The Lines Between Us

by Amy Lynn Green

  I breathed in as the doomed love story transformed into something worse, something tragic. It was every lookout’s fear: not catching a fire in your area quickly enough, before the fire crowned and spread.

  Sarah Ruth draped the rag over the clothesline, and when she turned back to me, she looked like the story had taken a toll in years instead of words. “Eventually, the Basin Fire—that’s what they named it—jumped the mountains. Took five days to put out.”

  “Even if you had been there, you might not have caught the smoke early enough.” Fires that started overnight were notoriously hard to spot, especially with lookouts droopy-eyed and weary in the middle of a storm.

  “One of the rangers fighting it got trapped by a flare-up.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed. “He didn’t make it out.”

  I remembered the somber look on Richardson’s face when he’d told me about the other death that Morrissey felt responsible for. Now I understood why.

  Yes, Sarah Ruth understood regrets, all right. Maybe better than I ever would.

  “Roy told me it wasn’t my fault, tried to soothe me, but I knew better. And a few weeks later, he was gone, along with all of his fancy promises. I never heard from him again.”

  In that moment, I hated Roy Winters like I’d never hated anyone before, even if the fire wasn’t his fault either. For selfishly using a young girl and breaking her heart, for not standing by her when she needed him most, for leaving her cynical and unwilling to trust others.

  It didn’t seem like the time to interrupt—and what would I say?—so I defaulted to silence, staring out over the trees with Sarah Ruth as she dried the dishes.

  “Now, every time the fire bell rings, or we get a report of a smokejumper injured or killed, I pray at the cross in the church. Because God knows the reason I didn’t see the smoke, even if my father doesn’t. Or anyone else.” Finally she turned to look at me. “Except you.”

  I kept my gaze on the mountains, asking the question that had bothered me since Dorie had told me Sarah Ruth had taken a shift of lookout duty. “If this place has so many bad memories . . . why did you come back?”

  “Because Dad assigned you to the tower last week. When I saw the schedule, we argued, and I said I’d go instead. That’s all.”

  That still didn’t answer my question. “But why?”

  She bent down to heft the sack I’d brought onto a shelf, then dusted the loose flour off her hands. “Because you made biscuits.”

  Was that some kind of code? “Pardon?”

  “The day after we got the telegram telling us Willie had died, remember?”

  Slowly, the memories surfaced—the whispers among the COs between calisthenic drills about what had happened, the only time I’d seen Sarah Ruth cry. Over a year ago now, wasn’t it?

  “Mama was sobbing her eyes out back at home, and I was trying . . . to be strong, I guess. Or at least make breakfast.” She took a deep breath. “When you came and took over, told me to go out into the forest for a while . . . when I could grieve without having to check anything off a list . . . It helped, that’s all.”

  “I burnt them.” It was a stupid thing to say, but it made Sarah Ruth smile.

  “They were awful. But I needed the woods and quiet then, and you let me have it. You need to be with your friends now, and I thought I could return the favor. But here you are anyway. Daddy doesn’t understand people very well.” Her voice was apologetic as she covered for the gruff veteran ranger.

  I thought of the letter he’d read, the fact that he’d sent both me and Shorty away, the way he’d sent Jimmy to follow us. Whatever Morrissey knew, he wanted to keep it to himself. “I think he had other reasons for sending me up here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  And her brown-green eyes were so wide and sincere that I almost risked it all, almost told her what we’d found out, and how, while I was glad it wasn’t the criminal behavior we’d anticipated, it still seemed serious.

  But at just that moment, I heard footsteps on the porch, and Jimmy swung open the door and clunked the bucket inside. “Special delivery. Didn’t even shovel in any yellow snow.”

  “Charming,” she said at the same time that I said, “Thanks.”

  He looked at us—probably a bit too cozy to his wary brother’s eyes—and opened the door again. “Come on, Sarah Ruth. Better start back if we want any lunch.”

  “Sure,” Sarah Ruth said, even though the look she gave me told me she wanted to know more.

  Later. I’d tell her later. Maybe try to call the ranger station and hope she, rather than Morrissey, answered.

  I could hear their muffled voices as they climbed down the steps, then watched out the glass as they set off on the mountain trail toward home. And I took a moment to pray that confessing a long-kept secret would help Sarah Ruth understand something I was sure of: She’d been forgiven long ago.

  Quiet settled over the lookout—the popping of the fire in the stove and the slight moan of the wind the only sounds. Finally, I was alone.

  Sitting on the cot’s thin mattress, I unlatched Dorie’s haversack—thankfully no one had asked me why I was suddenly toting around something made of army khaki—and took out the clothes and personal items I’d stuffed on top, upending the rest of the contents on the blanket.

  A plain white envelope tumbled out first. Mother’s letter. I’d almost forgotten. I set it aside and opened the file, tracing the label on the tab.

  Jack’s Fire. That was all. Just two single, devastating words.

  Whatever Morrissey knew about the bomb, soon I would too.

  HANDWRITTEN NOTE AT THE TOP OF OFFICIAL DOCUMENT

  December 5, 1944

  Earl, this is the letter I told you about on our call. Now listen, I’ll need this back or I could get into real trouble . . . worse than the Baked Bean Incident of ’18, if you catch my meaning.

