Kit was surprised at how easily the old friendship came back, as if they hadn't missed all those years. Like a puzzle that had been put away unfinished. She'd see Stirling every week or every other week: he'd bring in stacks of ads and editorial cartoons for the paper, and when he did, he always slipped a funny drawing to Kit. She had a whole collection of them in her desk by the end of the summer. Or he'd drop by for supper on a Saturday night and end up in a passionate but friendly debate with Mr. Kittredge about the latest news. Sometimes Kit would go down to the lunch counter and find him there and she'd plop right down on the next stool, trading jokes and barbs over grilled cheese sandwiches. And Stirling was intelligent enough not to mention Roger.
Although, it was impossible to ignore Roger altogether when he sent Stirling a letter.
June 17, 1944
Dear Stirling,
Margaret wrote me that she had bumped into you on the street. Glad to hear that you're doing well. Quite proud to learn that a local boy is the creator of the famous 'Hitler Chicken' - of course we've all heard of it, even out here where our enemy is the Japanese.
Actually, I'm glad for the opportunity to express my apologies. I was pretty nasty to you when we were kids, and there was no call for that. I hope you can forgive me. I know it doesn't excuse it, but I think the reason why I singled you out for punishment was because your father had left, and I was so terrified that mine would do the same. We lived with that fear for so long, it was almost a relief when he did leave, and I like to think I became a much better person after that.
You don't have anything to worry about on Margaret's behalf. I intend to take mighty good care of her. She's the girl of my dreams and the thought of her has sustained me during all these months at sea.
For Margaret's sake, I hope you will consider me a friend.
Sincerely,
Roger "Turkeypants" Fulton, Seaman, U. S. Navy
Kit had, of course, written to Roger almost immediately about her chance encounter with her old friend. She did so without even the slightest twinge of guilt, because of course she had nothing to conceal. She and Stirling had known each other for ages - since they were children - why, they were practically brother and sister. But after a few weeks, Kit looked over one of her letters to Roger and realized that three out of seven paragraphs were about Stirling Howard. And that wouldn't do at all. With a little frown Kit tore the sheet out of her typewriter, crumpled it and threw it away. And thereafter her letters mentioned Stirling not at all.
For someone in the newspaper business, Kit was remarkably unobservant. Or perhaps she was determined not to see it. But if Kit had paid attention to Stirling's eyes, she would have seen. The way he lit up like the Fourth of July upon seeing her, the sidelong glances he sneaked when he thought she wasn't looking, the way his eyes lingered on her back when she left him. A casual observer might have been forgiven in believing them not old friends but a pair of lovers.
One Wednesday in September Kit arrived at their lunch counter and, instead of sidling alongside him as she usually did, approached with uncharacteristic anxiousness. Stirling greeted her cheerily, but Kit held back for a moment. "Why don't we get a booth?" she suggested.
Stirling studied her face as they slid across cracked vinyl upholstery. "Is everything all right?" he asked her, trying to recall their conversations over the last few days. Perhaps he'd revealed more than he'd intended to.
But Kit smiled warmly. "Everything is fine," she reassured him. "I just wanted to talk to you, is all." A bored waitress came around to their table and both ordered the usual: a hamburger and chocolate milk shake for Kit, grilled cheese for Stirling. Kit leaned her elbows on the table, her fingers interlaced. "Listen..." she began. "I was thinking about what you said. About your father. How you didn't even know if he was alive or dead. And I hope you won't think I'm a busybody, but I just thought... Well, I thought if it were me, I would want to know."
Stirling looked down at the stained tabletop, then back at Kit. "I don't think you're a busybody," he said.
"Oh, good." Kit relaxed. "Because, see, I thought I could help. So I wrote to an acquaintance of mine at the Chicago Tribune and she sent me this." Kit pulled out a thin white envelope, sealed, from her bag. "I haven't read it - I don't know what it says."
Stirling's face was grave, although he truly wasn't offended. "I see." He picked up the envelope and held it in his hands for a full minute. When he finally did open it, he did it quickly, as if he was afraid of changing his mind. The contents weren't much to look at: a thin typewritten sheet and a small newspaper clipping, not more than two inches square. Kit watched him anxiously, searching for signs of distress. A curious stillness settled over them despite the din of the busy diner. It wasn't until after the waitress had reappeared and set their plates in front of them that Stirling finally spoke again.
"He died," Stirling said. "Three years ago."
"Oh," said Kit. "I'm sorry."
Stirling looked down as he re-folded the letter and stuffed it back into its envelope. When he looked up again, his expression had changed. "It's all right," he said, adding a smile to comfort Kit. "Honestly, I'm not at all surprised."
Kit looked at him for a long moment, then picked up her hamburger with both hands and took a bite. "You're taking it well," she said through a mouthful of lettuce and pickles.
