Letters From Home (36 page)

41

October 1945

Nearing Chicago Union Station

A
loud thud caused Morgan to jump. He jerked his head toward the sound. A paratrooper had yanked his bag from the luggage rack and dropped it onto the floor of the train car.

Morgan wiped his moist palms on his trousers. He exhaled a long breath, trying to relax, though not even a barber’s blade could cut the tension binding his muscles. Too much movement in a small area, conjuring the franticness of a stirred-up anthill. His inability to see what people were doing behind him cranked his jitters up to a level bordering on nausea. Or perhaps it was simply the knowledge that he could soon be facing one of the most pivotal moments in his life.

In the aisle seat beside him, a pint-sized girl hummed away, five years old if he had to guess. Though indiscernible, the tune was a whole lot more soothing than the scuffling shrieks she and her toddler sister had let loose in the neighboring row before their mother divided them. He only wished the separation had occurred more than ten minutes earlier.

Evidently enjoying her newfound independence, the girl swung her legs as rhythmically as windshield wipers, keeping time with the rock of the creaky Pullman. She alternated licks between both sides of her lollipop, its green apple scent sweetening the smoky, wool-musty air.

So that’s what it felt like to be young. Morgan could hardly remember.

He turned to the window and focused on the passing buildings, the huff of the wheels, the hiss of the steam engine. Crouched beneath the overcast sky, the city—no, the world—appeared different than he remembered.

“Are we almost there?” The girl’s elfin voice and tug on his coat sleeve interrupted his thoughts.

“I’d say we’re getting awfully close,” he answered. Flashes of her kelly green tongue pulled his lips upward. “Are you heading home?”

“Yep, yep, yep,” she twittered. “My daddy just got back from, um, the hospital. He was fighting bad guys, and, um, he’s a big hero, so they gave him a pink heart. And they said he could go home ‘cause Mommy said he took all his medicine.”

Notions of which limbs her father might have permanently traded for his Purple Heart arose from the dark caverns of Morgan’s mind. He immediately shoved them down and held tight to his smile. “Well, that’s great news,” he told her. “I’m sure he misses all of you very much.”

“Do you know my daddy?” she asked expectantly.

Morgan’s olive-drab dress uniform must have been a clear sign that he knew her father. After all, how many soldiers could there be?

“Not sure. What’s his name?”

She beamed with pride. “His name is Butt Sergeant John L. Morris.”

Containing his laughter, he considered teaching her the difference between “Butt” and “Buck,” then decided her choice was better.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, “but I’d bet a lot of other guys know your daddy.”

She sat back, noticeably comforted. “What’s your name?”

He was about to reply factually, but then thought better of it.

He leaned toward her, shifting into a hushed tone. “You can’t tell anyone, but my name is actually
Superman.
”

She tilted her head and studied his face, then let out a dismissive puff. “If you were Superman, you wouldn’t need to ride a train.”

Good point. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Union Station! End of the line!” the train conductor bellowed before disappearing into another car.

The girl sprang onto her knees. She stretched her neck to peer out Morgan’s window, her eyes the size of harvest moons.

Morgan’s anxiety mounted with every rotation of the slowing locomotive’s wheels. Minutes dragged in a marathon of time.
Tick, tock…chug, chug …tick…tock…chug …chug.

The platforms of the underground station swelled as they approached.

“I don’t see him.” Distress twanged her munchkin voice. She turned to Morgan with fully pouted lips. “Do you think he forgot?”

“Mmm, something tells me he wouldn’t have missed this day for anything.”

A smile bloomed on her round face.

“Why don’t you tell me what he looks like and I’ll see if I can help out.”

“Well,” she said, “he’s got, um, brown hair and brown eyes. And he wears a uniform and hat.”

All right, that narrowed it down to half the station.

“Let’s see if we can find him together.” He turned his attention to the raindrop-smeared window. However, instead of hunting for the child’s father, Morgan searched for the gorgeous blonde who had drawn him here. His pulse increased with each face they passed. When the train hissed to a final stop, his heart took off in a gallop.

“Mommy! I see him, I see him!” The girl bounced on her heels as if awaiting the pop of a pistol to unleash her from the starting line.

