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Stories and Essays

   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.

   I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened :

   A young woman was coming toward me, 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.  I started toward her, entirely
forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose.  As I moved, a
small, provocative smile curved her lips.  "Going my way, sailor?" she
murmured.

   Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I
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-ankle feet thrust into low-heeled shoes.  The
girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.  I felt as though I was
split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my
longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my
own.  And there she stood.  Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible,
her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle.

   I did not hesitate.  My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy
of the book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it
would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a
friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my
shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while
I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my 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 begged 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 is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it
was some kind of test!"

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