Nona leaned forward and reached for Audrey’s hand. She grasped it tightly. “No,” she said, “I can’t believe love can destroy anything or anyone. Hate destroys, Audrey, not love.”
Audrey dropped her head. Her tears continued, dropping onto the back of Nona’s hand. “That’s what love did,” she replied quietly. “That’s what caused the hate.” Audrey lifted her eyes to Nona’s. “We couldn’t stop how we felt. It was wrong, but we couldn’t change it. We tried not seeing each other, but we couldn’t.”
“Do you believe it was wrong to love her?”
The question was unexpected. It challenged her answer, unsettled the settled in her mind. Of course it was wrong. Everything she had read said that it was. It wasn’t the normal, natural plan. “Everything in my head says that it is.”
“But?”
Audrey slipped her hand free and leaned back against the foot of the bed. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks. “But it doesn’t change what I feel here,” she said, placing her hand over her heart.
“Do you want my opinion?” Nona asked.
“Of course I do. I never thought I would be able to talk to anyone about it.”
“You’re my friend, Audrey. We can talk to each other when we can’t talk to anyone else. So, I’m going to tell you what I think. If we listened to most people, even our families or people from our church, we wouldn’t be friends. Mac and a lot of people like him think that women should not be in the work force, should not wear trousers, or have their own bank accounts. Are we wrong because we do? And what should I do if I find the man who loves me and respects my goals and I want to share my life with him—and he’s white? What am I to do then?”
It was an easy answer, knowing what she knew of Nona. “Love him. Find a way to spend your life together. I can’t imagine you doing anything other than that.”
Nona tilted her head. “Despite everything that would be said and every danger we would face? Marrying a white man is illegal, and considered just as wrong as your relationship was.”
“So maybe like me you would love once in your lifetime—love as well as you can and for as long as you can.”
Chapter 11
The war is now reaching the stage where we shall all have to look to large casualty lists—dead, wounded, and missing. War entails just that. There is no easy road to victory. And the end is not yet in sight.
Franklin D. Roosevelt, Fireside Chat, December 24, 1943
The fall months had come and gone, leaves shriveled and dropped, and night temperatures bottomed to freezing—almost a blessing from the heat and humidity of summer. Yet, the true blessing in those months, possible through her friendship with Nona, was the blessing of honesty. It was limited, and less visceral than building Liberators to win a war, but honesty was what validated some measure of Audrey’s own goodness. She valued it, never thought she’d have it again in her life, and carefully protected it.
The blessing, and cold nights snuggled beneath the feather comforter, allowed sounder sleep than she had had in what seemed like years. And it was needed.
American B-24s were needed on numerous fronts—Germany, Sicily, Rangoon, Tarawa, Rabaul, and the Mid-Atlantic. The numbers were huge—50 bombers for the air raid on Wilhelmshaven naval base, 160 in strikes on German power and water facilities in Vemork, Norway.
The demand was enormous, the pressure to increase production greater than ever. Hours and shifts were added, efficiency streamlined. Every station, every crew, every part of the assembly increased efficiency, and the numbers continued to go up.
Audrey pulled on her wool jacket and picked up her keys to wait by the door for Jack. She stared through the small front window at the morning, still hours from dawn. She slipped her hands in her pockets, where the unopened letter from her mother had remained since yesterday. It had been too late and she was too tired to read it the night before. Today on a break, she promised herself. It had come three days before Christmas, and it would hold no surprises. Her mother would say “short of those fighting this war abroad, families should gather together for the holiday.” The same thing that she had said about Thanksgiving. All those in her family within reasonable travel distance, and Audrey was, would be spending the holiday at her grandparents’ big house in Adrian. “If only,” it would read, followed by half a page dedicated to what a young woman could do right at home to help the war effort, “if only” her daughter would consider the importance of family. What would not be mentioned was the discomfort her mother felt in having to explain, yet again, why Audrey chose to leave home alone, unmarried. Chose to make life difficult for herself, and worse, to spend holidays with someone else’s family. The message was unwritten but it could not have been more clear.
