Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  “Want me to close the window?” Liz didn’t know why she bothered asking; she knew what Viola’s response would be.

  “No, thank you, dear. Fresh air clears the cobwebs.”

  Liz stepped back toward the bed with a cloth and bottle of rubbing alcohol.

  “Careful, now,” Viola said. “Water’ll make that floor slicker than a log in a millpond. You fall, and you’ll be my new roommate.”

  “Goodness knows, we don’t want that to happen.” Liz smiled. When she settled in her seat, Viola outstretched her arms as if welcoming an application from the fountain of youth.

  “And what, pray tell, shall the court be feasting on this eve?” Viola asked.

  “Chef’s special, milady: mashed potatoes and steamed carrots, delivered by horse-'n'-carriage all the way from Windsor.”

  “Well, if it’s good enough for the queen, it’s good enough for me.”

  Liz smiled again while running the dampened cloth over the woman’s baby-soft, wrinkled arms, trying not to ponder the time.

  After a quiet moment, Viola released a sigh, shaking her head. “My oh my. You do remind me of your grandfather.” She had voiced the same remark many times before, but Liz never tired of hearing it, especially from someone who’d known Papa as long as Viola had. Together with their spouses, the two had played in a bridge club for years and formed a lasting friendship.

  If it weren’t for Viola residing at the nursing home, Liz would have insisted Papa live out his final days in his own house, despite his need for round-the-clock care. Instead, Liz had simply applied to work at the facility in Lincoln Square, a community area on the far North Side of Chicago. Already, she’d virtually been a daily visitor, chatting away whenever Papa had felt up to it, reading to him when he hadn’t. They were halfway through This Side of Paradise when he died peacefully in his sleep. Without a single utterance, Viola had offered Liz more comfort than anyone. No words were needed to express how much they both missed his company.

  “You’re all set,” Liz said, helping Viola into her frilly robe. “Gorgeous as ever.”

  “Thank you, sweet pea.”

  “My pleasure.” Liz glanced at her watch. She could still manage it if she hurried.

  While Viola fished through a canvas knitting bag, Liz dried the floor and bundled the used towels in her arms. Excitement built with every step as she headed for the door, disrupted by the sight of crayon drawings on the bureau. She’d almost forgotten.

  “Would you still like me to hang up your new artwork?” Liz motioned her chin toward Viola’s personal gallery: a wall covered with school projects and pictures from her grandchildren.

  “It can wait. You skedaddle off,” Viola replied. “To those chores of yours.” Her mouth split into a suspicious grin.

  Liz gripped the towels tighter and made her escape. The aroma of baking bread and boiling carrots from the nearby kitchen warmed the air.

  She had just deposited her supplies in the laundry room when the grandfather clock chimed. Fifteen minutes until meal service.

  She sped around the banister staircase and into the front sitting room, where she dropped into the Victorian chair. The evening sky’s indigo glow provided ample light through the massive window.

  At last. An opportunity to read Morgan’s reply without interruption.

  Dear Betty,

  Thank you so much for your last post. To say its arrival was the highlight of my day doesn’t do it justice. It’s no surprise your writing has won awards, if your letters are any indication. I’ve read both of them so often that many of the words are smudged. With all the endless rain, marching, and nights spent in foxholes, they’ve definitely been a welcome escape.

  I’m actually writing to you tonight crouched in one of those soggy holes. My knee sure doesn’t make a great desk, but with a grain of luck you’ll still be able to read most of this. Of course that’s assuming I can keep the paper clear of the rain and mud that covers us all from head to toe.

  The sound of drops hitting our roof is getting louder. Sometimes I think the only thing longer than a cold night spent in the dark is a cold wet night spent in the mud. Funny. Never thought I’d be one to complain about weather I was so fond of as a kid.

