Letters From Home (9 page)

Soon a beam returned to his face. He pulled her hand toward him and stood to embrace her. The audience caught a second wind and clapped louder.

“I love you, Lizzy,” he said into her ear.

She closed her eyes, relished the familiarity of his arms, his musky scent. “Me too,” she replied, holding him tighter.

This was right. This made sense. You didn’t need chills or flutters or illusionary magic from a fleeting dance. Just the loyalty and devotion of someone who cared. Any other notions were better left as daydreams.

Of this she was certain.

8

Late August 1944
Chicago, Illinois

T
wo Fridays in a row, and still no sign of her. That was the thought still scratching at Betty’s mind as she waited at the bus stop on Michigan Avenue. Nobody at work could recall how many years Irma had been frequenting the diner, eating in that far booth—
Irma’s
booth—but it was long enough to leave an arresting hole when she didn’t show two weeks ago.

A cross-country trip. A visiting relative or a seasonal cold. These were the theories tossed among the staff like hamburger patties, kneaded and molded as reasons for her absence, shaped into the most tantalizing form. Yet as much as Betty strained to visualize the woman pleasuring in a lengthy train ride, or painting the town red with a long-lost cousin, she simply couldn’t. The possibility of a severe cold, on the other hand, the flu maybe, was the only explanation upholding Betty’s hopes after the first missed Friday.

Then a second one passed without the arrival of Irma. Dear, quiet Irma, who wore her aged solitude as elegantly as her silver flapper hat, her tarnished brooch.

Why did her absence bother Betty so much? She barely knew the woman.

Betty tried her darndest to flick the pointless concerns aside. It was Monday afternoon, the heat rising. Her feet were moaning from a morning shift that ran an hour over. Due to meet Julia soon for a matinee, she aimed her focus on getting home, peeling out of her diner uniform, lemon-washing the smell of grease from her hair.

But then an image of the young couple from that morning returned, another set of customers with the audacity to invade Irma’s booth. The recollection stung like a slap.

Could it be that life was no more precious than a streetcar, trudging round and round on a loop? A schedule to keep, no time to grieve over a single lost passenger.

“Nice, eh?” A man’s reedy voice came from beside her. A suited stiff, he grinned with teeth befitting a horse. “This weather we’re having. Rather nice, eh?”

She glanced at the sky, surprised to find it endless in blue. Somehow an overcast gray seemed more appropriate. “Yeah. It’s swell.”

He pushed his glasses up the bony bridge of his nose. “So, do you live around here?”

Not a chance, buster. Especially not today.
“Ah, look!” She threw a glance over his shoulder. “I see a friend, but it was great talking to you.” Her feet were already in motion before she’d concluded the fib. Thankfully, only his reply chased after her as she zipped away to hide within the farthest cluster of strangers.

Safe out of his eyeshot, she checked her watch. Her standard impatience revved louder than the passing cars. A little boy halfway down the block, tap-dancing for change, wasn’t helping; the quick ticking of his shoes contrasted the creeping speed of every second.

She should have taken the “L.” No way would she have time to bathe before the matinee. If only she had the means to roam the city with speed and style—like the two older ladies there, emerging from the revolving door of a hotel. All pearls and white gloves, they radiated with an air of high-society Brits. From the side, the taller one looked so much like …could it really be …

Irma?

Betty’s eyes froze wide as she studied her. It seemed an eternity before the gal turned toward an approaching taxi. A full view of her face clarified the lunacy of the notion. Still, just to be sure, Betty watched while their doorman helped exchange passengers. Out of the cab, he guided the hand of an Army nurse, roughly Betty’s age. The sun threw a spotlight onto her crisp white hat, her blue and red cape. The older women—neither of them Irma—smiled at the girl and nodded in approval.

No. More than that: admiration, respect.

Acceptance.

They looked at the nurse as though she were important, her purpose meaningful. As if people might actually care that she missed her Friday supper at a diner.

“Are you gettin’ on or not?” a man behind Betty grumbled.

Her gaze swayed toward the bus that had instantly appeared, cloaking her in its shade. Exhaust fumes were like smelling salts to her senses. She awakened to discover the passenger before her climbing the stairs.

Betty rushed forward and closed the gap. Stepping onboard, she glanced down to grab coins from her pocket, its pastel fabric streaked with mustard and syrup and who knew what else. Same went for her pitifully roughened fingernails. Tough scrubs could wash away the grime, but not her station in life. Her mother, by example, had taught her that; had ingrained early on that Betty’s ticket to prosperity lay in her beauty. All she needed was to groom herself like a rose and prepare for her prince to arrive, regal in his shiny gold buttons and polished shoes. After all, she was never going to be one of those college girls, like Liz and Julia, with the smarts and the dough. Girls who had so effortlessly attracted their Mr. Rights.

Thus she’d waited, in her mother’s tiny rented room, ready to be plucked away, displayed in a crystal vase for all to admire.

But the prince had yet to show. Undependable, as all men were. Even that soldier from the dance, the supposed gentleman, hadn’t bothered to write her back. It was high time she took control of the matter.

“Move your feet, will ya?” the man snapped behind her.

Her legs, she realized, had concreted on the middle step. As she paused to deposit her fare, the bus driver, too, appeared annoyed. No question, she received better treatment when donning a snappier outfit. If the USO had provided a uniform—demanding respect, admiration—she’d wear it every day of the week.

From the thought, an idea chipped free. A brilliant idea. Utterly brilliant. “That’s it,” she murmured to herself. Floating, revolving, the solution came solidly formed, as if waiting all along to make itself known. Why oh why hadn’t this occurred to her before?

