She covered her face with her hands. "We should have married as soon as I turned eighteen, but Mom was insistent that I wait, that I not marry as young as she had. If only we'd gotten married, this never—"
"Don't do that, Dottie," Lucy interrupted, her words gentle but firm. "Don't whip yourself with if-only-this and if-only-that. We can't undo what's already done, and we can't know what would've happened if we'd made a different choice."
Dottie lowered her hands.
"Have you told Greg yet?"
"I wrote to him but I haven't heard back. I don't even know where he is or when he'll get my letter."
"And your mother? Have you told her?"
Dottie nodded a second time. "She can hardly look at me. I've humiliated her, and it'll only get worse when everybody at church knows what I've done. I tried to tell her that Greg and I asked the Lord's forgiveness, but she doesn't want to hear it. She's too ashamed of me."
"She loves you. She's worried about you."
Dottie began to cry again. She didn't feel loved. She felt alone and scared and rejected and miserable. She was nineteen, unmarried, and expecting a baby, a baby whose father might not live to see it.
Lucy drew her chair closer to Dottie. She reached out, took Empress from Dottie's lap and set the cat on the floor, then held Dottie's hands in her own. "Let's pray, shall we? We'll ask the Lord for guidance. He knows you, Dottie. He loves you and forgives you. He walks us through everything, even the troubles we create for ourselves. You'll see."
V-Mail
To: 1st Lt. Richard Anderson, APO, N.Y.P.E.
From: Lucy Anderson
Saturday, March 3, 1943
My dearest, darling Richard,
It's late as I put pen to paper. There's a March wind whistling around the corner of the house. I'm wishing I had a fireplace because a crackling fire would make things seem more cozy and I wouldn't feel so alone. I miss you very much, my darling.
This morning a friend and I drove up to McCall. It was a treat to escape town for a few hours. It seems forever since I've had an outing. For that matter, it seems forever since I've ridden with someone in an automobile. I've grown so used to the bus I nearly forgot there are other modes of transportation. There's plenty of snow in the higher elevations, which means the rivers should run high this summer. North of Cascade we came upon a herd of elk in a field, and one of them had the largest rack I've ever seen. I couldn't imagine how he even lifted his head. He must have been very old.
The ice is beginning to break up on Payette Lake, but it's still mostly frozen with a blanket of snow over it. My friend and I sat in the lodge near the fireplace (perhaps that's why I'm wishing for one tonight) and ate lunch and looked at the sun reflecting off the ice and snow. We were nearly blinded by its brilliance.
When I got home this afternoon, Dottie was waiting to talk to me. She had distressing news. She's pregnant. (She gave me permission to share that with you.) She's written to Greg, but there's been no reply yet. She doesn't know If he's in England or North Africa. Regardless of where he is, it won't change her circumstances. I tried to offer wise counsel, and we prayed together for a time. She understands and accepts the forgiveness promised in 1st John 1:9, but deep down, she still feels guilty.
That's not helped by her mother's attitude. I don't mean to be unkind or to be guilty of gossip, but Margo shows little compassion for others. And not just about Dottie's predicament. Toward anyone who isn't perfect. Her faith is all about God's judgment, and too often she forgets his love, mercy, and grace. It's a joyless Christianity, and there are times I ache for her. Does she never see the beauty of Jesus?
If Greg is in England and God wills your paths should cross, please tell him that I'll do my best to help Dottie in any way that I can.
I confess, my darling Richard, that I'm a little envious of Dottie. My heart and my arms ache for you, but perhaps if I had your child to hold and to love, I wouldn't feel so alone. Stay safe, my love. Win this war and come home to me. I love you.
Forever and always,
Lucy
Chapter 18
Penelope held Evelyn with her right arm, bracing the child on her hip, and clutched Alan's hand with her left one. The train depot buzzed with voices as mothers and fathers, siblings and sweethearts, said good-bye to those they loved.
