Deborah held her son, Marty, close to her. Behind them, the lake shimmered, blue-green water mirroring their images: a tall slender young woman with long auburn hair in her mid-twenties and a short, stocky, dark haired little boy.
"When do we eat?" Marty rubbed his tummy.
"I'm dying from hunger."
She laughed. "All you think about is food. It's a beautiful day. Look at the trees dressed in gold and red." Deborah pointed toward the forest on the other side of the lake.
Deborah's face was serene. This had been her favorite picnic spot since childhood. There were memories here; the bench that her father crafted from cedar, many years ago, still faced the water. She enjoyed being surrounded by familiar things; the lake, the weathered bench, and the surrounding forest had a calming effect upon her.
Marty interrupted her reverie. "Tomorrow, I'll be six." He said it with the pride of a child gaining another year.
"Oh, goodness! You're so old!"
She lightly brushed his cheek. Her hazel eyes twinkled with amusement. "Time passes quickly. Before we know it, you'll want the keys to the car."
Marty giggled. "Will I have a party with balloons and noise makers?"
"You mustn't push," Deborah admonished him with an expression of mock seriousness. "We'll see if a party can be put together. Perhaps, we can even get some cake and ice cream."
"Mama, I wished Daddy could be here. Will he know that it's my birthday?"
A disc jockey's voice on their tiny battery-operated transistor radio distracted her for a moment. "This is Dale Anthony, WFLI, 1070 on the A.M. dial - your music jamboree station for fall festival 1968. Here's the Monkees' big hit, 'Daydream Believer.' And, God bless our troops in Vietnam."
She turned her attention back to her son, regretting the lapse in answering him. "Your father knows that tomorrow is your birthday."
Her peaceful expression disappeared, replaced by faint lines of tension around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She relaxed a bit upon hearing the muted cry of a flock of geese echoing across the water.
Marty searched the sky for a glimpse of their formation. In a moment, he turned his attention back to her, catching her off-guard when he said, "Some of my friends say you get blown up and shot in a war. Daddy's in a war."
Deborah thought to herself, I can't shelter him from the rest of the world.
"Your father is a marine. It's his job to go to war. Our job is to pray for him." Deborah twisted her handkerchief until her hands turned red.
"What if he dies?" His big brown eyes, so much like his father's, peered at her with a mixture of confusion, worry, and innocence - a child's concern.
"Don't think that way. God's with him. Now let's eat that cold fried chicken. We have apple pie for desert."
"With whipped cream, I hope?"
As quickly as that, the seriousness of the moment disappeared, replaced by childish anticipation. Oh, to be a child again, she mused.
"Of course we have whipped cream," she said aloud. "You can squeeze it out of the can yourself."
The enthusiasm in her voice masked the ache in her chest; the kind that takes your breath because you love so much. Marty was a constant reminder of Ed, his father.
The little boy smiled up at her, and said, "I love picnics, don't you?"
"Picnics are the best," she assured him.
"Tell me the story of how you and daddy met."
"You've heard it so many times." She dramatized her reluctance, making her eyelids flutter.
Marty tittered. "How do you do that?"
Looking at him with mock seriousness, Deborah leaned backward with the back of her hand against her forehead. "It's a long-held secret that my mother taught me. If you were a girl, I'd tell you, but you're a boy!" She ruffled Marty's thick black mane - his father's hair.
"That's not fair!" Marty shouted as he jumped up and ran toward the woods, disappearing from view as if swallowed by the trees.
She laughed nervously. Always lurking in the back of her mind was the fear of losing him. Her gut wrenched at the thought.
Deborah chased him. It didn't take long to catch up to Marty and wrestle him to the ground. She was accustomed to roughhousing, having grown up with three older brothers.
The boy squirmed from her grip and stood up with his hands on his hips. The pose reminded her of Ed when he wanted to be emphatic.
"I want to hear the story." Marty tugged at the brim of his baseball cap above his right eye - another of his father's habits.
Before speaking, Deborah brushed pine needles off his sweat shirt. "Okay, okay, you're driving me nuts." She took his hand, and they began walking along the lake shore.
"Your father was a customer in the restaurant where I was a hostess. He was handsome in his uniform. The way he looked at me made me nervous. I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing and poured a whole pitcher of ice cold water on his lap."
"Did he get mad?" Marty snickered.
"No, he smiled, and asked me for a napkin. After he finished eating, he came up to me, and said, `I just met you, and already, I've had to take a cold shower.'"
Marty never understood this part of the story.
Usually, she didn't bother to explain. Today, she tried. "When grownups like somebody, they sometimes have to take cold showers to cool off."
Marty shook his head, still looking perplexed.
"Forget it," she said, realizing that she sounded foolish. "Anyway, your father asked me to go to a movie with him. I accepted. We got married, and we have you."
The sun was getting lower in the sky, and the wind appeared to be getting stronger and cooler.
"We better get going," she said.
"That's a funny story. I'm glad Daddy didn't get mad at you. If he'd been mad, I wouldn't be here."
Marty grabbed the picnic basket. The gesture reminded her of Ed's last words to his son. "Mister, you're the man of the house until I get back. Take care of your mother."
"Marty be careful," she called out anxiously. "Don't carry the basket if it's too heavy."
"Oh, Mama, I'm okay."
He rolled his eyes at her and that infuriated her. Lately, getting angry or sad seemed to be almost beyond her control. She missed Ed.
Deborah remembered the last time they were together. She cried during the hour drive to the airport. In despair, she pleaded with him not to go. "Why do you have to fight in this war? It's futile, and no one wants us over there. Please don't go! We can go to Canada or Mexico - anywhere, but don't go to Vietnam!"
Ed looked at her - first with sternness - then tenderness. In his usual steady, calm voice, he told her, "Deb, the war may not stand for anything, but I do."
She began to sob uncontrollably. Ed hugged her tightly, and said, "I promise that I'll be home within a year - maybe sooner." Then, in uncharacteristically melodramatic style, he whispered, "A warrior's lady does not weep when her man goes off to war." Despite her anguish, she laughed hysterically.
Eight months and six days later, a young captain, perhaps a year or so older than Ed, and a military chaplain came to the door. Their somber expressions told her that he was dead before a word was spoken.
After that, everything moved in slow motion, like a surreal scene from a dream. The captain recited a well rehearsed official statement, void of emotion. "On behalf of the President, The Secretary of the Navy, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps; it is with great regret that we inform you of your husband's death. First Lieutenant Aaron Edward Thomas was killed in action on 3 October 1968 in the vicinity of Viem Dong, Republic of Vietnam."
For a fleeting moment, she resented this intrusion into the sanctity of her home and the impersonal platitudes from this young officer, who was alive and free to go home to his wife and children. As quickly as it came, the resentment passed.
In the back of her mind, Deborah heard her mother's voice, "A woman's strength lies not in muscle, but in her dignity and grace." Composing herself, she endured the captain's recitation on "casualty processing."
Deborah decided not to spoil Marty's birthday or their plans for a picnic. Death could wait awhile longer to hurt her little boy. After tucking Marty in, she cried until the tears wouldn't come anymore. She sat in the darkness with her memories until the grey light of dawn cast shadows into the room. Over and over, one thought came to mind, Ed would be coming home within a year, just as he had promised.
"Mama, let's go." Marty's voice brought her back to the present. He was standing next to Ed's pride and joy, a red `65' Mustang.
"The picnic is over," Deborah said as she walked toward him. "My birthday boy is obviously ready to move on." In mid-stride, she stopped, unwilling for a fleeting second to take the next step.
"Mama, quit fooling around."
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," she said.
