Mrs. Bailey's Tomato Soup and Roast

It was a frosty, winter, afternoon and all seemed to be well in West Point, the small, suburban, coastal town of Boston. None of the housewives were feuding over whose apple lattice was the finest, none of the working men had been laid off and none of the children who roamed the streets, in the hope to play with others their age, were scraped or bruised. Mrs. Bailey was thinking about this exact thing while cooking her family dinner.

Smiling as she stirred her soup, she called her children, Emmaline, Alice, and Richie down to set the table. "Ma!" Emmaline exclaimed, sliding down the banister of the staircase. "What are we having to eat? I'm so hungry I can smell it from upstairs!"

"Tomato soup and a roast tonight." Mrs. Bailey replied, taking the pot of soup off the stove and tasting it with a spoon. The hungry teen approved, taking in a big whiff of the cooking dinner. "Now dinner's almost done, so go set the table, Emma. Get the bowls and the plates. I'll ask Alice to get the utensils." Mrs. Bailey grinned, beginning to add more salt and spices to the tomato soup.

Alice trudged to the kitchen a few minutes later, barely picking up her small feet. Slowly looking up at her Mother, she bellowed the word, "utensils?"

Seemingly surprised by her youngest's melancholy attitude, Mrs. Bailey nodded, saying, "Yes Lacy and were having soup and a roast tonight!" Alice looking disgusted and disappointed at her mother's answer, pulled the utensils out of the cabinet, leaving Mrs. Bailey to finish dinner alone.

Mrs. Bailey didn't bat another eye at Alice and took the roast out of the oven, before putting it right back in the oven because she deemed it 'not crispy enough.' Walking over to the dining room to check on her children and their table setting skills, she realized that her son, Richie, still hadn't crossed the threshold and came downstairs.

"Richie!" Mrs. Bailey commanded. "Come down here for dinner!" She paused, there was no response. "Richard James Bailey! It's dinner time and your father's going to be home!" Still no answer.

She quickly raced upstairs to reprimand her adult son for not coming to dinner. "Richie!" Mrs. Bailey opened his door. "It's dinner time!" Richie didn't respond, instead of continuing to sit at his desk, motionless, while holding a letter in his thumbs. "Richie? What's wrong?" Mrs. Bailey asked, confused.

"Ma," Richie choked, "I got some bad news." Tears ran down the young boy's face before he buried them in his hands.

"How bad?" Mrs. Bailey prayed it was something small and fixable, but she rarely ever saw her boy like this.

"Really, really bad news." The boy stuttered. "I got drafted."

"What?" Mrs. Bailey screeched. "How?" She began pacing around her son's room. "How Richie?"

"I had to submit the papers Ma. A few months ago I got a letter about needing to sign up for the draft, so I did."

"But your only eighteen, your a baby!" Mrs. Bailey cried, running her long fingers through her son's dark hair.

"I know," Richie said. "That means this war is a lot bigger than we thought. 'Imma fight Nazis Ma, Nazis."

"My baby, my baby." She kissed Richie's forehead as she wept. "When do you leave?"

"Next Wednesday."

Putting her hand on her heart Mrs. Bailey said, "God looks down negatively on you Roosevelt."

"Ma, don't say things like that." Richie squeaked, wiping his face. "Now what's for dinner?" He sat up, glancing at his mother's stained face.

"Roast and tomato soup." Mrs. Bailey pursed her lips. "Who knows already Richie? About your draft?"

He moaned, "Alice. She was the one who gave me a letter about it when she got the mail today, looking for her toy store magazine."

"Oh."

"Now Pop's 'gonna be home, we need to get downstairs, so stop changing the subject. I'm 'tryna forget." Richie murmured.

Standing up, the two, arm in arm, stood just staring at each other, for a minute, before slowly rambling down the stairs, as they knew that moment's like this would soon become few and far between. So much for all being well in West Point, as things would only become worse for the neighborhood in the years to come.