Blue Stars

by Jennifer Porter

It had been a long day—heck, a long week in the heat and humidity. Even the nails seemed to gather moisture in the box. Paul had continuously wiped his hammer handle with a rag to keep it from slipping in his hand. His father looked especially tired as he rode along on the passenger side of their work truck, sweat stains the size of bowling balls on the underarms of his shirt.

Paul came from a long line of carpenters, or joiners as his ancestors were known, and this connection always spoke to him, grounded him, created an early sense of identity. His father had taken up carpentry as a newlywed with the encouragement and mentorship of his father-in-law, but it didn’t come natural to him, like it did for Paul. He had not understood this about his father until he started building houses with him before the war. 

Paul was surprised to see a brand-new 1954 Cadillac convertible in French gray parked in front of his parents’ bungalow. He slowly pulled into the driveway as his father whistled in admiration, the two of them craning their necks to get a good look. 

“Why, I’ll be,” his father said, “it’s got a red leather interior! Musta cost a fortune.” 

Paul knew that the car did indeed cost a small fortune, having recently perused a Cadillac advertisement in the Detroit Free Press. He had a hunch that his brother Fred just bought the car and was grandstanding once again to their mother. He entertained “borrowing” the Cadillac without Fred’s knowledge. 

Let’s go get an ice cream, Paul would say when he got home. His wife, Edna, would laugh deliciously, the wind playing in her sunset-colored curls as the convertible sped along, their four young daughters giggling on the red leather backseat. Paul smiled at the thought of Fred stomping back and forth on the sidewalk in a fit over his stolen vehicle, Murray’s Pomade dripping down his forehead and stinging his eyes.

“Why don’t you go on in, Dad, I’ll clean out the truck,” Paul said. 

“Be sure and get all the tools inside the garage; don’t leave them out. Those power tools were an awful lot of money.” 

Paul had never left a tool out anywhere, not even a handful of nails. That’d been Fred, the one who left hand saws outside to rust. The one who’d left the table saw overnight on a job, in the rain, and never did appreciate that it had taken Paul three long nights to dismantle the damn thing, dry it meticulously, then tinker with it before the saw ran again. Fred was the one who’d quit Walker & Sons to “get rich” in automotive sales, the ‘s’ in “Sons” like a piece of sandpaper against his cheek.

Not that Paul didn’t like his job. Actually, there was nothing he liked more than building houses. But things had changed since the war and his father insisted on building the slow, old-fashioned way, avoiding the use of new prefabricated parts, such as trusses and plywood. Walker & Sons primarily built craftsman bungalows and cape cods rather than the in-demand modern ranch-style house.  

Dad wouldn’t even personally use the power tools, despite the savings in time and money. Walker & Sons prides itself on craftsmanship and attention to fine detail, was Dad’s favorite rebuke of his son’s new-fangled ideas. With the mad rush to build houses, Walker & Sons was often underbid or passed over because the families simply couldn’t wait. Paul wanted in on the chance to make money. A lot of money, like Fred, apparently. 

Paul carried the tools into the detached garage. Fred’s hearty laugh escaped the kitchen through the screen door, busting apart the coolness of the shaded yard. A murder of crows perched in the top of the tallest oak tree, their disturbing caws shifting his stomach. Fred must be drinking a sun tea and endlessly charming their mother with his outlandish stories. His younger brother had been a First Lieutenant in the Air Force and his medal for meritorious achievement, courage, and skill during bombing attacks on Japanese military installations in the Philippines was still proudly displayed on their mother’s fireplace mantel. 

He hadn’t seen much of Fred these last few years, really since the war ended. He told himself that they’d gone their separate ways, and this was natural in families. He saw his brother briefly at Christmas Mass, having orchestrated with his mother a time to bring the girls over for the holiday when Fred wouldn’t be there. His cheeks flushed at the thought of this devious behavior and then this made him annoyed and disappointed in himself at the same time. 

He listened to them laughing together. His conversations with their mother were never that easy and free. The Service Flag that she’d hung in her window had two blue stars, but it was Fred and his adventures as an ace pilot that she went on about. He wanted to hop in his rusty 1940 Plymouth Roadking, a car the boring color of dirty sea glass, and go on home, but his pay was inside. 

He tentatively opened the screen door then reminded himself that it’d be better to smack his thumb with a hammer than explain to Edna he’d not wanted to get his paycheck in front of his brother. 

Fred’s long legs—clothed in the latest and finest trousers—were crossed in a nonchalant, confident manner while he exhaled cigarette smoke as if sitting across from a Hollywood starlet rather than their dear old blushing English mother. Fred had the obnoxious ability to draw everyone toward him as if he were a giant magnet. Paul was always nothing more than a short, rusty ole screw—pulled along with the other screws and nails and iron shavings and made invisible against Fred’s brilliance.

He cleared his throat when his father came into the kitchen in his yellowed undershirt, his suspenders hanging loose at his hips. 

“Paul!” his mother exclaimed. “Why, I didn’t realize you were here.”

There were a lot of things his mother didn’t realize but the list had gotten so long that he only went over it after having one too many glasses of bourbon. Top on the list: Paul had been promoted to Staff Sergeant, transferred from the Infantry to the Engineers in Germany after the army had seen what he could do, the least of which was an improvement to the construction of the barrack bunks that had made him one extremely popular soldier. The army just didn’t transfer soldiers like that, but that was something she didn’t realize either. Nor did Fred, it seemed.

“Hey, Brother Paul, park it for a few,” Fred said, his sharply chiseled jaw-heavy face cracked in a wide grin. “I take it you saw my new wheels out front.” He tapped the metal rim of the dinette tabletop with a manicured fingernail, his cigarette in the same hand. The escaped curls from his black pomaded hair trembled with the movement of his wrist, but the inch of cigarette ash did not break free. 

Paul nodded but ignored the invite.

“Paul, Paul, you should see what Fred has gotten me.” His mother stood up with a slight bounce and for a brief moment he could see her as the energetic young woman his father had married almost forty years ago. She wiped her palms down the front of her apron then clasped them together as she came around the table, her eyes glistening.

“Edna and the girls are waiting for me, Mother. Supper’s getting cold.”

“But you must see. It’s the most wonderful present anyone has ever given me.” She was so excited she planted a peck on his cheek. “Fred surprised me!”

