Letters From Home (17 page)

I smile now recalling occasions on which I, too, had made my father proud—the day I received a gaudy blue ribbon for my first short-story contest; and, of course, the evening I debuted in a school play as a singing pine tree. (An off-key one, at that. Though, from his applause, you would have thought I had performed the lead in “Romeo and Juliet.”) They were silly things really, nothing as noteworthy as your current service. Yet I remember his face beaming, his pride speaking at full volume without his saying a word.

I would be lying if I denied how saddened I am by the distance that has grown between us over the years. Nevertheless, fond memories like these have helped me through many challenging times, times when I have felt far from confident in who I am, or regretful of acts I would change if given the chance.

I mention all of this in the event that you ever need an added source of strength, as well, particularly during this war. It might be simpleminded of me, but I hope my message will inspire your own recollections for moments when comfort is difficult to come by.

With both roommates away and my father on extended travel, the house feels terribly empty. I suppose this is another reason for my impulse to write back without delay. Somehow, reading your words and putting my own thoughts to paper has left me feeling less alone. It is as if you were here with me, telling me about the old bridge and your father’s Irish suppers.

I imagine that you, always being surrounded by fellow soldiers, are likely burdened by the opposite. As I complain of loneliness, the idea of having a quiet evening to yourself must sound so very appealing. If, however, that is not the case, I hope my letter brings you the same sense of warm company with which you have provided me.

Please take good care, Morgan. I wish you and your brother a continued safe journey. With tender regards, Betty Cordell

Morgan stared at the pages, warmed by words that evaporated the cold. How was it that a girl he barely knew, one living thousands of miles away, could feel so familiar? As if they’d known each other for years. From her sense of loneliness, to yearning for her parent’s pride, even the strained relationship with her father, he could relate to every emotion in detail. The thought of finding a person who truly understood him sent a heated shiver up his arms.

But then a drop splashed his hand, bringing him back to the foxhole.

He stored the folded letter in a dry portion of his jacket. Safe. Protected.

This time there was no postponing a response. He held up the flashlight over a blank piece of paper. And through the ink in his pen, he offered a confession, which, if not for Betty, he would have taken to the grave.

18

November 1944
Chicago, Illinois

L
iz wrung out the washcloth in such a hurry she entirely missed the porcelain basin on the nightstand. The water splattered off the glossy floorboards, dampening the ruffled bed skirt and the legs of Liz’s chair.

“Lordy, Lordy, would you look at the mess you’re makin'.”

“Sorry about that, Vy.”

“Oh, applesauce. I’m just giving you fits.” Viola smiled, adjusting her thick bifocals. Seated against a mountain of pillows in bed, the seventy-four-year-old woman appeared deceptively frail. Her slight frame swam freely in her floral print nightgown.

Reducing her pace, Liz stood and draped the rag over the edge of the bowl.

Viola fluffed her short silver hair and said, “So, we’re being sneaky, are we?”

Liz inhaled as sharply as if she had hiccupped.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“I—don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to slip out early for a little something special.”

Liz giggled nervously. “Why would you think that?” She slid her hand over her apron pocket, relieved the contents hadn’t fallen out.

“It would certainly explain why that was the quickest spit bath I’ve had in the six years I’ve been here. A romantic evening planned with your beau?”

Liz sighed inside. “Nothing like that. Just have some extra chores today.” She promptly crossed the room to avoid Viola’s scrutinizing gray-blue eyes. A former grade school teacher, Viola Knowles often bragged about being a living, breathing lie detector. One with “fading batteries and a bad hip,” she would say, “but still in working order.”

At the supply table, Liz glanced out the half-open window outlined with plum curtains. An old Model T honked while rumbling away, and in the park across the street, an evening breeze blew a shower of leaves off branches. The room upstairs that used to be Papa’s shared an identical view. Inhaling the same reminiscent smells of Lysol and medications, Liz almost expected to hear his low belly chuckle behind her. But only a moment passed before a whistling gust of wind swept his presence away.

“Want me to close the window?” Liz didn’t know why she bothered asking; she knew what Viola’s response would be.

“No, thank you, dear. Fresh air clears the cobwebs.”

Liz stepped back toward the bed with a cloth and bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Careful, now,” Viola said. “Water’ll make that floor slicker than a log in a millpond. You fall, and you’ll be my new roommate.”

“Goodness knows, we don’t want
that
to happen.” Liz smiled. When she settled in her seat, Viola outstretched her arms as if welcoming an application from the fountain of youth.

“And what, pray tell, shall the court be feasting on this eve?” Viola asked.

“Chef’s special, milady: mashed potatoes and steamed carrots, delivered by horse-'n'-carriage all the way from Windsor.”

“Well, if it’s good enough for the queen, it’s good enough for me.”

Liz smiled again while running the dampened cloth over the woman’s baby-soft, wrinkled arms, trying not to ponder the time.

After a quiet moment, Viola released a sigh, shaking her head. “My oh my. You do remind me of your grandfather.” She had voiced the same remark many times before, but Liz never tired of hearing it, especially from someone who’d known Papa as long as Viola had. Together with their spouses, the two had played in a bridge club for years and formed a lasting friendship.

If it weren’t for Viola residing at the nursing home, Liz would have insisted Papa live out his final days in his own house, despite his need for round-the-clock care. Instead, Liz had simply applied to work at the facility in Lincoln Square, a community area on the far North Side of Chicago. Already, she’d virtually been a daily visitor, chatting away whenever Papa had felt up to it, reading to him when he hadn’t. They were halfway through
This Side of Paradise
when he died peacefully in his sleep. Without a single utterance, Viola had offered Liz more comfort than anyone. No words were needed to express how much they both missed his company.

