Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  “What’s the matter?” Dalton asked her. “Just tell me and we can solve it.”

  She paused, seeking a means of explanation, of peeling back the armor covering his weaknesses, his fears. Or more important, to confirm he had any.

  Subtlety seemed best. “You know I’ve always believed in sticking to a plan. But lately I’ve been thinking, maybe that isn’t what life’s about. Things happen all the time we don’t see coming.”

  He squinted slightly, waiting to see where she was leading them.

  “Let me ask you this,” she ventured. “If you could have any job you wanted, live anywhere in the world, parents and pressures aside, what would you do?”

  “Sky’s the limit?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s easy.” He sat back and shrugged. “I’d be a lawyer, living in Chicago.”

  Her chest lowered, gapping her woven layers. A cold draft grazed her skin.

  “Although,” he added, considering, “I’d probably delve into civil rights from the get-go, instead of down the road. Help out the underdog straightaway.” He quirked a brow. “But don’t go spreading that around. Wouldn’t want Judge Porter thinking I’d gone soft.” He finished with a smile.

  It was far from an ideal answer, but at least his altruistic aspirations were a nice discovery.

  Dalton titled his head at her. “Is that what’s bothering you? Are you having second thoughts about teaching?”

  Now that she thought about it, her chosen vocation was one more aspect of her life that had shifted from the “certain” category to “uncertain,” all thanks to Morgan. Ever since he’d asked that ridiculous question of why she wanted to be a professor—ridiculous, given that the answer should have been a simple one involving her own desires, not someone else’s.

  There was no denying she had a passion for literature. Yet she didn’t have to be a teacher to enjoy the classics. The power of the written word was what she revered, how thoughts on paper could change your perspective, and, on occasion, your life. Corresponding with Morgan had reminded her of the emotions penned prose could evoke—specifically when presented from the heart and free of fear over being judged.

  In fact, authoring letters to the soldier had been just as rewarding as reading the pages he’d sent. As rewarding as scrawling the sweet notes she used to trade with her father, and the journals of poems, reflections, and short stories she’d created. All that had ended, of course, when her mother left. And until recently, Liz had forgotten the fulfillment of touching another’s soul through ink.

  Perhaps a truer part of her had been packed away all these years, and had merely been waiting to unfold.

  “Lizzy?” Dalton prompted.

  Driven by her revelation, she blurted her answer. “I’d be a writer.” It then occurred to her that she’d addressed her own question, not his. “If sky was the limit,” she explained. “That’s what I’d be.”

  “Huh.” He nodded, taking it in. “I had no idea.”

  “I didn’t either,” she admitted. “Until now.” A steadiness came over her as she straightened in her seat.

  “You know,” he said, “there’s no reason you can’t. If you’d rather write than teach, you should do it. It’s not like we need the money. And hey, if it means we could start a family sooner”—he smiled—“then you’ve got my vote a hundred percent.”

  It was no surprise he’d be supportive. He always had been. Even when it would make him the only lawyer in the city married to a professional, he never challenged her ambition. And, naturally, the timeliness of his becoming a father served as a rewarding draw. In his eyes, she could already see the pride that would overflow the minute he first held his baby son. He would tuck him into his bassinet and kiss his forehead, warming him with a coverlet of security.

  “I’ll definitely give it some thought.” She smiled back, just as a fresh wave of giggles entered the air. A pack of teenagers had engaged in the snowball skirmish. Their voices rose with their laughter, but still couldn’t drown out realism whispering in Liz’s ear: Best intentions aside, with Dalton’s foreseeable path, he wouldn’t be home for family dinners by five. In many ways, their children would be reliant on the guidance of one parent—the same as she had been.

  On the upside, at least Liz wouldn’t be alone in her circumstance. For the betterment of society, Eleanor Roosevelt must have made her own share of sacrifices. And with a man like Dalton, a good husband and father, surely the sacrifices would be worth it.

  “We still have some time,” Dalton said. “How about giving that spin of yours another try?”

  Her tailbone protested. “Better not. I’m saving up for my big performance in the ice ballet.”

