{"id":10287,"date":"2024-05-20T12:36:15","date_gmt":"2024-05-20T17:36:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=10287"},"modified":"2024-05-20T12:36:16","modified_gmt":"2024-05-20T17:36:16","slug":"ubi-caritas-et-amor","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/ubi-caritas-et-amor\/","title":{"rendered":"Ubi Caritas et Amor"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"Rice-short-story-photo\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

By Alan Rice<\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Late afternoon sun streamed directly into the upstairs bedroom through thin curtains, and a breeze from the ocean blew in and brought the smell of salt water and cut grass. Gulls screamed and a pickup truck rattled noisily up the hill. In the room, a steel-string folk guitar on a stand in one corner caught the sunlight, a glossy electric guitar lay in its case on the floor, and a mandolin rested in the arm of a battered couch. A student\u2019s desk was piled with spiral notebooks and paperbacks and a laptop was balanced precariously on top of it all. A thin mattress lay on the floor, a boy and a girl, teenagers, entangled in the sheets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Abruptly the boy got up and pulled on his shorts, while the girl watched him from where she lay, her head propped up on her hand.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cDon\u2019t get up yet,\u201d she said, reaching for him, her fingertips grazing his bare leg. \u201cJust lie here. Can\u2019t you? For a little? It feels nice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI just want to show you something. Don\u2019t get up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He kicked aside the clothing scattered on the floor and crossed the room. Love, making love, was new to them both, and they were giddy with the thrill, the touch, the play that suddenly turned serious with an exchanged look, the sensation of each other\u2019s bodies and of their own desire, their own excitement. Their passion was not secret, and yet so personal and intimate and private that only a few of their friends were even aware of it. Perhaps their parents knew. Or guessed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI found this,\u201d he said and from beside the desk pulled out a wooden strongbox, about a foot on each side and ten inches deep. \u201cIt was in the attic. It\u2019s got a lock on it, but I got one of the old keys on that ring in the kitchen drawer to work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0It was quite old, of unfinished maple. The lid had rounded edges, and fitted snugly over the top, like a jewelry box. The hinges were brass, and the entire piece was dovetailed and meticulously crafted. Inside, a removable tray divided into smaller compartments held a few old keys, some pencils, a few foreign coins, and a fountain pen. Beneath that were bundles of letters, many on onionskin paper, tied together with twine. Envelopes were printed \u201cPar Avion\u201d and \u201cVia Air Mail.\u201d There were hand-tinted picture postcards and what appeared to be photocopies of handwritten letters reduced in size, so that the writing was all but illegible. And underneath those were photographs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She carefully picked up a few of the letters. \u201cLook at the postmarks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThey go back to World War Two. Earlier, some of them.\u201d He took a few from her. \u201cSee, these photocopies. They used them instead of regular mail during the war.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cV-mail. I know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cGo ahead,\u201d he said, \u201cOpen them,\u201d and he moved closer to her so that their bodies touched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She loved the feel of his sunburned skin, its smoothness, the hard muscles underneath, the sharp line of his chin and the unruly curl of his dirty-blond hair. Their eyes met. Then, with one quick movement, she undid the string that bound one of the packets, unfolded one letter and then another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThey\u2019re from my great-grandparents,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cDid they live here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou mean in this house? I\u2019m not sure. I think so. He was in the service, I know that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0They handed the letters back and forth, examining them, but after a bit the girl\u2019s face clouded. \u201cIt\u2019s just news,\u201d she said. \u201cThe weather. Gossip. They were, what, engaged, right? I\u2019d have expected something more, I don\u2019t know, passionate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWell, everything was censored. I mean, there\u2019s always someone else reading your mail, no matter what you say you can\u2019t keep it private.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She paused, thinking. \u201cI can\u2019t imagine what it would be like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cHaving to go to war.\u201d She frowned. \u201cI mean, when you loved someone.\u201d She was holding one of the old V-mail letters. \u201cMaybe he wrote them when he was in boot camp. Are there any letters from . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cMy great-grandma? Only a few.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A shudder went through her. \u00a0She didn\u2019t quite know why. \u201cDid he volunteer? Or was he drafted? Do you know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI don\u2019t know. He probably enlisted. It was the thing to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She was very still, holding the tiny letter in her hand.\u00a0\u201cEthan,\u201d she said, \u201cLook at this one,\u201d and he took it from her. It took him a while to read it, and when he finished reading, their eyes met again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cJoanie, look,\u201d he said, breaking the tension. \u201cThere\u2019s other stuff here, too,\u201d Reaching deeper into the box, he pulled out a handful of loose black-and-white photographs. Some were only an inch-and-a-half on the longest side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She knelt beside him and looked at the tiny pictures. Boys and girls about their own age were standing about, smiling, next to open sailboats or on a beach. Their poses seemed at once cheerful and self-conscious. The boys were shirtless, muscular, and wore belted shorts. The girls wore one-piece bathing suits, and many had on rubber bathing caps. Sometimes the boys had their arms around the girls, or the other way around. There were a few solo pictures; most were of groups of two, or three, or four. Many seemed to have been taken at the same event, the same outing. A picnic, maybe. Or a sailboat race.