A Man Returns

By: Aubrey Allison

The house stands right next to a highway – their word, not mine; it’s actually just a two-lane road that Mac trucks drive on to one place or another. I’ve been told that the road wasn’t even paved until the late ‘50s. To get to here, you have to drive for hours and you only see three things besides the road and the trucks: cows, hay bales, and pine trees. Then you hit a small town, which claims fame with a “historic” jailhouse that probably attracts about one visitor annually, and then a mile later if you look carefully to the left you’ll notice the house, unimpressive and half hidden by camellia bushes.

Mom said this would be the perfect place for me, quiet and secluded and ideal for studying or painting or writing. Plus, she said, it sure would mean a lot to your father if you spent some time enjoying the place. He’s put so much energy into having it restored.

We think it was built around 1890, and it’s remarkable that it still stands. There used to be a farm on the land next to it, but it was sold in the 1960’s, when Thomas Fite died. After that, Thomas’ son, Hiram, lived alone in the house, though my dad says that he and all the rest of his cousins spent a good deal of time there as well. Hiram was actually their second cousin once removed or something like that, but they called him Uncle. He had a brother, too. His name was Robert and he disappeared in 1942, while Hiram was overseas fighting in World War II. Their mother died just before Robert went missing, and I’ve heard some of my aunts say the two events are related, though nobody has a good answer for how.

After Hiram Fite died in 1986, nobody was living in the house anymore, although more than one of the cousins had legal ownership of it. They couldn’t agree on what to do with it, so someone came in and put a bowl of mothballs in every room, locked the door, and left it to sit here for over twenty years. After the death of many stubborn relatives, Dad was able to have some construction done on the place so it was livable again. There’s a new roof, and insulated walls, and the wallpaper that was torn and peeling has been replaced by a soft tone of green. The floor is still the original wood, just polished and re-stained. Now that it’s finished, all the things that were put in boxes in storage can be cleaned up and brought back into the house.

Considerably less dust floats in the light of the windows than the first time I was here. The bookshelf has been cleaned and placed back in the corner of what was once Hiram’s room, where I carried a stack of books that had not yet fallen out of their spine. When I stood on my toes to reach the top shelf, the floor underneath creaked and I felt my right foot sink, just slightly. I looked down and saw that the floorboard under my foot was not level with the rest of the floor. I called for Dad and asked him for a hammer. He saw what I was inspecting and became as curious as I was.

Once the wood was pried away, the hollow space underneath it was revealed, and in it was a name: Robert.

The last time I remember feeling accepted by my father was when I was seven years old. I was learning to read – Mother insisted Hiram and I should know how – and he sat on the bed with his arm around me while I sounded out letters. Once I was able to read words, he no longer put his arm around me but instead just said, “That sounds real fine, Robert. Why don’t you get your mother to listen? I had better go and tend to the crop.” Not long after, he tried in vain to teach me to work in the fields with him and my brother Hiram, who was two and a half years older than me and had been doing this work since before Mother showed him a book. He went to school until he completed seventh grade, then quit to work on the farm. He was made like Papa, and it was clear that I was not.

I went to school just like Hiram did, the one in the small town about a mile from our farm. When I was not studying, I worked in the house helping Mother, but that just made it worse. A boy doing women’s work was no better than a boy messing up men’s work. I wanted Papa to look at me the way he looked at Hiram – like he was friend as well as a son, a respected equal. I looked for a job in town and when I was sixteen years old, I found an opening at the PO, since the boy that used to work there left the week before to fight overseas for us Allies. I figured I might as well get a full time job since going to a university like some of my classmates was not an option. I thought if I brought home a salary, maybe Papa would look at me at least like he respected me in some way.

