The Wife Draft (Peterick)

Pittsburgh: The Repatriation

They said that homecomings were great events. You got to go back to the place you grew up after being away in uncharted territory.

Brendon's and my homecoming was apparently was apparently the talk of the city. My mother told me all about it on the phone a week before I went home. Apparently, it was a big deal that a former journalist and a photographer were returning from war torn Europe. Everyone wanted to see the pictures and read the stories.

I didn't feel as though I deserved a homecoming. I wasn't a hero. I wasn't in the war. I had no pride.

I was returning to Pittsburgh with nightmares and a secret.

Earlier, I was kissing Patrick and listening to his beautiful voice. And suddenly, I was landing in Pittsburgh with my stomach twisting in on itself. I didn't want to step off the plane, but soon, I was following Brendon out. It was windy, and I grabbed the brim of my hat as I walked down the stairs, suitcase in my other hand.

Of course, everyone was waiting for us to step off the plane and make our way through the airport. People cheered for us as we passed. Brendon was big on waving and saying hello. I ducked my head and stared at Brendon's shoes as we walked.

I was barely in the parking lot when my mother ran to me, fretting over how worried she was.

My mother was a very traditional woman. She never left the 1890s, and she always stayed home to cook and clean and take care of my young teenage brother. My brother tried to convince her to go out and find work during the war just to get her out of the house, but she refused. She was much too good for manual labor. She lived off of the money left after my father died. There was enough to keep her comfortable until her death, but she needed to get out of the house.

"Oh, Peter, you have absolutely no idea how worried I have been about you!" she exclaimed. Her speaking was so posh and proper. So fabricated.

She held me in a tight hug, nowhere near letting go. I just set my suitcase on the ground and hugged her back. She didn't do things like this. She had to make a scene for the audience. I heard a flash, and when I glanced over, a photographer for a rival paper had a camera in his hand.

I looked over to Brendon, who had Sarah in his arms. Brendon was six years younger than me, and he was holding his black haired, blue eyed wife. I only had my mother. That newspaper was going to make a joke out of my love life.

My mother tried to tell me about everything that happened since I left, but I stopped listening. I was the editor of the best newspaper south of New York. I didn't need her to tell me the news. And I wasn't going to give the rival photographer the time of day.

Brendon nodded a goodbye to me, and Sarah gave me a small wave.

"I took a cab here, so you must drive me back to Carnegie," she said. I cringed as she said the name like a New York City aristocrat. I felt as though she sometimes forgot that she was from Pittsburgh.

"Of course, Mother."

She held onto my elbow as we made our way to my Duesenberg. I walked to the passenger door with her and opened it for her. She smoothed her dress under her legs and sat down in the car.

"Thank you, Peter."

I put my suitcase in the trunk, and as I dug my keys out of my pocket, my fingers felt a small slip of paper. Confused, I pulled it out. I realized it was just a folded paper, but I didn't remember ever putting something in my pocket. I unfolded it, seeing the perfect handwriting on the hotel stationary.

J’aimerais mieux te connaître.

Patrick Stumph
725 Tomber Blvd
New Orleans, LA 70112

I read it over and over. I stared at it. I felt my heart beat faster and faster every time I looked at his name.

"Peter!"

I looked up, and my mother was sticking her head out the door.

"Peter, is something the matter?"

I shook my head and folded the paper back up. "No, Mother. Everything's jake."

"Language, Peter," she scolded. "Speak like an adult."

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered, stowing the paper back in my pocket and trading it for my keys.

I wished that I could tell her about what happened in France. I needed someone to talk to, but she would drop dead at the mention. Well. . . No. I was not going to give my mother a heart attack, no matter how vainglorious she was.

I got in the car and was quick to drive off. I wanted to get her home as soon as possible so I could go back to my apartment in the city and hit my head on every hard object in sight.

"Now that you are home, I believe it is time that we speak about your courting issue."

"What?" I asked.

"Do not give me attitude, Peter. I am speaking of the fact that you do not have a wife."

I did not know that she considered me being a bachelor as an issue. We never had thorough discussions regarding my love life because she was my mother.

"Why does it matter that I do not have a wife?" I questioned with a slight chuckle. "I am thirty-two, Mother. You could have brought this up years ago."

"I gave you the benefit of the doubt due to the Depression. I understood that it would be difficult to get married and start a family with the stock market the way it was."

"Mother, World War Two is happening," I scoffed. "The United States is in it. I could be drafted at any given moment."

I thought I had conjured up a decent excuse to remove the topic from conversation, but she laughed at me.

"Peter, the war has been going on since nineteen thirty-nine. Men are volunteering to go overseas. You will absolutely not be drafted. And with your status? Of course not. Preposterous."

I pursed my lips and felt my grip on the steering wheel involuntarily tighten.

"What are you trying to say?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"I will begin arranging dates for you so that you can find a suitable wife."

"But Mother, I---"

"Absolutely not. This is no longer up for discussion. What kind of message do you believe that this is sending to Elliot?"

I scoffed. "My brother is still a child." I shook my head and bit down on my bottom lip out of anger. "Elliot does not know what goes on in my life. I am twenty years older than him."

On second thought, maybe I should've told her about Patrick right on the spot. It really would've killed her.

"Peter, stop arguing and pay attention to the road. You are coming up on the Carnegie exit."

"Trust me, Mother. I would not miss the Carnaygie exit for the world."

We didn't talk for the rest of the ride. It was understood that she was going to get what she wanted.

I left the clothes from my suitcase with my mother. She insisted on doing my laundry the "correct way" for the first time since I left. I rolled my eyes and allowed for it to happen. It was one less thing that I had to worry about.

Patrick's address sat on my kitchen counter, and I laid across the couch on my stomach, face pressed into a pillow. My tie was choking me. The buttons on my shirt were constraining me. My belt squeezed my waist as hard as his fingertips.

Was it too soon to write him a letter? Should I even write him at all and dig myself deeper? Did his flight land okay? Did he get home safely?

Obviously, he wanted me to contact him since he had provided me with his address, but I couldn't help but to wonder if I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I tasted something I wasn't allowed to have. And now, I was paying the price for it.