Warnings: Period-relevant racism, WWII, PTSD, foul language, character death, and gratuitous use of the Girl Scouts of America. Slice-of-Life, human names, FACES(eychelles) family.
All standard disclaimers apply.
000
"Heroism is endurance for one moment more.""
- George F. Kennan
000
The year was 1955, and the house had been old for a very long time. On windy nights houses all the way across the street could hear the dark green shutters clattering against their frames, and on rainy days the curtains were thrown wide open and occasionally figures could be seen moving about. On sunny days, half of the curtains were drawn completely, but on summer days the windows would be strategically opened and closed throughout the day to catch the breeze.
The house was neither haunted nor old, but it was an eerie place to be around. Most of the children avoided it for the simple fact that it was unappealing and there were better yards to invade than the weed infested flowerbed— most children avoided it, that is, except for the Girl Scouts of America.
"Je n'aime pas," the boy said, shifting uneasily. He was a young white boy of about seven or eight with a stock of messy blond hair and bright blue eyes. He was still in his school clothing as it was just a little after three in March— and nippy still, as well. A blue knitted scarf was wrapped around his neck and a wrinkled oxford far too thin for the weather.
"Shh," the girl said, "I just rang the doorbell!"
She stood just in front of the boy, a black girl of about his same age. Her hair was done up in pigtails tied with red ribbons. Her dress was a lovely baby blue with simple lace around the edges and she wore her gray-green badge-speckled Girl Scout vest over top of it. She shivered in the March chill, but smiled widely nonetheless when the door to the rickety house opened.
The man who opened the door seemed much taller than he was. His face was round; his dark blond hair was unruly. His clothes were flat gray and boring, and he leaned on a mahogany cane while scowling down at the children on his doorstep.
"Yes?" the man said. His voice was heavily accented with something the children couldn't quite name, but it sounded distinctly English. "Can I helpyou?"
The girl continued to smile. "Hello! I'm Michelle Michaels, and my Girl Scout troop is selling cookies. Would you like to buy any? We have," she paused to glance at the folded up paper her hand, "sandwhich, shortbread and chocolate mint." She looked back up at the man with a toothy smile.
The man looked them over, large eyebrows creased as though he were trying to figure something out. Finally, he said, "And I suppose this young lad here is also part of the Girl Scouts?"
"No," the boy said. He crossed his arms and scowled. "I'm no ah gihl."
The man said, "No, by the sound of it you're a frog."
The girl, Michelle, slowly began to lose her smile. "We just want to sell cookies. Don't you want some?" A sudden gust of wind struck up, and she shivered as she held down her skirts.
There was a lull as the man looked over them again. A car full of beatniks drove by and the man managed to give the vehicle a disapproving look before turning back to the children. "…I'll think about it. Are you two going house to house?"
The little girl nodded, the boy less enthusiastically so.
"In this wind?"
"Yes," Michelle said.
"You aren't wearing a scarf and he hasn't got a hat."
"It's not thatcold," she said.
The boy hissed, "Yes eet is," and hugged his arms around himself tighter.
The man rolled his eyes and limped away from the doorframe, leaning heavily on his cane. "Well get in you two. I'll get you some tea before you go prancing about the neighborhood hardly dressed."
The two shuffled into the man's house. It was much warmer inside, though it was large and very empty. The hall they entered had nothing in it besides a coat rack, an umbrella stand, and several impersonal oil portraits of people the children didn't recognize on the wall.
The man led them down the hallway and into an equally large and empty kitchen. It was directly connected to a den, where a fire was stoked and left the room just slightly smoky.
"Settle down, then. Take a seat. No feet on the furniture," the man said. He hobbled around the kitchen, nearly dropping his cane twice before he managed to put on a kettle of boiling water. Once the water was on and the children were seated in two old, wooden chairs which looked as though they hadn't held occupants in several years, the man turned to them once more.
"Now, what were your names again?"
"Michelle Michaels," the girl said.
"Alfred F. J. Bonnefoy," the boy said. The old man stilled before looking Alfred up and down, as though he were comparing the size of the name to the boy's physical stature.
"Well, Alfred, Michelle, I'm Arthur Kirkland. Now do you like honey or sugar?"
"Honey," said Alfred.
"Sugar," said Michelle.
"Thank you," they both said once they had the hot drink firmly in their hands.
