A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul Page 15

  She pulled herself up, tall in her chair and said, "My boy Kenneth is a Marine and he is stationed at the

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  U.S. Embassy in Saigon, South Vietnam, and he's coming home in two weeks."

  I said, "I'm glad to hear he's safe and coming home. Embassy duty is good, safe duty. I'm really glad he's coming home soon."

  She looked at my short hair and out-of-date clothes and said, "Are you in the service? Were you in Vietnam too?"

  "Yes," I said. "I just got back yesterday, or maybe it was the day before. I'm a little confused by the 13-hour time change and whether it is today or yesterday or tomorrow." She and Maynard looked at me and chuckled.

  As I finished, Cindy came into the room with a tray of cups, cookies, cream, sugar and coffee. It smelled wonderful and I wanted a cup very badly. Anything to keep the atmosphere light and to keep my hands from shaking. We chatted for a little while and then Cindy said, "Well, Fred, it is a pleasure to meet you and talk to you, but I'm curious, what brings you to my house?"

  At that very instant, the front door burst open and two little girls made an entrance worthy of Loretta Young. Each took two steps into the room and then twirled around in an exaggerated way to show off their new clothes. Following them was a middle-aged woman carrying a baby.

  My presence and my mission were forgotten. We all oohed and aahed over the girls and their new clothes and told them how beautiful they were and how lucky they were to have such lovely new clothes. When the excitement wound down, the girls were settled in the dining room at a play table, and when Cindy returned, she said, "Fred, this is my mother-in-law, Florence Caldwell. Florence, this is Fred, ah-ah."

  "Pulse," I offered.

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  ''And he was just going to tell us why he is here," she added.

  I took a deep breath, reached into my pocket and said, "I don't exactly know how to begin. Several weeks ago I escaped from a P.O.W. camp in North Vietnam." I turned and looked directly into Cindy's eyes and said, "While I was a prisoner, your husband, Mark, was brought into my hooch, more dead than alive. He had been shot down while on a mission over North Vietnam and captured and brought to my camp. I did the best I could, but he was too badly wounded and we both knew he was going to die."

  Cindy brought her hand to her mouth and made a little squeaking sound, her eyes riveted to mine. Ida May and Florence both sucked in air and Maynard said, "Dear God in Heaven."

  "Mark said that if I made him a promise, he would help me escape from the prison camp. To be honest, I thought he was delirious but I promised to do whatever he asked."

  By this time we were all crying and I had to stop to collect myself. I looked at her and saw that she was seeing something far off in the distance. Her eyes glassed over and she cried into her hands. When I was able, I continued.

  "He said, 'Promise me that you will go to Texas and tell my wife, Cindy, that she is still my pin-up girl and that I was thinking of her and the girls when I died. Will you promise me that?'

  " 'Yes, Mark, I promise. I will go to Texas,' I said."He handed me this picture and his wedding ring so that you would know that I was telling the truth." I handed the ring and picture to Cindy and held her hands for a moment.

  I leaned down and removed my knife from the inside pocket of my coat and said, "He gave me this

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  survival knife, and I said, 'Thank you, Mark. I promise, somehow, I will go to Texas.

  " 'Is there anything else?' I asked.

  " 'Yes, could you hold me?' he asked. 'Just hold me. I don't want to die alone.'

  "I held him and rocked him for a long, long time. In that time, he kept repeating, 'Good-bye, Cindy, I love you and I'm sorry I won't be around to see the girls grow up.' After awhile he died peacefully in my arms.

  "I want you to know," I said, "I need you to understand, Cindy, I did everything I could, but there was just too much damage. I didn't know how to stop the bleeding, I didn't have any medical supplies, I . . ." At that I broke down completely.

  We all spent some time crying and that brought the girls into the room. They wanted to know why we were all sad and why we were crying. I looked at Cindy and we both knew that I couldn't go through this again so she said that I had some bad news but that everything would be all right soon.

  This seemed to appease them, and they went back into the dining room, but a little closer this time, and began to play.

  I needed to explain what Mark's valiant gesture had done, so I began again. "The knife Mark gave me allowed me to overpower the guards and free 12 other Americans that were in the camp. Your husband is a hero. Because of him 12 other Americans are free and I am sitting here, sitting in his chair, telling you of his death. I'm sorry, I'm so terribly sorry to have to tell you this."

