That evening, the women wound down their day together, doing needlework and listening to Rudy Vallee singing “Deep Night” in his soft, distinctive style on the radio. No one spoke, each lost in her own worries. An announcer interrupted the program.
“Good evening from the White House in Washington. Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”
“Turn it up,” Mama said. Margie reached over to adjust the volume. President Truman’s Missouri accent filled the room.
My fellow Americans:
The British, Chinese, and United States governments have given the Japanese people adequate warning of what is in store for them. We have laid down the general terms on which they can surrender. Our warning went unheeded. Our terms were rejected.
The world will note that the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, a military base. That was because we wished in the first attack to avoid, insofar as possible, the killing of civilians. But that attack is only a warning of things to come. If Japan does not surrender, bombs will have to be dropped on her war industries and unfortunately thousands of civilian lives will be lost. I urge Japanese civilians to leave industrial cities immediately and save themselves from destruction.
I realize the tragic significance of the atomic bomb. Its production and its use were not lightly undertaken by this government. But we knew that our enemies were on the search for it. We know now how close they were to finding it. And we knew the disaster which would come to this nation and to all peace-loving nations, to all civilizations, if they had found it first. That is why we felt compelled to undertake the long and uncertain and costly labor of discovery and production. We won the race of discovery against the Germans.
Having found the bomb, we have used it. We have used it against those who attacked us without warning at Pearl Harbor, against those who have starved and beaten and executed American prisoners of war, against those who have abandoned all pretense of obeying international laws of warfare. We have used it in order to shorten the agony of war; in order to save the lives of thousands and thousands of young Americans. We shall continue to use it until we completely destroy Japan’s power to make war. Only a Japanese surrender will stop us.
The Bauer women stared at one another, stunned.
The world waited for Japan’s response. When after three days the emperor refused to surrender, a second atomic bomb obliterated the port city of Nagasaki. Headlines across the world shouted, “IS TOKYO NEXT?”
His country facing total annihilation, Emperor Hirohito finally announced Japan’s unconditional surrender. On Sunday, September 2, 1945, on the deck of the battleship Missouri, representatives from the Empire of Japan signed the Japanese Instrument of Surrender, officially ending World War II.
Mama insisted she watch Billy while Margie and Irene went out to celebrate downtown. Revelers jammed the streets, hugging and kissing, hallooing and whooping. Car horns tooted, bands blasted, a siren wailed from the firehouse, church bells chimed. Margie and Irene blew whistles as they joined a conga line snaking along sidewalks where newsboys peddled special “WAR’S OVER” editions.
Monday morning, churches held services of thanksgiving. Mama attended the one at Little River Methodist, celebrating in her own quiet way by giving thanks that her family would soon be reunited. Afterward, she put flowers and a flag on Dad’s grave, now gone ten months, telling him the good news that both their children were safe, that she missed him and would love him dearly always.
A letter arrived from Frank, saying his orders had been canceled. He had never left France, and he was now on his way home. Preparing for Frank’s homecoming sent Mama into a flurry of activity. She fretted that the front porch needed a fresh coat of paint, but settled for scrubbing it clean instead. She purchased a new flag to fly from the holder on one of the columns. She helped Irene move Billy’s crib from the bedroom to an alcove off the stairs. The transition proved painful for everyone: Billy’s heart-wrenching screams of protest lasted several nights.
The more Mama fussed, the more anxious Irene became. She retreated to her room in the evenings, claiming headaches. She sewed a new dress for herself and a romper for Billy. She had her hair styled at the salon in town and painted her nails red before reconsidering and changing the color of the polish. She ate very little and lost a few pounds.
The town spruced itself up for the returning soldiers. Flags hung from every lamppost and waved over the fire and police departments, the hospital, and city offices. Store windows displayed patriotic themes, and a banner reading “Welcome Home!” stretched across Main Street. Red, white, and blue bunting festooned most porches.
