Coming Home

Months ago I’d let him go; let him go to serve in the army. To fight for what’s right. He’d been called to serve, to fight for our country, and I had no choice but to let him go. He had no choice but to go. And now, almost one and a half years later, he is still not home. I remember the day he’d gone.

Jesse was leaving in 2 hours. I packed him a bag with clothes and the rationed food that we had, not knowing how long it would last him. We were spending every last second together, making the most of our shared time left. 

Soon the time came for him to leave and I cried my eyes out, refusing to let him leave me. 

“I’ll come back soon, Rita. Just don’t forget me.” Jesse said, lightly stroking my face.

“Do you promise? Do you promise that you’ll return home safe and whole, just like you left?”

“Yes. And I’ll write you letters when I can.”

“I’ll write you back.” I promised him back, and in my heart, promising never to love anyone else.

Then he pushed the door open and walked through, waving goodbye one last time, and got in the military truck. I stood at the door for hours after he left, leaning against the doorpost, silently willing Jesse to come back, knowing he would not. At least not until the war was over. It was kind of surprising it took this long for Jesse to get called to fight, but it was alright, because we spent more time together. I didn’t have to worry for him. 

I shake off the memory and bring my thoughts back to the present: September 17, 1944. Jesse left on May 23, 1942. He would be 22 today. If he survived this long. No. I refuse to let myself think about that. Jesse has to be alive. How can he not?

I sigh and get up. I pad over to the kitchen and start to cook thin, split pea soup, and think about how this is Jesse’s all-time favorite meal. Now it is quiet outside, and the grey of the day floods in through the window, giving the day a sad and dreary mood. I think back to the last letter Jesse sent me. It was wonderful and caring, and he described the conditions on the front line (after I found out that he was fighting on the front line I nearly screamed) and blitzkrieg (a fighting method). He said they have enough food to sustain them, and that some of his comrades were going crazy from being away from their families for so long. He said that he wanted to come home. 

And I wanted him to come home. 

I haven’t written back yet, but I will soon. I have been reading the daily newspapers that arrive, though, and I think the war will be over soon. Or it might not. But I am hoping for the best. 

I finish making the soup and pour some into a bowl, and sit down to eat. I feel only a little bad as I sip my first spoonful. After all, Jesse did say that he has enough food to keep him well. I finish my lunch and sit down to answer Jesse’s letter. I take care to keep the letter brief, not revealing too much of anything that people don’t know about soldiers yet. Who knows which hands this letter will fall into? Better to be safe than sorry.

Dear Jesse,

This is Rita writing to you. It’s wonderful to know that you’re still alive -although I never doubted it, not for a second- and not starving. 

You say you are fighting on the front lines- how long have you been? Please be safe out there, but keep our country safe too.

How funny. You say your comrades are going crazy, fighting every day. Well, I might be going a little insane, too, waiting for you to come home. Insane with longing for you.

Come home soon, I miss you. And so does Jack. 

-Rita

I haven’t told him about Jack yet, but now he will find out that he has a six and a half month old son. 

The next day, I mail it to him, wherever he is.

Two Months Later:

Today is a surprisingly sunny day for November. The wind is blowing a perfect amount, and there are no clouds blocking the sky. Jack is next to me, sleeping in his crib, and I’m sitting on the couch reading today’s paper. 

A knock sounds at the door. Curious, I answer it, thinking someone must’ve mistaken me for Mrs. Mandy. She always hosts book clubs at 4:00 p.m on Tuesdays. Maybe a new person joined and confused our houses. 

I open the door and there stands Jesse, leaning on a stick. The soldiers that brought him here wave goodbye to us, and drive away in the army truck.

“Jesse?” I whisper carefully, as if this is a trick, as if he might blow away.

“Rita,” He breathes.

“Jesse!” I shriek, and throw my arms around his neck, burying my face in the space between his neck and shoulder. “You’re home, oh, gosh, you’re home. You came back. You’re home.” I mumble over and over. 

“I’m home.” And then he said something so quiet I almost didn’t hear it. “I broke my promise.”

I sigh in relief and shudder as Jesse wraps an arm around me. Not both, one. I pull back slightly and look down, seeing his left leg amputated from the knee down. He must’ve gotten shot. That’s the broken promise.

“Jesse! What happened to your leg?” I ask.

“I’ll tell you about it inside.” He says, and confusion takes over my features. Jesse leans down and whispers into my ear, “Someone might be listening.”

