Chapters (38)
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- epilogue
He shrugged and thrust his hands into tattered jean pockets.
“I brought you a present. Do not tell CeeCee.” Chet brightened immediately when Violet produced the Baby Ruth from her handbag.
“I’m goin’ to hide and eat this. Will you go out back with my sister?” He eyed the kitchen door anxiously.
“Yes, I have some homework to do, so I’ll sit out there and watch her. See you in a minute.” She winked at him, but he missed it as he raced off.
“Homework” consisted of writing “Mrs. Johnny Perkins” and “Violet Perkins” over and over on the last page of her biology notebook. Violet added tiny hearts and the wedding date she wanted: July 30, 1947. He would ask—she was more certain of this than anything in her life.
Chet appeared and yelled for Violet to watch him imitate a fighter pilot, shooting his sister and other targets of choice as he ran around the yard. He took a break to squat on the ground next to her chair. “So,” he began, “you still datin’ that skinny basketball player?”
Violet swatted a mosquito and stifled a laugh. “Yes, I am. He’s not that skinny.”
“Looks wormy to me.” He squinted at CeeCee, who was producing a giant mound of dirt with a small shovel. “I think you need someone more manly. Maybe a guy who fought, like my Uncle Chunk.”
“Uncle Chunk” was his father’s younger brother, well known for killing “thousands” of Krauts and Chet’s role model. He’d settled back into town after the war and started a car repair business on Leighton Avenue using his preferred name, Wally Wilson.
“I bet your uncle has lots of girlfriends already. Besides, he’s a bit old for me.”
“No, he is not. You need a full grown man, Violet, not some high school kid.” He stood and announced, “I’m really hungry. Could you fix supper for us?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “I’ll call y’all in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Violet. You’re the best.” He seated himself in her chair, carefully placing the notebook in his lap.
When the skimpy meals were on the kitchen table, Violet opened the door to find Chet and CeeCee on the step. He handed her the biology binder with a flourish. “I’m goin’ to take CeeCee to wash her hands.”
For some reason, Violet thought she should look inside. There it was, on the next to last page:
She smiled at his sweetness and put her notebook with her handbag. If she ever had a son, she hoped he’d be like dirt-smudged, smelly, lovable Chet Wilson.
Chet and CeeCee seated themselves and ate like they hadn’t seen food in a week. Violet wondered if that were true. The little girl was characteristically quiet, listening to her brother ramble on about guns and airplanes. She never made eye contact with Violet unless absolutely necessary.