Kimberly Nasser, “Lamar Valley Landscape”
June 5th, 1964
My Dearest Verity,
I still cannot believe how long it has been since we’ve seen each other. Two weeks feels like two lifetimes! If I look between my fingers, I can still see the sticky orange juices of the nectarine we shared lodged in the bits of webbing. Your laugh echoes in my ears, the perfect lullaby each night I fall asleep. As soon as I get home, I have a whole list of jokes I made to hear that laugh of yours. I think you’ll find the one about a dog particularly delightful. Speaking of dogs, how is old Charlie? I still think it’s a bit ridiculous how attached you are to the silent picture star. He’s not as funny as you think he is; I am much more humorous.
Maybe after college I’ll become an actor. I’ll be the one on the screen fumbling balls and tripping on shoelaces. Then I wouldn’t feel quite as jealous. I could take you to all my screenings, and pay for all the dazzling dresses you’d don on the ruby carpet.
If my father doesn’t kill me for not taking over the store, first.
I hear from my mother that you’ve been visiting the shop while I’m away. Stealing deals from my innocent little sister for free chocolates. You’ve always had a way with words, haven’t you? I swear, church camp has never felt so tedious. Each time I open the Bible you gave me, I can’t help but look for the anecdotes you left on almost every page. Pink is an interesting choice in pen color, but I can’t say it isn’t fitting. I’m especially fond of the heart doodles left after each one.
Pastor John sends his well wishes. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he says you’re a shoe-in for the lead in the youth choir. I can’t say I’m surprised; your voice is one of the things that mesmerized me first.
And those lips, of course. I miss the flavor of your chapstick on my tongue.
It feels wrong to speak so crudely in a church cabin. The cross above my bed is making my cheeks flush with a bit of shame. But I’m sure Jesus will have sympathy for what it was like to be young and in love.
My candle is dimming, almost melted on its stand, and I’m running out of light, so I’ll wrap this up. I’ll be home soon, sweet Verity. I hope you’re the first face I see after stepping off the train.
Wait for me.
Love,
Calvin.
December 23rd, 1964
My Dearest Verity,
I long to be with you on Christmas Eve, and I can’t begin to express how saddened I am to be in Vermont. I miss the sizzling rays of the Florida sun, the taste of shared oranges, the feeling of your long nails tracing patterns on my arms. Mother says we’re too handsy for being so young, but I think we’re just fine. I still blush when you hold my hand, so I believe our purity is still intact.
The snow here is beautiful, visually, at least, and I know you’d find such delight in it. I don’t understand how you love the snow so much. It is cold and wet and objectively unappealing. Who wants to pay the price of a soggy behind just for the simple pleasure of making a snow angel?
I know you would, though. One day, when we’re older, I’ll bring you up to my grandparent’s cabin. They’ll be ecstatic to meet you, Verity. You and my Nana share a love of crochet, and I’m positive you could talk for hours about different kinds of stitching. I’m afraid I can’t say that I’d be a very key part of that conversation. However, it would be my honor to sit there and listen. My two favorite women, chatting, while I get to eat pounds upon pounds of Nana’s fruitcake. I can practically hear you gagging from here.
I’ll get you to like fruitcake someday. Just wait, my love.
My sister is insisting I do my hair before church tonight. If my handwriting is messy, it’s because she’s tugging on my arm right now. I apologize in advance for Amanda’s involvement in our lives together, especially when they really start.
Don’t open my present early. I want it to be opened on Christmas morning, as intended. I know you’ll be tempted.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, sweet Verity. I’ll be home soon.
Wait for me.
Love,
Calvin.
April 28th, 1965
My Dearest Verity,
I know this is not what either of us had in mind for our future. Believe me, I’m just as unsatisfied with the situation as you are. Senior year was supposed to be full of laughs with friends and kisses with you, not mucky boots and hundreds of pushups. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming, that I didn’t entertain the idea when President Johnson was campaigning and selling his policies for the war. I just never thought it would actually happen.
I never thought it’d be me and you.
Do not have fear, Verity. You and I are going to be just fine. I’m only supposed to be here for a few months, at most. I’ve calculated every inch of the eight-thousand miles between us, and I love you every centimeter. Although it’s wrong, it makes me belly-laugh to think of the last thing you said to me. “Don’t go falling in love with some cumberworld nurse.”
Verity, you know I only have eyes for you.
Besides, Pastor John wouldn’t be so pleased with his head of the youth choir having such a pottymouth. Do hold back on the explicit language, love. I know you’re especially tempted to use it when you stub your toe, but save it for more dire circumstances. I think Jesus is a little more understanding then.
I’ve made a friend, so don’t worry too much about me wallowing in self-pity and only living for your letters. Although, I must admit, I do predict I will live only for your letters, and for the prospect of coming home to you, sweet Verity. My friend’s name is John, much like our pastor. A Jewish man, actually. He’s been teaching me a lot about his religion, which he’s oh so passionate about. In a way, he reminds me of Pastor John, always ready to read a verse or share a parable. He has a girl back home, too. Elizabeth, but he calls her Liza. From what I’ve heard about the carhop, you would get along swimmingly. You’re both fond of reading, and, surprisingly enough, Fitzgerald himself. Try to put a book down every once in a while during my time here, alright?
