Читать книгу Letters From Home - Kristina McMorris - Страница 10

Chapter 4

July 15, 1944 Evanston, Illinois

All day, Liz had avoided opening the envelope. She sat on the rumbling bus, staring at her name and address penned in Professor Emmett Stephens’s meticulous longhand. Like the best of carnival fortunetellers, she could report what was inside before even breaking the seal.

Dear Elizabeth,

I trust life is keeping you well. I was extremely pleased with your academic marks from last term. Your decision to take extra classes this summer is commendable.

I leave tomorrow for New York to guest lecture at several universities. I shall return to Washington D.C. in approximately three weeks. Should you need to reach me in the interim, my secretary at Georgetown will have my itinerary and contact information.

Please congratulate Dalton on my behalf. From what I have heard, he is running a powerful senatorial campaign for his father. I wish them continued success. Respectfully, Your father

Respectfully. Such distance conveyed in a single word. A sad reflection of the fissure between them that had widened into a canyon.

Liz turned to the half-open window and closed her eyes. A gentle breeze swept over her sun-drenched face. Once again, she was eight years old, poking her head out the window of his shiny black Ford Victoria. Zooming past the California palm trees, she and her daddy would talk, laugh, and improvise silly songs, their excursions drastically warmer than those spent with her mother.

Isabelle.

In Liz’s memory, she embodied a caricature in a household appliance ad, her cool disposition offset by her grace and beauty. How close their family could have been had Isabelle exuded the warmth and affection of a mother like Julia’s.

Then again, ruminating on the impossible was as useless as deferring the blame.

A jolt from the bus’s brakes brought Liz back to the present. Familiar landmarks and rising passengers reminded her of her stop. She stuffed her father’s form letter into a skirt pocket and dashed down the aisle, her grocery bag slipping in her arms.

Around the bend of Kiernan Lane she pushed against the humidity. Sweat rolled down the slide of her spine as she passed the string of contemporary bungalow homes. The sharpness of newly cut grass clung to the air, blocking pollutants from the bordering city of Chicago. Service flags paraded in window after window; their proud stars of blue outnumbered the dreaded gold symbols of loss.

Willing herself to smile, she returned waves from neighbors relaxing beneath their shaded porches. Sun lovers basked in the late afternoon rays and giggly children played tag through the rainbow sprays of sprinklers.

Liz adjusted the bag, ripping the bottom corner. She cupped the protruding soup can to keep it inside while crossing the street to reach her house. Her favorite accents on the modest, brick-red structure remained the same since her childhood visits: a small garden of irises, a large picture window in the kitchen, facing the street, and a two-person swing her grandfather, “Papa,” had built for the covered porch. Best of all, a towering cherry tree shaded the east side of the house, a finishing touch as sweet as the turnovers her grandma used to bake from its abundant fruit. Papa had purchased the home more than twenty years ago for his wife, his “sole reason for living.” It was a claim he literally proved after she lost her battle with cancer.

“Your grandfather’s had a stroke,” Liz’s father had announced. “We’re moving to Illinois.” The triangular plane of his face had concealed all emotion, a defensive mask not unlike her own. It was one he’d acquired six months before, the day her mother left their lives forever.

Correction: the day Liz sent her away.

And so, with Isabelle gone, there was no discussion, no call for a vote. By the eve of Liz’s fourteenth birthday, they had packed up their boxes, along with their unspoken feelings, their devastation and sorrow too potent for words.

The paving of Liz’s regret had stretched clear across the country, permanent as concrete. And there it took up residence, beneath Papa’s roof, where she and her father coexisted for the next four years. The cordial but mechanical nature of their exchanges, maddening as a blackboard screech, gripped even his farewell words after her graduation: “I’ll send your tuition payments directly to the university and quarterly allowances to the house. We’ll touch base once I’m settled at Georgetown.” With a nod, he’d grabbed his suitcases and left her on the front porch. It was at that moment she had realized: Abandonment struck in degrees.

Standing now on that same rickety platform, Liz squeezed the grocery bag to her chest. She closed her eyes and gave her head a brisk shake, as if emotional wounds were cold droplets she could simply cast off.

When she lifted her lids, the memory prevailed.