The balmy weather had ended during the night. This morning, the gray sky wept.
How fitting.
Frances, looking smart and pretty in her new uniform, leaned forward and kissed Penelope's cheek. "Don't look so down, sis. I'm going to be fine. You'll see."
But her sister had misread her. Penelope wasn't sad or worried. She was resentful. Angry at Stuart. He wasn't with her today because of another doctor's appointment that he claimed couldn't be postponed. Same old story. Always the same. Penelope was twenty-five years old, but she felt decades older. Ancient, in fact. Life had passed her by. Nothing exciting would happen to her again. Not ever. She knew it.
If it weren't for Stuart and the children …
"Look. Here they are." Frances waved her arms above her head. "Mom, Dad! Over here. Here we are!"
When their parents reached them, Penelope watched as Frances was embraced by their mother. Julia Ballard cried openly. David Ballard, their father, kept his usual stern expression in place.
"I was afraid you weren't going to make it in time," Frances said.
"We almost didn't." Their father's voice was gruff. "We had a flat tire, and I had a devil of a time fixing it. What I wouldn't give to own a spare tire."
Their mother offered a brown paper bag to Frances. "I made you some goodies for the train. There's plenty so you can share."
"Thanks, Mom."
Penelope could see her sister fighting to control her emotions. In a moment, Frances would be crying like their mother, and then, Penelope knew, she would cry, too.
That was when the call for boarding came, followed by another flurry of hugging and kissing across the platform.
"Don't grow too big before I return," Frances told Alan after leaving lipstick marks on both of his cheeks. "And take care of your mommy for me. Okay?"
"Okay."
Frances hugged Penelope and Evelyn at the same time. "Tell Stuart I'm sorry he's feeling bad, and thank him for the keepsake box he made me." She kissed Penelope's cheek. "I'll write often, sis. I promise. I'll tell you everything, same as I've always done."
"You'd better."
Her sister turned and bid farewell to their parents. Crying unabated by the time their mother released her, Frances picked up her belongings and hurried toward the passenger car.
"Mommy." Alan tugged on her arm. "I gotta go potty."
"Not now, honey. Mommy wants to see Auntie Frances one more time before she goes. Don't you want to see the train pull away from—"
"Now, Mommy. I gotta go now." As if to prove his words were true, he hopped from foot to foot.
"Here, Penelope," her mother offered. "Give me Evelyn while you take him to the restroom."
Reluctantly, she released her daughter into her mother's waiting arms.
Penelope lifted Alan off the ground, carrying him through the crowd that was surging toward the train, people saying their last good-byes, some women pressing handkerchiefs to their lips as if to hold back sobs.
Finally, she and Alan stepped through the doors of the railway depot. Penelope set her son on the black-and-white tiled floor of the vast hall, took hold of his small hand, and half pulled, half dragged him toward the women's restroom—only to find that both stalls were occupied.
"I gotta go, Mommy." His voice rose to a shrill whine.
"Hold on, Alan. Just a bit longer." She stared daggers at the closed stall doors while her little boy jumped and hopped and wiggled beside her. "Hold on."
At last, a woman wearing an ugly floral hat opened the door of the first stall. She barely had a moment to move out of the way before Penelope and Alan bolted past her.
That was when Penelope h
eard the first chug and whoosh of the train as it got underway.
"Oh, Alan." She fumbled with the buckle on his belt and banged her elbow against the wall in the process. Pain shot up her arm, from funny bone to shoulder. "Hurry, sweetie."
It was pointless to ask the boy to hurry, of course. No matter how hard he tried, they couldn't get outside before the train pulled out of the station. At least not in time to see Frances waving farewell from the window of the passenger car.
It was too late.
Too late.
Like everything else in her life.
Tears flooded Penelope's eyes. She brushed them away with an exasperated gesture.