They sipped their tea and warmed up in relative silence, as the house warmed their bones. It couldn't have been twenty minutes later before the tea was finished and Mr. Kirkland had ordered box each of chocolate mints and sandwich cookies, and the children were once again preparing to brave the nipping March air.
"Now go on home and get something warmer to wear before you catch your deaths of cold," Mr. Kirkland said as he opened the door for them.
Alfred had spent most of the time within the house hunched over his tea sipping it, but quite suddenly, he straightened up as though shocked. "You can't catch death of cold," he said.
"Don't be silly boy, of course you can," Mr. Kirkland said.
"No you can't," the boy said.
"Yes," said Mr. Kirkland, who began to smile a terribly crooked smile. "In fact, I've known quite a few people who died of cold. Why, I watched them freeze myself. It was quite terrible, but unfortunately rather common as I've been told. Especially among naughty children who don't wear enough clothing."
Alfred burst into tears.
000
Alfred's brother, Michelle explained as Mr. Kirkland hoisted the inconsolable child over his shoulder, was sick with the flu.
Mr. Kirkland said words that made Michelle cover her ears soon after, but then proceeded hobbled down the street on his cane with Alfred held snug in one arm.
Michelle led him to an apartment house. It went several floors up, and the streets in front of it had trash strewn about. There was a flower bed that had been attended just enough for a few greens to be poking up, and a bicycle rack was mounted on the left of the front steps. Mr. Kirkland grunted with each step he took on the stairs to get in, and when Michelle explained Alfred's home was on the third floor, he sighed and hobbled on up those stairs, too.
Michelle didn't bother knocking when they reached the door. She barged straight into the house, shouting what sounded like, "Mr. Bon-fwah, Mr. Bon-fwah, Al won't stop crying!"
(By that time, Alfred had stopped except for sniffling and wiping his nose on Mr. Kirkland's shoulder, rubbing his eyes and muttering "I'm no crying…" )
Not long after Michelle's shout, a tall, gaunt man appeared. His hair was long, curling, and the same color of gold as the boy clinging to Mr. Kirkland's shoulder. His eyes were the same shade of blue.
"Alfred?" the man said, hurrying towards them.
Mr. Kirkland set the boy down. Alfred stumbled a moment, but quickly picked himself up and ran towards the gaunt man's legs and clung to them.
"Qui est-ce homme?"
"Il habite sous la rue Mulberry. Je pense il est mechant, mais un peu sympa aussi… Où est Matthieu?" The boy muttered into the man's legs.
The man ruffled Alfred's hair and muttered something in French before extending his hand to Mr. Kirkland.
"My name is François Bonnefoy," he said. "Thank you for bringing Alfred home."
"It wasn't a problem at all," Mr. Kirkland said, stiffly shaking Mr. Bonnefoy's hand. "I just invited them in for a spot of tea since it was so cold out and I'm afraid I may have hit a sore spot when speaking about the recent chill?
"Ah, yes, his brother—" Mr. Bonnefoy began, but was cut off when a small voice from down the hall made Alfred squeak rather loudly.
"Frére?"
The voice was high-pitched and sounded horribly strained, as though its owner had a terribly sore throat.
Alfred released his father's legs and dashed down the hall to the owner of the voice. Mr. Kirkland peered around Mr. Bonnefoy to see. The little boy at the end of the hall had Alfred's same height, face, and hair color. He held a teddy bear in his arms and was dressed in a white nightgown. Aside from their attire and the deep circles around the pajama-clad boy's eyes, they were identical. Michelle stood beside the two, waving her arms and chattering.
Mr. Kirkland swallowed and looked embarrassed when he found it had been audible.
"Sorry," he said. "Are they twins?"
"They are," said Mr. Bonnefoy. "But Matthieu has been ill, so Alfred has been worried about him."
"How long has he been ill for?" Mr. Kirkland asked. "Michelle made it sound like may have been quite some time."
"Almost two weeks," Mr. Bonnefoy said. While Mr. Kirkland looked started, Mr. Bonnefoy's face remained impassive.
"My word, you should get him to a hospital, if that's the case." Mr. Kirkland said.
"There's no money for a hospital," Mr. Bonnefoy said.
"Oh," said Mr. Kirkland. "Dear."