Liz placed the food items on their designated kitchen shelves. Cans of Scotch broth soup and corned beef hash, Mello-Wheat cereal, bread, oleo, and a splurge of Cocomalt. With the sleeve of her blouse, she dabbed her temple while washing her hands with a bar of lavender soap. The thick, purple lather failed to soften her calloused mood, and the dry texture in her mouth—like flavorless cotton candy—only irritated her more.

She tossed some ice cubes into an empty glass, a ricochet of clinks.

“Liz?”

She cringed at the distant voice, not in the mood for company.

“Liz, is that you?” Betty called again from her bedroom, a room Liz would have to pass to reach her own.

Reluctantly she answered. “Yeah, it’s me.” She poured herself the last of Betty’s freshly squeezed limeade and downed half the glass. Sourness puckered her cheeks, stung the corners of her eyes. Of all the items rationed for the war effort, she missed sugar the most.

“Hurry up and get in here!” Betty’s trademark impatience.

“Hold your horses, I’m coming!” She dragged herself down the narrow hallway lined with framed photos of deceased and twice-removed relatives.

“Come on, slowpoke.” Betty reached through the doorway and tugged her inside. Liz nearly tripped over the girl’s old teddy bear doubling as a doorstop. His lone button eye hung by a thread, his cream fur matted and stained. Clearly he had seen better days.

Yep, buddy, she wanted to tell him, you’re not the only one.

Julia sat at the vanity. “Hey, hon,” she mumbled around two bobby pins between her pursed lips.

Liz returned the greeting before daring to ask, “So what’s the crisis?”

Betty tsked. “Now, why does it always have to be something bad?” She spun around so fast the white polka dots on her violet sundress streaked into lines. Grabbing an envelope from atop her pillow, she belly flopped on her bed to face the vanity. “Fact is, it couldn’t be keener. Just wait till you hear Christian’s latest.”

Thanks but no thanks. Liz had read all the letters she could handle for one day. “I’d love to hear it, gals, but I really have to get some work done.”

“Oh, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.” Betty reached across the path created by the nightstand to pat Julia’s mattress. “Sit, sit, sit.”

Liz groaned, then stopped short; she did not want to hurt Julia’s feelings. Christian’s posts were, after all, among the redhead’s prized possessions.

“Believe me,” Betty told Liz, “it’s even better than those Emily Dickens letters you like.”

A smile crouched behind Liz’s lips. “Dickinson,” she corrected, speaking the author’s name with reverence.

“Yeah. Well, this is better.”

A sacrilegious comparison, no doubt. Though who was Liz to deny any writer a fair swing at the title?

“Fine,” Liz conceded. “But only for a minute.” She strode over to the wrought-iron bed she had given up when she moved into her father’s former bedroom, and started clearing space to sit among Julia’s fabric swatches. Vogue pattern pieces and celebrity shots torn from Silver Screen magazine added to the fashion hodgepodge.

“Did you happen to pick up some bread at the market?” Julia asked.

“Yeah,” Liz said, settling in. “I noticed we were out when I tried to make toast this morning.” She should have known then what kind of day she had ahead of her. “Speaking of which, when did Hillman’s start charging eleven cents a loaf? It’s outrageous.”

While Betty sorted pages from the envelope, Liz glimpsed Julia’s pearly face in the vanity’s oval mirror. The crimson-haired girl contorted her expression at an uncooperative spit curl. Limited reflection space further challenged her efforts, with a mural of photo graphs covering half the mirror: a graduation picture of the three of them amidst her family snapshots, a sepia-toned portrait of her and Christian, and a new photo of her sailor leaning on a signal lamp of his ship, with Love you Red penned across the bottom.

“‘My dearest Julia,’” Betty began, letter propped before her. “‘Only another week has passed, but it seems an eternity since last seeing you. You’ll have to send a new picture soon. I’ve looked at the one I have so many times, my eyes are wearing your image right off the paper. Unfortunately, thinking of you for hours on end only makes me miss you more. The weather has been sweltering, so I’ve taken to sleeping out on deck. To cool off, some shipmates and I had liberty yesterday and headed for . . .’ Yeah, yeah, yeah, boring, boring.”

