Howard had gotten it too. Unfortunately, so had Brett Shelton. Krista had not, but she had volunteered. It was always her thing, to be in combat, to get in the action and be a hero. Since she had been young, she had seen movies and read stories about soldiers, and war. She didn't like the killing all too much, but she figured that if her loved ones were in trouble and that was the only way to keep them safe, she'd do it for them. Besides, she always liked the way the captains and generals spoke when they laid out battle strategies. She wanted to be able to jump across buildings and throw bombs like a pro.
Andy, however, did not. The last thing he wanted to do was go to war. He had just seen his mother re-married, and he was missing home. He had been far from it for too long, and he wondered why it had to be now, and not some other time. He knew the only reason that the army had recruited him was because of the academy. He was not looking forward to it, especially not with Shelton. He did not like the idea of having to put his life in that man's hands. For all he knew, Shelton would turn him and Howard in to the enemy. Or maybe not. He'd seen those films where the jerk finally realizes, through the tragedies of war, how amazing some of those he mistreated actually were. But that was the movies. This was real life.
Krista told him she had written Quanisha about it. The pop star had replied, hoping she could come around to say good-bye when they were deported. He was not looking forward to saying good-bye to anyone. He just wanted to stay home.
***
Damien was looking nervous. "What's wrong, Damien?" Kyle asked. "Did the wedding scare you that bad?" He shook his head. "No. It's not that. The wedding was great. I just..." he wrung his hands, struggling to find words. The clock on the wall ticked away. Kyle turned to him with concern. "What is it?" she asked again, this time a bit more gently. "All my life, I've acted like a child," he said softly. "I'm almost thirty years old, and I haven't done a thing with my life. Last week, the wedding, it... it made me realize. I could be married. I could have a family. I could have..." his voice choked, and he pressed his hand against his mouth. Kyle knelt down and held his hands. "You could have what, Damien?" she asked.
He looked at her, his eyes spilling over with tears. "I could have someone to write to when I'm away in this god-forsaken war," he whispered sadly. He wiped his tears away hastily. "Ms. Anderson... I know... I've been a terrible patient," he confessed. Kyle laughed softly. "You're not the worst, Damien, I can promise you that," she replied. Damien's fingers curled around hers, and she realized just how small her hands were compared to his. "Will you write me?" he asked timidly. Her eyes widened. "I... um... of course... why not?" she asked, surprised at how flustered she sounded. Why shouldn't she, right? It was the nice thing to do. That's why she'd do it. Right.
And, after all, his smile was worth it.
***
Roshonda had worried that John would be called away. But his injury prevented him. "I'm so glad, really, that you get to stay, hon," she told him as she set a mug of cocoa on the table in from of him. She had invited him over for the afternoon, and it was certain that they were becoming closer very quickly. He smiled and held her hand. "I am too. I'd hate to have to leave you," he said with a flirtatious wink. "Oh you," she laughed, playfully smacking him. "Drink your cocoa before it gets cold." John took a slow sip and looked out the window. "Winter'll be comin' soon, won't it?" he asked, watching the trees shake from the wind. She nodded. "Mmhmm. Soon. I want my 'Nisha to be home on Christmas. She can make an album in town, can't she?" He shrugged. "Maybe."
She watched him for a moment. Then she put her arms around him. "I want you here for Christmas too, John," she said. He looked up at her and smiled. "You can count on it, Ma'am," he said softly, patting her hands. "You can count on it."
***
Ellen was squeezing Howard tightly. "I'll write you every day!" she cried. "You better write me back, Howard Whitehurst, or I'll die!" He laughed, but he knew what she meant, and in truth, it was no laughing matter. "You better write me too, Ellen," he said softly. "I'll be thinkin' of you." She was crying. "I'd come with you, but you know I can't do this kind of stuff..." she whispered. He held her face up and wiped her tears away gently. "I promise I'll write, Ellen," he said, holding her closely to him. "Every day." She only held him tighter, her hands gripping his uniform. "Stay safe, please," she said, burying her face in his chest. "For me." He nodded. "I will, Ellen. I promise."
The trucks were roaring to life. Krista was getting on board when she heard Quanisha's voice. "Hey!" she called. Krista turned around. "You didn't think you could leave without me saying good-bye, did you?" she asked. Krista smiled. "No. Not at all," she said, hugging her old friend. She sighed. "Sometimes, Quanisha, I wish we were back in kiddie school. When army was just for pretend." The black girl punched her arm. "You sayin' that already, girl?" she asked with a smile. "But seriously, be safe now, you hear? I don't wanna have to write some sad song about my best friend." Krista shook her head. "No worries. I've got skills," she joked. "Did you get to say good-bye to Andy?"
Quanisha nodded. "Yup," she said. "He's at the house. His Momma's cryin' something real awful." She looked down. "I'm gonna miss you guys," she said. Krista hugged her again. "Don't cry, Quanisha," she said. "I ain't gonna cry girl," her friend replied, smiling sadly. "At least, not until I realize you guys are gone for real." They embraced one last time before Krista's name was called, and she disappeared into the vehicle.