000
The doctor prescribed at least an overnight stay in the hospital, bed rest, and penicillin for the boy called Matthew Bonnefoy, who according to the clipboard on the foot of his bed, had pneumonia.
"He should pull through," the doctor said cheerfully, "Twenty years ago he'd have no chance in this town, but since the war ended there's been plenty of penicillin. You don't have to worry about a thing."
When the door was closed and the two adults were exiled to the hall, Mr. Bonnefoy turned to Mr. Kirkland and said, "I think you may be insane and an Englishman, but thank you. Very much."
"You're welcome, frog. Trust me, I was ignoring your nationality when I decided to pay for this." Mr. Kirkland nodded curtly. "It was purely for the children."
"I understand."
They stood beside each other in silence for a while.
"My family had a set of twins as well," Mr. Kirkland said again after a long moment.
"Oh," said Mr. Bonnefoy, "Siblings of yours?"
"Yes, brothers. One of them got shot up in Northern Ireland. The other committed suicide not long after. No one really had to guess why, so, ah. Yes. Well. You understand."
"Ah," Mr. Bonnefoy said, nodding, "I do."
000
Three days later, Mr. Kirkland heard a knock at his door. He hobbled through three different rooms before arriving in the front hall to open it.
"Hello!" Michelle chirruped, "I'm Michelle Michaels from the Girl Scouts of America. Would you—"
"—But I'm no ah girl scout," Alfred said.
"—like to buy some cookies? We have," she checked a folded piece of paper, "Shortbread, sandwich and chocolate mint."
Mr. Kirkland sighed. "Come in and tell me how your brother's doing. I'll get you some tea."
He did.
000
Three months later, when the children hadn't quite officially turned eight, Matthew arrived on the doorstep alongside Alfred and Michelle. Up close Mr. Kirkland could see he was indeed nearly identical to his brother, though his hair was just slightly longer with a hint more curl to it, and his eyes were just a few shades darker of a blue. His cheeks were sunken in and he seemed to still be weak from his long illness, but he smiled with a mouth half-full of teeth when Mr. Kirkland opened the door and said, "Thank you for savin' my life, Mr. Kirkland. Here, I made this for y-you."
He held out a small tin filled to the brim with sugar cookies decorated with multicolored frosting, oatmeal raisin cookies with unbroken chunks brown sugar left in, and Dutch chocolate cookies mixed with of chocolate chunks.
Mr. Kirkland stared down at the tin. "I think I'll be needing a little help eating all of these," he said. "Tea?"
"Milk," Alfred said. "Cookies and milk," and he grinned.
Arthur hobbled back into the house on his cane as the three swarmed about him, chattering away happily.
"Daddy did th' cookin' and th' frostin' but Ihelped with th' dough and picked out th' colors," Matthew said over the rim of his milk cup.
"Well they're delicious and very pretty," Mr. Kirkland said. The boy smiled toothily again.
"Papa used to be ina bakery before the war. So his cookin's um, um… delly-shush!" Alfred said, munching through his third chocolate cookie.
Mr. Kirkland hummed, "How long has he been here for? The States, I mean. His English is grudgingly good."
("Qu'est-ce que 'grudgingly good'?" Alfred whispered to Matthew.
"Je ne sais pas," Matthew replied, shrugging. )
"Uhh," Alfred said. "I think 'e's been here since ah little before he had us?"
Mr. Kirkland snorted. "So he spent the war in the States, then?"
Alfred shook his head. "No. Papa was in tha war," he grinned, "He and Maman were fighting the bad guys in Frahnce."
Matthew elbowed his twin abruptly and added, "But it's a see-cretso you can't tell!"
Mr. Kirkland raised and eyebrow and lowered his voice to whisper with the children, "Why is it a secret?"
Alfred spoke before his brother could hush him, "'Cause he cut the cord for th' ellyvaders on th' Tour Eiffel and the bad guys're still mad at 'im," he giggled. Michelle giggled with him while Matthew covered his face in his hands and bemoaned their other's loose lips.
Mr. Kirkland leaned back in his chair with his large eyebrows still raised into his hairline and observed the children. "Did I ever tell you I was in the war too?" he said after a moment.
The three were once again immediately at attention, all shaking their heads in a negative.
