Margaret Is Alone
August 1980-something
The clock reads 2:51 p.m. Reaching over the stovetop, Margaret wraps her thin fingers around the farthest right dial and turns. After three loud clicks, flames pour up around a tarnished copper tea kettle just starting to show a bit of green.
While the water is heating up, the old woman ambles toward a large window concealed by thick, floral curtains. Gently swiping one to the side, she peers through the foggy glass. There is no one on the street. The clock reads 2:52 p.m.
February 10th, 1970, 3:00 p.m.
“Grandson!”
Margaret’s blue dress billowed coldly around her knees as she stepped gingerly through the snow-laden grass toward the white mail truck.
“Hello, Grandmother,” said the young man stepping out of the truck. He removed his cap, leaving a deep dent in his blond hair, and embraced her. “Why are you out in the snow? Let me help you inside.”
“I’ve been looking forward to your visit today, Grandson,” Margaret explained. She led the way to the porch, one hand gripping the young man’s outstretched forearm. “I have something to show you.”
Stepping over the threshold, the young man inhaled deeply. The warm smell of cinnamon apples emanated from the kitchen, and he walked straight there, past the fireplace glowing with soft, orange embers tucked under a mantle brimming with framed photographs of his long-departed grandfather, along with siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and long-time family friends. He stepped past the rocking chair where his grandmother held and nursed his father on lonely, sleepless nights; over the rug where their old dog used to lay and sleep in the sunbeams that gleamed through the window.
He heard the light clinks of teacups, the soft trickle of pouring water.
August 1980-something
Margaret grabs a small, cracked teacup from the cabinet over the stove. Outside, rain begins to fall. She contemplates whether she would like Earl Grey or Jasmine Green. Earl Grey goes better with the rain. With a tiny porcelain spoon, she mixes up a bit of milk and sugar in the bottom of the cup.
“Oh!”
A small, silver cat is purring, brushing up against the woman’s legs again and again.
“You almost tripped me!”
Balancing her teacup, Margaret bends down to scratch the cat lightly on the head. The kettle on the stove begins to whistle. It is 2:55 p.m.
February 10th, 1970, 3:01 p.m.
“What was it you had to show me?” the young man asked. Margaret stepped out of the kitchen, a steaming teacup in each hand. “I hope it’s those cinnamon apples.”
“Those won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes. I was hoping to entice you.” Margaret shot him a playful look.
“You know I only have ten, Grandmother. But you’re playing dirty.”
“Always so conscious of the time, you are. I have half a mind to take that watch back from you.”
They settled into the two chairs that flanked the fireplace, the same two chairs they sat in for exactly ten minutes every day but Sunday.
“Grandfather’s watch? Over my dead body.”
Through the man’s feet, two small, gray kittens spilled out from under the chair, rolling over one another and mewing ferociously.
“What’s this?” he asked, lifting his feet.
“These little guys lost their mother last night out in the creek bed, so I scooped them up and brought them back here.” She smiled, pleased with herself. “What do you think? Do you want one?”
“I assume this is what you wanted to show me?” he asked.
“Of course. Now do you want one, or am I keeping both?”
“They’re all yours, Grandmother.”
“Good. Now what mail do you have for me today?”
The young man reached into the leather pouch still hanging from his shoulder and pulled out a small stack of envelopes. “Nothing of importance,” he said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Margaret replied, reaching for the stack.
August 1980-something
Margaret pours the hot water into her cup and stirs. The floor creaks as she leans forward, shutting off the gas.
Minding the cat, she makes her way to the rocking chair by the fireplace and sits down. The cat jumps into her lap, and she strokes its back with one hand, sipping with the other. Outside, the rain falls in sheets, cascading off the yellow awning that gives shade to the front porch. 2:56 p.m.
February 10th, 1970, 3:05 p.m.
Margaret set her tea on the mantle and flipped through her mail. Across the hearth, the young man checked his watch as he removed his own stack of letters from the bag.
While Margaret skimmed through a letter from the NAACP thanking her for her generous donation and inviting her to their upcoming gala, she noticed her grandson slip an envelope under his thigh.
“What is that?” she asked him. He stiffened.
“Grandson, are you in some kind of trouble?” He didn’t respond.
“Now what is the matter? I insist you let me see that letter you’re hiding.” She held out her arm, palm open.
The young man hesitated. Keeping his head down, he pulled the piece of mail from under his leg and placed it in her hand.
Margaret opened the letter and read.
This letter is to inform you that you have been selected for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States under the provisions of the Selective Service Act of 1967.
You are hereby ordered to report for induction into military service at the following location and time:
Fort Benjamin Harrison Induction Center
6000 N Post Rd, Lawrence, IN 46216
3 March 1970
0800 hours
Failure to report for induction as ordered may result in legal consequences, including fines and imprisonment.
If you have any questions or concerns regarding your induction, please contact your local Selective Service Board immediately.
Thank you for your cooperation and service to our country.
Sincerely,
Gen. Lucas A. Bloomfield
Selective Service System
She read the letter twice, then gently refolded it and slipped it back into its envelope. The young man sat quietly, hands folded, eyes fixed on the kittens still playing at his feet.
“I thought your number wouldn’t be up for months.”
“Grandmother, I know this is hard.”
“I thought you had time.”
“I thought I did, too.”
August 1980-something
It is 2:58 pm. A white truck pulls up to the house, and a middle-aged man walks forward to drop the mail in the box by the door. Margaret cracks open the screen and leans her head out.
“You’re two minutes early, Jim.”
“Better early than late,” Jim retorts.
“I prefer right on time.”
Jim straightens up the envelopes so they are all right-side-up, then holds the stack out to Margaret, who is still hanging out of the doorway. Thunder claps, and a fresh torrent of rain sprays mist onto the porch chairs.
“Would you like to come in for a little while?” she asks. “This storm is picking up, and I have plenty of tea.”
“Thank you, Ma’am, but I gotta keep goin’,'' the man says, tipping his cap. “Rain or shine.”
She waves him on and shuts the door.
February 10th, 1970, 3:10 p.m.
Standing by the door, Margaret clung to her grandson, holding back the tears that threatened to stain his uniform. Behind her back, she could feel his arm shift, and she knew he was checking his watch.
“It’s 3:10,” he said softly. His grandmother released him.
“Will you be back tomorrow?” she asked, looking up at him with glistening eyes.
“I’ll be back tomorrow and every day until I report.”
“Maybe even Sunday?”
“Definitely Sunday.”
“I’ll make more cinnamon apples.”
With a blink and a sniff, Margaret’s tears fell, hitting the floor with little splashes. The young man embraced her one more time.
“You’ll see,” he said promisingly, holding her. “In a few months, Nixon will end this war, and I’ll be in your hair again, every day, three o’clock on the dot. We’ll open our mail and drink tea.”
Margaret smiled.
“You can count on it.”
August 1980-something
It is storming loudly now. Margaret opens her mail. An electric bill. A campaign promotion for Ronald Reagan. She sips her tea, cooled off enough now. The cat jumps into the empty chair beside her. There is no one on the street. The clock reads 3:01 pm.