Sandy Kay Slawson
October 30, 1950
Betty Jo lit the jack-o-lantern on the porch of her bungalow and buttoned her sweater. With a slight grimace, she pondered the neighbor’s dim exterior and overgrown yard until nine-year-old Eddie came running around the corner. He skidded to a stop in front of her house.
“Hi, Miss Betty Jo. I smelled those chocolate chip cookies a block away. They for tomorrow night?”
“Good evening, Eddie. You know it. Have I ever failed you in your four years of trick-or-treating here?”
Eddie’s brow furrowed. “No, ma’am. Two in my bag every year. I wish the creepy old sourpuss next door gave out something.” He scowled at the neighbor’s house.
“Be nice, Eddie Boudreaux. Mr. Jackson hasn’t done anything but keep to himself. There’s no law saying he must give out candy on Halloween—”
“But he don’t celebrate no holidays. And last year, he didn’t even have a Christmas tree in the window.”
“Nevertheless. And for goodness’s sake, he’s not much older than me.”
“How old are you, Miss Myers?”
“It isn’t polite to ask a lady her age.”
“But—”
“As a veteran, Mr. Jackson deserves our respect. And time to heal from his wounds, inside and out.”
“My pa fought those Nazis, too.” Eddie scratched his scalp. “Pa don’t smile neither, but he ain’t against celebrations like that Mr. Jackson.”
Betty Jo pinched the bridge of her nose. “You have no proof he’s against anything. And have I taught you nothing in class? Seems to me, that instead of pointing a finger at Mr. Jackson, you ought to handle your own issues. Such as your lack of compassion and use of the English language.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Eddie kicked a rock on the sidewalk. “I better get home and do my chores. I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”
“And homework. Bye, Eddie.”
Betty Jo watched her young student race to the house four doors down. Compassion? How much compassion had she shown that lonesome bachelor Mr. Jackson? A wave or two? A good morning now and then? She had little room to scold Eddie. “I’m sorry I haven’t been a good neighbor, Lord.”
Two years after the war ended in 1947, Mr. Jackson arrived in Silver Springs. That had been a year ago, but Betty Jo couldn’t remember more than a few brief conversations between them. His haunted blue eyes made her tongue-tied.
A door squeaked, and Betty Jo’s attention spun to Mr. Jackson’s entryway, where he stepped onto his porch and let the screen door slam behind him. With a slight limp, he went to the railing and gripped it hard. He bowed his head and looked plum dejected. The sight made her heart lurch.
Betty Jo went indoors and straight to the kitchen where the scent of baked cookies still permeated the air. She inhaled the comforting aroma and blew out the nervousness trying to change her mind. Before she lost her courage, Betty Jo pulled a plate from the cupboard, piled it with chocolate chip goodness, and covered it with a cloth.
Outside, she prayed for words as she marched across the lawn to Mr. Jackson’s porch steps. His still-bowed head jerked up, and he straightened.
“Miss Myers, I-I didn’t hear you coming.” Mr. Jackson ran his fingers through his mussed blond hair. “How may I help you?”
“Call me Betty Jo. We are neighbors after all.”
“All right, then you’ll have to call me Joe.”
“Joe? I declare, that is funny. Joe and Betty Jo—” Her color heightened when she realized her comment might be misconstrued. “I mean—Oh, that didn’t sound right. I came here to wish you a happy Halloween with cookies fresh from the oven. Do you like chocolate chip?”
Joe’s features brightened. “They’re my favorite. I haven’t had any since before the—” His brief smile faded.
The glimpse of pearly whites transformed Joe. And Betty Jo missed his smile at once. Woo-wee, the butterflies in her belly danced the swing. Joe Jackson made Handsome jealous. She dropped her stare to the plate and took the first step, determined to hide that intense reaction. She lifted her chin. “The war?”
Joe’s eyes darkened as he pinched his lips closed.
“It’s past time you ate your fill. Don’t you think?” Betty Jo took another step.
Their gazes met and a flicker of something lit in Joe’s blue depths.
She took another step and then held out the cookies.
Joe reached for the plate and their fingers grazed.
A sizzle traveled from Betty Jo’s fingertips to the tips of her ears. She let go and fanned her face. “It’s a little warm out here.”
“I’ve spent the last three years guilt-ridden. I’m alive while my buddies are buried on foreign soil.”
Sympathy welled within her at Joe’s blunt revelation, and she resisted the urge to hug him. “Where did you serve?”
“I stormed Omaha beach in Normandy on D-Day and fought in France until shrapnel hit this leg of mine.”
“Thank God you survived. Those friends you lost . . . they’d want you to enjoy life. Don’t you think? And be thankful you made it. Proud you helped defeat Hitler. Glad their deaths weren’t in vain.” She prayed she hadn’t offended him.
Joe tilted his head and studied her for a long minute before he gave a slow nod. “You’re right. They’d tell me to stop being—What did that boy call me? A creepy old sourpuss?”
Betty Jo gulped. Joe heard Eddie? Then he heard her, too. She glanced at the window. Open.
Joe chuckled. “I intend to stop. Today. And to start fresh with this sweet treat and a pretty lady who dared to care by offering a plate of cookies and a side of hope.”
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