"Well, I was," he said. "That's why I've got this," he lifted up his cane. "And do you know what else? If it weren't for this blasted thing I'd have been right there in Berlin blasting Krauts with the rest of my unit. Instead I was in a hospital bed throughout all of VE-Day. Worst day to be in the hospital, I tell you. There were parties in the streets and I was stuck just watching everyone else have fun without me."
He snorted and stuffed another cookie into his mouth.
000
Sometime in September, Alfred showed up on Mr. Kirkland's front porch with a black eye, a split lip and a little, pink, paper card in his fingers.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" Mr. Kirkland said.
"I got kicked out for t'day," Alfred said. "An' I donwanna go home just yet 'cause Papa's busy working an' he'll get mad at me."
"Why were you sent home for the day?"
"I punched ah kid," he said.
"Why?"
"Because he said Matthew and I talked like morons and said we hung out with trash so he said we were too 'cause of that," he said. "And then I punched him."
"How many times did you hit him, Alfred?"
"I think…" the boy cringed, "Ten? An' then I fell over an' the teacher picked 'im up."
Mr. Kirkland regarded the boy for a moment. "Well, get out. We're going to the market. This calls for cake."
"Huh?"
"You punched a right prick. Whether your father approves or not, I'm going to buy you a slice of cake, because Idamn well approve of punching slimy gits when they're due for it."
Alfred rode in the front seat of Mr. Kirkland's automobile all the way downtown and ate a slice of lemon pound cake.
"And this is our little secret, all right?" Mr. Kirkland said as he nibbled on a slice of his own.
Alfred nodded but didn't respond verbally. He was too busy happily chewing, confident he could still be home with his note before the end of the school day and that his Papa wouldn't suspect a thing.
000
On Christmas Eve of the year Alfred, Matthew and Michelle would turn nine, Mr. Bonnefoy sat by the fire with Mr. Kirkland in the large, not-as-empty house. They sipped tea while they waited for the clock to turn twelve and the children to run downstairs and see if they could catch St. Nicolas in the act— "They try every year," Mr. Bonnefoy had explained, "at exactly twelve. So I just wait until they're back to bed to set things out." which became the plan for the evening. Then, once the children were in bed again and the presents were set out, Mr. Bonnefoy and Mr. Kirkland would have a nightcap and turn in themselves. The children hadn't shown up just yet, though, as it was still a few ticks to midnight.
"Thank you for letting us have Christmas here this year," Mr. Bonnefoy said over his glass.
"It's no trouble," said Mr. Kirkland. "I enjoy company." He took another sip of brandy. Mr. Bonnefoy mirrored him.
They sit in silence for a short while.
"If you don't mind me asking," Mr. Kirkland said, "which is more difficult? Spying for the Resistance or raising children?"
"Raising children," Mr. Bonnefoy answered immediately. "It is far more frightening."
The grandfather clock in the hall began to toll. There was a clatter at the top of the stairs and a shout from one of the twins— most likely Alfred— "Saint Nicolas, issat you?" and a patter of little feet across the wooden floors.
Mr. Bonnefoy and Mr. Kirkland sent the children off to bed once more, set out the presents and drank their final nightcap before going to bed as well.
000
The TV reported that Martin Luther King and E. D. Nixon's houses were bombed.
Michelle cried as Alfred and Matthew cuddled around her and promised they wouldn't let anything like that happen to her, because their house was her house and Alfred would punch anyone who said otherwise until he got sent home from school again.
"She wants to be Jo Ann Robinson when she grows up," Mr. Bonnefoy said as he sipped a glass of whiskey. Mr. Kirkland swore it came straight from Scotland.
"One of my brothers, one of the twins, you see, he'd send me over a whole case for each holiday. The whole family's got an estate back in Lancaster. Our mum's the only one there now— crazy witch, used to cane us for any little thing. My other brother is watching over her now, lived in Wales until the twins died. He sends me cases still since she shouldn't be drinking, but she keeps buying all the bloody liquor she can find."
"Were your brothers in the war, too?"
Mr. Kirkland shrugged, downed the rest of his glass and poured himself another. "The twins were involved with the IRA somehow. Never quite found out how. Heard one of them had a kid. Never met her. But they weren't called in for the war, no. Other one, the Welsh bastard, I think he might have worked in supply. We got into a scuffle when we were sixteen and I nearly drowned him. He's been keen on avoiding me ever since. I'm not really sure what he was up to. Ifought."
"I know."