  —Dan

  FROM THE OFFICE OF CENSORSHIP

  TO DANIEL CLEMENT

  Dear Sir:

  As an esteemed newspaper editor or radio program producer, we write to you regarding a matter of national security. The Axis powers have developed a large balloon intended to be used as a weapon of war. We have received reports that several have been spotted in the Pacific Northwest region. At least one incident has been printed in a Washington-based newspaper and picked up as a mention in Newsweek, prompting this bulletin.

  Any discovery of such balloons, or any other suspicious, unidentified objects, should be reported to the authorities, who will contact the War Department immediately. Within 24 hours, the army will send a crew to dispose of the weapon properly. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL YOUR NEWSPAPER OR RADIO PROGRAM BE PERMITTED TO REPORT SUCH A DISCOVERY.

  We cannot provide you with any details about the balloons’ specific workings, origin, or function, only that any individual, group, or publication that publicly distributes information about them will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  Your attention is called to Executive Order No. 8381, pertaining to wartime reporting and communication, which strictly forbids the dissemination in written, photographic, or illustrated form of any information about weaponry designated “secret,” “restricted,” or “confidential.”

  This letter shall also be treated as confidential.

  Thank you for your full cooperation in service to your country during a time of great trial.

  Silentium Victoriam Accelerat.

  The Office of Censorship

  EARL MORRISSEY’S HANDWRITTEN NOTES

  Call to Supervisor Wallis, Missoula, Montana

  January 13, 1945

  Sorry for the loss of a man at my camp. Knows how well I care for my staff, etc.

  What happened? Cannot answer.

  When pressed, Forest Department in “a series of intense negotiations” with the army regarding this issue. Hoping to come to an acceptable resolution.

  What’s the issue? Cannot answer.

  Has the boy’s family been tol
d? Only that he was injured during a fire.

  Advises that an agreement between army and Forestry Department should be reached by early February.

  Will more details be available then? Maybe. Maybe not.

  More condolences, cordial good-bye, etc.

  Warns me not to speak to anyone on my staff, no matter how trusted, about any of this.

  I do not agree.

  EARL MORRISSEY’S HANDWRITTEN NOTES

  Fūsen bakudan. Translation: balloon bomb (University of Washington foreign language department, letter from Dr. Jordan on Jan. 23.)

  What material are the scraps from the scene made out of?

  Unknown—cross between stiff paper and flexible cloth

  Very durable, never seen anything like it

  Seem to be layers held together with paste

  Hydrogen gas?

  How did it arrive?

  Launch within U.S. unlikely because of the scale needed to produce a bomb (couldn’t be done in secret)

  Balloons either launched from somewhere in the Pacific (naval vessel?) or from Japan itself

  In theory, jet stream might make it possible to send something across the ocean (call with Pete at the National Weather Service in Portland, January 17)

  Asked why I wanted to know, I said Edith saw a newsreel that made her worry Japan was going to bomb us.

  Purpose of sandbags in photos?

  Likely to control the height of balloons

  No idea how they were released. Part of a mangled aluminum wheel in photo?

  EARL MORRISSEY’S HANDWRITTEN NOTES

  January 21, 1945

  Possible Next Steps

  Another call to Missoula. Three calls haven’t produced anything but warnings to stay away.

  Announce the truth only to my staff and COs. What would that accomplish?

  Reveal information to mayor and request to warn others in town.

  Convince a station/paper that withholding information on these balloon bombs is a menace to public health.

  Confront the army directly. Did they send the WAC to spy on me? Does she know about the bomb?

  What can a man do when there are no good choices?

  I let out a long breath, staring at the documents in front of me. Earl Morrissey had figured out what Dorie and I couldn’t: what had really killed Jack.

  It seemed almost unbelievable that bombs could travel so far unmanned. How many miles from here to Japan? Four thousand? Five thousand?

  And yet, people had told the Wright brothers it was impossible, unbelievable, that a machine could loft a person into the sky, but they’d done it. Since then, we’d lit up screens with actors captured in full color to be projected all across the nation. Gridded a disc with lines that played a symphony’s worth of music. Fashioned a new material, strong as steel and delicate as a spiderweb, to form everything from parachutes to women’s stockings.

  More than that, we’d built better planes, better guns, better bombs, all in the scrambling few decades since the last war. Technology often advanced because one country looked for a more efficient way to destroy another. That was the nature of the beast we humans had created. If the Japanese wanted to attack America directly and didn’t have the air force to do it . . . well, they’d find another way.

  And maybe they already had: hydrogen-powered incendiary bombs.

  The few notes Morrissey had scribbled only brought more questions. How many bombs had been launched? How many had made it across the ocean? Had any others been killed in the explosions?

  But there was no one to answer. And if Morrissey’s experiences were accurate, no one I could ask—not without stirring up suspicion of treason. No wonder he’d been so jumpy lately. He was single-handedly launching an investigation into an act of war and an army cover-up from his tiny ranger station.

  And the last question in the notes haunted me most of all: What can a man do when there are no good choices?

