He uncurled the corners of the picture, regretting he had originally tossed it into his barracks bag without care. But how could he have known? Not until he read her letter did he realize how important the memento would become.
Dear Morgan,
Although our time together was brief, it was a pleasure meeting you at the dance. Fate can be such a curious creature, bringing new people into our lives when we least expect.
The disillusionment I had as a young girl, believing I actually possessed control over my circumstances, my loved ones, my feelings, should have ended long ago. Yet, still I find myself startled by the unpredictable. I suppose, in the end, all we can do is put our faith in the notion that our journeys, despite occasional rockiness, will be more rewarding than actually reaching the destination (or so I tell myself—sometimes even convincingly).
I must apologize for my wandering thoughts. One might suspect that my pen has a mind of its own. I hope my message does not belittle the challenges you have surely faced. I can only imagine the uncontrollable environment in which you now find yourself, fighting in a foreign land against our enemies.
The amount I know of war is but modest. Through tales of the Great War, however, my late grandfather taught me much about life. He once told me it was in the shadows of his darkest hours spent in combat that he had discovered his most valuable lessons.
“Until you’re gliding at 5,000 feet at the mercy of a stalled engine,” he would say, “life’s small worries can carry too much importance and your loved ones too little.” I do my best to remember this whenever I place too much weight on my own petty concerns and need to put them in perspective. Thinking of soldiers like you, selflessly sacrificing for the good of our country, provides me with another humbling reminder.
Such was the case when I heard Glenn Miller and Lena Horne on the radio today. The carefree evenings of dancing to a swing band or gathering around a jukebox must seem faded dreams to you, having been replaced by scenes of the unspeakable. Although I cannot fathom what you are going through, please know that I, as a citizen whom you now protect, am ever grateful for the service you are providing our country.
It is with heartfelt wishes that I send this letter, and with trust that it will somehow find its way to you. Please take good care, and godspeed for a prompt and safe passage home. Sincerely, Betty Cordell
Morgan studied the flow of the cursive penned on the pages. The feminine loops and curves had managed to seep beauty into this masculine, war-plagued existence. But her words, her words were what truly moved him. Their kindness, their elegance. And all in a message he so desperately needed. In the aftermath of battle, it was too easy to forget that somewhere out there a compassionate world still existed. A world worth fighting for. A world waiting for their return.
“Morgan,” Charlie called out, “you want writing tips, you let me know. Dames go wild over my poetry.”
Jack smirked. “Ah, that’s right. Chap here’s that famous poet who wrote—now, how’d it go? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, your tits are so beautiful, thank God there’s two'?”
“Hey, asshole.” Charlie raised his voice. “You of all people ought to get my poem right, given that is about your last date. Goes like so….
“On the breast of a lady from Yale
Was tattooed the price of her tail.
And on her behind,
For the sake of the blind,
Was the same information in Braille.”
The GIs chuckled while Jack dealt his cards to the tips of their boots.
Morgan had heard his brother recite the limerick on more than one occasion; the first, before an audience of church volunteers who’d stopped by their house to drop off a basketful of pastries. Evidently, not even a few whips with their father’s belt had expunged the off-color rhyme from Charlie’s memory.
“What about you, Rev?” Charlie asked. “Got any hymns to save our souls?”
Frank ran his hand over the dark stubble of his two o’clock shadow. “Well, I think we all know where your soul’s headin'. But for these other God-fearing men, I do have a special verse taken straight outta the Good Book.”
“Oh, man,” Charlie muttered, as if dreading a sermon offering the spiritual guidance they all lacked.
“Gentlemen, a parable often overlooked in the Old Testament reads as follows….
“In the Garden of Eden sat Adam
Massaging the bust of his madam.
He chuckled with mirth,
For he knew that on earth,
There were only two tits and he had ‘em.”
Charlie raised his palms to the mottled sky, crying out, “Amen! Hallelujah!”
Morgan rolled his eyes. “Thanks, fellas. Real helpful. I was thinking of wooing her with some Emerson or Whitman, but you’re right, smutty poems about tattooed hookers are a helluva lot better.”
“Here, catch.” Charlie tossed him a pen. “Now, get at it already.”
“Might be out of ink, though,” Frank warned, “after the huge pile of dames’ letters that Chap’s had to answer.” He paused. “Oh, wait. He hasn’t received a single one, has he?”
Charlie glared. “For your information, Rev, I got a letter yesterday. It was a note from God. Said He knows you’ve been fornicatin', and He wants His Bible back.”
Morgan blocked out the verbal skirmish and homed in on Betty’s letter. He gave the stationery a discreet sniff. A trace of lavender. Maybe from her hand lotion. Maybe his imagination. Either way, how could he not write her back?
He tucked the pages into the envelope, stored them in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a blank folded sheet. He removed the pen cap with his teeth and steadily wrote his salutation: Dear Betty.
That wasn’t so hard.
Now what?
