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Show 11-5 couch and Grandmother was crying. The golden man sat across the room from them, his uniform cap in his lap, and he was talking, in a low voice, what my father called a church tone. I knew then that this stranger had something to do with Uncle Paul. I wondered why Grandmother was crying, what news this man could have brought that was worse than the news in the telegram that said Paul was dead. That telegram held all the pain that my grandmother could carry. "Annie, come meet Lieutenant Frederick MeFarland. He was a friend to Paul." And I went forward to meet the man who had watched Paul die in glory and had come to ease my grandparent's sorrow. He never came back, even though Grandmother asked him to keep in touch. He had not been happy there that day and I knew why. Surrounded by pictures of his lost friend and he himself so well and whole. And Grandmother crying the whole time and Grandfather staring at him as if he were angry. Frederick MeFarland drank the hot tea and ate three slices of Grandmother's Christmas cake and was gone. But he had talked about the place and the time when Paul died, in the forest, what Andrew said was Belleau Wood. Belleau Wood? What an odd name. I turned and looked back at where Andrew sat, an elbow on the table, turned to look out at the shadowy day. "Andrew," I called to him. He turned around and looked at me. "Andrew," and I ran back down the path to him. "How do you spell Belleau Wood?" I stood in front of him, breathing hard. "How do you spell the name of the trees, where Paul died?" "Not trees, wood. Belleau Wood. B-e-1-l-e-a-u. It's French. Someone told me it meant pretty water or something like that." "What a strange and lovely language." I sat down by Andrew. "My uncle died a hero in the woods by the pretty water." |