  It shouldn’t be this hard. Wasn’t that why I’d turned to the Quaker faith, so I wouldn’t have to be uncertain? Because God knew the right and wrong in every situation. He had told us in the Ten Commandments and Sermon on the Mount and all the other guidance for how we should live. It was supposed to be enough.

  But neither Moses nor Jesus, nor Paul nor any of the prophets, seemed to have spoken about what to do here.

  “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.”

  But what could the children of God do when their Father had left them in the city of man, filled with war and hurt and uncertainty?

  My calves ached from the climb up the mountain as I stood and poured the water Jimmy had fetched for me into the dented-but-functional kettle. Some tea would help. The all-purpose remedy Edith Morrissey and my mother both boiled up at the first sign of anything distressing.

  Mother.

  I looked back at the other envelope lying on the table, thin and humble. It wasn’t exactly a welcome reminder of home—my childhood home had been sold when I went to live with my aunt and uncle—but at least it would be her usual everyday life, with nary a bomb or a secret in sight. Clearly, Morrissey hadn’t found anything in it worth censoring or he wouldn’t have given it back to me.

  It would be good to read about something normal. Comforting, even.

  I swirled a tea bag in my mug, letting the golden chamomile bloom outward, and opened Mother’s letter.

  January 22, 1945

  Dear Son,

  I always wondered if you’d ask about the ones that Great-Grandmother Clara couldn’t help, and what I’d tell you if you did. You know I don’t stand by lying, which is why I never lied to you about her Underground Railroad days. I just never told you all of the truth.

  I’ve copied out her last diary entry. Before you read it, I want you to know this. I’ve made some mistakes, and the one that sent me here was the biggest of all. But if you read this, you’ll know what was going through my mind that night.

  I’d do it differently, given the chance. I’ve been separated from you almost a decade now because of it. I should’ve waited till God struck Nelson down, like you always said on your visits to me, talking about what Quakers say about vengeance and all. Then I wouldn’t have blood on my conscience.

  We can’t take them back, the choices we make. But we tell stories so our children know to do better.

  That’s what I want for you, Gordon. It’ll break your heart, reading the diary entry I’m enclosing here, and I’m sorry for that too, but you’ve got to know. I made a wrong choice, but maybe Clara did too.

  Somehow, you’ve got to find a better way, son.

  Your mother

  TRANSCRIPT OF CLARA HOOPER’S DIARY

  July 29, 1853

  They are gone. Irrevocably gone, whether only from this region or from life itself, I cannot say. How badly they were bleeding when they were dragged off, beaten like Christ himself, innocent before their accusers.

  But am I innocent?

  I do not know.

  I knew something was wrong when I heard shouts at the door. Hiram answered them so gently I couldn’t hear his words, but they were not satisfied and pushed past him into the kitchen, where I was preparing for the evening meal, well knowing that below my feet were the two men who had seen our signal in the window and taken shelter during last night’s storm.

  The sheriff knew our secret. Had one of our neighbors betrayed us? I wondered.

  He set his rifle down on the floorboards and knelt next to the cellar door, pulling the rug aside and reaching for the handle.

  His weapon was there, within my reach. Had I shot it, had I even struck the sheriff with it, not to kill, but to harm . . .

  But instead I stood still and prayed for a miracle.

  And the God who blinded the Syrian army allowed him to see. The God who spared Daniel from the den of lions watched as our two fugitives were beaten. The God who sent an angel to deliver Peter from prison did not raise a hand as they were dragged away to become
property once more, amid my weeping and cries.

  I cannot understand why.

  O Almighty God, thy ways may be higher than mine . . . but even my human eyes know the enslavement of our brethren to be the basest evil. How could thou have allowed it?

  The sheriff cursed and his men dragged the fugitives out of our door, promising to return to arrest us. Whether they will make good on this threat or not, I know not, but Hiram and I are prepared. Anything would be better than this awful silence, this terrible waiting, with only these pages and my tortured prayers.

  That weapon, soiled though it was with blood shed in evil, might have been my miracle. And I let it be.

  It may be my greatest regret.

  CHAPTER 28

  Dorie Armitage

  January 26, 1945

  Morrissey was punishing me, or at least trying to keep me out of trouble. I was sure that was why he put me on Gordon’s Saturday work detail—window washing. But there was something satisfying about scrubbing away a layer of winter grime from the laundry building’s front panes, seeing the clear water in my bucket turn dull.

  Besides, it gave me time to think. And there was a lot to think about.

  Now that we knew what had happened to Jack, what was left for me to do?

  Only a few days remained in my furlough, and then I’d need to beat it to the train station to get back to Fort Lawton, back to Violet and Bea and the comforting routines of garage work and Friday night dates.

  Which was fine, except for one thing:

  If you leave now, you won’t get to say good-bye to Gordon.

  After a full day and night to think about it, I knew it had been rotten of me, springing the news that Jack was planning to enlist on him like I had. We’d fallen into old patterns, both of us delivering cutting words that stung and then quickly dissolved into regret, like the crystals of ice flinging themselves at my face as I worked.

  Now that there was no murderer to bring to justice, it would be easier to walk away. But was it the right thing to do?