His own heavy feet, crunching the gravel of the road with each quick step, Harry urging, “Come on, Dad. Mom’s not doing so good.”

He’s left his papers strewn on the conference table, left Odell and Hal standing with their knuckles on the table, mouths gaping. He has not stopped for his jacket, is barely conscious of the stunned silence in the bank—tellers, customers, his secretary, all standing with knotted hands and brows, watching as he follows Harry out with matching long strides.

A block from home, John has to stop to catch his breath. The leaves on the sheltering maples rustle like a dance line; clouds explode against the bright blue sky. Harry strides on. “Harry!” John calls after him.

The boy turns, his mouth grim, hair gleaming in the sun.

“Harry! What is it? Is he—injured?”

“No, Dad,” Harry calls back.

John feels his throat constrict. “Well, then—killed?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Harry says, and turns and runs toward the house.

When John walks in the front door, the house feels paralyzed. There is no sound—no chattering from the kitchen, no ticking of a clock. Nothing.

Then John hears Harry’s voice in the dining room: “Mom?”

But John is mesmerized by the rectangle of paper he sees on the hall floor. He can read the block letters across the top: WESTERN UNION. He bends to retrieve it, begins to read. It is addressed to Mr. and Mrs. John Mickelson, Pine Rapids, Wisconsin.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU
YOUR SON CHASE G. MICKELSON
KILLED IN ACTION JUNE 6
BELLEAU WOOD
STOP
LETTER TO FOLLOW
STOP

“Mom!” comes Harry’s voice again from the dining room, but John does not go to his wife and son. Now we have a hero in the family, he thinks. Strange, though: In his mind’s eye, Chase is still ten years old. John simply cannot conjure a picture of him any older than that. Amazing thing to contemplate, a ten-year-old war hero! He stares at the telegram, registering each word.

CHASE.
KILLED.
JUNE 6.
BELLEAU WOOD.

Their son has been dead a good two weeks, without their even knowing it! While John has been foolishly whistling over his good fortune, over the Americans making a good showing in the battle. His horror muted by shock, he wonders if their other son, if Jack, is dead, too. Would the world allow such folly on the part of a father? Would it allow that level of self-absorbed ignorance?

“Dad?”

He looks up at Harry.

“Dad? Mom’s in here at the table. She won’t say anything. She’s just—” Harry looks back over his shoulder. “Just sitting here. She doesn’t look good, Dad.”