Minutes later, the lights of Jack’s car glistened across fresh falling snow covering a crusted layer of ice from the night before. Audrey stepped carefully down the walk and around the front of the car to the passenger seat. She hadn’t even closed the door before an unshaven and disheveled Jack announced, “It’s a girl!”
“Oh, Jack. Oh, wow! When did she have it? Is Lucy okay? What’s her name? You must be so excited.”
“Well, yeah,” he replied, and added a wide grin. “Yeah, excited, tired, proud. But poor Lucy, fourteen hours of labor while I’m just pacin’ the waiting room. She’s good, though, just exhausted. Her mother’s at the hospital with her, she said she’ll probably sleep most of the day.” It was already more than Audrey had heard him say in one sitting, and he chattered on. “Evelyn Rose, that’s my little girl. She’s a beauty, Audrey. She is a beauty.”
Pure excitement and an overload of adrenaline was the only explanation for how Jack kept the unrelenting pace at work. Audrey caught him a number of times during the morning with eyes glued to the job, sweat glistening on his facial stubble and the biggest smile on his face. It made Audrey smile, too.
Lunch break found Jack with a cart sandwich in one hand and cigars in the other, making the rounds of the lunch tables and spreading the good news.
“That is a happy man,” June said to nods at their lunch table.
“He must have said Evie Rose three dozen times already,” Audrey added. “And that doesn’t count how many times he said her name in the car on the way to work.”
“Lucy should be even happier,” June said, lifting her head with an odd tilt. “She gets to stay home now and take care of her baby and her husband. I can’t wait until this war is over and I can go back home and take care of my husband and kids. That’s where a woman ought to be. There’s nothing more important in this world, if you ask me.”
Not to be outdone, Janice added, “As soon as my Bobby gets home we’re not wastin’ any time startin’ our family. He wants lots of kids, and that’s just fine with me.”
June made a point to look right past Nona and said, “How about you, Audrey, how many kids does Bradley want?”
She felt the curtain pull around her secret, shroud it and protect it. “We haven’t talked about it,” she replied.
“I don’t know that you have to have a number in mind,” Janice added. “Just let ’em come when they will, I say. Let God decide.”
“That’s a little premature,” Audrey said. “I’m not sure I’m going to marry him.”
“You going to fool around,” June warned, “and end up an old maid? Once you start losin’ your looks, the pickin’ gets slim. If you got yourself a good one now, you need to get that ring on your finger.”
Bennie was eating his lunch and quiet as usual. And the girl talk might have ended there if Janice hadn’t decided to include Nona. She looked past June and across the table where Nona was finishing the last few bites of lunch. “What about you, Nona,” she asked, “you got yourself a guy?”
“No, no guy yet,” she replied, adding a polite smile.
Of course June couldn’t let things end there. “Is that because it’s harder to find a good Negro man, you know, the marryin’ kind?”
“June!” Audrey exclaimed. �
��Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Well, I don’t know,” June replied. “I’m just curious.”
“That’s okay,” Nona said. “I don’t think it would be any harder than any of you finding a worthy man to marry. I’m just not looking right now, that’s all.”
A more polite answer than the question deserved. Nona must have felt it was excusable. It wasn’t. Not really. That June did not feel the discomfort of her own questions, her own ignorance, was not an excuse. And she was back with more.
“Why are you waiting then?” She asked. “These are a woman’s best years.”
“I figure,” Nona replied, “I’m going to have good years up until the day I die. And if he is to be, he will be waiting for me after I finish my degree and start teaching.” She met their eyes, each in turn, and added, “That’s my plan.”
There was an unusual silence at the table, a vacuum within the constants of plant noise and the distant revving of engines being tested. No one responded until the least likely among them spoke.
“That’s a w-w-wonderful p-p-plan.”