As Frank’s train rumbled into the station, the high school band played “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” The crowd cheered as soldiers hung out of the windows to whistle and wave at the girls waiting on the platform. The train hissed to a stop, and a flood of khaki poured out the doors. Cries of joy rose, increasing the chaos when families reunited. Billy began to scream, and Irene tucked his head into her neck, covering his ear with her hand. Margie scanned the swarm of humanity for a beloved face, a distinctive gait, an identifiable voice. Mama spotted him first—tall, lanky, carrying his duffel and a teddy bear. She waved frantically, yelling, “Frank! Frank!”
He pushed through the crowd, his pace quickening to a trot. In an instant, the family joined together in a joyous hug; their arms entangled, each wanted to touch Frank. Margie broke away first. Then Mama reluctantly let go, allowing Frank to kiss his wife and howling baby.
Irene calmed Billy with a giggle and sweet words, then held him out to Frank. “Can you say Dada?” she asked. She had been coaching him for this moment for over a month, but the overwhelmed baby buried his face in her hair.
Although Frank’s laugh rang out as heartily as Margie remembered, when their gazes locked, her heart sank, for in his eyes she saw a jaded and depleted spirit—a world-weary soul.
With Frank home, the energy level in the household rose, his presence and happy banter lifting the mood. Over dinner, they reminisced about a rare 1932 summer vacation on Mackinac Island, when they’d rented bicycles and ate a picnic lunch on the boulder-strewn beach of Lake Huron’s cold shore. To Irene’s delight, Margie recounted the fallout when both of Frank’s “steady” girlfriends attended the same pajama party.
As friends dropped by to welcome him home, he stood with his arm around Irene’s waist and talked about his plans—the university allowed late admissions for returned veterans, and he would apply. He had already completed two years with a good grade-point average, and didn’t anticipate any trouble being readmitted. He sidestepped all questions about the war, shifting the conversation to baseball. “Did you catch the Tigers last night? Dizzy Trout pitched a shutout. Trounced those Yankees 10–0.” He would lower his voice: “I have five bucks on the World Series. You want in?”
Margie thought it wonderful to see Mama happy again. She sang along with the radio as she cooked large meals, washed extra loads of laundry, and ironed clothes. She seemed not to mind picking Frank’s towels up off the floor, carrying the dishes he left on the table to the sink, or moving his shoes to where they couldn’t be tripped over. His sloppy behavior irritated Margie, though. When she’d jabbed, “Were you raised in a barn?” he just laughed and called her Nurse Prissy.
Though exuberant during the day, his mood darkened as the sun set. He roamed the house like a caged cat, chain-smoking and peering out windows, his ear cocked for strange noises. He wasn’t sleeping much, Irene confided to Margie; when he did manage to drop off, he tossed and turned, his legs windmilling under the covers, tears and sweat both pouring from him, soaking the sheets.
After an initial shyness, Billy warmed up to Frank, who played with him differently from the way Irene did, wrestling and teasing. Sometimes the roughhousing brought Billy to tears.
“Frank! Don’t!” Irene scolded, whisking Billy away to give him a cookie.
“Stop with the cookies already. He’s too fat.”
�
��He’s not either. Look at your baby pictures. You were a chub.” When she put Billy down, he immediately ran crashing back into Frank’s legs, and the wrestling and screeching started again.
Covering Billy’s mouth to muffle the shrieking, Frank said to Irene, “Come bowling tonight. Sue will be there with Ed.” Billy wriggled away. His cheeks were pink and his chin wet with spit. From the floor, Frank grabbed his leg and Billy squealed.
Irene covered her ears. “Can you stop that? You’ve got him all worked up.”
Frank let Billy go, and he crawled away.
“Come on. We’ll have a few beers.”
“You know I can’t. I have to work tomorrow.”
Carrying a toy truck, Billy toddled back over to Frank. With a jump and a laugh, he flung the toy, which hit his father’s upper lip. Immediate and violent, Frank’s reaction sent Billy crashing against the nearby wall. “Get away from me, you little piece of shit.”
