Until Tomorrow

by Kari Lee Harmon

  “What’s that?”

  “Kathleen Connor was having an affair because JR aka Joseph Henry Rutherford III was most definitely not her husband.”

  5

  July 1942: Beacon Bay, Maine

  It was July 4th, Independence Day, but Kathleen’s freedom had come at great cost. She’d been on her own for a couple of weeks now. William had left her alone, as promised, but every time she ventured into town, she felt his eyes watching her. She knew he wouldn’t risk her revealing his awful secret, so she held her head high and refused to cower no matter how much she was shaking on the inside. Everyone had condemned her anyway. Why did it matter what they thought?

  That was the part that got to her the most. People would cross the street when she was walking on the same side, or they would stare and whisper and point fingers. Her parents had taken pity, supplying her with fish they caught and vegetables from their garden, but they still wouldn’t be seen with her in public. After that, she’d refused their help, learning to fish and planting her own garden. With what little money she had left from teaching, she’d placed an order in a catalogue for the essentials she was running out of, refusing to shop at the main store in town—her husband’s store.

  Kathleen would rather live simply on her own terms, alienating everyone in town, than to live in fear with a monster just to be accepted. If that was what it required to be socially acceptable, then she would gladly die an outcast. But that didn’t mean the loneliness hadn’t hit her hard. Her days weren’t bad with summer wrapping its warm embrace around Beacon Bay. She would go for long walks, fish, tend to her garden, and write.

  Oh, how she would write.

  Putting pen to paper in her journal, she poured out her soul and let everything she was feeling emerge: her anger, her fear, her acceptance, her determination, her peace, her sadness, her secrets. The nights were the worst. That was when she would let her tears fall, in the quiet stillness where no one would judge her, and she could be free to be herself in all its ugly beautiful glory.

  She walked around her small, one-story cottage consisting of a kitchen/living room combination with one bedroom and a single bathroom. She’d painted the white walls a sunny yellow, and added some lace curtains and a couple of throw pillows to make it feel more like home, but she was still isolated at this end of the coast.

  A noise outside had her running through the front door.

  The mail was here. She never got mail, but she knew her package of supplies was due to arrive soon. She hadn’t thought it would come this soon and was impressed with how quickly the postal service had worked, especially given the demands of the war going on. Cargo planes were brimming with supplies for soldiers, so supplies for citizens took longer.

  Everyone was aware of how important the mail had become for both soldiers and their families back home, but space was limited. V-mail—short for Victory Mail—was created as a hybrid mail process. Letters were censored, copied to microfilm to save room, and then printed on paper once they reached their destination. Kathleen could relate to the soldiers in a way. She felt completely cut off from life as she knew it, left on her own to make the most of her dire situation and survive.

  She reached her front yard just as the mail truck disappeared from view. Her heart sank. He wasn’t very friendly toward her, but at least he was a form of human contact. Sighing heavily, she reached down to pick up her box of supplies but stopped short. A letter lay on the top, clearly marked V-mail.

  Her brow knitted, puckering her forehead.

  She didn’t know anyone in the military. Picking up the letter, the name of the recipient was blurred. The only part of the letter that was visible was 137 Coastal Ridge Road, which was Kathleen’s address. It was a federal offense to open someone else’s mail, but she knew how the system worked. If she sent the letter back to the post office unopened, they would return the letter to the soldier who had sent it—providing he was still alive. It would take a long time to reach him, and even longer for him to resend it until it reached its proper recipient. She suspected he needed to hear from someone back home, even if that someone was a virtual stranger like her.

  With no idea who the letter was intended for, Kathleen had no choice. Her heart went out to the soldier who had sent this letter. It was a lifeline for him she didn’t have the heart to cut. Maybe if she opened the letter, she would figure out who it was meant for and she could deliver the letter herself. It was obviously meant for someone in Beacon Bay. She told herself that was the only reason she would ever open anyone’s mail, but even she wasn’t convinced. A part of her was desperate.

  She needed a lifeline herself.

  Carrying her box of supplies into her cottage, she set the box down on the kitchen table. Pouring herself a glass of iced tea and pacing the room for several minutes, she finally gave in. She lifted the letter as if it was fragile and took it out onto her back porch overlooking the ocean. Inhaling a calming breath, she turned the letter over and opened it. Carefully pulling out the precious cargo nesting inside, she slowly unfolded the letter and read the words that would change her life forever.

  * * *

  My Dearest Beverly,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I know we have never met, but I have heard of your family. My mother has told me the good news. You are agreeable to meeting me upon my return. That is good news indeed, for I long to come home to Beacon Bay and my old life. I fought in this war in the hopes of doing my part for the greater good. I am glad the United States has joined the war, though I must confess, I was naïve. I thought I could make a difference.

  I had no idea I would barely make a dent.

  I feel I must pour my soul out on these pages so you are fully aware of what you are getting yourself into if you agree to become my wife. I am damaged goods. This war has changed me. I will not be coming home the same man as when I left, and I can’t promise I will find my way back to him. You have no idea what it’s been like being in this war. The things I’ve seen would break your heart, for they have broken mine beyond repair, I fear.

