Free to Read: "Promises"
About six years ago, I had a dream where I was at the movies. The film starred Ellen Page, who was playing a war widow. I vividly remember seeing her weeping at the base of a monument dedicated to her late husband. It seemed that she wanted to die there.
I finished “Promises” less than a week later. After trying to shop it around for a few years, I’m now sharing it with you. Enjoy!
Promises
By Thomas Broderick
For eight days, the war didn’t exist. The morning he came home from basic training, we married at a government office close to his home, a small farm he had inherited from his father. My parents accepted the news without argument. I had two younger brothers, after all, and rationing was becoming harder every month. It took only one trip to move all of my possessions.
Our honeymoon was a week of tilling the late winter soil. To be ready for spring planting, he explained as we chopped frozen dirt. Better to do it now when we’re together.
On the last night of his leave, we stayed up very late to talk about what we would do when he came back, and what I must do if he didn't. I fell asleep to him describing what he would grow after the war was over.
He was already gone when I awoke the next morning.
For the first few weeks, I read the paper every day, analyzing retreats and advances along the front. I avoided the town gossips but brought food to new widows and widowers, as if doing so would inoculate me against their tragedy.
A package arrived one month after his departure. Recognizing his handwriting on the label, I scooped the box into my arms and took it into the kitchen. My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside, I discovered a pair of worn boots caked in dirt. Beneath them was a letter wrapped in wax paper.
The censors had done their work. My mind filled in blacked-out lines. Only the last paragraph, it seemed, escaped their ink. He told me to hold onto the boots, that they were still good quality. He hoped to use them working the land, building me a new home, and exploring the countryside with our future children.
I spent all day cleaning the boots, removing every last flake of war. Even the laces I washed by hand. After letting them dry in the spring sun, I polished the dark leather with beeswax. I set the final product on his clothes chest. He would be so happy to see them when he came home.
I received notice that he was missing in action a week later.
Letting the telegram fall to the floor, I went to the closet for an old hatbox. I wrapped his boots in snow-white tissue paper before packing them away. I put the box in the back of the closet, and only when it was buried under sacks of his winter clothes, and the door locked, did I allow myself to weep.
The war lasted three more years. I endured.
On the fifth anniversary of the war's end, there was a televised dedication of the Victory Highway. Six lanes for sixteen-hundred kilometers, the announcer explained, the highway is flanked by monuments every thousand meters. Each monument, hand-crafted from solid granite, memorializes a regiment lost in the war. The road for which six million soldiers sacrificed their lives will forever link our nation with the new western frontier, its people, and resources that will benefit the lives of every citizen.
The procession began with a brass band, tanks, and military transports. Following were the uninjured veterans, each adorned with rows of medals that blazed golden in summer’s noontide sun. Finally, there was an endless succession of mothers who lost sons, fathers who lost daughters, sisters who lost brothers, brothers who lost sisters, wives who lost husbands, husbands who lost wives, husbands who lost husbands, and wives who lost wives. They wore black armbands over their suits and dresses. Families that made the greatest sacrifice for peace everlasting, the announcer said, his tone now somber.
For the briefest of moments, I wanted to be there, walking with people who understood my pain. Repulsion suddenly replaced desire, something I did not fully understand but felt right nonetheless.
After that, I no longer watched the television.
Years passed. I never remarried but kept friendships with other farmers. My brothers settled down and had two daughters each. The girls stayed with me during the summer holidays, working the land alongside their aunt.
After a time, the government began sending me compensation. Though no body was ever found, they concluded he must have died in battle. I ignored the cheques in years when the land was fertile, and only cashed them in years when the land was barren.
The boots remained in the bedroom closet. Though out of sight, their existence came back to me time and again with the sound of unexpected footfalls coming up the front steps. Eventually, I made visitors, even family, call before coming over.
In old age, my brothers convinced me that I deserved some comfort after a life of hard work. I finally relented and cashed the remaining cheques. Most had yellowed from mold.
Returning from the bank, I sat at the kitchen table and examined the stack of crisp red and lavender bills in front of me. I wanted to burn them, but my body ached. The harvest had taken too long and left me too weary. I thought for a long time before deciding.
A few days later, I bought the last thing I would ever need: two tons of scratched chrome, faded leather, and screeching gears on four bald tires. It’ll do just fine, I said while paying the man who owned the farm next to mine.
The library had a map of the Victory Highway. Its edges were torn, and the librarian, a man in late middle age, took great care in unrolling it. People used to drive up it all the time to see their relatives’ monuments, he explained. Not so much now. Growing up, my father took me to see his brother’s every year...
I nodded at the librarian's words, writing on a slip of paper how many kilometers I would need to drive.
The next morning, I dressed in work clothes, and without hesitation, unlocked the closet that had for so long been closed. Inside, a thick layer of dust covered five-decade-old grief. I pushed aside the sacks of clothes and took out the hatbox. It felt heavier than I remembered.
I set the box on the floor of the car’s passenger seat, and taking only an extra can of petrol, set off.
The drive lasted all day. In many spots of the once-great Victory Highway had been left to ruin. Weeds grew from wide cracks in the lanes. Leafy vines obscured many of the monuments. In six-hundred kilometers, I passed only five trucks heading the other way.
The car ran dry just before my destination. I continued on foot, box cradled in my arms. The sound of my footsteps mixed with the gentle rustle of falling leaves. The weather was cool, and the early evening sky a crisp, bright blue. It was a kind of day he would have enjoyed, a pleasant evening after the harvest was complete, when the town's farmers came together to drink fresh-pressed cider, their wives and daughters preparing a feast.
I arrived. I took a deep breath before approaching the monument. It was identical to the four thousand I had already passed but for a different number marking its peak. I checked the slip of paper in my pocket to be sure.
I removed the boots and placed them at the monument's base. Though some of it had flaked off over the years, the remaining beeswax still shined. I explained that I had followed his instructions, and now he could use the boots in whatever life came after this one.
I pried away the grasses and vines, revealing the names of the men and women who had died with him. His name would not be there, I knew, but that didn’t matter.
With a sharp rock, I carved his name on the granite. It was crude and faint, but legible. Next to it, I wrote my own.
The sun was setting, and my body done. I lay at the monument's base in the same position as the last night we were together. Instead of him, I clutched the boots to my chest. I closed my eyes.
The wind blew, and the leaves fell faster - the sound of a great wave coming to claim me. Smiling, I welcomed it.
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For eight hours, the war didn't exist. Breath steaming in the winter night, I found a place to sleep against a pillar of dark granite worn bare from time and neglect. It wasn't very high but would provide good cover if the enemy attacked before dawn. The rest of my platoon was settling into freshly dug foxholes.
Removing my gloves, I ran my hands through frozen dirt, aching to feel something other than wool or steel. My right hand found a few chips of bone that snapped easily between my fingers.
My left hand touched the remnants of two old boots half buried in the earth. The leather had gone to scraps. I brushed off the dirt to discover that the rubber soles were still intact. My feet, a tapestry of frostbite, sores, and blisters, were numb with pain.
I ignored my body's calls for sleep and worked throughout the night.
The sergeant's whistle call came at dawn. I fell in at the back of the line, my feet wrapped in new soles and leather patches. We set off towards the rising sun.
The sergeant called out in shouting glory that with every step, we were closer to destroying the enemy, the final victory, and peace everlasting. We repeated his words once before falling into silence.
Up ahead, the nameless broken road stretched on into infinity.
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