Some things she knew. The blue coveralls and the time of day said that she worked the day shift at the bomber plant. But the rest she imagined, each night adding a new possibility to the life of the pretty stranger. One night she was the daughter of a prominent politician, satisfying her civil conscience by working for the war effort. Maybe. Another night she was a devoted wife, doing her part back home while her husband flew bombing missions for the Allies. There was even a night that she imagined her mystery woman as a government implant, reporting directly to the President on the efficiency of the country’s largest plant. And last night she had dared to imagine that there was no man at all in her mystery woman’s life, and never would be. It was the most intriguing fantasy of them all. Ruth planned on revisiting that one over and over. It made her smile.
“I’ll have the chicken à la king special,” the mystery woman said, milk chocolate eyes meeting Ruth’s and releasing their usual zing of electricity.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth replied, “that went really fast today. We are all out.”
“Oh,” she said, “well, what about the ham and macaroni?”
Ruth smiled and slid her order pad and pencil into the front pocket of her apron. “Let me check first to be sure we have it. The specials have been flyin’ out of here.” She turned and began to make her way between the tables toward the large, horseshoe-shaped counter in the back.
As she passed a nearby table, a man grasped her arm and stopped her. “Hey, sweet thing,” he said with a grin. “I’m starvin’. Don’t suppose you got a nice chunk of beef back there for me.”
“No, sir, we don’t serve rationed beef.”
He still gripped her arm. “Well, then, get me a big plate of spaghetti, heavy on the sauce.”
When he released her arm, Ruth replied, “As soon as I finish this order, I’ll be right with you.” She turned away, refusing him further eye contact or the chance to respond.
When she returned she purposely took the long way around the man’s table. She smiled at her mystery woman and placed a glass of iced tea on the table. “We do have the ham and macaroni,” she said. “Your order—”
“You know, where I come from,” the man had turned in his chair to get Ruth’s attention, “you serve a man first, and nice women don’t wear trousers and work in factories.”
The comments stopped Ruth short. She was unprepared to answer him. No one had said anything like that in the months that she’d worked at The Bomber. If anyone else thought the same thing, they had never said it out loud. Working women seemed to be a given. Even the name of the restaurant made it clear that a huge percentage of the clientele worked at the plant.
“I don’t know where you are from, sir,” Ruth said, trusting her diplomacy, “but this restaurant proudly serves the workers at the Willow Run Plant, both men and women. They put in long hours of hard work to provide the military with the planes they need, and when they come here, we take good care of them.”
One of the other waitresses had already notified the manager. Jim D., thirties and slender, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to the elbows, strode calmly to the table. “Ruth,” he said with a nod. He extended his hand to the man, older and beefier than himself. “I’m the manager here. Is there something I can help you with?”
The man pushed back hard against the back of the chair, exaggerating the barrel of his chest. “You can start by putting your waitress,” he motioned with his thumb toward Ruth, “in her place. You know, treat men with respect, take the order, and keep her mouth shut.”
Jim slid his hands into his pockets and cocked his head questioningly at Ruth.
“I explained to him that I was in the middle of taking care of another table and would be right back to get his order.”
The man caught Jim’s eye and motioned with his thumb to the table behind him. When there was no immediate response, the man added, “A woman factory rat in trousers.”
“I understand,” Jim began, returning his focus to the man’s self-satisfied expression, “that FDR himself is counting on our bomber plant here to give him the majority of B-24s he needs to help win this war. People here take that responsibility seriously. We consider that our plane,” he said, pointing to the pictures of the planes and crews lining the wall. “And I just learned something the other day. There’ve been around ten thousand women working in that plant to make that possible.” He hesitated a moment. The self-importance had vanished from the man’s face. Then Jim added, “My sister works there.”
Ruth had suspected it was coming, the shiny bright nail that hammered the man’s trousers to his seat, but she still had trouble stifling the smile that begged for expression. She bit her bottom lip and managed to suppress it.
Jim finished with a wink to Ruth. “Ruth is one of our best waitresses. She’ll take real good care of you, just as she does all her customers.”
Nothing more was said. Nothing was needed. Ruth apologized to her mystery woman for the delay, served her her meal, and took the man’s order as if nothing had been said.
The restaurant bustled with dinnertime capacity and Ruth had only brief glimpses at the woman she wished she knew more about. A glance here and there between orders and smiles and balancing plates and refilled drinks to see that she was still there, complementing her dinner with a dose of newspaper news. And then another turnaround to glance, and the woman was gone.
Ruth delivered a tray of balanced plates to another table of plant workers and slipped by the now empty table to collect her always-generous tip. This time it was tucked beneath a folded napkin and it was far beyond generous. A dollar, almost twice what the woman paid for her meal, rested beneath the note written on the back of the receipt.
In pretty, free-looping script were the words, Thank you. Audrey.
Tonight her mystery woman had a name.
Chapter 14
She had wished away time before. The days at the Crittenton Home, saturated in anxiety and uncertainty, had seemed so much longer than their true time. And the time now at night, those minutes and hours of guilt and longing Ruth wished could be swept away by sleep. It seemed at times that she was wishing her life away.
