Wishing You Home By Eunice Boeve

Illustrated by Michelle Meade

This is an original serial story that is written and illustrated by two Kansas women. To learn more about them, go to their websites: www.euniceboeve.net and www.michellemeade.net

Chapter 13

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Missing In Action The story so far: The boys get even with Sonny’s little sister. Lou the mailman brings the neighbors a letter from their son fighting overseas.

When the week was over, Bobby’s mom came with Ruthie to take him home. She brought another letter from Dad and the news that Donald’s brother, Joe Jr., was missing in action.

“The telegram came this morning. I ran over for a few minutes. They are so worried, as well they might be.” Bobby saw something like a shadow cross his mother’s face as she turned to tell Lizzie that, she could take Ruthie out to see the newest batch of kittens in the shed back of the barn.

When his mom spoke again, Bobby felt a shiver crawl his spine. “The news coming out of those POW camps in the Pacific Islands is of torture and near starvation. If Joe Jr. is in one of those camps held by the Japanese, he may be in as much danger as on the battlefield.”

They talked some more about Joe Jr., a kind gentle man. “A boy really,” Bobby’s mom said. “Just 18.”

Then his mom turned to Bobby and a smile replaced the sadness in her face. “I imagine you’ll want to read Dad’s letter.” Her smiled broadened as she added, “and the joke at the end.”

Bobby unfolded the letter, but the sudden sting of tears blurred the

words. Gripping the letter, he stumbled outside. Grateful that no one had followed him, he sat on the back steps and cried. He knew his dad was safe, at least for now, but he missed him so much. And what if he got sent to fight the Japanese and never came home?

After a while his tears dried and Bobby read his dad’s letter and the joke at the end. Going back inside, he said to Sonny, “What is the worst part about hunting elephants?”

Sonny thought for a while and finally gave up.

Grinning, Bobby said, “Carrying

the decoys.” When it was time to say goodbye,

Ruthie had a yellow kitten to take home and Lizzie was happily hovering over her and the kitten in her arms. As he waved goodbye to Sonny, Bobby wished his cousin lived in town so they’d go to the same school, but Sonny had to attend the country school a mile and a half up the road from the farm.

As soon as they were back home,

Bobby ran across the street to see Tommy. “Don’t be long,” his mom said. “We have to go over to Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary’s, and you’ll want to see Donald.”

Actually, Bobby thought, I don’t want to see Donald or Uncle Joe or Aunt Mary. What do I say to them? When they talk about Joe Jr., how will I keep from thinking about Dad and worrying about him? For once he wished he were as young as Ruthie, who’d get to stay with Mrs. Stewart next door while they were gone on what his mom called a condolence call.

Mrs. Hill opened the door to Bobby’s knock, her house letting out a musty, moldy smell. She looked thin and somehow very old. “Tommy’s not here,” she said, unsmiling, her voice flat. “Tommy’s never here. He has his friends.”

“Do you know who they are?” Bobby asked.

“No.” she moved to close the door and then said, “One of them has his fingers gone.”

He wouldn’t have said anything to his mom about Mrs. Hill, but she asked, and her face drew tight with concern when he told her about Tommy hanging out with Nub.

“I went over there several times while you were at the farm,” his mother said. “I offered to help in any way I could, take the children home with me, clean house, cook their meals, but she refuses to accept my help, other than a dish of food, which usually Glen or Tommy took anyway. She resents me, I think, because your dad is still living and her children’s father is not.” She sighed and pushed a lock of her dark hair back off her forehead. “Her parents have passed, so I sent a telegram to her grandparents. They’ll be here near the end of the week.”

Donald was outside, sitting on the front step whittling on a piece of wood when they arrived at his house. Bobby sat down beside him. His mother greeted Donald and went on into the house.

“What are you making?” Bobby asked.

“A whistle.” Donald held up the piece of wood. “I’ve got another piece, if you want to make one. I’ll show you how.”

Bobby pulled out this pocketknife and as they whittled on the soft wood the whistles taking shape in their hands, Donald talked about his big brother. A nd although Bobby felt sad for his cousin, the tears that he so feared stayed locked inside him.

To be continued.