A Pledge of Silence (29 page)

Rummaging through her civilian clothes one afternoon, she took out her wedding dress, a cloud of chiffon over nylon, but couldn’t bring herself to try it on. In the end, she asked Mama to donate it to the church’s charity closet. Later, she borrowed several recent issues of
Bride
magazine from the library to see the latest styles.

“Are you sure about this wedding, dear?” Mama asked. “This might not be the best time to make such a big decision.”

“I’m capable of making my own decisions,” Margie snapped, but she knew it wasn’t true. She had trouble picking out what to wear each morning, or choosing between pancakes and cereal for breakfast. She concentrated on the details of her new wedding dress, drawing and redrawing sketches before designing the perfect one, when the agonizing over fabrics and accessories began.

Watching her work, Mama said, “It’s going to be beautiful; you have such flair. Best we make it a little larger, though. You’re bound to fill out some.”

Margie scrutinized her scrawny figure in the mirror. Her eyes, still too big for her face, looked less haunted, and the ten pounds she had gained filled out her breasts a little, but her elbows, knees, and hipbones still protruded knobby and Halloween-skeleton ugly.

Mama knew Wade’s father, Eric, and step-mother, Vivian, so she invited them to the house to meet Margie.

“My dear,” said the white-haired patriarch, “I remember you as a little tyke stirring up trouble during vespers.”

Margie blushed, knowing he was teasing. “Just for your amusement,” she replied.

Vivian said, “Let me know how many people to invite, and I’ll make you a guest list. Have you heard from Wade recently? He’s not very good about writing to us.”

Margie caught them up on Wade’s whereabouts, making a mental note to prod him to write to his parents more often.

Abe’s mother telephoned. She was glad Margie arrived home safely. How was she doing? She heard Margie was engaged to be married and wanted to extend her best wishes. She invited Margie to lunch; they could have a nice chat.

Margie knew this reunion would be a sad one and tucked a hanky in her pocket. She covered her hair with the silk scarf Abe gave her years ago and retrieved her bicycle from the barn. Wobbly at first, her body quickly remembered how to balance. With growing confidence, she rode through Little River’s familiar streets to the Carson home. Their front yard blazed with daffodils and tulips, the lawn already thick and green. The mature sugar maple tree leafed out like it did every spring, just as if nothing had changed. A “Sons in Service” flag hung in the window, the blue star in its center replaced by a gold one, a reminder of the painful scene about to unfold.

The front door opened, and Mr. Carson welcomed her in.

They looked much older than Margie remembered, their expressions weary and tinged with sorrow, but their hugs told her they were genuinely glad she had come. They led her into the living room, where a picture of Abe, now forever young and handsome in his dress uniform, dominated the space over the mantel. Mrs. Carson offered Margie a chair and brought her a glass of lemonade. The lump in her throat softened after a few sips, and she said, “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you, dear. It’s a difficult time for us. I doubt if we’ll ever fully recover. There’s a group in town we belong to, the Gold Star Mothers. And wives. Families, really. We help each other.” She stopped and sighed. “You’ve had a loss too, your daddy. He was a fine man. He loved you so much and was so proud of you. If you ever need to talk about him, or Abe, we’re here.”

Margie stammered out a thank you.

Mr. Carson held out Abe’s pilot’s ring. “He wanted you to have this.”

“I can’t. You should keep it.”

He placed the ring in Margie’s hand and folded her fingers around it. “Those were Abe’s instructions.”

Margie admired the heavy sterling silver ring with its blue stone and Abe’s name engraved inside the band. Though a lump rose in her throat again, tears of sadness wouldn’t come.

“Tell us about you, Margie. What are your plans?”

She hesitated. How could she chatter about her wedding to Abe’s grieving parents?

Mrs. Carson said, “It’s all right, honey. We can talk about Wade. I knew his mother, Barbara. She would have been pleased he chose you for his wife.”

Margie flashed Mrs. Carson a grateful smile, and shared details about the wedding. Not knowing when Wade would get home, no date had been set. She designed her gown herself, and had just about completed sewing it. Made out of ivory crepe, she had cut it on the bias so the skirt would drape gracefully.

