The Liberators of Willow Run

by Marianne K. Martin

  And what if it had been Audrey? Would it have been Audrey? If so, she would have wanted her chance. She would have been jumping inside even more than now, anxious to control her own fate. That same feeling she had before, jumpy and anxious, the day she made the decision to go away—to leave behind what she knew to embrace the unknown. And this was one of those unknowns. At least it was before today.

  Jack was on his way back. He approached the waiting women. “Break’s over,” he said without expression. The women waited for a decision. “Nona,” he said, looking right at her, “you’re in.”

  Nona closed her eyes in relief before saying, “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Janice smiled and grabbed Nona’s arm. “Come on,” she said. “We have some catch-up to do.”

  “How did you do it?” Audrey asked, catching Jack’s eye. “What did you say?”

  “The truth.” He offered a crooked smile and added, “And I gave him my best Leo the Lip. Look,” he said, “it was a bad call. I don’t care if she’s a woman. I wouldn’t care if she was purple. The fact is she’s a helluva riveter and I’m damn proud that this crew is setting the production speed that other crews are bustin’ butt to match. If Mac wants this plant to meet the production numbers expected, he’d be stupid to fire her.”

  “We were slow this morning, weren’t we?”

  “Like a beginning crew,” he replied. “Janice said she was one-tapping him to push harder all morning. He couldn’t seat ’em consistently and he had to back out a half a dozen. Yeah, we were slow.” He put his hand on Audrey’s shoulder. “So let’s go kick up some dust.”

  And raise dust they did. They worked out of pride and with something to prove. They worked straight through lunch and took only a few minutes’ break for the mandatory salt tablets and water. They had a mission and they took hold of it with a singular determination.

  Mac walked the line of crews, barking his version of encouragement over the sounds of rivet guns and drills and overhead tracks. “This ain’t an afternoon stroll. Move it! You bakin’ cupcakes or buildin’ a bomber?” But for Jack’s crew the harassment was even more unnecessary than usual.

  They worked with precision, ignored hunger rumbling in their stomachs and muscles aching with exhaustion. By the shift’s end six finished sections had been lifted and sent screaming along the overhead rail to installation. They had made a point, proved their case. A new standard set even after a slow morning. Mac didn’t say a word, but it didn’t matter.

  The crew gathered at the exit, congratulating themselves and thanking Jack. Their celebration would be limited to that and a few backslaps. Jack wanted to get Lucy home, June had no sitter for the evening, and Nona couldn’t be included wherever they went. So this would have to do.

  “Thank you, everyone,” Nona said as their little group dispersed.

  “Wait,” Audrey said, turning around. “What if you can’t get the bus again tomorrow? What if the riots haven’t stopped?”

  Jack had stopped and turned as well. “What we did today won’t mean shit to Mac if you’re not here on time tomorrow,” he said. “Leo the Lip got lucky today.”

  Nona hesitated. There hadn’t been a spare moment to give serious thought to tomorrow. “I . . .” she began. “Maybe the Reverend at the church where I’m staying could spare the gas.”

  “I know,” Audrey said, “You stay with me until we know the riots have stopped.” She turned quickly to Jack, but didn’t have to ask.

  “It ain’t the ride you got to worry about,” he said. “It’s not gettin’ thrown outta your place, Audrey.”

  “No,” Nona said with a shake of her head. “I won’t let you take that chance.”

  But Audrey pressed on. “We’ll make sure no one is watching tonight, and it’s dark when we leave in the morning. It might only be one night.”

  Jack cocked his head. “I’ll tell you one thing, if I ever get caught in a hole, you’re the one I want on the other end of the rope.”

  Audrey smiled. “Then it’s settled.”

  Chapter 5

  For several months Ruth had watched as woman after woman made her decision. Some agonized openly, sharing their fears and their regrets, some struggled privately. Most of them in the end decided to give their baby up. The few that kept them were going home to marry the father and fight the stigma together.

