Free Muckers by Sandra Neil Wallace

coma, which is a lot worse than what Maw’s going through. You read about stuff like that all the time in the paper—little miracles, really. People waking up from the worst after years, asking for a cherry Coke, then remembering all the people who love them sitting around and staring. Never giving up.
    I was helping Rabbit collect eggs from his mother’s hens last week. When one of them wouldn’t let go of the egg she’d been nesting, Rabbit wanted to know when Maw first let go of me. He said I was like an orphan.
    It was when we first got the death notice. Maw stayed in bed for a week and only got up for Bobby’s funeral. She never cried either. “Strong as the white rocks in Antrim,” Pop kept saying. Then Maw stopped baking soda bread on Saturday mornings.
    When school started up again, I came home and there was Maw, sitting in the parlor with her nightgown still on, counting the roses lining the wallpaper. When I asked why she hadn’t washed up, she just shrugged and said, “What for?”
    By Christmas, Maw’d cut up her hair pretty good, and she thought the living room carpet was a wicked, screaming beast. “Open the windee and we’ll shoo the bleemin’ hallion away!” she’d cried, beating the border with her crimping iron. And I knew I had to tell Mr. Mackenzie.
    That’s when Pop started taking on more shifts—night shifts especially—and I saw him even less, so by the time Sundays came, I’d eat up most of the bread meant for Holy Communion, and Father Pierre didn’t want that kind of altar boy around.
    “Ten more minutes, okay, Red?” Mrs. Mackenzie says, poking her head in the doorway.
    “Did he come visit?” I ask.
    “Not today.”
    I don’t know the last time Pop did.
    I keep brushing Maw’s hair, which used to be like mine, but it’s pale and brittle now, as if the pigments have given up, too. When I reach the nape of Maw’s neck, she simply lets go and an envelope falls from her lap to the floor.
    I know it’s a letter from Bobby. There’s a pile of them on Maw’s dresser in the old Victory cigar box next to her pearls.
    It’s the one where he’s at sea writing to Mr. Mackenzie, who gave it to me the day we found out Bobby died. It’s the last one Bobby ever sent. The thing about Bobby was that you could never catch him hurting.
    Februrary 3, 1945
    At Sea
    Dear Mr. Mackenzie:
    Here’s hoping you and your family are in the best of health. Everything is just joto as they say over here. That means okay. But it looks as though I’ll have to stay out here for a few more months.
    I saw the damege caused by the Jap suicide planes and it’s nothing to scoff about. I can see where I am going to need lots of luck in order to stay alive if one should ever hit the ship I am on. Almost all hit near the con-tower, where the captain is. I guess they figure that if they get rid of him the war is won. The captain says if he makes it home he’s gonna lie in a hamock for a month and have his wife pour beer down his throat. That he won’t even bother to swallow.
    All these waters are mine-infasted. At night you have to pray that you don’t hit one. It’s hard to see them in the dark and it really gets dark up this way. (Please excuse the mistakes but the typewriter isn’t any good and I can’t type real good when the kid below keeps shaking the bed. I know those are excuses but I don’t want you thinking all the time you spent on me was wasted if I can’t spell.)
    Had two good liberties. Bought a nice silk kimono for my future bride. It cost me fifty yen or in american currency it runs to three dollars.
    Any way lets give the teams a good going over next season, especially Cottonville. I’d give anything to be there that day but I don’t think I could make it.
    Well Mr. Mac, keep the home fires burning until I reach home and tell everyone hello. Don’t forget we are still out here trying our best that freedom shall not perish from the earth.
    Very sincerely yours,

    Robert