NOVEMBER 8, 2023
SAME DAY, DIFFERENT LETTER – MINNEAPOLIS, MN – JULY 7, 1967
The postman pushed his cart along the sidewalk and stopped in front of the next house. He pulled out the mail addressed to “Berg.” The top letter was from the U.S. Army and was addressed to “Mr. David Berg.” As the postman approached the front door of the house, a woman in her early 50s stepped out onto the front step and picked up the Minneapolis Star. She caught the headline—”McNAMARA IN SAIGON FOR FATEFUL TALKS”—and noticed a smaller, related caption—”Two B-52s Collide, Crash in South China Sea.”
“Hello, Mrs. Berg!” the postman called out.
“Hi.”
Furtively, the postman shifted the army letter to the bottom of the stack of letters and handed them to Mrs. Berg, as she held the door open.
“Thank you,” she said, eyeing the top letter.
“Sure thing, Mrs. Berg,” the postman said with a forced smile. He looked at her for moment, adjusted his cap, turned and took a hesitating step toward his cart. As if he could feel Mrs. Berg looking at him, he stopped and turned around, just as she herself was turning to pull open the screen door.
“Oh . . . uh, Mrs. Berg?” he said.
“Yes?” she let the door close but kept her hand on the handle.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” she asked, puzzlement creasing her forehead. “Sorry about what?”
“Oh . . . nothing. It’s fine. It’ll be fine, Mrs. Berg.”
As the postman continued on his way, the woman remained on the front step, sifting through the mail. She stopped when she got to the Army letter.
Inside the house, she placed the newspaper and all the mail except the Army letter onto the table in the entryway. Holding onto the envelope with both hands, she stepped into the living room and dropped onto one of the well-cushioned chairs facing the TV. Soon after she’d finally laid the anticipated notice on her lap, the back screen door slammed.
As the young man stepped into the kitchen, the dog woke, jumped to his feet with tail wagging furiously and barked a sharp welcome. The man knelt down beside the collie and rubbed the dog rigorously behind the ears.
“Mom?” he called.
“Yes, dear,” she answered. “I’m in here.”
“What’s wrong?” he said, upon entering the living room and noticing the letter in her hand and concern in her face.
“It came today. Your orders.” She stood up and extended her arms to embrace him, and he wrapped his arms around her. As the dog attempted to nuzzle his way between them, mother and son clutched each other against their unspoken fears.
After pressing him extra close, the mother patted her son’s back, released him, and slipped the letter into his hand. “I need to get supper going,” she said, moving away to hide her tears. “Your dad will be home soon.”
The son tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter in the same manner as he would face the frigid water up at the lake: the only way to confront bad news was to plunge, not wade. He was to report for basic training at Fort Dix, New Jersey, in less than a month.
He flicked on the TV and plopped down on one of the TV chairs to wait for the tube to warm up. In time, Walter Cronkite appeared, his voice and countenance conveying an unwelcome and familiar gravity upon the room. As footage of Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara in Vietnam filled the screen, the dog sat close to the chair and laid his long snout contentedly across his owner’s knees.
“Stupid war, Björn,” he said to his dog. “Why are we fighting over there?” The man turned his sights from Vietnam, grabbed the fur on each side of the dog’s head and looked into his brown, almond-shaped eyes. “You see, buddy, I got my orders. I’m gonna be away for a long, long time. Mom and Dad can’t take care of you, see, and so, I gotta find you another home. A good home, Björn, I promise.”
Tears welled in the man’s eyes, but he would not release his hold on the dog. The dog let out a soft whimper, as his tail drummed against the legs of the side table that separated the chairs.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