  The classes were supposed to help, lectures really, defining how proper young women conducted themselves, explaining the consequences of an errant image. It wasn’t nice, you didn’t want to be that young woman. And most agreed, at least outwardly. What they thought alone at night was anyone’s guess.

  Ruth was careful with her own honesty. She held it tightly, shared only pieces of it, and only with a woman she had grown to trust. Lillian Barton, proving to be far more than a wonderful RN, had passed the test. Those little tidbits of personal information commonly shared by others hadn’t resurfaced through any of the expected sources. Mrs. Barton had kept them to herself. What Ruth needed even more than the ABCs of childbirth was someone to talk to. And being last on the examining room schedule offered the perfect opportunity to talk with Mrs. Barton every other week.

  “Not one single thing to worry about,” Mrs. Barton was saying as Ruth finished buttoning the oversized blouse. “You and the baby are coming along just as nature intended. You’re doing beautifully.”

  “I think nature must intend this child to be an athlete of some kind,” Ruth said, placing her hands on her belly. “I’m about worn out by the end of the day with all the antics in here. Do you think that means it’s a boy?”

  The nurse hesitated. There’d be no breach of the rule, no encouraging an attachment to a baby who would most likely be given away. “Have you thought more about what we talked about?”

  Ruth nodded. Of course she had, every waking moment, trying to envision the future, fearing it, fearing the wrong decision. And her nights, filled with semi-conscious visions of a frantic search for a lost child.

  “Do you want to talk more about it?” Mrs. Barton asked.

  She tried not to sound desperate. “Yes,” she replied, reminding herself that Mrs. Barton understood desperation. “I’m afraid of making the wrong decision.”

  “It’s been cleared by administration for you to spend Sunday with us. My girls will help me get most of the dinner ready the night before, so it will be easy to serve on Sunday. That way Robert can pick you up about nine and the girls can get visiting with you out of their systems, and we will have plenty of time to talk after dinner.” She put her arm around Ruth’s shoulders. “This is your decision, Ruth, not the administration’s, or your parents’, or mine. You can decide what is best for you and for the baby, and I will be right here with you whatever you decide. Okay?”

  “Is it this difficult for everyone?”

  “I think it probably is for most. For some it seems it’s easier for them to let someone else make the decision, but there must be times later when they wonder.”

  “How am I going to know if I made the right choice? Will I always wonder?”

  “Wonder is natural, Ruth. We all wonder. What if we had married our high school sweetheart, or waited to start a family, or not waited? What if we had followed our dream for a career, or moved to another country? People wonder about all kinds of choices in their lives. What we want to avoid, if we can, are regrets.”

  “If I couldn’t talk to you about this, I don’t know—”

  “But you can. As often as you want. I promise you that.”

  Ruth expected no different. In the time that she had known Lillian Barton there hadn’t been one time when she was unavailable, not one time when answering Ruth’s questions seemed to be a bother, and never an air or judgment. Knowing she was there, was the one thing that kept Ruth strong, that gave her the confidence to question the expected. There was no one else who allowed or encouraged what it took to face the doubts and the fears, and what it would take to face the consequences of the decision she must make.r />
  Spending a holiday, or a birthday, or just an occasional Sunday with the Bartons wasn’t a new occurrence, nor was it exclusive to Ruth. It was an open invitation, approved regularly by the administration and accepted by many of the girls for as long as Lillian had been at the Crittenton. Everyone seemed to understand how important the sense of family was, especially during holidays, and so it was allowed and embraced.

  Sometimes the day was shared by two or three of the girls. Today, though, it was exclusively Ruth’s.

  Lillian’s daughters chattered on during dinner, completely at ease sharing their home and their teenage lives. Animated, talkative, and thirteen, Katie spent more time talking than she did eating.

  “I just finished reading The Clue in the Jewel Box yesterday, and I think it was the best yet. I really do. I just love Nancy Drew, she is the smartest girl ever. Caroline still thinks Frank Hardy is smarter, but—”

  “I do not.” Being one year older did not afford Caroline much clout.

