“Dad once told me that there are some men who are cut out for that life, and some men who aren’t. I don’t know that I’m the right kind of man,” Henry muttered, idly scratching the scruffy whiskers on his cheek.

I stared at my brother, absorbing the shadows under his eyes and the bleakness of his gaze. I knew exactly what Henry meant—he was soft and sensitive in the very best kind of way. Wouldn’t those traits be liabilities for a man in the military?

But we were at peace, and anyway, Henry wouldn’t have to remain in the Army forever. All we needed was to force structure into Henry’s life—to prop him up for a few years until the economy recovered and he could find a civilian job.

“My friend at the hotel knows an enrollment officer and thinks he can get you accepted. You need to do it.” I drew in a deep breath. “I am asking you to do it.”

Henry blinked. Then he frowned.

“But, Lizzie—” he started to protest, but I reached to take his hand, squeezing it forcefully as I said, “We can’t go on this way. We just can’t, Henry.”

I watched the emotions play out on my brother’s face. First came shame and guilt and remorse, then frustration and irritation and embarrassment and anger. But all of this faded as quickly as it rose, and then Henry looked away as he nodded. By then, he simply looked resigned.

27

Lizzie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

“How are you doing, Henry?” I asked one night a few weeks later. He was pushing his casserole around his plate, his expression distant until he looked up and gave me a tired smile. His mood seemed a little low, but it was hard to be sure since I’d barely seen him for more than a few minutes at a time in weeks. Henry had been going in early and coming home late, and he’d even taken some weekend shifts.

“Just not used to the long hours on my feet. I’ll get used to it.” He stifled a yawn, then pushed his chair back. “I might turn in. I’ve got an early start again tomorrow.”

“Walt sure is working you hard,” I remarked as he stood. Henry shrugged.

“I’m volunteering for every shift I can get. I’m thankful for the work.”

He took his plate to the sink, and as he did, a scrap of paper fell from his pocket, fluttering to the floor and landing under the table right near me. I leaned and picked it up.