George and Betty’s kids had grown up and moved out of the house, but I remained with them.  It was understood that their oldest, Linda, and her husband, Larry, would inherit me when they passed away.  Things seemed calm for a while.  Racial tension seemed to ease (at least, in our house.)  No bombs dropped from the Soviet Union.  Things seemed to be going well.

Then Betty received the letter from Linda.

Betty had been in their bedroom, pacing nervously for about thirty minutes, when George came home from work and found her.  She had chewed her fingernails down to the stubs.  Her hair was askew from her raking her fingers through it.

George walked in and froze.  “What on earth is the matter?”

Betty jumped at his voice, then ran to him.  “Oh, George!” she said throwing her arms around him, “I got a letter from Linda today.  Larry volunteered for the army.  Oh, Linda is so upset, and so am I!  Doesn’t he know that President Johnson is wanting us to join the war?”

This was the first I’d heard of a war.  Life hadn’t seemed too different from what I could see of my bedroom, so I tried to listen extra carefully to see what else I could learn.  Maybe bombs would be dropped on me after all.

George blinked a few times.  “Um.  Well now.  Larry is a smart boy, I’m sure he had his reasons.  Where is Linda’s letter?  I’d like to read it for myself.”

George skimmed over it once.  Then again.  “Well, it doesn’t give much information on why, but I’m sure he had a good reason.  Although,” he said, more under his breath, “I sure can’t think of what that reason would be.”

“Linda said he would be leaving on Wednesday – that’s tomorrow!  Oh, it’s too late to stop him.  Our letter would never reach him in time.”  Betty began to pace again.

“Woman, would you please slow down?  You’re wearing holes in the carpet!”

“I just can’t sit still!”

They ended up leaving the room and I just sat there, not having heard any more useful information about the war.  Where was the war?  How bad was it going to be?  Would Larry be okay?  So many questions, and no answers.

Betty sent updates as she could, but updates from the warzone – which I was finally able to find out was in Vietnam – were slow in getting to her.  Larry wrote when he could, but it wasn’t a simple matter of licking a stamp and finding a mailbox.

One day, George came home agitated.  Betty followed him into their room when he came to hang up his suit coat and put on his knit sweater.

 “A man from my office called me a warmonger today, when he found out I had a son-in-law in the military.  Can you believe it?  Like I personally advocated for the war.  Or for Larry to fight in it.”

“The nerve of some people!”

“And when it leaked through the office that Larry was over there, it was like I became the company target.  One man tripped near my desk and spilled his coffee all over my papers.  Another man knocked into me and made me spill all my papers.  Someone ate my lunch from the refrigerator.  All seeming accidents, but all in one day?”

 “That does seem like an unlikely coincidence,” Betty agreed, watching her husband stab his suit coat with his hanger and throw it on the closet rod. 

“I did not need this right now.”

Betty walked over to George and gave him a hug.

 One year went by, then two.  Betty got a strange device called a telephone, and I could hear it ringing down the hallway.  It was the most obnoxious sound. 

But one day I heard her answer and gasp.  “Is he okay?…  A helicopter got him out?…  Lost his leg?…  When will he be home?”

After she hung up, Betty came and collapsed on the bed. 

“Well,” she said to the ceiling, “losing one leg is better than losing your life.”