Delly's mother pushes the car door closed on Delly's side. Then she walks around to the driver's side to tell me goodbye.
"Be careful, you two," she says.
"Take care of our girl," Delly's father adds, holding out his hand for me to shake it. I do, hesitantly.
I notice that Delly's mother is wiping her eyes with her husband's handkerchief. My Dad, who is standing just behind the Cartwrights glances at me, a pensive expression on his face. I'm bewildered by all the emotion. After all, we are just going to John's memorial service. They'll see us again in two days.
"We better get going," I say.
"Sure. Of course," Mr. Cartwright says, finally withdrawing his hand from the awkwardly long handshake.
I start the car as Delly settles her purse and sweater at her feet. She sighs thoughtfully.
Even after we've driven a few more blocks I haven't stopped thinking about her parents, so I ask her, "What was that all about?" She furrows her brow.
"Your parents? Why were they acting that way, Delly?"
"Oh, that."
Delly looks out the window, her soft blonde curls catching the sun streaming into her side of the car. Few cars share the road with us because of the early hour.
"They think we're going to elope. I told them we had no plans to do that, but they must not believe me."
A lump rises into my throat.
"So many couples are doing that, Peter. I guess my parents think we'll decide to do the same."
I'm not sure what Delly wants me to say.
"We aren't, are we?" she asks, still staring out the window. "Going to elope, that is?"
"No," I tell her.
I see her nodding her head out of the corner of my eye and suspect that she's disappointed. Maybe she hoped I'd at least find the idea amusing, but I don't. Whenever the subject of marrying Delly is brought up I feel like a cornered animal.
"It should be a nice trip, and I'm sure I'll enjoy meeting John's family. I wish I'd known him," she says.
"I do too," I say wistfully.
Maybe Delly will interpret all my strange reactions to grief over my fallen friend. Sometimes the fact that he's dead doesn't seem real to me even after all this time.
When we arrive at John's family's house a man who looks to be about our age greets us and carries our suitcases inside. He resembles John in most ways, but he's a bit taller. I conclude that he must be a relative, maybe one of John's brothers. There were three children in the family, all boys. That was something John and I had in common.
"You're bunking with me, Peter," he tells me after shaking my hand and introducing himself as Donald, John's older brother. "I'm so glad to finally meet you. My mother is so pleased to have you here for the memorial. And who's this?" He asks, turning to Delly with a smile.
Delly looks down shyly, which seems a little unusual given her gregarious nature.
"This is Delly," I explain.
An awkward pause follows before Delly's usual warmth reappears and she adds, "I'm Peter's fiancée."
"Mom didn't tell me you were bringing a guest, but that must be why she had me clear out of my bedroom. Nice to meet you, Delly," Donald says.
Delly nods.
Donald proceeds to take Delly's suitcase upstairs. She follows him so he can show her the room that will be hers. "Make yourself at home, Peter," he calls down to me. There's some food in the kitchen.
When I arrive in the kitchen, which is only steps from the foyer, I find not only food but John's mother. Her face lights up when she sees me.
"Ah, you must be Peter!" she says, rounding the kitchen table to greet me with a light hug that I hadn't expected. "John wrote about you all the time. He described you perfectly. Did you and your girl have a good trip? Are you hungry?"
She pushes me down gently in a chair and shoves a plate of chicken, corn, green beans, and mashed potatoes in front of me. I'm not even sure how she managed to put it on a plate so fast.
"I know you've had a hard time of it, Peter, but I have to tell you that it means the world to me for you to be here. To know that my John was with you when –" she pauses, swallows hard, and then continues. Her voice sounds shakier this time. "To know he was with you so often and even on the day he died gives me a little peace. He thought so much of you."
I nod, taking the time to gather my emotions while I'm rearranging my mashed potatoes with my fork. The food smells good, but suddenly I've lost my appetite.
"John was a good man. One of my best friends. Ever."
John's mother nods and sinks into the chair across from me. I want to be here for my friend's mother, but I hope she doesn't plan to discuss the crash or what happened to me after.
"Thank you for writing to tell me what happened," she tells me. "You don't know how much it meant to finally know."
I nod. She stops at that, perhaps understanding that I'm unable to share any more right now. Silently, I vow to answer every question she might have someday. Just not today.
"So what are you planning to do now, Peter? I mean, besides get married. Some of the boys in the AAF are getting jobs in aviation. Donald's told me all about it. He's a pilot too, you know. He's trying for a commercial job."
"Really? That's great." I say, encouraging her to keep telling me about Donald. Better to stay off the subject of me or John.
"Such an exciting industry. Donald says we'll all be flying just for fun before we know it. I can't imagine."
Delly's laughing when she arrives in the kitchen with Donald.