Staring at the paper, he raked his mind for the first sentence, something worthy enough. Sure, he’d always been at the top of his class in high school, his head filled with dreams of going to college. Limited finances wouldn’t allow such a privilege, however, no matter how many books he’d read or tests he aced. He’d accepted that fact long ago. Yet now more than ever, he wished that hadn’t been the case. For even a paragraph of his best, most thought-out writing couldn’t come close to the eloquence of Betty’s post.
And what about his topics? What of interest could he possibly offer? He was a simple boy from Iowa, with little worldly experience to share—save brutal battle accounts destined to be blacked out by military censors if he dared put them to paper.
He needed a pep talk.
If you ever want another letter from her, you’re going to have to send one back. So pull up your bootstraps and get it over with.
No more thinking, he told himself. Instead, he gripped the pen and commanded his hand to write the first words that came to mind.
12
October 1944
Evanston, Illinois
Liz ascended the porch steps at sloth speed compared to Julia. In the entry, the redhead dropped to her knees, schoolbag discarded, and scooped up envelopes from the metal door slot. She scanned them as hastily as a postal worker two days before Christmas.
“I don’t think the mail was going anywhere.” Liz giggled as she stepped around her friend’s doodle-covered notebook. Though fashionable sketches adorned each one, the variants of Julia’s future married name dominated in quantity and bold lettering—a visible reminder of how her priorities and Liz’s differed.
“There’s nothing from him,” Julia reported. “Again.” A grave catch in her voice turned Liz from unloading textbooks at the kitchen table. Darkness flashed in Julia’s copper eyes. “You don’t think …” Her words faded into a harrowing abyss.
“Of course not, don’t be silly.” Liz’s standard consolation—despite her concerns. “Besides, didn’t you get a letter last week?”
“It’s been ten days.”
“Well…military mail gets delayed sometimes, you know that. A few weeks ago you got three at once, right?”
<
br /> “Yeah,” Julia breathed. “I guess so.”
“And,” Liz added, “he’s probably been busy with other little things like—oh, I don’t know—keeping a destroyer afloat.”
A thoughtful beat passed. Then Julia returned a smile, slow but full. “You’re right. I’m sure he’s fine.” Rising, she brushed the dusty knee marks off her A-line skirt.
Liz nodded her assurance, and before it could fade, she made her way to the living room. The scents of vanilla and potpourri clinging to her grandmother’s floral drapes made this her favorite part of the house. Nestled in the rocking chair, she kicked off her Mary Janes and rolled her feet around in the shaggy strands of the sage throw rug. “Nana’s green spaghetti,” Papa used to call it, just to make Liz giggle.
Through the window, she spotted a bird perched on a branch: a brilliant red cardinal. She closed her eyes. No sharp metallic chirping, only the rhythmic creak of the antique rocker. Little by little, she wiped the chalkboard of her mind, erasing lectures and equations her professors had crammed into the day. This was exactly what she had been waiting for, a quiet moment to relax.
“Hey, I got a letter from my sister!”
Liz groaned, squeezed her eyes. She thought about making a break for her bedroom and barricading the door, but realized that would require moving. Instead, she listened to Julia enter the room, then rip and rustle paper. Liz savored the silence that followed, brief as it would be, before the highlights began.
“Claire says to congratulate you on your engagement …says Mom’s already buying out every store in the city for Elsie’s first birthday, telling clerks she’s the next Shirley Temple. Dad’s been working his fingers to the bone as usual …and they’d love to hear from us both when I get back from Michigan.”
Liz had nearly forgotten Julia would be leaving for Union Station within the hour to visit Christian’s family.
“You’re not sleeping, are you?” Julia demanded.
Liz gave up. She rubbed her tired eyes back to life and discovered Julia on the Empire love seat across from her. “How could I possibly sleep with all that world-changing news?”
In all honesty, she loved hearing about the bustling activities of the Renard household. The rapid growth of U.S. Steel, as a result of the war, had required executives like Mr. Renard to relocate to their central headquarters in Pittsburgh, a short car ride away from Julia’s sister and her blossoming family.
Sometimes, Liz wondered if she missed having the Renards nearby even more than Julia did.
“Say what you will,” Julia told her. “But deep down you secretly adore all my gossip. And you know that life without me would be dreadfully boring.”
“Yeah, yeah, so you’ve said.”
“Then we agree.” Julia’s voice vibrated with optimism. “You have to come to Flint with me.”
Liz veiled her face with her hands. Why did her bedroom have to be a thousand miles from this chair? “I thought we covered this already.”
“We did. But for some silly reason, you haven’t said yes.”
Liz lowered her fingers to peer at her. “That silly reason is called ‘homework.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Ah, homework, shmomework.”
Easily said when you’re among the “matrimonial scholars.” For half the engaged females on campus, their degrees weren’t a means to a career, solely proof of being a well-rounded wife.
“Liz, there’s no reason to moon around here. Dalton’s traveling with his dad all weekend. And since you’ll be planning a wedding too, we could chat about the details.”
Angst balled in Liz’s chest at the thought of her ever-expanding checklist of nuptial duties, compliments of Dalton’s mother—who, incidentally, would much prefer if Liz also belonged to the “matrimonial scholars” club.
