A Collection of Short Stories

Victory Rolls

Victory Rolls

Copyright 2016

     He turned on his heel, stepping off the porch of my perfect Levitt town home. He couldn't have been more than 16. Perhaps all they taught those boys was how to not feel. I was left, stunned, in the doorway with only a brute coarse envelope and four words: I'm so sorry, Miss.

     The more I held that golden roughness in my hands, the more it felt like poison. I kicked off my small hands and dashed inside, closing myself off from the scrutiny of my neighbors and desperately trying to rid myself of the reality. The letter was thrown underneath a stack of papers in his office; no one would be in there for a long time.

     Staring at the desk, I began to resent and reject its oak form. I knew what was expected of me. I wouldn't be able to get and keep a job; I would be forced to remarry. Every touch, kiss, and sentiment would burn into ashes and my memories of the only man I loved would be charred. The idea made my stomach turn.

     People like to say that this war was inevitable, some grand battle for the sake of democracy and freedom. Even with the turmoil of the last thirty years- the fighting, the crash, the struggle- boys were still clamoring for their ticket to death row. They would refashion themselves to be only a few years older, only a few inches taller, only a little less sick just to be the next martyr. My husband- he was smarter than that. Unlike the sea of boys he had no real option. He was forced to let his typewriter collect dust and his blooming ideas to go flat.

     Sobbing uncontrollably is unladylike. Instead, just as my mother would've instructed me, any woman in this situation would habitually close the curtains and sit vigil at her dimly lit vanity, letting soft tears roll down her cheeks as she took down her victory rolls. The unwinding of a human being was a breathtaking sight. I never pictured my face to be the one in the mirror.

     The first night, I suspected, was going to be the hardest. Still, I knew I had to prepare for more. holding on to a plush, lifeless pillow I let the widow's grief wash over me. The bed had been empty for months; now, it had become a coffin, a void. There was no hope for a return anymore. Just a lifeless side of the bed.

     In the morning, I felt like a wobbling weak statue as I carried my own weight around. I didn't own hardly any black, my life having been too blissful in nature to only contain a closet adorned in the pastels of a gracious housewife. I skipped breakfast that day, still trying to find the proper way to react. Looking through old photo albums, I decided, was not one of those ways, but I couldn't forget.

     There was a knock at my door, the shadow of another soldier patiently waiting behind beyond the curtained windows of my living room. The last thing I wanted was another reminder, but I still had to turn him away. My hair was a tangled mess of pin curls and my skirt was grey and lifeless. I consciously decided against appearances because damn it, I was miserable. It was time someone else noticed. With a quiet sigh, I carried myself to the door.

     He was there. After the greatest scare of my life, he was standing in the doorway with his stupid smile and silly haircut. "You didn't meet me at the train station, did the letter not say the right time?" There was a pang of innocence in his voice; I wasn't sure if I should yell at him for making me feel so outside of myself. I instead chose to hug him, sobbing uncontrollably.

     He dropped his small brown leather suitcase and hugged me with his left arm- the other one gone. That was just fine with me, he wasn't any less of him. He was still there. I looked up to meet his kind eyes and said with all the love in the world: "I never opened the letter."