I would begin my day at the post office at nine in the morning, and take my lunch break at noon, which was twenty minutes long. The PO was small, but it had never needed to be much bigger until the war started. Lately, sending letters to soldiers and buying war stamps had got to be real popular. The PO had posters all over the walls with colorful pictures of explosions in battles under the words Back the Attack! Buy War Bonds and worn or wounded soldiers saying things like, Doing all you can, brother? The salesmen from Kinnie’s Department Store and Bauer’s Furniture and Appliance store would go out to eat lunch, then stop at the PO to buy stamps and shake each other’s hands before getting back to work. The girls from school would come in to send letters addressed to Soldier So-and-So in their prettiest, loopiest handwriting, stop at the poster for Combat America: A Movie in Technicolor, Produced and Narrated by Major Clarke Gable, sigh in a manner they thought sounded “dreamy,” then rush to the counter to buy another stamp.

There was one man who wore a button-up shirt and came in every Friday, exactly two hours and forty-five minutes after my lunch break, and one hour and fifty-five minutes before we closed, with four envelopes full of money. The first time, he said he wanted however many war stamps the money would buy, separated into their respective envelopes. I told him with this much money, he might as well go to the bank and buy bonds. He explained that this was the combined effort of the offices on Shelby Street – the dentist’s, Patterson Insurance Company, the office supply store, and the Panola County News – having a friendly competition to support their country, and stamps were easiest to keep track of. And besides, lines are longer at the bank.

I counted the money in one envelope, and by that time there were five other customers in line behind the man. He looked at his watch and told me to just count it whenever, and he would come back Monday morning to pick up the stamps. The next Friday, he just set the envelopes on the counter, nodded at me, and left. This became part of the routine.

At five in the afternoon I helped close and went home. After two weeks, I got my first paycheck. Thirty dollars and sixty cents. It would have been more but the boss subtracted the fifteen cents I spent on a sandwich for lunch every day. When I brought it home that evening, Mother gave the biggest smile and a hug and said, “Well, Robert, you are now officially a working man!” She took me by the shoulders and pushed me to where Papa was drying his hands by the sink.

“Look what Robert earned!” She held out my arm, which held the money.

“You earned all that money, did you, son.”

“Yes, sir. It’s thirty dollars and sixty cents.”

“That’s a fair amount of money.”

“Papa, isn’t he an official working man now?” She still had that smile in her voice like she expected him to agree and put his arm around my shoulders and share with me the secrets of manhood.

“A working man.” He looked at me and I knew Mother had used exactly the wrong words. His shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, brown from years of sweating in the sun. I still had on my uniform shirt from the PO, which was even worse than being in one of my own shirts, because it was the one that used to belong to the boy who was off in the war now and he was bigger than me.

“How did you earn this money, boy?”

“Doing my job at the PO, sir.” I put too much emphasis on job. I could tell from the way Papa raised his eyebrows at me like he had just been sassed.

“And what do you do at your job at the Post Office.”

“I work at the counter and handle the money when people send packages, and when the mail comes in I read the addresses and sort it ingoing or outgoing,” I had done it now. I had gone too far. Mother was squeezing my shoulders tight and I tried to save myself. “And war stamps! I sell stamps to folks when they come in to support our men fighting overseas, because it’s our fight too and every little bit counts.” I was pretty sure I was just quoting the posters at that point, and it seemed to help a little. But not much.

“Ah, you read the addresses. You read and you sit behind a counter.”

Mother spoke up, desperately trying to stop any respect Papa might have had for me from sliding all the way down the muddy hill. “Yes, Robert stepped in when his country needed him. That Mitchell boy was old enough to go to war, so Robert stepped up to do the job. Now he’s the one who makes sure all the people in town buy war stamps and support the effort.” It was a terrible exaggeration, but Papa could see if nothing else how much she was trying to convince him that I did respectable work.

He eyed me silently, and Mother held her breath. Then as he walked out of the room he said, “Proud you found a job that suits you, boy.” His voice told me he was anything but proud.

Mother gave me a gentler kind of hug and tried to reassure me, but she couldn’t find the words to complete any of her sentences. I left her embrace and went to my room to study some textbooks my teacher gave me when I told her I was leaving school. I must have missed supper because when Hiram cleared his throat I saw that it was night outside the windows.

