Page 24 of A Hero Comes Home

With a deep inhale and then exhale, he pushed away from the truck and went around to the back of the cottage, where there was another deep covered porch, which they used for barbecuing in the summer. He’d never gotten around to the patio that Sally had always wanted. Maybe . . .

No, he was not going to think of anything beyond the moment. And a momentous moment it was, too.

He opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen . . . and gasped. Sitting on the center of the oak table was a chocolate layer cake on a milk glass pedestal stand. He didn’t have to look at the stove to know crab chowder was simmering in the old cast-iron pot; the delicious smell filled the room. A new addition was a loaf of fresh-baked bread, instead of biscuits. Something from Sally’s bakery?

His eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t help himself. His mother wouldn’t be here, but Sally had made an effort to make her absence easier to bear. How did she know that these little things mattered to him so much when coming home after an active op?

He blinked several times to get rid of any evidence he was so emotional, but then noticed Sally standing in the doorway to the living room. She put a forefinger to her lips, cautioning silence, before saying, louder than necessary, “Welcome home, Jacob. I don’t know where the boys are. They must have gone over to your dad’s house to help with his garden.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, also louder than necessary, playing into her game, “I was really looking forward to seeing my boys after all this time. Oh, well. Gardening must be more fun for them than meeting their old man.”

“I’m sure they’ll be back soon.” Sally winked at him. “C’mon into the living room and rest a bit. I’m sure you’re tired after your long trip.”

He followed her and pretended to be shocked when he was greeted with balloons and a huge handmade banner that read in less-than-perfect kid crayon lettering, “Welcome home, Daddy” and shouts of “SURPRISE!” from his three sons. The boys launched themselves at him, hugging him around his waist and thighs. He would have liked to hunker down to their level, but his knees and the soft brace he was wearing would not allow that.

They were all talking at once and asking questions, but not waiting for answers.

“I made the sign.”

“I did, too.”

“But I blew up the balloons ’cause PopPop’s got no wind.”

“That ain’t nice.”

“Ain’t ain’t in the dictionary.”

“It’s still not nice.”

“Stop bein’ so bossy.”

“I am the boss. ’Cause I’m older.”

“Anyways, that’s what PopPop says all the time about bein’ windy, usually after he sneaks a ciggie.”

“Mark!”

“What? It’s the truth, Mom.”

“Do you smoke ciggies, Daddy?”

“Mikey Dunaway smoked a ciggie and coughed up a lung.”

“That wasn’t a lung, dumbhead. It was a loogie. Throat spit.”

“I’m tho happy you’re home, Daddy. Can I have a horse?”

“You can’t have a horse, pea brain. We don’t have a stable.”

“Maybe Daddy could build a thable. No one uthes the garage anyway. That would be a good thable.”

“A dog would be better. A German shepherd. Or a collie.”

“But not a pit bull. Mommy says we’ll get a pit bull when donuts fly.”

“I like cats.”

“A cat and a dog.”