  Again I began to cry, and Cindy got up from her chair and came to comfort me. She, with her great loss, was comforting me. I felt humbled and honored. She took my face in her hands and looked at me and said, "You know, there are two heroes here, my husband,

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  Mark, and you, Fred. You are a hero, too. Thank you, thank you for coming here and telling me in person. I know it took a lot for you to come here and face me and tell me my husband is dead, but you are an honorable man. You made a promise and kept it. Not many other men would have done that. Thank you."

  I sat there stunned. I didn't feel like a hero, but here I was listening to this woman, in the midst of her grief and pain, tell me I was a hero, that I was an honorable man. All I could feel was guilt and anger; guilt that I had survived and that her husband, the father of her children, was dead; and anger, an intense anger at the stupidity and callousness of war. The waste, the loss. I couldn't forgive my country or myself; yet here was a woman who had suffered an incredible loss, the loss of her husband, forgiving me, thanking me. I couldn't hear it.

  I felt incredible anger toward the government, too. Why had they not come to tell this woman about the death of her husband? Where was Mark Caldwell's body? Why was it not here, why had he not had his burial and a time of mourning? Why? Why?

  After a while, I said, "I brought Mark's body back to South Vietnam and I'm sure that the Navy will be in touch with you about his burial. I'm sorry I won't be here, but please know that I will be thinking about you. I will remember you always."

  We sat for a time and then I asked Maynard if he would mind driving me to the bus station so I could catch a bus to Dallas. I was on leave and I wanted to get very drunk and stay very drunk, for a long, long time.

  Frederick E. Pulse III

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  Remembering Ms. Murphy

  Bored with the speed and hassles of highway driving, my husband and I decided to take "the road less traveled" to the beach last summer.

  A stop in a small, nondescript town on Maryland's Eastern Shore led to an incident that will forever remain in our memory.

  It began simply enough. A traffic light turned red. As we waited for the signal to change, I glanced at a faded brick nursing home.

  Seated on a white wicker chair on the front porch was an elderly lady. Her eyes, intent upon mine, seemed to beckon, almost implore me to come to her.

  The traffic light turned green. Suddenly I blurted, "Jim, park the car around the corner."

  Taking Jim's hand, I headed toward the walkway to the nursing home. Jim stopped. "Wait a minute; we don't know anyone here." With gentle persuasion, I convinced my husband that my purpose was worthwhile.

  The lady whose magnetic gaze had drawn me to her rose from her chair and, leaning on a cane, walked slowly toward us.

  "I'm so glad you stopped," she smiled gratefully. "I prayed that you would. Have you a few minutes to sit and chat?" We followed her to a shady secluded spot on the side of the porch.

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  I was impressed by our hostess' natural beauty. She was slender, but not thin. Aside from the wrinkles at the corners of her hazel eyes, her ivory complexion was unlined, almost translucent. H
er silky silver hair was tucked back neatly into a knot.

  "Many people pass by here," she began, "especially in the summer. They peer from their car windows and see nothing more than an old building that houses old people. But you saw me; Margaret Murphy. And you took time to stop." Thoughtfully, Margaret said, "Some people believe that all old people are senile; the truth is that we're just plain lonely.'' Then, self-mockingly she said, "But we old folks do rattle on, don't we?"

  Fingering a beautiful diamond-framed oval cameo on the lace collar of her floral cotton dress, Margaret asked our names and where we were from. When I said, "Baltimore," her face brightened and her eyes sparkled. She said, "My sister, bless her soul, lived on Gorusch Avenue in Baltimore all her life."

  Excitedly I explained, "As a child, I lived just a few blocks away on Homestead Street. What was your sister's name?" Immediately, I remembered Marie Gibbons. She had been my classmate and best girlfriend. For over an hour, Margaret and I shared reminiscences of our youth.

  We were engaged in animated conversation when a nurse appeared with a glass of water and two small pink tablets. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said pleasantly, "but it's time for your medication and afternoon nap, Miss Margaret. We've got to keep that ticker ticking, you know," she said, smiling and handing Margaret the medicine. Jim and I exchanged glances.

  Without protest, Margaret swallowed the pills. "Can't I stay with my friends a few minutes longer, Miss Baxter?" Margaret asked. Kindly but firmly, the nurse refused.

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  Miss Baxter extended her arm and helped Margaret from the chair. We assured her that we would stop and see her the following week when we returned from the beach. Her unhappy expression changed to gladness. "That would be wonderful," Margaret said.

  After a sunny week, the day Jim and I left for home was cloudy and damp. The nursing home seemed especially dreary under the slate-colored clouds.

  After we waited a few minutes, Miss Baxter appeared. She handed us a small box with a letter attached. Then she held my hand as Jim read the letter:

  Dear Ones,

  These past few days have been the happiest ones in my life since Henry, my beloved husband, died two years ago. Once more, I have a family I love and who cares about me.