Brett noticed her. He had noticed how Whitehurst and that girl had a little moment over there. He wanted someone to write him too. He deserved it. And even if Quanisha didn't think so, she'd have to, right? Because it was the right thing to do for a soldier, for a future hero of America. She'd have to, indeed she would. He strode over to her. "You don't have to cry, Quanisha," he said cockily. "You can write me, and I can have your picture in my pocket. What do you say?" he asked. She turned to him and scowled, a dark and frightening look. "Brett Shelton," she began. She prodded her index finger into his chest repeatedly. "Here's all I got to say to you. We are not kids anymore. Stop acting like one. I hope the war makes you grow up and realize it's not all about you." She looked into his eyes, her fiery emotion real, penetrating. "I hope it teaches you how to truly be a man. Something that medals, uniforms, or power can never give you." She started to walk away, but then she looked back once more. "You may own the playground, Brett," she said softly. "But my merry-go-round will never turn for you." Then she left, leaving him feeling alone and empty, and wondering what she meant by a real man.
She was crying as she left. But he didn't see it, and even if he had, he wouldn't know why.
***
Karen was trying to maintain a brave face, but tears kept escaping. "Oh, Andy," she said sadly. "You look just like your father, now that you're all grown." She grasped his shoulders before holding him tightly again, keeping him there, trying to remember the little boy she used to know, trying to keep him that way, though she knew she couldn't. "I'm gonna miss you, Mom," he murmured, trying himself to remember every detail of her face. He turned to Mike, who was standing to the side, hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry I haven't really gotten the chance to call you Dad, Mike," he said, holding out his hand. Mike shook it and the two men embraced. Karen cried, and Maggie hugged her, her eyes misting. The little girls were crying- they hadn't really gotten to spend too much time with him, but they had loved this boy with the brown eyes the instant he learned their names. "Andy, Andy!" they called. "You can't leave us! We were supposed to make gingerbread men at Christmas!"
Andy smiled sadly. "Maybe I'll be back by Christmas," he said, though he doubted it. Maggie held out an arm for him, and he embraced her. "I'm really going to miss you all," he said again. Johnny shook his hand. "Good luck, son," he said. Andy nodded. "You take care of Aunt Maggie for me," he replied knowingly. "She needs looking after sometimes, you know." Johnny smiled, but it was a tight smile. No one could really smile genuinely. "Well," he said looking around. "I've got to go." He seemed to be waiting for something, but he finally turned and opened the screen door, listening to its creaking sound as it shut behind him.
The wind was biting. Winter was definitely on the way, he thought to himself as he walked down the steps. In just a week, it had gone from the cool autumn breeze to this icy chill. He shivered slightly as he stepped over the fallen leaves. He was still trying to make himself believe this was happening. What if he died? What if he was taken captive? What if he never came home? He tried to shut it out, but it was in vain, and he wondered if other soldiers ever felt this way. Did they ever think of these things when they held up a gun?
"Wait!" The cry rang across the chilly air. Andy turned, and his heart nearly broke at what he saw. "Please don't go! Please don't leave! You can't! You'll die!" The boy had reached his side and was clinging to his leg pleadingly. "I'm sorry, Andy! I know I've been bad, but I promise I'll be good this time! I'm sorry! I promise! I'll be so very good this time! Just please don't leave me..." he was sobbing. Andy knelt down and held his face, and it hurt him that this poor boy had waited until now to come to him. "Please don't go," he whimpered, his blue eyes piercing Andy's heart. "Chucky," he said slowly, the feeling of the name so strange on his tongue. It had been so long since he'd spoken to him. He stroked the boy's cheek, and marveled at how soft it felt under his fingertips. "You and I both know I have to go," he said softly. "I can't stay."
Chucky's small fingers were still gripping his sleeves. "This is all my fault," he whispered. "This is all my fault..." His bottom lip was trembling fiercely. "If it wasn't for me, you'd be home now, to stay..." he looked down at his shoes. Andy held up the boy's chin. "Listen to me," he murmured. He placed a hand over Chucky's heart. "You see this? I want you to take care of it for me, alright? It's very special to me, and I don't want it to get bruised or broken anymore." He looked up into the boy's eyes. "It's been hurt too many times. Take care of it, you hear?" Chucky nodded, sniffling, trying as hard as he could not to burst into tears again. "Andy? If I take good care of it, will you want it back if you get home?"
Andy smiled. "When I come back home, Chucky, I will keep it close to me," he replied softly. "And I will never let it go for the rest of my life. I promise." He stood slowly. The leaves were falling at a seemingly precarious speed. He looked back at house once more, where he knew his family was enclosed. "Wait for me, Chucky," he said softly. "I will come back, I promise, no matter what. Wait for me."
And then he was gone, and as the lumbering vehicles drove away into the distance, the boy was still standing there, with his hands pressed to his heart, the words still echoing in his head.
Wait for me.