“Still living out in Troy, are you, Paul?” said Fred. “Next to the turkey farm? Whew! What a load of stink that place is. Can’t believe Edna puts up with it. She deserves better, Brother.”

Paul had moved his family to a house out in the country. The run-down shack (as Edna referred to it) was all they could afford. While he was away in Europe, Edna had rented the upstairs apartment of a ramshackle house where she slept with their two baby girls and a broom to keep the rats away. The shack was a step up for Edna and Paul, as hard as that was to admit. 

“Dad,” he said. “I’ve got to get going.” He said this the last Friday night of every month to begin the process of squeezing his pay out of his father’s coffers. Now if Dad were going hunting, say, or fishing, he’d be spry and quick but instead, he shuffled to his rolltop desk, pulled out a chair, plunked down with a mournful sigh, and slowly leafed through the book. Wetting the tip of a pencil on the tip of his tongue, he began the arduous task of adding Paul’s hours and figuring what he owed him.

At $2.49 an hour at 50 +/- hours per week he took home just about $500 for the month. He and Edna were very good at stretching their dollars. Envelopes that he’d neatly written on: utilities, telephone, groceries, gas, clothes, incidentals, and Our House were kept in a blue Shawnee Pottery canister discreetly tucked inside a kitchen cabinet. He carefully counted out the dollars allotted to each envelope after the rent was paid. He always paid the rent first then paid himself by saving then pocketed his golf and Elks Club money after all was said and done. Paul knew many other carpenters who made $3.00 an hour, but he kept this from Edna.

“What kind of surprise?” he asked his mother.

“Why, a new washing machine!” She was so proud and delighted he couldn’t help but feel happy for her. 

“A top of the line Bendix Dialamatic, front loading, workless, washing machine. Only cost one hundred and sixty-nine dollars. The best mother deserves the best machine,” said Fred with that grin Paul wanted to permanently erase with a power sander. On the low wages his father paid him, it would take him over a year to save up for a Bendix. 

“Dad, I promised the girls I’d take them for ice cream tonight,” he lied. 

His father sighed and groaned, lamenting every hour he added to the paycheck. 

Paul didn’t want to see the washer. 

“Yes, well, dear,” said his mother. “We have a surprise for Edna.”

“She’s gonna love it,” said Fred. “Maybe for once we’ll get a smile out of her.”

Paul ignored this snide comment, though tonight his brother really irked him. A “nice surprise” for Edna would be a substantial pay raise so they could afford a house of their own. Heck, he could build Edna their dream house, on the weekends, if he just had the money for a lumber pack and a lot: That nice little piece of land he saw a month or so ago in an up-and-coming new neighborhood, not all that far from his parents—the commute would be so much shorter. And mother could watch the girls more often, giving Edna a break. 

On one of their Sunday drives, he had stopped by the lot. Edna took in her breath and said, “Oh, I wish, Paul. I wish.” They got out of the car and the girls ran around the empty lot laughing, playing tag. 

He’d even called the real estate agent and gotten a price. $4500. He’d whistled in shock, not realizing he’d done that out loud until the agent chuckled. Where was he going to get that kind of money? Edna was right that he’d not gotten far at Walker & Sons since the war ended. Though he never conceded this to her. But what would happen to his parents if he didn’t help Dad? Fred may have been the one buying his mother shiny new appliances but it was Paul that kept a roof over their heads. The realtor told him that if he bought the lot, it’d be a snap to get a mortgage through his GI benefits to build the house. 

He just wanted to go home and get cleaned up, eat his dinner, be with his girls. “Dad, it’s getting late.” 

His father grunted then bent closer to the ledger as if there must be a mistake somewhere. 

“Full of surprises tonight, Mother?” Paul turned to her.

“Why yes, I am! We have a new washer for Edna, too.”

He was shocked. A Bendix Dialamatic for Edna? “I … I don’t know what to say.”

Fred laughed. “Say you’ll bring the family over on Sunday, and I’ll help you load it in the truck.”

“Edna doesn’t drive, remember?” His wife had never learned how, terrified of driving. 

“Oh, right, that’s okay. That’s all right. I’ll drive the gals in your car, help with the washer then drive the truck back,” Fred said. 

Paul narrowed his eyes, suspicious of his brother’s sudden generosity and goodwill. The ticking of his mother’s Felix the Cat clock (another surprise from Fred) seemed to slow and grow louder and he had a brief thought that the clock was in on a secret that would bite him later. But, damn, Edna’s face was going to light up when she saw the Bendix. No more worries about getting her fingers caught in the gyrator of the old machine they had. 

This for sure would make up for the loss of the car.

While Paul had been in Germany, Edna’s little brother, Tommy, drove Edna and the two babies where they needed to go, that is until Paul’s mother and father showed up one day and took the car, claiming to Edna that they had his permission to sell it. His wife sent him a tear-stained letter, convinced she hadn’t been given all of the money from the sale. And it must have been a lot of money, Paul, as cars are scarce. 

When he finally arrived back home, Paul refused to believe, as Edna did, that his parents had essentially stolen from them. They must’ve had a very good reason to have done what they did, he said to her. Or that’s what he tried to tell himself though it never settled right in his stomach.

* * *

Paul couldn’t stand the smell next door at the turkey farm. Putrid moss-green fecal waste covered nearly every square inch of the farmyard, creeping onto his mostly bare-dirt yard. The stench of boiling turkey blood never left the air and he always made sure to be absent on slaughter days.

The run-down shack had running water, but the pump that ran the water was in a run-down shed in the back yard and sometimes Paul had to tinker with the pump. Often the landlord accused him of using too much electricity. He always answered that the Everetts knew he and Edna had four daughters when they rented the place, and four little girls make for a lot of laundry. Not that he wasn’t grateful for Everett’s renting to him. 

A movement caught his eye: Everett was on his porch—a round man veiled in a slimy film of rancid sweat. Edna complained that he made her uncomfortable, that he spied on her, and Paul always dismissed this with a wave of his hand, though there was something unsettling about the man. He didn’t know what to say to Edna or Everett about this, without it turning into a heated argument, so he told Edna to stop being suspicious of everyone. And she always answered that she wasn’t, Not everyone, not you, Paul. Not Tommy.