  Last night the doctor seemed concerned about my heart problem. However, I feel wonderful. And while I'm in this happy mood, I want to thank you for the joy you both have brought into my life.

  Beverly dear, this gift for you is the cameo brooch I wore the day we met. My husband gave it to me on our wedding day, June 30, 1939. It had belonged to his mother. Enjoy wearing it, and hope that someday it will belong to your daughters and their children. With the brooch comes my everlasting love.

  Margaret

  Three days after our visit, Margaret died peacefully in her sleep. Teardrops stained my cheeks as I held the cameo in my hands. Tenderly, I turned it over and read the inscription engraved on the sterling silver rim of the brooch: "Love is forever."

  So are memories, dear Margaret, so are memories.

  Beverly Fine

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  A Young Girl Still Dwells

  The following poem was written by a woman who worked as a nurse in the old folks' ward of Sunnyside Royal Hospital in Montrose, Scotland. It first appeared as an anonymous submission in the hospital's staff magazine. Several months later, the staff of Ashludie Hospital near Dundee, Scotland, found a hand-written copy of the poem among the possessions of an elderly patient who had recently died. The poem so impressed the staff that copies were widely distributed throughout the hospital and beyond. The poem's original author was eventually discovered. She died, at age 80, in her sleep.

  What do you see, nurse, what do you see?

  Are you thinking when you look at me

  A crabbed old woman, not very wise,

  Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes?

  Who dribbles her food and makes no reply

  When you say in a loud voice,"I do wish you'd try!"

  Who seems not to notice the things that you do,

  And forever is losing a stocking or shoe?

  Who resisting or not, lets you do as you will

  With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill?

  Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?

  Then open your eyes, nurse, you're looking at me.

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  I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still.

  As I move at your bidding, eat at your will . . .

  I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,

  Brothers and sisters who love one another;

  A young girl of sixteen with wings on her feet,

  Dreaming that soon a love she'll meet;

  A bride at twenty my heart gives a leap,

  Remembering the vows that I promised to keep;

  At twenty-five now I have young of my own

  Who need me to build a secure, happy home;

  A woman of thirty, my young now grow fast,

  Bound together with ties that should last;

  At forty, my young sons have grown up and gone,

  But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn;

  At fifty, once more babies play round my knee,

  Again we know children my loved ones and me.

  Dark days are upon me; my husband is dead,

  I look at the future, I shudder with dread.

  For my young are all rearing young of their own,

  And I think of the years and the love that I've known.

  I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel;

  'Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.

  The body it crumbles, grace and vigor depart;

  There is a stone where I once had a heart.

  But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,

  And now, again, my embittered heart swells.

  I remember the joys, I remember the pain,

  And I'm loving and living life over again,

  I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast,

  And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

  So open your eyes, nurse, open and see

  Not a crabbed old woman,

  Look closersee me!

  Phyllis McCormack

  Submitted by Ronald Dahlsten

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  A Final Goodbye

  "I am going home to Denmark, Son, and I just wanted to tell you I love you."

  In my dad's last telephone call to me, he repeated that line seven times in a half hour. I wasn't listening at the right level. I heard the words, but not the message, and certainly not their profound intent. I believed my dad would live to be over 100 years old, as my great-uncle lived to be 107 years old. I had not felt his remorse over Mom's death, understood his intense loneliness as an "empty nester," or realized most of his pals had long since light-beamed off the planet. He relentlessly requested my brothers and I create grandchildren so that he could be a devoted grandfather. I was too busy "entrepreneuring" to really listen.

  "Dad's dead," sighed my brother Brian on July 4, 1982.

  My little brother is a witty lawyer and has a humorous, quick mind. I thought he was setting me up for a joke, and I awaited the punchlinethere wasn't one. "Dad died in the bed he was born inin Rozkeldj," continued Brian. "The funeral directors are putting him in a coffin, and shipping Dad and his belongings to us by tomorrow. We need to prepare for the funeral."

  I was speechless. This isn't the way it's supposed to happen. If I knew these were to be Dad's final days, I would have asked to go with him to Denmark. I

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  believe in the hospice movement, which says: "No one should die alone." A loved one should hold your hand and comfort you as you transition from one plane of reality to another. I would have offered consolation during his final hour, if I'd been really listening, thinking and in tune with the Infinite. Dad announced his departure as best he could, and I had missed it. I felt grief, pain and remor
se. Why had I not been there for him? He'd always been there for me.