Last Christmas Card Read online

  He took a long sip from a can of flat soda on the counter, then moved towards the sofa again. The short walk had loosened his cramped muscles and almost hid the limp that confined him to a desk job these days. The worst fate for a serviceman who spent years training to save lives by diffusing explosives–short of the fate suffered by everyone else the day his patrol stumbled on an unexpected land mine.

  If someone asked him what he wished for most in the world, it would be to rewind time and prevent that day from ever happening. As for the rest, he wouldn't trade anything for those days in the service. When he had a sense of comradeship and family he would probably never know again. That was his world; an existence taken away in a matter of minutes, leaving him stuck between military and civilian life in Connecticut.

  There was no way he was going to make that transition happen, either.

  He ran his fingers through close-shorn sandy hair and glanced towards the mirror. Where a haggard, closed face was visible, surrounded by blond stubble and dark circles from only a few hours of sleep per night.

  "Two more hours to go," he muttered, sinking onto the sofa again. As the digital clock registered five a.m.

  *****

  The handicapped entrance to the Veterans Affairs building was a long walk after a short night's sleep. Tyler pulled open the door and shuffled towards his desk, ignoring the handful of workers armed with military files. He paused only before the wall of fallen heroes. A mosaic of lost officers against a background of the flag.

  There was nothing personal at his desk, except himself. A pile of paperwork threatened to topple over as he plopped down in his chair.

  "Good weekend, Ty?" a young uniformed woman gave him a smile as she passed by.

  "Fine," he answered. Unable to muster more than a brief upward movement of his lips. Somehow he lacked enthusiasm for friendliness in a world of strangers. Even smiling strangers in uniform.

  He propped his sore leg on an open desk drawer, rubbing it mechanically as he flipped through a stack of request forms and unfinished reports. When the phone rang, he lifted the receiver. "Veteran's Affairs, this is Sergeant Lars. How may I help you?"

  It was the same old line as always. His voice a trifle more tired, all the more businesslike in his opinion. As he looked up medical records, mediated with hospitals and rehabilitation centers, aided family members in the long and winding process of applying for medals or military honors.

  "Hi, can you look up a name for me? An address I mean–for a military member in World War II?"

  The voice on the other end was female, possibly young. With a sigh, Tyler shifted his weight impatiently.

  "Can I have your name, Ma'am?" he began. There was a slight pause on the other end.

  "Samantha Sowerman," the voice replied. "I'm calling about a Private Mac Hydberg. He was from Massachusetts, stationed somewhere in Belgium in 1947–"

  "Is he a relative, Ma'am? Or is this call on behalf of an agency involved in Private Hydberg's medical history?" He tapped a pencil against his desk.

  "Oh, no. I don't know him." The voice on the other end sounded confused. "I have something that belongs to him. A letter that he mailed when he was stationed overseas. I think it's really important and I want to talk to him about it, maybe return it to him ...but I guess there might be more than one guy with that name."

  He could tell from her tone that she just now considered this possibility. "Ma'am, I can't give you that information without an official reason," he said. "Military personnel addresses aren't handed out on a bulk list to the public..."

  "It's a Private Mac Hydberg from Boston, Massachusetts," she repeated, pleadingly. "Please, it's really important. If you could just see if there's a current address for someone with that name, I would be incredibly grateful."

  Almost automatically, his fingers had typed the name Hydberg, Mac into the system. Row after row of names identical or similar appeared on the screen, even after he altered the search parameter by year. Most were marked 'deceased'.

  "Nineteen forty-seven was a long time ago," he said. "You realize that the soldier whose address you're requesting–"

  "Is probably already dead? Yeah, I do, but I want to be sure," persisted the caller.

  With a sigh, he drummed his fingers on his desk. He didn't want to give her this information, didn't want to be responsible for breaking the rules and putting some serviceman's name on a list for some senior scam. Why didn't she just find the name online and save him the trouble?

