Medal of Honor: COME AND GO

Shirley must have been born on a sugar plantation or in a Mars Bar factory. She was so sweet, children  collected around her like bees to tulips. The last time I counted she had 17 nephews, 10 nieces who filled much of her life and she loved it. When mothers couldn’t make it to  PTA meetings, they called and Shirley went for them. If teenager Babs wanted a new party dress and her mom was playing Bridge, Shirley was the proxy mom. Being baby sitter, shopper, public swimming pool lesson giver made Shirley tick.

 

Surely her friends and relatives had twinges of guilt but what the hell, they continued ‘using’ Shirley. In fact, Shirley herself needed help to face each day. Her parents worked shifts building Liberty ships at Bethlehem Steel and had to ask others to take care of their war child orphan. That was the time when the need to help others must have set the path for her life.

 

When the war ended, Shirley was close to 18, maybe 19. Peace was wonderful. Service men and women were packed on ships of all kinds just to bring them home as fast as possible with their discharge papers all in order. At every landing in Baltimore Miss Nightingale could be seen, smiling, waving, hugging the boys as soon as their feet touched our good earth.

 

One day while we sat together on a park bench, she reminisced and told me how her chest used to swell with pride and love for the survivors. One wounded soldier, his left leg gone, his arms strong,  managed to reach her, put his crutches on the ground, leaned on her to keep his balance, then kissed her smacko on her pink lips. She told me she didn’t know why but she had kissed him back and felt a little electric shock run down her arm. He reached for his crutches and walked away forever. When she finished that short story, her face had lost its softness. It was as if her greatest hope had wrapped itself in old newspapers and was tossed in a dumpster. After a few pensive moments, a loosened tear rolled  down her cheek, ended in the cleft of her breasts. I sat beside her, totally overcome, speechless. Little shivers shook her shoulders.

 

Her hand reached over to touch mine. It was there for her in all its  its cold metallic ugliness. My insides were warm, almost ready to melt. Was she remembering the legless soldier? Maybe. I wasn’t sure until I
looked into her eyes again where little sunlit diamonds sparkled. Three
busy squirrels, their jaws stuffed with acorns for the coming winter ran past us. We got up and followed them until they disappeared in the high branches of an ancient maple tree.

 

As Shirley strained her neck looking up she began to cough. The coughs made her heave up blood. It dotted her pale blue blouse. ‘It’s only a tickle or an allergy. Don’t worry. I’ve done this before,’ she told me. The coughing slowed and she repeated, ‘Don’t worry. I’m okay.’ Hah! My worries had just begun. I went with her to her internist who sent her to an oncologist. On the second visit we learned that Shirley had advanced lung cancer. That was bad but the rest of the prognosis was worse. Neither surgery nor chemo  was advised. Bravely she opted to try both. The doctors were right. It took Shirley six months of drugged living to die.

 

Almost one hundred cars followed her hearse to its final destination. Grown up children and their children, too, were there. Flowers were so numerous they spilled over on the new grave next to hers. There was no fake green grass over the mound. No stone had been put up yet. Only a small marker gave the name of the deceased. ‘Joe Kline-Samaritan.’

 

Shirley could rest peacefully in good company forever.