The peeling white shed had a rickety wooden door kept closed with a rope that ran through a couple of two-inch metal eyes and tied in a knot. The rope was untied and the door leaned open a few inches. Next to the door was a narrow rectangular filmy window. Paul went into the shed to check on the pump and for the first time, he peered out the window. If someone stood in the shed and looked toward his place, they could watch Edna hang clothes. They could watch his wife in the kitchen, like he could right now, if it was dark out and the lights were on.

As he walked through the gate, Paul glared at Everett. The landlord sat in his crusty denim overalls on a wooden-slatted rocking chair, staring from beneath the rickety porch awning. It dawned on Paul that every time he carried buckets of waste outside when the plumbing failed, the landlord seemed to be watching from the porch. The man had thick russet-colored hair on top of his head as if he wore a round fur hat. Paul had given his eldest daughter a rabbit-fur lined muff that hung around her neck with a pretty pink ribbon. 

“Edna, I’ve got a surprise for you,” he announced as he walked through the door, his girls waiting patiently on the floor in front of the radio, coloring with crayons, while Edna put the finishing touches on another fine meal. She was an excellent cook. Much better than his mother.

“What’s that, Paul?” she said.

“A new washing machine.” Edna came and kissed him. He tenderly brushed a curl off her forehead, and thought about making her smile later. “A Bendix Dialamatic.”

“You’re joking,” she said as she walked back to the counter to mash potatoes. “We can’t afford that. What about saving up for a house?”

“It’s a gift from Fred. He’s making a lot of money at the dealership. We can pick it up Sunday at my parents’ house.”

His wife always said that his parents took advantage of him, paid him far less than he was worth, didn’t see his talents, what he was capable of, how far he could go in life. Edna believed in him like no one else ever had. The new washing machine would be a much-needed acknowledgement of the sacrifices he made as the only son now in Walker & Sons. A thank you from Fred for mediating with their parents when his brother had wanted to quit carpentry for good. Paul had absorbed all that tumult so that Fred could be happy, shielding his brother from the worst of his parents’ reactions. And Edna did deserve better. Look what she sacrificed to stick by me through all this thin. Thin thin thin thin. Never thick. Boy, did they need a break. 

* * *

Paul’s favorite time of the evening was when the shadows cooled the earth. He walked out the door, lit a cigarette, and listened to the turkeys settle onto their roosts for the night, making low, soothing, guttural noises. He pulled the zipper of his jacket as far as it would go. It was a thin gabardine jacket with a soft collar, in the color of milky coffee and he liked the feeling of the silky lining against his skin. He’d remembered to slip on black galoshes over his shoes and they squeaked like pacified ducks as he walked. 

Fred had wanted to follow Paul over and tell Edna about the surprise and show-off his new car. He was glad he’d convinced Fred to just go on home, that Edna was in a state of perpetual exhaustion and one more mouth at the table would have put Paul on the sofa for a week. Fred had guffawed loudly, slapping his brother on the back before going inside to further enchant their mother.

Edna had spent the entire meal adamant that Fred had not bought her a new washing machine while going on about how tired she was of worrying that her fingers would get caught in the old Maytag. Only after he implied it was most likely to make up for the sale of their car did she agree to go and see for herself. 

It pained Paul that his mother’s life had been difficult. His maternal grandparents left England at the tail end of open immigration with their only child, his mother, and just a teenager then, and all their worldly belongings in three small suitcases, crammed into third class steerage. Their belief in the American dream propping them up, a salve to their sea sickness, as they sailed across the wide pond. Hoping and praying the ship did not go down like the Titanic had, not long before.   

He ground out his cigarette with his right foot. The sky turned a fatal hue of startling pink before the sun disappeared and the sounds of twilight enveloped Paul.

* * *

When they got close to his parents’ house, Edna finally began to talk about how nice it would be to have a Bendix Dialamatic. He could tell she was a little nervous as she rattled on about minutiae. She’d seen an ad for the washer in her Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Along with a recipe for He-man Burgers that she thought they should try: two patties with sliced onion between and wrapped in a slice of bacon. They could have them with shoestring potatoes, corn on the cob, juicy pears, and devil’s food cake. How did that sound? Paul liked listening to her talk; she cared about his opinions. 

“All that laundry I do, Paul. You know, there are days I can’t sit down until the girls are in bed.” She sighed. Then smiled at him. “This is quite the gift.”

Fred and his parents were sitting on the front porch bench when Paul pulled up. The girls leapt out of the car, bounding across the grass and into Grandma’s arms. She herded them inside for tea and cookies, Fred telling them how beautiful they each were. They are beautiful, he thought. His little girls. Fred walked down the porch steps to meet them.

Fred hugged Edna and said she looked like a doll. She enthusiastically hugged him back. 

Edna had always told Paul that she liked Fred from their first meeting: his sense of humor, his largeness. She often wondered aloud what he was up to these days and why didn’t they see him anymore? 

“Come on, you two love birds,” Fred said in his big voice, while taking big strides. “It’s back here in the garage.” He lifted the garage door and Paul waited for his eyes to adjust before stepping inside.

“Won’t it be nice to have a new washing machine, Edna?” Fred said. “Four girls must make for loads of laundry.”

“Yes, it will,” Edna said. “I can’t thank you enough, Fred.”

“Oh, it’s not me you should thank, it’s Mother.” 

Mother? Paul’s stomach shifted. His parents never had any money. He looked around for Edna’s Bendix but saw only his mother’s old Speed Queen sitting in the center of the floor. Edna’s Bendix had to be in there somewhere, covered over for the surprise. He began searching around, moving dusty furniture and tools and old bicycles out of the way, Edna watching in anticipation.

Paul’s father shuffled casually into the garage, stopped in the center and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. “Whatchya need, Paul?”

Paul turned and looked at his father. His father—the quiet, passive, complacent man—always lurking in the background, never standing up for anything. Just going along with his mother, no matter what. That’s not a fair assessment, Paul thought, his father listened to him when he talked about some of the worse things he’d seen in the war and his father held Paul’s secrets close, without judgment. I wouldn’t have made it through, son, like you did. 

Paul went back to his search; a hushed tone having fallen over the garage.

