The Rose
by S.I. Kishor
John
Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and
studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central
Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he
didn't, the girl with the rose.
His
interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library.
Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the
words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft
handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the
front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis
Maynell. With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New
York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to
correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World
War II. During the next year and one month the two grew to know each
other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile
heart. A romance was budding.
Blanchard
requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really
cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like. When the day finally
came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting —
7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York. "You'll recognize
me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel."
So
at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved,
but whose face he'd never seen. A young woman was coming toward him, her
figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her
delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a
gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come
alive. He started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she
was not wearing a rose. As he moved, a small, provocative smile curved
her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured. Almost uncontrollably he
made one step closer to her, and then he saw Hollis Maynell. She was
standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had
graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her
thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes.
The
girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. He felt as though he
were being split in two, so keen was he desire to follow the girl, yet
so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned
and upheld his own. And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was
gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. He did
not hesitate. His fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of
the book that was to identify him to her. This would not be love, but it
would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a
friendship for which he had been and must ever be grateful. He squared
his shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even
though while he spoke he felt choked by the bitterness of his
disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss
Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The
woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this
is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who
just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said
if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she
is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it
was some kind of test!"
It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's wisdom.
The
true nature of a heart is seen in its response to the unattractive.
"Tell me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "and I will tell you who you
are."
The Rose (Rewrite)
By James A. Whitney
"I'm too old to be doing something this silly," I thought to myself
while in the taxi. The taxi was heading toward Union Station, where I
would meet John Blanchard for the first time.
My
interest in John first started when I received a letter from him,
approximately four months after the death of my husband. It was April,
1944. The war had claimed my husband. Perhaps that led me find the hope
in John's writings, wishing for a new love.
He
claimed to have found a book of mine; one that I had only marked notes
in. I honestly don't remember ever doing it, but I was willing to accept
it. I wrote back. We exchanged several letters. He had been called to
fight in the war, and he kept imploring me to write. During the next
thirteen months, we grew to know each other through the
mail. I couldn't help but hope that a new romance was budding. Even my friends teased me about him.
About
ten months into our correspondence, he requested a photograph. Now, for
a 37-year old woman with two children, I didn't look half bad. But I
would never compare to the young women that threw themselves at sailors.
And I knew it. I made some excuse that if he really cared, it wouldn't
matter what I looked like. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help but
hope.
Three
months later, John Blanchard came home. We arranged a meeting in Union
Station at 7:00. Since I didn't want to give him a picture, I told him
that he would recognize me by the rose in my lapel. As the taxi pulled
up to the curb, I placed the rose in my lapel, paid the driver, and left
the cab. My first impulse was to turn around, right here and now, and
forget this crazy thing. But I pressed on.
It
was 7:03 when I first saw John. I recognized him instantly; if the
uniform wasn't a giveaway, then the book he was carrying was enough. He
was a handsome man, cleancut and fresh from his tour of duty. He
reminded me of my husband, and a tear formed in my eye. But he had not
yet seen me.
As
I began to approach him, a remarkably beautiful girl dressed in an
elegant emerald suit passed in front of him and smiled. John looked at
her, obvious in his desire. As she walked past, he took a step in her
direction, and then finally he saw me. I stood still, looked back at him
and smiled. He looked longingly at the young girl as she left the
station, and stared for a good three seconds.
Then, finally, he approached me.
"I'm
Lieutenant John Blanchard," he said, taking my hand and shaking it,
"and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I
take you to dinner?"
He
tried. He really tried to hide the disappointment in his voice, but I
could hear it only too well. All of my fears had been realized, and I
recognized that it would never work. Holding back my tears, I replied.
"I
don't know what this is about," I answered, "but the young lady in the
green suit who just went by, she asked me to wear this rose on my coat.
And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should tell you that
she's waiting on the street corner for you. She said it was some kind
of test."
That
was all the convincing he needed. He thanked me and walked away. After
three steps he started to run. After a few seconds, I called out to him.
"John, wait," I said, but it was too late.
I turned around and walked away, crying.
Looking
back on it, I sometimes fantasize that I was the young lady. Or that
John wasn't so quick to believe that I was. Or that I handled it
differently. I wonder where John is; I wonder whether he found the young
lady, and what he did when he found out that she wasn't me. Sometimes, I
sit and look at the stars, and wonder what might have been.
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