Words on the Wind

Steve, the weatherman on channel six, rudely interrupted Dr. Phil. to tell us that a tornado had touched down near Louisville and was traveling up the Ohio River. Everybody knows that these guys live for this stuff, like a self-respecting entomologist lives for the hatching of the seventeen-year cicadas. But really! Louisville? That was at least two and a half hours away, if you kept to the speed limits. I've lived here for thirty years and yet have to see one of these things. Come to think about it, that's a good thing.

On second thought, I lived on the twelfth floor of a nineteen-floor high-rise that was built on a hill. There is nothing, and I mean nothing to buffer us for at least four miles. So, like he wanted me to, I kept a wary eye on Steve, now and then switching to channel twelve where the other Steve was just as excited.

An hour after the first Steve had unsettled me, it was clear that the tornado had split. One twin was headed toward the airport, a few miles south of the river, and the other one seemed to bypass us and determined to harass Patterson Air Force Base. Good luck to all. I settled back in my chair.

As you can imagine the view from the twelfth floor is magnificent and the main reason I bought the unit. Though I did have art on my walls, my eye always traveled to the floor to ceiling windows in my living room. That's how I saw it.

Just before dusk, what looked like several pieces of paper, drifted from the sky. Being curious by nature and having made a living of sticking my nose in other people's business under the guise of therapy, I had to know. So, I found my shoes and took the elevator down. Our building is set on thirty-two acres of undisturbed forest land. It took more than one trip; had to shake a few trees, but eventually I got all of what had dropped from the sky.

Most was rain-soaked, crumpled, even torn, but with patience I pieced together most of a letter.

Somewhere in Italy, August '44

My precious Marguerite,

I shouldn't disturb you with my reality. It's not appropriate reading for one as beautiful and sensitive as you. But forgive me, my love, I have to, must unburden myself. Maybe I'll keep this letter for myself and send a more upbeat one to you.

Three weeks ago we crossed the sea and touched land in Sicily. We lost so many of our men. Jacob is gone, and Caleb, and oh, Marg, Don, my brother ...

I still can't sleep without dreaming of their screams and moans. It's not much consolation, that I was there when Don breathed his last---

---must have been as severe as our losses. These poor bastards didn't ask to be slaughtered just as we didn't. The few who had been left behind for us to find. The ones so close to death, begged us t ----

---are grateful, have welcomed us with open arms. They brought out their best wines, they said. They made a production of telling us that they hid these bottles for us, for freedom. That's when we knew why we were doing this. Everyone deserves freedom. Even if it cost us our brothers. Forgive me this maudlin message, Marguerite. I still miss him, you know. Yes, of course you do.

Marguerite, if you, if we ever come back here, don't drink something called grappa. It'll kill your last braincells and you won't mind the process. Though it has helped ease the pain of all our losses. - - -

---mentioned Sal to you, have I? This is such a small world. Sal found his father's brother, also called Sal, in this tiny village. They all but erected a statue in his honor. I know he wants to stay here. Not because of his uncle, though he feels right at home. No, it's the girl next door. Sophia is her name. She's a beauty. Not like you, your beauty is ethereal. Sophia, even at fifteen has presence. Maybe if he liv---

---I should have sent you a letter, should even have sent this. But we had to bug out, move on. We are looking at a hill. No, it's bigger than a hill. The tallest point here. On the top is an old monastery. Right now, it's filled with Jerries and canons. Big canons. I wonder what happened to the monks who lived there. Are they praying for us as well?

It's been five days, my love. There aren't many of us left. I try, but I can't keep their names and faces in my head anymore. I hope that someone will, in the end. We heard that reinforcements are coming. I hope so. We are running out of ammo and foo--

If I don't make it home, Marguerite, know that you have been in my thoughts every day. Please, my precious, I beg you to move on. Open your heart to someone. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next year but do go on. Have the children we talked about. live, Marguerite and love.

Yours, always yours.

Patrick Connors pfc.

I cried by the time I finished deciphering what was left of the letter. I knew that I really had no choice. I had to find Marguerite or a relative. For someone to hang on to a letter for almost sixty years, meant that it was important.

Since I was driving into a disaster area, I packed accordingly. Lots of water, lots of granola bars and other non-perishables. It took days. Days of detours. Days of being handed off to the Red Cross and put to work. Days of serving soup at aid stations. Days of playing with shell-shocked kids looking for their parents. Days of cleaning debris off roads and yards. Days of helping people sort through what little was left of their lives. Days of carrying ominous black bags. Days of cleaning scrapes and handing out band aids. Days and days of asking everyone I saw if they knew someone named Marguerite. Days of moving on the next town and starting over.

The utter devastation where last week was prosperity. The flattened houses where last week children played in the yard. The ruined businesses where last week people bought their bread. The families torn apart as if an arm or leg had been cruelly torn away.

I'll never forget the mother standing in the middle of the street, looking up at the sky. She had been holding her daughter's hand in that spot, when the tornado tore the child out of her hand, leaving her behind. She wouldn't budge, not believing that her daughter was gone, would never come back.

And on I went, keeping the letter tucked in the pocket of my shirt. Asking and asking. Do you know anyone named Marguerite?

"Yes." He was an older man, standing in line with two bowls, waiting for whatever was served that day. "My wife's name is Marguerite. She's over there. Why?"

He pointed to a small woman. Even from where I stood, I could tell that she had been beautiful. She was still pretty. Her now white hair was still full and curly. Her now faded blue eyes were still clear, though staring into that middle distance I'd grown to recognize. Her petite figure was still slender., though dressed in mussed, days old clothes. Could I disturb her, waken her?

"Did she know someone named Patrick?" He startled, stepped back.

"How....Why do you ask?"

I had my answer. "May I talk with her?"

"She hasn't spoken since that Friday." The day of the tornado, ten days ago. "Why?" He prodded. "What do you want with her."

I tried to smile reassuringly. He cared for her, needed to protect her, probably like Parrick had wanted to.

"I just want to return something to her."

He stayed close by me as we walked to the corner where she was hunched over a small pile of things that meant something to her.

"Miss Marguerite?" I squatted down to be at her level. "This came tumbling out of the sky. I believe it belons to you." I pulled the folded, crumpled, water stained paged from the pocket where they had lived for the past eight days and held them out to her.

It felt like an eternity before her eyes changed focus and looked at me. Then she looked at my hand. She didn't move, just stared at the folded pages. First one tear slowly trickled down her cheek, then another and another. A small wavering smile that slowly grew. Her face lost some of its tension, her forehead relaxed, her cheeks plumped. One word, no more than a sigh. "Pat."

With trembling fingers, she gently took the pages from my hand and pressed them close to her chest, closing her eyes.

As I stood to leave, I felt her husband's hand on my shoulder, squeezing, "Thank you, son. What's your name?"

"My name is Patrick Donald Connors. I was named after the two brothers my father lost in the war."