Doing My Part

spell out the base.”

  “Then he’ll have to write quite a few letters at first.”

  “Yes, well that may be the problem with our plan. I don’t think John is much of a letter writer.”

  “If he gets stationed in Britain, he’ll be fighting only the Nazis, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Japanese are only in the Pacific?”

  “Yes, but that’s a pretty big place. Here, I have an idea,” he says, pushing himself out of his chair. He crosses into the dining room and I follow. He opens the top drawer of the buffet and removes a battered map of the world and spreads it across the table. He points out the places where American forces are fighting.

  I study the map for a minute in silence. “Where do you think Hal will wind up?”

  “Hard to say. He could wind up in Britain, but more likely they’ll send him to the Pacific to fight the Japs.”

  “And where did Frederick die?”

  Grandpa’s finger hovers above the map for a moment, before he sets it slowly down. “Here, in the Coral Sea in the South Pacific.”

  “So far away.”

  “Yes.” We both stare at Grandpa’s finger and the far-off spot where it points on the map.

  “It’s such a big war. It’s hard to keep it all straight,” I sigh.

  “Maybe this will help.” Grandpa goes into the kitchen and comes back with a box of pins. He directs me around the corner to the hallway leading to the back bedroom. “Help me put this up,” he says, and begins pinning the map to the wall. “We’ll use these pins with the colored heads to keep track of our advances in the war in Europe and the Pacific. Then you can see where our troops are moving.”

  I shake my head, grinning. “Boy is Grandma gonna be mad when she sees these holes in the wall.”

  “You let me worry about that,” he says, and he does look a bit worried. “Speaking of your grandmother,” he says. “I want you to help me glue something. My arthritis is acting up today, and I just can’t get my fingers to work.”

  He pulls out a set of empty seed packets, and I help him glue them on to short stakes. These will serve as markers for everything Grandma grows in the garden, and they make each row look so festive. When we’re finished, Grandpa lays a hand on my head. “Why don’t you run out now and have some fun.”

  I consider trying to find Janie, but what if she’s with Maxine and still doesn’t want to talk to me? I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of Maxine. I could head down to the lake. I’m sure to find some kids my age down there, but Janie might be there too. The more I think about Janie, the more I feel sorry for myself. Grandma always says the best way to stop thinking about yourself is to start thinking about someone else. So that’s what I do. I think about Mrs. Osthoff and her garden. I don’t have Grandma Kate’s green thumb, but I’ve been paying more attention when I help in our own garden, trying to learn as much as I can. If I can keep Mrs. Osthoff’s garden alive, maybe one of these days she will take an interest in it again. Then I’ll know she’ll be all right.

  And then it hits me: the one thing missing from Mrs. Osthoff’s garden. Those tidy little markers that show where each thing grows. If I work on them this afternoon, I can set them up tonight. We’ve already used all of Grandma’s seed packets, but there are still some leftover stakes. I can write the names of each fruit or vegetable right on the stakes. I can use some black paint Grandpa has in the garage, so the letters won’t run in the rain. The markers won’t be as showy as Grandma’s seed packet ones, but they will give some order to the garden. And she can use them again next year. I’m sure she’ll like that.

  10 - The Photograph

  I’m humming when I sneak over to Mrs. Osthoff’s that evening, the little stakes sticking out of my shorts’ pockets. I push the stakes into the soft dirt and sit back on my heels to admire them, all lined up in a row. As I tip the watering can over the plants, I get that prickly feeling again, like someone is watching me. I look up into the window, and there’s a face behind the lace curtains. It scares me so badly, I drop the can. Mrs. Osthoff gestures me in.

  I glance back at my house, wondering if I should just run, but that’s silly, isn’t it? She’s my neighbor, not a ghost. I’m acting like a child. I pick up the watering can and cradle it in my arms, my heart beating hard in my chest. As I step into her dark kitchen, I see Mrs. Osthoff sitting at her table, a red ripe tomato in front of her.

  She’s wearing the same brown house dress she wore the last time I saw her, but her feet are bare and her hair is down, brushed smooth and shiny. She gestures to the seat opposite her, and I hesitate before setting the watering can down and pulling out the chair. We sit in silence for a moment. I’m looking at my hands, rubbing at the dirt on my fingertips, but I can feel her eyes on me.

