Chapter 6:

“Summer romances end for all kinds of reasons, but when all is said and done, they have one thing in common: they are shooting stars. A spectacular moment of light in the heavens, a fleeting glimpse of eternity, and then, in a flash, they’re gone…”

“I don’t like this story anymore, Eli,” Mr Anderson’s voice is small.

“What? Why not?” Kurt asks, looking up, his reading glasses perched low on his nose.

“I don’t like it. Let’s do something else,” Mr Anderson’s hands are crossed tightly in front of him and he’s slowly started hunching forward.

This isn’t good, Kurt realises, he needs to move ahead carefully or else everything is going to come crashing down. It’s a good day. It has to be.

“Come on,” he says brightly, “Let’s get some air.”  Carefully closing the notebook in his hands, Kurt shuffles forward on his seat, bracing his legs to start moving again. He manages to haul himself up without too much of a show.

“I- I don’t know,” Mr Anderson replies, watching Kurt slowly adjust to being upright.

“It’ll be nice to stretch these ancient limbs of ours. This is a good place for a break, anyway.”

“Kurt and Blaine do end up together, don’t they?” Mr Anderson’s eyes are hopeful as he accepts Kurt’s hand, steadying him as he clambers to his feet as well.

“You don’t want me spoiling the ending for you, do you?” Kurt asks. He keeps a firm hold on Mr Anderson’s elbow, steadying him.

“I just wish I could figure this out,” Mr Anderson complains. Kurt breathes a sigh of relief. Last week Mr Anderson had grown frustrated with the story near this point and had refused to listen to it any longer. If Kurt can just keep him interested…

They shuffle slowly out of the sun room. Breakfast is long finished by now and visiting hours have started. Several young folk are milling around the visitors lounge, and Kurt worries if anyone will come for him today. He hopes so, there are a few faces he needs to see and it has been a tough few weeks. On the other hand, it’s a good day for Mr Anderson, and Kurt doesn’t want to risk wasting any of it. It could be a really good day.

“And where do you think you’re dragging your saggy old asses?” A biting voice asks from behind. Kurt smiles reassuringly at Mr Anderson and turns around slowly.

“Fresh air is good for these dusty old lungs. You would know, except you hardly ever leave the city,” he retorts.

A tall, elderly woman stands before him. She is clutching a bouquet of dandelions and lemon grass, neatly gather together with a long green ribbon. Her soft grey hair falls in folds around her face, which is still strikingly beautiful, even in its old age.

“New York gets plenty of fresh air! Don’t tell me that your memory is going too,” she retorts. Kurt winces.

“I mean – Oh, Eli, I didn’t – that was–”

“It’s okay, Santana,” Kurt says quietly. “I have many ailments these days. I hope my memory stays.”

There is an awkward silence. Mr Anderson looks apprehensively from Kurt to the new comer, not knowing how to help. His clutch on Kurt’s hand tightens slightly.

“I’m Santana,” the woman says after a moment, holding her hand out to Mr Anderson. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you,” Mr Anderson replies, a charming smile settling across his face. “You… live in New York City?”

“I do. I’m just here visiting an old friend today.”

“Not… not Kurt?”

“No. Well, not that Kurt isn’t an old friend. He’s got more wrinkles than a Downy commercial –,”

“Hey!”

“- even after years of carefully applying pastes and creams to his face,”

“My skin-care routine is flawless!”

“Yes, you don’t look a day over eighty.”

“I’m only seventy-eight!”

“Really?” Santana said, a glint of humour betraying the good-natured quality of the teasing. Kurt can see Mr Anderson slowly relaxing, even if his grip is still strong.

“At least I don’t live with my children,” Kurt retorts, falling easily into this banter. He knows this. This is familiar.

“My son and his crazy wife are happy to have me! Just because they feel I can’t be trusted to take the subway by myself anymore, doesn’t mean we resent the arrangement. Besides, at least I’m still in New York. You are surrounded by all this green stuff and old people.”

“You are old too, Santana.”

“Bitch, please. I wear ancient well.”

