Letters From Home (26 page)

As for your concern about Charlie, I must first admit that I envy the bond you two have enjoyed since childhood. When I was little, the first item on my annual wish lists to Santa was invariably a baby sister, a sibling to whom I could tell all my jokes, stories, and secrets. (After two Christmases, I amended it to read “a sister or brother. “ As an only child, I was afraid my request had been too particular.) Though a newborn never did arrive down our chimney, years later I met my dearest friend, Julia. It is with her I am able to share many of my deepest worries—as Charlie does with you—and solely to lessen my own burdens, not transfer them onto her shoulders.

Now, in reciprocating your offering of wisdom, I would insist that neither your mom nor brother expect you to be a fearless role model, only the courageous man you already are. For, as my grandfather would insightfully say, “Courage isn’t the trait of those trying to be heroes; it lies in the ones who, in spite of being afraid, find the strength inside them to continue on.”

On that note, I shall retire for the night. Thank you, Morgan, for trusting me with your feelings and honesty, and for sending such beautiful letters. They have, unmistakably, become my most treasured possessions.

I long to hear from you soon. Please be safe.
Fondly,
Betty

Just when Morgan was convinced his body had completely run dry of tears, a light mist coated his eyes. How he wished she were here right now to console him with her voice, her touch.

He gawked at the letter, again astonished by Betty’s ability to peer into his soul. She knew nothing of the tragedy that had taken his brother’s life, nothing of the guilt that weighed on his heart and mind. But somehow she’d soothed him, as though she could read his thoughts and answer his prayers.

Morgan placed the pages in the cigar box beside him. Carefully, he grabbed hold of his field jacket from a pile of clothing on the floor. He slung the garment across his lap, the smell of dirt and war trapped in its stained fabric. Out of a pocket, he retrieved Betty’s posts and picture, and traced her features with his fingertip.

How could pieces from two different puzzles fit so perfectly together?

Their worlds were nothing alike. Not just now, even before the war. She was a city girl, raised on the sunny beaches of California; until shipping out, he had never seen the ocean. She was articulate and educated, her options for the future clearly limitless; he was a hayseed with barely two nickels to rub together and had no certainty of plans now that Charlie was gone. All he had to offer Betty was himself.

And he couldn’t help wishing it were more.

A current, again, shot through his calf. He grimaced, every muscle contracted. When the pain began to fade, he glared at his bandaged wound. He’d been prepared for what the doc might have to do, maybe even wanted it. An archaic penance for letting his brother die.

Yet now, with Betty’s messages in his hands, he realized he’d have even less to give should he come home as half a man.

Telling her would be the right thing to do. But would she stop caring about him?

Could he blame her?

A compromise, fair enough for the time being: He’d come clean if his leg didn’t improve. Until knowing for sure, he’d savor every one of her letters as if they were air, keeping him alive, giving him hope.

27

December 31, 1944
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

J
ulia anchored her hands on the cushioned armrests of her father’s wingback chair, as if seated on a ship bracing for a squall. The envelope she’d freshly addressed lay in the center of the mahogany desk:
Christian Downing SM 2/C.

A month of collecting regret like sea glass in her pocket had led to this moment. “Mermaid’s tears,” Christian had called the gems, while they’d strolled the shore together one unusually warm spring day. Ironic how now, after the confession Julia had at last penned to her fiancé, her own eyes were almost too dry to blink, let alone produce tears. Anxiety and heat from the den fireplace evaporated the moisture from her body.

She pressed the sealed letter to her chest and padded across the Persian rug. Peering through the French doors, she leaned against the ceiling-high shelves of leather-bound books. Snow trickled over the terrace, white with purity and innocence. Every flake perfect, unique, untouched—until meeting the stony ground and melting away.

Church bells tolled in the distance. Five chimes marked the evening hour. Five days had passed since she’d first attempted, without success, to purge her conscience in writing. Five weeks she had spent replaying “the incident” with Ian in her head, then deconstructing every component, every emotion, to make sense of it all.

