Until Yesterday is Tomorrow

“Raymond Hayes, I realize the chariot race is enthralling, but kindly postpone Ben Hur until we have given due course to Hamlet.” Mr. Stevens stood by the high schooler's desk. Ray sighed and tucked the errant book away. Would it matter if he countered that he’d already read Hamlet three times? That he didn’t think Ophelia really went mad, or died? That her story, her grief and eventually, her restoration, was more significant than anyone claimed, because her story showed the undying power of love? Mr. Stevens droned on, already back at the front of the classroom. Ray stared at the lines of Shakespeare in front of him, his mind already racing to the release of the bell.

“Why do I have to sit for five hours learning what I already know?” He ranted to his father, Raymond Sr., that evening in early Spring. The elder Ray had found his son combing the abandoned quarry again. At least this time, it was after, and not during, school hours. Ray Sr. knew better than to argue with his son when he was in one of these moods. Truth be told, he agreed with his namesake, though he urged him to hold on through the end of his senior year. Ray’s late mother, God rest her soul, always told him their miracle child had an exceptional aptitude for learning. “For sensing,” she would correct her husband, gently. “Ray can find things nobody else can see.”

Upstairs in his room, Ray reached under his pillow and pulled out the canvas-wrapped package. His fingers tingled, just as they did when he first pulled it out of the quarry that morning. He favored the quarry for its depth and history. The scars on the walls told stories even when those who made them had long gone silent. Down on the floor of the quarry, beyond the reach of humankind, Ray would tuck himself into a shallow notch, pull out his notebook, and write as the run rose.

Only this morning, when leaned back into the cool rock, he was startled by the touch of something downright cold. He whirled, but could see nothing in the shadowed recess. He felt blindly in the direction of the chill, until he found it. The package. He thought he was the only person in town who ever visited this graveyard. At first, Ray decided to tuck the package back where he found it. Someone would surely come for it. When he found himself sketching wrapped boxes during geometry class later that morning, he decided: if it was still there when he left school, he would retrieve it.

Now the package was on his bed. He carefully unfolded the olive drab cloth. Paper. A whole stack of it. The top sheet bore two typewritten lines: The Lost Letters, by M.R. McKennon. Ray turned the page. The crisp black typeset was interspersed with navy ink in a flowing script. Ray felt a pang of unease. This was someone’s manuscript-in-progress. Certainly the author would need this. He should replace the top page, wrap it securely, return it to the quarry. He would, tomorrow. Ray skipped past the page headed, Foreword, and began to read.

***

Darling,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know I just sent you a letter a few days ago and goodness, you might not receive these in proper order. I hope you don’t mind too much. I think about you much more often than I write. I’m afraid to write more often, for you will call me a silly girl, and look, I haven’t said anything sensible so far, so of course you’ll be right. We are well, here. Auntie helped me fix up my old blue dress – do you remember the one from the dance? When that blonde’s heel got caught in the back of my skirt during the hop and you had to walk behind me all the way home? I’m giggling just thinking of it. Do you remember how close you stood to me when we waited at that busy street corner? I can feel you, there, Darling, when I close my eyes. Close your eyes, too, and feel me close until I can hold you again. Love, Your Rosie

***

Ray’s bachelor status changed the summer he graduated. That summer, pumping gas for Mr. O’Shea, he watched the prettiest brunette in God’s earth walk tidily off the bus at the corner and into the filling station. She bought a soda from the cooler, and then stood in the shade of the storefront, politely sipping her drink.

“Are ye gonna cap me tank or not, sonny?” Mr. O’Shea queried, mischievously rolling his eyes from girl to boy. Ray fumbled through his task, failing to collect payment until Mr. O’Shea leaned out his car door and stuffed the cash into Ray’s pocket. “Keep the change, lad, and eh…” he realized Ray wasn’t listening, “try to keep yer head...teehee!” Ray ran his hand through his hair (twice) and approached the fair maiden.

“You’re new in town.” He tried to act cool.

She smiled sweetly – more confidently, too, than the girls at school, who typically melted under a fella’s proffered grin or pleasantry. “Actually, I grew up here.”

Ray regrouped, “I’ve been here all my life. I’d surely remember a face as pretty as yours.” His boldness finally succeeded. She blushed, and held out her hand.

“I’m Madeline Leath. I moved away a few years ago, but I’ve come back to live with my aunt.”

Some folks say it was Madeline who gripped harder, but that’s hearsay. Madeline held on, longer. Ray escorted her to her aunt’s doorstep, but bowed out of the offered introduction. He still wasn't heeding Mr. O’Shea’s advice as he crossed the street, so he was nearly laid out by a Chevy. The driver swerved, and over the irate horn honking, Ray heard the aunt’s welcome. “Madeline Rose! How you’ve grown! Come in, dear, and tell me: who is that handsome young man who walked you up the drive?”