On the coffee table was a box, and Mrs. Carson nudged it toward Margie. “This is what came home to us. I thought you might like to look through it. The letters you sent to Abe are in there. I haven’t read them, Margie. Take them with you if you like.”

Margie opened the box, remembering how personal her letters to Abe had been. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, dear. They belong to you.”

Margie found the packet and put it in her purse. Then she carefully looked through rest of the box’s contents—flight manuals, schedules, test papers, and souvenirs from Abe’s travels around the globe. Finding pictures of him posed in front of his airplane, Margie focused on the nose-art. She made out her own face and a cascade of wild hair.

Mrs. Carson said, “Abe dated a few of the women pilots. They had a lot in common, flying and all, but he always asked about you, Margie.”

That night she dreamed about her father the way she remembered him: sitting in his chair by the fireplace, wearing the blue cable-knit sweater Mama knitted, sipping coffee and reading Wild West fiction—Zane Gray a favorite author—his glasses perched on the end of his nose, his pipe smoldering in the ashtray. The dream felt so real she woke up with her eyes stinging from tobacco smoke.

Wade’s infrequent letters relayed news of escalating violence in Manila. After leaving Santo Tomas, he moved to a shack in the countryside, where he felt safer. He sent dispatches back to
The Ann Arbor Tribune
whenever he could. He wrote that MacArthur had discontinued airstrikes to save the civilian population, but massive destruction of urban areas went on unabated. Tanks and howitzers replaced flamethrowers and grenades, the heavy artillery ramming through buildings regardless of the occupants, causing tens of thousands of casualties. Trapped in Manila by surrounding Allied troops, and intent on eradicating the city’s whole population, the Japanese Army lived up to their evil reputation by massacring, mutilating, and raping men, women, and children.

My darling, the savagery and destruction I’ve seen here are beyond telling. It is far greater than anything I saw in Europe. I can’t imagine that Manila will ever recover from this carnage. Its beauty has been obliterated, and its culture annihilated.

I miss you. I love you, but sadly, as yet, I don’t know when I’ll be home. I pray sooner than later.

Longing to be in your arms,

Wade

Margie put the letter in her bureau drawer, deciding not to share it with Mama and Irene, its unblinking account of the savagery of war upsetting even to her. She sighed. Second thoughts had surfaced about marrying Wade, a decision made in haste and at the worst of times. Since returning home to safety, everything looked different. She spent her days contentedly tending the garden, where early crops already poked through the soil, promising an abundant harvest. Wade seemed a part of another life, one she had no desire to summon up.
What should I do
? she wondered.

Sporadically and out of sequence, letters arrived from Frank. Mama left the microfilmed V-mails she received out for all to read, but Irene shared only parts of her more intimate missives.

“We have a code,” she told Mama and Margie. “When Frank asks about the baby kicking, I know his unit’s on the move. I cross-reference the date with newspaper accounts of troop movements and the maps in
Life
magazine showing the latest offensives. I can guess where he is, or rather, where he was.” According to Irene’s calculations, he’d traveled north through Italy into France. Mama looked up the locations of unfamiliar faraway cities in the atlas kept open on the coffee table.

In all his letters, Frank complained about the food, the weather, the fatigue, the boredom, and the lack of mail. He revealed little about the other men in his unit, or the war itself, except to say it was hell.

Pensive after reading his latest, Irene asked Margie, “What was it like? You were there.”

Flipping through a recent issue of
Life
, Margie studied the pictures of Marines, scruffy-faced and shirtless, looking fit and strong, standing beside their tanks and supply trucks. She thought of Wade as she last saw him, bone-skinny and hollow-eyed. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Guess it depends on where you are. These guys in
Life
don’t look any worse for wear.” She knew better, but what else would she tell a young wife pining for her soldier-husband?
Think of hell, multiply it by a thousand, and you wouldn’t even begin to get close to the savagery, the horror, and the images that burn into your brain.

