Ray startled. Dad had said grace, and he’d missed it.
Mom sliced her asparagus. “I’ll never understand why men feel they have to hurl themselves into danger to prove themselves, but thanks for trying to explain, Ray.”
He gave her a wan smile.
“That’s my brother,” Walt said. “Always smoothing things out.”
Dad gave Ray a stern look from under salt-and-pepper brows. “Can’t always do that. Sometimes pastors have to be mean.”
Ray swallowed a bite of chicken. “ ‘Speak the truth in
love
,’ Dad.”
“Yes, but speak the
truth
. As Jesus did.”
“He came as the Prince of Peace.”
“And the consuming fire.”
“ ‘Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.’ ”
“ ‘Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.’ ” Dad leaned forward. “That means we’ll make enemies. Jesus did.”
“Goodness,” Allie said. “In this house the Word of God truly is a sword.”
Everyone laughed.
“Don’t mind them,” Walt said. “They love a debate.”
Mom sent a soothing glance between Dad and Ray. “And they both know Jesus came as the Lion
and
the Lamb, full of grace
and
truth.”
“Hear that wisdom?” Ray lifted an eyebrow at Allie. “I take after her.”
She smiled back. In time, the prim heiress would get accustomed to this rough-and-tumble household.
“Raymond,” Dad said in a low, solid voice. “Have you ever confronted a member of your congregation?”
He blinked a few times. “I only had two years in a church, and as the assistant pastor. I did sick calls, funerals—”
“A pastor must confront sin before it destroys the person and the church.”
“I know that.”
“You can’t tiptoe around it. You have to face it head-on. When you do that, you don’t always keep the peace. You create conflict. You make enemies.”
“For crying out loud.” Grandpa frowned at Dad. “Why do you try to make your sons your mirror image? Ray is Ray, just as the Good Lord made him. You be yourself, boy.”
He gave a sharp nod and bit into some asparagus, a bad stalk, bitter as Dad’s words and the knowledge that he needed a grandpa’s protection. Both men thought he was weak.
Dad’s neck muscles stood out. “Be himself, yes. But he needs to be willing to confront, to face opposition.”
Ray’s shoulders edged back, and he lifted his chin. If Dad’s brusque ways were best, why did the Carlisles dislike him? Why couldn’t he mend that rift? “So, Dad, how do these confrontations of yours work out?” His voice came out tight.
Dad poked his roast potatoes around like shells in a shell game. His cheeks twitched. “Some repent. Some don’t. That’s between them and the Lord and the people they hurt.”
Just as Ray thought. He’d stick to the ways he knew best, the ways that worked for him. But an entire glass of water failed to remove the bitter taste.
9
Saturday, April 15, 1944
“ ‘Let freedom ring.’ ” The voices of the primary school students filled the high expanse of El Campanil Theatre, followed by a round of applause.
In the wings, Helen adjusted red bows at the tips of Connie Scala’s French braids, then corralled Connie and her brother Alfie closer to the heavy curtains and beckoned to the children’s choir. Thank goodness, the bustle of pageant preparations took her mind off her romance with Ray, the Carlisles’ disapproval, and the black puffs of gossip in the air.
After Mary Jane Anello led the choir backstage, Helen smoothed her red skirt and navy and white linen jacket and walked to the microphone.
Over the stage lights, she smiled at the black blobs of the audience. “Next we have Alfredo and Constance Scala tap-dancing to ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ ” She nodded to the Antioch High School band before her and retreated to the wings out of sight.
One of those faceless blobs was Ray, who made Helen feel like a giddy schoolgirl. Two were the Carlisles, who expected her to grieve for the rest of her life. On stage, under those blessed lights, Helen could be a competent, energetic Red Cross volunteer, the only performance that pleased everyone.
She scanned her clipboard. Right on schedule, Mary Jane brought Donald Ferguson from backstage. “Are you ready, Donald?” Helen whispered.
“I can’t remember a word.” The fifth-grader’s freckles stood out stark under his red hair.
Helen brushed the shoulders of his suit. “With those lights, all you see is a bunch of black blobs. Pick one blob, way in the top row, pretend it’s your mama, and recite as you’ve recited to her all week.”
He cracked a smile. “Mother said if she heard it one more time, she’d go nuts.”
She chuckled. “Then go make her nuts.”