His mother startled him when she spoke from behind. “When Fred bought me a new washing machine, I just couldn’t believe it. He’s such a good son.” She walked over to the Speed Queen and affectionately petted it. “So, my first thought was to sell the Speed Queen. Why, it’s only four years old.”

Edna stood there, her lips tight together, refusing to look at the Speed Queen, his mother, Fred, her husband.  

His mother went on, “It’s not one of those front-loaders with all the bells and whistles but it works just fine.” She looked the washer over as if it were on display at the World’s Fair. “These automatics are simply a marvel of invention. And then Fred suggested I give the Speed Queen to you, Edna,” his mother turned to his wife, “instead of selling it, and for quite a bit of money I might add. Fred said you’re still using that old Maytag from way before the war.”

Fred stood over his mother’s old washing machine. “The Speed Queen is a wringer washer, Edna, that’s true. But plug it in after you fill the tub with water and the agitator washes the clothes for you. Sure, you gotta feed the clothes through the wringer but that’s automatic also. No more cranking the gyrator handle. Isn’t that great? Just remember not to stick your fingers in the wringer! Ha ha. And keep the girls away. But heck, you know that already. It’s a great washer and you can’t beat the—”

With Edna’s eyes rimmed in tears and her jaw clamped together like a steel vice, she finally looked at Paul, before racing out of the garage. 

“Jeepers, Edna!” Fred said. “I was just kidding around …”

“Where is she going? Why, Paul, whatever is the matter?” his mother said. 

Paul’s stomach swam around his ankles; he’d need to scrape it up with a flat shovel and force it back down his throat. He looked at Fred.

“What did you tell her, Brother?” Fred wiped his upper lip then his brow with a kerchief. 

“I thought she would be so happy,” said his mother. 

Paul sighed. “She’s afraid of getting her fingers caught in the wringer! … I, I don’t know what I thought …”

Edna yelled loud enough for the entire block to hear that the girls needed to get in the car.  

“What about supper? She’s not going to take the children before they’ve eaten, is she?” She hustled toward his car. “Edna!”

“Mother, leave Edna alone!”

She stopped, turned back. He could see all the years of her life on her face. “But, Paul, I roasted a large chicken. And blueberry pie. Your favorite. The girls are not going to understand. I don’t understand. It’s like your father and I can do no right.”

“Don’t leave, Paul. We can work something out, I’m sure of it. Don’t you think, Mother?”

Maybe Edna was overreacting. She got so worked up sometimes. That was true about her, he’d had to admit once to his mother. He should never have told her it was a Bendix. He should’ve known better than to assume Fred had bought his wife a new washing machine.

“I was just trying to help,” his mother said. “The Bendix is for me, Paul. To help me! Why I know Edna is doing more, much more, laundry but at my age … I just can’t work like that. The Speed Queen is a very nice washing machine. Oh, Paul, I thought she would be so happy.”

The Speed Queen was a better machine and his mother’s hands showed the sore knots of arthritis. He did want her life to be easier. He wanted their lives, well, except maybe Fred, to be easier. The war, the damn war had left its indelible mark on him, on Edna, on his parents, okay, even Fred. He tried to just forget it, and think about the future, not the past that had wrung him dry, his very spirit splintered into unrecognizable shards. How did all his bits fit back together? That’s the problem, he thought, I am not the same person. 

Yet, his mother had said she was only trying to help when he’d finally gotten up the courage to confront her about the sale of his car: When he was back home and angry that he could only afford to buy a beater. He’d not given permission, he said. I wrote you, Paul. Don’t you remember? No, I do not, he told her and he refused to believe she’d done it selfishly, as an act of self-preservation, and at the expense of his wife and children. Though she cried and claimed she’d handed the money over to Edna. He didn’t want to figure it out, if it had been all the money, who did what, what had he done or said, so he had stormed away. That was the last time he tried to talk to his mother about the war. 

Edna yelled for him from the car. 

“If I’d known Edna was expecting a Bendix …” Fred shrugged his shoulders in a sad, tired manner, “We never talk anymore, Brother.”

Paul turned and hurried to his old, beat-up car. 

* * *

They rode home in blackened silence. Edna hustled the girls inside and they knew from her tone to be especially quiet and obedient, disappearing into their room. She went into the kitchen to make supper, slamming the cabinets and the pans onto the stove. Paul stood just outside the kitchen door, desperately wanting to turn on the radio and listen to the Tigers’ game instead. 

He went into the kitchen and got the bourbon down out of the upper cabinet and poured them both a drink. He turned to her, sighed heavily, and handed her a glass. “It’s my fault, Edna. I made an assumption. And I’m sorry for that.”

They both drank, eyeing each other.

“Did they tell you they bought me a Bendix?”

He replayed the scene in his mind. “No.”

“What did they say then?”

“That they had a surprise for you. A new washer.”

“It was a bad trick, Paul.”

“I don’t think it was a trick, Edna.”

“No? What do you call it then?”

“I think Mother thinks she’s helping. The Speed Queen is better than the machine you have now.”

“Like the Plymouth is better? Your mother and father left me without a car and we had two babies. Two babies! Living in that filthy, rat-infested apartment on army pay. Oh, Paul, you have no idea what I went through.”

The truth of it was that Paul couldn’t remember exactly his involvement in the car sale, but he knew he’d played a part in it. There may have been a letter from his mother, and she may have been anxious, she may have written about not having enough money to pay—what was it? Heat? Electricity? What little business Dad managed to drum up, completion of the construction was slow without Paul, Mother stretching what little money they had until she was ready to cry. He may have gotten the letter on a numb day, a bitter cold day, a particularly rotten day. Or he may’ve written her back on exactly one of those days that now blended together in his mind as a sea of churning froth. She may’ve been able to stir up such worry for her that he became irritated, thinking Edna could find a way to get around without a car: the bus, for one. That his mother was right that Tommy was a freeloader. Edna had parents, for Chrissake, why couldn’t they drive her around? Why did any of them think they could bother him with such trivial complaints while he was fighting a war?

