Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

One Telegram

Elmwood Springs, Missouri

1944

The regular Western Union messenger had been drafted in 1942, so at age twelve, Macky Warren had taken over his job. Quite a few boys applied but he got the job because there was only one uniform and he had been the one who came closest to fitting into it. Like all boys who had been too young to join up and fight, the idea of wearing a uniform of any kind appealed greatly. It made him feel proud and important to wear it.

Elmwood Springs was one of the few towns that had a lady telegraph operator. Bess Goodnight, whose sister, Ada Goodnight, was the postmistress, was a small woman with a big sense of humor and Macky liked working for her. He liked his job. It was fun, riding his bike all over town. But after the war had gone on for a time, it was not much fun anymore. Although he and Bess never said so, lately, every time the telegraph machine started clicking a message, they both felt a small pang of dread until Bess would nod at him that it was just a plain old telegram and not one from the War Department.

The telegraph office and Miss Alma’s Tea Room were the only two businesses that stayed open on Sunday, and after church Macky would head downtown to work. When lunch hour was over at Miss Alma’s, downtown was quiet and deserted until five o’clock that afternoon, when the movie theater would open up. Today, Macky was sitting at a card table working a picture puzzle of Mount Rushmore with Bess Goodnight and they only had one more piece left to finish up George Washington’s face. The missing piece was right under his nose, but apparently not exactly under it because they had tried about thirty different pieces and so far none fit. Bess was busy searching through the scattered pieces that were left when the clicking started. Bess went over and sat down and started to write as the clicking continued. Maybe because it was Sunday and there was no activity on the street, the clicking sounded particularly loud, almost angry, clacking away its message like it was mad at the world. Macky could tell by the frown that came on Bess’s face that the message coming in was not a good one. Then the clicking stopped abruptly. Bess looked at it. And then she slowly turned her chair around and placed the yellow paper in the large black Royal typewriter and began typing the message.

DEAR MR. AND MRS. LODOR NORDSTROM,

THE WAR DEPARTMENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA REGRETS TO

INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON, P.F.C. EUGENE ARTHUR NORDSTROM, WAS

KILLED IN ACTION.…

After she finished typing the complete message, she pulled it out of the typewriter. Macky had already gone over and put his hat on and straightened his tie and stood waiting. Bess placed the telegram in an envelope and sealed it and handed it to him.

“Here, son, you’d better take it on over.”

She shook her head sadly, her eyes moist, and said, “I hate this old war.”

Macky looked at the address and knew who it was. He went outside and walked over to his bicycle leaning against the building and climbed on. He wanted to get on and just keep on riding and never come back. Gene Nordstrom had been a boyhood hero of his. A lifeguard at the pool, he had taught Macky how to swim. As he rode, people who had a son or husband overseas saw him and held their breaths until he went on by their house and on down the block. A telegram on Sunday always meant bad news. After that first rush of relief that the telegram had not been for them came the pang of sadness and pity for the family it was addressed to. When Macky pulled up at the Nordstroms’ house, he laid his bicycle down on the lawn and started up the stairs. Gerta Nordstrom was in the kitchen when he knocked. Her husband, Lodor, was in the backyard working on his victory vegetable garden like he did every Sunday afternoon. Gerta called out, “Just a minute …” She was drying her hands on her apron as she came down the hall. When she got close enough to see through the screen door who was standing there, she stopped in her tracks, unable to move another step, afraid to move. In that momentary terror, she thought maybe if she did not open the door, if she did not touch the telegram Macky had in his hand, that maybe the words contained in that small yellow envelope would not be true. She stood, motionless, still holding on to her apron.

Macky saw her and said, “Mrs. Nordstrom … I have a telegram for you.” People up and down the block who had seen him ride by quietly came out on their porches, one by one. The Swensons, their next-door neighbors, had already been outside and when Macky arrived, Mrs. Swenson had put both hands over her mouth. “Oh, no, not Gene—not that sweet boy.”

Her husband said nothing but put his paper down, and got up and walked down the front steps, headed next door. He had gone all the way through school with Lodor and he wanted to be there when the news came. In the meantime Macky stood at the front door not knowing what to do. He knocked softy again. “Telegram for you, Mrs. Nordstrom.”