The Art Student's War by Brad Leithauser

Author:Brad Leithauser [Leithauser, Brad]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-27318-5
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2009-04-05T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XXIII

At home, Edith had a problem—the sort of problem no child on earth except Edith would have.

Months and months ago, she had been given the name of a soldier to write to. Each student in Edith’s homeroom had been randomly assigned a soldier, but it seemed safe to say no classmate had a letter in the mail sooner than Edith did—an extremely long and no doubt extremely informative letter. Her soldier’s name was Ira Styne.

And surely no classmate would have kept on writing even when no reply materialized. She must have written half a dozen letters in all. Now, miraculously, a letter addressed to Edith Paradiso appeared and, more miraculous still, it enclosed a five-dollar bill.

Bea studied the letter minutely. Everyone in the family studied it minutely. A total stranger had just sent little Edith a five-dollar bill! The soldier’s penmanship seemed childish or shy—the letters were very small—but the tone and vocabulary were wry and sophisticated.

Private Styne apologized for being so tardy. “All sorts of things came up. To tell you the truth, I had a bit of a time for a while. Anyway, I won’t bore you with the details, except to say I’m very sorry.

“I was interested to hear that you like mathematics,” he went on. “It’s very strict, isn’t it? I think I like math less than I used to.

“Speaking of math, I enclose five hundred pennies in convenient paper form. Rereading your letters, I was distressed to see that I missed your birthday a few weeks ago. You have become a teenager! This is a very special birthday: thirteen. The gift comes with one strict condition attached: you must spend it on something that makes you very happy.”

Edith’s problem—or at least her larger problem—did not involve the gift itself. She knew precisely what to do with the money. She would buy four dollars’ worth of war stamps—she would support our boys—and she would reserve the remaining dollar for treats for herself. No, the problem was what to do with the letter. Specifically, could she legitimately place it in her scrapbook entitled “My Testimonials”?

When Bea eventually realized how much Henry would have enjoyed this story, tears came to her eyes … Henry would have understood Edith’s quandary. He would have taken it seriously. Edith couldn’t place it in her scrapbook if it wasn’t an authentic testimonial.

The letter had arrived from a stranger, like a testimonial, but in response to mail from Edith, like a regular letter. Would it make sense to compile a new scrapbook, of notable correspondence—or was it a testimonial?

Henry would never have the opportunity to savor this story; Henry would never extend any helpful advice.

Haunted as she was, it was the most haunting thought Bea knew: the sentence that began, Henry will never … When she stepped off the bus, it was, Henry will never see Woodward Avenue again. When she stood in front of the white stucco house, each and every window decoration on the left precisely balancing a twin decoration on the right, it was, Henry will never see his home again.

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