“I’ll turn the lamp off in a minute. I just have one page to finish.”

“Mother told me that you earned your first paycheck.”

When I didn’t respond, he continued.

“I’m really glad you have that job, you know, Robert.”

Because finally I can get out of the family’s sight every day. Because sitting at the PO is a good place for the useless son.

“Because the money you’re earning really is a big help.” I looked up. “I wanted to tell you – or ask you, rather – what do you think, well, I’m thinking of joining the army.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought of it, but joining the army was a logical thing for Hiram to do. He was strong and dutifully masculine, in exactly the way that I was not. “You’re really considering it?”

“Yes. I talked to Papa about it, and he of course said he would be -” He caught himself before he used the word proud. Considerate of him. “- He said he thinks it’s a good idea. Mother was reluctant at first; didn’t want me leaving, you know, and she has a point. But I think it would be the best thing for me to do. I mean, I could get drafted even if I don’t join, so might as well.” He was looking at me expectantly.

“You will make a good soldier, Hiram.”

“You think so?” He stood up straight and I realized his shoulders had been slouching a bit.

“Yes, I know you will.”

“Thanks, Robert. If you think so, then it must be the right decision.” He turned to the dresser, changed clothes, and got into bed, and then I did the same, trying to figure out what Hiram meant. Was he mocking me? Pretending that my approval meant anything? Pretending that he was looking to me to say that I’m “real proud of you, son,” like Papa did to him but never to me? He must have been trying to remind me that even when he’s not around, he’ll still be doing the most good for Mother and Papa. Just making sure I know my place in the order of things. He did a good job of it.

The next day at the PO my uniform collar was making me uncomfortable and after pulling at it all day, some stitching came loose and the top button flew out over the counter and onto the floor somewhere. Before I went to look for it, the man came in with his envelope. He nodded to my shirt, which looked sloppy now.

“You ought to fix that button, young man. You look like you belong in a field instead of a government office.” He turned and walked out, just like every other day.

Like I belong in a field. Is that where I look like I belong, sir?

A group of people walked in, so I placed the envelope under the counter to count later.

Young man, he called me. A man who belongs in a field.

I watched my hands while I counted out stamps for a woman in front of me. They were smooth, relatively, for a young man who looks like he belongs in a field. And pale. These hands would never look like Papa’s. He would have laughed to hear what the man said to me. He would have put one hand on his stomach and clapped the man’s shoulder with the other, like he made a clever joke. I touched my collar, now open, revealing no muscle and no hair.

One day, he will not laugh. When my salaries add up to enough to buy a house in town, and allow me to afford all the nice things that a farmer cannot, he will see that he was wrong to hold his respect from me. Maybe I’ll be able to pay for university tuition, and get an important job in a city. I won’t be working at the PO for the rest of my life; I’ll make sure of it. And when Papa is old and unable to do anything he knows, I will sit comfortably in an expensive chair and read some literature. And he will think of his son who was so intelligent but who left to make a respectable living away from the farm, away from this state, even. Oh, how I wish I had seen what a blessing was that son of mine, he will say. And I will be gone, earning more money than he ever could doing “a real man’s work.”

You look like you belong in a field.

The boss locked the doors and changed the sign to Closed, then went into the back to sort mail for the next morning. I picked up the envelope from the man and began grouping the quarters into piles of four. Proud you found a job that suits you, boy. I slipped a quarter into my pocket.

In the following weeks, I continued to accumulate extra money from the man and his patriotic coworkers. He never counted the stamps when I gave them to him or asked any questions, but the amount he brought in gradually became higher. I like to think that as the stamps decreased, the office workers encouraged each other more to do their patriotic duty and support their country. I was truly grateful for their spirit.

One Friday evening I deposited the dollar bills and quarters in a space under a floorboard in the room I shared with Hiram. He was in the yard when I checked, but after securing the board back into its place, his voice behind me said, “Where did that come from?” It was hushed, as if he were afraid of being overheard.