  “Then I’d say you need a little practice before your debut.” He set aside the lidded thermos and stood. “Come on, one more round. I want to make all the guys here jealous.”

  A smile settled on her lips. Conceding her will, she reached out and accepted his hand.

  25

  December 25, 1944

  Dutch New Guinea

  “I can’t move,” Betty moaned, limp as a rag doll sprawled across her cot. Her eyelids, resting for the first time in twenty hours, felt like shutters sealed for a storm.

  Like many of the girls, she had formed a routine of sleeping in the nude, covered solely by a damp towel, and waking every thirty minutes to dip the fabric in a water-filled helmet. Tonight, though, despite her uniform being sweat-soaked and splattered with blood, she considered dozing off fully clothed. She’d only unbuttoned half her shirt, and doing more required exerting effort for little reward.

  Another mumbled moan and her mind hailed three direct commands: Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. That’s all she wanted to do. For days, for months. Whatever it took to resemble a human again.

  In mere seconds, a magnetic pull drew her spirit into a fuzzy void. She swam in the watery grayness, suspended and free, before Rosalyn’s drawl tugged her out with a start.

  “I swear ‘fore God, if I don’t do another injection, infusion, or stitch for the rest of my life, it’ll be too soon.”

  Static from Shirley’s radio crackled through the small, mildewy barracks. The tent had been dubbed “Coconut Grove” by its four residents, who’d all assumed duties typically reserved for nurses.

  With doctors having just completed weeks of forty-eight-hour shifts to the front lines, every available hand had been filling the gaps.

  “I still can’t find it,” Shirley huffed. She’d once happened across a San Francisco station, and had hoped to locate it again in time for Christmas.

  “Ah, just turn it to the usual,” Rosalyn said. “Carols are carols.”

  A lethargic sigh. “All right.”

  How about off? Off would be nice, Betty longed to say, but even her mouth was too tired to function.

  Soon an orchestral version of “Winter Wonderland” on the Jungle Network skirled in the muggy air. The pattering of rain on the roof served as further irony to the night’s unrelenting heat.

  “What in the Lord’s name y’all got over there?” Rosalyn said, responding to their roommates’ giggles.

  Betty attempted to tune them out, but her curiosity, as always, triumphed. She eased open one eye. The candle stuck in a bourbon bottle flickered shadows across Shirley and Stella, seated side by side on a cot in their brassieres and undies. “SOS,” the girls were called, stuck at the hip and so similar in looks and spunkiness, they could have been twins.

  Stella drank another gulp from the hole in a coconut before replying. “It’s a Christmas gift from Herb. Says it’s called ‘Jungle Juice.’”

  “They put fruit and sugar inside,” Shirley added, “and let it sit until the cork pops out three times. Then it’s ready to drink.”

  “Why three times?” Rosalyn asked.

  Shirley shrugged. “Don’t know. But Herb’s in chemical warfare, so I’m sure he’s got a reason.” She held out the coconut. “Want some, Roz?”

  Rosalyn pondered for a mome
nt. “Oh, why not. Bert’s not here to say otherwise.” She stretched from her bed to accept the cocktail, and tipped back a swallow.

  “Who’s Bert?” Shirley asked.

  “My husband.” Dreariness dragged her words.

  The answer startled Betty from her daze, an icy splash to her ears. “You’re married?”

  “Won’t be much longer. Just waiting for the paperwork.”

  Divorced.

  Betty had never met a divorced woman before, at least not that she knew of. For a moment, she envisioned Rosalyn as an attraction at a traveling carnival. Step right up and take a look, the man in top hat and tails would shout. A divorced gal in the flesh, ladies and gents. Rare as a bearded lady, scandalous as an unwedded mother. Keep those kiddies away, though, folks. Never can be too careful.

  Resuscitated by the image, Betty edged up on her elbows. “What happened between you two?” she asked Rosalyn. “Did he do something, well…bad?”

  “Nah, nah. Nothing like that.” Rosalyn waved her hand, then chugged down more of Herb’s concoction. “Just got hitched too young. My meemaw saw it coming all along. Said Bert looked right stylish in a uniform, but didn’t have a lick o’ sense.”