I get the hint and lead him inside; when he stumbles in he doesn’t notice the crib in the living room. I lead him to the kitchen, sit him down, and pour a few ladlefuls of split pea soup in a bowl for him. Then I turn on the kettle, and in a few minutes, have set a mug of tea in front of him.

Jesse looks up at me gratefully. “Thank you,” He says, and starts to tell the story of his leg, but I interrupt him.

“Eat first, you’re hungry. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.” I sigh in relief at the thought of Jesse staying with me and Jack, not leaving us ever again. 

As Jesse starts to eat, I get up and rummage in the almost empty pantry, looking for a piece of bread to give him. I manage to find a slice at the very back of a cupboard. I have little use for the pantry now because the food is so scarce. There’s only enough food to fill 3 cupboards.

I place the bread next to the soup bowl and Jesse eats it gratefully. When he’s done, he pushes the bowl and utensils away from him, and slowly drinks the tea. Jesse lets out a sigh of satisfaction and finishes his meal.

“Best meal I’ve had in months.” He groans. 

I put the dirty dishes in the sink and hurry back to him. “Well?” I prompt him to start speaking.

“I was fighting on the front lines, as I told you, and decided to take advantage of it,” Jesse starts in a hushed voice. “I saw an attack coming and warned my troup of it, pushing them out of the way. Pretended I was saving them. And I was, really. But I wanted to get injured so I could come back to you. So, I stood in the open field and let a bullet hit me.”

I gasped.

“It tore through my leg, and I almost had to have all of it amputated, but the medics were able to save it from the knee up. And I got sent home.”

“Oh, no. Are you alright? Did your troup know you did it on purpose?”

“Of course they did. So many soldiers injured themselves just to return home. They’d even go the length to shoot a bullet in a limb themselves.”

“Are you still hurt?” I drop down and gently touch what remained of his left leg. “Does that pain you?”

“No. I’m fine now.”

There is a bandage wrapped around the amputated area. “How-how long since the surgery?”

“A few weeks, a month, maybe. The doctor told me I could unwrap the bandage just to wash my leg, but then I’d need to wrap it back up. He gave me an extra and said to wash and switch them every few days.” 

I start to unravel the dirtied bandage, and roll it up as I do so. What is under shocks me a little. His knee is rounded and a little red, some remnants of dried blood remaining. I look up at him with tears in my eyes, and he wipes them away with his calloused thumbs. 

“It’s okay, Rita, I’m okay. I’m alive.”

“I know you are. But still, it hurts a little to see you like this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for keeping your promise,” I say as I wrap his leg again.

“But… I didn’t. I came home injured.”

“You came home alive. The same Jesse that left me a year and a half ago came back that same Jesse. You’ll always be whole to me.” I finished tending to his injury and caress his face instead. 

He stutters a little, trying to find a response, but I just shush and hold him in my arms, and he does the same to me. Then, the baby begins to cry.

“Rita? What’s that?” Jesse asks slowly. He probably thinks I found someone else in the time he was gone. But I had promised to love only him.

A soft smile spreads across my face and I say “Just a minute.”

I come back in a few with Jack swaddled and in my arms. He’s quieted down now, and is drinking quietly. I stroke the soft tendrils of his hair and bring him to Jesse. Sitting down in front of him, I present our child to my husband.

He seems to be in shock. “M… mine?”

I nod happily. A smile blooms on his face.

“What’s his name?” Jesse asks.

“Jack. Jack Jesse Wilter.” I respond. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I’m confused again. “But-but I did. I wrote to you about him in a letter. Did you not read it?”

“It must not have reached me. I was probably in the hospital by that time, or already on my way home.” Jesse looks calm again, but then alarm takes over his features. “You didn’t write anything that private in that letter, did you? It could fall into the wrong hands.”

“No. Just answers to the information you told me.”

“Good, good. Can I hold Jack?”

I hand over our baby to him and inform Jesse of Jack’s age.

“Jack is almost 8 months old.” He nods. After a while, I say lovingly, “He’s got your eyes, Jesse.”

My husband smiles and says back, “And your nose and your mouth and your hair.”

“Nuh uh. My hair is red. His is brown, like yours.”

“Rita, I don’t see any brown. I see red.”

“Well then, I guess he has a mix of both.” I smile.

Jesse looks up from our son and says, “I’m glad to be home.”

“And I’m glad you’re home.” I say back.