"Oh, let me make you a plate, dear," John's mother says.
"No, mother, I'll do it," Donald offers. "You sit and talk to Peter."
/
What I needed most from Delly was space. What she needed most from me was honesty. Neither of us got what we needed. After we got home from John's memorial service Delly came over to our house for a string of uncomfortable visits. The discomfort rested mostly with the fact that Delly, quite appropriately, expected me to be affectionate with her. I wasn't. Eventually Delly stopped trying, and I can only assume that she thought I was no longer comfortable being touched or touching her because of whatever had happened to me at the POW camp. She knew I'd been beaten because my mother told her mother who told Delly. That's the kind of convoluted communication system that had developed between my fiancée and me. Deep down I knew that the longer I waited to tell Delly the truth the harder it would be for both of us, but fear of hurting her won over logic every time I tried to do what was right.
One night while we were listening to a radio program in the living room alone, Delly went to the kitchen to get some popcorn my mother had popped for us. She was gone for a long time, and I went to check on her.
"He hardly looks at me," I heard her sob.
"He's been through so much, Delly," my mother replied. "And he's really not well. He feels badly so much of the time, and he hasn't gained much weight back. He needs time to recover."
I hung my head, sighing deeply.
"I know, but he hasn't even mentioned the wedding," Delly went on.
"I'm sure he's just preoccupied."
"How can he not want to get married? Everybody is getting married. Girls that didn't even know their fiancés before the war are getting married. We were engaged before the war. We grew up together, and we still haven't talked about a date."
Delly sounded more sad than angry.
Her sobs became muffled, and I suspected my mother was hugging her. She'd always really cared about Delly. Delly was like the daughter she never had.
"I think he'll come 'round, dear. If you don't think so then maybe you need to talk to him about it."
"Talking to him is impossible! He barely answers. I'm so afraid of making him worse. What do I do?"
I can't listen to anymore, so I go back to the living room and consider how to tell Delly the truth. But when she comes back to the living room a few minutes later, her nose still red and her eyes too moist, I can't bring myself to say one word.
I'm tired and feel cold. I'm always tired and feeling too hot or too cold. When I tell Delly as much, she kisses my sweaty forehead and tells me goodnight.
"Goodnight. Thank you," I reply.
/
I wake up the next day with a pounding headache.
I'm just upset, I think. I feel guilty.
But soon I find myself rather violently ill. By the time my mother comes to check on me because I haven't come downstairs I'm shaking with chills and have already thrown up twice. Fortunately I made it to the bathroom both times.
Mom sits down beside me.
"You didn't come down to eat?" she says.
"I'm sick," I say weakly.
Mom places the back of her hand on my forehead. Then she turns her hand over and runs her fingers gently down the side of my face before patting my hand.
"I'll call your grandfather."
"Don't bother him. I'm sure it's nothing," I tell her.
"You aren't well anyway, Peter. The smallest thing could knock you down right now. I want him to have a look at you."
I feel too awful to disagree and before I know it my grandfather is hovering over me, adjusting his glasses and telling me to look at him.
"Where were you?"
"What?"
"Where were you? Do you know?" He asks urgently. "When you were serving."
"In China." The word China falls off my lips easily even though none of the others do.
"Yes. But where? Listen to me, Peter. This is important," grandfather tells me as he shakes my shoulder. I open my eyes reluctantly. "Do you know if you were anywhere near the Yangtze."
"I think I was," I tell him, recalling the map at the landlord's house.
"What about Japan. Where were you in Japan?" He asks.
"I don't know," I say, shaking my aching head in frustration. "Leave me alone."
He drops my shoulder and pulls down the covers. I try to pull them back up, but he pulls them down again.
"I'm cold," I protest, shutting my eyes against the harshness of the lights.
Grandfather pulls up my shirt, almost fighting me. He presses his hand on my belly.
"Take a deep breath."
I try, but I know I'll throw up again if I breathe any deeper.
"Take a deep breath, Peter," he repeats, louder.
"I can't," I mumble.
"Doesn't matter. I can tell already," he says, almost to himself.
"What is it?" my mother says, her voice trembling.
"I think he might have malaria," Grandfather sighs. "I'll need a blood sample to be surer."
I hear my father swear, which is enough to make me look at them just to make sure my father had really done that.
"Stan!" my mother scolds.
"What? What else can happen to this kid," he answers. "He's my son. It's…upsetting."
I grasp my blanket with my fingers, pull it over me, and turn over with a groan.
Great! I finally get home from the war and now I'm going to die of malaria!
"It could be worse, Stan. If it's malaria then it's treatable," Grandfather says.