“You were saying about an old friend?” Mr Anderson cuts in with a smile before Kurt can get offended by her insinuation that he doesn’t still look fabulous. He hears Kurt’s huff of irritation and rubs a small circle on Kurt’s arm with his thumb.

“Oh yes. Brittany. Apparently she’s built some sort of nest for one of her cats,” Santana rolls her eyes.

“She has a cat?”

“No. Cats aren’t allowed here. She just built a nest in case her old cat, Lord Tubbington, comes for a visit.” Mr Anderson’s face tilts slightly in confusion.

“Brit is a… strange character,” Kurt supplies.

“Not a word, Hummel,” Santana warns.

“It doesn’t stop us from loving her though,” he adds hastily. “You know that Santana.”

“I know, I know. Sorry, it’s my protective angry streak. It comes out at the strangest times.”

“Well, good luck with her,” Mr Anderson says politely. “Kurt and I were just heading out, so…”

“Yeah, yeah. It was nice meeting you, Mr Anderson,” Santana says, giving Kurt a quick hug. Well, quick by 78-year-olds standards. “Good luck, Kurt,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks,” Kurt replies.

They carefully make their way along the hall and down broad back steps before Kurt speaks again. “She visits Brittany every week. It’s a long way to travel for her, but she never misses.”

“Are – are they…? Were they together?” Mr Anderson’s tone betrays how nosy he knows he’s being.

Kurt sighs, heading for a long bench in the shade of an old tree. “No. It’s a sad story, theirs. Both had husbands that… that didn’t treat them right. They were neighbours of mine, before I came here.”

Settling down, Mr Anderson is quiet. He stares into the distance, gaze drifting from the lake to the woods, and over the other residents, pottering around, most with their visitors.

Kurt itches to continue reading from his notebook. They are at such a critical point, but he can’t push Mr Anderson. That won’t help either of them. Instead, he fills his mind with Santana and Brittany and their stories. At least they were the best of friends through it all.

“Life is unfair, isn’t it?” Mr Anderson ventures after a while.

“Maybe the most unfair thing there is. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth living.”

“And hopefully you can find happiness.”

 “Exactly. There are drops of sunshine in everyone’s lives that make the long haul worth it.”

“There are just larger gaps between the happy times for some people.”

Kurt doesn’t say anything, waiting, forever waiting.

