EPILOGUE: No One Left To Pretend
My mother began singing again. It took three months before it returned, and at first the change was small: a little humming over the dishes, then a song murmured under her breath while she folded laundry. The voice that had once filled the house did not return all at once.
One June morning, she came downstairs at seven, though seven was no longer a rule anyone had to obey. She put on a record my father had loved and began making pancakes, belting out an entire verse into the empty kitchen. I stood against the doorway in a T-shirt and sweatpants and listened without stopping her.
“You’re staring,” she said, never turning around. “You sound good.” “I sound terrible. But I’m happy.” She flipped a pancake with a flourish. The old mugs were back where they belonged in the cabinet, and she had hung a new curtain above the sink. The cap beside the back door had disappeared. So had the lock on the drawer in the den.
“I should have asked more questions,” she said. “About him. About what he wanted.” “You were lonely, Mom. That’s not a crime.” “Neither is learning.” She placed a plate in front of me. “I’m going to learn.”
That spring she joined a book club, and by fall she was singing in a church choir. Eventually she began dating again, cautiously and at her own pace. The man was a retired schoolteacher named Harold, whose puns were terrible and whose way of listening was nothing like Wendell’s.
At their first dinner, she told him the whole story. He heard her out without interrupting. When she finished, all he said was, “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m glad you’re safe.” There was no performance in it, no attempt to turn her experience into a story about himself.
When Mom introduced us, Harold shook my hand and addressed me as “Major” without trying to make anything of it. “Just Josie,” I said. “Just Josie,” he agreed, and then he winked at my mother.
In October, I was promoted to lieutenant colonel. The ceremony was held at Fort Moore on a clear, bright morning. A light breeze moved across the grounds, and the flag snapped against a blue sky.
My mother occupied a seat in the front row, dressed in her best navy dress, her program held in both hands. Master Sergeant Banks, retired from active duty, sat beside her. So did Staff Sergeant Okafor, who had paid his own way to fly in from Fort Eisenhower. He wore his dress blues, and his ribbons gleamed.
Colonel Rhodes presided over the ceremony. As he pinned the silver oak leaves to my shoulders, he leaned close enough to speak quietly. “I owe you an apology, Colonel.” “For what, sir?” “For standing in that living room and laughing at Pruitt’s jokes.”
“You didn’t know.” “I should have asked more questions.” He moved back and saluted me. “It won’t happen again.” I returned his salute, precise and crisp. For an instant, it felt as though the whole parade ground had gone still around us.
Later, after most of the crowd had dispersed, my mother found me near the reviewing stand. Tears were running down her face, and this time she made no attempt to hide them. “Your father would have been so proud,” she said. “I know.”
“He used to tell me you’d be a general someday.” “I’m a long way from that.” “You’re a long way from Wendell Pruitt, too.” She reached up and touched the oak leaf on my shoulder with one gentle finger. “That’s all I ever wanted for you. To be somebody who doesn’t need to pretend.”
I put my arm around her. In my mind I saw that Saturday morning again: Wendell holding his coffee cup, the pride in his voice when he told me to remain in the kitchen. I thought of how a man could assemble an entire life from a hat and a story, how readily people might believe him, and the price they paid when they did.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go get lunch.” “Where?” “Wherever you want.” She smiled, even through the tears. “Pancakes?” I laughed. “Pancakes,” I agreed.
We crossed the parade ground together under the thin October sunlight, a lieutenant colonel in her dress uniform and a woman in a navy dress, walking arm in arm. There was no one left to tell either of us to stay in the kitchen.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-life themes. Names, characters, places and events are fictionalized, and any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Images are for illustration purposes only.
