Chapter 15 Soldiering On

'Letters?' He pronounced the 's' in the word rather forcefully.

'Yes sir, you've got two this time. And not only that, but I brought you a book. Nice thick one too. Dickens-you like Dickens?'

'Aye, he's alright.' He answered vaguely, always reluctant to expound more on any subject no matter how favorable or else risk her thinking it was alright to converse with him more than absolutely necessary. She was nice, he had established this before, but she enjoyed insipid chatter that grated on every nerve he had. Her voice was too high and there was never any substance to what she said. He was in no mood for small talk anyway, and his vague answers were better than hard snaps, he thought, so even the little he spoke seemed a success in the realm of social interactions.

Thankfully she only tilted her head, gave a short snort like noise as if half exasperated with his short answer, and then left the goods on the little table beside him and went to check on a more talkative fellow.

He took up the letters first, a thrill of excitement overcame him at the thought of Belle writing twice, only for it to be dashed momentarily that one of them was not from her and from the only other person that would have any thought to write to him-Jeffries. He opened his first, for Belle's letter was to be savored, even while he appreciated the thought behind his friend's correspondence.

'Gold,

Pretty nurses, good food, a comfortable bed-how is the life of ease treating you? Ha! I bet you've got such a scowl on your face now, haven't you?

In all seriousness, I do want to know how you're getting along. Also want to see how thankful you are that I didn't listen to your stupid ideas about keeping your whereabouts from that pretty little woman you write to. Please tell me you had sense enough to write her back and not wallow in self pity? I know it's been a while (you should know better than anyone how these things are) and you should have exchanged plenty of sweet nonsense between the two of you by now, and so I am believing the best.

Life here is hell, as it always has been, but I choose to laugh in the face of it and carry on. You should do the same, soldier, and recover quickly.

If something happened and you haven't yet, write to your girl, tell her what an idiot you were and let her tell you how great she thinks you are, and then do me a favor? When this is all over, invite me to the wedding.

Jeffries'

The cheek of the man! Roger didn't know whether to be amused or mortified at Jeffries' line of thinking. He appreciated the nod to the fact that Jeffries realized that what he was going through was just a different version of miserable-a version with better food and fewer explosions. He was just glad that the letter meant that Jefferies was still alive (at least it was when he wrote it, a week or two ago), even if the man did speak a lot of nonsense.

Now it was time for Belle's letter. He tried to put out of his mind the last sentence of Jeffries' letter and enjoy it for what it was-a letter from a dear friend. Whether or not he was successful was another thing entirely.

'Roger,

The cold of this spring day was warmed considerably by those Texas beams you so graciously sent me. They were exactly the thing I needed, and your letter has become part of what has made this day especially beautiful. My nephew and I are in the library, a slice of heaven in and of itself, we have an entire day to ourselves, and I received your letter as the pinnacle of all those good things.

The world is beautiful today and puts me in mind of another Longfellow poem (I had a beautiful book of his poems before Papa passed away and I had the tendency to copy them onto sketch paper and try my hand at doing to my own illustrations-which I confess were very bad, I'm no artist-and thus memorized several).

O gift of God! O perfect day:

Whereon shall no man work, but play;

Whereon it is enough for me,

Not to be doing, but to be!

Not to be doing, but to be is exactly my motto for today. I think it was Elizabeth Bennet who so beautifully said "Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.", which is what my day consists of, so please forgive me if I do not dwell on anything but the beauty of the day and the freedom in which I am determined to not be doing or remembering but simply being. There may be dark days sprinkled in my sunny ones, I will grant you, but to dwell on them at such a moment would send a torrent of rain that I simply will not tempt.

To be frank, my dear friend, you have been fairly astute in your observations, and I appreciate your honest confession that I've been the same in mine, however, I think of what those around me are going through-I think of what you are going through, and I know that we are all just trying to get through each day as best we can. Your perseverance helps mine. So, Roger, when the harder days close in on you like a tightening vice (I am sure I'm being a little dramatic to imagine it's a description of my own experience), just do like I do. Enjoy the sunny days and forget, as best you can, the stormy ones. Then it will feel like the good days far outway the bad ones. Yes, yes, I am fully aware that this most likely shows my naive look on life-I've already been called a silly girl by my favorite nephew, so I am aware of my shortcomings. You must ignore me completely if my musings are completely ridiculous, or show just how little I realize the reality of what you are experiencing, but put it all down to my youth and inexperience, forgive me if you can, and then know that I think and pray for you a great deal and hope that you are doing well, that your recovery is going smoothly, and that I worry over any discomfort you might be feeling despite how heedless my words may sound.

Before I end this letter, I just wanted to assure you that nothing truly horrible happened to cause my last letter to be delayed. My errand day was pushed to the following week, and I was unable to send a letter following it to explain the discrepancy in dates. I am sorry for worrying you. Thank you for continuing to correspond. Your letters are always bits of sunshine to my soul.

