Lucy pointed to a slip of paper on the coffee table. The telegram looked as if it had been crumpled into a wad, then flattened again. "Missing in action." She pressed her forehead against her knees, muffling her voice. "He went down over Italy last month."
Dottie gave Greg's hand a squeeze as she guided him to the sofa.
As they sat down, Greg said, "Don't give up hope, Lucy. I know plenty of guys who survived their planes going down."
Plenty? Dottie thought he exaggerated. How many men actually survived a plane crash in the middle of a war? Please, Father. Let Richard be one of them.
Margo sat on the arm of Lucy's chair. "Greg's right, dear. You mustn't give up hope." She placed a hand on Lucy's head and gently stroked her hair. "Haven't we prayed for God's protection and guidance for Richard? Haven't we asked all these months.for God to give us personal victory over our fears? Of course we have. Now we must hold on to hope. We serve a mighty God."
"But what if—" Lucy lifted her tearstained face from her knees— "What if God says no?" Her voice was pencil-thin. "Margo, what if He's already said no? What if Richard is dead?"
Dottie held her breath, thankful Lucy hadn't asked her that question. What would she have answered? She might simply have wept.
As if sensing Dottie's despair, Greg put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close against his side. She did begin to cry then, silently.
"Lucy," Margo said at last, "I don't know what the answer is. At least, not an answer that will make the hurt go away." She leaned down and kissed the crown of Lucy's head. "I'm not going to offer platitudes. I've done that too often in my life. Whatever comes, we'll walk through it with you, dear. No matter what comes."
Chapter 57
Penelope Maxfield stood on the sidewalk, staring at her home.
Or was it her home? She'd been gone four months. Four months without a letter or a phone call to Stuart. Four months without one inquiry about her children. To be honest, she'd scarcely given any of them a thought. Not until she ran out of options.
Her stomach cramped, and she wondered if she would be sick. She'd thrown up twice this morning in the bus depot restroom. Not that there was anything in her stomach. She hadn't eaten in two days, other than a couple of crackers. At least she wasn't pregnant. Last week she was afraid she might be. Then what would she have done?
Kill myself. That's what.
Penelope had wanted an adventure, and she got one. At first it was all she'd hoped for. At first she reveled in her newfound freedom. It was intoxicating. Sure, she had to go to work, but the rest of the time, she did exactly as she pleased. She was young and attractive. The sailors in San Diego wined and dined her on a nightly basis.
When did it stop being fun? When she lost her job because of coming in to work late one time too often? When her landlady kicked her out because she couldn't pay her rent? When she awakened one morning and didn't know where she was or the name of the man lying beside her in bed?
Her stomach turned again. Her knees felt unsteady, and she didn't think they would hold her much longer.
"Go home, Pen," Frances had told her weeks ago. "Go back to Stuart and make things right."
But her sister didn't understand. Frances was single and living in England and had no obligations except to the WAACs. Frances didn't have an ever-present husband and small children who constantly demanded her attention, wanting things from her, needing things from her.
"You used to have a good marriage," Frances had said. "You used to love Stuart."
Had she loved him? Penelope wasn't sure. She used to think so, and she'd blamed the change in her feelings on his cowardly reaction to the war, on his supposed back injury, on a host of things she couldn't remember any longer.
But what did that matter? She was here. She was tired, hungry, and she had nowhere else to go. Her father wouldn't let her stay in his house, even if her mother would. No, this was her only port in the storm.
Drawing a steadying breath, she headed for the door. She had a key. Should she use it? Would it be right to just walk in? No, she supposed not.
Her rap on the door echoed the hollowness in her soul.
It seemed an eternity before her knock was answered. Stuart's expression when he saw her went from shock to disgust to aloof in a heartbeat. It made her wish he hadn't been home.
"Hello, Stuart." His name came out scratchy and weak.
"Pen."
"May I … may I come in?"
He pushed open the screen without a word.
She stepped past him, pausing in the hall, listening for the sounds of children. She heard none.
Stuart said, "They're with your folks for the weekend."
"Oh."
He didn't move, didn't say anything more, didn't try to make it easier for her. His coldness surprised her. Despite everything, she'd expected more of a welcome.
She cleared her throat. "Is there … is there any coffee? I could use a cup." That was a lie. She was certain coffee—especially what passed for it these days—would come right back up if she swallowed any. But it was the only thing she could think to say; the silence was too awful to bear.
"Yeah." He jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Help yourself. You know where it is."
Penelope hesitated a moment more, wondering if he would lead the way. He didn't. He stood there, like a stone statue. Swallowing her nausea, she walked toward the kitchen.
The distinctive crisp scent of Pine-Sol filled the air. A bucket and mop were near the back door. The counters and floor shined. Dishes were stacked in the dish drain to the left of the sink. Her husband had been busy this morning.
Penelope crossed to the stove, picked up the coffeepot with her right hand, and reached for a cup with her left.
"There's some milk in the fridge," Stuart said, "but we're out of sugar."
Normally, she would want both. She added neither.