He pulled Edna into his arms. He’d been drafted, a pacifist at heart, and had tried to convince the military to let him stay with his young family, expressing his concern about their living conditions on a soldier’s pay. Edna had been stoic. In France, Paul saw things he couldn’t find words to describe—to her, to anyone. As a staff sergeant in the 103rd Engineers, he and his men had gone ahead of the infantry to rebuild bridges, roads, locate the unexploded land mines. Haunting images came to him at unexpected times, so he kept busy. Golf. Elks Club. Work. Edna complained about being home alone all the time with the children even though he was back. But the anxieties had taken permanent root in his stomach, his only memento of the war, and he had to keep moving. 

“Edna,” he said in his softest voice, “from my perspective, it is difficult to see.”

“It was hard on you, too,” she said. “I know that. I’m sorry, Paul. I don’t know what came over me. It is a much better machine than the one we have now.” 

They held each other close and all the world was kept at a distance, and he wanted to stay there with her, like that, for all eternity.

* * *

When Paul was five years old, his baby brother, Willie, became very ill. Willie was Mother’s little sweetheart, darling baby, her special happy surprise. Paul would stop in the hallway outside his parent’s bedroom, lean his head against the door frame, and listen to his mother sing lullabies or silly children’s songs about little piggies going to market, which always made Willie giggle in an extremely charming manner. If his mother caught Paul peaking in, she would blow him kisses, motion for him to come in, then draw him close to her while he petted the baby nestled against their mother.

It seemed they were always poor, some years worse than others, such as after the stock market crash. Willie was born during the better years (the roaring twenties they were later called) but still, Paul, Fred, and Alice woke up in the winter to a bone-cold house and a meager breakfast often followed by a disappointing lunch. Alice was Paul’s older sister, the one who moved to California during the war to become a journalist. 

As he got older, Paul began to question why his father settled for not earning quite enough to just be comfortable. It irked him while at the same time, he worried this proclivity resided within himself. His children were growing up in a run-down shack because their father lacked ambition. No, that wasn’t it. He had ambition, hopes and dreams, but he was beholden to his parents. He couldn’t break free. 

Willie’s illness made Mother very anxious and despite round-the-clock nursing care, the two of them sequestered away in Mother and Dad’s room, Willie only became sicker and sicker. When Alice, Paul, or Fred tried to enter the room to see their mother and Willie, she would shout at them to stay away from the pneumonia. Fred did a lot of crying, being just three, wanting his mother and Alice became the little mother. Even at their own young ages, Paul and Alice understood that Dad didn’t have the money to pay for a doctor visit and a sense of dread began to follow Paul everywhere like a starving mutt.

He tried to concentrate on helping Alice wash dishes and floors and Willie’s sick diapers though it was summer, and he yearned to be outside, climbing the big oak tree or playing baseball with the neighborhood gang, and he tried not to be annoyed with Fred, making his little brother’s piggies go to market while Fred sat with him on the sofa. Fred’s laughter each time Paul touched one of his toes before the big tickle pleased Paul. One afternoon, he and Alice lay on the floor by the radio and Alice, with her ever-ready pencil and paper, wrote down ways they might earn the money for the doctor to visit but their age was an enormous obstacle, other than the idea of begging, which Dad would never allow. Paul pictured himself as the Tramp, with a black bowler hat and a little black mustache and a tin cup. He drew this for Alice and her laughter pleased him.

When the doctor showed up at their house one evening, Paul’s stomach developed an ache with a slow burn.

Though Willie only lived a week after the doctor visit, in Paul’s child-mind the week went on and on. Even with the perspective of his adult self and the long days and nights of his service in the war, the week Mother was desperate to save Willie swallowed Paul’s childhood and distorted the lens through which he viewed his mother, his father, life in general.

Dad slowly plunked down the stairs on the last day of that long week and told them in a quiet, resigned voice that Willie had passed. There was nothing anyone could do. 

“Don’t bother your mother,” Dad said as his three children simply stared at him.

For a seemingly endless number of days, Alice was completely in charge. She made their meals and Paul would force Fred to wash his face and hands and wear clean clothes while Fred asked questions Paul couldn’t always answer. When will we see Mother again? Are they going to bury the baby? Do they bury babies in the backyard? Do you and Alice have to go to school? Do I have to wear a jacket? Am I going to die too from the pneumonia?

In the quiet of the morning with the birdsong floating in through the windows and Mother’s lace curtains swaying gently in the breeze, Paul would stop outside his mother’s door and lean his head against it, aching to hear movement or sounds of life within. He learned that the reservoir of grief was endless. He felt sorry for his dad not knowing how to help Mother and he felt sorry that Dad had to sleep on the sofa. Sometimes Dad raised his voice to Mother about what to do with Willie.

The fourth day was a Saturday and Paul and Fred were awakened to a commotion in the hallway outside their bedroom. Paul opened the door and Alice stood outside her room, unusually disheveled as if she’d rushed out of bed. The priest was there and two men in black suits were raising up a collapsible stretcher. Father Coughlin was knocking on Mother’s door and pleading with her to open it. 

“Now, Alice, you know that you must open the door,” Father Coughlin said in his Irish brogue. “The good men from the funeral home are here, and it’s time for Willie to be attended to in the proper manner. What you’re doing here isn’t proper, Alice, not proper at all. Let your good husband open the door, now.”

And much to Paul’s surprise, possibly bolstered by the presence of Father Coughlin, Dad pushed into the bedroom without waiting for Mother’s response and Father Coughlin quickly followed. Paul ran down the hallway then stood in the doorway. It was as if the still room erupted in a flurry of disturbed pigeons, all rising from the ground at once, their wings desperate for the space to take off without hindrance.

On the bed, wrapped in his blue knitted baby blanket, was little Willie, now greenish-gray. Mother sat next to him, patting his chest and hushing the stiff baby, her face and glasses and even her neck wet with sorrow. One of the black-suited men startled Paul when he came up from behind and tapped Paul’s shoulder ever so gently. Excuse us, son. The black-suited men quietly rolled the stretcher into the bedroom then stood watching Mother with grim yet sympathetic faces. Paul turned to Alice and she shook her head that no she was not going to join him, her arms wrapped over Fred’s shoulder to hold him in place.

And when Paul turned back, Dad was leaning over Mother, his arms outstretched to pick up Willie. Mother began saying very softly, No. No, no, not my Willie while shaking her head. Then she covered little Willie with her upper body and Dad rested his hand on Mother’s back. Father Coughlin stepped forward and the two men looked at each other, Dad finally nodding. Dad then wrapped his arms around Mother, pulling her tightly to his chest and the priest picked up baby Willie. 