Your Friend,

Belle'

It was hard to feel the ache in the stump that had once boasted to be a leg when he read such beautiful words. He could almost feel her smiling while she wrote it. He decided not to dwell too greatly on why a simple day at the library would make her so happy (as if it were a comparison to her other days, which were so obviously not-vice like, those words frightened him considerably), but continued along the same frame as she. Think only of the past as it gives you pleasure-His dreams (or nightmares, rather) would not allow him to forget that part of his past, but he could apply such a philosophy to his recovery-remember the progress, forget the embarrassing failures, and try to move on from there.

He settled onto his bed and reread her letter again, this time even more slowly than before, savoring each word. He tried to imagine what she might sound like, what she might look like as she said such things. He could not do it justice, he knew, but it was the most beautiful diversion of the day to try to do so.

He wrote her back, and used such language that surprised himself. It was alright though. Though he did have her picture, and did try to imagine her voice and looks, she was still such a mystery to him. If she was there, scowling at him with disgust, or wrinkled all over in pity, it might give some pause to his writing. As it was, he went on, his heart racing with each word. He was truly pathetic. Jeffries could probably write with twice the openness having not even half such strong feelings as he did. It didn't matter what Jeffries could or couldn't do in his place. He was Roger Gold, the man who had been lost and unsure where to go or what to do his whole life. Why should this be any different?

The thought that all the things that Belle did, the waking up feeling more tired than rested, the long days at the plant, the endless lectures on every small thing Belle did wrong in the eyes of Morris, the long nights that she worked, trying to help the boys, cleaning the house, and the final collapsing on the ever increasing uncomfortableness that was their couch at the end of the day, ought to have been now balanced with the happy thought that it would all come to an end soon, but it never seemed to do so. She was so dead tired that she had hardly any time to think on such things and the barbs that Morris threw at her seemed increasing in their sharpness especially with the thought that soon she would have to break to him that he would be losing his free labor. He would not take it well, that much was certain. She might not be able to predict his behavior on most things, but that he would be upset, was something of which she would bet money on, if she had any to use. She and David had spoken before they went back that afternoon of the library day, that nothing would be said to Morris until the day she was sure she could move out. David had been trusted with the letters, she was certain that he would be good about this.

And so the days passed, one hard day after another. She distracted herself by remembering some nice thing Roger had said, remembered in her prayers the family of the dead soldier that Ruby held hands with as he left this world, and then, to put things on a pleasanter note, imagined what it might be like to work at the library instead of performing the same or a similar task for so many hours in a day, and for days and days on end. Thoughts of Roger or of the future were a particular problem of hers. She never gave those things much thought while she worked at the plant, as one wrong move could hurt the whole assembly, but it was very tempting to do so while she washed dishes (which wasn't so bad) or while she perhaps made food for the family (this, she found, was a problem).

That is why, on this particular morning, she found herself staring at a plate piled high with burnt bacon.

The morning had started normally enough. She stretched the muscles that seemed to never stop aching. Any lingering ache from the work day seemed to settle in her back and shoulders as she slept on the hard couch. She wasn't particularly aware of that fact, as it was such a normal thing by this time that the ache was as routine as making breakfast-or similar to how breakfast ought to have been quite routine by now.

David had slipped a precious letter to her the night before and she had read it by the waning fire. Maine was still brutally cold some days, for April was just an extension of March, and May was really the month of spring, allowing June and July to give them a small break from the bitter cold. The fire never seemed warm enough fo Belle, but the longer she lived there, the less likely she was to ask for an extra log, or else be given one at the expenses of a whole night of work, telling her that perhaps she didn't do enough during the day to make her tired enough to sleep comfortably at night. Vigorous labor was just the thing to make a person warm, he would say, and then tell her exactly how much a cord of wood cost and how his wallet was taking a hit because of her frivolous needs. She had never tested such a theory out, but she had enough experience with a hundred such examples to make her sure never to try such a thing.

The fire was just enough for her to be able to make the words out. She would most likely need glasses at some point, her eyes straining to catch each word in the darkening room. It was worth it, though. She would be an old maid, hair up in a high bun, circular glasses and a large sweater fit over a floral skirt, yes, she knew exactly how it would be and she would have giggled at the image, if it did not hold so many bittersweet notes to her, with such a letter in her hand. Such an image only lasted a second, for as soon as she knew the house to be quiet and sleeping, she broke open the envelope.

'Belle,

Do not worry one moment that I might take pain or offense from anything you might say. How could I when you put such ideas so perfectly? Your poem, motto and charge were very much appropriate for my present feelings that I hate to confess just how rotten I was looking at the world. I have taken your advice, forgotten my painful setbacks and now am only thinking of the steps I've gained. This is quite the outlook, as I've never been optimistic in my life. I think you might be a good influence, my dear friend. If you were but my nurse, Belle, I imagine I would have been out of here a month ago. In fact, your letters make me smile more, your words are ever, just the encouragement I need, and I do not know how I would have recovered as much as I have if it weren't for you.