"D-Day. Mud up to my arsehole. Got all the way up the cliffs and halfway to Paris before I got shot. Right through my knee. Hurt like a bitch." He drank the rest of his glass.
Mr. Bonnefoy turned to the children. "I'm going to get Mr. Kirkland to bed before he teaches you all anymore naughty words. Why don't you all watch Lassie instead?"
None of the children moved to turn off the news. Mr. Bonnefoy lifted Mr. Kirkland by the arm on the same side as his bad knee, and helped him walked to the back of the house where the ground-floor master bedroom was.
There were dirty magazines on the floor and liquor bottles in the bathroom. The light bulb flickered and its casting still left the room dim.
"Do you ever clean?"
"Katya comes by each Wednesday," Mr. Kirkland said, leaning heavily against Mr. Bonnefoy before finally flopping backwards onto the bed. "Beautiful woman. Too bad she's shy. Big, b-buh-big beautiful woman." He laughed.
"Mmhmm," Mr. Bonnefoy said, adjusting Mr. Kirkland so that he was lying on his side. "I'm sure."
"Where's yer wife?"
Mr. Bonnefoy blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Yer wife," Mr. Kirkland said, "Howwazzer breasts? Kids' mum?"
Mr. Bonnefoy's face was impassable. He said, "She died in her sleep a few years after the boys were born."
"Oh," Mr. Kirkland said, "Horri-ribble. She pretty?"
"Beautiful," Mr. Bonnefoy said. "Now it's time for you to go to sleep."
"'M wide awake," Mr. Kirkland said.
"Too bad."
Mr. Bonnefoy returned to the den where the children were still huddled around the television. He polished off the rest of the bottle as they watched Lassie, Jeff and Porky train the red-tailed hawk.
000
"I killed her," Two months had passed, and Mr. Bonnefoy was drunk on Mr. Kirkland's antique living room table. The children were in school and it was 365 days and twenty hours to the minute Alfred and Michelle had first arrived on Mr. Kirkland's doorstep trying to sell cookies. "I have night terrors. She tried to wake me and I knocked her head. Hard. Badly. I told them she fell down the stairs. I-I think I'm going to puke—"
Mr. Kirkland had discovered the chocolate mints went well with his favorite tea, and bought twenty boxes worth from Michelle that afternoon.
000
Alfred was twelve in 1960, leaning on the counter and helped chew through the first few boxes of chocolate mint cookies. He'd lost his accent over the past five years and nearly his entire childhood grasp of French had vanished, much to his father's chagrin. He was alone in the big house with Mr. Kirkland because Matthew was being responsible and doing his homework while Michelle was running errands for her mother— he explained it all with a roll of his eyes as he bit into the fifth mint of the third box.
"Mr. Kirkland," he said, "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course. What is it, lad?" Mr. Kirkland stirred his tea and poured a pot of it. Alfred wasn't as fond of tea as he had been in his youth— only in winter, he said. And only after all the hot chocolate and coffee had run out, first. Instead, he sat with a glass of milk in front of him while he nibbled on his cookie.
"Do you have nightmares?"
Mr. Kirkland had just raised his cup to his lips, but instead set it back down on the table. "Sorry?"
"Nightmares," Alfred said. "Because I slept over at Peter's house— Mr. Oxenstierna's son, he lives down the street on Tin Road. Well, I was sleeping over there, right? And usually I wake up in the middle of the night because Papa's so loud. So I woke up in the middle of the night and Mr. Oxenstierna wasn't making a sound, so I woke Peter up and said we should probably check on his dad to make sure he was okay, because Papa's only really quiet when it's bad enough that he woke himself up, but Peter said that his dad's never woken him up with screaming or bad dreams or anything." Alfred paused for a beat. "Is that weird?"
Mr. Kirkland fingered his saucer and stared at the dark liquid in his cup. "Well, Alfred," he said. "Your father is just different from Peter's father. That's all."
"Oh," Alfred said, clearly unsatisfied. He downed half the cup of milk in one gulp and was left with a white foamy mustache on his lip. "Do you have nightmares?"
"Sometimes." Mr. Kirkland said.
"What're they about?" the boy asked. "Are they about the war?"
"Some of them."
"Can you tell me about them?"
"Would you tell someone about your father's dreams?"
