The Letter. Elizabeth Blackwell
do you think of those Fentonville girls, Henry?” Melanie asked one morning toward the beginning of their freshman year. She flashed Lydia a meaningful glance.
“I dunno,” he said.
“Some of them act like big-city girls, don’t you think?”
Henry shrugged. “Maybe.”
Melanie shook her head, annoyed. She told Lydia later, “Doesn’t Henry look like a big scarecrow?” A growth spurt had left Henry awkwardly tall and skinny; he walked as if he was still learning to work his new arms and legs.
“Did you see him this morning, with his hair all pointed up?” Melanie giggled. “It’s just like straw!”
To the girls at Fentonville, his lanky body, uneasy posture and obviously handed-down, too-short trousers marked him as a poor prospect. Melanie had stopped teasing Lydia about him. High school offered all sorts of new potential beaus—Henry Armstrong was old news.
“He’s not that bad,” protested Lydia. But when he wore overalls to school—which he did far too often—he did look like a country bumpkin. Exactly the sort of person the ladies at Lake Geneva would disapprove of.
Without ever discussing it, Lydia and Henry kept their interaction at school to a minimum. But somehow they found moments to talk away from school, Sunday afternoons when they’d stroll along the wide road out of town, searching for a perfect vista for Lydia to sketch. They talked about books, about his brother’s letters from overseas, about Chicago, which Henry had never visited. There were no nervous attempts to grab Lydia’s hand or stuttering declarations of feelings. They were simply friends. And Lydia never felt she needed anything more.
By their sophomore year, Lydia and Henry had expanded their friendship to help navigate the perils of high school. He asked her to the homecoming dance, saving her from the embarrassment of not being asked by anyone else. They began doing homework together at her house. Lydia’s father would sometimes give Henry a ride home in his car, one of the few in town that received ample gas rations.
They might have continued that way for years, neither of them breaking the rhythm of companionship. But the war shattered their comfortable routine.
It was the spring of 1944. Henry didn’t board the bus one morning, and he wasn’t in math class at the start of the day. Mr. Andrews called roll and noticed that Henry was absent.
“Has anyone seen Henry Armstrong?” he asked.
“He wasn’t on the bus,” Melanie offered.
“That’s an unexcused absence,” Mr. Andrews said, marking it down in his book.
Even one unexcused absence was unusual for someone as conscientious as Henry, and when he wasn’t at school the next day, Lydia began to worry. She wondered whether she’d be brave enough to telephone his house later. She’d only met his parents once, when they came to the school’s annual concert. They were even more soft-spoken than Henry, nodding silently when Henry introduced them. Lydia wondered if they’d remember who she was.
“Um, Mr. Andrews?” George Foster, known as one of the loudest boys in the school, raised his hand.
“Yes, George?”
“My mother heard something about the Armstrongs. I don’t know if I…” George seemed unsure, a rarity for him.
“Please come up,” said Mr. Andrews. George whispered in his ear. Lydia, from the front row, heard the name of Reverend McDeal, the minister at Knox Junction’s only church.
Mr. Andrews was quiet for a moment, gazing down at the floor. “Thank you, George,” he said finally. “Take your seat.”
Lydia waited for an announcement, but Mr. Andrews continued with roll call and then began reviewing the previous night’s homework. Lydia felt her stomach tense with worry. If Reverend McDeal had been called, someone in the house must be very sick. Was it Henry’s mother or father? Could it be Henry himself?
By lunchtime, Lydia couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. She lingered beside the table where George and his fellow baseball team members sat, drumming up the courage to speak.
“What are you doing here?” asked one of the older boys, a junior or senior.
“I, uh…George?” Lydia’s voice was trembling. “Do you have a minute?”
George was obviously shocked at being approached by his class’s designated bookworm. He grinned at the other boys as he stood up, enjoying his moment in the spotlight. Lydia motioned him to follow, and she led him to a far corner of the lunchroom, where they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Today, in Mr. Andrews’s class, you said something about the Armstrongs.”
George’s self-satisfied expression gave way to wariness.
“Yeah.”
“Is something wrong with Henry?”
George looked at her, his face uncharacteristically blank.
“Please,” Lydia begged.
“Well, I guess everyone’s going to hear about it anyway. It’s not Henry, it’s his brother. Killed in action.”
A heavy chill settled over Lydia’s body, making her feel as if she were encased in ice. Timothy. Henry’s only sibling, the older brother he idolized. The person Henry’s father was training to take over the farm. His mother’s pride and joy.
Lydia moved through the rest of the day in a haze, sick whenever she thought of Henry and what he must be going through. She was desperate to talk to him, but terrified at the idea of reaching out. She couldn’t possibly call the house. What if his mother answered the phone, hysterical? What would she say? Stopping by for a visit was out of the question. Seeing the Armstrongs in person, devastated by the news, would be unbearable.
Shortly after returning home from school, Lydia told her mother she was going out to draw. She’d lose herself in something to take her mind away from what had happened. Spring in northern Illinois could shift from freezing to broiling within twenty-four hours, but that afternoon there was still a chill in the air. She tossed a scarf around her neck and pulled on her gloves, tucking her sketch pad under one arm and putting a small box of pastels in her pocket.
She set off down the main road out of town, which led past Henry’s farm. She wasn’t planning on going to the house, not exactly. But she needed to be closer to him, even if he didn’t see her or know she was there. If the connection between them was so strong that his grief affected her physically, maybe he’d sense her nearness and draw some small comfort from it.
The farmhouse where Henry lived lay at the end of a dirt track off the main road. Lydia stopped at the turnoff and looked toward the house. The only vehicle parked in front was Henry’s father’s truck. No visitors.
She was just trying to decide whether to turn back or keep walking, when she noticed a movement in some trees to her right. She clutched her sketch pad, struggling to come up with an excuse for why she might have chosen this particular spot to draw. Then she saw a glimpse of light hair through the branches. It was Henry.
Lydia’s fear about what to say instantly vanished. She dropped her paper and raced over the grass, calling his name. His body stiffened when he heard her voice. As she approached, and saw his face drawn with despair, his eyes rimmed with red, she knew that words wouldn’t be enough. She flung herself against him and hugged tight, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
His thin frame felt surprisingly solid to her—what little substance he had was all wiry muscle and bone. One hand rested gently on her shoulder, the other tentatively patted her back.
“You heard,” he said quietly, the words muffled by their embrace.
“Yes,” Lydia said. “All day, I’ve been so worried. I can’t imagine what it’s been like.”
She felt him shudder as he tried to speak. She kept her