PROLOGUE

For most of my life I have been aware of the abiding presence of a family legend: Donald. My uncle, my mother's youngest brother. World War II hero, ace fighter pilot of a P-51 Mustang, captain in the 4th Fighter Group of the Eighth Air Force at age 21. Killed in the Battle of the Bulge, at age 21. On Christmas Day.

I was only 15 months old when he went away for the last time, so of course I can't remember him, but I always felt as if I should. Pictures of him were on walls and in photo albums, and Grandma and my mother would often talk about him. They talked about him a lot.

In my grandparents' farmhouse hung a metal-framed 8 x 10 photographer's portrait of Uncle Donald — all in tones of brown except for three spots tinted blue: his eyes and a winged patch on the left sleeve of his military dress uniform. Though his facial expression was serious he had posed rather casually and stood with both thumbs hooked into the belt around his boyish waist. He was a total stranger to me, but I memorized his features early on: smooth, pleasant face; heavy brows shading clear, youthful eyes that were permanently fixed on something just beyond my right shoulder; medium-sized, slightly up-turned nose; a rather wide mouth with thick, full lips.

On another wall under a black-edged glass was an oil-colored portrait of a beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed lady. No matter how many times I would ask who she was, Grandma was always happy to tell me. It was Elinor — Elinor Lindemann from New York — the girl that Donald had planned to marry when he came home from the war — almost her daughter-in-law, like Betty, my uncle John's wife. Elinor was married to someone else now, Grandma said, but she still kept in touch.

Along with the pictures, there were other tangible reminders to prompt reminiscences of Donald, especially Grandma's good silverware. He had been born with an eye for the finer things, and enjoyed buying beautiful, extravagant gifts for others as well as himself. The shiny mahogany chest full of sterling silver was the last Christmas present he bought for his mother. He had chosen the exquisite pattern personally — a sculptured lily of the valley curled elegantly around the handle tip of each piece. The fancy table Grandma set for special occasions always reminded us of Donald, especially at Christmas. And in the summertime there was that amazing clothesline strung between the pine trees behind the house — it didn't even require any clothespins — a clothespinless clothesline! He had ordered it from some faraway place — I don't remember where — with the intention of selling them door-to-door as a money-making venture, but he soon discovered he had no more affinity for selling than he had for farming. When Grandma hung out the wash she'd show me how it worked by sliding a little wheel-type thing along the double wire that twisted and caught the corners of the wet clothes in its grip. She may well have had the only such novelty in the entire Red River Valley.

I loved to listen to Grandma's stories about Donald. She never cried or looked sad when she talked about him; she mostly seemed proud. She probably thought about Donald every day, I figured, but I knew he monopolized her thoughts on holidays and washdays.