Letters From Home (38 page)

45

October 1945
Chicago Union Station

I
n the station’s Great Hall, Morgan stooped while seated on a long wooden bench. A good hundred feet up, the curved atrium ceiling encased the waiting room like a fishbowl. Surrounded by towering Corinthian columns and an ocean of pink marble flooring, he could recall only one time in his life he’d ever felt so small, so lost: the day he stood at his mother’s funeral, devastated in the wake of his father’s lie.

Once again, someone he’d trusted had pulled the world out from under him. Another brutal swoop had left him sprawled on the floor, too despondent to pick himself up.

Already, he’d purchased a one-way voucher to reach Belknap. He felt like a fugitive outrunning the law, needing to flee as fast as possible. Given that he no longer had a place to call home, his uncle’s farm was the only destination that made sense. Morgan knew how to harvest a crop, if nothing else. He just wished the thought of going there alone didn’t seem so empty, a feeling underscored by the surrounding scene: servicemen holding their sweethearts, spouting tears and exclamations of bliss. At the sight, a dull ache cycled through his body, from his knee to his chest to his head, then back down again.

He glanced at his watch. The train couldn’t get here soon enough.

“Candy bar, mister?” A young boy with plaid knickers and a woolen cap seemed to magically appear.

“Sorry. I didn’t bring any home.” He didn’t know the D-ration treats were as sought after back in the States as they were overseas.

“No, sir, do
you
wanna buy a candy bar?” The youngster gestured to an oversized cardboard box toted by a shorter kid, presumably his little brother, who was dressed in a similar hand-me-down outfit. The pair projected such earnestness Morgan couldn’t bring himself to say no.

“How much they going for these days?”

“Eight cents apiece,” the first one replied.

“Eight cents?” Morgan acted indignant. “That’s a bit steep, don’t you think?”

“Hey, mister,” said the smaller kid with a slight lisp, “a guy’s gotta make a livin'.” He flashed a grin enhanced by two missing front teeth.

Boy, did he sound familiar.

“Your name wouldn’t be Charlie by any chance, would it?”

“Naw, it’s Tommy. But fellas call me Lucky, ‘cause I’m so popular with the dames.”

Morgan smiled at the vision of the grade schooler chasing little shrieking girls around the playground, girls who would undoubtedly be chasing
him
in a few years. “Then I guess I’d better buy something, so you can take care of those pretty ladies of yours.”

Lucky vigorously nodded his capped head.

“So how many would ya like?” the elder brother asked.

“Let’s see …eight cents apiece, huh? How does three bars for twenty cents strike you?”

After a few seconds of silent calculating, the salesman sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, but you got yourself a deal.”

Morgan scrounged his pant pocket for loose change, yet came up with only a dime. He’d stowed all his cash in the bottom of his cigar box—just about the last thing he wanted to rifle through. The enthusiasm brightening the youngsters’ eyes, however, gave him no choice.

From his barracks bag, Morgan pulled out the container. He released the binding rope and flipped open the lid. His fingers naturally slid into the weathered cardboard grooves. He fumbled beneath the pile of keepsakes until he located a wrinkled greenback. When Lucky handed over the merchandise, Morgan presented him with the money.

“Oh, no, mister,” the older one said, holding out his palm. “I’m in charge of the dough.”

Smart kid.

“Well, then, here you go, John D. Rockefeller.” The boy accepted the buck and reached into his jingling pocket to make change. “It’s all right. Keep the difference.”

“No foolin'?” he exclaimed as if the single dollar bill were a million.

“With all your brother’s girlfriends, sounds like you’re gonna need it.”

“Thanks a lot!” they chimed, and trampled off, probably out of fear that he’d have second thoughts.

Morgan shook his head, imagining how similar the “rowdy McClain brothers” must have been at that age. He was about to close the carton when his gaze caught the corner of a snapshot amidst the letter stack. He knew what the image was before pulling it out: a photo Frank had given him during his visit in New York. The picture, taken on a Leica camera “liberated” from a German POW, featured Morgan and Charlie at a camp in a Belgian village. Side by side they stood, caught mid-laughter, layered with Army gear from head to toe.

No longer were they kids dressed in handmade costumes to play cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. They had become reallife soldiers, men who were willing to sacrifice everything for the needs of strangers and fight for something greater than themselves.

His eyes settled on Charlie’s face. “So now what do I do?” he whispered. Never in his life had he wished he could turn to his little brother for advice like he did at this moment. “Just tell me what to do.”

