BEFORE
Words like violence
Break the silence
Come crashing in
Into my little world
Painful to me
Pierce right through me
"Enjoy The Silence"
Depeche Mode
October 13, 1950
Palo Alto, California
Chuck and Jill walked hand in hand along the sidewalk, passing through the evenly-spaced cones of light shining from the street lamps. The air was crisp, laden with the scent of autumn. Autumn in Northern California was different than in Massachusetts—the colors were less vibrant and only varied shades of mostly yellow—but after five years like this, Chuck was used to it. His light jacket was sufficient for now, but cooler nights awaited. Jill's hand was warm in his, the sharp outline of her brand new diamond ring poking his fingers as he squeezed.
He watched her purposely rearrange her hand at every opportunity, as she ensured the brilliant stone was always catching the light and throwing tiny rainbows on the dark street. She was entranced with her ring, hyper focused on it. Chuck would see her sometimes, staring at her hand, waving her fingers to make it sparkle.
Chuck interpreted Jill's actions as a manifestation of her excitement, her eagerness to marry him. It was certainly how he felt when he would watch her, loving the gentle smile on her face, the light shining from her brown eyes. He wanted nothing but her happiness. Seeing her that way made him happy.
He had conquered his uncertainty with that argument. Now there was no more vacillating, no more worrying if he was doing the right thing. He had asked, and she said yes. That meant everything.
The finality, the certainty of it, helped quiet the whisper in the back of his mind that seemed to call to him at inopportune times. A whisper asking him if she was happier to become his wife…or simply to wear his diamond. If he was happy because he was happy…or merely because she was happy. Had he purchased a genuine future or only a release from his past?
"We should start making plans," Jill said. "It'll be June before we know it. There's so much to do," she exclaimed, almost skipping with excitement as she walked beside him.
"We've been engaged for like…five days," Chuck countered with a smile. "And we told your parents as well as your extended family, and Gertrude and Casey. That's a lot of progress for five days. One step at a time."
"What about Sarah?" Jill asked, an icy edge to her voice as she shifted her gaze away, a suggestion chillier than the autumn air that the list of those told had one noteworthy omission.
"What about Sarah?" he challenged her, surprised by the harshness of his voice, the sudden palpable tension between them.
"Did you tell her yet?" Jill asked, impatience in her tone, as if she were accusing him of cowardice, or something worse.
"I told her in a letter," Chuck admitted, realizing how terrible his decision sounded when spoken aloud. A letter hadn't been his first choice; he would have preferred to talk to her, and tell her in a more personal way. A way that respected what they'd been to each other, whatever that was. He hadn't seen her in over a year: a fact that boggled his mind and he fought not to dwell on it.
Since Bryce had been drafted and sent overseas, Sarah hadn't called Chuck once. He had always deferred to her, leaving the decision as to when she spoke to him up to her, thinking it too forward to call her himself, lest she think he was overstepping his boundaries, his role in her life. Or that Bryce would. Even when he had first been in California, he had left the phone calls up to her. Only, back then, she had called more frequently. He suspected she was worried, looking for distraction, something to keep her mind occupied. He wondered sometimes why she seemed so adverse to talking to him, why his voice was no longer enough to soothe her. He thought he knew the reason why, the awkwardness that had persisted since the pass she had made at him on her birthday. He missed hearing her voice, but, at least, she was still writing to him. Letters continued to come.
Her openness with him and the way she wrote hadn't changed, the one thing he clung to when he felt bereft, when he worried that after all that had transpired, they didn't know each other any longer. Knowing he could sense her through her words was still a comfort to him.
She was sad. It was heartbreaking to acknowledge, but he knew it.
He could feel it when he read, like it was vibrating off the paper, like a mournful cloud that surrounded him. She wasn't lamenting or complaining; it was the way she described things, the words she chose, the details she chose to focus on that betrayed her melancholy. It was in the form of her letters, not so much in their content.
Bryce was gone and she was alone again. He wished he had the strength to comfort her, offer more than just platitudes in the form of advice, but he didn't; the distance between them was no longer only physical, but emotional as well. He could no longer bring her near enough to him to speak from his heart to hers. He forced himself to focus on his own life, his own plans, hoping Sarah would find a way out of her doleful mood. His greatest hope for her was that Bryce returned safe and sound from the war. That would be Sarah's future, or at least her release from the past.
"No reply yet?" Jill quizzed, squeezing his hand so tightly her ring dug into his palm.
"It was only five days ago," Chuck told her. "She may have only just read it." He sounded defensive…then questioned himself for the feeling.