Helen turned to watch the last of Alfie and Connie’s dance, and tapped her toes in her navy and white spectator pumps. The children ended with a flourish, then scurried offstage without waiting for their applause.
Helen patted Donald on the back, led him to the microphone, and returned to her post. “Mary Jane,” she whispered. “Bring Jay-Jay up, please.”
Donald recited Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address in a firm and emotional voice, declaring the truths to the top row of the ornate theater.
What did Nora Ferguson think about Helen introducing her son? Nora had been awkward around her lately, and Helen pretended she was too young to know Ray and Nora had been high school sweethearts. And what did Ray think watching a boy who could have been his son?
Donald raised his hand high. “ ‘It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion.’ ”
Arms wrapped around Helen’s knees. “Mama!”
“Ssh.” She scooped up her son and burrowed a kiss in his soft cheek. “I missed you.”
He flung his arms around her neck and gave her a smacking kiss. Was anything sweeter than a child’s love?
Mary Jane straightened Jay-Jay’s sailor hat. “He’s so cute. I can’t wait to be a mother.”
“Wait.” Helen locked her gaze on the girl. “Wait until you find a good man.”
“As you did.”
Helen nodded, all part of the performance. When Donald’s applause receded, she gave him a handshake and faced the audience. Jay-Jay shielded his eyes and buried his face in Helen’s shoulder, and the audience responded with “aahs.”
Helen smiled. “The Lord has blessed us here in Antioch. Our land has never been trod by enemy boots, or pocked by enemy shells, or shadowed by enemy planes. Our children live in freedom because our men fight tyranny. Our children live without fear because our men face danger. Our children live because of the sacrifices our brave soldiers and sailors make.”
She nudged Jay-Jay so he would look up. The hushed silence ran deeper than polite listening, and sniffles rose from a few spots. Helen’s breath caught. To this community, she and Jay-Jay symbolized that sacrifice. Her role as mourning widow was essential to the war effort. The town needed her grief to motivate them to give and serve and fight. As long as the war lasted, she would never be free.
“The children,” she choked out. “The children. They are the reason we must be ‘dedicated to the great task remaining before us.’ As in Lincoln’s day, our war is far from over. We must not grow weary. I beg you to give generously of your time and effort, your money, and yes, even your lifeblood.” She raised half a smile.
“For our final number, all the children will sing ‘God Bless America,’ but first Jay-Jay has a message for you.”
He leaned forward so far, Helen grabbed at him. “Give!” he yelled.
“Use your manners, sweetie.”
Amid the laughter, a ham was born. He grinned. “Pease.”
If that didn’t move this town, nothing would. Helen stepped to the side. The children trooped onstage, the boys with Sunday suits and slicked hair, the girls in curls and braids and starched crinolines. They all wore red, white, and blue sashes, one of many donations by the Carlisles to the pageant.
The audience joined in with throaty voices, and goose bumps shivered up Helen’s arms. The show was a success, but would the emotional impact lead to action?
Once the pageant concluded, the parents came down to the stage to collect their children, the boys in the band packed their instruments, and the Junior Red Cross girls fell to work at sign-up tables or cleaning up.
Helen ticked into the final phase and rearranged papers on her clipboard.
“Mrs. Carlisle?” Peggy Lindstrom asked. “May I please play with Jay-Jay?”
Helen smiled at the tall blonde. “That would help immensely.”
Peggy squealed and swung Jay-Jay onto her hip. “Let’s go play.”
Whatever would mothers do without teenage girls? Helen smiled and tapped Evelyn Kramer on the shoulder. “Wait about ten minutes before you get out the carpet sweeper.”
Her face brightened. “I know where it is. I work here.”
“That’s why you signed up to do it.”
“Hi, Helen.” Ray stood at the foot of the stage stairs in dress uniform.
Her heart did a shimmy. “Hi there.”
His parents stood behind him. “Excellent show,” Pastor Novak said.
“A very moving speech. Not a dry eye in the house.” Mrs. Novak chuckled and raised a wadded handkerchief.
“You’re a gifted speaker.” Ray smiled, but his eyelid twitched.
“Thank you.” She swallowed hard. Her speech had wounded him, hadn’t it? Did he think she didn’t respect him because his contribution lay in the rear rather than on the front lines?
He set one foot on the bottom step. “Can I help?”
“Oh yes.” She smiled at the chance to show how she appreciated him. “I could use some manly muscles to take down the set.”