Full cup clasped tightly, she turned toward her husband. She hoped he couldn't see the way her hands shook. Silence stretched between them, awkward and heavy.
Slowly, she became aware of changes in his appearance. His golden blond hair was shorter than he used to wear it; she liked it. The sleeves of his T-shirt were rolled up, revealing arms more muscular than she remembered, and his skin had been bronzed by the sun. He looked … healthy … handsome … vigorous.
Stuart frowned, as if he'd read her thoughts. "What are you doing here, Pen?"
"I—" Her stomach churned— "I wanted to see the children … and you, of course."
"Really." The word oozed sarcasm.
"Yes."
Stuart made a sound of frustration as he sat on one of the kitchen chairs. His eyes downcast, he raked the fingers of both hands through his short hair. She felt his loathing from across the room.
What if he sent her away? What if he threw her out, the same way the landlady in San Diego had?
Dizziness washed over her. She had to sit before she fell down. Hurriedly, she moved to a chair opposite Stuart. Coffee sloshed onto the table as she set the cup in front of her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It'll wipe up."
"No." The desperate lie came easily. It wasn't the first lie she'd told and would undoubtedly not be the last. "No. I'm sorry I left you the way I did." She lifted her gaze and found him watching her again. "I made a mistake."
"A mistake? Is that what you call it?" He chuckled, a humorless sound. "What do you expect from me, Pen? To welcome you home with open arms?"
"I … I don't know what I expected. I … I just had to come. I had to try." She pushed her hair back from her forehead. "It was wrong to leave, but I was strangling under the weight of everything. So I ran."
Stuart took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Things're different now, Pen. I'm different."
Black dots danced before her eyes. "You used to love me enough to forgive me anything."
"Yeah—" A long pause sucked the oxygen from the room— "I used to."
It
was the last thing Penelope heard before the black dots converged and blessed darkness engulfed her.
V-Mail
To: Corporal Clark King, APO, N.Y.P.E.
From: Margo Clark
Sunday, August 5, 1943
Dear Clark,
I haven't received a letter from you in more than a week. The last one was written prior to the Allies' taking of Sicily. But I must assume you are there, and I pray you are well.
Everyone here is holding their collective breath, waiting to hear of the invasion of Italy's mainland by our forces. I don't know whether to want it because it will hasten the end of the war, or dread it because it means you will continue to be in situations of danger as you drive the enemy back toward Germany.
I feel that my work is ever more important as the young officers I tutor prepare to move into occupied territory. I will say no more about that, lest the censors cut holes in my letter.
Your sister and her husband are doing well, all things considered. There remains only slight hope that Greg's eyesight will be restored, but he is in good spirits. He has decided to apply for a Seeing Eye dog. I've come to admire Greg a great deal.
As for Dottie, she grows more round every day. She positively glows with happiness, a baby on the way and her husband by her side. These two are truly in love. I'm blessed to be a part of their happiness until they are able to afford a place of their own. Although where we will fit a dog and a baby and three adults in this small house, I haven't a clue.
Now I must share some distressing news. Lucy's husband, Richard, was shot down over Italy several weeks ago. He is officially listed as missing in action. I've tried to encourage her to hold on to hope. It isn't unheard of for flyers to be reported missing after their planes go down, and then to learn that they are prisoners of war (God forbid that Richard is in the hands of the enemy) or even that they make it out of enemy territory on their own. But I also know—or at least, I think I know—how I would feel If I were to receive such a telegram about you.
So we wait and we pray and we trust in God's mercy and grace. We trust He will give us the strength we need to endure whatever comes.
I do have good news. Stuart called Dottie and told her that Penelope returned to Boise yesterday. He said they talked for a few minutes, and then she fainted dead away. Turns out she hadn't eaten for a couple of days. Stuart thinks it's because she had no money after buying her bus ticket home from San Diego. Heaven knows why she was destitute or what caused her to come to her senses and return to her family.
Poor Stuart. Dottie says that man doesn't know if he's coming or going. She promised him we would come to see Penelope in a few days, once she's rested. Dottie suggested that Stuart and Penelope join us for church this morning, but he declined. Same as he always does. All I can say is, God help those two. Without the Lord, I don't see how they'll salvage this broken marriage.
Oh, one more thing about that family. Penelope's sister, Frances, has been posted to England. (I'm sure you remember me telling you that she's a WAAC.) She wrote to Dottie and said she's fallen in love with London. She says the devastation from the bombing is wretched, but that the resolve of the British is strong.
I hope the resolve of the people in all of the occupied countries is equally as strong. My heart breaks for them and what they must be suffering. May God grant you the strength and grace to render them aid as you are able, my son.
With much love,
Mom
Chapter 58
Lucy was grateful for her friends and church family. They rallied around her in many ways, offering food, comfort, a shoulder to cry on. She was particularly thankful for their prayers, for she was unable to pray herself. She couldn't make her mind or heart form the words. She spent long, sleepless nights, curled on her bed, crying, her face pressed against a pillow.
"But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words."