"We could stay in California," Jill said, a lilt to her voice he knew well. That was Campaigning Jill…trying to win his vote. Soap Box Jill. He intentionally ignored how troubling it was–to know there was a side of Jill he didn't like, or found manipulative.
"You know I have to go back to Massachusetts when I graduate. Why is this coming up again?" he asked testily, though he masked it quickly, changing his tone and rolling his shoulders.
"I know, I know. Your father's company," she replied, rolling her eyes before she blinked her expression away. As if his father's company were some unhappiness to be borne.
"Exactly. My father's company. The reason I'm here. The only reason I came out here. I've been preparing to take that over since I was ten," he argued, though the information was known to her. They had been contentedly happy a few moments ago, walking in blowing leaves–why was he now so quick to anger?
"I understand that, Chuck," Jill replied, her voice softer, placating. "But…you were ten. Your life belongs to you, you know."
It wasn't the first time she had said this, but this was the first time she had brought it up since their engagement. Before he had ever asked for her hand, they had discussed the future. Jill had promised him she would leave California and return to Massachusetts to build their life together. She had been determined to pursue her dreams of research and professorship in the northeast. She had more opportunities in Massachusetts than she did in California, a point he made sure to make to her.
Chuck's life did belong to him, he thought. The problem, sometimes, was that it seemed Jill thought it belonged to her, that her dreams and goals were more important than his, merely because her dreams were her own, spontaneous, and he was fulfilling a family obligation, a dream handed down. She didn't have the same respect for his future as he did. No reason that she should have…until she had accepted his proposal. It should have mattered more, at least after that fact. His dream may have been handed down but that did not make it a hand-me-down dream, second-rate or not really his own.
"Jill, we can get married in California, like we talked about. I know all your family is out here. As…appealing as it can be to stay, I need to go home. We need to go home."
"We have time," Jill answered. It was how she always answered, when something about the future became contentious. Delay. Foot-dragging. Even after she had started the conversation by saying time was of the essence. It left him feeling uneasy. He believed marriage was about compromise. But must every last thing be a negotiation, an arbitration between them? Why was everything so hard, so fraught with the feeling of costly compromise, not happy meeting-in-the-middle?
He would ask himself questions like these…and his unease would intensify. He would have to consciously shake off that train of thought, make himself think of something else. Chuck and Sarah could communicate better without words than the dictionaries full he seemed to need to make Jill see his point of view sometimes. At least, that's how it had been with Sarah, before things had gone so wrong, until the chasm between them had become too wide. Uncrossable. A fixed gulf forever separating them
Shouldn't it have been easiest to talk to Jill, his future wife? Why was she always keeping score in a game Chuck felt he did not fully understand?
He would ask himself that, but never answer it. Or he couldn't face the answer, and couldn't even accept that he couldn't face it. He was in a complete state of denial, trying so hard to ignore certain things that he was clueless in the face of everything.
Things would work themselves out. They would. That was his mantra, what he told himself each time he started to worry, as if he could meaningfully promise that to himself.
He didn't want to worry. Damn it, he was newly engaged. They were celebrating. He had nothing to worry about. Jill's ring was all rainbows.
They were on their way to the common area of his dorm. As a graduate student, he had a single: a tiny room all to himself. Housing for graduate students was more secluded on campus, and housing for female graduate students was limited. Jill shared an apartment off campus with her roommate, Sherrie. It was easier for him to stay in her apartment, not subject to campus rules, than for him to sneak her into his dorm. Sometimes, though, she still wanted him to sneak her in. Like tonight, her plan was to wait until lights-out was called, then creep up the stairwell in the dark.
Before Chuck could even open the door to the common area, he saw the pink message paper taped to the inside of the door. Written in jumbo black letters, his name, and instructions to call home, call collect.
Gertrude. Six separate messages…six separate calls while he had been out.
"What is all this?" Jill asked, scrutinizing the paper.
He barely heard her; his blood had turned to ice water. He pulled the notes from the door, his hand trembling. He felt like his feet were rooted to the spot, like he couldn't move.
Something was wrong.
Was it Casey? Or Sarah?
It couldn't be anyone else. Gertrude, Casey, and Sarah. The three of them together encompassed everything that mattered to him back home, and if Gertrude had called, then…
"Chuck, what's wrong?" Jill asked as she noticed his countenance, the onset of his panic.
Chuck didn't answer her, possessed with the need to get to the phone as soon as possible. He gripped Jill by her shoulders and moved her aside, not harshly, but firmly. He grabbed the phone and dialed, waiting an interminable amount of time for the operator to connect the call. Jill kept asking, pestering him to tell her what was going on, but he gestured harshly for her to be quiet so he could hear the operator.