These last four days, though, had been wished away with anticipation and an excitement Ruth hadn’t felt since Sarah. She hadn’t been sure then if what she felt was real, if the sparks of electricity and the desire to share every part of her mind and body with a woman would satisfy the yearning. Or if it should. Her doubt was costly, painful—to herself and Paul and to a son she would never know. All because she doubted, because she was afraid.
But she knew now. Even if her mystery woman had only been a diversion, a fun fantasy each night that took her away from the pain and kept the tears at bay. Even if that’s all she would ever be, the past few days felt like a beginning.
Like every weekend, Ruth had washed and dried and folded Mrs. Welly’s laundry and done the weekly housecleaning, right down to dusting the fancy wooden spindles of the stately wooden staircase. Unlike a normal weekend, though, Ruth hadn’t noticed her legs aching, right behind her knees, or the consistent pain in her lower back. Nor had she wished that she could lie down after each task, just for fifteen minutes, just to stretch her back and lift her tired legs. Instead her thoughts were on a lovely diversion, on Audrey. Her name was Audrey.
The trays had never felt lighter. Ruth carried them, balanced shoulder-high with hot dinners, and glided effortlessly between the tables without bumping a hip against the back of a chair once. Grouchy patrons didn’t faze her. Nothing was going to bother her today.
She glanced at the clock on the wall behind the cash register. The first shift from the plant would start filing through the door in just a few minutes. Ruth placed a bill on a table, and smiled and thanked the couple finishing their coffee. As she slipped her order pad back into its pocket, she checked the spot on her blouse still damp from a quick borax scrub to remove a splatter of gravy. Presentable. She wanted to be presentable. It hadn’t been something
she’d worried much about until today. And why, didn’t seem to make much sense—if Audrey hadn’t noticed stains, or hair out of place, or a tired expression by now, then she hadn’t been looking. Nevertheless, Ruth checked for errant hairs and tucked them neatly behind the hairpin above her ear.
A moment later she turned to see Audrey making her way to a table next to the wall of bomber pictures. She gave herself an extra moment to get past the jump of her heartbeat, but today it refused to settle back down. Giving it more time was out of the question since Audrey had already sent a smile her way. Ruth sucked in a breath, returned the smile, and headed for the table.
She stayed with Audrey’s eyes, and kept her voice low. “You shouldn’t have left a tip like that.”
“I wanted you to know how much I appreciated what you did,” Audrey replied.
“But I really didn’t do anything.”
Audrey leaned forward over the table and matched Ruth’s low tone. “You faced down a man who would have had you fired, and you never even blinked.”
“But he was wrong,” she replied without hesitation.
Audrey’s face lit up into a huge smile. “Yes,” she said, “he was wrong.”
People were squeezing behind her and the tables were filling fast. “Okay,” Ruth said, pulling her order pad from her apron, “let me take your order and get to work before I do get fired.”
She tried not to make it obvious, but she watched Audrey closer than usual tonight. Between orders, between serving and refills and questions, she snuck in glances at Audrey’s table. This time Ruth would not let her slip out before she had a chance to say more than, how is your dinner? Or can I get you anything else?
Another glance and Audrey had finished eating. Ruth dropped off a cup of coffee at a table on her way, and placed Audrey’s bill next to her cup. “Can I get you another cup of coffee?” she asked, hoping for a few more minutes.
“No, thanks,” she replied. “I’ve noticed since we’ve been working longer hours and I’m eating so late that I don’t sleep as well with more than one cup of coffee.”
Where it came from Ruth had no idea, but without planning it she did something that she had never done before. The words just tumbled out. “Would you want to meet me for dessert when I get off work?” There was no immediate shake of her head, only the corners of Audrey’s mouth curling into a smile. Ruth continued: “I get off in about thirty minutes, and I have a dollar that’s burning a hole in my pocket and screamin’ ice cream.”
“I love ice cream.”
Had she been holding her breath? Seemed like she had been the whole time.
Audrey offered much needed relief. “Do you want to meet at the soda shop just past the bus stop on Michigan?”
“You do know your ice cream,” Ruth said and smiled.
“Thirty minutes, then.”
This was a mistake. She had known it the moment she realized she was purposely choosing a table in Ruth’s section, and then again the first time she let her eyes stay too long. Yet, here she sat, waiting for a woman who touched all those nuances, the ones that made it too easy to ignore the consequences. Dangerous in so many ways; she knew that only too well.
The thought, the near decision to leave, came too late. Ruth burst through the door and flashed a smile worthy of the movie screen. It took only that and the desire to know more about this woman to forget about consequences for just a little bit. Just a little ice cream indulgence and a little break from routine. That was all.
“Not to say that The Bomber doesn’t have acceptable ice cream,” Ruth said as she slid into the booth, “but this is killer diller.”
“That’s because it’s the real McCoy. They use real milk and the right amount of sugar.”
“A couple of weeks after I got here, some military guys told me about this place.”
Audrey nodded. “The government is taking care of their soldiers, and they love their ice cream. It’s a ‘morale booster’. We’re lucky the plant is here.”
