Letters From Home (5 page)

A streetcar of strangers clanged across the street. A hefty construction worker passed lugging two buckets of tools. Julia wanted to shout to them all, spreading the news. She wanted to pick up a phone, tell her parents. Race home and write Christian all about it—

Christian.

Her
fiancé.

“I’m engaged,” she reminded herself. And again, a near reprimand, “I’m engaged.”

What was she thinking? They would be getting married as soon as the war ended. Which, after three years of America swinging punches in the ring, couldn’t be far away. Next spring wasn’t the time to go tromping off to New York, laying the foundation for a career she had no intention of pursuing.

Sure, the offer was amazing. Marvelous. Incredible. But for someone who wouldn’t waste the opportunity. There was no sense robbing another girl of the internship, a girl whose dreams rested in the balance of such a springboard. Julia was, after all, going to be a wife, wedded to her beloved Christian Downing.

Her parents were right. She adored fashion, creating garments from pictures in her head. But it was a hobby, just for fun. Like moviegoing and shopping. Nothing that should interfere with the gay future that awaited. Marriage, motherhood, a charming home to fill with love and laughter. There was no comparison.

Slowly she wheeled toward the academy. Through the trees, she could see movement in the second-story classroom. A figure in black.

Julia already felt dread pluming from her ankles. Simone had gone out of her way to recommend her, even saw to it that exceptions were made. The least Julia could do was give the impression she had heavily pondered the offer. The delivery of a snap judgment, no matter how obvious, seemed outright ungrateful.

Indeed. She would give it a reasonable amount of time before letting the woman down.

At a decisive clip, Julia resumed her departure. Blocks away, the streetcar rattled into the distance, crammed with passengers who would never hear her news; nor would anyone else. At least not until she presented the inevitable answer. She had no desire to allow Liz, Betty, or even Christian to sway her choice. Of all the paths, she knew which was right—despite the unforeseen temptation.

3

July 5, 1944
Chicago Union Station

T
he minutes until departure were evaporating as briskly as steam from the locomotive’s smokestack. Morgan gripped the vertical handlebar of the coach’s entry step and shot another glance at his wristwatch, an heirloom willed to him from his father. Now more than ever, he wished it were running fast. The leather band was weathered and the crystal scratched, but the movement could always be counted on for timekeeping. Unlike his dim-witted brother.

“Come on, come on,” Morgan said, imploring the kid to show. Missing the last overnighter to Trenton would mean a guaranteed late arrival at Fort Dix, and likely even a seat in the cargo hold of their transport ship. Or in the latrine, depending on their commander’s mood.

Charlie was a marvel. Who else would pull a stunt like this after waiting nearly three years? And Morgan wasn’t the only one he’d be answering to if he fouled this up. Even their uncle with rarely a word to spare had gone out on a limb, ensuring the two served together by calling in a favor from a war vet buddy with military pull. A few “adjustments” to Charlie’s birth certificate and everyone was happy. Supposedly, the desk-planted appeasers in Washington carried a lighter conscience when cousins rather than brothers shared a unit.

Not that it mattered now. Morgan appeared to be going solo.

“All aboard!” The conductor’s voice echoed off the darkened ceiling of the underground station.

With a determined eye, Morgan studied the bustling platform. Dolled-up gals waved to windows, shedding tears, blowing kisses. Mothers held hankies to their mouths as their husbands consoled them with an arm around their shoulders. But still no sighting of the dimwit.

“Dammit all,” Morgan growled. What had he been thinking last night, letting his brother leave the dance without him? That’d teach him to steer clear of dames and to stick with stuff he understood. Livestock auctions and auto engines. Things that came with instruction manuals.

The locomotive lurched into a sluggish chug.

Decision time. Of course, he had only one option: grab his belongings and leap off before landing required a body roll over gravel.

“Hey, Morgan!” A voice cut through the commotion. “I’m here!”

Sure enough, there was Charlie’s capped head bobbing through the crowd. In and out he wove, dividing paired travelers, his Army-issue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He hurdled a trunk and the toe of his shoe caught an edge. His pace slowed for a moment while he regained his footing. Half turned, in motion, he yelled something to the shapely dame standing beside the luggage.

“Move it!” Morgan shouted, leaning out from the step. Charlie resumed his sprint alongside the train. His free arm pumped, his face flushed red. Once close enough, Morgan stretched out his hand and yanked him inside. A small stumble and Charlie planted his feet. Tailbone against the wall, he hunched over to catch his breath.

