Silent Star Read Free

one with whom to share it.
    Yawning and stretching as best he could under the covers, Andy forced himself to sit up. For the first time in a long month of Sundays, he actually had a purpose.
    He decided to forego trying to figure out anything for breakfast. Instead, he dressed warmly and took up a saw that hung in the mudroom. In his backyard, a large pine tree offered shade in the summer and the hope of springtime green in the winter.
    Carefully, Andy trimmed branches from the pine. He only needed a few. Gathering the pieces in his arms, Andy took them to the kitchen table. For the rest of the morning he worked to fashion a wreath for his mother and father’s grave. The project gave him a feeling of accomplishment and passed the time in a bearable way.
    Outside and across the alley, Andy heard the laughter of the neighborhood children at play. A quick glance at his watch showed the hour to be after one. Church was out and lunch was over. No doubt the kids were building forts and snowmen. They would probably play all afternoon. Andy envied their happiness—their ability to keep thoughts of war from overshadowing the beauty around them.
    As he walked through the neighborhoods toward the cemetery, Andy could see the bustle of activities going on in the houses that he passed. Families were gathered for a day of rest—making plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas, enjoying their time together.
    He found it hard to keep walking, knowing that he had no part in the warmth and love that could be seen there.He wished they would all just pull the drapes and close the shutters. It’s better not to even look, he told himself. It’s less painful not knowing what’s happening than to watch and know that I have no place.
    But even when the drapes were pulled there was the stark, unforgettable reminder of the blue and gold stars that represented those in the service. Blue for the living. Gold for the dead. Banners of recognition and pride. Banners of hope . . . and of sorrow.
    Andy knew a sort of fatal attraction to those silent stars. He watched for them—searching the windows of each house where he delivered those horrible little telegrams. He felt personally responsible for every gold star he saw that day on Chester Street, Washington Street, and all the others across the town.
    No wonder the residents of those houses hated the very sight of him. It was no different from when the Williams family, who lived across the street, had lost their three-year-old son to meningitis. Mr. Williams finally took down the swing where the boy had played, for the sight of it was too painful. Just as the sight of Andy was too painful. If they could remove him, Andy had no doubt they would do exactly that.
    The walk to the cemetery gave Andy plenty of time to consider his plight. He often thought of running away. After all, there were others who delivered telegrams, just as he did. There were other telegraph stations across the nation where other lonely 4-Fs worked to keep the lines of communication open. Someone would keep spreading the message if he decided to walk away. Someone would continue to bear the bad news. Why should it be him?
    But then he remembered how hard his father had worked to buy the house. “This will be yours one day, Andy,” his father had told him with great pride.
    And now it was his. His alone. Bought and paid for. How could he just walk away from it? Sell it and leave for another part of the country? He’d only find other mothers and wiveswho were dreading those horrible slips of paper just as much as they dreaded them in Haven, Pennsylvania.
    Andy opened the wrought-iron gate to the cemetery and shuffled through the snow. The uncleared path surprised him. The caretaker was usually quite good about tending the walkways. When he drew near to the place where his parents’ graves lay side by side, Andy cut across the field and came to stand directly at the head of their resting place.
    He cleared away the snow from his