  So many times, I would wake my brother up in the wee hours. I’d drag him over to the window to smell the thunderstorm rolling in. There was something electric and wonderful about the scent of those clouds. When the rain did come, Charlie would stand on the covered porch and tell me how nuts I was splashing this way and that in my long johns and boots. I swear, my dad would have knocked some sense into both of us if he’d known—although I imagine even a good belt whupping wouldn’t have stopped me from going right back out there. And now here I am, wishing the skies would just plain dry up.

  As for my brother, already conked out beside me, somehow he’s now the one who doesn’t seem to mind the rain and muck. Or maybe he’s too tired to care. Amazing how a person can change over time. For me it was when my mom passed away that I had to grow up and become the responsible brother. At least I tried my best to be. Meanwhile Charlie turned into the daring one, convinced he could conquer the world. But now with the threat of death hiding behind every tree and in every bunker, fear seems to have changed him back into a little boy who still relies on his older brother for direction. God help us both.

  I do my best to be strong for Charlie, honoring what I promised Mom before shipping out. In prayer, I swore to her I’d do everything in my power to be the son and soldier that would have made her proud—someone Charlie could always look up to and lean on. But truth be told, I share his same fears, maybe even more, about never making it home. Not exactly the picture of courage and valor I’d hoped I’d be. For his sake, I keep those thoughts to myself. Can’t see what good it would do either of us.

  The one saving grace is that Charlie’s worries don’t stop him from sleeping as sound as a baby. Tired as we are, with only a few hours between orders, you’d think I wouldn’t have any trouble falling asleep either. But closing my eyes these days usually means seeing horrible pictures I can’t erase—ones that rob me of needed rest night after night.

  Not sleeping must be part of why the last three months of hopping from one battle to the next feel like three years. The war is certainly taking its toll. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll even recognize myself when it’s all said and done. I just hope my folks are watching over us from heaven, keeping us out of harm’s way and on the right path so they can be proud of their boys.

  Lord knows, I’ve had plenty of times through the years when I’ve been too busy doubting myself to stand up straight. Then I remember what my mom used to tell us—“All the yardsticks in the world couldn’t measure the love and pride of a parent.” I’m sure this is a saying your father would agree with.

  Obviously I have no idea what happened to separate the two of you. What I do know is that life is too short not to say how you feel to the people you love. Believe me, it’s a lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way. My mom was only thirty-one when her appendix burst on the way to the hospital. Dad told us not to worry, that it was just a sideache troubling her. Had he let us know the truth, Charlie and I could have told her the things we needed to.

  That being said, I do hope you can find a way to mend your ties before it’s too late—especially if you still care for your father as much as I gathered from your letter. No doubt such a distance is causing pain for you both. Well, enough of my preaching. Better close now or I won’t be able to fit these pages into the envelope.

  Please write again soon. Your letters mean more to me than I can tell you. And be sure to include more of those beautiful poems. They’re definitely better than the rhymes the dogfaces tell around here.

  Thinking of you. Yours truly, Morgan

  Liz released a breath she’d been unconsciously holding. Again his words had reached inside, touching her more deeply than any Shakespearean sonnet. And knowing he too had lost his parents only confirmed he was someone with
whom she could share her feelings. A man whose utter honesty about his weaknesses and fears made her long to reciprocate the gift.

  Could it be he was right about her father? Was it possible he was hurting as well?

  Though the suggestion seemed improbable, Morgan had once more given her a thought to ponder—the same as he had at the dance. They’d only but met, and still he had prompted her to examine her life. He’d raised questions in her mind about her mother, and Dalton, and even her career path—questions that had never occurred to her. Or ones perhaps she had been afraid to ask.

  Somehow, with Morgan, her heart felt like an unedited book, its content speckled with imperfections. The fact that he continued to earnestly turn the pages, in both the figurative and literal sense, equally comforted and terrified her.

  Yours truly, Morgan

  She ran her fingers over his valediction, forward then backward. As her skin absorbed the words, a fluttering sensation filled her: a swarm of butterflies taking flight. She recalled the curves of his shoulder, the feel of his palm melting into hers.

