Life went on, as it has a habit of doing. Kit dried her eyes, threw away all of Stirling's sketches, and returned to the War Desk. Christmas came and went with no letter from Charlie, which was worrisome.
And then, in the second week of January, there was another telegram.
February 6, 1945
Dear Kittredge Family,
I know that those War Department telegrams leave much to be desired, so I thought I'd take a few moments and write you with further information. Sergeant Kittredge arrived in England a few weeks ago after being wounded in battle, and I was one of the physicians assigned to his care. We see so many wounded soldiers, but we strive to do our utmost. Like all of our fighting boys, the support of our families and friends on the home front does much to advance our cause.
You should know that the decision to amputate is never made lightly. Although I was not a participant in this case - Sgt. Kittredge's right leg was taken off above the knee in a field hospital before he was brought here - it's a judgement call that I, personally, have made in other instances. However, when it's a case of losing a limb to preserve a life, I like to think that I am allowing one of our fighting men the opportunity to return back home.
Sgt. Kittredge is looking forward to returning home when he is sufficiently recovered from his injuries. He informs me that the Cincinnati Reds are the greatest baseball team in the country. Being a Chicago man myself, I tend to disagree, but he makes his point quite eloquently.
Sincerely,
Captain James McIntire, M.D.
It took some careful shuffling, but Mother arranged to have Charlie's sleeping porch freed up by the time he came home. They were down to three boarders by then, anyway, and Mother had decided not to place any more ads for the time being. It was a glorious early-spring day and they'd tossed open all the windows to catch the breezes. After the winter they'd had, it seemed right somehow - like the day was full of hope. And as they cleaned and polished and made batches and batches of Charlie's favorite cookies, Kit didn't even realize that she hadn't thought of Roger at all that morning.
Dad drove the car down to Union Station to pick up Charlie - it was torture for Mother and Kit (who'd begged off work) to stay at home, but they trusted Dad to know what was best. "Besides," Mother said, "I'll probably make a scene and you know how Charlie's always embarrassed by that." Kit grinned a little - straightforwardness was one of the traits she and her brother shared, so she understood perfectly. But still. Mother kept sweeping the front stoop, over and over, long after it was clean. Kit had given up on accomplishing anything in her state of mind and was simply lolling on the grass. Mother looked at her watch for the hundredth time that morning and said, "Maybe the train was late" - when they saw Dad's car turn the corner at the end of the street.
"Let's wave our handkerchiefs," Kit suggested, and Mother stood beside her at the curb. At the last minute Kit glanced over. "Mother!" she whispered. "Your apron!" Mrs. Kittredge had forgotten she even had it on; she stripped it off hastily and passed it to Kit, who wadded up the offending article and stashed it in the crotch of the nearest tree. Nervous smiles dawned across both of their faces as Dad turned into the driveway and stopped the car.
But when Dad opened the driver's side door, Kit knew immediately that something was wrong. His face was grim under his hat and as he shook his head at the women, she had a horrible thought that maybe Charlie hadn't come home after all - that there'd been a mix-up with the trains - that his transport home had been torpedoed by a U-Boat - but Dad crossed over to the passenger's side wordlessly and opened the door.
Some fumbling with a pair of crutches, and there he was in the driveway, tall and olive-clad. Kit suddenly had the most irrational urge to laugh - with the missing leg and the scar over one eye, he looked absurdly and unaccountably like a pirate. She held back and let Mother go to him first, and was slightly puzzled at what happened then.
"Hello, Mother," Charlie said in a strange voice, and that was when Kit finally looked at his face. She couldn't put it quite into words - Kit Kittredge, who was never at a loss for words - but something was off. He didn't look like himself, like the cheerful big brother she'd loved so fiercely. Suddenly he was a stranger to her. Mother must have felt the same way, because Kit could tell she wanted to hug him, but she didn't. She only put out one hand and squeezed his shoulder, and then hugged her arms to herself, as if to contain the impulse somehow.
"Hello, Charlie," Mother said simply. "It's so good to have you back, son."
Dad slammed the trunk of the car, and Charlie jumped. He was too thin, and he looked miserable, hunched over his crutches. "Hi, Charlie," Kit said, watching Dad sling Charlie's green duffel bag over his shoulder with an air of familiarity. "I missed you."
Charlie looked at her strangely, as if he hadn't even realized she was there. It was almost as if he was looking through her. "Yeah," he said.
Kit looked around, bewildered. "Umm… here, I'll carry this," she announced to no one in particular, seizing upon a small cardboard box tied with twine. She vaguely wondered what was inside - letters, maybe?
"Well," Mother said briskly, "no sense in standing around in the yard, is there?" She led the way to the front door and they all followed behind, a strange parade with Charlie on crutches, Dad with the bag, and Kit bringing up the rear with the box and Charlie's hat that she'd retrieved off the front seat.
Their little procession halted inside at the foot of the stairs. "I'm pretty tired, Mom," Charlie said, and he looked it. "Where am I sleeping?"
"I rearranged the rooms so your sleeping porch is free," Mother said proudly. "And all the boarders are gone for the day, so it should be nice and quiet upstairs."
"Well, then." Charlie turned to face the stairs, and Kit suddenly had a vision of him, younger, whole and carefree, striding up the stairs two at a time. A lump rose in her throat at the awful realization that he'd never do that again. Never. She blinked furiously to stop the tears from forming.
A horrified look crossed Mother's face. "I'm so sorry," she faltered, "we never even thought about the stairs…"
"It's fine," Charlie almost snapped at her. "I'll manage."
And manage he did, though Kit couldn't even watch after the first few steps. It took him ten agonizing minutes to reach the top of the stairs; then he turned wordlessly and stumped down the hall to his room. Dad had his arm around Mother's shoulder as they watched and once Charlie's door had banged shut upstairs, she turned and buried her face in his shoulder.
The storm clouds that rolled in that afternoon didn't seem to disturb Charlie's rest; but Kit forgot all about Mother's apron, stashed in the tree outside, and it was quite ruined.