As if receiving a reply, Morgan felt his attention pulled from the snapshot in his hand to his open box. There lay Betty’s photo. He picked up the worn keepsake, placed it over his brother’s, and for the umpteenth time, he studied her striking features. Here was the image of a woman whom he apparently didn’t know the first thing about. Yet it was with her he’d envisioned spending his future, her face he’d melded with the very letters that had brought him comfort while shivering in sodden foxholes, praying he would survive until morning.

Recalling the note that had started it all, he flipped over her picture.

To Morgan,
Take care of yourself.
Betty Cordell

It was so obvious now. Even the handwriting should have been a dead giveaway. Not a single stroke in the scrawled message mirrored the eloquent script in the letters he’d been duped into believing were from her.

The letters.

Were there clues he’d missed all along? Hints that would have exposed the ruse had he just read between the lines?

Reluctantly, he picked up the top envelope. He unfolded the paper from inside, its feminine scent fading along with his dreams, and revisited the words he knew by heart. He was only a third down the page when his train rolled into the station.

46

October 1945
Evanston, Illinois

A
cape of darkness fell over the room as day passed into night.

Seated at the kitchen table, hand propping her head, Liz stared at the telegram. The lilting jazz tune playing on the radio did little to alleviate the throbbing behind her eyes.

She waited for the all-knowing skeptic inside her to proclaim
I told you so.
To chide her for naïvely thinking a glass slipper existed, and wasn’t she sorry for giving up a secure and enviable future as Mrs. Dalton Harris.

Yet the reprimand didn’t come. A truth had quieted the disparaging voice. And that truth was this: She didn’t regret a single word, or moment, she had shared with Morgan. Even if the happy ending wasn’t meant to be hers.

A sound turned her head. It was a knock on the front door. Her body bristled. The moment she’d been dreading since leaving the station was upon her. Morgan and Betty had arrived.

She took a breath. Forcefully, she prodded herself to rise, until a thought hit her. Betty wouldn’t have bothered knocking. She’d be standing in the kitchen, demanding an explanation, with or without the soldier at her side.

So who could it be?

More knocks.

Liz remained still and waited for the caller to give up. But then the doorbell chimed, summoning the answer: Dot hadn’t received the message not to pick her up for the awards gala. Now Liz would have to tell her friend in person that she was under the weather.

On second thought, no. Regardless of how white the lie, she was done with deceiving people she cared about.

She trudged her way to the entry, pausing to flip on a lamp in the hallway. The light flared in her eyes. Pupils recovering, she tucked her hair behind her ears and opened the door. It took her a few seconds to register the sight.

“Morgan.” The word slipped out.

It was
him.
My God, it was actually him! She couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.

The light from inside projected a warm glow over his face, his features almost exactly as she had remembered. His emerald eyes held the same vibrancy beneath his angled service hat, his build just as broad in his uniform.

But what was he doing here? Where was Betty?

Morgan blinked hard before he said, “Liz? Is that you?” Amazement, not sternness, filled his tone. His lips spread into a smile. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t know the story.
How could he not know yet?

“Morgan,” she said again. Feeling her vocal cords collapsing, she forced out the first phrase to come to mind. “I’m so sorry, for everything.”

His forehead crinkled. Eyes dimming, his expression hardened in degrees, as if he were remembering what brought him here. “Wait. Are you telling me …”

“The last thing I wanted to do was deceive you.” She spoke quickly, in case his reaction prevented her from saying much more.

“Hold on,” he ordered.
“You’re
Betty’s roommate?”

Liz strained to recall the speech she had rehearsed in her head, the one she’d even delivered in her dreams while imagining this confrontation, always waking before he’d presented his judgment.Yet now, when she actually needed articulate pleas, her nerves had sent them into hiding.

“Are you the one who’s been writing me?” he pressed.

She hesitated before replying with a nod. Then all was quiet save the sharp pulsing in her ears.

From a pocket he pulled out a wrinkled envelope. It was upside down from her view, but she recognized the return address and handwriting. For they were her own.

“Was this all some kind of joke?” he asked, even and cool.

A joke?
She straightened. “No. That’s not it. It was nothing like that.”

“If it wasn’t a gag, then why did you intentionally lie to me?”

“It wasn’t intentional—well, not at first anyway. I didn’t mean for it to happen—not like this.” Her words tripped over themselves, struggling for footing. “I just didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. But I didn’t want you to stop writing either.”

A crevice split his brow, from either confusion or disbelief. “Why’d you think I wouldn’t want to hear from you?”

At a measured pace, pushing down her tears, she began her confession. “The night we met, I felt like there was something between us. But when I came back, you weren’t there. And then I saw you and Betty dancing.”

“That’s
why you left?”

