Letters to Hank

Chapter Six

The plane hummed as it flew over the great lakes. Hazel glanced out the window at the clouds that swallowed the aircraft whole without hesitation. Yet she loved the low rumble of the engine, the dinging of the overhead buttons, the clicking and clacking of the beverage cart the attendants rolled up and down the aisles. She even loved the pressure in her ears—it was a sensation that only came on the way to a new destination or on the return trip home.

Salzburg had treated her kindly with parties and magnificent food. Hazel loved more than anything the cobblestone streets and the thick, German accents of natives. A small piece of her heart was left in the city, and she almost dreaded the thought of returning home. But Alfred would be there with James, and Hank would surely be patiently awaiting her return.

After days of travel, Hazel stood at her front door and unlocked it quietly. She dragged her black suitcase behind her, its wheels squeaking with each rotation. "Hello?" she called.

She listened closely for James' heavy steps and his airy giggles, though nothing echoes through the house. Hazel roamed the kitchen, the living room, the bedrooms, before falling still in the hallway, her mind spinning.

"They just went to the store," Hank said from around the corner. He placed all his weight on his crutches, the smile on his lips forced and stiff.

"Oh, Hank." Hazel wrapped his arm across her shoulders. She led him to the kitchen and sat him at the table. "Are you alright? Do you need a painkiller?"

Hank shook his head. "I'll be alright. Just phantom pains. I get 'em from time to time." He shifted in his seat as if trying to ease the pain in the leg that was no longer there. "How was the trip?"

Hazel sat across from him, her fingers knitted together. "It was lovely. There was so much to see and all the people were so kind."

As always, Hank listened to his sister with a content grin, his eyes hungry for everything she saw. He gnawed at his cheek as she spoke.

She smiled and leaned forward in her seat. "Like always—"

"—you wish I'd have come." Hank smirked. "I wish I could have, too. But my leg..."

Hazel sighed, her head falling into her hands. "I wish you'd never been drafted."

"Wish all you want, Hazel Ruth, but it won't bring my leg back." Hank fumbled to his foot, his crutches clattering beneath him. "I got your postcard. Thanks for thinking of me."

Hazel smiled softly as she watched Hank hobble out of the kitchen. Her brother was so dear to her—so much so that the ache for his happiness kept her awake at night. Yet there he was, broken, limbless, and wearing his fragile heart on his shoulder.

Hazel unpacked her bags in silence. In her mind, she replayed pieces of her childhood over and over again, wondering where the time went. Her other two siblings were her significant elders; five and seven years sat between her brother and sister. But Hank was a mere eleven months older. For all anyone cared, Hank and Hazel were as good as twins.

She recalled the summer nights of 1926 when they went to the movies, and all the evenings they got ice cream together. They were just kids at the measly age of sixteen, trying to figure out what their lives ahead of them held. She remembered the mornings they'd spend cleaning the kitchen and washing the windows for a nickel. Even after Hank got married to Genevieve in '34 and Hazel to Alfred in '36, they still maintained a close bond.