houses out.
The light was on in the living room. His mother looked up when he came in.
“There’s a piece of cake for you in the kitchen.”
He hesitated.
“Were you waiting up for me?”
“Yes,” his mother said. “I know it’s silly, but I couldn’t sleep until I knew you were in.”
Bill thought, how old she looks! Why, Dad and I always used to think she was the prettiest lady in town!
“It hasn’t been easy with Dad gone, has it, Mom?”
It did not sound the way he had meant it to sound.
She said, “No, dear, it hasn’t been easy. But we’re getting along.”
He wanted to go to her and put his arms around her in a protective gesture, the way his father would have, the way he himself would have so short a time ago. He wanted to say, “Oh, Mother, I’m glad to be back!” He wanted to hug her and say, “Mother, you’re still the prettiest lady in town!” But the shadows of the past two years were all about him, close and real and a part of him.
He looked at his mother, and they could not reach each other.
He said, “Mom, have I changed so very much?”
“It’s the war, Bill,” she said slowly, carefully. “War makes boys grow up too fast. It turns them into men before they are ready and teaches them things they should never know.”
“But why?” he demanded unreasonably. “Why? What’s the matter with me? What in God’s name has happened to me?”
His mother was startled by his outburst.
“Don’t look that way, Bill! Everything will be all right, dear. Just give it time and everything will be all right.”
He hadn’t cried much when he was a child. Now, when he cried, it was the way a man cries when he is lost and afraid.
“Mother,” he sobbed, “oh, Mother, I want to come home!”
She went to him and put her arms around him the way one comforts a child. But he was no longer a child.
“There, there, son,” she said helplessly. “You are home.”
She went out to the kitchen to get his piece of cake.
(written at the age of 18)
First Place Winner in Seventeen Magazine’s
Creative Writing Contest, 1953
What was it about this story that caused it to win a national award?
I wish I knew. I have a feeling there was some reason other than the quality of the writing. Perhaps it stood out from the competition because of the male viewpoint and therefore got an especially careful reading. Perhaps one of the judges had a son in the service. Perhaps the story seemed more important because it was about war and death instead of proms and parties.
Perhaps it was the ending. The ending doesn’t follow the rules of plotting that most youth publications of that day adhered to. It differed from “Written in the Stars” in that I did not have an all-wise mother solve the problem, because the problem is unsolvable. The mother’s pathetic token gesture of bringing in a piece of cake is symbolic of the futility of any loving woman’s efforts to undo the emotional damage done to her son by war. If this story had been submitted by an adult writer, I doubt that Seventeen would have bought and published it. They would have thought it too depressing for their vulnerable young readers. The fact that it was one of those vulnerable readers who wrote the story altered the situation.
I named the young man in the story Bill, not because it was my brother’s name (which it was), but because it was solid, down-to-earth and all-American. The Bill in the story had no personality quirks to set him apart from the rest of humanity.
He was Every Man.
Jane slumped on her bed. “Oh,” she moaned, “why did I ever say I would go!”
Downstairs she could hear the clatter of supper dishes being washed, her father’s radio, her mother and Alice laughing together in the kitchen.
Jane had told them at dinner. Alice had said, “I think I’m going to take a night off and get to bed early for a change,” and their mother had answered, “Good for you, dear; you’ve been out too many nights this week as it is.” Their father had nodded.
Jane had said, “I have a date tonight.”
There was a moment of silence. Everyone stared at her in surprise.
“It’s with a boy named Kent,” Jane continued matter-of-factly. “Kent Browning.” She was pleased with herself for the way she said it, calmly, casually, as though she had dates every night, as though it were nothing to become excited about at all.
“Kent Browning,” Alice repeated. “I don’t believe I know him. Is he in your class?” Now that Alice was in college, she no longer knew all the high school boys.
“No,” Jane said, “he’s here for the summer. He’s visiting Ed Morris.”
Her mother found her voice at last. “Why, that’s lovely, dear. Where are you going?”
“To the Country Club dance. We’re doubling with Ed and Kathy.”
The family was still staring at her, dumfounded, when she excused herself to get ready. “Is it all right if I don’t help with the dishes tonight?”
“Of course!” Her mother rose too. “Can I help you, dear? Is your dress pressed? Do you have a good pair of nylons?”
“What’s he like, Jane? Is he nice?” Alice asked.
“I don’t know,” Jane said. “I’ve never met him. Kathy set up the date.”
Suddenly the miracle was gone. Her family melted from amazement into understanding. No boy had asked Jane for a date—Kathy had been the one to arrange it. Kathy called herself Ed’s girl, but half the boys in school were enthralled with her, and she encouraged them all. Whenever Ed asked her to get one of his friends a date, Kathy blithely skipped over her own group of friends and chose someone who supplied no competition—usually Jane.
“Oh.” Alice got up and started toward the kitchen. “Well, you can take my new evening bag if you like.”
“Thanks.” Jane went slowly upstairs. The date was no longer a bright, shining opportunity; it was only an evening and would go as flat as any other date evening. The boy would arrive, and he would be good-looking, because all Ed’s friends were good-looking: he would look at Jane and try not to appear too disappointed, and they would get into the car with Ed and Kathy, and Kathy
