7:30 P.M.
So I'd called Hawkeye "Ben." So what? That's fine. It's okay. It means that I'm observant with names. Right? Right? Of course I'm right.
I'm not right.
I don't know why, but I have a name fetish. Anytime something is important to me, I call the person by their first name. My best friend Melinda, in school, had the nickname "Mellie." Everyone called her that. But whenever something was important, I called her Melinda.
And now I'd called Hawkeye "Ben."
You, I told myself, are an idiot. You are making a big deal out of nothing.
So I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind.
"Mail, ma'am!" Klinger called as he banged into my tent.
"Thanks for knocking," I said. "Shut the door, it's cold out."
"Aren't we testy tonight?" commented Klinger. "Maybe these will cheer you up." He brandished four letters in front of my face.
"Oh, thank you, Klinger!" I exclaimed, reaching for them.
He pulled them back. "Not until you apologize."
I sighed. "I'm sorry, Klinger," I said in a sing-song voice. "NOW may I have my letters?"
"Of course." He handed them to me. "Stay warm!"
"Thanks!" I yelled after him as he left and let MORE cold air into the tent.
The first letter was from Diane Foster, one of my mother's friends. I opened the letter, and it was about what I thought it would be about--Clark. I read it, then tossed it on my desk. The next two I skipped over, because they was from Marjorie Harris and Josephine McDonald, of Mother's friends. Finally, I got to a letter from Elliot. It was about Stockton, my mother and her brigade of women, and the girl he was currently dating, Michelle Harris, Marjorie's daughter.
Elliot's letter ended like this:
You know that I'm with a lot of girls, but I think Michelle is The One. She's vivacious, and smart, and plays the trombone. (Yes, the trombone. When I told Mom that she turned sort of green.) I know, I know, I know. "But he's been on dates with all of North Ridge, Blick, and DaVoes," you're probably saying. But, like I said, Mich and I have something pretty special. (Stop rolling your eyes.) She's viv--hold it. I wrote that.
Love, your brother,
Elliot
P.S. Haven't seen Clark around lately. He went off somewhere for something and was pretty vague on details.
And then I knew what I had to do.
Dear Clark,
This isn't an easy letter for me to write, but I have to. I pray you'll understand.
Clark, I don't love you. I think it took the war for me to realize that. It's not all your fault, it's mine too. You need a fiancee that's there. With all the women around that you've had relationships with, it must be difficult to try not to see them, and even grow to have feelings for them.
That's why I'm writing this letter. I'm sending back my engagement ring and I hope you'll find someone who deserves it.
Sincerely,
Jaclyn
I was numb. Before any feeling came back, I took off my ring and put it in the envelope.
And I didn't care one bit what happened to it.