((Also an assignment for ENC1102. This one was worth 150 points of which I earned 247. Three points deducted for errors and one hundred bonus points for originality.
This work is done is a quasi-stream-of-consciousness, hence the peculiar style of fragments and repetition, and is based on the short story of the same title by Tim O’Brian. ))
But she had a house, four children, and she was married. Still curious. Driven by something primeval. Something not hers. Something that would not be denied. Then standing there, looking at it, she could not believe her eyes. Could not believe what she was seeing. Could not believe that after all this time, this thing — this little, tiny thing — should catch her eyes and take her breath away so completely. It made her dreams a lie. Sobs had already caught in the back of her throat. Silly sobs. After all, she hardly thought of him anymore. When she did think of him, it was in grey, neutral tones. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth considering. Her mind would quickly wander back to more familial things. But she saw a mocking sight. And she sobbed. And she remembered. And she knew her dreams a lie.
Twenty-five years. She hadn’t heard from him for twenty-five years. She thought he had finally given up his hope for her love. That’s what she told herself. That he had finally given up hope. For her love. When she would lie in bed at night caught in the twilight between thought and dreams, her mind would spiral out of control and she would comfort herself that he had finally given up his hope for her love. In the end, he knew her letters were from empathy. Not from love. That’s what she told herself. And that’s what made it all right.
She couldn’t explain it to her husband why she had to go. Couldn’t explain it to her children why she had to go. Couldn’t explain it. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t explain why she had to drop everything. Home. Four children. Marriage. Wouldn’t explain why she had to go. To go to see him, one more time. One more time after so long. Explaining it would mean her dreams were a lie. She believed them as truth. Of course she did. Why wouldn’t they be truth? She was not ready to make her dreams a lie. There was nothing to explain. There was no lie.
It wasn’t her distance that made him distant. It was the war. It wasn’t her distant distance that made him volunteer for another tour. That made him stay. The war did. The war that gave him cancer. The war that made him distant. The war that made him so distant she found her husband. A closer man. They fell in love, the closer man and she. Her life became the dream.
He never replied when she wrote to tell him that she had fallen in love. That she would marry the closer man. That she wrote from empathy, though she signed her letters, “Love.” For a time she wondered if he had received her letter. She wrote to tell him she had fallen in love and would marry the closer man. He must have received it. He must have, she said in her dreams. When she would lie in bed at night and comfort herself as her mind spiraled out of control, she would dream her dream that he received her letter. And that made it all right.
He didn’t respond. If he had responded he would have asked her how she could be engaged to a closer man after signing all her letters, “Love.” He must have felt it best, not to respond. Yes, he must have felt it best. Thinking only of her. Just like he always said. Always thinking only of her. He must have thought that she would only be upset by his response. So he approved and wished her a happy life with a house, four children, and a husband, by not responding. Of course, she would tell herself. That made perfect sense. Because he was always thinking only of her.
While she let her mind spiral out of control she would tell herself that it was all right. She had done what he would have wanted her to do. He loved her after all. It was that easy. See how he loved her? He proved it by staying distant for the war. He proved it by not responding. By staying silent. He shouted in silence for her to marry the closer man. Someone who loved the same way. Someone less distant. Love was like that, right? And he loved her. He wanted her to go in this way.
But seeing what she saw. How could she? She couldn’t tell herself it was all right. Not anymore. It made her dreams a lie. She couldn’t let her mind spin out of control and believe that he wanted her to have this life. After seeing what she saw there was nothing she could tell her children. After seeing what she saw there was nothing she could tell her husband. Nothing except that she had to come see him again. Had to see him one last time. She wrote him a letter and he did not respond. That was twenty-five years ago, remember? She wrote what she wrote which required a response. But he didn’t respond.
So, standing there in front of him, wide eyed and expectant, she saw something unbelievable. Something astonishing. Something altogether unfathomable. It would never let her mind spiral out of control, again. It would never let her think of him in grey, neutral tones, again. It would never let her mind return so quickly to more familial things, ever again. It made her dreams a lie. Seeing it, she could not help the flood of tears that came from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. Her sobs echoed off the smooth granite surfaces and seemed to her unnaturally loud in the tiny chapel.
There was a priest. He was speaking to a janitor. He was telling him that she was the first and only visitor to see First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross. Dead at forty-five. Dead from cancer. Cancer from the war. The war that made him distant. The war that gave him cancer. The war that he stayed for. Not because of her distance. He stayed for the war.
The priest said that Cross had never married and wasn’t sure who she was and why she was so upset.
Martha’s knees buckled under the weight of the things she carried.
She heard the priest tell the janitor about the thing she saw. He told him that the tiny bowl atop Cross’ flag-draped coffin held a single pebble. White with flecks of orange and violet. Oval, like an egg. Smooth and tiny.
Her pebble.
The priest said to the janitor that the pebble was supposedly from the New Jersey shore and that the pebble was rumored to have been carried for over twenty-five years in Cross’ mouth.
Her pebble. In his mouth.
A small note there next to the bowl. Four words. Haunting words. Impossible words. Words that made her dreams a lie.
“For Martha. Love, Jimmy.”
And she wept.
But she had a house. Four children. And she was married.
