pretty cold out here.”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

Shawn put his arm around him as they walked. “What took you so long? I was starting to worry.”

“My new teacher was just talking to me a few minutes.”

“Anything wrong?”

“She was just making sure I had all the right books.”

“What’s her name?”

“Miss Fitzpatrick.”

“You like her?”

“She’s real nice. But she will punish you if you’re caught talking.”

“Were you talking?”

“Not me, another boy.”

“They gotta do that, otherwise things get out of control.”

“I know.”

Shawn opened the door for him then walked to the other side. They drove a few blocks to a drugstore on Clifton Avenue. “Thought we could get a soda together, and maybe talk a little bit.”

“What about?”

“Just stuff. About your day, what you think of your new school, then some other stuff.”

“Could I have a cherry soda?”

Shawn smiled. “Sure.”

Within a few minutes, Shawn pulled into an open parking spot near the store. He waited for a trolley to pass, then walked around to join Patrick, who’d already let himself out. They walked inside. He watched Patrick run up to the counter and hop onto one of the swivel seats. He gave it a spin, big smile as it rolled around. He was so happy. Shawn hated to spoil it. He looked around the diner area, glad it was mostly empty. Just an older couple in the corner and two teens sipping a milkshake near the door.

Less people to witness a little boy getting his heart broken . . . yet again.

“Hey, Patrick, let’s sit in one of these booths.”

Patrick spun around again. “Do we have to?”

“C’mon. Sit next to me.”

Patrick obeyed. A waitress in her mid-thirties came to their table a few minutes later. She pulled a pencil out of her hair. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”

“Just a Coca-Cola for me,” Shawn said.

“Can you put cherry in mine?” Patrick asked.

The waitress looked at Shawn, who nodded. “Nothing to eat?” she asked. “Lemme guess, too close to dinner.”

“Right,” Shawn said.

“Back in a jiff,” she said.

“So you like your new school?”

“So far, I guess. No one would play with me at recess.”

“They will, once they get to know you. Just give it a few days.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so. You had lots of friends in your old school, and all over the neighborhood on Clark Street, right?”

“I miss them.”

Shawn gave him a hug. “It’ll get better, you’ll see. Look, it’s getting better already.” The waitress set their sodas down on the table. Patrick quickly picked out his, the one with the reddish tint. He smiled as he took his first sip.

Here goes, thought Shawn.

“Guess who I talked to today?”

“Who?”

“Somebody you really like.”

“Someone I like? Billy, was it Billy?”

“No, it was an adult.”

Patrick thought hard a moment.

“She was at our Christmas dinner,” Shawn said.

“Miss Townsend?”

Shawn nodded.

“You talked to Miss Townsend? When?”

“This morning. I met with her to talk about something.”

“You did? What was it?”

“Well, the same thing I want to talk to you about too.”

Patrick looked confused.

“You drink your cherry soda and I’ll explain.” Shawn decided just to let the story come out however it came. He started with a reminder of their earlier conversation, about the army not being ready to let him stay home. Before Patrick could react, Shawn broke the news about asking Miss Townsend to be Patrick’s nanny while he was gone. He barely got the words out before Patrick shouted “Yippee!” His excitement filled the diner.

Shawn added a few more details: about him getting the medal, the train tour, being home for two more weeks, and once even slipped in the part about being gone for four months. None of these things seemed to sink in or really bother Patrick at all.

Patrick asked a number of questions, but none were about Shawn; they were all about Miss Townsend. When was she coming, where would she live, would she be taking him to school, did his grandfather really say it was okay. Overall, Patrick seemed happy and excited about the conversation. No tears, no sadness. The day was ending for him much better than it had begun.

He got Miss Townsend and a cherry Coke.

As Shawn got up to pay the bill, he realized . . . it wasn’t Patrick’s heart being broken yet again.

The house was quiet.

Shawn’s dad was downstairs sitting in his favorite chair, reading the paper and smoking a cigar. Upstairs, Patrick lay safely tucked into his bed, looking up at Shawn with sleepy eyes. It was time for his bedtime prayers. Shawn sat on the edge of the bed. He’d just finished reading a few pages from
Make Way for Ducklings
.

“You gonna make it?” Shawn asked quietly.

“I’m not sleepy.”

“You’re not? Better tell those eyes. They’re blinking pretty slow.”

Patrick forced his eyes open wide, but they just wouldn’t stay put.

“Well, let’s say your prayers.”

Patrick clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. What a beautiful boy, Shawn thought.

“Thank you, God, for my first day at school. Thank you for my new teacher being nice. Forgive me for helping that boy hurt those ants. Thank you for letting my dad pick me up at school and buying me a cherry soda.”

Shawn smiled.

“Thank you for saying yes to my prayer about Miss Townsend. I kinda knew you were gonna say no about Daddy staying home from the army. Since I can’t have Daddy, thank you for not letting me have to be all alone.”

Shawn swallowed hard as he listened.

“Tell Mommy . . . tell Mommy I think about her a lot, and tell her about Miss Townsend for me. Bless Grandpa, and thank you for making him nice again today. Please help me make some new friends at school . . . in Jesus’s name, amen.”