Again and again, she had analyzed their mistake. A moment of weakness between two lonely people. Undoubtedly, to an outsider, their interactions all evening might have appeared romantic, their behavior misconstrued as amorous flirtation.

But never had that been her intention.

How could she have felt anything less than comfortable with Ian, a man whose very essence was directly tied to the one she loved? Had she closed her eyes, the similarities would have been indecipherable. His voice, his laugh, even his smell. Fragments of Christian had lured her into the trap. And the safety of knowing they were a marginal step from becoming family had served as enticing bait, dropping her defenses.

So why, then, was guilt corroding her soul?

Each visit to the question, to that night in the park, produced the same solitary answer: Despite her eyelids obscuring her view, she’d been aware they weren’t Christian’s lips on her body. And still, she had hesitated in stopping him.

For days after their date, she had debated on phoning Ian. The possibility of his telling Christian had writhed in her mind—a request for forgiveness, or worse, a lay of claim to her. Eventually, she’d reasoned neither would be the case. After all, to her relief, he hadn’t pursued her further. No phone calls. No letters. Perhaps his guilt was as burdening as hers. One conversation and they could put it all to rest. Even laugh about it years from now. A plea of youthful insanity, sworn secrecy among in-laws. All she had to do was be the bigger person and reach out to him.

Yet she couldn’t. Not until she knew for sure that his voice wouldn’t send a shiver down her back, that his touch wouldn’t seize her heart. That her darling Christian was truly her soul mate.

How presumptuous she’d been with Liz, believing she understood her friend’s dilemma. The gray area of morality seemed so avoidable when one was perched on its solid black framework. But a single missed step and Julia had learned: Love posed just as many complications as war.

During their last talk at work, she had tried to tell Liz so, had verged on telling her everything. But she managed only an apology. Somehow, it seemed voicing her error, her doubts, would solidify them into permanence, irreconcilable and real.

“Miss Julia?” A woman’s voice came from behind her.

Julia swung to find her parents’ new housekeeper in the doorway. Dressed in uniform, the ebony-skinned woman looked on with a disarming gaze. Julia originally thought her to be a Hattie McDaniel replica, the beloved Mammy from
Gone with the Wind.
Now, though, there seemed to be little resemblance. One more mistaken notion. Another instance of trying to make something more than it was.

“Yes, Mabel?” Julia answered.

“Wadn’t sure if you heard me knocking. The missus say guests be arriving soon. So’s you might wanna get ready ‘fore long.”

Julia glanced down at her untucked blouse and pedal pushers. Time had slid around her since she had closed herself off in her father’s study. Thankfully, the dress hanging on her four-poster bed had a throng of multifaceted beads, sparkly enough to detract from the pasted smile she would flaunt at the New Year’s Eve celebration.

“Thank you, Mabel. I’ll head up to my room right now.”

“Yes’um.” About to leave, she paused. “Oh, and missus say to tell you a gentlemen called for ya earlier. Mr. Downing be his name.”

The hair on Julia’s arms bristled. She knew full well Christian Downing, her sailor at sea, was not the caller who rang. She forced her voice to remain steady. “Did he happen to give his first name?”

“Can’t say, Miss Julia.”

“Did my mother mention why he called?” she pressed.

“You best ask her yourself, but I do believe he say he and his wife just wanna wish you and your family happy new year.”

Of course …George and Cora.

Relief rippled through Julia.

“You wants me to post that for ya?” Mabel asked.

Julia glanced down at the envelope still clutched to her chest, her grip like a vise. “Thank you,” she said. “But it’s not quite ready.”

With a nod, Mabel headed down the hall, humming one of her usual gospel tunes, rich in history and redemption.

Julia threaded around her father’s large floor globe and crystal decanter bar. She centered herself before the fireplace mantel covered with framed pictures. Her sister’s wedding portrait, various baby shots, a group family photo taken at the country club two Christmases ago. She drank in the smiles and special moments, the chronology of happiness.

And she made her unbending decision: She wasn’t about to disrupt the joyful lineage merely to clear her conscience. This was just another test between her and Christian. A test she refused to fail over a meaningless kiss.