  Yeah. Common sense did often seem in short supply among guys.

  Betty accepted the coconut and managed to indulge without fully sitting up. Compared to Lister-bag water, the beverage was the best she’d ever tasted. Citric sweetness with only a slight tang of alcohol. A dangerous combination.

  She wiped drips from her chin with her rolled-up sleeve. “Think you’ll ever get married again?”

  Rosalyn pursed her lips and shook her head. “Can’t imagine it. Only fellas interested in a divorcée would come under the heading of wild oats. But then, well, you never know.”

  “You never know,” Stella and Shirley repeated in dramatic unison.

  As Betty took another generous drink, she focused on her transfer to Port Moresby. There, she’d finally land a respectable husband, taking her one step farther from the carnival of her past. One leap away from becoming her mother—or Irma from the diner. An old forgotten spinster with faded looks and faded dreams.

  “What do you say, ladies?” Stella moved from her bed to the wooden floor. “Time for our gift exchange? It is officially Christmas.” Kneeling, she reached under her cot and retrieved three small presents wrapped in rice paper, handy material left from the Japanese occupation.

  Betty smiled a little. It seemed silly to swap personal belongings they each already owned, but mail orders from Montgomery Ward weren’t on Santa’s sleigh this year.

  Just then, Stella split the air with a scream. She dropped the presents and hopped about as if on hot coals.

  “What is it?” Shirley yelled.

  “Rats! Rats!” she shrieked, reclaiming the elevated safety of her bed.

  Two rodents the size of adult possums scampered over the planks, stirred from their dry shelter. Their shadows made them giants. Betty dropped the coconut as she and Shirley joined in the squealing. Juice splashed across the floor.

  “Git! Git outta here!” Rosalyn used her Daisy Mae hat to swat the creatures through a gap in the canvas.

  Area cleared, all four gals burst into hysterical laughter. Their eyes watered as they continued with the rib-aching release, feeding off each other’s exhaustion and delirium at 0200 hours.

  “Cordell!” Captain Kitzafenny stood in the entrance.

  Their laughter stopped on a switch. The ladies snapped to attention.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Betty answered.

  “At ease,” the captain said tiredly, flicked her hand at the group.

  Rosalyn stealthily dropped her hat over the coconut as the SOS girls covered their bodies with towels. Betty clenched her open shirt together, as well as her teeth, preventing a smile over the scene.

  The captain continued to address her. “Hate to break up the party, but there’s a soldier at the hospital asking for you.”

  Inwardly Betty grumbled. She usually didn’t mind late-night conversations with patients too uncomfortable to sleep, guys needing an ear to absorb their worries; talk about wives they hardly knew and babies they’d never met. Buddies lost along the way, and disfigurements that would gain more attention than their medals.

  One night off, however, didn’t seem too much to ask. Even the devil, according to Rosalyn, took a break now and then—particularly on Christmas, Jesus’s glory day.

  “Ma’am,” Betty said, “with all due respect, can’t it wait till morning?”

  “An MP’s here to drive you down. Ward Four.” The captain about-faced and marched off.

  Swell. Lieutenant Kelly’s ward. Even better.

  Betty allowed for a buffer distance before complaining. “Why me?” Her voice came out like the scraping of gravel.

  “Well, now,” Rosalyn suggested, “you could tell the MP you got yourself a bellyache.”

  Betty dipped into her reserve tank of energy and started on her buttons. “Oh, shore.” She mocked Rosalyn’s drawl. “And make ‘Kiss-her-fanny’ madder than an ol’ wet hen?”

  Stella and Shirley laughed some more.

  Rosalyn primly crossed her arms. “It’s about time my Southern class rubbed off on y’all,” she said, pulling a smile begrudgingly out of Betty. “Don’t worry, sugar. We’ll wait on gifts till you get back.”