  I knew war was violent, but to actually bear witness to the destruction and pain and suffering of those around you is not something I prepared for properly, though I’m not entirely sure one can prepare for something like that at all. To see the fear in a man’s eyes when he dies right in front of you is something that will haunt my dreams forever. And seeing the resignation and acceptance of death in the eyes of a man I am preparing to kill is something I will have to live with for the rest of my days.

  I’m not trying to scare you away. Quite the opposite, in fact. I selfishly don’t want to be alone if I make it back. I want to be fair to you. I don’t understand why I’m still alive. I sometimes think death would be easier. Maybe with your help, this will be something I can overcome. I certainly hope so. The last thing I would want to do is to make you care about me and then let you down. I couldn’t handle hurting anyone else. I hurt enough all by myself.

  The weather in Hawaii was balmy and the lava rocks and tropical flowers stunning. I can’t tell you where I am now, but it’s cooler, although growing warmer every day, although nothing compares to home. I miss Maine. The smell of pine from the forest, the sight of deer running across the wildflowers in the meadow, the feel of the crisp salty air as it stings my face, the taste of fresh snowflakes melting on my tongue, and the thought of the many lighthouses shining their beacons and guiding me home. My dreams of home are the only things keeping me going.

  I would give anything to be in Beacon Bay right now, and that makes me feel like a coward. I don’t understand why I was spared when so many souls much braver than I were taken or maimed in ways that will change their lives forever. I might not be physically injured, but mentally, I am a wreck. I don’t know how I am going to survive the rest of my time over here. I still have two years left.

  Every little sound makes me jump, and the nightmares are relentless. They leave me disoriented and drained, which is something I can’t afford to
be right now. This war is far from over. All Japan did was wake a sleeping giant. I fear how we will retaliate and how much more death and destruction have to happen before the war will end.

  Anyway, I’ve probably given you many reasons to walk away, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But if you’re still willing to give us a try, it would fill my heart with joy to hear back from you. Even if you’re not, please write to me. I need to hear from someone back home.

  Yours Truly,

  Joseph Henry Rutherford III

  * * *

  Kathleen reread the letter three times before finally refolding it gently and slipping it back into its envelope. Beverly. There were many Beverlys in town, as it was a common name. She had no idea which Beverly this was meant for. Her heart ached at the mere thought that this poor soldier named Joseph must have witnessed the attack on Pearl Harbor first-hand and lived to tell about it, expected to be strong and fight on, wherever he was. No wonder he wasn’t the same man. How could he be? Anyone who expected him to be was naïve and foolish, and quite frankly, not very compassionate.

  His words had moved her more than she’d ever imagined. She longed to comfort him in some way and let him know it was going to be okay. He was going to be okay. He’d made it this far. He only had to hang on for a little while longer. He was so lost and alone, the same as she was. It somehow made her feel a connection to him she hadn’t thought possible since becoming an outcast. She was married, and he was intended for another, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t write him back. She had to help him in any way she could, even though it probably meant she would never hear from him again.

  Maybe by writing him back and explaining what had happened, he would correct the situation and get the happy ending he deserved. She would sleep better at night knowing she had done the right thing, but that didn’t mean she would stop thinking about him anytime soon or stop wondering if he was okay or stop worrying about him. A man she didn’t even know who had somehow changed her with his words.

  Maybe her words would do the same for him.

  August 1942: Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

  Joseph paced the deck of the USS Tennessee, nervous at being back. He wore his summer uniform of white button-fly trousers, white jumper, and white cotton hat since he was back in the warmer climate of Hawaii. They had sailed from San Francisco, and after a week of exercises, they went to the South Pacific to escort the carrier The Hornet back to Pearl Harbor while the rest of the task force supported the invasion of Guadalcanal. The Tennessee and the other older battleships were due to return to the Puget Sound in two weeks for modernization because, not only were they slower than the carriers, they burned a lot more fuel.

  Joseph whittled away at another small wooden box. He’d taken up the habit to keep himself focused on anything other than the devastation around him. Staring out over Battleship Row was still just as heartbreaking. The Tennessee had sustained relatively minor damage during the attack by Japan on Pearl Harbor, but the damage had been repaired since February, unlike the Arizona and the Oklahoma which had sunk and were total losses. He remained a gunner, but he had a hard time even touching the weapons without bringing on more nightmares.

  Joseph kept checking his watch, knowing the mail was coming soon. He’d heard there had been a problem with the cargo plane last month when he’d sent his letter to Beverly from San Francisco. By the time the mail was loaded onto a new plane, the sacks had been damaged by torrential rain. Any letters that were legible were sent out, with the rest being returned to the soldiers who had sent them. He hadn’t received his back yet, so he had assumed it had made it to Beverly’s house. He prayed it had, as he needed to hear something from anyone at this point.

  “Mail call,” someone finally yelled.