Her sister was gone, off to see new places, foreign lands, off to fight in the war, off on an exciting exploit that was rife with danger, while Penelope was stuck in this public restroom …
Stuck in this lousy town …
Stuck in a humdrum job …
Stuck in a marriage gone sour.
Chapter 19
For a change, the word out of North Africa was more positive. The Allies were on the offensive, and Rommel's forces had been driven back.
Margo's boss, Colonel Rhodes, said victory in the North African theater was within reach. All but assured. Soon the Allies would mop up operations in Africa and prepare for the next phase of the war in Europe.
Good news or bad, however, there was one unavoidable fact that lingered in the back of Margo's mind: Young men died in war, even when their side was winning. Clark wouldn't be safe as long as he was in the army. She wanted him home. She wanted him safe.
With her room empty between classes, Margo stood at the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared through the wavy glass at the blustery day outside. A funnel of dust spun down the road outside her building, followed by a Jeep, as if in hot pursuit.
"The baby isn't a surprise to the Lord." The memory of Dottie's words taunted her. "God won't love it any less because of the circumstances of its conception, and neither will I."
No, Dottie wouldn't love this baby any less. Perhaps, in some ways, she would love it more. She would love it more because she would know she didn't deserve it, that she'd never been meant to have it.
Margo remembered the look of disappointment on her father's face the day she told him she was pregnant. She remembered the mortification in her mother's eyes. And she remembered Bart King's resentment as the two of them stood before a justice of the peace in a small West Virginia courthouse, exchanging wedding vows that meant nothing to her groom.
She had been sixteen, pregnant, and desperately—foolishly—in love with a man who didn't want her and most definitely didn't want the baby she carried. Bart had forgotten he was the one who said he needed her, wanted her, would keep her memory with him every moment as he marched off to war.
From the moment that judge pronounced them man and wife, Bart had done his best to punish her for getting pregnant. She was miserable … and then Clark was born. He was a good baby from the start, never fussy or colicky. He loved to smile and laugh and coo. People always commented on how beautiful he was. From an early age, he was bright and adventurous, as he remained to this day.
So perfect, her son. So perfect. He made everything else in her life seem okay for a time. When Bart left her alone, night after night, while he chased other women, Margo's lonely heart found comfort in loving her son.
She didn't understand that she had no right to him because of what she'd done. That realization came a few years later, after she and Bart moved to Boise and Margo attended church for the first time in her life. There she was, a new Christian, sitting in the pew with her small son beside her and her belly large with another baby, listening as the pastor read from the second book of Samuel. No one in that church or in this town knew, of course, that she'd been pregnant out of wedlock. That was her secret.
"Then David confessed to Nathan, 'I have sinned against the Lord.''
"Nathan replied, 'Yes, but the LORD has forgiven you, and you won't die for this sin. But you have given the enemies of the LORD great opportunity to despise and blaspheme Him, so your child will die.'"
Even now, twenty years later, Margo remembered the terror that had pierced her heart at those words. The fear hadn't left her since. Not ever. Not even when Clark accepted Christ as his Savior. Not even when she saw her son serving God by serving others. Not even when she prayed for hours on her knees.
And why wouldn't she be afraid? If the prayers and fasting of David, a man after God's own heart, couldn't save his son from death, how could her prayers make a difference on Clark's behalf?
Still, she prayed. She fasted. She made certain to obey God in every way she knew how. Yet fear was her constant companion.
And now Dottie faced the same future.
Margo turned from the window, wishing she could turn so easily from her thoughts, wishing she could turn back time. Perhaps then she might discover something she could have done, could have said, that would have prevented this disaster—the sin of the mother—from visiting itself upon her daughter.
Margo had worried too much about Clark and not enough about Dottie. Passionate, headstrong Dottie, who wore her heart on her sleeve. How could Margo not have seen what was coming? Dottie and Greg started dating in high school, but most of their outings were with the youth group from church. Margo had convinced herself that they would outgrow their infatuation, even after Dottie told her they wanted to marry.