However, Mother tells me you work as a counterlady for the shop now. While I’m sure you only did that for the employee discount, I can’t say I’m not pleased. If I can’t be there with you, I’m glad my family can. Amanda probably bosses you around, that little stuck-up, so I’d like to give you some advice: she is NOT your boss. Don’t let her orders get in the way of your work.
Save me some chocolates. The food here is grotesque and dry and firm. I have to take a laxative with every meal.
I miss your baked goods. Make those kitchen sink cookies for me upon my return, okay?
Wait for me.
Love,
Calvin.
August 22nd, 1965
My Dearest Verity,
I’ve been taught a new word by the kids in the village. Gấu. One of the older kids told me it means lover. Every time I pull out a piece of paper, they scream “Gấu! Gấu!” and smile gleefully at my pen. I think they’ve come to understand what it means when my lips turn upward as I write.
I only ever smile when I write letters to you.
The last thing I want is to worry you, but, I must admit, it’s getting harder and harder to smile lately. I mentioned John many times in my previous letters. I’m sure you’ve presumed, but he’s grown to be my best friend.
He took a bullet to the neck at the end of July. He went out instantly, which, I suppose, is merciful. I’d rather be taken out quickly then have to feel God’s last breath of life leaving my lungs. I’ve already written to Liza, and will disclose a card with her address on it in this envelope. She’s only about an hour out from us, and I hope you’ll be able to connect with her. You’re so good at connecting with people. Please, give her some hope. Lord knows we all need it.
I haven’t heard from you recently, but the carrier system here isn’t the greatest. Everyone’s doing the best they can, but sometimes the best just isn’t enough. I can only imagine that you’re too overwhelmed by how beautiful and poetic my letters have gotten over these past few months that you just can’t bear to respond. I’m the next Fitzgerald, I know.
I hope you still love The Great Gatsby. I always thought it was silly, that it was a boring book. Why would they require us to read a fictional novel written forty years ago? Because they couldn’t drink back then? But you loved it, so I learned to love it, too. I’m truly sorry for teasing you about it, my love, but I fell in love with the way your cheeks flushed red. You were always so embarrassed when I picked on you in class.
I hope I get to pick on you again.
I have news that I hope will bring you joy. I should be coming home soon. The commander says that the war is almost over. They’re letting the troops with the youngest kids go home first. I guess being barely an adult has its perks, ironically enough.
There are certain things I expect upon my arrival. A hug, of course, and at least a dozen kisses. A marriage proposal would be acceptable, since we’re in the age of progress, but if you can’t afford a ring, please wait for my proposal. My Nana’s ring will look lovely on your finger. You won’t be waiting too long to be my wife, Verity, as I plan to make you officially my girl as soon as possible, God willing.
Please write back soon. I’m not sure how much longer I can go without seeing the little hearts you dot over the ‘i’s. I miss you terribly.
Wait for me.
Love,
Calvin.
November 14th, 1965
My Dearest, Verity,
I am truly, deeply sorry. I’ll never get to express how deep my apologies run, but trust that it’s deeper than the lowest trench in the Atlantic.
I will not be making it home to you. I lied in my last letter, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. Mother has informed me that you haven’t been receiving them. I knew your father never approved of me, but I didn’t think he’d withhold my letters from you.
I should probably tell you why I’m not coming to you, my sweet Verity. Last night, I took a bullet between the ribs. Another to my right bicep. The nurses say it’s only a matter of time now. They tried to do surgery, but it was futile. Even as I write this letter, I struggle to breathe, and even more so to talk.
But I do it for you.
Clearly, I’m in no state to write. I’m on death’s door, and I believe I’m beginning to hear the soft symphony of seraphims grace my ears. John’s brother is writing down my wishes. He looks so much like him, Verity, only younger, brighter, and so much more childish. It’s amazing how many young boys this country has stolen for a cause we didn’t put our support, nor our disdain, into. I can only hope he makes it to bring home the locket of you I’ve kept around my neck. I’d like you to put a picture of me there instead, and wear it around your own nape. Selfish, I know, but selflessness was never the fruit of the Spirit I was most excellent at in Sunday school.
If you ever get hold of these, I have a few things I’d like to say. I never told you these things, some for my heedless reasoning of having things to say during our wedding vows, and some out of fear. I don’t want them to go unsaid. I hated your favorite restaurant. I know you loved the burgers, which you hardly ever ate outside of that diner, but I found them much, much too greasy. You hated how purple looked on you, but it was actually my favorite color to see you wear. I was planning to buy you a purple corsage for prom. Partly to spite you, and partly to see the beautiful contrast between the flower and your green eyes. I found your wobbly knees while rollerskating hilarious, it made my heart hurt whenever you cried over a book, because I hated to see you cry, and I was planning to have our honeymoon in Canada. Somewhere cold, because you love the cold.
It’s snowing in Vietnam, my love. I wonder if God is doing it to bring you closer to me. It reminds me of last Christmas, when I sent that letter advising you not to open my gift early.
I know you did. I just hope you still wear that charm bracelet around your wrist when I’m gone.
My hand is growing tired, Verity, as well as my body. Breathing is becoming harder, and my eyelids grow heavy. I won’t make it to see your favorite holiday, so I’d like to say it to you one last time.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Verity. I love you.
This time, I’ll be waiting for you.
Love,
Calvin.