Up in her room, Margie tried to write Wade, but the words wouldn’t come. There’s something you need to know, she began. No. She wadded the paper up and tossed it in the trash can. I have a bit of a surprise for you. That one got pitched too. Have you ever thought about becoming a father? As the trash can filled up, she decided that maybe she would wait until he came home to tell him. She might have had the baby by then. Which would cause the worse shock? She couldn’t make up her mind.
One thing was certain—she would have to tell her mother soon. Maybe tonight, if Irene and Frank went out. Hiding her swelling tummy under her clothing was getting harder. Besides, preparations had to be made for this new arrival. Where would he sleep? He would need diapers, nightgowns, and bottles. Or should she nurse? She hadn’t thought much about it and wondered what Irene had done. She really wanted to talk to Irene about having a baby but couldn’t force herself to bring up the subject. She worried about the health of an infant conceived when she’d been so malnourished.
The sounds of Billy wailing and Irene shouting rose from the living room. Similar noisy incidents had erupted since Frank had come home. She heard thuds on the stairs and Irene’s bedroom door slam.
Mama’s voice filtered up. “What has gotten into you! Touch that child like that again and you can pack your bags and get out of here! Do you understand me?”
The front door banged open and shut, followed by Frank’s truck speeding out of the driveway, its tires squealing. Running downstairs, Margie found Mama in the kitchen drying her tears on a dish towel, her whole body shaking. “I don’t know what’s happened to your brother. He’s like a stranger.”
“He’s confused, Mama. He’s been through a lot. He needs time to forget.”
“He’d better forget real quick then! I won’t put up with that behavior. Margie, I know Irene’s frightened. Is there something you can say to help her?”
Mama wouldn’t approve of anything she’d say to Irene—keep your job, be ready to run. Lights flashed through the window, and a vehicle stopped in the driveway. Margie peeked through the curtains and said, “That couldn’t be Frank back already. Are you expecting someone, Mama?”
When she opened the door, a man who wasn’t Frank stood on the porch. She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a minute before gasping out, “Wade! Is that you?”
CHAPTER 22
Little River, fall 1945
Wade stood at the door, looking young and sophisticated with stylish tortoiseshell glasses and a roguish mustache. He wore well-fitting slacks and a fine sweater. Margie gasped again. “What are you doing here?”
He laughed, his smile shining mischief, and handed her a bouquet of pink roses. “I got in this afternoon. I thought I’d surprise you. Maybe I should’ve phoned first.”
“No,” she said, regaining her composure, but warmth crept up her neck and her heart galloped. “Come in! You look wonderful.” She admired the roses, then put them on the side table, shy and unsure what to do next.
Not shy at all, Wade gathered her in his arms and said a lover’s hello, his mustache tickling underneath her nose.
Breathless, she ran her finger over the bristle. “I like it. It suits you.”
His loving gaze searched her face. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.” He kissed her again, squeezing her tight against him.
“Who is it, Margie?” Mama asked, coming into the room.
Margie stepped back from Wade’s embrace. “Mama, you remember Wade Porter?”
Mama’s face lit up like a sunny day.
Wade was staying with his father and stepmother, who invited Margie to the family’s celebration of his homecoming. His sister, Carol, hugged her and told her how glad she was that her little brother had finally decided to settle down. She introduced Margie to the many aunts, uncles, and cousins at the gathering. Margie found herself immediately considered part of Wade’s warm extended family.
The following week, Wade’s colleagues from the Ann Arbor Tribune held a party for all the correspondents recently returned from overseas. Margie discovered that, though a bit older than she, they were a fun and rowdy crowd—they bantered irreverently about current events and old-boy politicians.
More days passed, and Margie still hadn’t told Wade the truth. Hiding her pregnancy proved an emotional burden that kept her awake at night and headachy during the day. At last, resigned, she vowed to end the torment and reveal her secret on Friday, during their dinner date.