They ordered their ice cream loaded, and Audrey started the conversation. Somehow asking the questions equated with less need to lie herself. “You said you moved here not long ago. Where are you from?”
“My family is from Indiana,” Ruth replied. “I’m from here now. What about you?”
Perfect. She’s playing the same game—and well. “Family is from Ohio. I’m from here.”
Ruth smiled and seemed content to let Audrey ask questions.
“I don’t recall telling you that I would, in fact, rather eat ice cream than breakfast. So why did you ask me to come here tonight?”
“A process of elimination,” Ruth said with a serious, matter-of-fact look on her face. “I started with the other waitresses. Betsy has three kids and always heads straight home to relieve her mother. Edna has a new boyfriend who she sneaks off to spend time with before she goes home. And Catherine doesn’t like ice cream, which makes me worry about her. So,” she said, tilting her head and turning the palms of her hands up, “I figured someone coming in regularly, eating alone after work, just might be waiting for someone to eat ice cream with.”
Audrey grinned. “You’re quite intuitive.”
“Oh, you know, it’s one of those gifts that God gives to make up for a lack of natural grace.” Ruth finally smiled, welcomed the dish of double-dip treat, and raised her spoon over the table to click against Audrey’s. “To decadence.”
Audrey returned the smile. “No matter how fat it makes us.” She enjoyed her treat, something she realized she hadn’t done for some time. And more than that, she realized how much she missed having a friend that she could do things like this with. As much as she cherished her friendship with Nona, there was much they couldn’t share, and wishing it different would not change it. So, what was wrong with this? she wondered, watching Ruth close her eyes and audibly savor a spoonful of ice cream, chocolate and caramel. What could be so wrong?
Chapter 15
Could she have avoided it a little longer? Ruth stopped at the top of the stairs, changed her mind, and headed back down without changing out of her uniform.
“I’m going to take a walk, Mrs. Welly,” she said as she passed through the kitchen.
“Right now? Dinner will be ready soon.”
“I won’t be long.” Enough time to walk through the neighborhood and let tired legs do what they could to clear her mind.
Yes, she could have avoided this for a while longer, not made the call to her mother, not opened herself up to what she knew would come from it. But it was inevitable if she wanted to know where her brother was, how he was, and yes, how Paul was. She cared if they were safe, so the decision and the call had been made and the anticipated insinuations and judgments endured.
It was a quiet neighborhood, far enough away from the center of town to see minimal motor traffic, and far enough from campus to have little foot traffic. The only intrusion was the constant drone of engines overhead as bomber after bomber took its test flight—something that was becoming less noticeable the longer she was here.
She turned the corner, halfway around the block, and waved at the postman across the street delivering from a hefty bag slung over his shoulder. The temptation had been huge to write to her mother instead of call. Easier, Ruth was sure, to write how she felt without having to hear the tone of her mother’s responses. But a letter would have disclosed where she was, opened the possibility of an unwelcome visit, from her parents, or even more troubling, eventually from Paul. Her pace slowed to a more casual stroll while her mother’s words haunted her. No surprise that the conversation had begun with her mother’s undisguised indignation that her daughter had waited this long to contact her family. The call from the Home that she had decided to go elsewhere rather than back home was insulting. The worry she had put them through was inexcusable, the embarrassment intolerable. And the questions and stories that they were forced to field and create—how could she? All this, Ruth admitted, was expected, and deserved, to a certain extent
.
Her mother, of course, spoke for her father as well. At least that was the premise. For the embarrassment, probably. The worry—well, Ruth wondered. The truth was that there was little she would ever be able to do to change whatever her parents felt or thought about her, especially now. The decisions she had made for her life were too far outside acceptable bounds and pretense was too exhausting. Distance was the only answer. The farther away she stayed, the easier it would be, for both herself and her parents. And maybe someday it just wouldn’t matter.
Gratefully, the rest of the conversation had put her mind at ease. Her brother, at last account, was uninjured and his unit was reinforcing ground forces in Italy. She loved him. The little curly-headed boy with the thumbprint dimple in his chin, the little boy she had doted on as a big sister, had grown into a carbon copy of their father. He was as traditional as she was not, as different from her as he could be, but she loved him. And as relieved as she was that he was safe, how much greater must that relief be for her parents. Their concern hinged on every letter they received and they worried whenever the time between letters seemed too long. This was real worry, justified worry. A far cry from worrying about what the world would make of a young woman daring to live her life on her own terms.
Ruth stopped in front of the large gray house with the wraparound porch only three doors down from Mrs. Welly’s. She sat on the short brick wall stretching along the walk. Her legs ached. She was tired and struggling to keep frustration from becoming anger.
Her mother had, just as Ruth suspected she would, dismissed her request not to, and had told Paul everything—the sacrifice she had made in order to know that he was all right. Physically, he was. His carrier, the USS Hornet, would be headed for the Philippine Sea. Otherwise, though, he was exactly as she expected him to be after being told that he had fathered a child he would never know. He was devastated. And his response, if truthfully relayed by her mother, fell somewhere between hurt and anger.
The Liberators of Willow Run Page 9
