Free Letter From Home by Carolyn Hart Page B

Her pink shirtwaist dress was crisp with starch. It might have been any summer day on a screened-in porch, bright with white wicker and navy cushions, except for the misery in her eyes and the young man in a wheelchair, a pale green spread draped to hide his missing legs.
    Gretchen’s stomach ached. She didn’t know whether the ache came from the tart lemonade or from the pain and heartbreak and courage at the Forrester house. Or from the nagging worry that she’d promised to find out the truth about Faye Tatum and she didn’t know where to start. “No, ma’am. Thank you. Do you know when you will be able to go to school, Billy?”
    His hair, cut short, was a golden brown too and his freckled face thin. Too thin. His short-sleeve cotton shirt was too big for him. “They haven’t told me when they’re going to operate again.” He frowned. “There’s this place that doesn’t heal. Once I get past that, I know exactly what I want to do. I’ve got it all planned.” His voice lifted with eagerness. “They say it’s a sure thing that the president’s going to sign that bill for veterans to go to college. I’m going to go to A&M and be a vet.”
    Gretchen’s uncle Sylvester was a veterinarian and he was always being called out in the middle of the night when a cow was having trouble delivering a calf or a quarter horse came down with colic. Gretchen thought about the rough uneven ground out on farms and ranches, the ruts that criss-crossed a barnyard.
    Mrs. Forrester pressed a crumpled handkerchief to her eyes. Her shoulders shook.
    Billy gripped the arms of his wheelchair. “I’m going to get artificial legs. I’m going to walk.” He didn’t look at his mother.
    Gretchen glanced down at her notes. She mustn’t cry. She wrote quickly: artificial legs. “Why do you want to be a vet?”
    Billy’s hands relaxed. “Animals don’t . . .” His voice trailed off.
    Gretchen waited.
    He took a deep breath. “I want to help things live.”
    â€œAnimals don’t . . .” she repeated.
    His mouth twisted. He stared at the throw which lay in a revealing drape, no bulges for legs, nothing to mar the smooth cotton. “Animals don’t toss grenades. Animals fight.” He nodded, his face wrinkling. “Sometimes they kill. But they don’t set out to destroy everything in their path. I like animals. All kinds. So, that’s what I’m going to do . . .”
    Gretchen wrote fast. She scarcely heard his final words, he spoke so softly: “. . . or die.” She looked up quickly. She didn’t write those words down. He hadn’t spoken them to her. Or to his mother. He’d spoken to himself.
    He clapped his hands together, grinned at her. “How do you like working for the Gazette , Gretchen?”
    â€œI want to be a reporter”—she met his gaze directly—“as much as you want to be a vet.”
    He reached out and they shook hands.
    Mrs. Forrester exclaimed, “A reporter? Oh, Gretchen, I hope not. I thought you were just working there for the summer and writing some nice stories about people like Rose Drew. You don’t want to be a real reporter, do you? There are so many terrible things in the papers. Why, we heard on the radio this morning about Faye Tatum.” Her face tightened in disapproval, sharp lines cutting from her nose to her mouth. “You shouldn’t have to know about things like that. Or women like her.”
    â€œOh, Ma.” Billy’s voice was sharp. “Mrs. Tatum was nice. Whenever I used to go see Barb, she was as nice as could be.”
    â€œNice women don’t go to taverns by themselves.” Mrs. Forrester’s mouth folded into a thin, tight line.
    Gretchen gripped her pencil so hard her hand hurt. “She loved to dance. That’s all. Barb said she just loved to dance.” She stood, folded