Letters to Hank

Chapter Twelve

Hazel was worried. Hank hardly ever came around with his new job at the post office. She caught glimpses of him before bed, hobbling down the hall, his hair tousled and greasy. She once hoped his job would bring him purpose, enlightenment, hope, but he came home every day exhausted, downcast, hopeless. Then Hazel would wake up, watch him leave, and carry on with her day, looking forward to his homecoming.

"Have a great day," she said, holding the door open for Hank. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep and her voice croaked like a frog's. "Stay safe. Call me if you need anything."

"I will." Hank hobbled out into the summer breeze and began his half-of-a-mile-long walk to the post office.

After closing the door behind him, Hazel headed to the kitchen. Alfred had already made breakfast and laid it out on the table. James happily sat in his highchair, his little mouth full of pancake. Maple syrup dripped from his dimpled chin and onto his knuckles.

"Good morning, James," she laughed. The little boy mumbled something through his oversized bite though no one could interpret.

"Good morning, Hazey," Alfred joined in. He flipped another pancake on the griddle and fetched an ivy-rimmed plate from the cabinet. He handed it out to her. "Eggs, pancakes, and fruit salad. Help yourself."

"Aren't you a little chef this morning." Hazel laughed as her stomach growled. She sat across from her son, her back to Alfred, and began filling her dish.

When nearly half her breakfast was down, Alfred set a glass of orange juice in front of her. "For you."

"Thank you." Hazel took a sip and pursed her lips. It was bitter and sour, not the sweet juice she used to buy. But for the past several weeks, Alfred was the one going to the store. Puzzled, she piped up. "Are you buying a different brand of orange juice? This is really bitter."

Alfred sat beside her, a stack of fresh pancakes rising on a plate of his own. "Is it bad? I've been getting some of the cheaper stuff here lately."

"No, it's not bad. Just not as sweet as what I used to buy."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time." Without another word, he shoveled in his pancakes, the tips of his ears becoming pink.

Once finished, Hazel took her plate to the sink. She worked her ring off and set it on the counter. Running warm water over the dirty dishes, she began scrubbing. "I'm worried about Hank," she said over her shoulder.

"How so?" Alfred replied.

Hazel froze. She was expecting his voice to fall flat, for him to close himself off. However, he spoke with an intent to listen.

"I'm worried that he's overworking himself. I hardly ever see him anymore. It's like he's just in and out of here."

Alfred shrugged. "I think it's good for him to be getting out of the house a little more. He needs more social interaction than just you and James."

"He comes home exhausted and tired. He's not who he used to be."

"He hasn't been who you remembered him to be since the war."

Hazel shut the water off and grabbed a towel. "No, this is different. He is different." She leaned her hip on the counter and slipped her ring back on.

"Just give him a couple of months. Maybe he'll come to like the job."

Hazel thought it over. She didn't like the idea of him being away so much, nor how tired he was, but she couldn't stop him from working. She put the plates away, followed by the griddle, and sat back down at the table. "Just a couple of months."