“First,” she told Julia, “Christian’s mom is interested in your wedding, not mine. Second, I’ve got a lab project to finish and a huge exam on Wednesday. Not to mention over a hundred pages we still have to read for Professor Carpenter’s class.”
“The solution is simple. You could study on the train, like me.”
Liz dipped her chin for a doubtful look. “That’s precisely what you said last time. But with all your chattering …”
Julia sagged into the cushion, defeated. “Please, you have to come. Ian is back home. You know how much he hates me.”
So that’s what this was about. Christian’s older brother. The infantryman must have finally been released from an overseas hospital after fighting in Italy.
“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,” Liz offered.
“He thinks I’m a snob.”
“Did he say that?”
“No,” Julia said. “But I can feel it. He’ll be joking and laughing, then I walk into the room and his mood completely changes.”
“Have you mentioned any of this to Christian?”
“He says I’m imagining it.”
“Well,” Liz ventured, “maybe things will be different, now that Ian’s been away so long.”
Julia shrugged. “We’ll see.” She sounded unconvinced.
The draw of being needed, a near-forgotten sensation, would easily have swayed Liz’s decision if her degree wasn’t the only incentive.
“I’m really sorry, Jules. I wish I could.”
“I know, I know. Valedictorian and all that.” Julia rolled her eyes, bouncing back in her usual style. “Too bad Betty isn’t here. She’d be packing your things as we speak.”
“Ah, yes.” Liz smiled. “Florence Nightingale to the rescue.”
Both Liz and Julia had assumed Betty was kidding when she’d mentioned joining the Army. The idea of the fickle blonde climbing cargo nets, scrubbing floors with a toothbrush, and doing calisthenic drills had made Liz laugh repeatedly. Right up until the day she found Betty packing for basic training. Borrowing from Liz and Julia’s occupational know-how, their roommate had finagled her way into a hospital clerk position, fast-tracked for a warm Pacific island. Obviously, the Army recruiter was of the male persuasion.
“So what else is in there?” Liz tried not to stare at the mail on Julia’s lap. But the push-pull of dread and hope escalated as she waited to hear if a new note had arrived from her father.
“What else is in where?” Julia asked, before glancing down. “Oh, yeah.” She laughed at herself, an ability Liz always admired, and began flipping through the pile. She listed them off one by one: utility bills, a postcard about a new store, standards from the college. Nothing personal.
By the stack’s end, Liz almost felt more relieved than disappointed.
Almost.
“Oh, here’s one more.” Julia picked up an envelope. “It’s for Betty, but it’s hard to tell who from. The ink on the return is smudged.” She squinted, deciphering. “Looks like it’s …PFC …M. McCrann.”
It took a moment for the right name to register. When it did, Liz’s heart contracted, skipping a triplet of beats. “What’d you say?”
“I don’t know. Something like that.” She held out the post for Liz to read.
Oh, murder. It was him.
Private First Class Morgan McClain.
Nearly three months had passed since Liz had mailed him a letter. Three months. She had reached the clearing, crossed into the safety zone. They were never supposed to hear from the soldier, so why—
“Liz?” Julia said twice before Liz recovered her voice.
“It’s, um …M. McClain.”
Julia studied the name again. “Ah. You’re right.”
The fuzzy strands were now strangling Liz’s toes.
“Hey,” Julia said, “isn’t he the one you helped her write to?”
Helped? That was hardly the accurate word. “One sentence and Betty was out the door. I had to come up with the whole stupid thing myself.” Liz caught the telling hostility in her answer, and pulled back. “Anyway. That’s the last time I write anything for her.”
Julia eyed her with the slyness of a cat, re
ady to pounce. As she fanned herself with the envelope, Liz’s neck tightened under the scrutiny.
“What?” Liz said, defensive, tight. A fist of a word.
“Do you know how much fun you could’ve had with that letter?” Julia asked. “Like making her out to be a German spy, using the USO as her cover. Or better yet, the former wife of a resistance leader who’s hiding in Morocco.”
Liz shook her head, shielding her relief. “You’ve seen too many Bogart movies.”
“Maybe.” Julia gazed downward, then back up with brow raised. “So what do you think he wrote?”
Liz didn’t want to consider it. She had no interest in what the soldier had to say.
Not a whit.
Not at all.
“It’s none of our business.” The statement left an aftertaste, bitter as a lie.
“Liz, it’s been eons since you wrote to him. Maybe something bad happened. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t write back until now.”
The idea had certainly burrowed through Liz’s mind, on more than one occasion.
“You can’t tell me you’re not the least bit curious,” Julia pressed. “After all, the letter he got was from you.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that the one in your hand isn’t addressed to me.”
“A minor technicality.”
“Minor?”
“Gee whiz. It’s not like she’d care. She probably doesn’t remember anything about him but his uniform. In fact, you know as well as I do that if the milkman wore khaki, she would’ve run off with him a long time ago.”
Letters From Home Page 10