The letter was a typical one from Christian Downing, sweet and smooth as butterscotch. Enough to give you a toothache, Dalton would say; and though from the start, he and Liz had agreed mushy offerings of the like weren’t necessary between them, Liz suddenly found herself wondering: Had the ban been her idea or his?

“Ooh-ooh, here we go.” Betty resumed reading. “‘Although I am proud of the job we are doing for our country, already I am eager for the day we will hear that we’ve won the war and that it’s time to sail back home to you, my darling, the beautiful woman whom I will soon make my bride. Well, I best drop anchor for tonight. Sending oceans of kisses from your loving husband-to-be. Eternally yours, Christian USN.’” Betty rolled onto her back. She pressed the papers to her chest, tight enough to embed the prose into her heart. “This is sooo romantic,” she said dreamily.

Liz turned and caught Julia running her fingers over her fiancé’s latest photo, losing herself in the gray tones of their separation. That same look of hers, a pensiveness in her eyes, had made appearances more than usual lately.

“It really is lovely, Jules,” Liz agreed, feeling the coarse edges within her smoothing.

A quick nod and Julia abruptly rose. She headed for the wardrobe closet, as if sadness were a garment she could shed at will. Since the three girls had become fast friends in high school, lab partners in freshman science, Liz had only once seen Julia cling to an unpleasant emotion for a notable stretch: It began the morning Christian announced he’d up and joined the Navy. Julia had been beside herself. He’d already planned to enroll in the Naval officers’ program at Northwestern so they could be together, but decided he couldn’t wait to enlist, not even for an officer commission. Then a week before his fleet’s departure, Christian earned her forgiveness; specifically, the moment he knelt and slid the engagement band on her finger.

“Why don’t I get letters like this?” Betty sighed.

Julia tipped a smile. “Liz is the poetry pro here,” she reminded her. “Why not ask her to write you a love note? She could even sign it from Clark Gable—oh, wait, that’s my fantasy.” She giggled.

“That’s it!” Betty perked.

In the midst of a swallow, Liz sputtered drops of limeade. She wiped her chin. “Betty Cordell. I am not writing you a love letter.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” The blonde shifted onto her knees with a slight bounce. “Seriously, I do need your help. Please say you’ll agree.”

Liz blew out a stream of air. She was all too familiar with the plea; Betty had used it for myriad requests over the years—everything from French kissing instructions to leg-makeup applications due to the silk and nylon shortage, an act Betty considered as her contribution to the war effort. In other words, Liz had learned to ask for details up front.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Well, you see,” she said, “there’s this soldier I met.” Her opening hardly launched a shock wave through the room. “He’s not the usual kind I date. I mean, he’s handsome enough. But he’s sorta shy. The mysterious type.”

“And you need my help with . . . ?”

“Oh, right,” Betty said. “The point is, we met at the USO, where we danced and had a grand time of it. Sadly, the next day he shipped out with his brother.”

The USO?

His brother?

Oh God. With Liz’s luck, she was certain to be talking about Morgan. But why now? Ten whole days had passed since the dance, and not once had Betty spoken of him. Liz had hoped to forget all about that night, all about where foolishness might have led her had she not witnessed Betty and Morgan dancing. Which, incidentally, was the best thing that could have happened to Liz.

So why did she find herself hoping, with everything in her, that Betty was referring to another guy?

Liz interjected, “Who is he, this soldier of yours?” She managed a casual tone.

“I just told you,” Betty said, as if she hadn’t been listening. “He’s handsome and mysterious and—”

“I mean his name. What’s the fellow’s name?”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s McKall—no. McLew—wait . . .”

Liz restrained herself from volunteering what was undoubtedly the final syllable.

“McClain,” Betty remembered. “It’s Morgan McClain.”

“Morgan McClain?” Julia paused in the midst of changing into her mauve blouse. “Liz, isn’t that the same guy you—”

“Yeah, he’s the one we met,” Liz cut in. “You know him?” Betty exclaimed. “Oh, that’s perfect. Then you have to help me write to him.”

Write to him? This couldn’t be happening. Fate couldn’t be that spiteful.