“Let’s continue reading.”

~~~

August 7th, 1941

Dear Blaine,

I do not think that writing this letter is a particularly good idea on my part, but I am struggling to put you from my mind. Ever since you left Lima, now almost a week ago, I feel as if the town got smaller (hard to believe, I know).

You know how when you were little, everything seemed strange and exciting? Every shadow was a monster that needing defeating and everyone you met was a new friend for you to have an adventure with? As I grew up, my world seemed to expand, not shrink. Suddenly there was more than just my backyard with its endless cycle of tea parties and exploring. Suddenly there was the park across the way, its trees hiding wild creatures. Then came school, room upon room filled with first interesting facts and then boring lectures. After school, Lima opened up before me. When Rachel and I went out for the first time, out for a night on the town, we thought that Macy’s bar and that strip of almost decent restaurants down by the railway were the most grown-up adventure of all.

While I would never have called that enough, it was all that I knew. It was all that I could imagine, in my limited reality. Rationally I knew. I knew that there was more; A whole world; Cities filled with people; Countries at war with one another. However, I was so busy hiding myself, protecting myself, that I paid the world no mind. I had no interest in them, if they had no interest in me.

But Blaine, you had an interest in me. And with you, a whole world came flooding in.

Now there is more. More than Macy’s bar. More than sewing endless seams. More than hiding and waiting and hoping that I get my chance. I don’t know what this “more” is yet, Blaine, but I know surely that I have you to thank for it, because most of all I know this: with you came happiness. You showed me that I could be liked for my own merits and not because I was simply there.

I miss you, Blaine. I miss you so much. I can’t visit my mother’s tree without tracing the feel of your lips on mine. I can’t pass a streetlight without remembering your loud, all-consuming laughter, giddy with relief. And I can’t drive in Finn’s damn truck without fearing for my life, no matter how smoothly it’s running. I miss you and I wish you were here.

I miss you

I’ll be seeing you

Kurt

He couldn’t actually bring himself to fold the paper. On his desk lay an envelope: Stamped. Addressed. Expectant. Unfortunately his fingers and his head were on the same team. His heart had gotten as far as forcing his fingers to write this letter, as it had four others before it, but then he got to this point.

Just fold it, Kurt.

The paper had trembled as he’d tried to keep his hands steady. The corners wouldn’t line up if he couldn’t keep his fingers under control.

No.

The paper fluttered to the ground. There were a million and one reasons why he shouldn’t fold that paper. They were piled up and stuffed into his bottom drawer, under his original dress patterns. They burst out between the pages of other letters he’s written, secret, guarded, hidden from the world. The reasons and the accompanying letters could never see the light of day, but he couldn’t stop himself from writing them, feeling them, anyway.

His fingers traced the same word over and over.

He grabbed the envelope from the table. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he wanted to, he couldn’t. The drying paper crumpled under the pressure from his anxious fingers. He yanked open his bottom drawer, and grabbed the fragile pattern paper, the patterns that contained the side of him that still hoped; a side that dreamed in the dark of the night that maybe one day, one day he’d see Blaine again. Slipping the letter and it’s envelope into the drawer, buried beneath his hopes, he shut it before he could possibly change his mind.

His fingers almost stumbled over the boldness of the first letter before curling around the others.

Don’t do this to yourself, he asserted firmly (for maybe the sixtieth time in the past few days). Thinking about Blaine drove him crazy. It always started off accidentally. He would do something that reminded him of Blaine, he would see something that he thought Blaine might like, he came across something that he wanted to share, and suddenly Blaine was there. Blaine would settle like a heavy weight on his chest, demanding to be remembered, each one of their moments replaying through his mind. He’d relive them over and over until a pathetic voice told him to stop it. If only that voice would be stronger.

~~~~

October 2nd, 1941

“Do I contradict myself? Fine, so I contradict myself.”

Blaine leaned on his elbow, not even vaguely aware of what was going on in the lecture, the professors’ voice droning on in the background. His eyes had been fixed on the blackboard, which had “the leaves of grass” written on it, but his focus had shifted until he was looking but not seeing anything.

Classes at Harvard had started a few weeks before, and Blaine had finished settling in at his campus dorm, but honestly, he still felt restless. For the first few weeks his mind could never focus on one thing, always drifting back to turkey sandwiches, blue eyes and fields of wheat. The last few weeks of summer had been horrible, where he was torn between desperation to write a letter to Kurt and horror at having to explain to his mom why he was pining away in his room and sending letters to a boy. He’d decided to explain away his mood by blaming it on end-of-summer-blues. If only that had been true.

The professor droned on, talking about papers that Blaine hadn’t read yet, and throwing theories around that he hadn’t even considered. It was a literature course he used to fill all his pre-law requirements. He wished it was a musical history course.

Crushed at the bottom of his bag, the paper rubbed soft and weak from the weight of several enormous textbooks and the number of times it had been handled, lay a letter. Blaine itched now to retrieve that letter, to pull it out of the envelope and let his anger consume him again. But a quiet classroom would not have been the best place to let his temper slip.

It was a letter from his father. It had arrived a few weeks ago, a few short days after his first phone call with his mother. He had babbled for a few minutes about how Harvard campus was amazing and everything was new and exciting. He was proud of himself because, for the first time since August, he’d been able to feel something other than longing. Eventually he had calmed down enough from his extended rant about his new friends, Wesley and David, to tell her about the classes he’d signed up for. He had been accepted into Harvard under the plan to study Law, but when the start of the semester had rolled around, he’d found himself tempted by several extra classes as well. He signed up for a history of music class for his first semester and would take a theory of music class the following one. His mother had “mm-ed” and “ah-ed” at all the right moments, but Blaine knew that without being able to see her, he’d have no idea what she was really thinking.

