Lone eagle

When she went back to school, she failed an exam for the first time. Her advisor called her in, and asked if something had happened over the holidays. Kate looked terrible, and in a strangled voice she explained that a close friend of hers had been shot down on a mission over Germany. At least it explained her grades. The woman expressed her sympathy, and hoped that Kate would feel better soon. She was very kind and very sweet, she had lost her own son in Salerno the previous year. But nothing anyone said to her offered any solace to Kate. And when she wasn't feeling devastated, she was consumed with rage, at the Germans, at the fates, at the man who had shot him down, at him for letting it happen to him, at herself for loving him so much. She wanted to be free of it, but she knew nothing would ever free her of him. It was too late.

And when Andy saw her after she got back from Christmas break, at first he felt sorry for her, and then he scolded her. He told her she was feeling sorry for herself, that she always knew it could happen to him. And in Joe's case it could have happened anytime, anywhere, while he did death-defying stunts in planes, aerobatics, or raced. Thousands of other women were in the same boat she was in. She and Joe weren't married, they didn't have kids, she wasn't even engaged. But what Andy said to her only made her furious with him.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? You sound like my mother. Do you think a ring on my finger would make any difference to me? It wouldn't mean a goddamn thing to me, Andy Scott, and it wouldn't change what happened to him. Why is everyone so obsessed with social rituals? Who gives a damn? He's probably in some goddamn awful prison camp being tortured for what he knows. Do you think a ring on my finger would make a difference to them? Of course not. And it wouldn't to Joe. It wouldn't have made him love me more, or me love him more. I don't care about the ring,” she started to sob, “I just want him to come home.” She folded into Andy's arms like a broken doll.

“He's not going to, Kate,” Andy said as he held her, while she sobbed. “You know that. The chances that he'll come home are a million to one.” If that.

“It could happen. Maybe he'll escape.” She refused to let hope die.

“Maybe he's dead,” Andy said, trying to force her to face the truth. More likely than not, he was. Kate knew it too, but she didn't want to hear it from anyone. She couldn't face it yet. “Kate, I can only imagine how hard it is, but you have to get over this. You can't let it tear you apart.” The worst thing was she had no choice. She was doing the best she could, but she was drowning in her fears for him, her own sense of panic and loss. She had no idea how she was going to exist if he was gone. And yet, even at her worst, she had an inexplicable sense that he was still alive. It was as though there were a part of her that hadn't let go of him yet, and she wondered if she ever would. She felt bound to him for life.

She and Andy went to dinner at the cafeteria, and he forced her to eat. And that weekend he insisted that she come to watch him at a swimming meet against MIT. She actually had a good time, in spite of herself, and forgot her miseries for a short while. And everyone was excited when Harvard won.

She waited for him afterward, and they went out to eat, and then he took her back to the house. She looked better than she had a few days before, and he felt sorry for her when she told him that she'd had a dream about Joe. She was convinced he was still alive, and Andy was sure her mind was playing tricks on her. She wasn't willing to accept the possibility that he had died when he was shot down.

Eventually, it became a sore subject with her, whenever the topic came up with family or friends. People would tell her how sorry they were to have heard about Joe, and then she would insist that he was probably in a German prisoner of war camp somewhere. In time, people stopped mentioning it to her at all.

By the time summer rolled around, Joe had been gone for seven months. His last letters to her had come a month after he had been shot down, and she still read them at night, and lay in bed for hours, thinking of him. Everyone said she had to let go of him, that he was gone, but her heart refused to open and release him like a bird from a cage. She kept him deep within her, in a secret place in her heart. She knew it was a place where no one would ever go again, and she knew they were right when people said she had to get over the tragedy, but she had no idea how. He was like a color she had become, a vision she had seen, a dream she had had, and there was no way to separate herself from him now.