ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1995, Roanoke Times
DATE: Wednesday, December 20, 1995 TAG: 9512200024
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
TYPE: SHORT STORY CONTEST
SOURCE: MARGARET EAST
This story was a finalist in The Roanoke Times' ``A Christms Memory'' contest, which attracted more than 800 submissions. Margaret East, 64, recently retired from the Virginia Employment Commission. She lives in Roanoke and is working on her first novel, ``Ivy Grows.''
I was 13 months old when my brother was born. Everyone was always talking about what an adorable baby he was. I did not know the name for it then, but I didn't see one adorable thing about him. He cried all the time and Mama was always making over him. I just didn't like him one bit and truth was, I wanted him to just go away.
Fortunately, my sibling rivalry didn't last too long. I don't know when it happened, but I began to actually like my little brother. I was a big help to Mama because she often said to me, ``Be an angel and fetch me so and so for Charlie.'' Sometimes I didn't want to do it, but most of the time I really didn't mind because Mama told me afterwards what a good girl I was.
We soon became inseparable playmates, Charlie and me. Mama called us ``the pair.''
``Go fetch the pair of them,'' she would say to Daddy whenever she wanted us. We spent many happy hours playing childhood games. Our favorite game was cowboys. Tree limbs became our horses and, influenced by the Saturday matinees, we rode joyfully into the sunset. We often talked about how when we grew up we would have a ranch and real horses to ride. Our passion was horses. We read about them, we drew them, we colored them, we rode them, we dreamed about them.
Granted, we had our good times, but ``the pair'' didn't always see eye to eye. However, no matter what mischief Charlie got into over the years, I took up for him. My girlfriends often complained about what a pest he was. My standard remark was always, ``He's my brother and I love him.'' I was his ardent protector and his frequent ``fetcher.'' He had picked up on mama's ``Be an angel'' practice and he used it often.
Suddenly it was Charlie who was the tallr and stronger, and our roles gradually reversed. He became my ardent protector and, although I never heard him say ``he's my sister and I love her,'' I knew without a doubt that he did. The years passed quickly and I realized that our childhood was behind us when Charlie joined the U.S. Air Force in 1952. After basic training he was stationed in England. Charlie loved the Air Force, and although my passion for horses was still intact, I think his had been replaced by airplanes! That is, until he met Betty.
Charlie and Betty met at a USO dance. His next letter to me said simply, ``Be an angel and send me a bottle of Chanel No. 5. I have met the girl I'm going to marry. Her name is Betty.'' I sent the perfume and they married soon afterwards.
The new bride wrote newsy letters about English customs, her hometown, her family and the happy times they all shared. She said that Charlie enjoyed working with her father in his woodworking shop and had made her a shelf for her kitchen window. They had rented a small apartment off base and their life together was exciting and full of youthful promise. Then the unthinkable happened.
One morning Charlie and Joe, his best friend, were driving to the base. They left at 5 a.m. to get to work on time. At 5:15 a.m. blinded by the dense fog, Joe drove the car into a telephone pole. Charlie's youthful body lay lifeless by the roadside wrapped in the heavy fog of the quiet English countryside.
They brought the telegram to our country home. Although the war was over, intuitively we knew it was bad news when we saw the man in uniform. ``We regret to inform you ...,'' the telegram read. On November 4, 1953, my brother, my youthful protector, was dead at age 21.
My family and I moved through the next few days immobilized by grief. A heavy cloud of anguish filled each heart and each room. There was no escape from the bleakness of our despair. Immersed in my own grief, I thought little of Betty and when she called I didn't know what to say to her. She had secured a visitor's visa and would stay in the ``States'' three months after the funeral. I was soon to meet the girl who had shared my brother's last days.
Betty arrived and quickly won our hearts! A portion of my love for my brother found a friend in Betty and I found comfort in her quiet, stoic nature. After the funeral I tried to bury my sorrow and enjoy the remaining days before Christmas. My family was eager to share our holiday traditions with Betty, unconsciously hoping to make things as they had always been. Christmas morning came early with a flurry of activity and anticipation. Although we tried to act ``normal'' as we gathered around the tree to open our presents, the joy of Christmas past hung tenuously in the air.
I had deliberately saved my present from Betty for last. As I carefully tore away the old-fashioned Victorian paper, I wondered what she had brought me from England. I quickly opened the lid. Tucked inside was a small piece of paper. I recognized by brother's handwriting! My hands shook perceptively as I read simply, ``Horses for Angel.'' Nestled in the bright, red tissue paper were beautiful bookends in the shape of horses' heads.
Betty quietly shared their story. After receiving the tragic news, she drove to her parents' home seeking comfort. She found her father in his workshop and tearfully told him the tragic news. He tried to console her by showing her some of the things Charlie had made for Christmas gifts. He handed her Charlie's varnish-stained list and she began reading, ``( I ) Jewelry box for Betty and (2) Horses for Angel.''
When Betty had finished her story, I hugged her and the bookends close and told her how much Charlie's gift meant to me. Then I shared our childhood dreams of horses and cowboys and riding happily into the sunset. We all laughed together as the music from the radio filled the air with its joyful message,
God rest ye merry gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember Christ our Savior
Was born on Christmas day.
LENGTH: Long : 107 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: (headshot) Margaret East. color.by CNB