“Well—yes,” she stammered. She was about to explain her other reason—that she was already going steady at the time—yet she refrained. The fact was, had she not seen him carrying on with her roommate, Liz would have ultimately tossed out her moral compass. “Like I was saying,” she returned to the point, “from how cozy you two were together, it was clear there was no reason for me to stay.”

“What you saw,” he said defensively, “isn’t what you think. I was just helping her out of a bind. The fact is, I searched everywhere for you that night. But I didn’t know your last name, or where you lived. And then”—his gaze dropped to the envelope in his hand—“well, then I started getting these.”

A favor. According to his claim, that’s why he’d danced with Betty. Had the same scenario involved any other girl, Liz would be inclined to rule the excuse a hokey one. But she knew much too well how challenging her roommate was to refuse.

Shaking her head, Liz cupped the front of her neck. How foolish she’d been to jump to such conclusions, to be less than up front since the moment they met. Although belated, he deserved the truth. All of it.

“Please, Morgan, at least let me tell you how it all started,” she said. “You see, Betty asked me to help write you, but then she went away. I would’ve told you everything had things not been so complicated, with my father and—”

“Liz.” His expression remained unchanged. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I only came here to find out one thing.” He raised the envelope between them. “Was there a shred of truth in these letters? That’s all I want to know.”

She considered his question carefully, the most critical exam of her life. The answer formed as solidly as any she had ever known. “Everything but the name I signed was real. Absolutely everything.” Voice wavering, she peered into his eyes. “Morgan, believe me. I never meant to hurt you.”

He stayed silent, unflinching, no reaction she could gauge. Finally, he wheeled around and descended the porch steps with the help of a cane she hadn’t noticed until then. He was leaving. For good.

She wanted to call after him, to tell him she loved him, to ask for another chance. But after deceiving him for so long, she knew she had no right.

Morgan was halfway down the path when the ignition of a taxi started. Once he’d ducked into the cab, Liz turned away. She gripped the door frame with both hands to prevent her knees from buckling.

Keep it together,
she told herself.
Just keep it together.

She heard the car door slam and the engine rev. The diminishing sound of the motor let her know he was gone. Emotions poured out in a river down her cheeks.

Another minute and she attempted to steady herself. She took a step into the house.

“Liz?”

She froze at the voice. Praying to the Almighty that she hadn’t imagined it, she slowly pivoted. Her eyes widened to see around her tears.

It was Morgan. Climbing the stairs.

He dropped his Army bag on the porch swing. His mouth eased into a smile that reached his eyes. “You didn’t think I was leaving, did you?”

Her feelings sought a conduit, a channel to fully communicate the remorse echoing within. “If I could do it over again,” she offered, “you have to believe I would.” And he indeed had to believe her, to know how deeply she cared, and just how much she needed him.

Morgan nodded in assurance. Yet he had no desire for them to start over. They were right where they belonged, and he was done with regrets.

Against the house, he leaned his cane, a reminder of his own half-truths. A symbol of the medical scare he’d never shared for fear of losing her affection.

“Why don’t we just pick up from where we left off?” He held out his palm, welcoming her touch. “I think you owe me a dance.”

Shuddering a sigh, she returned his smile and placed her hand in his. Together, fingers interlocked, they swayed to the rich notes of a jazz horn drifting through the doorway. As their heartbeats joined in a single rhythm, Morgan shut his eyes. He savored the radiating warmth of her body, the silkiness of her hair on his cheek. He drank in the sweet lavender fragrance on her skin, a scent forever captured in his heart.

Nothing in this world felt more natural than holding her. As if she were a part of him that had always been missing until now, a part of him he might never have found without guidance from his brother. Charlie—the one who had led him back to the angel in his arms.

Morgan tossed a glance up toward the heavens, beyond the parting clouds and lucid white moon, and winked in gratitude.

“It’s Stephens,” Liz whispered.

“Sorry?” He drew his head back and looked into her amber eyes.

“My name,” she said. “It’s Elizabeth Stephens.”

He smiled. With his thumb, he wiped away the last of her tears. “Nice to meet you, Miss Stephens.”

Studying the graceful curves of her face only confirmed what he already knew: Standing before him, regardless of names, was the woman he’d never stopped waiting for, the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

He slid his fingers beneath her chin, and ever so slowly he pulled her close. Desire swelled as the heat of her breath reached his skin. When her eyelids lowered, he paused. Their mouths but an inch apart, he relished the sensations running through him, the thrill, the anticipation.

At last, he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. Her lips were petal soft, the movement so comfortable he could spend a lifetime doing exactly this. When she laid her head against his chest, he smoothed her chestnut hair. Eyes closed, he held her tight, and thanked God for bringing him home.