Muckers by Sandra Neil Wallace Read Free Book Online

fellow girls fawn over, though Bobby only cared about one girl—Faye Miller. Me, I’m five foot seven … with wingtips on. I form the letter
i
, in lowercase only.
    I was the kid brother in fourth grade and nowhere near puberty in ’42 when Bobby went to war. Now he’ll miss another birthday. Tomorrow.
    I’m still waiting for Bobby to walk through that door, hand me the football, and slap me on the back, chanting, “Red-ee.” But all I have left are the things I’d taken for granted. Like how he threw rockets on the field and just smiled, watching the touchdown, not making a fuss or anything. Then he’d talk about it with his gang after—holding on to Faye on the cushioned seats in the front window at the diner.
    Me and Rabbit and Cruz would be walking by, so I’d look back like something had distracted me, giving Bobby just enough time to see me—or at least recognize his old Hatley High sweater I’d practically slept in. He’d knock on the glass with a knuckle for us to come in, then put up threefingers for Benny behind the counter, signaling chocolate malts for us.
    I look at the photos from the Mucker annuals I tacked above my bed. They’re of Mr. Mac’s team and Bobby’s. You can’t miss Bobby smiling and sitting cross-legged in the middle of the front row after handing young Teddy, their mascot, the football to hold.
    That’s how it was with Bobby, never wanting it to be about him, but making others feel puffed up and proud. I remember the day that snapshot was taken and going to the field with Bobby right after, tossing the football he’d thrown against Tucson. He showed me the best way to grip the pigskin before you release it: not too tight, but as if you were holding something you’d never want to let go of—like a baby—while still giving it room to breathe. And when I first managed to do it, I felt all puffed up and proud.
    Even Pop wasn’t so angry when we came home after and Bobby told him how well I’d thrown. Then he asked to see Pop’s rock collection. Pop told us about every one of those rocks and where he’d found them, before there was an open pit. He held those rocks like they were babies, too, cradling them in his palm like downy chicks so fragile you forgot that they were stone.
    I don’t look like much in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, and Angie was right: they do look sad. But then they get mad, seeing the letter that’s been clinging to the mirror. I keep it there because it still gets me P.O.’d, and somehow being sore about it helps keep Bobby’s memory alive. I kicked in the bedroom wall the first night I read it, and almost let the notice go up in flames in a bonfire down in the Gulch. But Cruz was there and held out his arm, grabbing my wrist just in time.
    It’s not even on official stationery or anything, those cheap army bastards. It looks just like the stuff Mrs. Normand hands out for us to fool around with in typing class. Anybody could have typed it from here. That’s why it’s still so hard to believe:
    HEADQUARTERS, 2nd BATTALION, 28th MARINES, 5th MARINE DIVISION, FLEET MARINE FORCE, c/o FLEET POST OFFICE, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
    May 2, 1945
    Dear Mr. and Mrs. O’Sullivan:
    It was my sad duty to notify the Commandant of the Marine Corps regarding the death of your son, Robert.
    Your son, Robert, met his death on Iwo Jima, in the following manner: He began the operation as a rifleman, but because of his capabilities Robert was made a radioman, a position which requires a man of courage and clear thinking while under fire. Your son had these qualities and accepted this position, which he knew to be dangerous.
    It was while he was carrying out his duties in a most commendable manner that he was struck by enemy small-arms fire. Robert died instantly and suffered no pain. You may be assured your son gave his life as a true marine, gloriously, fearlessly, and proudly.
    As his commanding officer, I wish you to know that Robert was a man of whom we