The Weight Of His Name

John was walking down a street, carrying a worn duffel bag over his shoulder. His uniform was faded. His heart pounded as he approached a house. It was home. The war was over. But as he got closer, he stopped and looked at his house closely. Something was wrong. The windows were dark. The paint was peeling. The front porch sagged. Weeds had grown through the cracks in the walkway, and there was papers, empty bottles and cans scattered across the yard. He walked quickly at first then started running to the front door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open. 

“Abby?”His voice echoed through the empty rooms. There was no answer. He stepped inside. The house was almost completely empty. No furniture. No children’s toys. No photographs on the walls. Nothing. He walked from room to room, becoming more frantic with every step. He ran back outside. Across the street, an older neighbor was standing on his porch watching him. 

The old man barely recognized him. 

“John? . . . is that you? You are … alive.” He hesitated as he said it. 

He stared at the neighbor. “Where is my wife?”  

“She left a long time ago.”

“Where did she go?” 

The neighbor looked uncomfortable. “She went with her brother.”

John shook his head. “No. No, she wouldn’t.” 

The neighbor said nothing. “What about my children? Peter and Tommy?”  

The man’s expression changed as he looked to the ground. “ I think you ought to go see your family John.”  John couldn’t believe it. Jack and him never warmed up to each other or saw things eye to eye. That pompous little prick lived in Texas which was a long way from New Jersey. He didn’t even know his address.

He looked back at the empty house. His wife was gone. His children were gone. And he hadn’t been there. He dropped his duffel bag onto the sidewalk and sat next to it. This was not the welcome he anticipated. Suddenly, he heard a woman’s saddened voice behind him. 

“You want to know where I went?” 

He turned. His wife was standing at the end of the street. She looked older, frail and exhausted. Her clothes were worn, and her face was thin. He took a step toward her. 

“Abby. . .” 

She didn’t move. 

“I am home.”

She stared at him. 

“I know.” She was a few steps away but he felt an immeasurable the distance between them.

“I was looking for you.” 

“No.”

He stopped, taken aback by her response. 

“I came back for you and for the children. Where are they?”  

Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice was now cold. 

“There are no children to come back for.”

“What. . .do you mean? Where are they? …It took a long time .. I am sorry. Please , tell me where are they?”

“You don’t get to say that. You left us. You left me and two young children. One month after another we waited for you. Your sons died waiting for you . . . I couldn’t save them. And where were you? ” 

He took a few steps toward her.

“I had to go.”

“You had a choice.” 

“I did it for you. . . for the kids.” 

“For us?” Her voice shattered. “You were not here. We waited for you.”

“I was fighting for our country.” He was now in front of her. 

“And I was fighting to keep our family alive.”

He reached for her hand. She pulled away. She looked directly into his eyes. Her voice became barely a whisper. “Where were you?”

He couldn’t answer. She stepped backward. “Where were you?” She repeated. 

He opened his mouth, but. . . nothing came out. Abby turned away from him and started walking. 

“Where were you?” The question echoed through the empty street.

John began running after Abby. He wondered how she walked away that far so quickly. He called out after her but she didn’t stop or turn around. As he got closer and reached out to stop her, he woke up in his bedroom, drenched in sweat with a violent gasp. He heard his wife’s breathing peacefully beside him. He got up and walked to his children’s room. They were both there sleeping safe and sound. He stood there watching them sleep. He walked and knelt beside one bed and gently touched Tommy’s hair then held Peter’s little hand. Tears ran down his face. He then took a deep breath and returned to the bedroom. The nightmare had felt completely real. As he got into bed, Abby stirred. Half asleep she asked if he was okay. 

He looked at her and for a brief moment, he almost told her everything. Instead, he just said yes. He laid next to her and held her tightly as he listened to the soft rhythm of her breathing until he fell asleep. 

Only a few months earlier, John had spent his days shaking hands with customers, trying to convince families that could afford a new automobile and explaining financing. He was a car salesman. But, as the country went to war with Japs and the Nazis, the dealership had little business. He had been out of work for months. He searched for work everyday and came home each afternoon with the same answer for his wife: “Nothing today.” Abby had tried not to let him see her worry, but he knew better. Peter, their youngest, had recently learned to walk, and Tommy had started asking why Daddy wasn’t going to work anymore. The bills were piling up on the kitchen table, and the money he had saved was disappearing faster than he wanted to admit. 

This morning, he walked briskly as he buried his hands deep in the pockets of his worn overcoat. He told Abby he was going to look for work. That part was true. But he didn’t tell her where he intended to go. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her. As he reached his destination he a took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Inside, the room was crowded with young men. Some looked barely old enough to shave. Others were older, married men like himself, sitting quietly and staring at the floor. A large American flag hung in the corner with recruitment posters that covered the walls. 

A sergeant looked up as John walked in. 

“Looking to enlist?” He asked. John Nodded. 

“Name?”

“John. . .John Mckenna.” 

“John, you understand you are volunteering for Military Service?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have a family?”

John paused. 

“Yes sir. A wife and two children.”

The sergeant looked at him intently before asking. “She knows you are here?”

This time John looked down. 

“No, sir.” 

The sergeant did not respond and leaned back in his chair. 

“You ought to think carefully about that.” 

“I have.” He swallowed hard, then added quietly “If I tell her, she will try to stop me.”

“And you still want to go?”

“To be frank sir, I don’t know if I want to go but I sure don’t know what else I can do.” 

The sergeant studied him for a moment then slid a form and a pencil across his desk before adding: “Just know before you pick up that pencil, that this can’t be undone so take your time.” 

John picked up the form and the pencil and walked to one of the empty chairs. For a moment, he simply held the pencil above the paper. He thought of his wife asleep beside him the night before. He remembered the way Peter had reached for him that morning, still half asleep. He felt a lump in his throat as he looked at the form in front of him. He was scared. He knew nothing about war. But he also knew he couldn’t sit at home and watch their savings disappear while the country was calling for men. Most importantly, signing this form could provide his family with financial stability that he can’t provide right now staying home. He wouldn’t be unemployed anymore. He would be a soldier. 

John’s focus returned back to the form and the pencil held tightly in his hand. Then, he signed his name.