Shawn looked toward the dresser, saw the picture of him and Elizabeth, then looked away. Seeing that image after hearing Patrick pray . . . he was about to lose it. He stood up.

“Are you okay, Daddy?”

“Sure, son, I’m fine.”

“You didn’t say amen.”

“I’m sorry. Amen.” He leaned over and kissed Patrick on the forehead. “Good night, son.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too,” Shawn said as he walked toward the door.

“Daddy?”

Shawn turned around. “What, son?”

“Why don’t you pray after me like Mommy did?”

Why didn’t I
, Shawn thought. “Well, maybe I will tomorrow. Good night,” he said as he turned the light out.

“Good night,” Patrick said.

Shawn closed the door gently and turned toward the stairs. Was it possible? Had this whole idea about Miss Townsend come to him because of Patrick’s prayers? He sighed as he walked down the steps, realizing it certainly hadn’t happened because of his.

He knew he was avoiding God, and he knew it was because of Elizabeth. But he also knew it was not what she’d have wanted. In fact, it was the exact opposite. He could almost imagine what she’d have said, could almost see her beautiful face presenting her appeal, but before the thought formed into a sentence, he hurried down the stairs, leaving it to hover alone in the shadows of the stairway.

Nineteen

For Shawn, the next two weeks went by much too fast.

He managed to make
some
memories with Patrick: threw the ball in the backyard a few times, made two more trips to the drugstore for cherry sodas. Patrick had sat on his lap a full hour once, as Shawn read him the funnies. But most of the time had been spent dodging the press and numerous well-wishers throughout town, as his new hero status began to take hold.

The story had broken in the paper the day after Shawn told Patrick about Miss Townsend. They even included his picture. Now he couldn’t walk down the street without stopping for handshakes and pats on the back. Every aging WWI veteran in Allingdale must have told him his own war story. He’d been interviewed on the radio three times, mostly trying to downplay the adulation. No one would let him pay for a thing. Not a sandwich, a movie, not even a loaf of bread.

His dad was loving it. It actually got him out of the house a little. Every other day, he’d let somebody buy him a beer at McHale’s Tavern on the corner of Clifton and Elm. And every other night Mrs. Fortini would cook them dinner and bake a fresh pie in his honor. “I know you won’t eat right on those trains,” she’d say.

And Patrick now had plenty of friends at school, more than he knew what to do with. He said every day kids would argue over whose team got to pick him.

Everybody loves a hero.

At the moment, he walked the back roads of Allingdale toward Christ the Redeemer Church, about a half mile from his home. He wore his uniform under a civilian overcoat, trying not to draw any attention. It was just after 10:00 a.m., a bit chilly but thankfully no wind. It felt strange walking the neighborhood as an adult. During his childhood, the church stood on one of the four corners that outlined the borders of his world. It was as far as his mother allowed him to roam on his bike.

Yesterday he’d called the number on a card given to him by his former pastor, Jonathan Barnes, when they’d bumped into each other at Penn State two weeks ago. Shawn couldn’t hide his grief from the discerning pastor, and after a brief but encouraging conversation, Pastor Barnes recommended this man and this church to Shawn, since it was so close to his father’s home.

He read the name on the card again, to make sure he got it right.
Pastor Donald Harman.
When Shawn called, he said he’d just wanted to introduce himself, set things up for Patrick and Miss Townsend while he was gone. He really didn’t want to talk about Elizabeth.

He turned the final corner, and the church came into view. He didn’t remember it looking so small. It was surrounded by mature elms and firs. The shingles on the steep roof were stained with age. To the left of the arched front doors, a thick bell tower rose to match the height of the trees. The walls and bell tower were covered with a dull gray fieldstone. As he drew near, it was obvious the property was clean and well maintained. A date, 1891, was etched in the cornerstone. Near the sidewalk, a church sign announced Pastor Harman’s last sermon title, or maybe it was this Sunday’s: “Our Times Are in Your Hands.”

Shawn realized he wouldn’t be there this Sunday or any Sunday for the next four months. He was leaving tomorrow for Boston.

“Can I help you?”

Shawn looked up and saw a short elderly man coming out a side doorway.

“You can go in to pray if you’d like,” the man said. “Church isn’t locked.”

“Thanks,” said Shawn. “But I’m here to see Pastor Harman. I have an appointment at 10:15.”

“Was it here or at the parsonage? That’s about three houses down on the right.”

“I’m pretty sure it was here. Is there an office?”

“Round the other side. Can’t miss it. Just follow the walkway. Dark brown door. Got a sign right on it.”

“Thank you.” Shawn started to walk around the front steps toward the other side.

“Aren’t you . . . aren’t you that officer been in the news lately? The one getting that big medal?”

Shawn sighed. “Yes.”

“An honor, young man. Lost my boy last year over France, a gunner on a B-24.”

“No, the honor is mine,” Shawn said. He walked over to shake his hand. “What was his name?”

“Jimmy . . . James. Jimmy’s what we called him. My name’s John Rigley, take care of the place.”