Vivian and her three-year-old were sharing a bedroom, and Vivian wouldn’t have it any other way. When they moved in, Leta offered two of the three bedrooms in the house (she and her husband Bob were in the master bedroom)—they could have the entire second floor, but Vivian claimed that sharing with the boy was better. He was having particular difficulty with the absence of his father. In addition, he had somehow developed a terror about the War, even though mother and grandparents tried to shield him from the more upsetting news.
Leta learned of this first hand during her daughter and grandson’s second night in house, when they had all been awakened abruptly by terrified screams. Bob jumped out of bed quickly and started to hyperventilate so much that she thought he might be having a heart attack. He was only 49 years old and in excellent health, as far as they knew, so it was quite startling to see him seem so weak so quickly. But he waved her away.
“Go, go,” he urged. “I’ll be fine.”
And Leta raced out of the room and up the stairs to the Vivian and little Don’s bedroom. By the time she barged in, Don’s screams had lulled to tear-drenched whimpers, and he was clinging to his mother for dear life. She gently rocked him in her arms.
“Shh,” she whispered, “it’s all right. It’s all right. It was just a bad dream. It’s over. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”
Leta stood silently, immobile, in the doorway, watching with an overwhelming sense of admiration and love, as her beautiful daughter cuddled the shaking toddler.
When Vivian looked up, Leta replied with a look of concern.
“He’s all right, Mom,” Vivian said. “It was just a bad dream. Go back to bed.”
But Leta didn’t want to go to bed. She wanted to stay there, as witness, admirer and advocate of her remarkable daughter.
This was a Monday, and Don woke them twice more that week, each instance more horrific than the previous, until they all had frayed nerves. Although no one blamed her or him, Vivian was greatly apologetic. Having his father gone and being in a strange house had unnerved the little guy tremendously. Even talking in whispers about the War seemed to fail; he heard everything, it seemed. By Friday they all needed a drink, even Vivian, who, although she liked beer, rarely had one, so they walked down the street to the corner tavern.
They couldn’t very well leave the toddler at home, so they took him with them. Bob even joked that he might sleep a bit better if they gave him a “sip or six, maybe even a shot of whiskey. That could put him out.”
“It’ll make him throw up,” Leta said, “and then they’ll never let us back into this place again.”
“Not if he throws up at home,” Bob jibed.
“No,” Leta returned immediately, “then I’ll never let you back in the house again…after I make you clean it up.”
“Don is drinking nothing except maybe water,” Vivian said firmly, as she walked with her son’s small hand in hers.
“But I did have something,” Don recalled years later when sharing memories of his grandmother.
“What?” I asked.
“I’ll never forget it. We went every Friday night while we lived with them, my mom and me,” he continued.
“But what did you drink?” I demanded. “You were a three-year-old in a bar.”
I was thinking of my great-grandmother’s enjoyment of bar life and curious about my dad’s connection as a child, and even more curious about my grandmother permitting such a deviant activity. Still, they went to the bar—every Friday night—three adults and one three-year-old boy with an adventurous spirit.
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