I roll into a ball, remembering how I felt after the crash. I think of Cai and the feeling of her hands and lips on my skin. What I wouldn't give to have her with me now …and to have her with me when I'm finally well and whole again.
Grandfather leans over about as far as his back will allow and pats my shoulder.
"You should be okay, Pete," he says. Then he pulls up the sleeve of my pajamas, sticks a dull needle in my arm, and draws some blood.
/
Proving his skill and intuition Grandfather soon confirms that I have malaria by looking at the blood sample under a microscope. My mother tells me to swallow a few tablets Grandfather gave her and hands me a glass of water. I put them in my mouth and nearly choke trying to get them down.
"Those taste terrible," I tell them.
"Swallow them. Every bit," Grandfather orders. "You need them."
"What are they?" I ask.
"Quinine. It treats malaria," he explains.
Yes, I think I remember reading about that a long time ago when learning about the world and its geography so fascinated me. Those years seem a million miles away. Quinine comes from tree bark if I remember correctly. No wonder it tastes so bad!
"It's a blessing that this happened when it did and not while you were still in China or Japan.
He's right, of course, but that's little comfort while my head is spinning and my stomach churns. The weakness is profound, and all I want to do is sleep.
People come and go…Mom, Delly, Dad, Grandfather, Grandmother. Nobody is afraid of getting malaria from me because it's carried by mosquitoes that don't live here. The fever waxes and wanes just like my awareness of what's going on around me. Not being aware sometimes seems preferable. One evening as I feel my fever starting to rise I watch Delly. She opens my sketchbook on my desk and the browns, grays, and reds of some of my drawings of my time as POW cross my bleary field of vision. Delly lowers herself into my creaking wooden desk chair, rests her elbow on the desk and props her head on her hand . Then she turns the page. I shake my head as if doing so will make her stop looking at the book, but Delly couldn't tear her eyes away if she wanted to do it now. Looking at the sketchbook is like craning one's neck to look at the results of a car accident
My eyes continue to open and close as I drift in and out of wakefulness. Delly turns the page. She furrows her brow, and her teeth bite down hard enough on her lower lip to turn part of it white. Then she pulls her hand over to cover her mouth as a tear rolls down her cheek. Through the slits between my lazy eyelids I see her close the book and rush to sit on the bed beside me. She reaches for my hand, and our eyes meet. We don't speak as she interlaces our fingers.
"You can tell me anything you need to say," she says. "You can tell me nothing. I'll understand either way. Whatever you need."
"What about you?" I manage to whisper.
"Oh, Peter, we'll worry about you right now. I know you'll always be here for me. You always have been."
The guilt is heavy on my chest, and I want to tell her everything. I can't. The officer that wrote the letter to my family when I was MIA commented on my "bravery" and my "upstanding moral character." Either he did not know me very well or I'm only courageous and honorable in certain situations.
After a few minutes Delly lays the book across her lap and flips more pages. My heavy eyelids open and close periodically. Once when they are open I see her staring at a drawing of Cai. It's from the day we were married, and Cai is holding a teacup. Delly doesn't have an obvious emotional reaction to the drawing, but I've given her no reason to think that she should.
I couldn't ask for more than the love Delly wants to give me, but I'm not free to accept or return it. In my weakest moments I've wondered if I'm holding Delly in some kind of reserve. Is it possible that I'm avoiding telling my family or Delly about Cai because I think that if I never see or hear from Cai again I can still marry Delly? Delly strokes my hand with her fingertips while I hope I'm wrong.
"Who is she?" Delly asks.
My heart lurches while I consider whether or not she's suspicious of this picture of Cai.
"She lived on the farm," I finally whisper.
"She helped you?"
"Yes."
"Where is she now?"
"I don't know. Maybe dead."
Delly sighs. "So sad. She was so beautiful. So young. Too many people have died in too many places."
I wince a little.
Delly breathes out as she starts to turn the page.
"At least you could draw better memories from the farm than the POW camp."
I give her a slight nod as guilt tightens like a band wrapped around me. I can barely breathe when Delly leans down to press her lips gently on mine. Delly's beautiful, but mostly it's the guilt that leaves me breathless. When she pulls away, I can see the sadness in Delly's eyes.
"Where are you?" they seem to silently ask.
I'm familiar with the question.
/
My mother invites Delly over for dinner once I'm up and around the house more.
"You need to live your life again, Peter," Mom explains. Maybe you don't feel like going out yet, but that doesn't mean you and Delly can't do some fun things here."
The house fills with the smells the roast my mother is preparing. I offer to set the table and note that Mom is using the dishes we use for holidays, the ones her mother passed down to her. I suddenly feel under-dressed in my khaki pants and long sleeved blue shirt.