  “You like him better because he’s a boy.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Well, Nancy Drew would be my best friend if she was real, and we would solve all kinds of mysteries together and help people out.”

  Lillian smiled and leaned toward Ruth. “She will talk above eating, sleeping—”

  “But not reading,” Ruth added, and returned the smile.

  “Maybe you should let Ruth enjoy her dinner, Katie,” Robert suggested, “and eat your own before it’s cold.”

  Katie took a quick bite and Caroline took advantage of her chance. “I’ve read all the Hardy Boys books, and Nancy Drew, too,” she said. “But my favorite character is Jo from Little Women. Have you read that book, Ruth?”

  Ruth nodded. “I have, and I believe she is my favorite, too.”

  “Don’t you just want to know everything about—”

  “It’s such an old story,” Katie interrupted. “Nancy Drew is about the world today. Don’t you read Nancy Drew, Ruth?”

  “I admit I haven’t,” Ruth replied. “What one do you think I should read first?”

  “The first one, of course. I’ll get it for you after dinner and you can take it with you.”

  “And now,” Lillian said, “you need to be fair and let Caroline finish talking with Ruth, too. That is, if Ruth doesn’t mind trying to talk between bites.”

  “Not at all,” Ruth replied. “I enjoy this more than you know.”

  And more than Ruth could explain. Things were quite different around the Evans family table. She and her brother spoke only when spoken to, and there was no rambling on or bantering to disrupt the natural flow of dinner. Life in general was like that during her growing-up years—orderly, predictable. The rules were clear and, for the most part, followed. Roles, too, were clearly marked and followed. Her father’s work supported the family and set their status in the community, and his was the last word on family decisions. Her mother’s responsibilities were to manage the household, raise their children in their respective roles, and to keep her husband happy. It all fit together, worked like well-oiled social gears, just as it was supposed to—until someone stepped outside the lines and threw the gears out of synch.

  The table had been cleared and the girls were washing up the dishes. Robert excused himself to read the war updates in the newspaper and left Ruth and his wife to their private talk.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” Ruth began. “And I know I’ve told you this before, but you sharing your family with me means more than I can tell you.”

  “They are pretty special,” Lillian replied, “and they don’t mind being shared at all.”

  Special indeed. A man who, without judgment, allows his teenage girls to spend any amount of time with someone in Ruth’s situation was refreshingly unorthodox. A tribute, Ruth decided, to Lillian’s fine choice in men.

  “You and your husband are raising two nice young women. And I’m sure it has been no easy task with you both working.”

  Lillian smiled and settled her shoulder into the back of the couch to face Ruth, sitting next to her. “They are alike in many ways, and different in so many others. It has been a challenge at times. I’m sure there are times when Robert wishes we were raising boys. But I don’t know if I could bear sending sons off to war.”

  “My father seems quite proud to have my brother serving. I don’t know how my mother feels. She adds to my father’s proud rhetoric, but something in her expression doesn’t match her tone.”

  “She’s never talked to you about it?”

  “Sometimes it seems like she says what she thinks she should,” Ruth said. “I’m never sure.”

  “So it’s more than a discussion about you being pregnant that’s been missing.”

  Ruth released an audible sigh and nodded. “Discussions are not appropriate between parents and children. Children can ask questions and they will be answered, but . . .” The furrow between her brows softened and disappeared. “That’s why I love how your girls talk with you. You have conversations with them. I’ve never been allowed that.”

  “I want my girls to come to me. I’m hoping that if they come to me now with silly things, they’ll come to me with the big things later. I hope they will trust my advice enough to seek it out, and not think that they have to struggle with it on their own.”

  “What if they don’t take your advice?”

  “Would I love them any less?” Lillian slowly shook her head. “Worry about them, yes. And hope that their instincts about what will make their lives happy are better than the advice I offered. Beyond that, all I can do is make sure that they know I love them.”

  Ruth watched Lillian’s face as she spoke—the gentle movement of her eyes, deep with sincerity, the lift of her cheeks, the promise of a smile to come. She tilted her head, a slight easy angle that seemed to offer her words, lay them in the place between them, a gift for Ruth to accept or not.