“Hey.” The creep behind her huffed. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here waiting all day.”

A solid grin overtook her lips from the surety of her plan. She pivoted around. “So do I,” she announced, then pushed past him and marched down the block.

9

Late August 1944
Chicago, Illinois

“G
et down!” the man shouted into the darkness.

Julia ducked a few inches in her chair. It took her a moment to realize the stranger was merely yelling at latecomers, silhouettes obstructing the movie screen.

She quietly laughed at herself. Apparently, she hadn’t fully shed habits gained from those first jittery blackouts in the city, back when the war was a ubiquitous intruder crouched just outside the door. When, at any hour, another wave of Tojo’s planes was expected to hail greetings across America, a nation vulnerable in its paranoia.

On the home front, a gradual semblance of safety had returned. The battles were a million miles away. Or at least that’s how far the distance seemed separating her from Christian.

She’d been used to his absence, before the war. With his living in Michigan, weekly letters and stretches of longing between visits became the standard after they met three years ago. He had been working in Chicago for the summer, a soda jerk in his uncle’s drugstore, and she thanked every day since for a cherry Coke craving that had led her through those doors and into his life.

The very thought of him now made the seat beside her feel even emptier.

Oh, bother, where was Betty? The newsreel had already begun: Allied infantry streaming into a village, a drumbeat added to increase the drama. As if local casualty lists in the newspapers weren’t dramatic enough.

Twisting around, Julia scanned the aisle in search of the blonde, then craned her neck to see the balcony above. Beneath the projector’s tunnel of light, only a scattering of couples came into view, each in the midst of a thorough tonsil check. Couldn’t they wait for the feature to begin? And why did all the guys appear to be sailors?

Julia flopped back against her chair. She should have met Betty at the house instead. It wouldn’t be the first time the girl had gone to the wrong movie palace.

Usually, Julia had no issue seeing a picture alone. Only when Christian was the one beside her—bringing her undivided attention to his soft lips on hers, the shawl of his arm—could her focus be swayed from the featured films. All those glamorous characters, exhibiting the latest fashions, entangled in heart-melting romances. They wouldn’t so much as jump off the screen as suck Julia in to enjoy them firsthand.

Today, though, even the riveting newsreel had to vie for her interest. She felt her irritation spreading like a rash. A mounting impatience, a clock ticking in her ear. The war should have been over by now, she thought for the hundredth time. She wanted the complications to end, the life she was building with Christian to resume and soar.

A reflection of the same thought played out in the images before her. Freed European villagers flickered in black and white. Stories poured from their eyes. They’d held on to but a thread of hope, and now they could finally grasp the tapestry of their future. With outstretched arms and gifts, they welcomed the liberating GIs. Young girls waved American flags. They were pretty girls, exotic in their features. Girls no older than Julia. Elation brightened their faces; their gazes swam with gratitude.

But just how far did their tokens of appreciation go?

A terrible thought.

Simply terrible.

But it was one Julia couldn’t help dwelling upon now, surrounded by sailors whose groping hands and searching mouths bobbed like buoys in the shadows. If this was how they conducted themselves back at home, imagine how they acted after months at sea, after being welcomed by those young, exotic girls willing to twirl around far more fabric than a flag.

The room suddenly turned sweltering. Dots of sweat met the inside collar of her blouse, the lining of her skirt. The clasp on her garter itched. She needed to stand, to move. In an instant, she was striding up the aisle and out the theater. Sunlight choked her vision as she breathed deep of the city air.

She was being silly, letting her imagination scuttle away like this. She couldn’t have asked for a more devoted beau than Christian. Regardless, with his handsome face and athletic shape, not to mention his dapper uniform, there was no question he would be tested at some point.

That’s what this was: a test. Just like their long-distance relationship had always been. Just like the internship offer she had yet to decline.

Only days away from autumn, her deadline imminent, and still she had provided no answer. She’d savored the mere possibility weeks longer than she should have. This, she now realized, was the rash, the ticking clock. This was the test of their love. And the response she would give—today, she’d go there today—would determine if she passed or failed.

The brick academy loomed like a haunted mansion. At the base of the entrance steps, Julia’s momentum hit a wall. On her way from the theater, her mind had flipped through article after article, recollections from
Woman’s Day
and
Good Housekeeping.
Her husband would come first, above all. His needs, not hers. Christian, of course, wasn’t ever one to limit her choices, which was exactly the reason she needed to do this. Because he wouldn’t ask her to. Because love required sacrifice. And, if nothing else in this world, she knew she wanted to be a good wife.

“Are you going in?”

Julia tracked the voice to the gal behind her, lustrous with her sleek ponytail and crisscross dress. Tangerine fabric with snaking copper buttons billowed like foam at the upper edge of her handheld bag. A daring new design.

Are you going in?
the girl had asked.

Was Julia going in?

“I don’t know,” she heard herself reply.

Understandably, the stranger appeared confused.

Julia glanced at the doors, and a sudden fear came over her. Certainly, the idea of disappointing her instructor had prolonged the answer; Simone had put her faith and reputation on the line. But now it was the challenge—perhaps impossibility—of saying no, should Julia dare to step foot into her beloved classroom again.

Maybe that had always been her true cause of hesitation.

Julia turned to the girl. “Could you pass something along for me, to Madame Simone?”

She shrugged. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

Not permitting herself another thought, Julia pulled from her purse a small notepad. She scribbled the same words that had been waiting from the start.

Dear Madame Simone,

Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry. I simply can’t. Yours sincerely,
Julia Renard

Immediately, Julia handed off the note and walked away. A pound of angst dissolved with every step, and to her relief, she felt no urge to look back.