So actually, he shouldn’t have been so surprised when this letter from his father arrived. It was unlike his father to really deal with him directly, always promising time that he would later use in other ways, usually “for business”. Blaine had come to accept that from his dad, but when the letter arrived and he recognised the cramped, hurried penmanship, he’d actually allowed himself to get excited. Maybe this would finally be their time; he was at this father’s alma mater, he was following so closely in his footsteps, he was working towards everything they had planned for. Maybe, maybe, they would actually share something for once.

The letter had started out well enough. Simple things, enquiries about how was he settling in, a short paragraph on news from home, a quick update on his brother, Cooper, and how he was settling in at the offices in Columbus. The fact that the letter continued onto a second page should have been warning too.

“Your mother tells me that you’ve taken on some extra classes. While I am very pleased that you feel the need to broaden your mind with a variety of activities, the time for frivolous pastimes has come to an end. This summer you were given a flexible schedule, with free time to acquaintance yourself with people of lower social standing. This I believe will help you in business, knowing the mind of the working class. You were also given time to enjoy your little fascination with instruments. There are, without a doubt, great musical geniuses, Blaine, but do not allow yourself to be distracted from your goals with similar fantasies. You are at Harvard now, the best school, the best opportunity, I could provide for you. Now is the time for you to buckle down and become a man.

I have therefore also written a letter to the administration and have cancelled your enrolment in the music courses. They will only serve as distractions to you and you must focus on your pre-law requirements. I know you only desire to excel in all fields, but I think we can both agree that studying music should rather be left women or tradesmen.”

From there the letter continued as if Montgomery Anderson didn’t realise what he’d done to his son... Which he probably hadn’t. There wasn’t much that Blaine could do after that. The administration refused his pleas to ignore his father’s letter. He didn’t pay the bills. His dad did.