Bereft of hesitation, she thrust the corner of Christian’s envelope into the blue-edged fire. The paper borrowed a small flame without a fight, as if knowing it would never reach another’s eyes. She watched the casing smoke and flicker and curl. Ashes broke off as the heat crept toward her fingers. When only a scant portion remained, she tossed it into the fire and watched the evidence vanish.

28

January 2, 1945
Evanston, Illinois

L
iz watched the dishwater in the sink funneling toward the drain, disappearing like the last of her family ties.

“Elizabeth?”

“Huh?” She jerked her fingers out of the suds and whirled around.

Her father stood in the kitchen doorway. He offered her a towel off the wall hook with a genial smile. “I just wanted to say good night.” The wrinkles bordering his dusky brown eyes deepened behind his spectacles. She had noticed the gradual thinning of his russet hair, but not until that moment did she truly realize the toll time had taken.

“Thank you again for dinner,” he said.

“I’m sorry the meat was so dry.” As in Sahara dry, thanks to the butter shortage. Oh, why hadn’t she pulled the chicken out of the oven earlier?

“Nonsense. It was fine. And the mashed potatoes tasted just like Nana’s.”

Unable to discern if he was being honest, she returned his smile. “I guess from working at the rest home, I’ve gotten pretty good at making food that doesn’t require teeth.”

He let out a low chuckle, the first of his visit. It had been a winter visit like so many before. Overly polite, excruciatingly civil. Radio shows and boughs of holly to pad the annual dues of Christmas.

Why couldn’t her mother have chosen another holiday to leave? Groundhog or Columbus Day. April Fools'. One without the requirement of family bonding and outward joy.

“Well,” Liz said, and set the dishcloth aside. With no words to follow, silence entered the room, clinging like guilt, a wall dividing them.

Her father angled a shoulder toward the hall. “I’ll see you in the morning, then, before I head to the station.”

Actually he wouldn’t be seeing her, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “I’m afraid I’m covering the early shift. So I’ll probably be gone before you’re up.”

“Oh. All right. Then I’ll see you at your engagement party in April.”

Ah, yes. The engagement party. Mrs. Harris’s “intimate and informal gathering” soon to become a grand production.

Liz stowed the thought away and nodded pleasantly. “Have a nice trip.”

At that, he raised his hand, reaching for her, as if to …hug her good-bye?

Anticipation stole her breath. Her arms began to lift—then swiftly dropped when he gave her a pat on the shoulder. “You take good care,” he added like the afterthought she’d become.

“You too,” she managed. Yet another opportunity for reconciliation slipped away as he turned to leave the room. She wanted to call after him. But besides the one incident that really mattered, was there anything left to discuss? They had already used up the usual topics: classes, students, weather. Always the Chicago weather. And, of course, they’d covered current affairs.

Several evenings ago while dining with Dalton’s family, she had listened to her father talk about a fellow train passenger who’d boisterously delighted in the prolongation of the war, bragging of profits from stock market investments built on the sacrifice of soldiers.Disgusted, her father had apparently asserted his objections before an audience of concurring passengers.

It was a side of her father she never knew existed, a side she longed to know firsthand.

During the car ride home that night, the two of them rumbling along quietly, she had decided to express a side of herself that he, in turn, didn’t know existed. She wanted to share with him her change in desired profession, a detour from his scholarly path. But before she could begin, her father proudly announced he’d been discussing her teaching possibilities with the dean of Northwestern’s English department. To which she simply replied, “Thank you.”

After all, there would be plenty of opportunities between now and graduation to express her plans. Plenty of chances to crush her father’s dream, along with the remnants of his approval.

“Oh, I’d nearly forgotten.” He now rotated back. “A post arrived for your roommate.” He handed her an envelope from his sweater pocket.

“I’ll make sure she gets it.” Liz dredged up a smile and watched him stride down the hall, a hotel guest retiring for the night.

Once he sealed his door behind him, she hung up her apron. She reached for the light switch, happening to glance at the envelope in her hand—from Morgan.

From Morgan?