***

I met the sweetest boy, today. He nearly tripped over himself, but oh, he is such a catch.

***

Ray sat in his alcove, flipping through the manuscript. Yes, he had returned it to the quarry. But every few days, it reappeared; sometimes with new or rearranged pages, always with a myriad of notes. The handwritten notes were more interesting than the letters. For it was indeed letters – a collection of exchanged letters – that slowly expanded the typewritten text. So far, they were mostly of the ilk of the first sample he’d read. More sap that even his lovestruck self could admit to reading. He skimmed most of the lovers’ notes, favoring the challenge of decoding the swirling navy script. This morning, he read a clear “she doesn’t yet know” in the margin of a letter. What didn’t the woman know that M.R. McKennon did?

Ray set the manuscript down. That was the last of the new additions. He had pieced together a long-distance relationship – a courtship, maybe. The fellow in the pair was traveling. He wrote one letter referencing Georgia humidity. Ray wondered if the fellow was in the oil industry. He mentioned drilling.

***

Darling,

I’m sorry I haven’t written you much. I’ve been getting over this awful flu. Auntie was up and about in three days, but you know Auntie. I haven’t been able to keep anything down, which isn’t helping (as Auntie is fond of reminding me). Your father was a dear and drove me out to our spot last night to try to raise my spirits. It did make me think of you, but then of course I cried. It hurts my head to write, Darling, so I’ll finish this later.

***

Ray had never planned anything like he planned his proposal to Madeline Rose. He even made the picnic sandwiches, a herculean effort with a commensurate wake of crumbs and butter smears on the kitchen table. In retrospect, the shambles could be called a foreshadowing. Halfway to Madeline’s, it started raining. Naturally, he neglected to pack an umbrella. For that matter, he neglected to notice the weather, so bright was his heart shining. It wasn’t until he stood on Madeline’s front stoop like a stray kitten that he grasped his situation. Much to her credit, Madeline tied her hair back in a scarf, hopped on her bicycle, and said, “I hope whatever tree we’re picknicking under has good cover!” That was when he course-corrected to the quarry.

“I didn’t know it was safe down here,” she pressed close as they descended the slick path. Ray was about to relieve her fears, but thought better of it. Instead, he slipped his arm around her waist. “Just hold on tight.” When they rested in the notch, Ray recalculated his plans. He slipped a hand into his pocket for the tenth time. His mother’s ring was still there.

“Ray, look at this!” Madeline held out a package.

Ray was examining their waterlogged lunch. Of course he had forgotten to wrap the sandwiches. “Yeah, it’s the manuscript.”

“Raymond Hayes, are you writing a book?” She tore at the wrapping.

“No, no, it’s just something I found. Every so often, it reappears. I think the author is stashing it here.”

Madeline was quickly engrossed in the work. “Oh, aren’t these just beautiful letters!” She exhaled dreamily. Ray frowned. His plans were unraveling, and now his girl was falling for another fella’s love notes. “Those are old notes, Rosie,” he poked, using a nickname he’d picked up from her aunt. “The M.R. McKennon guy is typing them out to preserve them, I guess.”

“McKennon is not a ‘guy,’ Raymond.” Madeline peered over the top of the manuscript.

“What?”

“If you read the Foreword, you’d know it’s a woman. She says she’s compiling her parents’ correspondence and journal entries from before her birth. She says, for many years she only had her father’s letters, until recently when some revered fellow gave her a packet with all her mother’s letters, including…” Madeline paused, “oh, no, Ray, it says, including her father’s last letter which had never been mailed.” She looked up with teary eyes. “That’s so tragic.”

This was getting unluckier by the minute. Ray pulled Madeline up and out into the pouring rain. “Leave that, Rosie.”

“Why?” She didn’t pull away.

“Because I want you to marry me.”

“Raymond! We’ve only been dating three months! What will people say?”

“To hell with what they say.”

***

People didn’t say much, at least not to their faces. Every housewife in town kept a well-trained eye on Rosie’s middle, which certainly did not expand in the first four months of their marriage. Whether that was a relief or disappointment to the uprights of the community, is less certain. What did expand was the realization that falling in love is only the door to learning to love.

Ray took a second job the summer he graduated high school and married Madeline Rose. “I’m doing this for us,” he reminded her whenever she hinted at their diminished time together. He’d wave his arm around their bedroom, “Do you want to always live here, in Dad’s upstairs?” When November stripped the trees, Ray took a third job, and Madeline spent nights crying into a cold bed.

In his spare moments, Ray would slip, alone, into his spot at the quarry. He was grateful for the days he found the manuscript to distract his thoughts. The affection between the correspondents was so constant. He and Madeline couldn’t even have a civil conversation these days. She was getting more emotional, haranguing him about little things. Didn’t she understand a fellow who worked his tail off needed a moment to breathe every so often? His logic was irrefutable in the silence of the quarry.