Stirling shrugged. "I figured out a long time ago," he said, toying with the sprig of parsley on his plate, "that my father wanted nothing to do with Mother or me. It's awfully hard for me to feel sorry for him now."
"Stirling..."
"When he left," Stirling continued, "he told me it was to look for work. And I believed him. For years I believed him. It wasn't until I was a teenager that I realized he'd actually wanted out for years - the Depression was just an excuse."
"Why would you say that?"
"I honestly can't recall ever seeing my parents happy together," Stirling confessed, stripping the leaves of parsley from the stem. He wasn't used to baring his soul like this, but with Kit across the table from him, the words came easily. "Dad traveled a lot for work, but maybe that was an excuse. I have maybe ten good memories of the two of us together." Stirling drew a deep breath. "He wanted to play catch with me, and I was so excited. I knew it was the kind of thing that boys did with their fathers. And I've always been mad for baseball." Kit grinned at this. "But the glove was too big for me, or maybe I was too small for the glove."
"It didn't end well," Kit guessed.
"I got a bloody nose. Needless to say, Mother put a stop to any future athletic endeavors." He grinned ruefully. "Sometimes I thought he was unhappy because of me. I'm sure I wasn't an easy kid to have around, and my mother was always fussing over me."
Stirling chuckled, and Kit laughed out loud. "Your mother could fuss like nobody's business."
"Some of it was genuine - I was a scrawny little thing - but some of it was Mother's nature," Stirling said. "I thought Dad was unhappy because Mother fussed so much, but maybe she fussed so much because she and Dad were unhappy."
"I feel sorry for him," Kit said philosophically. "He never got to know you as you grew up. And I think you've turned out swell."
Stirling flushed. "Well, at least now I've found out what became of him."
"Are you sorry that you know?" asked Kit.
"Not at all."
On the dreariest possible day in November, Kit came home to the grim faces of her mother and father.
"Kit, honey," Mrs. Kittredge began, "there's been a telegram."
Kit's knees buckled and she dropped into a chair. "No," she pled, "not Charlie."
"Not Charlie," Mrs. Kittredge agreed. "Sweetie, it's Roger."
Kit looked up at her old friend with dead eyes. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard about Roger," Stirling explained. He hadn't seen her for a week in any of their usual haunts, and he'd been worried enough to investigate. He sat opposite her at the kitchen table and took her cold little hand between his own. "I am so, so sorry for your loss."
Kit pulled her hand away. "It's none of your concern."
"Of course it is," Stirling pleaded, gray eyes sincere. "I care what happened to you - I'm your friend."
Kit stared at him. Hard. "Is that what you are?"
"I always have been." Later on, he would curse himself for not turning around and leaving after those words. Kit buried her head in her arms. "Look," Stirling said. "I know this seems like the end of the world, but it isn't."
"There's no way you can know that."
Stirling drew a deep breath. "When my father left..."
Kit's head snapped up. "That's not even close to being the same thing."
"I know it's not," Stirling agreed.
"Then why even bring it up?"
"I was thinking of my mother," Stirling said. "When she realized he wasn't coming back, she looked exactly the same as you do now."
"Oh."
"She believed she couldn't go on - I know because she said as much," Stirling continued. "She wanted to lay down and die, but she didn't. She turned out fine." He smiled, and did not mention the Herculean effort it had taken on his own part to get his mother to take responsibility for her own life. "I know you'll be fine - you have way more gumption than she ever did."
Kit ignored the compliment. "But at least your mother had been married. No one feels sorry for a woman whose fiancee has died."
"I do," Stirling said, very quietly. "And, Kit - you will find someone to love. I know you will."
"That's a terrible thing to say," Kit retorted. "May I remind you that Roger just died?"
"I know," Stirling said. "I didn't mean -"
"You're not very good at this."
"I know I'm not." He was the most patient of men but every man has his limit. "I shouldn't have come." He stood, gathered his coat and hat. "I'm sorry I've offended you, Kit."
"Margaret. Why can you never get that straight? Roger never had any trouble with it." Stirling recoiled. He'd expected grief, but not anger. He almost didn't recognize her.
"If you ever want to talk," he said, "you know where to find me."
"I know why you came here," Kit retorted. "You came here to gloat. You just couldn't stand the idea of my marrying Turkeypants."
Something inside Stirling snapped. "Do you know what I think?" he replied, matching her tone. "I think you're relieved. I don't believe you ever had any intention of becoming Mrs. Roger Fulton."
"I loved him," Kit retorted, "not that you'd know the first thing about that."
"I know enough," Stirling muttered.
Kit looked up at him, the pain in her eyes replaced with pure hate. "Stirling Howard," she said in evenly measured tones, "I never want to see you again."