Would you be very much against a visit from me when I have been discharged from here? Do not feel obligated in the least. I know I am still such a stranger to you, and I would not begrudge any wariness you might feel. I would just like to come and personally thank you for the kindness you have shown me.

I am sorry to have been right in my observations of any unspoken difficulties you are facing. Never feel as if your sorrows and discomfort is somehow less because it is different from others. The bravery and strength I see from you in your letters tells me that you would not be affected by anything so small. I am sorry for it, and I hope for nothing but sunny days to follow the bright one you described in your letter.

Jeffries had a letter for me that was delivered with yours. He reminded me of my selfish and idiotic actions a few months ago. I, of course, cannot argue with his assessment and it reminded me to thank you again for your forgiveness that you continue to write to me regardless of my past misjudgments (is that one of those things that you purposefully forgot in order to think of only happy things? If so, I do apologize).

As I close your letter, I am about to delve into A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, have you read it? I have read several of his, but not this particular one and so I am looking forward to getting lost in his gritty, descriptive world-something that though having not read it before, can be assured of with such an author.

Be well, my friend!

Roger'

To meet him! Perhaps all he wanted to do was to see her to put a face to the words they had exchanged. Perhaps that would be the end to all the wonderful conversations they had been part of, yet, she was giddy with expectant hope. Sleep did not come to her for hardly an hour or two that night. She was still thinking of what it would be like to finally meet him in real life when she smelled something bitter.

The bacon!

The entire batch of bacon she had fried for the family lay black in the pan, the oil threatening (and then following through on such threats) to send painful reminders that she had left it in too long. She tried to salvage something long past redemption, as she laid the blackened meat on a plate. She carefully arranged every other piece of the breakfast to be beautiful on each plate, but there was no getting past the oppressive smell that had permeated the house, and there was no hiding the damage done.

'Belle!' The bark made Belle jump where she stood and almost tip the plate over and dump the contents along with the plate on the floor-which wouldn't have mattered much, she supposed, except for perhaps another broken plate to add to her sins.

'What is wrong with you?!' He said as he marched into the kitchen. 'Why can't you ever just get one thing right? I don't even know why I even let you try to do anything. Is it too much to ask that you focus on one thing at a time instead of floating around, head in the clouds, as if you've got nothing else to do but sit around all day?'

And so it began.

'Do you know how much bacon costs right now? —cents a pound. I've done everything in my power to feed you and clothe you and this is how you repay me? I might as well take my paycheck and throw it in the fire, it would be about the same for how much you cost me.'

And it kept going. In front of the whole family too, as they sat at the breakfast table. She attempted to at least take a bite or two of food (though she felt every glare, as if he were adding up how much each bite cost him, and then when she could not finish her plate he was now calculating how much she wasted). She was an embarrassment, he said. Even little James could have done a better job with the food. How did she think she was ever going to be a housewife if she couldn't even cook bacon? She wished her body would stop shaking enough to put her chin up and remind him of how many meals she had made for him thus far, how many casseroles and fancy dishes he had eaten at her house when Papa was alive. She had been so happily thinking of Roger's letter that this particular deluge of words had taken her unawares, and she eventually excused herself (all the while Morris telling her that she ought to take things with a better attitude, that if she would not listen to his advice, she would never grow and mature) to go get ready and silently sob in the bathroom. She would be stronger next time, but his words had been too much on a day already begun on so little sleep, and such fanciful thoughts as she had contemplated that morning (thoughts that were now marred with ideas that even while her mind knew were untrue, could not be completely put to the side just because of their sheer number).

Think only of the past as it gives you pleasure, She reminded herself. She would need to put her chin back up and keep going. If he could be brave enough to keep going when things were hard, so could she-she told herself for the millionth time in so many months. Well, she would. So she wiped her eyes and did just that.

Author's Note:

History Stuff:
My timeline for Roger's recovery might be a little shorter than it would have been historically. I couldn't get an exact time frame (as each person's recovery would have been different), but from my research so far, I think 6 months is about right? However, he may get done a biiiiiit sooner than that, because I need him to. He's a determined guy, which is in his favor, and again-fanfiction, lol

I did some research on the April weather in Maine in 1944, and it was a colder than average spring, it seems. The cold lingering on and on is a comparison to how life at Morris' feels for Belle right now.

Story stuff:
I know, I know, more angst for Belle and villain-like behavior from Morris. I believe the next chapter (two chapters at the most) should see some actual light at the end of that tunnel. Part of Morris' manipulation is to say so many words that you finally just shrug and want to get away instead of fighting, as it does no actual good. As always, I hope it all makes sense! If you see something that doesn't, you can let me know.

Poem is from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 'A Day of Sunshine'-it's a really pretty poem and I've only included the first stanza.
Quote is from Pride and Prejudice, written by Jane Austen (and if you haven't read THAT book yet, then you are definitely missing out on a gem)

As always, I love the comments. I love hearing your thoughts and theories, and excitement. Thank you so so much!