  His eye fell on a name in one of the columns. "There's one listed as alive in Cambridge," he said. "And he is a World War II veteran. I'm afraid that most of the list is deceased, ma'am."

  "In Cambridge? Okay, that'll help." The female voice sounded brighter. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome," he answered, somewhat gruffly. He hoped she was planning to hang up now and leave him alone in the future. Maybe a try a search engine and realize just how fruitless her search really was.

  When he placed the phone in the receiver, he saw the mistake on the screen. The Cambridge address for a Mark Hydberg–next to a deceased Mac Hydberg from Boston.

  Scowling, he closed the program window and rubbed his tired eyes. She probably wouldn't even bother to contact this guy. It probably didn't matter that it was the wrong soldier. It was possible she didn't even have the right name, since all she had was a letter from the guy.

  He pulled a bottle of aspirin from his desk drawer and popped it open. If he took one now, the muscle soreness would disappear for a little while and he wouldn't have to think about morning patrol or the faces of the fellow soldiers erased from his unit in a split second.

  *****

  An M. Hydberg was listed in the Cambridge yellow pages. Samantha circled it and his address as she propped her feet on the bus seat in front of her. A long ride on a morning she should be finishing her articles for Global Outreach. At least her work wasn't due for another two weeks, giving her time to track down the card's original sender. Maybe he had some idea what happened to Bette Larsen.

  The former soldier's home was crammed between an apartment building and a social services office. Scraggly shrubs trimmed in a moth-eaten fashion on either side of the home's concrete steps, shaded by a worn green awning. She rapped on the glass storm door and waited for a response. Her heart was hammering, although the chances that Mac Hydberg would answer were slim. Probably a caretaker or assisted living nurse was here.

  After a long wait, the door opened slightly. A frail man in a faded shirt, oxygen lines traveling from his face to a tank beside him.

  "Mr. Hydberg?" she asked. The man nodded, a deep frown on his face.

  "Do I know you?" his voice trembled slightly. "The agency said they were sending somebody new..."

  "Actually, I think I have something that belongs to you. Well, used to belong to you," she interrupted. "Um, can I come inside?"

  He drew open the door and let her step into the living room. An untidy pile of newspapers on the floor beside a recliner, a television tuned to a game show. She could smell toast and burned coffee from the kitchen, the strong scent of tuna fish. A shaggy dog pricked up its ears from its curled-up position near the window.

  "That's Jip. He won't hurt anyone." Mr. Hydberg closed the door behind her. "Have a cup of coffee, if you want one. Still some in the pot." He shuffled towards the kitchen as Samantha followed.

  Trembling hands poured the contents of a percolator into two mismatched cups, as Samantha watched from her seat at the scrubbed kitchen table. Instinctively, she reached to do it for him, then thought better of it. Noticing the quiet dignity with which dishes were stacked on the counter, the rows of canned food beside the stove.

  "I guess you didn't find that library book I lost," he chuckled. "Must've left the thing on a bus somewhere. Reckon I'll have to pay the fine after all."

  Fishing through her bag, Samantha pulled the worn envelope from inside. Carefully, she held it out.

  "Is this the card you mailed when you were
stationed overseas?" she asked. "To Bette Larsen?"

  He paused, a spoon and creamer container in his hands. A funny look appeared on his face, as if he didn't understand her words. Setting both things slowly on the table, he took the envelope in hand.

  "Bette who?" he said. "I didn't know anybody named Bette when I was in the service. A Betty or two, maybe, and a Lisbette..." He trailed off, looking at the postmark in the envelope's corner, the faded writing on the paper.

  Fumbling with his glasses, he slid them on. "Private Mac Hydberg," he read aloud. "Now see, that's not me. I never went by Mac, no sir. Went by Mark my whole life."

  "Mark?" she repeated. "But the officer at the veteran's office said you were listed as Mac."

  "Well, he made a mistake," answered Mr. Hydberg. "My commander never called me anything but Sergeant Mark Hydberg." He handed her the envelope again.