My father greets Delly at the door. She's wearing a white blouse, a red skirt, and high heels. She gives me a peck on the cheek as I pull her chair out for her. My parents keep the conversation moving during dinner by talking about church members and other friends, but then the discussion takes a personal turn.
"Your father says the church calendar is filling up with weddings. So many young people are getting married," my mother says smiling. "Maybe now that Peter is feeling better you two might like to reserve a date."
Delly smiles shyly and refolds her napkin in her lap.
"It needn't be a big affair, just a few guests and some flowers will do nicely," my mother continues. "I do think you deserve a church wedding, though. You've been waiting such a long time and have been through so much to be together. Depending on the time of year we could use some flowers from the garden, Delly. I even have some ideas for a dress if your mother wants me to help. I thought…"
"My aunt is visiting in July," Delly says. "I'd love for her to see the wedding."
I can't take this anymore. We can't reserve a date for our wedding at the church! My heart pounds as I blurt out, "I can't get married." My gaze falls on my father after the words leave my mouth. "I just can't."
Delly starts to cry almost immediately.
"Why not?" she says through her tears. "Don't you want to marry me, Peter? I don't understand!"
"Peter, is your fever going up again?" my mother asks.
My father sighs.
"Maybe you should lie down for a little while," my mother suggests.
"He's not sick," my father tells her. "Say what you need to say, Peter. Your mother and I will be in the living room."
My mother looks curiously from my father to me and then back again. My father takes my mother's hand with a tell-tale yank. Mom looks back to Delly mournfully and me angrily as she steps out of the dining room behind Dad.
"Delly, I haven't been honest with you," I begin. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. You don't deserve…"
"Peter, just say it!" Delly shouts. "Why won't you marry me? Why won't you kiss me? What in the world is wrong with you?"
"It's not you. It's that…"
"Who's Cai?" Delly asks, exasperated.
"Cai?"
Hearing Delly say her name is strange, almost terrifying.
"Yes, Cai. When you were so sick you said 'Cai.' I heard it several times, and I just assumed it was a Chinese word. I asked your grandfather, and he said it was probably someone's name. Then I started to think about how you'd said it and when you'd said it. It did seem like you were trying to talk to someone. You called for this person. You begged for this person. I wondered who this person could possibly be. So tell me, Peter, who is Cai?"
"She was the daughter of…" I start to answer.
Delly's eyes cut over to the wall immediately at the word "she." Maybe my grandfather hadn't mentioned that "Cai" was a girl's name, but Delly obviously suspected that it might be.
"I don't want to know who she is anymore," Delly says angrily. "I just want to know one more thing." Delly lowers her voice. "Did you sleep with her?"
Just to spare her feelings I try to say "no," but I can't. The deception has to end, and I have to try to find my wife. Since I can't force myself to say "no," I don't say anything.
Delly sobs.
"I can't believe I'm crying over this in front of you. Peter, I can't believe you'd do this to me and then lie to me about it all this time."
"Delly, I need to explain."
"No you don't! I don't want to know! You said you loved me. You asked me to wait for you. To marry you. I waited. And you…you…you didn't!"
I've never seen Delly so angry.
"She's my wife, Delly. Cai is my wife. We're married. I couldn't tell you when I was in China what had happened. When I got home I didn't know how to tell you. Lying to you was tearing me apart, but I didn't want to hurt you with the truth. You seemed so happy I was home."
"Your wife? So not only did you do that with her, you married her too?" Delly scoffs. "You expect me to believe that you married a Chinese woman in China? That's not what I think, Peter! I can't tell you what I think because if my mother were here she'd smack my mouth for it."
Delly stands, adjusts her blouse indignantly, and attempts to push the chair under the dining room table. Instead, the chair falls forward and hits the table with a bang. My mother hears the commotion and runs back into the dining room.
"Will somebody please tell me what's wrong?" my mother pleads.
"You ask your son what's wrong, Mrs. Mellark," Delly answers bitterly. "You ask him if he was raised to do what he's done. I don't care what happened to him, he can't do this to me. I won't let him."
My mother turns to me.
"What did you do to her?" she asks.
Delly runs out of the room. My mother hesitates, looking as if she is going to say something to me. Instead she follows Delly. Despite the crisis of the moment I feel a burden has been lifted from my shoulders, but the burden has at least temporarily been shifted to Delly. I can hear her sobbing and my mother consoling her in the living room. I lay my arms on the table and my head on top of them.
I hear my father sit down across from me a moment later.
"There's someone else. Isn't there," he says. It's a statement, not a question. I raise my head and answer it anyway.
"Yes."
"Who?"
Then my father and I have a very long talk.
[Ugh. Heartbreak all around. Please let me know what you think. Your reviews inspire me!]