  “I wish I could say that about my own parents.”

  “Maybe they just don’t know how to tell you that they do still love you.”

  Ruth shook her head. “I’m an embarrassment. I’m afraid I will always see that in their eyes.”

  “They’ll get past this, Ruth. Give them time.”

  “There’s only one decision they would be okay with—if I kept the baby and married Paul.”

  “And you are sure that you don’t want to do that?”

  Ruth nodded. “Yes, I’m sure—about not marrying Paul, that is.” As sure as anything she knew about herself. Sure for reasons she couldn’t even tell Lillian. Not even someone with the empathy and understanding of Lillian Barton would be expected to understand why. And Ruth wouldn’t expect her to try.

  “Is that your decision or his?”

  “Altogether mine. He would have married me before he enlisted if I had said yes.”

  “Does he know about the baby?”

  Ruth frowned. “I wish I could be sure that he doesn’t. It would make things less complicated. But I’m afraid my mother welcomes that complication.”

  “You think she has told him?”

  “Even after I’ve told her not to, more than once. I can’t trust that she hasn’t. She thinks she knows what is best for me, for him, for everyone.”

  “It’s a mother’s affliction,” Lillian said and smiled. “I think we all struggle with letting go of that control, some more successfully than others. The important thing is you knowing what is best for you. It should be your decision.”

  “Well, that one is made.”

  “And when you go back home, will—”

  “I can’t go back home.”

  “Why, Ruth?”

  “I can’t be the person my family wants me to be.” Or Paul, or anyone, even Lillian. As compassionate and fine a person as she was, even Lillian would not understand the real Ruth. No one would.

  “It’s not unusual,” Lillian was saying, “to feel like that. A lot of girls feel that they have let their families down.
It seems that way because people are uncomfortable around unwed mothers. The made-up stories and separation, and living with lies to avoid embarrassment. It’s no wonder you feel like you do.” Lillian reached over and ran her hand down Ruth’s arm to cover her hand. “I wish I could change that for you. I wish I could change a lot of things.”

  “I do, too.”

  Lillian gently squeezed Ruth’s hand and released it. “Give your family a chance. It’ll take time.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” she replied. Not entirely the truth. She did know that she couldn’t, wouldn’t, because she knew nothing would change. The time for believing, hoping that that would happen was over. She had tried, and failed. And despite the questioning she saw in Lillian’s eyes, it wasn’t something she could explain.

  “Where will you go if you don’t go back home? Do you have relatives you could stay with?”

  “None who wouldn’t expect the same from me as my parents do. I’ve been thinking about this for months now.” Oh, much longer than that, if she were totally honest. But the decision had become so complicated. “I need to start fresh somewhere,” Ruth continued, “on my own.” She moved her hand slowly over her belly. “That’s what makes this decision so difficult.”

  Chapter 6

  Ruth settled into the chair next to Susan in a room filled with girl chatter. At twenty-five they were the old women in the room, and had become natural magnets for the youngest among them. Amelia, fourteen, slipped quietly into the seat on the other side of Susan and offered a shy smile. It was a smile that hid what she had told them only after weeks of building trust. And what she trusted them with stirred an anger in Ruth that she hadn’t expected. How could there be no justice to punish a boy for taking advantage of such a young girl? Why would she be held accountable and not him? Here she was, isolated from support, from understanding, bearing the imposed guilt alone, and forced to listen to daily insults to her goodness.

  The hum of chatter quieted as Mrs. Stranton entered the room. Spiral notebooks were dutifully opened and eyes directed at the woman guiding them to be better women. This week’s lessons had already covered organizing the kitchen, the most efficient laundry methods, and nutritious dinner recipes. All essential to their role in the world and their self-respect as women. But Thursdays offered those not-so-subtle messages, tucked in among the Improve Your Home Management lessons, of how to get it right the next time. Obviously every girl in the room had gotten it terribly wrong, and it was Mrs. Stranton’s mission to save this room full of wayward girls.