Papa's letters stopped coming in early 1942. I figured he was moving too much for the mailman to get him. Maybe he was too busy fighting Japs to write back. Maybe he didn't want to write back. I didn't want to think that way. Papa was fighting in the Philippines, and fighting takes work. I bet he's tired all day every day.

I tried telling Momma that. She smiled but it's crooked and hangs wrong on her face. I knew she was lying. On days off, she'd take the train to Mill Creek and Allisport to talk to someone about Papa. They tell her the same thing, but she won't say what it is. I don't think they know where he is, either.

“Gramma, what's wrong with Bill?” I ask. He's not home when I get back from school. Momma's still at work. The house is warm and quiet. That's nice when the leaves start changing. “He's more mad than before.”

“He's,” she starts, but doesn't say anything. Gramma sighs and pats a seat close to her. I sit in it. “I think Bill wants to be fighting, too.”

“Why isn't he?”

“He isn't old enough. Just like you.”

“But I could if I wanted to?”

She frowns. “There are other ways to support your father.”

“I know. Remember the lemonade stand Henry and I did?” We set up a lemonade stand on a Saturday in the shadow of Mr. Clay's butcher shop on Broad Street. It smelled like rotting and wood, but the streetcar saw us. It made longer stops for us. We thought the trains will stop for us but they didn't. It's okay, though. We got over fifteen dollars and sent it to the Red Cross. We got featured in the paper.

Bill didn't like that. He bought war bonds with money he earned from work, which Momma didn't like. He said he's the man of the house while Papa's gone, and how he spends his money is not her concern. They fought, and the house nearly came down.

Remembering makes me sad.

Gramps comes back at that moment. He hugs me and asks if I can get him some water. Gramma and Gramps mutter like I can't hear them, but if I hold my breath, I can.

“He's upset.”

“Everyone's upset, Irma.”

“Sarah needs to talk to him.”

Gramps doesn't say anything.

“Charlie deserves to know what's going on.”

“He's still young. That's too much to put on his shoulders. When the war is over – ”

“When, David?”

“All wars must end.” There's this sound in Gramps' voice and it sinks into my heart slowly.

I bring out the water and sit on the stool in front of Gramps. “What did you do, Gramps, when the first war was going on?”

Gramps hums. “I was drafted. I fought in France. Do you know where that is?”

I nod. “I don't know what it looks like.”

“Neither do I,” he says, and he grunts as he takes a sip. “We walked a lot, and so many places we went to were empty. Lonely. One of my friends, he dug a hole underground for himself. We hid there when it rained.” Gramps wrinkles his nose. “It was not fun.”

“Then why does Bill want to go and fight?”

Gramps purses his lips. The skin on his neck hangs loose, while underneath his muscles tense.

“Go wash your hands, Charlie,” Gramma says, standing. “We'll get dinner ready.”