I didn’t see very much of Clara or Ben over those next few weeks. My parents grew worried about having to watch their only son ship out for Europe. My father in particular. Although I never met his brother, my uncle Vincent, I knew his death in the first war is what instilled the fear in my father. Part of us always knew that Ben had a passion for adventure, but we thought it would bring him to those magical places he used to discuss with Clara as a child, not into a battle zone where people were dying everyday. He didn’t even have to say why he wanted to go; we all had our own assumptions. Like I said, I knew it was for adventure and the idea that whatever the army paid him would help our parents rebuild the mechanic business, but I never understood why he wanted that so badly. My father was close to 50 at this point. He didn’t want to go back to working on old automotives that were run into the ground after so many years. He found his solace in working at the local bookstore where he could write all day, while my mother worked down the street at a florist shop that planned weddings and funerals. They certainly weren’t paid a fortune, but they certainly were happy. My brother felt helpless as a child watching them suffer; he wanted to return to that time to try to fix what he couldn’t back then. He couldn’t accept the fact it wasn’t possible.
Finally, Clara reappeared. She telephoned my house, asking to meet me in town between the drugstore and the gazebo the next morning. I agreed to be there without hesitation, feeling as though my time with her was limited. I thought that if my brother were to vanish in the war, Clara would become a memory to my family, as she would eventually go off and find another suitor. I was hoping to salvage whatever childhood friendship I could. If I did lose my brother, she would be the closest connection to him I had. We met that morning. It was the second week of December, and I wearing the heaviest wool coat I had to cover my dress. The scarf my mother had knit for me was a vibrant pop of red against the drab landscape that winter was creating. I saw Clara near the steps of the gazebo.She was wearing a light cardigan, no hat, no scarf, no mittens. She looked pale, which only enhanced the dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. She said she wasn’t cold; the temperature no longer affected her like it would any other person. She was the living dead. But I didn’t know what to say.
To be honest, after so many years passing, I don’t remember what Clara said that day, and I think it was because at the time I didn’t care what she was saying. As bad at it sounds, I didn’t think her words held any importance. I remember talking about the weather, and hearing about the day that Ben was going to leave. But she didn’t say much else. I think she just wanted a friend to talk to.
That was the last time I ever saw her alone. Maybe that was her way of saying goodbye to me. I wish I retained more of it.
Ben shipped off January 3rd, 1943. He came back to my parents house the day prior to tell them, and me, that he would see us as soon as he could. As I walked him to the door and handed him his coat, he handed me an envelope of money for our parents, in case something were to happen to them while he was away. Ben, I don’t think he was thinking clearly around this time. The same day he said goodbye to our parents and me, he went and said goodbye to Clara too. He didn’t want her at the recruiting station when he got on the bus. Maybe because it was too hard for him to see her cry as he went off to do what he felt was right for him, but wasn’t right for her. Maybe he was afraid of wanting to back out, but knowing he couldn’t. Maybe because if he did die, he didn’t want his last thoughts to be of his fiance’s tears. Like I said, I don’t believe Ben was thinking clearly. On his last night with Clara, he waited for her to fall asleep, and waited in the living room of their home until the sun rose and it was time for him to walk to the