“Un-believable.” Morgan smacked the back of his brother’s head, a punishment so often delivered since childhood the kid scarcely flinched.

“Not my fault,” he gasped. “Army time still confuses the hell out of me.” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and flipped a grin. When he straightened, his service shirt showcased its unevenly fastened buttons, a perfect complement to the dark circles under his eyes.

Morgan was about to ask where he had slept last night—assuming he’d slept at all—then decided he’d rather not know. “I swear,” he muttered, “I may shoot you before the Nazis get a chance.” With a sharp turn, he led Charlie through the coach packed with noisy servicemen and an undercurrent of nerves. A craps game ensued in the corner. As the train increased speed, a cross breeze through the open windows lessened the lingering smell of sweat.

Frank Dugan, facing their two vacant seats, glanced up from his magazine, his leg stretched in the aisle. “Good of you to join us, Chap.”

“Thanks, Rev. Always nice traveling with a man of the cloth.”

At basic, word had spread quickly that Frank was a ministry dropout whose call to arms had come into conflict with his call to religion. And lucky for their platoon. Built like an ancient redwood, he brought practical fighting know-how from the tough streets of Brooklyn.

“Shit, you’re coming after all?” Jack Callan smirked at Charlie while fanning a deck of cards. “Thought maybe you’d chickened out and gone home to play with your barn animals.”

Charlie tossed his bag up onto the luggage rack. He pushed and shoved the bulky contents into place as if the clothes inside were putting up a fight. “Just had to make a quick stop on the way,
Jack
ass.”

“Why, you forget to pack your underwear?”

“Actually, I left them in your sister’s room last night.”

Jack glared. He slid the toothpick in his mouth from side to side. “One pull of the trigger, Chap. That’s all it takes.” And that was the truth. The lean, red-haired kid from Wisconsin was a crack shot with a rifle.

“Ah, c’mon, Jack,” Charlie said. “You wouldn’t do that. You need me around.”

“Yeah, what for?”

“How else you gonna get any broads to notice you? Other than your mother, that is.”

Frank looked to Morgan, who had just settled into his window seat. “Mac, your brother ever shut up?”

“Not without a big piece of tape.” Morgan smiled, remembering the day he’d taped Charlie’s mouth closed and tied the rambunctious grade-schooler to a pole of their mother’s clothesline. It was the most effective way to stop him from telling a girl in class that Morgan wanted to “milk her udders.” Their father cut a whimpering Charlie loose an hour later, in full agreement with the punishment.

Morgan almost wished he’d packed some tape for this particular trip.

“Forgive me, Reverend Frank, for I have sinned. Again.” Charlie genuflected like the devout Catholic his mother had hoped he’d become.

Frank scratched the crook in his nose and continued browsing the latest issue of
Yank
magazine. He didn’t bother to fake interest. When it came to Charlie’s racy tales, Jack always showed enough for them both.

“Okay, Chap, let’s hear it,” Jack said, a smile in his eyes. “Which one of the twins did ya end up with? The one with the knockers or the long stems?”

“Are you kiddin'? I was too much man for them dames. Scared ‘em off with these enormous cannons.” He flexed his biceps as if he had the physique of Captain America. When Frank tossed the magazine at his head, Charlie sank back into his seat and grinned. “Did some neckin’ with the broad from the coffee shop, though.”

Jack crumpled his face. “The one with bad teeth?”

“No, you dumbbell. The tasty dish with glasses.”

Frank turned to Jack. “Well, that explains it. She needs a new prescription.”

“Ha, ha. You’re hysterical.” Charlie removed his soft garrison cap and rubbed his hair with both hands.

If only their mom could see him now. She used to say that someday girls would go wild over his golden waves. That they’d even be willing to pay to run their fingers through them.

It’s funny the things you remember. Morgan regretted not paying more attention, regretted not seeing the truth behind his father’s lie. Charlie had only been eight, but Morgan, at eleven, should have known better. Farm families avoided doctors like the plague. When he watched his parents climb into their old pickup truck that cold January night headed for the hospital, he should have realized their mother was never coming back.

“Hey, speaking of hysterical,” Jack said, pulling Morgan from his thoughts. “Went to a tattoo joint last night. Rev ended up knocking the owner’s lights out. You gotta see it—the stupid sap put ‘Joan’ instead of ‘June’ in the big ol’ heart on Rev’s arm.”

