LOVE LETTERS: A PARABLE George and Carolyn met the weekend before he shipped out to North Africa in 1942. They had known each other all of four days when he popped the question. She didnt take any time to think it over. There wasnt any need. They rousted the justice of the peace at midnight, and by dawn they knew each other physically as well as they ever would. She liked the way he slept after, his face peaceful and innocent in a way that belied all he had seen and done in his 28 years. There was a lot to learn about this man, she thought, and all the time in the world to learn it, so long as he came home alive in the end. But on Thursday morning, the third day of their marriage, George left Carolyn, as she knew he must. He promised to write her every week, more if he could manage, and it was a promise he mostly kept. At first a lot of his letters came back redacted by the nameless, faceless Army censors, big, black strokes blotting out sensitive information, or in some cases physical cuts reducing the paper to a tattered, pencil-smeared doily. But the key words always made it through. Darling. Kitten. My dearest bride. Carolyn. But as George settled into his responsibilities, the letters became less about his immediate circumstances—his job was building airfields some distance behind the front lines, nothing to get too excited over—and more about George himself. His folks. His brothers. His home town. The kids in his high school. Fleeting mentions of the girl who first broke his heart, and the second. How much he liked Bing Crosby. How much he hated Rudy Vallée. How much he liked Bob Hope. How much he and the guys all liked Axis Sally, in spite of it all. How much he liked John Wayne, and why didnt that guy join up, like Gene Autry did? At first, Carolyn lived for these letters, these fleeting points of connection with the soul of the man to whom she had bound herself. But as they began to come with more frequency and with greater depth of detail, she found herself less and less interested in the things they had to say. So he didnt much care for Brussels sprouts. Big deal. He was ambivalent toward his mother. A good man ought to worship his mother, Carolyn thought, no question. He had to work hard to find respect for his dad. The old guy was always chasing after some scheme to get rich, but never sticking to it, never seeing it through. A good man ought to respect his father, Carolyn told herself, but maybe George had his reasons, at that. His youngest brother ran with a rough crowd, but George had never bothered taking him aside to put a stop to it. He needs to learn for himself, George said, maybe the hard way. Its the only way that kids ever gonna learn. And Carolyns job, in the typing pool. That was all well and good enough for now, George said, but after the war wouldnt she really rather settle down to being a mother and keeping house? Carolyn read his letters when they came, she sure did. And then she tucked them away, bound with string in a little Bakelite box she kept on her dresser, a souvenir of the New York Worlds Fair from when she was still a girl. But more and more she found herself instead gazing at Georges picture, the only one she had of him. He was smiling in that silver-toned image like some movie star, gorgeous in his crisp dress uniform. As she lost herself in these nightly reveries, she began to spin a man more to her liking. Her George loved his mother. Her George respected his father. Her George took a firm hand with his brother, and ran those lowlife friends off yelping like foxes. He liked Bing Crosby, yes, but he didnt much mind Rudy Vallée, her favorite. And John Wayne and Gene Autry never entered into things at all. Her George liked Ronald Coleman and Cary Grant, as she did, and that was that. And when her George came home—when, not if—he would be only too happy to let her have her own job, her own money, her own time, her own freedom. Sure, they might have a baby, when the time was right. But that was for later. When her George came home, there was so much else to see, to do, to think about. Like his job, for one thing. Yes, her George was quite a go-getter. Why, he could get on with her father at the bank, and in six months—no, make that three—the board would see what a fine man theyd got themselves, and promote him to branch manager—her father having graciously and conveniently retired, you see—and then theyd have every good thing a young couple could dream of, Carolyn and her George. A new car. Theyd be making them again, you know, once the war was over. Furniture. An icebox. A new radio. Ooh, maybe one of those new television thingies they talked about sometimes in the magazines and in the newsreels. And certainly a house. But not a house in old, stuffy Briarwood, even if that was the neighborhood where all the best people lived. No, theyd have one of those sleek, all-modern tract houses shed heard would be going up out past the new highway, west of downtown. Yes, her George loomed very large in her imagination. Big, smiling, movie star handsome George. George of the big arms, the big chest, the big dreams, the big future. The letters kept coming. Carolyn glanced them over, dutifully. They stayed in almost mint condition, sealed in that little Bakelite box with its Trylon and its Perisphere. There must have been a hundred. Time passed. The war wound its course. With May came victory, in Europe anyway, and with that came word that George, like so many others, thank God, would soon be coming home. She was there to meet him at the train, you bet she was. She was wearing the very latest spring fashions—of 1942!—and she hoped he wouldnt notice the faint smell of mothballs and all the small tears in her nylons she hadnt had a chance to fix. He didnt. All he wanted to see was her eyes, her smiling brown eyes. They kissed. He didnt pick up on it, but Carolyn was taken aback that this George was smaller than she had remembered. Tall, yes, but not as muscular somehow, not as broad in the shoulders. Hadnt the Army been feeding this man? Baby, whats for supper? Im starved. I think I could even handle some Brussels sprouts, if thats whats on offer. Brussels sprouts? She looked at him blankly. Oh, yes, Brussels sprouts. She dimly remembered his mentioning one time in a letter that he didnt much care for Brussels sprouts. He clutched her white-gloved hand, leading her in great, buoyant strides away from the train and all the other disembarking fighting men back from abroad. My pal Charlie thinks he can get me on with his old man, George said. Driving a truck at first, I think. But he says theyve got a lot of room to grow, down there in Russellville. Businessll really be picking up, now that so many are coming back. He looked down at Carolyn. She was struggling to remember something. Charlie, he repeated brightly. You remember Charlie, dont you? The one I told you about? His old mans been supplying concrete to the government these last three years, and now theyre moving into building supply. Theyre gonna need a lot of that these next few years, what with all the houses and roads and… He looked at her again. A good, long, hard look this time. She shrank briefly from his gaze, then made herself look up at him. She couldnt help but smile. He was still handsome. That much hadnt changed. Youre not the man I thought, she said. It just sort of popped out. She wasnt sure she could explain it, but she was damn sure she couldnt take it back. She waited to see if that was going to matter. I guess Im not at that, he answered thoughtfully, mustering a smile. He squeezed her white-gloved hand. Now, come on, baby. Whats for supper? He still loved her. He was still her husband, her fine, fine husband. Now they had all the time in the world to really get to know one another.
Posted on: Fri, 25 Jul 2014 06:38:44 +0000