  Lowering her lids, she sank into her chair. Beneath an Arthurian sky dotted with stars, the soldier stepped toward her. His jeweled eyes and gentle smile arrested her senses. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his fingers caressing her back. Her yearning heightened from the memory of his scent, rich with lemon and vanilla and cedar. The heat of his body, his touch, blocked out the cold, blocked out the world. They were like Lancelot and Guinevere, they were Tristan and Isolde—meeting in secrecy, defying duties. Passion drawing their lips close, she tasted his sweet breath entwining hers. He guided her chin toward him, and at last their mouths met….

  “What is this, a love letter from Dalton?”

  Liz’s eyes shot open. Panic flared as Julia lifted the pages off her lap.

  “Give it back!” She reached out, but Julia took them hostage behind her.

  “My goodness, it must be something good.”

  “Jules, I mean it.” She thrust forth her hand.

  “I let you read all my letters,” Julia complained, forehead scrunched.

  “I know,” she said. “Just not this one, all right?”

  Julia studied her intently. Then she shrugged. “Okay,” she said, and brought the letter back into view. Liz prepared to accept it, when Julia added, “Right after a quick peek,” and darted into the entry.

  Liz scrambled behind. “Julia, don’t.”

  “ ‘Yours truly, Morgan'?” she read aloud, shifting the papers. “ ‘Dear Betty, thank you so much for your last letter—’”

  Liz managed to snatch them back without tearing them. She wanted to evade the pending inquisition, yet the accusation in Julia’s eyes welded her shoes to the floor.

  Julia folded her arms and waited.

  The quiet was deafening. Liz couldn’t stand it anymore. “Okay, I wrote him back,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

  Julia said nothing.

  Liz felt heat rising to her face. Thoughts in a flurry, she threw out an excuse. “I just didn’t have the heart to tell the poor guy that Betty up and left. And with her doting on some pilot from Australia, you know she’s already forgotten all about him.” She was shamefully reaching with her next appeal, but nothing else came to mind. “You of all people know what it means to a soldier to get a letter from home.”

  Julia’s expression made it clear she wasn’t buying it. “What exactly went on between you two after I left that dance?”

  “Nothing,” Liz said before her conscience gave a nudge. “We just talked. And danced a little.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I came back from the ladies’ room to find him and Betty dancing. So I left. End of story.”

  “But it’s not,” Julia pointed out, “if you’re still writing him.”

  Liz calmed herself and spoke evenly. “It’s just a few letters, Jules.”

  “You’re sure there isn’t more to it?”

  Liz parted her lips to say no, yet hesitated. And in that moment of hesitation, doubt about everything in her life returned. Everything but how she felt about the pages in her hands.

  “Dalton,” Julia called out over Liz’s shoulder.

  The warning whirled Liz around. Indeed, stepping through the front door in a black overcoat and fedora was Dalton Harris.

  The hallway cinched about them.

  Liz threw on a smile, reining in her nerves. “What are you doing here?” She blindly slipped the letter into her apron pocket.

  “I had a meeting with Bernstein in Uptown. Thought I’d swing by on my way back.”

  “Oh, great. That’s great.” Everything was great—so long as she didn’t say great one more time. “How’d the meeting go?”

  “Fantastic.” He removed his hat, his face still aglow from his father’s recent electoral victory. “Nothing set in stone, but looks like he’s landed me a clerkship with Judge Porter.”

  “Judge Porter? Wow. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Happy for us, “ he corrected her. “All groundwork for our future, right?”

  Liz maintained her smile.

  “Hey, you dropped something.” He bent over to pick up the folded stationery on the floor.

  Perspiration opened up on Liz’s palms as she realized the pages had bypassed her pocket. She quickly reached down, but Julia nabbed them from Dalton in time.

