In an effort to help MLA achieve 1300 stories, I offer the following short one-shot. 'Homecoming' is a counter to the bleak nature of 'A Cold Day in Hell', and is seen through the eyes of a character I've only referenced in my stories - Mick's father.Please, enjoy
As always, I do not own any of the characters, only play with them from time to time. No copyright infringement is intended.
Homecoming
The St. John Home -Los Angeles, Spring, 1945
Lowering Saturday’s newspaper to his lap, Michael St. John sighed heavily, then checked the time.
1:45 pm. God love you woman, but I could set my watch by you. Mind, not that I blame you, but all this worry won’t do Mick any good or you either.
Soon after their only son had shipped out to fight in the European theater, Peg, his wife of 25 years, would find some excuse to be near the parlor window, awaiting the afternoon post. At first, she’d be dusting something that didn’t need it or fussing about with some knick-knack or another if her husband was about. Now, there was no longer any pretense about her actions.
Nearly a year now, you’ve kept your vigil. For all our sakes, I hope you won’t have to wait much longer.
Just then, Peg spotted the postman walking up the street. Hurrying to the front door, she opened it, hoping that this day, there would be news of their son. While Michael could handle nearly everything the world had thrown at him in his 45 years, dealing with his wife’s anxiety over Mick’s safety wasn’t one of them. He had trouble enough dealing with his own.
“Margaret Mary St. John, for the love of God, you’re going to frighten the poor man away, you are.”
His wife’s hazel eyes flashed momentarily at the admonishment, then softened, recognizing his own concern. Ah, every time he looked into her eyes, how could he help but think of their son? Mick had inherited them from his mother, not to mention those lovely lashes. Yet Michael knew his wife wasn’t the only mother lying in wait, anxious for that tattered letter, the paper hope they’d one day see their children home again. Even if the missive was shortened by the censor, hearing anything from their soldier sons brought a bit of relief in what had become an anxious, day-to-day existence.
“What would you have me do, Michael? Every day that goes by without hearing from him …” Peg fluttered her hands, loathe to voice her worst fears. “It was bad enough before… before the Fordham’s got their news. We’ve heard nothing from him in nearly a month, and I can’t help but worry.”
Michael rose from his chair, and approaching his wife, embraced her tenderly. “I know, Peg, I know. We should be grateful for the lad only being wounded as he was. Maybe soon, this madness will end and he’ll be back where he belongs. Then, I swear I’ll not stop you from spoiling him to your heart’s content.”
That promise brought a smile to his wife’s face, just as he hoped it would. Peg was a saint among women, and he’d blessed the day she accepted his marriage proposal. Where he was stern and hard, she was loving and soft. When he felt awkward, she eased his way. When frightened, it was up to him to calm her fears, to protect her and their children from harm. For the first time in their married life, though, Michael St. John felt utterly helpless to do so.
The elder St. John had a good idea of what his son was facing and he prayed to God this gentle woman in his arms never would. Twenty-seven years earlier, he’d been fortunate to have survived the first time the world had teetered on the brink of self-annihilation. Michael was a few years younger than his son was now when he found himself on foreign soil, gun in hand, scared shitless. Before the horrors of war had forged him into the man he was today, Michael had been a bit of a free spirit, living for the moment and never really thinking about the future, just as Mick was today. Thankfully, his time on the battlefield was brief, as armistice was declared a scant two months after his arrival. Yet his wartime experiences left an indelible mark on him, one he’d carry to the grave.
At war’s end, Michael had come home to his own worried parents, Irish immigrants who’d found a warmer, if not better life in southern California. After a year of courting, he married Peg and the births of his son and daughter followed in rapid succession. After Colleen’s difficult birth, his wife wasn’t able to carry any more children to term and her sorrow was heartbreaking when yet another little one was lost. After three miscarriages, they’d both decided that it was best to concentrate on the children God had seen fit to grant them and stop trying for more.