  Finally, she clears her throat and I look up. She covers the tomato gently with her hand. “You do this?” she asks.

  “Yes. I thought you needed something to eat.”

  She smiles. “Is good.”

  “Thank you. There’s lots more coming. Tomatoes are easy to grow.”

  She nods, then raises her hand to tell me to wait and slides her chair back. She crosses the room to the light switch, her hand hesitating for a moment before she turns it on. The room comes to light, and it’s not as well-kept as I remember. There are dishes piled by the sink, although neatly, and empty milk bottles lined up on the counter. Cupboard doors stand open, as if she’d lacked the energy even to close them. And there is a smell of something spoiled coming from the pantry. Mrs. Osthoff holds up a glass. “Water?” she asks.

  “No, thank you,” I say, but she fills the glass anyway and sets it in front of me, slipping back into her chair, her hands folded. She watches me, and I take a sip to be polite. She begins to knead her hands, looking nervous. I realize she is waiting for me to speak next. It’s probably been years since she entertained anyone. I want to stay, since she asked me in, but she’s looking at me so intently I have to look away. I notice a table in the hallway just outside the kitchen that is covered with framed photographs, and I ask if I can take a look. She nods.

  “Who’s this?” I hold up a picture of a man with a square jaw and friendly eyes.

  She lays a hand across her heart.

  “Your husband?” I ask. “Otto?”

  She nods, and I point to the picture sitting next to it. It’s of a young man in a marine uniform. “Is this Frederick?” She comes to stand beside me, taking the picture gently into her hands and smiling that soft, sad smile.

  “I remember him,” I say. “He was very nice.”

  She sets the picture down carefully and picks up a family portrait. There are two parents and five children, dressed all in black, looking straight into the camera. “My family,” she says, naming each of them in turn. Then she takes my arm and guides me to a larger photograph hanging on the wall. It’s a picture of a farmhouse set amongst rolling hills. To the side of the house, a farmer holds the reins of two large horses. “My home,” she says. “Germany.”

  “It’s very pretty,” I say. “Is that your father?”

  She nods, then her eyebrows knit together, and she turns away. She stands there, staring off at the corner of the room, like she’s forgotten I’m there. I wait for a minute, then that prickly feeling returns and I feel like I need to leave. I take a step backward, but the movement brings her back from her thoughts. She stares at me for a moment, like she’s not sure who I am. Then her eyes clear, and she takes my arm again and leads me back into the kitchen. I sit back down and wrap my hands around my water glass. “Grandma says you were a good photographer. She says you were always taking pictures.”

  Mrs. Osthoff nods. Then she jumps up. She raises her hand quickly to tell me to wait and disappears into another room. I hear a drawer open and a shuffling sound, and I glance out the window toward my house. The windows are dark. No one knows I’m here.

  When she comes back, she’s holding another photograph, this one smaller, with a black
border around the edges. She sets it down on the table in front of me. “For you,” she says. I pick it up. There are two men in the photograph. One is standing, the other sitting. The one who’s sitting is holding a baby in his lap. I recognize the one with the friendly eyes.

  “This is Otto,” I say.

  She nods. Then she points to the baby and taps my chest. It takes me a minute to realize what she’s saying.

  “Is this me?” I ask, and she nods. She points to the man holding me and says, “Your Papa.”

  I feel my breath leave in a rush. I’ve seen portraits of my father before. They decorate my mother’s dresser. But I’ve never seen a picture of him with me, and I can’t take my eyes off his lean, handsome face. “I don’t remember him very well,” I explain. “He died when I was three.”

  “Look his hands,” she says. “How gently he holds you.”

  “I don’t remember him holding me,” I say. “He had tuberculosis, which is contagious, so he couldn’t be near Mother or me.”

  Mrs. Osthoff motions for me to continue, and I think back to the only memory I have of my father and start to speak it out loud. “We lived in a different town then, near my father’s family. My uncles built a garage behind our house. It was a tiny building with only a cot and a chair and a stove inside. My uncles put up screens in the summer, and they built a railing below the window so I could stand on it and see in. My father would