"Please state your name, sir," the operator droned.
"Chuck," he said crisply.
"Please hold, sir."
He held his breath while the phone rang.
"Hello?" It was Gertrude, her voice clipped and tense, and, frighteningly, weepy.
Chuck bit his tongue, calming the urge to speak over the operator.
"I have a collect call from–" Chuck heard his name, repeated in his own voice. "Do you accept?"
"Yes!" Gertrude shouted, not letting the operator finish before she answered.
"Gertrude, what's wrong?" Chuck shouted into the phone, his volume attracting the attention of the other occupants in the room.
"Oh…Chuck," she breathed, sniffling. "Sarah's father called this afternoon."
He felt the edges of his vision darken, fear paralyzing him, as he waited for her to continue. If Jill was speaking, he had lost the ability to hear her.
"Bryce was killed in Korea, Chuck," Gertrude said.
His legs, already trembling, completely gave out. He sank down onto his knees, collapsing against the wall attached to the counter where the phone sat. He could not have understood his own feelings, only their depth and power.
"His mother…got the telegram this morning."
Gertrude was still talking, but her voice sounded tinny, far away. Surreal.
"Sarah…" Chuck breathed. Only her name, but a question, full of worried desperation.
"Jack said…he called her to let her know. She's still away at school, Chuck," Gertrude reminded him.
"I have to call her," Chuck stammered, startled by the sound of his own voice. "I need to come home."
Chuck saw movement, thinking it was Jill, moving away from him. A brief flash of irritation interrupted his panic, but it flared then faded. He focused again on what Gertrude was saying.
"...for you to come all the way back here. I can tell Jack to let her know you want to talk to her. Jack said she's been dealing with it on her own. Keeping to herself."
That was Sarah. It made perfect sense. She was quiet, reticent, undemonstrative and uncommunicative of her feelings. She processed things internally; she always had. But grief? This grief? How could she seal herself up, not talk to anyone?
Sarah had always been able to talk to him. Sure, it had gotten difficult as they had gotten older, but something this bad, this devastating…he couldn't accept that she wouldn't speak to him. Even if it was over the heartbreak of losing someone she loved.
"Gertrude, please," he said into the silence. "Will you just tell Jack that I'm here…if Sarah needs me. Anytime of day or night."
She stifled a sob. "I will, Chuck. I promise."
The line went dead. He hung up the phone. Dead.
Still shaken, he turned to see Jill was still there, seated on the sofa. Her arms and legs were crossed. Her jaw was tightly clenched, her eyes burning. Damn it, she was angry, impatient, annoyed by waiting for him when he was on the phone.
"What now?" she asked, disgruntled and brusque.
"Sarah's boyfriend was killed in the war," Chuck said, the words cold, stemming from the ice he could feel in his bones. Vaguely, he expected to see his breath.
Jill uncrossed her arms and legs, sat forward on the sofa cushion. "That's awful," she sympathized, but mechanically. Her demeanor had changed like flipping a switch. She reached her hand out, but he didn't take it. He saw a disquiet deep in her eyes.
"Look, I'm…I'm…I just…" He wanted to tell her he wasn't in the mood for anything, that he wanted to be alone to think. Secretly, he was hoping that Gertrude could relay the message to Jack and Sarah would call. Jill's presence was now annoying, a hindrance to his ability to sort his thoughts and feelings, cope with the volcanic upheaval inside him.
Jill stood, huffing. "It's ok. I'll go, Chuck. Take some time. I understand." She stretched up and kissed his cheek, while he stood numbly, thinking first and foremost, that though she said she understood, she didn't. She had no idea. No one did, no one could.
He had never felt more alone in his life as he watched Jill walk away. His future and his past seemed to have canceled each other out, leaving him only the empty present.
A/N: Thanks to Zettel once again. Historical notes: The U.S. started drafting for the Korean War on June 25, 1950. The lottery was not random; males were at the greatest risk of being drafted in the year in which they turned 20. The only legitimate defer would have been previous service in World War II. It was a known factor that males in college with standings in the lower half of their class in terms of GPA, were also at higher risk. The Korean War lasted for three years, with a total of 1.5 million draftees and over 36,000 deaths. In this story, Chuck was just as elligible for the draft as Bryce. It remains plausible that Chuck would not be drafted while Bryce was; Chuck was older, and at the top of his class at Stanford. To be fair, even in the NOW/AFTER chapters, Chuck is not safe from the draft. In fact, there continued a peacetime draft during the years between 1953 and 1964, when the tension in Vietnam began escalating. Once Chuck turned 26, he was no longer elligible for either wartime or peacetime draft.