Oh, how wrong could she have been? Why hadn't she done more to keep the two of them apart? She who knew so well what could happen in an unguarded moment.
The sound of swift footsteps alerted her to the arrival of her pupil moments before the second lieutenant appeared in the classroom doorway.
"Mrs. King," Travis Rhodes said smartly when his gaze found her by the window.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant."
Margo returned to her desk and opened her textbook, glad for the distraction. At least for an hour, she could think of something besides her children and the dangers that lurked in the unknown future.
Chapter 20
As the bus from the base lumbered toward town, Lucy observed her three friends. Each seemed lost in thought. Disturbing thoughts, judging by their expressions.
During the lunch break, Penelope had told them about her sister's departure the previous day. "I'm going to miss her so much," she'd said, her voice breaking.
Lucy sensed there was more behind Penelope's unhappy demeanor than just Frances's absence.
As for Margo and Dottie, Lucy didn't need to guess what bothered them. She already knew. Apparently nothing had improved since Saturday. Between the two, Lucy worried about Margo the most. Dottie would rally and be okay. The girl had both a strong faith and a strong spirit. But Margo? Lucy wasn't so sure about her.
Guiltily, Lucy remembered her promise to pray for each of these women and their families and to practice a victorious Christian walk, even in the face of war and loss. She hadn't done a good job of it thus far.
Jeb Pratt brought the bus to a halt and opened the door. Margo and Dottie rose to their feet, and Margo left without saying good-bye.
"See you both in the morning," Dottie said to Penelope and Lucy, her voice soft and sad.
Lucy caught her gently by the hand. "It'll get better."
"I hope so."
After Dottie disembarked and the bus was in motion again, Penelope twisted on her seat to look at Lucy. "What's with those two? They having one of those mother-daughter spats?"
Lucy gave her head a shake, hoping Penelope would assume it meant she didn't know rather than that she couldn't say.
"My mom and I never fought much, but boy, could she and Frances ever go at it." Penelope smiled a little at that. "My sister always was the brave one. Not like me."
"Why would you say that? I think it's very brave, raising children these days."
Penelope faced forward again. "Maybe." The bus slowed, and Penelope pulled herself to her feet. "Hope y
ou have another letter waiting for you," she tossed over her shoulder.
"Thanks, Pen. I'll see you tomorrow."
Throughout the remaining bus ride, Lucy pondered her friends' circumstances and wondered what she might do to lift their spirits. There had to be something. She'd worked at the base long enough to understand the importance of good morale, even for civilians—if for no other reason than because those same civilians wrote to the soldiers and sailors serving their country far from home.
Lord, show me what I can do to help.
For Penelope, the first step was to offer a friendly ear to listen or a strong shoulder to cry on, whichever was needed. Until she opened up about what was troubling her or asked for advice, there was nothing else to be done.
I could ask her to go to church with me again. I haven't done that in a while.
Of the four friends from the air base, Penelope was the only one who didn't attend church on a regular basis. Lucy wasn't convinced Penelope believed in God at all, even though she sometimes talked as if she did.
As for Dottie and Margo—
"Here you go, Mrs. Anderson," Jeb said.
Lucy looked up, surprised to find the bus stopped and the door open, awaiting her departure. "Thank you, Mr. Pratt." She rose and stepped toward the exit. "See you in the morning."
"I'll be here."
Walking at a brisk pace, Lucy was halfway to the market before she remembered she didn't need to shop. The food for supper was in the icebox at home.
She paused on the sidewalk, debating whether to continue on or turn toward her apartment. Finally, she decided it wouldn't hurt to stop in and say hello to Howard. He'd been so kind to give her that outing to McCall on Saturday, and since he wasn't at church yesterday—such a disappointment—she hadn't had the opportunity to thank him then.
A few minutes later, the small bell above the entrance announced her arrival at the market.
The Victory Club Page 8