“Okay, sweetie bug, but you need to wait for Mommy.” The travel-weary woman across the aisle returned to spit-shining the cheeks of the toddler on her lap, who wiggled as though seated on marbles.

Morgan’s neighbor ignored the directive, launching herself through the coach like a self-navigating V-2 rocket. The ruffles of her lollipop-stained dress flailed as wildly as the hair that had fallen from her pigtail ribbons. She burrowed through the blockade of passengers who stood to collect their belongings, clearly unstoppable until colliding with her target. Within seconds, she lunged from the train car steps and into the arms of a uniformed sergeant with brown hair and brown eyes.

Now it was Morgan’s turn.

He cocked his wool garrison cap on his head. Cane in hand, he tossed his barracks bag over his shoulder, his letter box stored safely inside. He took the full breath of a cliff diver about to plummet, then moved toward the exit.

By the time he reached the steps, the youngster was planted on the ground, gripping her father’s hand. The sergeant grinned as he hugged her sister and mother with his other arm. Morgan maneuvered down the stairs, his knee stiff from the lengthy train ride. He was halfway around the family huddle when he made eye contact with the little girl.

“Bye, Superman,” she stage-whispered.

He shot her a wink.

Leaning on his cane, he swiveled and scanned the buzzing platform. Plenty of gals, a speckling of blondes. But no sign of Betty.

The steam engine’s mist thinned, as did the crowd. Fewer and fewer females were left unspoken for by the awaiting and arriving servicemen. His apprehension inflated like a balloon ready to burst.

Maybe she wasn’t here. He’d barely given her warning. He would have alerted her earlier with a detailed letter, but the postwar mail system had gone haywire and he’d run out of that kind of patience. He also didn’t want to jinx himself by putting his situation to paper, the situation being that technically he wasn’t even supposed to be in the States yet. An Army miscalculation had prematurely landed him a slot on a Liberty ship. But, hey, who was he to debate an order?

Back at Fort Dix, life had fed him yet another dose of irony. There he’d learned he had been awarded the Silver Star for his show of bravery in Slevant, an honor that truly belonged to his brother. If there really was such a thing as a hero, Charlie was it. And one day, Morgan would return to Europe and take great pride in placing that star on his brother’s grave.

Once discharged, Morgan had kept his promise and headed to the Big Apple, where Frank at last introduced him to June. By the end of their laughter-filled dinner, it was clear to him that when you found the one you were meant to be with, all the rest were details. Frank and his bride were living proof.

Now, however, while Morgan stood on the Union Station platform, the situation seemed a bit more complicated. What if she didn’t get the telegram? What if he’d been presumptuous thinking she could up and drop everything to come meet him?

His questions fizzled away at the sight of a familiar face, a woman’s profile twenty feet ahead. Couples shuffled back and forth between them. The universe slowed as the path cleared, giving him a full view of the knockout blonde clutching her pocketbook. The gap in her beige overcoat revealed a curve-hugging baby blue dress cut just below the knee. A matching large-brimmed hat rested atop her cascading locks.

How surreal to finally be so close to her. A sudden desire to exchange wedding vows flared through him, assuming their connection in person was even a fraction of what it had been in their letters.

So what was he waiting for? More important, what was he going to say to her?

He downed a dry gulp of confidence as he strode forward, trying his best not to limp. Ten feet…six feet…two.

“Betty?”

She turned to him.

“Hi, Morgan.” She lowered her chin, accentuating her blue eyes. She was even more stunning than the image embedded in his memory.

“So you, um, got my telegram?” What was he saying? Obviously she did. “What I mean is, thanks for coming.”

She smiled the gentle smile he knew like the back of his hand. “Thanks for the invitation.”

When he opened his mouth but failed to speak, she giggled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t believe you’re actually here, and I’m here, and …” He paused, then finished the thought simply. “It’s good to see you again.”

Betty nodded with a look of understanding. That’s when Morgan realized there were no words for this moment. He dropped his bag and whisked her into his arms. She gasped and grabbed the top of her hat. Relying on his good leg, he spun her around in a move that even Gene Kelly would have found respectable. Her laughter filled the air, filled his heart, empowering him with the belief that together anything was possible.

Now if he could just find the closest chapel.

42

October 1945
Chicago Union Station

L
iz flew through the labyrinth of Union Station—down the grand staircase and past wooden benches, through the underground passageway. Fear and adrenaline tethered her insides.