  A mixture of relief and dread filled him. What if his letter was never sent after all? The post office did a good job of tracking down soldiers wherever they were and keeping their families informed since they weren’t allowed to tell their loved ones where they were stationed, but damaged mail complicated matters. Or worse, what if it had been sent, but Beverly decided it was all too much for her and decided she didn’t want anything to do with him? But worst of all, what if no one bothered to write to him? He could take almost anything, even bad news, but he couldn’t handle not hearing from someone at home.

  With slow agonizing steps, Joseph made his way to the mail room. Everyone’s name was called except his own. At the last possible second when he was at his worst and giving up, someone yelled his name. He took the letter and slipped it into his pocket, holding it close until he was free to read it at the end of his shift.

  A couple hours later Joseph bypassed the barracks and made his way back up the hill far from the harbor to sit under his favorite palm tree. He could see the ocean, but up here he could focus on the waves instead of the devastation. The rain hadn’t come yet, but the sky looked stormy. The wind picked up, making the waves swell into large crescent moons before rolling into balls and crashing against the shore as if the gods were bowling.

  He smiled slightly, thinking of home, fighting down the wave of longing that always came with it. With that thought, he pulled out the letter that had been burning his flesh through his pocket, searing his heart and soul. A sprig of dried pine fell onto his lap, and he sucked in a sharp breath. With shaking fingers, he lifted the sprig to his nose and inhaled deep. He squeezed his eyelids closed and fought back a surge of tears.

  Home.

  He’d been so homesick. To have a simple small token from the place dearer to his heart than any other meant more than he could possibly put into words. Maybe things with Beverly would work out after all if she could read his needs this well already. He fought to get his emotions under control and opened his eyes to read the words that would seal his fate.

  * * *

  Dear Joseph,

  Please don’t be angry with me. I have no idea how you feel about the war or what you were expecting, but I have to tell you I received your letter. I must say your words moved me beyond what I can ever write in a return letter, but you must know before you read any further, I am not your intended.

  My name is Kathleen Connor. Your letter was addressed to a woman named Beverly. If I had known her last name, I would have gladly given her your letter. But the message was sent to my address at 137 Coastal Ridge Road. I’m not sure how that happened. It looks as if part of the address was blurred.

  I had to respond to you because I didn’t want you to think you were alone and that no one back home cared about you. I think you’re so brave. Wherever you are, know that what you’re doing over there, fighting for your country and standing up for what you believe in, is important to us all. You are making much more than a dent. You’re making a difference by being there. I know it must be difficult, but you can do this. This might sound crazy because I don’t even know you, but I believe in you.

  It’s hard being isolated. I know first-hand what it feels like to be cut off from everything you thought was important to you and everyone you loved who you thought loved you back. You see I’m married, but my husband isn’t a very nice man. He hurt me, yet the whole town blames me and sees him as the victim. I’m only telling you this because you bared your soul in your letter. I thought if I bared mine, it might help.

  I too think about giving up at times, but I’m not a quitter and I refuse to let the enemy win. It’s the same with you, I suspect. I can tell you’re not a quitter, and you can’t let the enemy win either. Maybe you survived so you could make sure your comrades didn’t die in vain. I know you’re lonely. I’m very lonely too.

  Please don’t give up on yourself. You might not believe it, but you do make the world a better place by being in it. It’s people like you who give those of us back home hope. I have hope this world will be a better place because of you someday. I sincerely wish you the best of luck and hope your Beverly can see what a great catch you are. Keep your chin up, Joseph. Tomorrow is another day, and maybe your happy ending wil
l be right around the corner.

  Until Tomorrow,

  Kathleen Connor

  * * *

  Joseph reread the letter a couple of times and then slowly folded the paper and placed it back in his shirt pocket right above his heart. He sat there in stunned surprise. He had thought the letter would be from Beverly or his parents or his sisters, but never in his wildest imagination had he expected it to be from a complete stranger.

  Kathleen Connor.

  Who was she? Beverly Sanderson lived at 37 Coastal Ridge Road in the upper-class section. Kathleen lived at the other end at 137 Coastal Ridge Road in a much lower-class section, obviously surrounded by scandal. His mother would have palpitations if she knew he was even speaking to someone like Kathleen, but he didn’t care what his mother or anyone else might think. Kathleen was the one who had written him back at a time when he’d needed it the most, and she’d given him the most precious gift of all.

  A piece of home.

  Granted, Beverly didn’t know he had written her first, but still. She could have written to him on her own accord, and his parents and sisters only wrote when they wanted something. They never wrote to cheer him up or see how he was doing or lift his spirits. Kathleen didn’t have to write him back at all. She certainly didn’t owe him anything and had nothing to gain. Yet she had written to a complete stranger because she cared about how he was feeling when he didn’t think anyone else did. He needed to thank her, he thought, trying to justify his strong urge to write her back.

  Joseph would still reach out to Beverly because his mother was counting on him and had probably already said something to her, but that didn’t mean he and Kathleen couldn’t still be friends. She was married to a monster by the sounds of it. People could be so cruel. He was embarrassed to think he was fighting for a town that didn’t care enough about its own people to support them.