Her heart stopped. She felt the blood drain from her face.

He was alive! Thank God, he was alive.

Her fingers swiped open the seal before she remembered: She’d already said good-bye. No …
no.
She couldn’t go through this. Not again.

Clasping her locket, she stared at his name on the envelope:
PFC M. McClain.
The same handwriting, same smudged fingerprints. Yet she had changed. She had moved on.

Hadn’t she?

Reading his entire letter with emotional detachment would serve as her final test. A few insomnia reports and childhood anecdotes were all that stood between her and a doubtless future with Dalton.

She had to know for sure.

Steeling herself, she clicked off the light and headed to Julia’s room. She closed the door and sat on the bed. A shakiness moved through her as she retrieved the pages from inside. Already she dreaded every dot, every line, that had been penned in the soldier’s hand.

Dearest Betty,

I know it’s been a while since you’ve heard from me. I apologize if I’ve caused you to fret. So much doing over here I’m not sure where to start. Figured the best I could do was to simply write down the thoughts as they come.

It’s another bitter cold day and the war still drags on and on. Some of our mud-belly GIs have been fighting for three years now, but there doesn’t seem to be an end to this foulness anytime soon.

My only rosy news to report is that the rain that nearly drove us all nuts over here has stopped. Unfortunately, slush and snow took its place and brought temperatures that chill us to the bone. Of course I shouldn’t complain about the weather when I’m lying in a bed with a real mattress and clean sheets. Just too bad it’s in a hospital ward thousands of miles from my room on the farm.

I don’t recall much about how I got here. Only remember waking up from the pain in my leg and arm to find a nurse hovering over me, telling me where I was. Since then the docs have patched me up with bandages and penicillin. Funny that I’ve spent my whole life in the fields with heavy tools and machinery and never got more than some cuts and bruises. But only half a year here and I wind up in a hospital.

Lucky to be alive—that’s what the doc says about me. Compared to all he’s seen, I’m sure he’s right. Just doesn’t feel that way. Not after all that’s happened.

You see, Charlie died in my arms on December 19. The last words he spoke were to tell me everything was going to be okay. He’s lying there, body pegged with lead, and he’s offering me comfort. Maybe it’s because he knew me well enough to know how much I was going to blame myself.

Over and over, every detail of that day comes back like a movie running in my head, but in slow motion so I can see all the mistakes I made. I keep thinking one of these days I’ll find a way to change the ending. All along there hadn’t been a single battle when I wasn’t at his side. So why is it that the one minute I leave him, God decides it’s time to take him back?

There are moments I almost expect Charlie to wander through the door and gloat about how he managed to put one over on me. That it wasn’t really blood covering his shirt, just ketchup he smuggled from the mess as a dramatic touch to his prank. I’d give him a good smack, then we’d both end up getting a laugh out of it.

I think that’s what I miss the most—his laugh. So genuine it was contagious. More often than not, it was at himself. That’s a rare quality in a person. I realize now it’s just one of the wonderful things about him I took for granted. His storytelling and humor, his free spirit—they were all traits anyone with decent vision and hearing could have sized up about Charlie from a dozen rods away. But I was among the few who really knew his other side. He had a caring nature, a solid heart of gold. He would have given the shirt off his back in the middle of a snowstorm to anyone who needed it. Now that he’s gone I wonder how many people besides me were lucky enough to know that about him.

A chaplain named Father Bud passed through the

other day, visiting guys in need of direction and spiritual guidance. I must have looked like I needed both, because he pulled up a chair right next to my bed. A nurse had told him about me losing my brother, so he tried to offer comfort. He told me how pleased I should be for Charlie, knowing he’s at peace and resting in a better place, and that someday we’ll be reunited in a world without violence and hatred and suffering. Truthfully it’s hard to imagine a place like that about now. Though I do hope he’s right. It would definitely make the rest of my time on this earth easier to get through. Then maybe I wouldn’t be filled with so much anger over Charlie’s death—anger at the damn Kraut who shot him down, at God for stealing the only close kin I had left, and at myself for not keeping it from happening.