Roughly an hour ago, she’d come home early from work to prepare for her college awards reception, hoping for an opportunity to speak privately with Betty—about Morgan, about Dalton, about everything. Yet she’d found the house empty. Not until Liz happened across the wrinkled telegram in the kitchen did she understand why. The message had first induced shock, then panic, which only intensified during her race through the city.

Barely pausing, Liz tipped her neck back to check the station clock. A quarter to six already! The train was scheduled to pull in ten minutes ago. Her plan for gradual disclosure crash-landed in the realm of impossibility. She had never intended to face Morgan and Betty at once, always separately. But what option did she have? The sooner she presented an explanation, the better.

She ratcheted up her pace. Through the bright blur of Allied flags and war bond murals, she noted Morgan’s track number. Fourteen. Fourteen was better than thirteen. She didn’t subscribe to superstitions, but she’d cling to anything that could help her today.

Shooting stars, four-leaf clovers. She would have sought out both if she had the time.

Scanning for the platform gates, she angled around the ticket booth. Her thoughts of luck splintered when she collided with a wall of a moving suit. A man, paunchy and ruddy-faced, muttered around his limp cigarette, his newspaper pages parachuting into a heap. She registered a fraction of his words—something about dames watching where they were going—before she noticed her handbag on the floor. From its gaping clasp, contents stretched several feet, a trail leading to a shoeshine station.

“No, no, no,”
she cried under her breath.

She scooped up her purse, inventorying the spill in a flash: a handkerchief, some receipts, a couple of coins. Nothing worth stopping for. “I’m sorry,” she called to the man, whose grumbling diminished as she scrambled down the concourse. She visually skimmed servicemen’s faces while weaving through the bustle. The back of a blonde with Betty’s frame broke into view, jarring Liz’s heart. The gal turned and wiggled her fingers to gain the attention of a stout redcap toting a pair of suitcases. Middle-aged features revealed that the lady wasn’t Betty.

Of course it wasn’t Betty, because she’d just now be greeting Morgan at the train.

Liz scurried onward. Finally she reached the entrance to the tracks. But her legs stalled. This was it. Fate awaited on the other side of the wall. The path of her life could be determined by whatever should happen in the next few minutes.

Hands shaking, she smoothed the sweetheart neckline of her long black dress. She adjusted her pearls, then the collar of her open coat, having no idea why she was primping. Pristine attire would be irrelevant once the phrases began tumbling from her mouth. She could feel the words readying, rising in her throat. She pushed them down and stepped outside.

Track twenty. Eighteen. Sixteen. At fourteen, a steel locomotive rested after a tiresome journey, its bones creaking as they settled. Only scant groupings of pairs and families appeared on the platform. Her gaze hopped from one uniform to another, each face prompting elimination. She strained to hear voices, but none rang familiar. No sound from Betty. No sight of Morgan.
Where on earth were they?

Countering her trepidation and heightened nerves, optimism mounted in drifts. Maybe he hadn’t come off the train yet. And Betty was late, made a stop on the way. That’s it. That had to be it.

But then, why was the platform so empty?

Liz looked around. There were other trains farther down. She must have misread the track number. He could be on four instead of fourteen. Or else his train was delayed, and the one in front of her was merely borrowing space.

She moved toward a dark, elderly station worker sweeping the ground nearby.

“Excuse me,” she said.

He arched his neck up to see her, quirking his mouth to the side.

“There’s a train scheduled to arrive at five thirty-five. Do you happen to know if it’s late, or which track it might be on?”

He swung his glance toward the locomotive beside her. “That there’d be the one, ma’am.”

She shook her head. Shook it again. He had to be mistaken. “No,” she protested. “It can’t be. There’d be more passengers out here.”

“Train got in early.”

“Early?”

“Yes’um. Twenty minutes ago, I’d say.” He shuffled off, not waiting for a response.

As his statement replayed in her mind, the fresh consequences rained down, drops of iron on her shoulders. They rolled over her arms, wearying her limbs. Her handbag fell to the concrete.

Just then, a whistle blew on another train, the signal for its departure. At the sound, deep inside, Liz felt something shatter: It was the last bit of hope she had tried so desperately to keep intact.