“You’re looking in the wrong place, but I’ll do what I can.” He winked, unbuttoned his service jacket, and tossed it to his mother. “See you at home.”
Helen said good-bye to the Novaks, pointed Ray to a ladder backstage, and glanced at the diminishing crowd. The Carlisles. The Llewellyns. A nervous flutter rose in her stomach. She needed to keep busy far from Ray, so she wouldn’t feed the gossip.
She strode to the opposite side of the stage. “Carol and Gina, start on the bunting, please.”
“Ah, I found my future wife.”
Helen winced, faced Vic, and forced a smile. “I’m pleased to hear that. Have I met her?”
Ray approached with a ladder, Vic took her hand and kissed her cheek, and Helen’s heart seized. What would Ray think of her?
“Hi, Vic.” Ray set up the ladder and smiled as if he didn’t see how Vic clutched her hand. “Come to help? This is a two-man job.”
“If you can spare me.” Vic gazed at Helen with the proprietary affection of a man for his girlfriend. How dare he? Ray would think she was cheating on him, just as Jim had thought.
“I’ll manage fine.” She tugged her hand free and marched down the steps, her cheeks hot. She needed to work and now.
She helped Carol and Gina fold the bunting draped over the front of the stage.
What was she going to do about Ray? She liked him so much, but now he’d think she was loose. And if he somehow forgave her, still the Carlisles and the town needed her to mourn. Could she have a romance in secret, or would she have to end things with Ray? Why did everything have to be so complicated?
He stood on the ladder unhooking the plywood backdrop, while Vic steadied the ladder. Despite Vic’s stony countenance, Ray smiled and chatted.
He wasn’t jealous. Was it because he didn’t notice? Because he didn’t care?
Helen’s throat swelled. No, he cared. Too much evidence pointed to that. He wasn’t jealous because he knew he had her heart. In that confidence, he reached out in friendship to Vic. How could she help but fall in love with such a kind and insightful man?
“Mrs. Carlisle?” Gina patted Helen’s arm. “Where’s the box go?”
“I’ll take it.” She hefted the box full of bunting and climbed the stage stairs.
“Fascinating,” Ray said to Vic. “That’s good work you’re doing at Port Chicago.”
“I try.” Vic’s face transformed from stony to neutral.
“Okay, Llewellyn, grab that corner.” Ray lifted one side of the section of backdrop. “Where to, boss?” he called to Helen and sent her a wink.
“Follow me.” She headed backstage, her heart as overflowing as the box. Oh yes, he cared.
“You know, Helen,” Vic called. “I could still use a secretary.”
She laughed and shifted the box in her arms. “So could I.”
Ray grunted. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? California was always a free state, yet Port Chicago—all military bases—are as segregated as anything in the Deep South.”
“Watch that curtain,” Vic said. “Imagine what it’s like for the Negroes from the North. They’re not used to such blatant discrimination.”
“It’s wrong. Slavery ended eighty years ago.”
“Yeah, and these men fight for freedom abroad when they don’t have it at home.”
Ray gave a wry chuckle and set his corner down. “ ‘Liberty and justice for all’?”
“Not yet, but we’re working on it.” Vic led Ray back for another section.
Helen set down her box and laughed. Ray Novak indeed had a gift for peacemaking.
Over the next half hour, Helen checked duties off her list, directed her volunteers, and carted supplies. Up in the lobby, she collected the sign-up sheets and donations.
“Look how many ladies signed up to prepare bandages,” Nancy Jo said. “Maybe we’ll meet our quota. And we’ve never had this many people sign up for a blood drive.”
Helen’s memory went back further, to after Pearl Harbor, when they turned away blood donors after they ran out of refrigerator space. Still, her eyes misted over. The people had responded. She couldn’t wait to write Papa—he took such pride in her accomplishments.
“We’re done with the backdrop. Anything else?” Ray and Vic saluted Helen.
She laughed. Had Ray won over Vic? “That’s all. Thanks for your help.”
“Say, Helen,” Ray said. “Would Betty mind if Vic joined us for dinner tonight?”
Her jaw dangled. With that question, Ray let Vic know where he stood with Helen, all while offering the olive branch. But she didn’t want Vic spoiling her evening. Besides, Betty couldn’t stand the Llewellyns. “She’d love it.”