Frank’s lips flattened into steel rails, his dark eyes trained on Jack. “And you think that’s funny, do ya?”

“Look at the bright side,” Charlie interjected. “Instead of Joan, it could’ve said
John.”
He punctuated his wisecrack with a grin.

Frank picked up his magazine from the carpeted floor, still eying Jack. “At least mine don’t make me look like Mussolini’s branded cattle, ya dope.” A jab at the unfortunate birthmark on Jack’s collarbone, shaped like a sideways stamp of Italy, was one of the few ways to ensure the last word with the guy.

“So, uh, Mac, what about you?” Jack shifted the spotlight. “Get chummy with the brunette you went after?”

Morgan coughed into his fist, the question taking him off guard. “Nah. Not really.” Considering how Liz had given him the brush-off, their encounter was the last thing he wanted to discuss. “How about you fellas? What else you wind up doing?”

Frank crossed his arms. His expression lightened. “Chap, I believe your brother’s trying to change the subject.”

“It’s all right, Mac,” Jack assured him. “You shouldn’t be ashamed. First time getting lucky can be a scary experience for any young man.” He grinned, impressed by his own sarcasm.

“What a coincidence,” Charlie said to Jack, “I’ve heard that dames think
every
time is scary with you.”

“Can it, both of ya.” Frank angled to Morgan and jerked a nod. “Go ahead, Mac. You were sayin'?”

Morgan suddenly wished he’d jumped off the train after all. “Really, there’s nothing to tell. She just had to skip out early.”

“You’re saying she ditched a McClain?” Jack asked in mock disbelief.

“Not his fault,” Frank said. “If I was her and knew he was related to Chap, I’d double-time it outta there too.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie said. “Well, it just so happens that last night—on account of yours truly—my brother reeled in a broad any fella would give his left nut for a chance at.”

Morgan tightened his eyes at him. “What are you yappin’ about?”

“You have an admirer,” Charlie sang out in a taunting voice he never outgrew.

“Sure it was a girl?” Jack smirked.

“Not just any girl,” Charlie said. “That looker from the USO.”

In an instant, Liz’s face flashed in Morgan’s mind, clear as rain. Wary, though, of being a sucker in one of his brother’s juvenile pranks, he played it cool. “You’re full of it,” he muttered.

“I’m serious. Said she was searching all over for you.”

“Yeah? Where’d you run into her?”

“At the dance. Where else?” Charlie’s tone indicated he wasn’t horsing around. “I went back to find ya. She heard me asking about you. Told me you two had twirled some, but then you flew the coop.”

Morgan straightened, his thoughts racing: How could he have missed her? Did she come back after he left?

“Well, spit it out. What’d she say?” Morgan demanded.

“Said she wanted to keep in touch. So,” he said, “being the dutiful brother I am, I gave her the Army address for forwarding.” He reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and produced a small rectangular note. “Here, this is for you.”

A broad grin latched onto Morgan’s face as he retrieved the gift. A scribbled message spanned three lines. His heart pumped like an oil rig as he imagined her voice delivering the words.

To Morgan,
Take care of yourself.
Betty Cordell

Morgan’s mind pinched in confusion.
“Betty Cordell?”
He flipped over the paper and discovered it was a photograph, a black-and-white close-up of the girl from the dance. Just not the girl he was hoping for. He managed a closed-lipped smile as angst revisited his gut.

“Damn, Chap,” Jack said, “you didn’t say it was the foxy blond singer.” He snatched the wallet-sized keepsake from Morgan’s fingers. “I can’t believe you got a dance with her, you lucky bastard. Where the hell was I?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. “She only wanted Fred Astaire, here. Must have a thing for his fancy promenades and do-si-dos.”

Morgan flicked his brother’s temple. “Dry up, why don’t ya.”

“Man, that’s so unfair,” Jack grumbled, ogling the image until Frank swiped the photo.

“No need to get jealous,” Charlie told him. “I’m sure she’s got a few friends who would gladly talk to you outta pity.”

“All this from a kid who hasn’t hit puberty.” Jack launched his toothpick with a puff. “Enough of this shit. Are we playing cards, or what?” Not waiting for an answer, he began dealing them out, each card featuring pinup models in garters and brassieres.