  "I know this seems crazy," she said, blushing. "I'm really sorry I bothered you. It's just ... this came to my house a few days ago. Somehow it got lost in the mail for sixty years. And I just wanted the right person to have it."

  "Sixty years," he said, softly. "Well, isn't that something." His fingers fumbled with a sugar packet, dumped it into one of the cups before pushing the little basin of packets towards her own cup.

  "I wrote to a Maggie when I was in the war," he said. "Maggie Blythe. We were steady all through high school. Gave her my ring and told her that I was happy to get married when I got back."

  Samantha tore open a sugar pack and stirred it into her coffee, the acrid liquid smelling of scorched grounds in the bottom of the pot. "So did she wait for you?" she asked.

  "Nope," he answered. "She wrote awhile, then started sending fewer and fewer letters. There was something in her words that didn't feel right. I didn't know what, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fix it."

  He took a sip of his coffee. "Turns out she was seeing a boy back home. Got sent home wounded a few weeks after I shipped out. Kind of a hometown hero."

  For a moment, he was quiet. "Guess the medals meant more to her than the waiting," he said. "When I got home, she was already married. Somebody sent me a clipping from the newspaper. She told me in her last letter when I was overseas, then never wrote again."

  "I'm sorry," said Samantha. "I didn't meant to bring up the past like this..."

  He chuckled. "Yeah, you did, toting around that card to find its owner. Nothing but the past in that."

  She laughed, softly. "I guess you're right," she answered. "I didn't think of it that way. Too caught up in the search for Bette."

  Another moment of silence passed, as Mr. Hydberg swallowed the contents of his coffee cup, fumbling a little so the lukewarm liquid splashed into the saucer. He nodded pleasantly as Samantha commented on the framed postcard on the wall, the twining potato vine kept well-watered by the sink.

  As he rose and put his cup in the sink, his brow wrinkled with concentration. "Mac Hydberg," he repeated. "Seems I might've met somebody in the service with that name. Maybe when I was first stationed overseas. Thought we might be cousins or something."

  "I guess there's no chance you saw him when you came back to Massachusetts," ventured Samantha. "Maybe in Boston?"

  Mr. Hydberg laughed. "Afraid I don't remember," he said. He reached for Samantha's empty cup, pausing to awkwardly pat her hand.

  "Good luck with your search, missy. I hope that card's owner has a happier story than mine."

  "Thank you," she answered. The front buzzer sounded as she tucked the card into her bag again.

  "That'd be the nurse from the agency," he said. "Come to help with my therapy." He pushed the tank along as he shuffled towards the front door.

  "I should go," said Samantha, pushing her chair back from the table and following. "You've been so kind. I'm so sorry I bothered you for no reason."

  "You didn't bother me with nothing," he answered. "Nice to see a young face now and then. Somebody who doesn't think the past is all dead history, either."

  She thought about his words on the bus home, as she studied the worn envelope from the mail. Wondering if Bette Larsen would care as little about this Christmas card as Maggie Blythe did when she was still writing her soldier. There was a chance that even if she found Bette or Mac, they might toss it aside with indifference. If she ever found them, that is.

  As she carefully stroked the yellowed paper, one thought kept popping into her head that had nothing to do with Mac or Bette and their forgotten connection. It had everything to do with the brusque voice who gave her the wrong name and address over the phone.

  *****

  Ty reheated the leftover fish sticks in his refrigerator. The same ones from last night, but it didn't matter to him since it was a fast meal that didn't require thought. He pulled a bottle of pickles from the fridge and limped towards the bread drawer.

  The sound of the phone ringing in the living room made him hesitate. Nobody called him unless it was work-related. Setting the jar on the counter, he moved towards the sound. Ignoring the stiffness in his leg as he rested one hand on the table, the other on the receiver.

  "Ty here," he said.

  "Sergeant Lars, right?" The voice on the other end sounded slightly familiar. "I looked you up in the phone book and I assume you're the same one who works in Veteran's Affairs."

  He recognized the voice by now. The girl with the letter.