Chapter 12
February 1944
It happened as Nurse Lillian said it would, just as Susan had confirmed. The lightening as the baby moved lower allowed Ruth to breathe easier than she had in months. She felt the release of the plug and the trickle of warm fluid, and the discomfort increased—loose bowels, the pain of contractions growing stronger, gripping her closer and closer in time.
And there was no empathy or reassurance from Mrs. Stranton. Whether it was out of a personal sense of condemnation or a dutiful enforcement of society’s morals, she offered only her disgust. And Ruth took it. She let the words have their final sting because it would be over soon. She tried hard to believe that.
If it had been up to Mrs. Stranton, Ruth would have suffered unbearable pain in childbirth without relief from drugs as part of her punishment, but it wasn’t up to her.
They had shuttled Ruth in through the back door of the hospital and it wasn’t until she saw Nurse Lillian’s face, the reassuring smile and the promise squeezed around her hand, that she knew that for sure.
All through the remaining hours of labor, Lillian was there, explaining what was happening, giving encouragement. Over and over, “You’re doing fine. Everything’s perfect. It won’t be long.” She held Ruth’s hand and wiped her face and neck with a cool cloth.
Then, so quickly, it seemed, huge relief, a baby’s cry and the attending nurse rushing from the room. Another nurse worked behind sheet-draped knees, and Ruth could see nothing. Lillian remained at the side of the bed, holding Ruth’s hand in both of her own. “It’s all over, honey,” she said with a smile. “It’s all over now.”
Slow and breathy, Ruth asked, “Can I hold the baby?”
“I’m sorry,” Lillian said, pushing wet strands of hair off Ruth’s forehead.
“Is it a boy like I thought? Can I just see him? I need to touch him. Please, just let me touch him.”
“No, Ruth, I’m sorry,” Lillian said. She turned her head in the direction of the other nurse, busy cleaning Ruth, and motioned with her eyes.
She knew this would happen, knew not to ask, but there was a sense of urgency that she didn’t expect—to touch him, claim him, save that part of herself. “Please,” she pleaded. If not now, then never. Part of her, part of who she was, never known, never touched, never loved—not by her. Her chance gone in a matter of minutes. “Please,” she said again, her eyes locked and pleading with Lillian.
“Ruth, it’s normal for you to feel like this, but you made the right decision.”
Yes, she had signed the papers, made the decision. She knew in her mind that it was best. But it wasn’t right. No woman should have to give away her child. In Ruth’s heart it would never be right.
She blinked the pleading from her eyes, let them fill and spill over with tears. There was nothing else to do—only cry, only grieve. The tears came heavy now. The sobbing, gentle heaves of her chest at first, now challenged her breath. “What have I done?” she forced through the sobs. “What have I done?”
Lillian leaned down and wrapped her arms around Ruth’s head and shoulders. She whispered next to her ear, “You’ve given your little boy the best chance at a good life that you can give him.”
Amelia greeted her as expected, eyes wide with apprehension, mouth drawn in sadness, close to tears. She hugged Ruth in the room that had been a refuge for so many months, just as she had Susan on her last day.
“Did you ask?” she said softly, her head tucked beneath Ruth’s chin.
“Yes,” Ruth replied, “but there is no room for me to stay longer. Another girl will be here to take my room in a few days.”
Amelia squeezed her arms around Ruth’s waist. “Once you leave, they won’t let me talk to you. Oh, Ruth, I can’t do this without you.”
“Shhh, yes you can,” she said, stroking the silky blond hair. “There are a lot of things that you can’t do, that I can’t do—but this you can do. I promise you, you can.”
“Was it like Susan said?”
She’d asked herself the same question many times as the day had gotten closer and her own anxiety had increased. Had Susan made it sound easier, less painful, less of an emotional turmoil in order to make them less afraid? Or, had her tolerance to pain been naturally higher, her ability to believe in her choice stronger? Would what was true for Susan be the same for Ruth? Or Amelia? What would be true for them?