Alfred paused for a moment and thought. "I'd tell youabout them," he said. "'Cause you're a hero like he is. And I'm gonna be a hero when I grow up, too, just like both of you. So are Mattie and Michelle. She's gonna be a doctor and Mattie's gonna be a zookeeper."
Mr. Kirkland snorted into his tea. "A zookeeper."
Alfred nodded. "Yeah. He's gonna stop all the wild animals from eating people."
Mr. Kirkland doubled over laughing until he fell on the floor and couldn't get up. When he asked Alfred for help, Alfred threw one of the empty cookie boxes at his head. Then they both laughed and rolled on the floor together.
000
"I dream about machine gun nests, usually."
Alfred looked away from the sweet shop's window. Mr. Kirkland was waking him home from the big empty house, and while he'd managed to stop Alfred from entering the shop and feeding his ever-growing sweet tooth he couldn't forbid the boy from looking through the windows.
"You asked what my dreams were about earlier today," Mr. Kirkland said. "I dream about machine gun nests. One in particular. In France, a little after D-Day. I climbed into a German machine gun nest that had already been hit, but there was a kraut laying there. I didn't know if he was alive or not. So I shot him. That's usually what I dream about."
Alfred scuffed his shoes on the sidewalk. "Oh."
They slowly turned another street block. Mr. Kirkland's cane tapping on the concrete was the only sound between them until they reached the stop sign. "Do you know what your father dreams about?"
Alfred nodded. "He dreams about the time they caught him."
"The Nazis?"
Alfred nodded again. "Yeah. That's what he dreams about."
000
"Can I have a sleepover?" Matthew asked over dinner. He was thirteen and waiting for lunch one hot summer afternoon in 1961.
"Who would you be going with?" Mr. Bonnefoy asked while leaning over the stovetop.
"Ludwig and Gilbert. They go to our school and Gilbert's in our class. I think you've seen him once or twice, he's the one who has to wear those dark glasses and heavy coats year round because he has a skin problem— "
Alfred spoke up. "Mattie, they're German."
Mr. Bonnefoy paused in his cooking.
"I'm afraid I'll have to meet their parents before I let you visit them alone, Matthieu," Mr. Bonnefoy said after a long moment.
"But Papa," Matthew said. "They haven't got parents. They live with their uncle. Their parents died in the war."
"If their parents died in the war, they would have been a good few years older than the both of you—"
"Their parents died after, 'causeof the war, then," Matthew said. "That's what they told me. Ludwig cried. They aren't lying!"
"I'm still going to be having a word with their uncle before I let you go," Mr. Bonnefoy said.
From across the table, Alfred nodded and buried his face in a 25¢ Adventure Comics he'd bought out on the corner, and snorted disdainfully.
"I don't think they're bad people just 'cause they're German," Matthew said. No one answered him.
000
In '63, President Kennedy was assassinated.
Alfred, Matthew and Michelle all once again crowded around the television in Mr. Kirkland's living room. Mr. Bonnefoy was silent, once again sipping a whisky this time smoking a cigarette. Mr. Kirkland muttered 'Mordred' under his breathe and massaged his bad knee in between complaining of its aches.
Several months later, The Beatles came to put on a concert nearby, and Mr. Kirkland managed to fit the three Bonnefoys and the Michael girl into his motorcar— which was beginning to get on in years— and drove them out to hear. Over the next three years, Alfred convinced Mr. Kirkland to drive him to five more concerts and buy three different albums.
It was in 1966 that Mr. Kirkland didn't drive him to any more concerts or buy anymore albums.
It was in the summer of1966 that Alfred and Matthew would turn eighteen, and with four months to spare, Mr. Bonnefoy appeared on the steps of Mr. Kirkland's house one March evening.
"I wanted to thank you for everything you've done for us over the years," he said, and handed Mr. Kirkland a large tin of cookies. "But my sons are going to be drafted soon. They've just been to the doctor and there's nothing that the army would turn down, so we haven't got much choice. We're moving to Canada. I thought you should be the first to know."
Mr. Kirkland was silent. For a few long minutes, he said nothing. Then, "Thank you for keeping me company."
"The children will miss you."
"I'll miss them as well."
"I just don't want them in a war."
"I," Mr. Kirkland cleared his throat. "I understand perfectly."
There was another moment of silence between them.
"Are we cowards?" Mr. Bonnefoy asked at length. "Shellshocked? Weak?"