Mother sprang free, reaching out for her dead baby in the priest’s arms, so much anguish on her face. The priest held the swaddle tight to his body, Mother’s hands grasping at the priest’s black cassock, the baby’s blanket. Father Coughlin continued speaking to Mother in a firm but gentle voice, trying to bring her back to her senses. All her strength had gone out of her, and her attempts were largely ineffectual. When his blanket wrap came undone from his stiff greenish-gray arms and face, Mother complained to Father Coughlin, “Oh me poor bairn, please don’t let him git cowd.” Paul had never heard Mother speak in her Lancashire dialect and accent before.

Father Coughlin allowed Mother to rewrap the baby with the blue blanket she had knitted, while she whispered soothing sounds to her little Willie. 

Dad once more wrapped Mother in a warm embrace and with the fight gone out of her, she rested against him then he had her lie down in the bed. He stroked the hair off her forehead, wiped the tears from her face, took her shoes off, tucked her under the blankets, and within moments, Mother was fast asleep.

The men in black suits placed Willie on the stretcher, the stretcher entirely too big for the six-month old baby, everyone whispering and tiptoeing about, and Father Coughlin smiled at Paul as Paul stepped aside to let the men out of the room. 

“Be a good lad fer yer mother, Paul,” he said. Then Paul’s father ruffled his hair as he went by and Paul stood there alone with his mother, her breathing shallow and raspy, not really thinking but just being. Being there in that moment he would never forget.

Sometimes it takes a long time to understand something that happened in the past. Paul realized that his father’s gentle spirit could be one of strength and not always deemed as weakness. His father had allowed his mother to be who she needed to be, to fight against the unfairness of life so that she could accept what had happened and go on with her life. After all, he could have forced the removal at any time during those three long days. After the removal, his mother had slept for a day and then she, once more, became their attentive and caring mother though very sad at times and always wistful when she spoke about little Willie. Never allowing anyone to forget that he had been on earth with them, her little baby Willie, and that his time with them had been far too brief. 

* * *

A couple of weeks later, one night after work, Paul went into his father’s garage and began pushing the Speed Queen on its casters out to the work truck. Every time a caster got caught on a rock or in a divot of dirt or a clump of crabgrass, he cursed it (getting louder as this went on) then kicked the caster and shook the machine until it rolled again. His mother rushed out of the kitchen door, asking what he was doing and worried he would get hurt doing that all by himself. “Fred will help you!” she insisted and this only further aggravated Paul.

“I’m going to take it home, Mother, without Fred’s help. I just need to borrow Dad’s truck for the night.” It was true that while not a Bendix, the Speed Queen would be a step up for Edna, as hard as that had been for her to admit. 

Edna had been blasting him constantly about his mother. Paul continued to apologize for his foolish assumption, but Edna’s belief it had been a terrible trick (just like the car) had taken somewhat of a hold. Why did his mother need a Bendix with no children to wash for? She seemed to get around just fine, arthritis or no arthritis. How about the low wages they forced Paul to live on and the lack of recognition of his talents and the inability to see that he had a bright future? 

No man should be forced to choose between his wife and his mother. Edna wanted everyone to choose, to take her side, when there were disagreements. Paul felt sympathy for Edna having grown up in a large family, but always remaining the outsider. Her siblings often ganged up on her, choosing sides with her mother or her father, no one able to see both sides of the situation. Paul could always see both sides of the situation, making him a particularly good mediator overseas. It wasn’t working so well at home. 

Yet, one of the reasons Paul loved Edna so intensely was her ferocity in standing up for herself. Though she tended to become obsessed, talking about a conflict endlessly, for years and years, her strength buoyed him during his moments lost in that churning sea that swamped his mind. He was thankful that lately he could see the horizon, land within reach, the sea sometimes a glassy mirror on which to glide upon.

He set about figuring out how to get the washer into the pickup bed. He decided to place two by fours off the tailgate to the ground, lay the machine on its side then use a rope and pulley system to pull it up. The casters were too small and the machine too top-heavy to push it up the boards on its wheels. He crushed his cigarette out with his right foot. Damn, if he only had one of those pieces of plywood his father refused to buy to use as a ramp.

He rummaged around the yard for something that would work the same as the plywood. There were graying two by six boards stacked by the garage. He painstakingly held each one up and eyed it, resting the few ones he could use against the garage and throwing the useless, warped ones so that they made a satisfying banging noise, landing in a messy heap in the middle of his mother’s perfect little yard. 

“Paul,” his mother shouted as she came onto the back porch. “Fred is on his way right now, please wait!”

He dragged the good boards to the tailgate rather than carry them on his shoulder as he would on a job. He had enough boards to cover the width of the washer and fortunately, they were long enough to create a gradual gradient. While he was rummaging inside the garage for rope and pulleys, he heard Fred’s car whip into the driveway, his brother blowing the horn, but he ignored it and went on with his project.

Fred hustled into the garage, came up behind him, placed one of his large mitts on his shoulder, “Brother Paul, you’re giving our mother a heart attack.”

He shrugged off the mitt. 

Fred rested his low back against a workbench, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his suit coat pocket, jiggied the pack until a smoke emerged and offered it to Paul. 

Paul sighed then took the cigarette. When they both had cigarettes in their mouths, Fred lit Paul’s first then his own. Paul took a deep inhale and for the first time in a very long time, he looked at his brother.

There were deep lines on Fred’s wide chin, running down from his mouth, cavernous lines that Paul was surprised to see. Gray hairs were sprinkled throughout his thinning pomaded hair. Fred’s thick black luxurious hair had been the source of female fascination throughout high school and now he looked run through the gamut as much as Paul had been. It bothered him that he had not noticed this before.

Fred said, “A buddy of mine is working as a civil engineer over at that commercial construction company, putting in the big new hospital on Woodward.”

Paul shrugged. “Good for him.”

“He’s making a load of dough. And he’s nowhere as smart as you. You could be a civil engineer.”

Paul ground out his cigarette in the sand in the coffee can sitting on the workbench. “Why are you telling me this? To make me feel worse?”

“No, not at all. Listen, my friend said he’d get you an interview. I told him all about you.”