Perhaps that’s why if left to her devices, Peg would have spoiled both children rotten, their son in particular. Mind you, she’d done her best to instill a proper sense of right and wrong in them, but Mick had inherited his father’s irresistible boyish charm and used it to finagle his mother whenever possible. Worse, the boy was never on time for anything, including meals, which upset his father no end. While Peg would try to scold Mick, all he needed was to look at her mournfully and say he was sorry. Michael, however, was wise to his son’s ways and would often step in to discipline the boy whenever his wife couldn’t bring herself to do so. As he grew into manhood, Mick used that same charm to his advantage; those soulful hazel eyes framed by those ungodly long lashes had likely gained his son the favors of more young ladies than his father cared to think about.
Like father, like son. I know you’re a good lad, Mick. I just hope to God you live long enough to find a someone like your mother to settle down with. Believe me, the love of a good woman is what makes a man whole.
With their son gone nearly a year now, Michael felt an ache the likes of which he’d never known. Mick might have needed some maturing, but sending him off to war wasn’t what his father had had in mind. If only his son could see his way clear to stop fiddling about with his music, if that’s what you could call it. Noise was more like it. He’d be far better off doing what the Fordham boy had done; find a decent job and settle down with a good woman.
For as long as Michael could remember, Mick, Ray and Lila had been as thick as thieves. Maybe it was wishful thinking on Michael’s part, but it seemed that there was something more than friendship developing between Mick and Lila. In the end, however, she’d married Ray, leaving Mick somewhat adrift. Maybe now that Ray was gone, Mick and Lila might find a life together, after a suitable time of mourning, of course. Lila was too young and pretty to spend the rest of her days in widow’s weeds, alone. Perhaps in a year or so, she’d be over her grief and look to Mick for a future.
When the postman came and went with still no word from their son, Michael could feel his wife’s disappointment. Had it really been a month since they’d heard from the lad? At the time, Mick was still in a field hospital recovering from his wounds. Surely, he hadn’t taken a turn for the worse? No, the elder St. John couldn’t let his thoughts stray down that path. If he could do nothing else, he would stay strong and positive for his wife. He had to, in the event they found the dreaded Western Union man on their doorstep.
Dinner that night was a subdued affair, and were it not for Colleen’s attempts to raise her parents’ spirits, the meal might have passed in total silence. Now, with the women clearing the dishes, Michael left the kitchen and headed for the parlor, hoping to catch some news of the war on the radio. Before he could tune in the desired station, the sounds of his wife’s screams and dishes shattering brought him running back to the kitchen.
Fearing the worst as he entered the kitchen, Michael St. John instead found the opposite. His wife and daughter were enveloped in the arms of khaki-clad soldier whose face was buried in his mother’s hair. His wife was sobbing uncontrollably, while his daughter could only smile in her joy. For the first time in his life, the older man found himself at a loss for words.
Finally, Mick released the women and took a few stiff steps toward his father. Michael glanced at his son’s wounded leg, then looked into his eyes, seeing him for the man he now was. So much was reflected in those soulful eyes; gratitude for being alive, relief at being home, sorrow at losing his life-long friend Ray. His son had questions, so many questions that needed answers, ones his father hopefully in time could give. Yet there was something else it seemed his son was waiting for, something that stunned Michael when he finally understood.
You’re looking for my approval? My God, boy, whatever it was you had to do over there, I’ll never judge. As long as you’ve come home to us alive, that’s all I care about.
Answers could wait. The head of the St. John household would do nothing to upset his family’s happiness this night. Michael knew his son would need time to sort things out as he adjusted to civilian life again, and he knew just how to get that adjustment started. Extending his hand in greeting, Michael felt incredible relief and joy as he clasped Mick’s callused hand in his.
“You’re late for dinner.”
At his wife’s horrified gasp, Michael pulled his son into his arms, his own tears of joy threatening to spill. “I think we can let it slide, this time. Welcome home, son, welcome home.”
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ETA to delete an unnecessary word and rearrange one sentence.
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The counter to this piece "A Cold Day in Hell" was just so bleak for Mick and the other soldiers that I felt there had to be a followup showing that for some, there was a warm homecoming. I wanted to show the quiet anxiety that those left behind (parents, children, spouses) experienced every day that their loved one was away. Here, Mick's father is the rock, trying to keep his wife's anxiety from driving her over the edge, all the while dealing with his own. Even though he never lets any one see his anxiety, it's there, and as time goes on, he starts to wonder if he'll ever see his son again.