For
vespertila's
Halloween Chained Challenge -
Title: My Dreams are Getting Better All the Time
Wordcount: 922
Characters: Slade Wilson
Summary: For some, there is no greater fear than the past.
-
“Hello, Lovely Los Angelos! Two weeks from V.E. Day and our boys are coming home by the boatfuls! Here’s a request for Maddy, for her beau, Martin! Doris Day and Les Brown - My Dreams are Getting Better All the Time; and ain’t that the truth, folk!”
“Slade!” June Wilson called, “Can you turn the radio up, please?”
Slade reached over the table and cranked up the volume, then wolfed down his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and grabbed his dusty baseball cap. He was three steps from the door when his mother called out, “And where exactly do you think you’re getting to?”
“Ma!”The boy whined, wedging his hat messily over his short hair. “Jimmy’s gonna fill my spot if I don’t show up soon!”
She raised a pretty red eyebrow and crossed her arms. “I thought we talked about this. No baseball until you weed the flower boxes.”
Her son huffed and dejectedly slipped his cap back off, making a production of slapping it on the table. June fought back a smile when Slade glanced over his shoulder to see how she reacted. Then, he stomped off up the stairs to sulk. She shook her head and turned back to the dishes, smiling.
“Oh, maybe tonight I’ll hold him tight when the moonbeam shines. My dreams are getting better all the time.”
Maybe tonight, she thought warmly. Maybe Ernest would walk through that door that very evening, safe and strong and altogether perfect. Slade would be thrilled; he’d missed his father. His walls were covered in newspaper clippings and reports from the front. June never told him his father was just a supply officer; it made her feel better knowing he wasn’t getting shot at every day, but it was important for little boys to have heroes. Besides, when Ernest got back, he’d have plenty of stories to make it all better.
She hummed, watching jaybirds flit around the yard. With the war ending, she was able to buy birdseed again. Not that there had ever been a rationing of birdseed, but money had been too precious to spend on hobbies. A knock came from the front door and June jumped, “Coming! Just a moment!”
Ernest! Oh, lord, it had to be! No, no. She was getting ahead of herself. It was probably just the mailman come early. Norman always liked finishing fast on Fridays. June wiped her hands off and stopped in front of the mirror, checking her hair.
Just in case.
She opened the door and smiled before freezing. It was a man in uniform, but it wasn’t Ernest. Maybe he was still coming, she thought, peering around the man. Finally, she forced a smile again and nodded, “Yes, how can I help you?”
“Mrs. Ernest Wilson?” the officer asked gravely, making her stomach clench. She’d heard about visits like this, but… it was impossible. The fighting was over!
Her voice shook, “Y-yes. I’m June. What’s this about? Where’s my husband?”
“I think we’d better take this inside, ma’am.”
“No!” June snapped, “No, you don’t need to come inside! Anything you have to say can be said right here, because you’re telling me Ernie is gonna be back soon! You’re gonna tell me he’s just been delayed and - His points! You’re gonna tell me he doesn’t have enough, yet! Mrs. Mitchell’s son has the same problem! That’s what you’re gonna say!”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but we really should take this inside.”The solider insisted.
June began to cry hysterically, pounding the doorframe as she screamed, “No, we don’t! Ernie is coming home! He sent me a letter and everything!”
“If I may come inside, ma’am-”
“HE’S COMING HOME!” She shrieked, launching herself at the messenger. Heavy steps rained down the stairs and suddenly her son was between her and the man, pushing her back inside. She didn’t care, the man was lying. Slade would tell him he was lying. He was a smart boy, her Slade, just like his father.
-
He watched his mother crying against the stairs and turned back to the soldier.
“He’s dead,” Slade stated flatly.
“May I come inside?” The man asked, again.
Slade shook his head, “No, just gimme the letter.” He stuck out his hand. Joey’s father had died in Holland; Slade knew how this went. The man was hesitant, but after glancing back at his mother, he handed the letter to Slade and left.
The envelope was thin and cheap and he slipped it in his pocket before shutting the front door. His mother was still crying, and he didn’t know how to handle that. He’d heard her cry at night, before, and sometimes in the kitchen, but she always stopped when he came in. She wasn’t stopping anymore. He decided to sit on the stairs next to her and read the letter.
So he did. He read the letter and the careful wording explaining a ‘domestic issue’ and the single gunshot. One pop of smoke and his father was gone, leaving nothing but a letter. Slade was young, but even at ten he could understand what the letter wasn’t saying. There were only so many ‘domestic issues’ that involved a farmer shooting a soldier in France and his mother didn’t need to think about that.
Walking softly so she wouldn’t notice, Slade crept into the kitchen and turned on the stove. The gas flared to life and the flames ate the letter in seconds. One puff of smoke and his father was gone, all over again.
Slade turned off the radio.