“What about Mother and Dad?”

Fred stood up, snuffed his smoke in the can, took off his suit coat and laid it carefully over a workhorse. “It’s time for Dad to retire anyway. Collect Social Security. Besides, I can take care of anything they need. It’s not a problem. Heck, they own the house. Mother’s got her shiny new washer now. What else is there?” He smiled his large infectious grin. “Time for you to be getting the long end of the stick, don’t you think? Enough of never having enough.”

Fred rolled up his shirt sleeves, becoming very serious. “We’ve gotten ourselves to some place that I don’t recognize.” He held his right hand outstretched, palm up, and tapped the tip of his pinkie, “Me.” He tapped the tip of his thumb, “You.” Then he ran the distance between them with the tip of his finger. “Not right, Brother, for us to be at opposite ends.” 

“No, I guess not,” Paul said. He did not know how to bridge their differences, but he wanted to try.

“Besides, I owe you, Paul.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Fred grinned. “I was not born to be a carpenter, and you know it.”

Paul chuckled. 

“Let’s get Edna’s new washer in the truck, Brother Paul.”

When Paul got home to the run-down shack, Fred was leaning against his convertible, handsome and devilish like Cary Grant. He’d refused to follow Paul, driving so slowly with the washer roped into the truck bed. His brother passed him, sticking his hand high in the air, then waving as he tooted his horn. Paul was glad his brother had not lost his ability to be light-hearted and carefree. Any fun Paul had ever had seemed to have come from some other person. He missed that guy, but as much as he sometimes tried, he could not find him inside the big dead spot that had taken residence in his soul.

Soon it would be twilight and the turkeys would go to roost. Edna was most likely doing baths and putting the girls to bed. He hopped into the truck bed, undid the ropes holding the washer, then knotted the ropes into lassoes, swinging the loops over the top of the machine. With the ends of the ropes wrapped around his right hand, he slowly heaved and rolled the washer to the edge of the tailgate. 

Fred stood at the tailgate and motioned for Paul to pass him the boards. After he set up their makeshift ramp, Fred said, “What are you thinkin’, Brother? Two of us roll it down with the ropes?”

Paul nodded, “On its side.” 

“Ah.” Fred flicked his cigarette then slicked back his hair.

His back needed a break, so Paul hopped out of the truck then stretched, before wiping the sweat from his brow. It didn’t help that he had put his galoshes on for some dumb reason, but he could unzip his jacket. The cooler evening air provided some relief. He could smoke another cigarette. When he realized his pack was empty, he threw the paper box at the same angle as skipping a stone and it thumped against a nearby tree, slightly crumpling from the force and softly landing. 

Back to work, he told himself when Everett seemingly came out of nowhere, startling Paul.

“What ya got there, fellas?” Everett said.

“Why you must be Mr. Everett, the honorable landlord of this fine residence,” Fred said and he stuck his hand out for a shake. Everett wiped his hand down the front of his filthy coveralls and shook Fred’s hand. Fred didn’t blink an eye. “I’m Paul’s brother, Fred Walker. Nice to meet you. You probably saw my car out front and couldn’t take your eyes off it.” Everett begrudgingly nodded. “Well, you should know, a man such as yourself, with your impressive real estate holdings, could buy himself just such a beauty. Why don’t you come down to the dealership and see me sometime,” and Fred got out his wallet, slipped out a business card, and handed it to Everett. He put his big mitt on Everett’s shoulder like they were old pals.

“Okay, yeah, I might just do that, uh, Fred,” he said sarcastically. “Looks like Paul got himself a fancy new washing machine. Fancy washers and fancy cars, you boys are doin’ alright for yourselves I’d say.”

“Au contraire, my esteemed Mr. Everett. This is a used washing machine my mother gave to Edna,” Fred said. “New to Edna, yes, and much better than the one she has now.”

“Oh, yeah? Prolly one of those ones that uses alotta ee-leck-tricity.” The man took out a pocketknife and began to flick the turkey-shit from beneath his fingernails, the specks landing this way and that and the ones that landed on his galoshes, Paul tried in vain to ignore.

“This is the future, dear Mr. Everett, all appliances will run solely on electricity before you know it. Progress is a marvelous thing,” said Fred, “and we ought never to stand in its way.”

Mr. Everett collapsed his pocketknife into its sheath then shoved it back into his pocket, rolling his eyes at Fred. “You’re not trying to get that thing outta there all by yourselves, are you?” He looked Fred over as if he were physically incapable of doing anything. Everett’s laugh was more like a bark. “Gonna hurt yourselves and wreck Edna’s washer.” 

A breeze rustled past Paul, rippling his jacket, the silk touching him gently.

“Edna sure does hang a lot of clothes,” Everett said. 

“Well, with four girls,” Fred said.

“Yes, four girls.” Everett looked toward the shack. “So many females in your house it’s like you got some to spare.”

Paul looked down and shook his head then looked at his landlord. “None to spare, Everett.” 

The landlord chuckled. “You got yourself a pretty wife. A fancy washer. You go strutting around here like some kind of damn war hero. But you’re living here on my property, can’t even buy your own place, and using way more than your fair share of ee-leck-tricity.”

“Now, now, now, Mr. Everett, you are not being very polite,” Fred said. “That’s my family you are speaking about, and I won’t have it.” Fred was still smiling like it was just a game, but his eyes had grown cold.

“Oh yeah, you’re nothing but a car salesman,” Everett said then spit on Fred’s shoes. “Fancy shoes don’t make you a man.”

Paul thought about the Bendix, about Edna’s fingers getting caught in a wringer. He thought about rusted saws and Cadillac cars. About the time his buddy Ralph got blown to bits, having reached down to a dead Nazi to lift his insignia, or a medal, or a dagger. He thought about sun tea and blue stars. There was so much turkey-shit in his life it was oozing out his ears.

Paul wanted to believe there was a sense of propriety within people even though the war had taught him otherwise. Violent energy rippled through him. He tried to keep his focus, clear his mind. Be prudent and cautious. He slowly unclenched his fist then wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. His hands trembled. “Why don’t you go on home, Mr. Everett. There’s nothing for you to see here.” 