"All the people saying they're righteous brave bastards are either mad bastards or lying bastards— in my humble opinion." said Mr. Kirkland.
Mr. Bonnefoy laughed a short, barking laugh. "Such a humble opinion."
"Only the humblest," Mr. Kirkland said. "Can I at least pressure some alcohol on you before you go?"
"I wouldn't object at all."
That evening, they drank until they both puked all over the expensive Turkish rug. The next morning they showered, and the Bonnefoys headed north to the border.
000
Four months later, there was a knock on the door.
The breath left Mr. Kirkland's lungs in one go, as though he'd been knocked back against the rock cliffs hard enough to knock the wind out of him. As though it were his first time firing a gun and he first realized how easily he could take a life.
Alfred smiled at him from the other side of the doorframe, all pearly teeth and height. He'd outgrown his father some time ago. Matthew had as well, but with his personality Alfred seemed taller than Matthew, even when they were almost exactly the same height.
"Alfred," Mr. Kirkland said. "What are you doing here? You're—you're supposed to be in Canada."
"I came back," Alfred said with a grin. "I want to join the army. But since Papa and Matt are against it I had to go there first and then run away to get into the U.S. again. Do you think you can put me up for a few days while I register? I'd ask the Michaels, but I don't wanna impose. So can I stay for a week or so?"
Mr. Kirkland opened and closed his mouth soundlessly for a moment. The cane in his hand began to shake and his eyes felt very wide. His face had grown wrinkled over the years, but as he looked at Alfred in the doorframe for what couldn't have been more than half a minute, he seemed to develop a hundred more.
"Yes," he said finally. "Of course. Come in. I'll get you some tea."
Alfred came in and requested milk instead, and some Girl Scout cookies if there happened to be any available.
Of course, there were, and Mr. Kirkland sat him down with a box full and they chatted the evening away cordially.
"I just want to help people and serve my country," Alfred said midway though the night. "I don't care if I came from France. I'm an American, this is my duty, and anyway, I told you when I was little I wanted to be a soldier. This can't be that big of a shock."
"No," Mr. Kirkland said. "You told me Michelle wanted to be a doctor and Matthew was going to be a zookeeper."
"I told you I wanted to be a hero."
"There are many other ways of being heroes," Mr. Kirkland muttered into his tea.
Alfred rolled his eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "But I don't want to be a doctor or a zookeeper. I want this."
000
Weeks later, Mr. Kirkland received a letter in the mail containing the Bonnefoy's new address and phone number, should he wish to keep in contact.
He sat down in his bedroom and dialed internationally, and when Mr. Bonnefoy picked up the phone Mr. Kirkland said, "Francis, he's gone."
000
A box of clothing.
A pocket knife.
Three letters, unsent. Fifteen from home found in the left inner pocket of a vest.
Seven photographs. One of a family of three, the other of an old man with a walking stick. Three of Vietnamese natives and one of American men. One of the Eiffel tower, likely torn from a magazine.
A Superman special edition trading card and one rolled, wrinkled issue of Adventure Comics.
Six empty bullet canisters painted to look like faces.
An English-to-Vietnamese dictionary with commentary written in the margins.
A pair of glasses, intact.
A big, black box covered in a tricolored flag of red, white and blue.
And letter from a girl named Ling. A part of the final paragraph read: he saved my little brother from the bombs. For that he is a hero to me.
It lay open on the table, right next to the unopened box of Girl Scout cookies.
Outside, the wind was nipping and made the shutters clatter loudly against their frames. It was March, and the big house was once again quiet and empty.
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Where to begin? Let's start with the end
This black and white photo don't capture the skin
From the shock of a shell or the memory of smell
If red is for Hell
The war was in color
- Carbon Leaf, "The War Was In Color"
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For UraharaSteph's AU fanfiction contest on deviantART
Did I ever tell you people I love AUs almost as much as I love crossovers? Because I do.
ahaha,Curves is never gonna be updated at this rate…. I swear it will. I really do. I was working on it at the same time I was writing this.I'm not sure exactly when, but I'm going to try and upload it this coming weekend. I'll be busy with things like ~shakespeare camp~ which is why there's going to be a bit of a pause with all this uploading stuff.
Disclaimer: All the French in here was done by a 3rd year student who hasn't studied in months. There will be errors. Lots of them, probably.Ahaha, pass your country's birthday, immediately kill them off. Nice, me. Nice.
