Letters to Hank

Chapter Fourteen

Hazel sat on the couch with a blanket over her lap. The sun was setting, chicken noodle soup simmered over the stove, and James played happily on the floor with a bright red toy firetruck. She skimmed over the day's edition of the newspaper and landed on the crossword. Having nothing better to do, she grabbed a pen and began working her way through.

After several more minutes, Alfred sauntered through the front door, his car keys dangling off his finger. "I'm home," he announced in his thunderous, joyful voice.

"Hi." Hazel rose to greet him, the paper still in hand. Slowly, she curled her arms around his neck and kissed him gently. "Did you see Hank on your way home?"

Alfred pulled her closer, his returning kiss more fervent than hers. "No. But you know I come from the opposite direction."

"Hmm." Hazel stepped away and headed to the kitchen. "He's not home yet. He's always home at five o'clock sharp."

Alfred shrugged. "Maybe he stayed late today. Closing shift is never easy."

"He closes the place every day. He should have it mastered by now."

"More mail to sort through today?"

Hazel stirred the soup with a wooden spoon, the savory aroma of chicken broth filling the house like perfume. "Maybe. Let's eat without him tonight. James is hungry."

The toy firetruck rattled on the ground. "Snack!" the boy cried out, lifting both his hands over his head.

Alfred grinned and lifted the child. "Dinner, little man." He set James in his highchair and sat at the head of the table. "Smells delicious."

"It's Hank's favorite." Hazel ladled three bowls of the soup and carried them to the table one by one. "I just wish he was here to enjoy it."

"He can have the leftovers."

Hazel sat across from Alfred, her lips in a grim line. "We need to talk about this."

Alfred dipped his spoon in and quickly began eating. "There's nothing to talk about."

She wanted to strangle him, to steal the words right out of his throat. However, she clutched her spoon in her hand until her knuckles turned white. Her growling stomach quieted as she stared at her soup, a strand of steam rising to the ceiling.

"Alfred—"

"Don't argue this with me."

"But—"

"Hazel, be real. You're obsessed with being needed. So much so that you—"

"Me? Alfred Kroyer, I'm not the one that is needed. Hank is the one that needs someone, and I intend to be the one to be there for him." Her blood was boiling and her cheeks were hot. "His own wife took everything from him. Have you not even seen him lately? He's depressed. He's living a life he never asked to live."

Alfred stared at her, his skin ghostly pale. Hazel was never one to let her anger form words. Yet there she sat, her spoon choking in her fist.

"Alfred, please. Have compassion on him." She gentled and set the utensil carefully beside her dinner. "He's my brother. He can't make it on his own."

Her husband rose to his feet. Kneeling beside her, he clutched her hands in his. He glanced at James, then at the ring on his wife's finger. "I love you, Hazel. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Good."

Alfred said nothing more. He simply stood, kissed her on the forehead, and went to the bedroom. Hazel watched, her heart in her throat.

***

Later that night, Hazel sat on Hank's bed, the postcards in her hands. They still had pristine, sharp corners, clear and concise handwriting, crisp stamps above the address. Hank had left them perfectly on his nightstand as if he never touched them in the first place. Hazel held them to her chest, tears welling in her eyes. She lifted her head at a creak in the floor.

"You've gotta stop thinking I've run off on you," Hank said, a smile tugging at his lips. He leaned against the doorframe, his crutch stuffed beneath his arm. "Hazel Ruth, I'm not ever going to leave you."

Hazel, a sob erupting from her throat, darted to her feet. She dropped the cards where they once were and stumbled into his arms. "You've got to stop leaving for so long."

Hank laughed, nudging her away. "I'm a grown man, you know."

"And I'm a worrier."

He sat on his bed and leaned his crutch against the nightstand. He picked up a postcard and smiled. "I read 'em every night."

Tears welled again in Hazel's eyes. The most precious remnant of the war sat in front of her, and all she wanted to do was protect him. He was so perfect, so innocent, so loved. And he was hers and no one else's. She kissed his cheek. "I'm glad they mean so much to you."