The Happiest Day of My Life

        "Now, don't tell any of your friends at school!" Mom wagged her finger in front of my nose before letting me out the door that morning.

        “Why?” I asked.

        “I just don’t want a bunch of youngsters underfoot with so much setting up to do. Besides, our teeny living room can only hold a handful at a time.” My mom’s words were law.

        From the moment I arrived at the bus stop and greeted the neighborhood gang, I bit my lip to hold back my exciting news.

        When Mrs. Cooksie called on me to read, I stumbled to find my place in the American history book, my mind lost in a different world.

        At lunch, when Kathy announced she was getting a puppy and was going to name him Buck because of his buckskin color, I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep my secret from popping out.

        On the bus home, Mary commented, “I guess I’ll see you at the Knight’s today as usual.”

        Slack-jawed with eyes wide, she looked shocked when I shook my head and lied. “Can’t come. My mom has something for me to do.”

        Struggling all day to conceal my excitement, my pent up frustration exploded as I leaped off the school bus. My seven-year-old feet barely skimmed the ground as I sprinted down the half-mile track of pavement to my driveway.

          That afternoon promised the delivery of our first television set. My father wired home enough money to buy it. Working in Alaska, far from our Port Orchard home, he shared a small apartment with my oldest brother, Donald, stationed with the Army Corps of Engineers.

          Until then, we kids had been at the mercy of Gary and Dougie Knight. They owned the neighborhood’s first TV. For a whole month, the ritual remained the same. Get off the bus. Go home. Wash up. Then head down the street to the Knight’s house where, at the magical hour of 4:00 p.m., eight to ten of my buddies semi-circled the black and white Motorola, waiting for the next adventure of "Hopalong Cassidy." Dressed in black, like the outlaws, but with his frost-colored hair and white stallion, Topper, Hopalong never failed to save the day and always defeated the forces of evil – each time with honor.

          A few commercial breaks simply gave us kids the chance to talk about the on-screen events. "I hope Hoppy puts Bart in jail for good this time." "Oh, he’ll get him, I’m sure." "That sheriff's a fraidy cat." "I want a horse just like Topper." Then, the Ovaltine ad concluded, we quieted as the TV again transported us back to the Old West where Hopalong brought crooks to justice and made wrong things right.

        "It's time," Mrs. Knight announced with her warm, freckled-faced smile. "Your folks will be expecting you before five." After Hopalong, we were obliged to leave. No “Sheriff Tex.” No “Lone Ranger.” Good manners and Mrs. Knight’s ground rules made it that way. Having the first neighborhood TV saddled her with a sense of responsibility to others. It also bridled us neighborhood kids with the moral obligation to follow her rules. So, with reluctant feet, we shuffled off to do our chores and homework, to play outdoors, and later perhaps to listen to “Fibber McGee and Molly” on the radio.

          But after that day, things were destined to be different. Since Mom had scheduled the delivery of the new Philco console television, Hopalong and others would now ride in my living room. Wanting to savor the moment, I slowed my strides and caught my breath as I neared the driveway. Noting an unfamiliar car parked in front of the house, I thought, One of Mom’s friends must be admiring the new arrival. I turned the door knob with an excited twist.

          I was surprised when Mrs. Nelson, our next-door neighbor, met me in the entry. Her face wore a grave expression. In the living room, Mrs. Lippert’s arms encircled my mother, patting and caressing her back. My mom was crying -- sobbing and rocking back and forth on the threadbare, floral patterned sofa.

          She didn’t even see me enter the room until Mrs. Nelson laid her fingers on her shoulder. "Maxine, Gary's home. I think you'd better tell him."

          Mom gripped the hand and stopped sobbing for a moment. When she noticed me, she pushed herself off the couch, shuffled across the room, and hugged me close.

          I tilted my head back and asked, "W-w-hat's wrong?"

          “Donald’s dead. Your brother’s dead,” she murmured, her voice trembling and eyes red-rimmed.

          While my heart sank, I managed to blurt out the question, “How?”

          “He was cleaning his rifle, and it went off. The telegram said he died instantly."

          I clung to her and looked at Donald’s black and white photograph in his uniform that hung on the wall behind her overstuffed chair. Glancing at the spot reserved for the TV, I only saw the same walnut, circular table that supported the old lamp with the faded, yellow shade.

        "You’d better go into your room and rest and . . . maybe read for a while. We’ve got some grown-up talking to do.” She nudged me toward the hallway as her gaze wandered to Donald's picture above her chair.

        I shambled off to my bedroom to shed quiet tears and mull over the death of a brother I never really knew. Thoughts blurred, memories of my brother few. Donald was fourteen years older. I couldn’t even recall living in the same house with him. I did overhear my parents talk about him running away from home once. They thought the Army might “shape him up.” I remembered the struggle to carry his new bowling ball to his car after a Sunday visit at the age of four. Its dead weight nearly overpowered me, but I endured the handle straps cutting into my palms until he rescued me and hoisted it onto the running board of his 1938 Plymouth.
       
        My body grew heavy as I lay on my warm bed, soaked in the afternoon sun. Muffled words from the living room drifted into the bedroom. Dad would arrive on Saturday. Donald’s body would be flown home. My dad would fly on the same plane. Funeral arrangements . . . . It all seemed so matter-of-fact like a grocery list. Sorrow for Donald filled me, but another emotion elbowed it aside – anger. A few moments ago I was alive with anticipation; now, I felt cheated, a special day stolen. At that instant, I hated him.

        "Stupid! Stupid!" I hissed in a cotton-mouthed voice. Today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Instead . . . .  I closed my eyes, trying to shut out those wicked, hateful thoughts, but they hung around like a dark fog while I drifted into fitful sleep.

*    *    *    *    *

          The funeral took place a week later. The thick scent of flowers saturated the chapel filled with friends and neighbors. The pastor said nice things about Donald, assuring us that his death would serve God’s greater purpose.

          While the organ played “Just a Closer Walk with Thee”, people filed past the polished metal casket, half-draped with an American flag, to pay final respects. When I reached the open coffin, my father’s strong but trembling hands lifted me for a look. An overwhelming feeling of dread welled up within. I cried out “No!” and buried my face in his shoulder afraid that even in death Donald would see my selfishness.

          The next day a truck rumbled to a stop in the gravel turn-a-round in front of our house, the words “Slocum Appliance” written in red letters on the cargo box.

          Our first television had arrived.