Groanings that cannot be expressed in words. Yes, that was all she could do—groan—and hope God heard and understood and would answer.
Her supervisor offered Lucy time off from work, but she didn't take it. She needed to stay busy. She needed to think of something other than the words missing in action. Not that her work achieved that goal. No matter what she did, her thoughts turned to Richard.
Was he alive? Was he injured? Was he in pain? Was he in captivity?
Lucy's soul continued to groan.
On the following Friday, she received a letter from the War Department:
Dear Mrs. Anderson:
This letter is to confirm my recent telegram in which you were regretfully informed that your husband, First Lieutenant Richard L. Anderson, 0530530, Air Corps, has been reported missing in action over Italy since 19 July 1943.
I know that added distress is caused by failure to receive more information or details. Therefore, I wish to assure you that at any time additional information is received it will be transmitted to you without delay, and, if in the meantime no additional information is received, I will again communicate with you at the expiration of three months. Also, it is the policy of the Commanding General of the Army Air Forces upon receipt of the Missing Air Crew Report to convey to you any details that might be contained in that report.
The term missing in action is used only to indicate that the whereabouts or status of an individual is not immediately known. It is not intended to convey the impression that the case is closed. I wish to emphasize that every effort is exerted continuously to clear up the status of our personnel. Under war conditions this is a difficult task as you must readily realize. Experience has shown that many persons reported missing in action are subsequently reported as prisoners of war, but as this information is furnished by countries with which we are at war, the War Department is helpless to expedite such reports.
The personal effects of an individual missing overseas are held by his unit for a period of time and are then sent to the Effects Quartermaster, Kansas City, Missouri, for disposition as designated by the soldier.
Permit me to extend to you my heartfelt sympathy during this period of uncertainty.
Sincerely yours,
Lucy stood on the edge of her Victory Garden, looking at the abundance of produce, the fruits of her labor. Soon, she could harvest tomatoes, along with beets, okra, and cucumbers. The rows of corn grew taller every day. Only last week, she was excited about picking, eating, and canning all of these wonderful foods. But now …
She walked away from the garden, away from her apartment, away from that wretched letter from the War Department. She paid no attention to where she went. She simply wanted to keep moving, as if she could out-walk her fears and her heartache. She wandered up one street and down another until dusk brought some relief from the August heat.
That was when she found herself outside the Bannock Street Market. She had avoided this corner for the past three months, and seeing it now sent a shock wave through her body.
Had she arrived at this place by chance or did she have a subconscious desire to be here? Did she come hoping to speak to Howard again? He'd comforted her before. Did she want that again? Was she really that weak? Would she misuse his friendship a second time?
She pondered those questions as she stared at the storefront, pondered them until she knew with certainty—in this regard, at least—her conscience was clear. She didn't want to see Howard again. She only wanted Richard.
She started to walk away, then stopped when she realized the store wore a dismal, deserted look. Something wasn't right. She stepped closer to the window and peered inside. A light was on in the rear of the building, and she could just make out the empty aisles. Not a single grocery item on the shelves. Not a can. Not a bag. Not a package.
What happened? Howard always did a brisk business. People in the neighborhood loved this market because the proprietor took such good care of them.
She saw movement at the back of the store. Before she could stop herself, she knocked on the window and
called, "Howard?" She knocked again.
But it wasn't Howard. She knew that even before the stranger stepped into the light and she saw his face clearly. She took a step back from the window as the white-haired man headed toward the front door.
Opening it, he said, "Sorry, ma'am. This store's out of business. I'm only here to do some final sweeping up so they can sell the building. There's a Safeway over on—"
"Is Mr. Baxter here?"
The man shook his head. "Nope. He moved away. Been gone more than a month now." He squinted as he looked at her. "You wouldn't be Mrs. Anderson, would you?"
Her mouth dry, Lucy nodded.
"He left somethin' for you, in case you chanced to come by. Wait here and I'll get it." He disappeared from view.
What would Howard leave for her? She wasn't sure she wanted to know. She considered walking away before the old man returned. But she didn't. She was still there when he stepped into the doorway a second time.
"Here you go." He held out an envelope.
Reluctantly, she took it.
"Good day to you, Mrs. Anderson." He gave her a nod, then closed the door.
Lucy drew a deep breath to steady herself. Could she bear to read another piece of bad news? She felt battered by words already. However, she couldn't not read it. She had misused his friendship. When she'd recognized they were entering dangerous emotional waters, she hadn't steered away. Whatever Howard's blame for loving a married woman, Lucy's blame was greater. She had spent time with him so that he could love her. Whatever Howard had written to her inside this envelope, she felt she owed it to him to read it.
5 July 1943
Dear Lucy,
It's been two months since you decided you couldn't see me anymore and said good-bye. For a time I tried to tell myself I could hate you. I tried to hate you. I couldn't. Then for a time I hoped you'd come back. I hoped you'd realize you were wrong and that you loved me after all. Every time the door to the store opened, I looked to see if it was you. Every time the door opened, the wrong customer stepped through.
The Victory Club Page 20