Liz arrived easily at her answer. “I’m sorry, Betty, but I don’t have time.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” she insisted. “Pleeease, I promised. And it’d be rude to keep him waiting any longer.”

As if he didn’t deserve it. The guy was plainly out for one thing: one night of fun, one roll in the hay before deployment. An obvious deduction in hindsight.

Then again . . .

If a one-night companion was all Morgan had wanted, he wouldn’t have bothered asking Betty to write. Maybe he wasn’t as insincere as he’d appeared. Perhaps his initial attraction to Liz was genuine, but a single glance at the stunning blonde had cured his interest.

Another reason to decline.

Liz was about to do just that, more firmly this time, when Betty continued her plea.

“I already started his letter. I just need your help with the ending, and to make sure the rest is okay.” She pouted her lips. “You know what an awful writer I am.”

Liz couldn’t argue. Had she not rewritten all of Betty’s essays in high school, the girl would still be there.

“And since you’ve met him,” Betty went on, “you’ll know exactly what to say.”

“Wrong,” Liz countered. Clearly she had no clue what he wanted to hear.

Betty held up her right hand, taking an oath. “If you help me with this, I’ll never ask you to write anything for me again. Scout’s honor.”

Julia chimed in, “Don’t you have to be a Scout to make that pledge?” She smiled, straightening the seams of her stockings.

“Come on, Liz.” Desperation spilled from Betty’s eyes. “You and Julia already have beaus. Don’t I deserve to be happy too?”

Liz groaned helplessly. How could she dispute that kind of logic?

“Besides,” Betty elongated the word, “need I remind you about an incredibly boring play I attended for a certain friend?”

Liz narrowed her eyes. “You mean the one you slept through?”

“One measly act,” Betty snipped. “Even so, I went, didn’t I? And without a solitary complaint.”

Truth be told, Liz herself had come close to drifting off during the student-directed play; verses from the overdramatic actors had dripped like sap off their tongues. More relevant to Betty’s request, however, was Liz’s unwillingness to explain the real cause of her hesitation. Which left her little choice.

“All right, I’ll do it,” she gave in. “But just this once. No exceptions.”

“Thank you, thank you!” Betty dropped Christian’s letter while clapping with glee. Julia swooped up the pages from the floor and carefully added them to the drawer of her nightstand.

“I’m not fooling, Betty.” Liz mustered the sternest voice she could. “No V-mail, no notes, nothing.”

“Okaaay. I’ll even write my own obituary.”

Julia giggled as she slipped into her black pumps and fastened the ankle straps. From her lace collar to her tailored mid-length skirt, she was as stylish as Ava Gardner. “I’m heading out, girls. Either one of you want to join me and Dot for a triple feature? The Tivoli’s playing Cover Girl again.”

Ah, yes. Hollywood’s cure-all for the perpetually glum. A perfect example of why talkies weren’t always better than the silent pictures. At least in Casablanca the tragic ending was scripted out of realism, and the stars didn’t belt out lines in melodramatic show tunes.

“I wish I could,” Betty moaned. “I swear, if I have to take Vera’s shift again this week, I’m quitting once and for all.”

“What about you, Liz?”

Any activity sounded better than ghostwriting a letter to Morgan, even suffering through a silly musical. But completing the task, purging the soldier from her system, also had its appeal.

“I’ll take a rain check,” Liz replied with eyes that told her, Thanks for getting me into this.

Julia grabbed her pillbox purse, missing the glance. “See you tomorrow, then,” she said, and turned for the hallway.

By the time the front door slammed, Betty had sidled up to Liz, cross-legged, pillow on her lap, armed with a pile of stationery. “Here’s what I have so far.” She held out the page for Liz to read along, and cleared her throat as if preparing to give the State of the Union address.

Dear Morgan,

It was nice talking to you, you seem like a terrific guy. I definately wish we could’ve spent more time together. Where did the Army ship you to?

The glaring grammatical and spelling errors seized hold of Liz’s eyes. She fought every urge within her not to seek out the nearest colored fountain pen to circle what her father would call “blasphemous mistakes.”

Betty looked up. “What do you think?”

Liz aimed for diplomacy, a specialty of Dalton’s. “It’s, um . . . not bad.”