So he endured. He went out with his new friends. He laughed brightly and talked when it was expected of him. He even took a girl dancing one night. He was everything that his father expected him to be, and slowly, he allowed himself to forget who he wanted to be.

~~~

December 8th, 1941

Monday mornings were always met with a resigned sort of harried busyness. Kurt swore as he tripped over Finn’s shoes which had, once again, been discarded in the hall, fixing his tie on the way to the kitchen. He could hear his lazy step-brother shuffling around inside his room, the cacophony of bangs and crashes, a clear indication that he, too, had only just woken up. In the kitchen, Carol was already there, pouring coffee into Burt’s mug as a hot pan sizzled and spat on the stove.

“Morning,” Burt said, as Carol placed a steaming mug down in front of Kurt, too.

Kurt merely grunted, adding milk to his mug.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Carol smiled, flipping whatever was in the frying pan.

“Today, I get to sew buttons onto seventeen blazers. I am so excited, my enthusiasm must be taking over,” Kurt dead-panned, testing the temperature of his coffee.

Burt and Carol rolled their eyes at Kurt’s dramatics, smiling slightly. Outside, they heard the soft thud of the newspaper landing on the front porch. When Finn’s sleep-heavy steps started making their way down the stairs, Burt leaned forward yelling, “Get the newspaper, would you, Finn?”

Glancing at the clock, Kurt realised that he was running dangerously low on time having only 45 minutes to finished getting ready and hurry into town. Draining his coffee with one long pull, scalding his throat slightly, he stood up just as Finn sprinted into the room, a look of panic on his face.

“What’s going on, Finn?” Burt asked, raising an eyebrow at Finn’s shallow breathing and wide eye’s.

“We’ve… America,” he choked out, “We’ve been attacked.” He flipped open the newspaper he was crushing in his hand.

JAPS BOMB HAWAII

DECLARE WAR ON U.S. AND BRITAIN

The bold headline covered the entire front page. It knocked the wind from Kurt’s chest as the whole room seemed to shrink rapidly, and then expand again quickly as Carol gasped.

“Heavens, no!”

“Give that here, Finn,” Burt ordered, reaching for the newspaper. Finn placed it into Burt’s waiting hand, sliding into a seat. Kurt slowly sank into his seat again. He couldn’t remember why he was standing.

“It happened yesterday morning,” Burt muttered, eyes flying over the article inside. “They targeted Pearl Harbour, specifically the USS Arizona and other battle-ready ships. Apparently they are still tallying the dead.”

“Oh, good lord,” Carol groaned, clutching her chest and sliding into the last empty chair at the small family table.

“What time is it?” Burt asked suddenly. “The President is giving an address to the nation at 8.”

They all turned to the clock.

7:52.

“Kurt, turn the radio on,” Burt instructed. Kurt moved slowly, reaching to pull the radio forward, wincing at the screech of static that came with tuning the radio. He found the correct frequency quickly and they all sat back, listening to the fuzzy thrum of the radio.

7:55

Kurt tried really hard to control his thoughts, but the moment he’d read the headline, Blaine’s face had flashed through his mind, and now, he couldn’t shake the creep of fear that was inching its way into his heart. Where was Blaine right now? Was he huddled around a radio somewhere, anxiously waiting for it to 8 o’clock? He felt relief knowing that Blaine was safely at school, about as far from Hawaii as it was possible to get.

“What does this mean for us?” Finn asked, looking from Carol to Burt, who still was still reading the newspaper, eyes flying across the page.

“Let’s wait to hear from the President,” Burt said calmly.

7:58

Carol reached out and clutched Burt’s hand. He curled his fingers around hers and pulled her hand to his lips.

7:59

Kurt took a deep breath as the radio announcer garbled on in the background, introducing the President, but not saying anything actively helpful.

8:00

Burt’s eyes locked on Kurt’s, but Kurt wasn’t really seeing his father, seeing instead an old man sitting across from him, brows furrowed, worry lacing his every breath.

There was another crackle from the radio, a pause and then President Roosevelt’s strong commanding voice filled their tiny kitchen.

“My fellow Americans: Yesterday, December 7th, 1941 – a date that will live in infamy – the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”

The president’s every word seemed to echo through Kurt’s mind. He tried to calm the surge of rage that blossomed fiercely in his chest, while at the same time he tried to stop his eyes from filling with tears, staring unblinkingly at the clock.

8:04

“… the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time, the Japanese Government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.”

Next to him, Kurt could see Finn clutching the table, his knuckles white, little shivers travelling down his arms. He couldn’t imagine going to war, and Finn’s father had died in one.

The President’s address to the nation was brief, calling on congress to declare a state of war against Japan. As the radio announcer took over for the President, already offering comments on the speech, Burt leaned over and slowly switched it off.

8:16

The sudden silence in the kitchen was oppressive. But what was there that could possibly be said?

“I’m enlisting.”

Well, Kurt hadn’t expected that.

“No.” Carol’s voice came from behind a hand clapped over her mouth. She dropped it quickly. “No. Finn, no.”

“Mom, they attacked us!”

“Honey, I know this is a terrible moment, but don’t do anything rash.”

“This isn’t rash. This is defending ourselves.”

“This war has gone on for a long time, Finn –,”

“Too long. And now they’ve brought it right to our door step. It’s time to take a stand!”

“Finn, son, I know you want to protect your country, but just listen to your mother.”

“When we lost your father, I was only a few months pregnant with you. He was taken too soon, Finn, I couldn’t stand losing you too.”

“Mom, Dad died fighting for us. I would be a coward if I didn’t fight now.”

“There’s nothing brave about rushing into a war too quickly,” Burt tried to reason with him.

“Too quickly? The whole world has been at war for three years. And what have we done? Nothing! Continued as if everything was hunky-dory! But now the Japs have brought the war into our own country! How could you try and stop me from going?”

“We’re not stopping you from going, we’re just asking you to think about what you’re saying.”

A very pregnant pause filled the little kitchen.  Carol was dabbing at her eyes. Burt was staring at Finn, all the while rubbing large circles across Carol’s back. Kurt lay with his head pillowed in his arms, his eyes pressed shut. There were too many emotions swirling around to actively make sense of any of them.

Eventually Finn sighed, all six feet, three inches of him rising to stand with his hand on the back of his chair.

“I’m going to Rachel’s. I need to tell her I’ve decided to enlist.”

8:21

As Carol’s cries intensified, Kurt slowly rose to his feet as well. He had to know about Blaine. It was finally time to send a letter.