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0They were carefree, unburdened of the Depression, not yet bothered with the worries of college, or troubled by the cares of family. One girl, who appeared in many of the pictures, wore her dark hair long and uncovered. A handsome boy with a relaxed, open smile often appeared in photos with her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cDo you know who these people are?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThere aren\u2019t any labels. That\u2019s my great-grandfather, probably. I don\u2019t know who the others are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThe girl with your\u2014great-grandpa?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI\u2019m not sure. He might have had a lot of friends.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWould your dad know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI don\u2019t know. Maybe. He doesn\u2019t know I\u2019ve seen these.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYour great-grandpa. Do you know. . .\u201d she broke off, but Ethan already understood her question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cHe was killed,\u201d he said, and they were quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Joanie reached in the box for more photographs. There were dozens of them. Most were in black-and white, and some were in color, very faded, fewer in number, and none with the spontaneous joy of the tiny black-and-white ones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She was still. \u201cNobody\u2019s seen these. Not in a long time,\u201d she said. \u201cNobody but us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI guess not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cIt\u2019s like we\u2019re looking at ourselves, somehow. Don\u2019t you feel that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhen they were taken, like, no one thought about it. They just smiled, you know, having fun,\u201d she said. \u201cNo one thought that anyone would be looking at them like this. That they\u2019d be important.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cMaybe they did,\u201d Ethan said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cLike in that letter I showed you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYeah,\u201d he answered. \u201cLike that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And again they were silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI wonder. \u00a0How many of them didn\u2019t come back?\u201d She laid her head on his chest, and he held her. \u201cThey must have loved each other.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou mean my grandparents? Great-grandparents?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAll of them. They\u2019re like us.\u201d She was right, and he knew it. Her long, beautiful black hair fell across him, and he realized that her face was damp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAre you crying?\u201d he asked, but she shook her head. \u201cWhy are you crying?\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI\u2019m not,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou are. Tell me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d she answered. For a while neither said anything.\u00a0 Then, she eased out of his embrace. \u201cWe have to get dressed,\u201d she said. \u201cYou know we do. Your dad\u2019ll be home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Ethan felt a surge of desire, but he fought it down. A door banged downstairs, and they hurried into their clothes and came down the narrow, winding staircase together.<\/p>\n\n\n

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\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fred, Ethan\u2019s father, was in the kitchen, opening a can of beer. He nodded at his son and the girl. He did not look surprised. \u201cHad any supper?\u201d he asked.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNot yet,\u201d Ethan answered. \u201cI was just going to start.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fred looked over at Joanie. \u201cAre you staying? You\u2019re certainly welcome. Just sandwiches, I\u2019m afraid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She glanced over at Ethan, who nodded. \u201cI can make a salad. I just need to text my mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0After supper, Fred went into the living room, turned on the television to the local news, and settled into his armchair. He had given no sign that he knew what had been going on overhead in Ethan\u2019s room or had any desire to find out. Or to judge. He remembered what it had been like when he was his son\u2019s age, the fear, the awkwardness. His sympathy and compassion overcame the vestiges of his New England puritanism.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He was happy for Ethan, and proud of him. The boy was responsible and hard-working. Talented, too. And Joanie was such a nice girl; it warmed him to see them together. Ethan\u2019s shyness and shaggy good looks contrasted with her exotic appearance, with her dark eyes and long black hair, her mischievous smile. And they were crazy about each other. He wondered what would become of them when they left for college. He knew how these things usually went.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Joanie appeared from the kitchen with two mugs of black coffee and set one down on the table next to Fred\u2019s chair. Ethan came in with his own mug and the wooden strongbox, and he and Joanie sat down together on the sofa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI found this in the attic and got it open,\u201d Ethan explained. \u201cI thought maybe we could sort it out. Maybe scan them, so they\u2019ll be safe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fred pulled the box over and took out some of the photos that Ethan had left on top. \u201cAmazing,\u201d he said. He started turning them over, looking at the postmarks of the letters, holding the tiny photos by the edges. \u201cSome of these I remember. Others . . .\u201d He paused, studying one of the clearer ones. \u201cYou know, I think that\u2019s my grandfather. It must be. I\u2019ll have to look at these.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He held a picture between the thumb and forefinger. \u201cThere\u2019s a story there. I never knew all of it. But there\u2019s a story.\u201d He started to put the photos back in the box and then stopped. \u201cListen, I\u2019m just going back to the store lock up. I\u2019ll be back.\u201d He left without saying any more, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0When Fred came back about an hour later, Joanie had gone home. There were half a dozen piles of letters, photos, and V-mails on the coffee table. The front door banged, and Ethan appeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWe were trying to organize them by date. And we were reading some of them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cFind anything?\u201d Fred asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Ethan nodded. \u201cA lot of them are\u2014well, kind of boring. Maybe they were just looking for something to say. Like the pictures. It didn\u2019t matter if it was unimportant. It was the image, the picture. The memory. Know what I mean?