“Here, here, Paul, I couldn’t agree more,” Fred said. He wrapped an arm around Everett’s shoulders and swiftly turned the man away from Paul and toward his own house. “Come on, you, you, honorable Mr. Everett, let’s get you back home. There is nothing to see here. No girls to spare.” Fred began guiding Everett home. The turkey farmer tried to throw Fred off but to no avail. Fred leaned in close to Everett’s ear and whispered something. Everett gave up his struggle so that Fred dropped his arm and stopped as the man continued walking toward home. “Nice meeting you!” Fred said in a loud and exaggerated manner, waving dramatically. 

Paul felt a little weak like he had just barely escaped something bad and the fact that it was Fred that engineered the escape made him feel emotional in a way he had not felt in a while. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat then hopped up into the truck bed. He had to get his family out of this shithole even if it killed him.

“We’ve got to get Edna and the girls out of this shithole, Brother Paul.”

Paul sighed. “My sentiments precisely, Brother Fred.”

* * *

Paul stopped by the empty lot every day after work, nervous until he got there, afraid he would see SOLD in red across the For Sale sign. He pulled up alongside the curb, turned off the engine, rolled down his window, and sat there, smoking. He was building his house in his imagination, computing without need for paper and pencil, what he needed in his lumber pack. He was going to build Edna a two-story Colonial, sleek and modern for his modern family. He wanted that lot more than anything he’d wanted in a very long time. 

He was very good at playing poker. He could count cards and keep a straight poker face. But the biggest pot he’d ever won was thirty dollars at the Elks Club.

As the sun set over the lot, he started up his car and turned on the radio. The announcer was enticing people to come to the Hazel Park Raceway for thrilling horse racing. He could win a load of dough the announcer told him, and Paul thought about this. He had cashed his paycheck and had the entire five hundred some dollars in his pocket.  

When he got to the racetrack, his heart beat hard and fast. He couldn’t believe he was doing this: it was so reckless. It seemed to take forever to cross the parking lot and walk through the gates. What if he lost his entire paycheck? The crowd was thick and he weaved through the mass, headed down to the track, walking close enough to watch the horses pass before the grandstand for observation. He had no idea if a horse looked like a fast horse or not. Every time he tried to talk himself out of betting his pay, he imagined Edna’s face when he told her he’d purchased the lot. He followed the signs to the bookmakers and stood in line, keeping his right hand on his wad of cash in his pocket. Should he bet it all on one race? No, he was a measured, cautious, smart card player.  

There were only four more races that evening and if he wanted to win enough money to buy the lot the odds had to be high enough. He studied the horse racing tip sheet then decided to bet by the numbers, plain and simple. He didn’t care what the horse's name was or who the jockey was. He didn’t need crazy high odds, he just needed high enough odds to go home with five-thousand dollars.

At the window, the bookmaker wanted to know if he was betting to win or to show? 

He hedged his bet, betting each way on the horse, then placed his ticket into his shirt pocket, patting the pocket down as if the ticket might leap out and get lost in the dust and dirt on the floor.

He sat down and watched the race. His horse did not even place so he went back to the bookmaker, tip sheet in hand. He bet each way on a horse, then placed his ticket into his shirt pocket, patting it down. He went back to the same chair and he watched his horse lose again. He briefly thought he should get some food on his stomach but worried he might throw it up. 

He sat there and considered going home with the $250.00 he had left, then trying to make up for some of it at a poker game. That would be easy but facing Edna with half of a paycheck would not so he went back to the bookkeeper and placed a straight bet this time, then placed his ticket into his shirt pocket, patting down the pocket. Back at his chair, he watched his horse lose.  

Now he had to win. As he stood in line for the bookmaker, he decided to throw his numbers game to the wind and he read over the tip sheet for this last race of the evening. Lucky Hit was a longshot and the odds were very high. Paul needed a lucky hit to his life, so he placed an across the board wager on Lucky Hit. It was exhilarating to take such chances, to make a decision on pure speculation, to be somewhat like his old self. Then he patted down his pocket and went back to his chair.  

* * *

Paul burst through the screen door and announced loudly to Edna they were going to Ray’s for an ice cream and his giggling girls rushed outside the run-down shack to climb into the back of the Roadking. Right now, Paul? “Yes,” he said, “right now!” It will spoil their dinner. “Come on, Edna. You don’t want to miss this.” Edna wanted to clean up, brush her hair, put on lipstick but he wouldn’t let her, walking behind her, gently guiding her by the shoulders out the door and his happy urgency made her laugh and go along with him.

“What is going on, Paul? This is not the way to Ray’s,” Edna said.

Paul just smiled at her. “Girls, girls, would you like to see something very special? Then we can get ice cream.”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Daddy, yes. And they leaned over the front seat, slapping their soft little hands on the upholstery.

Paul wished his future would be better by devoting himself to Walker & Sons. But he knew Fred was right and his interview at the construction firm had been a success. He felt like he was going to explode with all the good news he had for Edna. 

When they got to the lot, he hurried out of the car, his girls doing the same then running around laughing and playing, and he opened the door for Edna, reaching his hand out to her. 

“It’s sold, Paul, it’s sold,” she kept saying, so very disappointed. 

And he couldn’t speak because the happiness inside him made his throat ache and his eyes wet and he pulled her to the center of the lot.

“Welcome home, Edna,” he whispered finally. 

“Oh, Paul, you don’t mean it,” she said and all he could do was smile.

When Paul was an old man (sitting inside the house he built with his own hands) this, this story about the racetrack and Lucky Hit, and winning five thousand dollars, would be the story he told his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren about the war. He had figured out, after everything that had gone on in France and Germany, how to go on with his life. 

A new life, a reimagined life, carved out of the sorrow, the unfairness, but built with love and through love, and with one big lucky break.

About the author

Jennifer Porter is a graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars and her novella, short stories, and creative nonfiction have been published in numerous journals and anthologies. “Blue Stars” was inspired by her grandfather’s life, and the family history stories her Nana and Papa told during afternoon tea at the little kitchen table in the house that Papa built with his own hands. Jennifer lives in Perry, Michigan and is at work on additional stories about her ancestors, rooted in her love of genealogy and history. https://butterflymilkweed.wordpress.com/.  

About the illustration

The illustration is an ad for Bendix Washers that appeared in the November, 1950 edition of McCall's magazine. In the public domain.