Ruth pulled back enough to lift Amelia’s chin and look directly into her eyes. “Nurse Lillian was there the whole time just as she said she’d be. And she’ll be right there for you, too.”
“So what Mrs. Stranton says isn’t true? That the pain will make me want to die?”
“They gave both Susan and me something to help with the pain, and they will you, too. Lillian will make sure of it.” The other pain, the emotional torture, Ruth wasn’t sure needed to be shared. Maybe it was only her own private torture, something in her that couldn’t accept, that refused the logic which kept her connected to a part of her she would never know. Maybe Amelia wouldn’t be tortured in the same way. Maybe fear of going home to a familiar danger would be the torture for her, rather than giving up her baby. Maybe she would face both.
Ruth tightened her arms around Amelia as she once again nestled her head beneath Ruth’s chin. “I talked with Nurse Lillian,” Ruth said, and quickly added, “I didn’t tell her what happened to you, only that you count on me and that I take that seriously. It’s up to you to tell her what you want her to know. But she has been true to her word and you can trust her.” She felt Amelia nod against her chest. “I asked her to help us write to each other while you are here and she said she would. You need to give her your letters tucked inside your spiral notebook and she’ll send them to me. I’ll send my letters to her house and she will put them in the notebook and give it back to you. I’ll give you my notebook so that you’ll always have one and no one will know the difference.”
“Where will you go?”
“Nurse Lillian’s mother-in-law found a place for me to rent.”
“Is it close by? Maybe they will let you visit here.”
“In Ypsilanti, about thirty miles from here,” Ruth replied. “And they’re quite strict about visitors, but I’ll see.” Visiting was out of the question, Ruth knew that, but for now Amelia needed something to hang on to. There was so little that she could give Amelia right now, at least she could give her that.
Ruth broke their embrace. Amelia lifted her head, cheeks wet with tears, but kept her eyes on Ruth. “Tell me what you know for sure,” Ruth said, with one last chance to run through their routine of reassurance.
Amelia answered softly, “I know that you care about me.”
Ruth waited for what they had practiced many times.
“I know you wouldn’t lie to me.” Amelia’s voice gained strength. “I know this isn’t my fault.” She wiped her cheeks dry. “And I’m a good p
erson, and I’m smart, and I deserve to be treated with respect.”
Ruth grasped the top of Amelia’s arms. “And what do you promise me once you are home?”
“That I will be strong and watchful. And I will not be in the same place with him without someone else with me.”
“You will insist, no matter what anyone says.”
“I will insist,” Amelia promised.
“And if they refuse, you refuse.”
“Yes.”
Ruth cupped Amelia’s cheek with her hand. “I’m so proud of you.”
“And you promise that you will not forget about me?”
“I promise,” Ruth said. “I will answer every letter without fail. Just make sure that you always get the mail yourself—don’t let anyone find out about the letters.”
“I won’t.”
Ruth hugged her one last time and added, “Now it’s my turn to be strong. She won’t know it, but Mrs. Stranton will be throwing insults at Joan of Arc, who will handily let them bounce off her breastplate.”
Chapter 13
Ypsilanti, Michigan, March 1944
Ruth had been watching her for over a month. A natural beauty with eyes that wouldn’t let go. A creature of habit, three days a week, same time, same section of the restaurant. Ruth’s section, she counted on it. Counted on the diversion, the mystery—who was she, where was she from? And counted on the questions to occupy the late-night emptiness after the noise and bustle of the restaurant could no longer help. It was the only thing she had found that kept the pain at bay and replaced the wondering. That insistent wondering of where he was, who was holding her baby—quieting his cries, kissing the downy soft head. Would they love him as if he were their own? Would they know how much a part of her he was, or how much she longed to touch him, smell him, cuddle him against her heart? Would they care? Would they ever tell him that she existed? Even more painful than the questions was knowing that there were no answers. So Ruth let her mystery woman fill the nights with new wonder and, at least for a little while, take away the pain.
The Liberators of Willow Run Page 8