  "Look, Ms.–" he hesitated, trying to remember the name, "Ma'am, I'm sorry that I gave you the wrong address..."

  "Not the wrong address, the wrong person," the voice corrected him. "When I showed up on his doorstep, I felt like an idiot. A complete stranger pestering him about a letter he never even wrote."

  She had actually gone to Cambridge to meet this guy? He was floored by the idea. At the most, he thought she would phone someone, not show up for a face-to-face meeting.

  "And it's Samantha Sowerman, by the way," she added, after a moment.

  "I'm sorry," he repeated. "If you want, Miss Sowerman, I can–"

  "Frankly, I'm not sure I should ask for your help again," she laughed. "I mean, the last time I ended up meeting the wrong person in Cambridge, so I might be better off on my own."

  He let silence occupy the line while he rubbed his sore leg. Guilt crept through his veins like a virus over his mistake. He owed her something to make up for it; when he was at his best in his unit, he never cut corners and never let anyone down like this.

  "Maybe there's something I can do," he said. "If I understood what was so important about this letter you have ... then I could figure out how to find its sender." Now if this was some kind of scam, maybe he would scare her away. If not, then maybe he would find an answer to her problem.

  "You're in Connecticut, right?" Samantha Sowerman asked. "That's not that far for me to come. If I met you, I could explain it better, I think."

  Met him? Was she crazy? He wondered where on earth this person was that she planned to drop by and tell him some crazy story about a letter she found.

  "You could come by my office if you want," he began.

  "I think there's probably a cafe near the bus station," she said. "I could meet you there for lunch if you're free around one or so."

  "Do you work nearby, Ma'am?" he asked.

  "No, but I have plenty of time," she answered. "It's not a problem for me to meet if it's not for you."

  This was crazy. And weird. But he felt he owed her this after his mistake. The kind of carelessness he wouldn't have allowed in the past.

  "All right, fine," he said. "If you'll tell me which one it is, I'll be there around twelve forty-five."

  "I'll call you back." Samantha's voice sounded more cheerful now. He heard a click and the sound of a dial tone. She was gone and he was committed to having lunch with a total stranger in search of another stranger.

  Almost as crazy as going to a total stranger's house over an old letter.

  *****

  There were only two other people in the cafe as Samanth
a sat in the corner booth thumbing through her Bible. A man sat at the counter chomping into a sandwich, while a college boy chatted on a cell phone at a window table.

  The next customer who entered wore a faded jacket with a military emblem on the sleeve. A pair of jeans and worn sneakers, hair close-cropped to reveal a short scar traveling along his temple.

  When he spotted her, he crossed the room with a firm stride that favored his left leg. Pausing with a slight smile when he reached her table.

  "Miss Sowerman?" he asked. She nodded.

  "You must be Sergeant Lars," she said, closing the leather cover and placing it aside. "I'm Samantha." She held out her hand.

  He shook it, then slid into the booth across from her. "I guess I was expecting someone a little ... older." She wondered why he said that, since the only notable thing about their phone conversation was her persistence. Perhaps it was to cover for the fact that, despite her semi-shabby casual attire–a camp t-shirt, a pair of khakis–he kept staring at her. As if he found something striking about her corkscrew blond hair and clear complexion.

  "Maybe you expected me to be older because I'm asking you about somebody from World War II," she said, with a smile. "I know it may seem a little odd, but it's important. That's why I'm trying to find him."

  She pulled a piece of paper from her bag. "This is it," she said. "It's a card, actually. I know, because I steamed it open." With a blush as she admitted this.

  He took hold of the envelope and studied it. A yellowed piece of paper with colored stamps and cursive letters forming the address. The flap was partly open, so he lifted the edge and pulled the card from inside. A blue and white folded sheet.

  She watched his face as he read it, studying his haggard features, the curve of his jaw. He was still young, but there was something old in his attitude. A look of sadness in his face even when he smiled.Right now, his expression was serious as he gazed at the lines on the paper. The lines around his mouth softened as he carefully folded it again.