In her room that evening, she dressed, then raised the window shade to watch for his car. She wandered from bed to door to window and back again, practicing what to say. Should she wait until after dinner or tell him the news immediately? Noticing she’d become breathless, she stopped pacing. When the doorbell rang, her hands flew protectively to the bulge hidden by her sweater. She gave herself a last once-over in the mirror and nervously reapplied her lipstick.
Hearing Mama welcome Wade into the house, Margie peeked over the stair railing. In a tizzy, she retreated to her room, knowing she could no longer put off this conversation. She steeled herself against whatever might happen and pasted on a big smile, then went downstairs.
“You two have a good time,” Mama said. “Where are you going?”
“Luigi’s for a pizza. I won’t be late.”
She found her jacket in the closet and slipped it over her shoulders, not trusting her fingers to button it properly. Wade opened the car door, and she slid into the passenger seat, swallowing hard, her mouth sticky-dry. Wade let himself in the other side and reached for the keys. She put her hand on his arm. Her voice sounding strange in her ears, she said, “Before we go . . .”
And she blurted out her news. “I’m pregnant.”
His jaw dropped. “You’re what?”
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to marry me. I can live with my mother. She’ll help me with the baby. I have my job at the Red Cross.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Things have changed. You hardly know me.”
“I know you to be strong and reliable. Charming. Smart. Talented. Even-tempered. I know that I love you. Are you saying you don’t want to get married?”
“No, I’m saying I’m not going to hold you to a promise made in another life.”
“For Pete’s sake! What do you mean, ‘a promise made in another life’?”
“You’ve made plans, that cottage on Lake Michigan, the book you want to write.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s a dream, Margie, not a plan. There’s a difference. I wouldn’t make any plans without talking to you first.”
“With a baby, there’d be no way we could do that.”
“Then the dream goes on hold. We’ll get married, and I’ll work at the newspaper.”
“But it’s not what you want.”
“It’s you I want! Just you.” He held her chin and looked into her eyes. “Do you want me?”
She felt increasingly attracted to this handsome, kindhearted man, and her baby needed a good father. She whispered, “I do.”
He pulled her to him in a warm, strong embrace. “Well then, that’s settled. When’s the baby due?”
“November.”
“November already?” He broke out laughing. “What a wonderful homecoming present!”
Later, when Margie told her mother, she scolded her. “November! You should have told me sooner, Margie! Have you seen Dr. Middleton?”
“No. I’ll make an appointment today. I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t believe it myself for a long time. I was going to tell you, but . . .” Tears came to her eyes.
Mama wrapped her in a hug. “It’s all right. It’s just, you may need extra care. What did Wade say?”
“He’s happy about it. We’re going to get married right away.”
Plans for a late-September wedding fell quickly into place. Margie wanted to be married at the Little River Methodist Church, and Wade wished it to be a candlelight ceremony. Family and friends filled the church with gold and burgundy mums from their gardens.
Margie looked stunning in the ivory crepe dress that Mama had artfully altered to accommodate her tummy bulge. She carried a bouquet of mums and trailing ivy. Frank, dressed in a suit he’d borrowed for the occasion, walked Margie down the aisle. She smiled—radiantly, she hoped—but hidden behind her glowing face were thoughts of her father, and how much he had looked forward to this moment. Gracie, wearing a deep-rose suit-dress, stood beaming as her maid of honor, and Kenneth supported Wade as best man.
As Margie approached Wade at the altar, she saw abiding love in his eyes, and she felt protective of his feelings. In a silent vow as she stood facing him, she pledged to be a devoted and attentive wife to this gentle man who cared for her so dearly.
Everything had happened quickly, and a honeymoon hadn’t been in Margie’s plans. She was delighted when Wade surprised her with a getaway to a friend’s cabin on Old Mission Peninsula, north of Traverse City.
Driving west through Michigan’s farm country, they enjoyed their freedom and being alone together for the first time since those surreal days in Santo Tomas. Margie twirled the gold band encircling her ring finger, still unable to grasp the reality of the past few whirlwind weeks. Mrs. Wade Francis Porter. Marjorie Olivia Bauer Porter. Margie Porter.
A Pledge of Silence Page 24