  “Thanks,” Julia told him, covering the writing with her hands. “You’d think I’d take better care of Christian’s letters than that.”

  “I doubt he’d hold it against you.” Dalton grinned. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the reason I’m here. Thanksgiving dinner’s been changed to four o’clock. That way Congressman Blaine and his wife can make it. Hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Fine by me,” Liz answered. “Jules?”

  “No argument here.”

  A small relief. Without Julia there, Liz would have no one other than Dalton’s mother to talk to once the gentlemen retired to the parlor. And the tedious subject of acceptable wedding guests was certain to be the main topic.

  Dalton glanced at his watch. “Dang, I’m late for my study group. But I’m glad I caught you.” He grasped Liz’s hand and was about to stamp her mouth with a kiss when he pulled back. His gaze dropped, fixed with concern. “Lizzy, where’s your ring?”

  She looked at her hand before remembering. “Oh, it’s at home, in my jewelry box.”

  He blew out a breath. “Scared me.” Then he tilted his head, the lines on his forehead deepening. “I don’t understand, though. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

  She ushered lightness into her voice. “Because, silly, it’s too valuable. With all the solutions we handle, I didn’t want it to fall off.” And that was the truth. So why were her hands slickening with a second sheen?

  He didn’t look convinced. “If you don’t like it, sweetheart, we could find something else.”

  “Absolutely not,” she insisted. “It’s gorgeous. Once it’s sized, I won’t be worried about losing it.”

  “Do you want me to go with you, to the jeweler?”

  “Well, sure I do. But goodness knows you don’t have time right now.” He didn’t argue. Not that she expected him to. Still, something deep inside her crumpled. “Besides, you’ve got more pressing issues. I’ll just take care of it after the holidays.”

  His mouth suggested a smile. “That’s my girl. Wouldn’t want people thinking you were stepping out on me, right?”

  “Of course not,” she said, which widened his grin.

  He nodded to Julia. “See you Thursday?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  He replaced his hat and tipped the brim. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”

  “Good night,” they responded in unison.

  When the door closed behind him, Liz felt as if she’d finally come up for air. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Julia staring at her.

  “It’s only a few letters,” Liz affirmed. />
  “If you say so.”

  Confining tension rose around Liz like bars. The pressure of standing trial emanated from the unspoken. She angled toward the hall. “I have to help with dinner.” On her second step, a hand touched her elbow.

  “Liz, wait,” Julia told her. “I’m saying this as your friend. If you have feelings for another fellow, you owe it to Dalton to be honest. An engagement is a serious commitment.”

  As opposed to what? A passing fancy?

  “I know it is,” Liz replied, stronger than she’d intended. She softened her tone. “I know it is, Jules.” Had her life been buttermilk smooth like Julia’s, Liz would surely have been just as disapproving. Her friend wasn’t off base; she simply didn’t understand.

  Julia paused before handing over Morgan’s letter. “See you after work,” she said, and turned for her office. A caution lined her thin smile: I hope you know what you’re doing.

  Left to her quandary, Liz leaned against a wall. She thought again of Tristan and Isolde and the tragedies that befell them, all for a forbidden love, doomed from the start.

  Was she so naïve to think she could win fate’s favor, when a couple like that had lost? A voice inside responded, said her deceptions would only lead to heartache—not just for her, but for everyone involved.

  Perhaps it was time she listened.

  19

  November 1944

  Dutch New Guinea

  Slouched on a stump just outside the ward, Betty pinched her nose and fought a gag reflex. She tried to imagine nice, chilled limeade in the cup at her lips, but was failing miserably. The only drinking water at the hospital spent its days hanging in Lister bags beneath the merciless sun, intensifying the rubberized, chlorinated flavor of the liquid moving down her throat. Another highlight she wouldn’t be writing home about. No need to burden her friends with details best left forgotten. The genuinely positive elements were the only tidbits worth sharing, their quantities few enough to fit on pocket-sized postcards.