“But, Ray, Darling, you said you’d help, remember?” Madeline was practically pleading. She hadn’t used his pet name in some time. Now she was edging carefully around his pride in bringing up a conversation he barely remembered having. “Ray, Darling,” she took a breath, “Remember, we were sitting here having coffee, and I asked if you were scheduled to work December 7^th because I needed help assembling sets for the Christmas pageant...” she trailed off. Ray’s face was dark as he stormed out of the house. Madeline walked to church that morning, alone.

***

December 7, 1941

Today the world broke. But before that, I broke Rosie’s heart.

***

Fort Benning, Georgia, was already sweltering in April. Private Raymond Hayes felt the beads of sweat race down his spine. He had been sitting on his bunk for nearly twenty minutes, pen gripped in one hand, notepad in another. He had to post his letter today, but what to say? He hadn’t written Madeline since he’d arrived in January. Ray rubbed his forehead. In his mind, he went back to the quarry, to the cool alcove. Suddenly, he knew what to write.

Rosie,

Sorry it’s been so long, Honey. Don’t worry, I’m eating well. Been having loads of fun drilling in this Georgia humidity. Getting transferred to New Jersey. Will write once I arrive. I promise. Love to Dad and Auntie.

***

Ray sat at a small cafe in London on his three-day leave. The tea here was better than the coffee, but he still needed both to assuage the pain building in his temples. He read the letter for the seventh time.

Ray Darling,

I cannot tell you how many times I wish I had defied Auntie and taken the bus to met you before you departed to England. Not only to hold you again (how I miss you, Darling!), but because I wanted to tell you in person. Don’t be angry with Auntie. She was worried for me after that...sickness. I blame myself for not being there to see you off. I’m glad to hear the English people treat you well. I hope our package will make its way to you before long. The mail is dreadfully slow and your last letter had a hole cut into it. Army work. They are determined to cut into my heart. But, Darling, I haven’t told you yet. I didn’t know, honestly, and then you were off to England and I didn’t want to burden you but Ray, we are going to have a baby. Can you believe it? I’m certain it’s a girl. Auntie says I’m silly, but I just know.

Love,

Rosie

P.S. I’m thinking of “Mary Rose” for the baby – Mary for your mother, of course, and Rose for the baby’s. What do you think?

***

June 4, 1944

It's happening. The air is electric with our thoughts. Soon, is all Lt. will tell us. Tonight, I'm content to wait, here.

Ray paused, hunched over in his bunk. Then he laid his journal, pens, and Rosie's letters on top of the olive-drab canvas fragment. Wrapping them tightly, he pressed his back into the wall and drew a long breath. The three-level bunks in the barracks were no quarry, but looking up from where he sat, the men lying in them or meandering about made a rippling wall, alive with their stories.

“Hayes, you gonna sleep like that?” James McKennon cocked his head in front of Ray’s bunk. Smoke from countless cigarettes wound its way from soldier to soldier, trails linking soul to soul. Ray fingered the photograph in his breast pocket one last time, then held it out. “McKennon, have you met my Rosie?”

***

June 6, 1944

Salty air whipped the soldiers’ faces. The heaving Channel seemed at war with itself to both bring them to their destination and hold them back in warning. Ray noticed Chaplain Smith moving from man to man, offering quiet words or a smoke. When he came near, Ray touched his arm. "Chaplain, sir? Could I ask a favor?"

"Of course, soldier," the older man waited.

"Uh, no offense, sir," Ray queried, "but you aren't Catholic, are you? I mean," he quickly clarified, "you are, back in the States, a Reverend, and not a Father?"

The man smiled, "I think Father Murphy is below deck at the moment. Should I fetch him?"

"Oh, no, sir, I was looking for," Ray smiled for the first time that day, "a 'revered' person."

Now it was the Reverend's turn to smile. "I'm not sure if I qualify for that title, but I'll do my best to be of assistance."

Ray held out the package. "Would you take this, sir? Would you get it to...to..." he swallowed. "There's an address on the letters."

The Reverend tucked the package under his arm and placed his other hand on Ray's shoulder. For a long moment neither spoke.

***

My Darling Rosie,

It seems like only yesterday you stepped off that bus. Only yesterday you stood in front of the pulpit, hiding behind that veil, daring me to tear it off. Time surely marches forward, my darling. We try to cling to moments like sand being washed off a beach. Time marches forward. For how many thousand years has the tide pulled against the shore? Yet the shore remains, Rosie. The castles we built together may wash away, but as the Good Book says (yes, your Ray has been paying attention, darling), “Love never ends.” I love you, darling. Stand on the shore as the waves roll in and feel me reach for you, again.

Until we meet again,

your loving Ray

***

Suddenly, someone hurried by, then another. Then it began. The guns. The shouting. The boats. Lower, lower, crash. The raining of spray and bullets. The door, dropping like the gate of hell. The Lt. gripping his rifle, shouting to his men. Forward!