The Summer House by Jean Stone

for it, Beebs.”
    “Big deal. I can’t believe Father couldn’t stop it.”
    “Vietnam is bigger than Washington.”
    “I don’t care about Washington. I care about you. It’s going to change you, Daniel. If you come back at all, you’ll be different.”
    “I’ll be older. That’s all.”
    “I watch the news. So do you.” She looked down at her feet, then at the water that lapped the rock. She kicked at it, splashing it up onto her legs, up onto Daniel’s. What she really wanted to do was dive onto the rocks and into the water and never come up.
    “Maybe I’ll be a hero,” he continued. “Don’t you want a brother who’s a hero?”
    She shook her head. “I want a live brother. Not a dead hero.”
    This time he did not respond, but his arm held her more tightly, as if maybe, just maybe, he was a little bit worried about that godforsaken hot jungle, too.
    Tears stung the corners of Evelyn’s eyes. She sat in the rocking chair of Grandfather’s dimly lit, stale bedroom and tapped her feet to the erratic beat of his labored breath. With each tap, her anguish rose another notch.
    Daniel Adams was off to war and she had to hear it from the postmaster who was also a neighbor and who had run into Michael Barton at the ferry; Michael, when questioned, had not denied that Daniel’s orders had arrived.
    Which, of course, Evelyn had prayed would happen because one did not get to be president by being a pansy, or at least that was what Grandfather always said. Still, Daniel should have told her himself that the orders had finally arrived. Then she wouldn’t have had to call theAdamses’ house at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning and wake up the whole family.
    However, she was not welcome to see him. “Family time,” he explained, “you understand.” Well, she didn’t, not really, but he said he’d write when he had a chance. And he would, she knew he would.
    In the future, after all, they would be together.
    From across the room came the mournful sounds: hish, swish; hish, swish.
    She looked at the old man who lay under the sheets, and ached with the fear that he would die before she and Daniel were married and that Daniel wouldn’t want to marry her once her grandfather and his connections were gone. She’d be all alone then.
    She closed her eyes and swallowed a small lump that had grown in her throat.
    She supposed that technically, she already was an orphan. Her father had died his own hishy, swishy death three years ago from internal injuries from a Vineyard car crash that had killed her mother on the spot. Within forty-eight hours they were both dead, and Evelyn was left with Grandfather—and he was left with her.
    Now he’d be gone soon, too. There would be the traditional funeral for a United States congressman, and Evelyn would be in the spotlight for one lousy day.
    She opened her eyes and pushed back her tears.
    Maybe Daniel would be allowed to come to the funeral from wherever he was. She’d have to remember to speak to Senator Jameison about that. She’d have to pull a few strings, but it should be easy, easier than being alone.
    She looked back to Grandfather and realized that if he died he would never know she had given away his prized pistol, pretending it was from him. Grandfather would never know, so he would never be angry at her. But thenagain, maybe he would understand. Maybe he would even approve.
    Summer Sundays on the Vineyard were usually filled with the aroma of Mother’s fresh muffins, the intermingling rustle of The Boston Globe and The New York Times , and the chatter of who was doing what today with whom and at what time.
    This morning, however, the air in the kitchen had the pallor of a funeral home and the waxy whispers of the dead, as if Daniel had already left for boot camp, as if he were already on his way. To make matters worse, Evelyn Carter had called at seven o’clock.
    “More coffee?” Mother murmured to Father, who responded only with a silent shake of his