“You’re all set,” Liz said, helping Viola into her frilly robe. “Gorgeous as ever.”

“Thank you, sweet pea.”

“My pleasure.” Liz glanced at her watch. She could still manage it if she hurried.

While Viola fished through a canvas knitting bag, Liz dried the floor and bundled the used towels in her arms. Excitement built with every step as she headed for the door, disrupted by the sight of crayon drawings on the bureau. She’d almost forgotten.

“Would you still like me to hang up your new artwork?” Liz motioned her chin toward Viola’s personal gallery: a wall covered with school projects and pictures from her grandchildren.

“It can wait. You skedaddle off,” Viola replied. “To those
chores
of yours.” Her mouth split into a suspicious grin.

Liz gripped the towels tighter and made her escape. The aroma of baking bread and boiling carrots from the nearby kitchen warmed the air.

She had just deposited her supplies in the laundry room when the grandfather clock chimed. Fifteen minutes until meal service.

She sped around the banister staircase and into the front sitting room, where she dropped into the Victorian chair. The evening sky’s indigo glow provided ample light through the massive window.

At last. An opportunity to read Morgan’s reply without interruption.

Dear Betty,

Thank you so much for your last post. To say its arrival was the highlight of my day doesn’t do it justice. It’s no surprise your writing has won awards, if your letters are any indication. I’ve read both of them so often that many of the words are smudged. With all the endless rain, marching, and nights spent in foxholes, they’ve definitely been a welcome escape.

I’m actually writing to you tonight crouched in one of those soggy holes. My knee sure doesn’t make a great desk, but with a grain of luck you’ll still be able to read most of this. Of course that’s assuming I can keep the paper clear of the rain and mud that covers us all from head to toe.

The sound of drops hitting our roof is getting louder. Sometimes I think the only thing longer than a cold night spent in the dark is a cold wet night spent in the mud. Funny. Never thought I’d be one to complain about weather I was so fond of as a kid.

So many times, I would wake my brother up in the wee hours. I’d drag him over to the window to smell the thunderstorm rolling in. There was something electric and wonderful about the scent of those clouds. When the rain did come, Charlie would stand on the covered porch and tell me how nuts I was splashing this way and that in my long johns and boots. I swear, my dad would have knocked some sense into both of us if he’d known—although I imagine even a good belt whupping wouldn’t have stopped me from going right back out there. And now here I am, wishing the skies would just plain dry up.

As for my brother, already conked out beside me, somehow he’s now the one who doesn’t seem to mind the rain and muck. Or maybe he’s too tired to care. Amazing how a person can change over time. For me it was when my mom passed away that I had to grow up and become the responsible brother. At least I tried my best to be. Meanwhile Charlie turned into the daring one, convinced he could conquer the world. But now with the threat of death hiding behind every tree and in every bunker, fear seems to have changed him back into a little boy who still relies on his older brother for direction. God help us both.

I do my best to be strong for Charlie, honoring what I promised Mom before shipping out. In prayer, I swore to her I’d do everything in my power to be the son and soldier that would have made her proud—someone Charlie could always look up to and lean on. But truth be told, I share his same fears, maybe even more, about never making it home. Not exactly the picture of courage and valor I’d hoped I’d be. For his sake, I keep those thoughts to myself. Can’t see what good it would do either of us.

The one saving grace is that Charlie’s worries don’t stop him from sleeping as sound as a baby. Tired as we are, with only a few hours between orders, you’d think I wouldn’t have any trouble falling asleep either. But closing my eyes these days usually means seeing horrible pictures I can’t erase—ones that rob me of needed rest night after night.

Not sleeping must be part of why the last three months of hopping from one battle to the next feel like three years. The war is certainly taking its toll. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll even recognize myself when it’s all said and done. I just hope my folks are watching over us from heaven, keeping us out of harm’s way and on the right path so they can be proud of their boys.

Lord knows, I’ve had plenty of times through the years when I’ve been too busy doubting myself to stand up straight. Then I remember what my mom used to tell us—“All the yardsticks in the world couldn’t measure the love and pride of a parent.” I’m sure this is a saying your father would agree with.

Obviously I have no idea what happened to separate the two of you. What I do know is that life is too short not to say how you feel to the people you love. Believe me, it’s a lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way. My mom was only thirty-one when her appendix burst on the way to the hospital. Dad told us not to worry, that it was just a sideache troubling her. Had he let us know the truth, Charlie and I could have told her the things we needed to.

That being said, I do hope you can find a way to mend your ties before it’s too late—especially if you still care for your father as much as I gathered from your letter. No doubt such a distance is causing pain for you both. Well, enough of my preaching. Better close now or I won’t be able to fit these pages into the envelope.

Please write again soon. Your letters mean more to me than I can tell you. And be sure to include more of those beautiful poems. They’re definitely better than the rhymes the dogfaces tell around here.

Thinking of you. Yours truly, Morgan

Liz released a breath she’d been unconsciously holding. Again his words had reached inside, touching her more deeply than any Shakespearean sonnet. And knowing he too had lost his parents only confirmed he was someone with whom she could share her feelings. A man whose utter honesty about his weaknesses and fears made her long to reciprocate the gift.