“I knew it,” Betty whimpered. “It’s dreadful.” She buried her face in the pillow.

“No. It’s not dreadful. It’s just that—” Liz chose to limit her critiques to the misguided content. “I don’t think the Army will let him say where they’re going.”

“So what can I write?” Betty rumpled the letter into a ball and pitched it at the woven wastebasket, falling a foot short.

Liz set her glass on the nightstand. She reminded herself this wasn’t a hundred-page dissertation. With just a few intelligible sentences, life could return to normal. “How about something like . . .” She threw out the simplest opening that came to her. “Dear Morgan. Although our time together was brief, it was a pleasure meeting you at the dance—”

“Oh, that’s perfect. I love it!” Enthusiasm shot through Betty like an electrical current, straightening her posture, widening her eyes. “Now, what was that again?” She held up her pen, a stenog-rapher ready for dictation—with no knowledge of shorthand.

Already Liz felt exhausted. She opened her mouth to repeat the phrase when the tinkering notes of her grandfather’s cuckoo clock rang out from the living room.

“Cripes. What time is it?” Betty rotated the alarm clock on the nightstand. “Shoot, I’m gonna be late.” With the speed of a fireman preparing for a five-alarm blaze, she jumped into her carnation-pink diner dress and pinned on her name tag. At the vanity, she smoothed Julia’s styling lotion over her pageboy hair.

Relief and aggravation rivaled within Liz at the postponement. Now that they had started, she wanted nothing more than to rid her thoughts of Morgan McClain; him and all the “what-ifs” that had tangled her mind like ivy.

“I really gotta go,” Betty addressed Liz’s reflection in the mirror, “but could you please finish the letter while I’m gone?”

“Finish?” A laugh of disbelief snagged in Liz’s throat. “We haven’t even started it.”

Betty applied her Victory Red lipstick in one circular motion. “I wouldn’t ask, but I won’t be home till late. And then I’ll be with Suzie all weekend visiting her family.”

Liz was about to refuse, needing to draw a line somewhere— wavering and faint though the line may be—when Betty produced a scrawled address on a napkin.

“Pretty please?” She knelt by the bed with clasped hands. “A couple more lines is all it needs.”

This was ludicrous. “Don’t you think he’ll know it’s not from you?”

“He’s a guy. He won’t have any idea,” Betty said, as if reporting the sky was blue. “Besides, what’s the difference? I’d just be writing down everything you say anyway.”

If gender and academics weren’t a factor, the gal would have made a great trial attorney. After all, it was her indisputable case that had convinced Liz’s father to allow his daughter not one but two roommates in his absence, an arrangement for which Liz was grateful. At least on most days.

Betty glanced back at the clock. “Piddle, I gotta fly.” Scurrying toward the doorway, she motioned to the bed. “Stamps and envelopes are in the drawer. Just toss it in the mail when you’re done.”

Liz’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t want to read it first?”

“I trust you,” Betty called as she rounded the corner. “The sooner it goes out, the sooner I’ll get a letter back, right?” Her footfalls sounded down the hall and out the front door, leaving Liz alone. With a pile of stationery. Shackled.

She should have escaped with Julia when she had the chance.

“I must be going mad.” Liz snatched the pen and paper and tramped across the room. Seated at the vanity, she scowled at the page and debated reneging on the deal. This wasn’t what she’d agreed to.

The heck with it.

She tossed the pen down. Grasping the edge of the table, she began to rise, but a memory stilled her—the memory of Morgan’s face. She’d tried so desperately to erase him from her mind. Yet there he was, as vivid as if they had shared a dance yesterday. She could almost feel the tenderness of his breath gracing her cheek, the heat of his hand pressed to hers.

Why couldn’t she forget him? And why did the mere idea of him cause her pulse to quicken even now?

Her grip loosened. Her body lowered. She settled her gaze on the empty page, its fibers beckoning the beautiful stains of the written word. And she sighed.

“All right, I’ll do it,” she repeated her verbal assent.

Really, it was just a short note. A small favor for a friend. What was the big fuss?

At that, she placed the tip of the pen on the stationery, and surrendered her thoughts to flow through the ink.