“Tips.”

“People tip the PO boy?”

“Yes, when they think he does good work. I’m saving up…”

I stood up and hoped he would be satisfied, but he was still looking at me.

“I’m saving up for Christmas. I’m going to present it all to Mother and Papa at Christmas, as a surprise.”

“Oh! Robert, that’s a fine idea. A fine thing to do.” He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. It was only March, so I had some time to figure out how to get out of it. Maybe he would forget by December. “Come on, brother, we’re having a good supper tonight.”

After a few minutes at the table with Papa and Mother, Hiram put his silverware down and looked around the table at us, with an excitement in his eyes like he was about to reveal a surprise. “I did it! I went into town today and I enlisted in the army.”

“Well! We’re real proud of you, son,” said Papa. I hadn’t looked at his eyes in weeks, and I didn’t look at them now.

Mother had both hands resting on the table, her chest rising high and falling deeply as she looked at the stained and worn tablecloth. Hiram asked, “Mother, what’s the matter?”

She looked up as if startled and assured us that nothing was the matter, she just got lost in her thoughts was all. Her breath was strange again when Hiram left the next week, but she asked couldn’t a mother be a little upset when her son leaves for war? He gave her and me both a tight hug, and told me he was glad I had a job to support the family since the farm would be harder to keep up in his absence. I was sure Papa would be content to have another opportunity to show me how hard a real man works, but I only told Hiram to be sure to write every once in a while.

The paper was yellowed and folded five times and had Robert clearly printed and underlined on both sides.

Robert,

I trust that everything is going fine there. I’m doing alright over here, and I do not regret enlisting, though of course I look forward to coming home.

I am a little concerned about Mother, and I don’t believe what she said about it just being her emotions. You know how she is one to put on a strong face. Maybe you should give some of the floorboard money to her now. You could still save some of it for the Christmas present. If she knew we could afford it, maybe she would go see a doctor. Just something to consider.

Your brother,

Hiram

Folded inside that note was one in neater handwriting.

Hiram,

I do not want to have this money any more. It’s not even mine. It’s my fault that mother is dead. You were right. I should have listened to you and given her the money. I’m sorry.

Robert

Dad and I read the two notes over a few times, and then stared at the hollow space in the floor.

“Dad, why was it so important to you to restore this house? None of the rest of the family cared, and they spent more time here than you did.”

“You know,” he said, still looking at the note from Robert, “Uncle Hiram once said to me that I reminded him a lot of Robert. He died before I finished college, but everyone knew I wasn’t planning to stay out here. Only two of my cousins went to college – they majored in agriculture then came back home to work on their farms. None of my family understood why I would major in mathematical science and move to the city.

“I’ve never known much about Robert except that he left and never came back. At the time I figured that’s what Uncle Hiram meant, that I was deserting the family. I guess… I guess that’s why I came back to fix up this house. To prove that I wasn’t deserting the family.”

We went back to staring at the floorboards. It had never occurred to me that Dad was the only one in his family to move away from home.

Dad spoke up again. “The day after I graduated from high school, he told me to come over here, and he gave me a box. It had one hundred and forty-two dollars and twenty-five cents, all in dollar bills and quarters. He said to me, ‘This is valuable money.’ He didn’t explain what he meant by that. And he told me that it was to help pay for my university tuition. Then he said, ‘A man should be able to pursue whatever life he was made for.’”

The light from the windows bounced off the walls and cast a warm green glow on the stack of books next to us and on Dad’s hands, which held the two notes. He wasn’t wearing his class ring today. He usually didn’t when we were visiting his family.

“Do you still think that’s what Hiram meant? That you were deserting the family like Robert?”

“I still don’t know entirely,” he said. “That may have been part of it.” He gently refolded the notes, set them back in the hollow space, and replaced the floorboard. Then we picked up the books and began returning them to their places on the shelves.