\u201d He felt that he wasn\u2019t making much sense. \u201cI had no idea you had saved all this stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI guess I\u2019d forgotten.\u201d He moved over on the sofa. \u201cCome on, sit down,\u201d he said, an invitation and not a command. His son sat down beside him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fred picked up a picture. Ethan recognized it as one he had seen that afternoon: a young man with short, light hair, in swimming trunks, with his arm around the waist of the pretty girl with the long hair. They were smiling for the camera. \u2005\u201cThis would be your great-grandfather, just before he went overseas,\u201d Fred said.\u00a0 \u201cBasic training in the States, then to England, most likely, and then to the front. France.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAnd he was killed there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAbout a week after he arrived, I think. He wasn\u2019t even supposed to be there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhat do you mean? I thought everyone went. Unless you were unfit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cHe registered as a C.O. A conscientious objector. Like the Quakers. If you were morally opposed to war on account of your religion, you didn\u2019t have to serve. But you had to perform some kind of alternative service, they called it. Grandpa thought he\u2019d be assigned something in the States, but he got sent overseas.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cHe was a Quaker?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNo. He wouldn\u2019t belong to any church. So the draft board, they really gave him a hard time. Wanted him to put on a uniform and go. But he wouldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fred shook his head. \u201cI don\u2019t know, exactly. It was just one of those things we didn\u2019t talk about much.\u201d He turned to Ethan. \u201cIt was the killing, see. He just wouldn\u2019t do it. He could have wound up in jail, but he was so\u2014well\u2014passionate about it. \u00a0So they put him in the medical corps. He wouldn\u2019t have to go into active combat, but he\u2019d have to serve. And then he was part of the D-day invasion. Killed a couple of days after the landing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Ethan took the picture from his father. \u201cHe looks so happy here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0His father nodded. \u201cThat would be your great-grandmother there. I\u2019m pretty sure. Your grandfather\u2014my father\u2014was born after he left.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cSo. Grandpa never knew his father.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cRight.\u201d Fred paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Ethan hesitated. \u201cThey weren\u2019t married, were they?\u201d He wondered if his dad knew about him and Joanie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fred shrugged. \u201cI don\u2019t know. I kind of don\u2019t think so.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cSee, I\u2014Joanie and I\u2014looked through some of them. The letters. While you were out. I found this one.\u201d Ethan picked up one of the V-mails and handed it to his father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0They were silent for a while. The print was impossibly small, and Fred had to squint. \u201cI can\u2019t make this part out,\u201d he apologized. \u201cThen ubi caritas<\/em>, I think, et amor, deus ibi est.<\/em> That\u2019s it. It\u2019s Latin.\u201d He handed the letter to his son. \u201cYou understand it?\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYeah. Where charity is, and love, there is God.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYeah,\u201d Fred murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI looked for a later letter,\u201d the boy said. \u201cI think this must be the last one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYes, I think so.\u201d The two were quiet for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0At long last Fred broke the silence. \u201cThis will be quite a project,\u201d he sighed, and he started gathering things together.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhat do you think of trying to scan these?\u201d Ethan asked. \u201cTo make a permanent record.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fred sat back. \u201cI think that\u2019s a good idea. To store it safe somewhere. Upload it to the cloud. Something.\u201d He shuffled through the piles. \u201cBut a copy only shows that something once existed. These are the real thing. Human hands touched these.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He started to get to his feet, but Ethan stopped him. \u201cDad?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cHmm?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Ethan thought about charity, and love, and desire; about passion, and wanted to say something, something he couldn\u2019t put it into words. Something about his great-grandparents who felt, perhaps, in their love of God, their love for each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He thought of his desire for Joanie. His passion. And hers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNothing,\u201d was all he could manage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fred looked at son, overwhelmed by a wave of love for him. He felt tears forming, and he looked down to keep from betraying his emotion. But Ethan must have known, because he suddenly leaned forward and kissed his father on the cheek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cGoodnight, Dad,\u201d he murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cG\u2019 night,\u201d Fred mumbled in reply, and Ethan headed up the worn, creaky, crooked stairs to his bedroom.\u2005<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n

Alan Rice teaches literature and composition at Haddam-Killingworth High School in rural Connecticut. He holds degrees in English and dramatic arts from Earlham College and the University of Connecticut, and has spent much of his career directing plays and teaching acting and stagecraft. His essays and short fiction have appeared in Change Seven, Night Picnic Journal<\/em>, Books and Pieces, CommuterLit.com, Blue Lake Review <\/em>(forthcoming), and elsewhere.\u00a0 <\/em>He is currently working on a collection of short stories and a novel.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\"Rice-short-story-photo\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n
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By Alan Rice<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10287","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-original-online-fiction"],"yoast_head":"\nUbi Caritas et Amor | Faith Hope & Fiction<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/ubi-caritas-et-amor\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Ubi Caritas et Amor | Faith Hope & Fiction\" \/>\n<meta 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