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Henry stared at me, his jaw open but his eyes a little glazed, like he wasn’t quite following the conversation.
“Segregationisterrible,” he said.
“I know,” I sighed. Having lived in El Paso for years, I was no stranger to bigotry. Half of that city was Mexican or of Mexican descent, and white folk often acted like that was a bad thing. Huntsville was like two separate towns that happened to be colocated, and it seemed that having poorly treated Black staff members within a household was just the normal order of business for some. I hated it. Not that I was about to admit that to Sofie Rhodes.
“My division liberated a camp in Germany,” Henry said suddenly, turning his attention back to the chicken.
It was my turn to feel dazed. Henry spoke so rarely about his deployment that I’d given up asking about it a long time ago.
“You did?” I said, stunned.
“It was April, like now,” he murmured, almost to himself. “There were wildflowers growing on the side of the road as we advanced and that morning I was thinking about Betsy. A few years after I enlisted, I wrote her and asked how she was. She wrote me back and told me she’d married a man and was expecting a baby. I bet that baby is real cute but I was glad she didn’t send me a photograph.”
“You never told me any of that.”
“I wanted her to know I’d found my feet, you know? That I thought of her fondly and always would. And ever since that first letter, she’s written to me every few months. If I’d found a way to marry her, I’d have picked those wildflowers in Germany and preserved them to bring them home to her.”
“And...the camp?” I prompted gently. He reached for the tongs, then lifted a piece of chicken out of the pan to rest on a plate. “Henry?” I prompted.
The front door slammed and Henry startled. He dropped the tongs and accidentally touched the hot plate when he tried to pick them up, then cried out with pain and panic as he looked to the kitchen door as an unsuspecting Calvin appeared.
Since Henry’s troubles began, I’d come to suspect he had what they called combat fatigue, although I’d never been able to get him to see a doctor. One day, I went to the library in El Paso to find some information. One of the books the librarian gave me said that when a man had combat fatigue, the trauma of war didn’t return to him as memories, but as reactions. In moments like that one at the stove, it really did seem that Henry’s brain had been switched off and every move he made was pure, unfiltered instinct.
“Henry?” I said softly, but he was still looking around the room like he wasn’t sure where he was. I spoke louder, stepping closer to him again, trying to get his attention. “Henry! Are you okay? Honey, I’m right here with you.”
“What’s going on?” Calvin asked, concerned. Henry pushed past me and Cal—stomping down the hall and out the back door toward his apartment, slamming the screen door behind him. Calvin looked at me, scanning for injuries. “Did he hurt you?”
“Of course he didn’t hurt me!” I snapped.
Five long years had passed since the war ended. Most of the time I thought I’d come to accept that Henry would never again be like he was, but every now and again, I discovered I had to grieve all over again. I pointed after my brother as I glared at Calvin and said, “This is what those bastards did to him. And Christopher seriously thinks I’m going to invite them over here for coffee?”
“You know I don’t mind helping Henry—however and whenever we can. But if having the Germans in town is too much for him, we should try to find him somewhere else to stay, because these people are not going anywhere.”
We stared at one another—the space between us thick with tension—and then Calvin sighed miserably and left the kitchen, as if he couldn’t bear to keep arguing with me. I understood. I hatedarguing with Calvin too.
I already felt enough guilt at the unusual nature of our marriage. I hated to add to it by finding myself on the other side of a disagreement with no easy solution.
But this was too important. The injustice of the situation was just too great for me to ignore, not even to please my husband.
When I went to check on Henry in his room an hour later, he was lying on the bed, staring at the wall.
“Are you all right?” I asked him tentatively.
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was still hoarse. “Sorry for all that.”
“You’ve seemed so much better lately,” I said quietly. Henry had been flat and irritable at Christmas, but since returning a few weeks ago, even Cal remarked how much calmer he seemed. Henry sighed, shrugging noncommittally. “Is your hand okay?”
He rolled toward me and lifted his fist. The skin on his knuckles was busted and there was a purple bruise forming. I was confused at first. I’d been asking about the burn from the stove, but this was something else.
“How did you do that?”
“Sorry,” he whispered, pointing to the wall beside the door. I turned and saw the four jagged holes he’d punched in the drywall. I swallowed a gasp. “I’ll fix it up when I get my next paycheck.”
“Don’t you even worry about it,” I said, but my voice was strained. For all of Henry’s troubles over the years, that kind of destructive violence was new, and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
I patted him gently on the shoulder and rose to leave the room, but as I took my first steps, he said, “Lizzie?”
“Yeah?”