At 23, Irene was four years Margie’s junior. She worked as a bookkeeper at the Ford plant and, as mother to an active little boy, seldom got a full night’s sleep. Patient and nurturing even after a long workday, she spent most of her free time with Billy, supervising his dinner, bathing him before bedtime, and lulling him to sleep with baby-songs and soft-told nursery rhymes. She watched over what he ate with an eagle eye, making oatmeal gruel like her mother had taught her, cooking and mashing his fruits and vegetables herself. She collected hand-me-down clothes from her sister and friends, washing and ironing them on Thursday nights. She coped with uncertainty, loneliness, and fear; just the sight of a Western Union boy delivering telegrams guaranteed her an attack of itchy hives.

Margie looked her directly in the eye. “Frank will be all right. The medics go behind the troops and pick up the pieces. He’s not in much danger.” Then she ducked back behind the magazine and hoped her performance had been convincing.

Chapter 20

Miami, Florida, May 1945

Just before Margie’s 90-day leave ended, she received orders to report to the redistribution center in Miami, Florida for reevaluation. She hoped for an assignment to the veteran’s hospital in Ann Arbor. She mentioned this to Mama, who promised to keep her fingers crossed. Margie assessed her image in the mirror after donning her uniform. She had put on some weight, her face looked less drawn, and her hair shone as it hadn’t in a long time. Applying her lipstick, she stepped back to check herself again, wondering if her friends would recognize her.

Placing the makeup bag and toothbrush in her suitcase, she snapped it shut and carried it down the stairs. Her mother stood looking out the living room window. When she turned, Margie saw tears on her face.

“Mama? Mama, what’s wrong?”

“I just heard President Roosevelt had a stroke and died yesterday. Oh, Margie. What’s the country going to do now?”

Margie put down the suitcase and hurried to her mother’s side. “Don’t worry, Mama. Our military is bigger than just one man, even President Roosevelt. Things will work out. They always do. I wish I could stay, but I can’t miss my train. Will you be okay?”

Mama nodded, and gave Margie a hug goodbye.

Margie mulled over her mother’s concern for the future as Irene drove to the train station. According to the latest reports, U.S. forces had crossed the Rhine into Germany, and General Eisenhower demanded Germany’s unconditional surrender. With the president dead and the United States in both mourning and transition, would the Nazis submit or use the distraction to toughen their stance?

As she dropped Margie off at the curb, Irene surprised her by saying, “I’m never going to get Frank home.”

Taken aback, Margie made no reply. Together, the two women watched a workman lower the flag to half-staff, then take a rag from his pocket to wipe the tears off his face. Margie could only nod goodbye to Irene, afraid her fears might come true.

The City of Detroit train from Michigan to Miami covered the 1,500 miles in 30 hours. Cozied up in her berth, Margie read every word of
The Ann Arbor Tribune
extra edition’s articles about Vice President Harry S. Truman’s swearing in as 33
^rd
President of the United States, and the plans to transport Franklin Roosevelt’s body to his home in Hyde Park, New York, where he would be buried in the family rose garden.

Like many of her countrymen, she knew hardly anything about Truman, an obscure haberdasher from Missouri who got himself elected U.S. senator, then nominated as vice president at the 1944 Democratic National Convention. Whole pages of the newspaper overflowed with the details of his biography and qualifications. She read until the print blurred before her eyes and she turned out the light.

Arriving on time in Miami the next morning, she gathered her things and caught a taxi to the redistribution center. Surrounded by a crowd of soldiers, a familiar figure stood outside the center’s door. Margie waved and hollered, “Hey! Boots!”

Boots trotted over. “Margie! You look great! Civilian life’s treating you well. Are you an old married lady yet?”

“Not yet. I can’t get my other half home.”

Boots laughed. “That’s not all bad. Come to breakfast. Some of the old gang’s here.”

Margie spotted Gracie right away, and recognized some of the boys she took care of on Bataan and Corregidor. “Hey, soldier,” she called to one young man, “you’re a sight for sore eyes. Looks like your mama’s feeding you well.”