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Notes! You'll never get rid of them!
According to rumor (I think it's a rumor, this is totes unresearched on my end) the French Résistance cut the elevators on the Eifel Tower, so when Hitler arrived to look at France from the top of the tower, he'd have to climb the stairs. So Hitler never went up the Eifel tower. I just. OMFG France. Dat Résistance. (though Poland and the Baltics and basically everywhere had their own badass resistances. My personal favorite is Denmark's, because I loveNumber The Stars. )
Penicillin became widespread during and after WWII. It's the preferred treatment method for pneumonia with an 80% cure rate, and will remain that was as long as bacteria remain vulnerable to it. But the more people flush their medicine down the toilet or fail to complete their fully assigned prescription dosage, the more resistant they are. Remember to finish your prescriptions no matter what, guys!
French accents typically drop the last letter of a word ( so a "not" sounds more like "no" ) as well as their 'h's (so "hello" becomes "ello/allo" which is actually how they answer the phone apparently) They also soften their vowels and 'r's, so 'a' sounds more like 'ah' and the 'r's in words like 'France" sound like "Fwahnce" .
The D-Day invasion was the swarming of Normandy beaches by Allied troops. A lot of people died. Afterwards, the Allied forces had to fight their way through the French countryside to get to Paris (which was not actually on the schedule originally) and Berlin (which most definitely was) .
There was widespread immigration to the US before and after the war, and during the war there were refugees from any country that could actually get people out. So many people came to the US they were regularly overbloating the immigration restrictions in place to protect space and jobs. This lead to families being separated and people being routinely denied access. Tragically, many holocaust and ghetto victims were left wandering around a war-ravaged Europe in search of shelter amongst the civilians, some of who blamed the holocaust victims for the war since they were Hitler's main targets.
On a happier note, around the 1950s, the Girl Scouts of America was a force for desegregation, having allowed black children to join their own separate troops all the way back in the 1920s, were having co-operation between black and white troops by the 40s, and having the first mixed troops by the 50s. They also had three different types of cookies. In 1956 they would replace the Sandwich cookie with a chocolate filled one and a vanilla filled one, thus bringing their number of cookie options to four!
Going back to all the shitty things in this era, the Irish are fucked. But I think that's a pattern. The Generation that lived through the Troubles reportedly show signs of PTSD similar to those of London Citizens during the Blitz. The thing is, during this era, PTSD didn't…. exist. It was called Shellshock or Battle Fatigue, and was seen as a sign of weakness or cowardice.
Let me repeat that. What we know of nowadays as PTSD was seen as weakness or cowardice and not tolerated. Let me remind everyone right now that until recently,
cowardice in the army was punishable by execution. People in WWI and possibly in WWII and the Korean War could have been executed for it. It wasn't until after the Vietnam War that people started recognizing it as a mental illness— and the Vietnam veterans were treated more horribly upon return than I think any other veterans collectively in American History. Many of them committed suicide. Many others began drinking, using heavy drugs or became unemployed and homeless. Al picked the worst war to get into I mean holy shit, this isn't even getting into what happened in the country of Vietnam itself which I will not get into because no. I want to go to bed happy tonight. I was doing so well. :(
There are still people out there in the modern day who deny PTSD exists, and people in the military itself hindering those who might need help. If you meet any, give them a piece of my mind, please.
The Vietnam War started out as just a lot of American advisers helping the corrupt democratic southern Vietnamese government and giving them weapons, but in 1965 American soldiers started surging into Vietnam and in 1966 there was a draft. Many dissenters fled across the US border into Canada.
E.D. Nixon, MLK Jr. and Jo Ann Robinson were prominent figures in the Montgomery Bus Boycott, which deserves a few paragraphs but I'm trying to keep this short, so here! Have a link! -
www . watson ~lisa / blackhistory / civilrights-55-56 / montbus . html
(remove the spaces) It uses some terminology I'm not the fondest of but it's got citations and is the reference I used, so yeah.
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Omg.So long.I swore I wouldn't do this "no chapter" shit again for a whileWhoops.But at least it's not as long as spirals, right? …Right?
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If anyone's interested, I've started up commissions on my deviantart, and that includes literature deviations. My username is the same as here, if you'd like to find me. :)