  While Betty threw on her wet hooded poncho, Stella celebrated the piece of luck that their coconut had landed upright, leaving plenty to enjoy. In galoshes borrowed from Rosalyn, Betty stepped outside. Wind moaned through the downpour, the sound of a weeping sky, a voice telling her to turn back as she made her way to the jeep.

  Snaking below them was the only road Betty had traveled upon since arriving on the island. Torrential rain dumped from the blackened clouds. By the time the driver delivered her to the medical compound, a slight wooziness had set in from the homemade liquor.

  She slogged through the gummy red mud, deep as a creek, then hurried down the boardwalk and into Ward Four, the planked floors all new additions.

  The space was still as stone. Chaos from the day’s emergencies had slowed at last. Every bed in the tent was occupied, along with the entire hospital. Candles bathed the room in a soft glow. The only noise was the drumming of rain on the roof and the plinking of drops filling a pair of metal buckets set beneath canvas leaks.

  She hung her poncho from a pole and treaded toward Tom. Hunched beside a bed, he was administering an IV to a soldier with TAT inked across his forehead, a symbol of his tetanus shots.

  “Tom,” she whispered, turning him. “There’s a patient asking to see me?”

  About to reply, he hesitated. “You haven’t heard.” Graveness thickened his voice. He gestured his chin toward the middle of the ward. “He’s down there. Waiting for you.”

  Her mind raced. Patients’ faces and names that had taken up residence in her memory flickered past, an overflowing file cabinet. “Who is it?” she asked.

  He shook his head before answering. “It’s Junior.”

  She blinked. “What? What happened?”

  “Hit a land mine. Doc took a look at him. There’s just too much liver damage.”

  Her jaw clamped, buried the next question under her tongue. She forced out the words using only her lips. “How much time?”

  He touched her shoulder. “Not much,” he said. “I’m real sorry, Betty.” His solemn glance set off a twisting in her stomach. Her arms swathed her middle as Tom stepped away to continue with his patient.

  Light-headed, Betty blew out a ragged breath. She pivoted toward her task. She was a soldier, marching, preparing for duty. One step after the other, she released her selfish concerns, dropped them like crumbs that had no place in the hands of a medical servicewoman. Rosalyn was the one who had taught her: Crying only inflames a soldier’s wounds; good nurses reserve tears for private moments before dashing them away and forging on.

  Betty mentally drilled the phrases as she neared the GI barel
y recognizable as Junior. Gauze wrapped his eyes. Cuts and mud marked his round, boyish face. The split in his shirt, scissored open, exposed a stained bandage from the doctor’s fruitless efforts.

  “So, what’s this I hear?” Her voice fought for levity that seemed miles away. “Someone’s asking for Betty Grable?”

  His cheek twitched as the edges of his mouth slid upward. “Hey, doll,” he breathed. “Thought you’d never show.”

  Gently she sat down beside him. She grasped for words, came up empty.

  “I guess this could put a damper on the prom, huh?” he said, fracturing the tension.

  “Well.” She smiled. “Just till you scrounge up a bow tie.”

  He puffed a laugh that his lungs immediately sucked back in, a reflex to the pain.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to …” She reached for his arm but stopped at a hover.

  His breathing gradually returned. Each exhale sounded of heaviness matching the tropical air. Noticing the quake of his body, chills from blood loss, Betty pulled a blanket up and around his neck as if tucking him in for bedtime.

  He gave her half a smile. “Guess I look pretty bad.”

  “Not so bad,” she said. “For a kid from Indiana.”

  “Now, there you go—” he began to joke, but a dry cough drove through the rest.

  On the neighboring table, she poured a cup of water and waited for his fit to wane. “Here. Drink this.” Inclining his head, she tenderly guided his mouth toward the rim. A few sips and she eased him back onto the pillow. Her fingers unfurled, about to stroke his cheek, but she pulled them away, resisted within an inch. The act, Betty knew, could very well break her.

  “So, I never asked ya.” His voice sounded raspy, tired. “What’d you do, in Chicago? Before all this luxury?”

  It took her a moment to remember. Life prior to the islands had become a distant dream, this now her only reality. “I was a waitress, at a diner near the Loop. And a bit of a singer, I suppose.”