Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  The steam engine’s mist thinned, as did the crowd. Fewer and fewer females were left unspoken for by the awaiting and arriving servicemen. His apprehension inflated like a balloon ready to burst.

  Maybe she wasn’t here. He’d barely given her warning. He would have alerted her earlier with a detailed letter, but the postwar mail system had gone haywire and he’d run out of that kind of patience. He also didn’t want to jinx himself by putting his situation to paper, the situation being that technically he wasn’t even supposed to be in the States yet. An Army miscalculation had prematurely landed him a slot on a Liberty ship. But, hey, who was he to debate an order?

  Back at Fort Dix, life had fed him yet another dose of irony. There he’d learned he had been awarded the Silver Star for his show of bravery in Slevant, an honor that truly belonged to his brother. If there really was such a thing as a hero, Charlie was it. And one day, Morgan would return to Europe and take great pride in placing that star on his brother’s grave.

  Once discharged, Morgan had kept his promise and headed to the Big Apple, where Frank at last introduced him to June. By the end of their laughter-filled dinner, it was clear to him that when you found the one you were meant to be with, all the rest were details. Frank and his bride were living proof.

  Now, however, while Morgan stood on the Union Station platform, the situation seemed a bit more complicated. What if she didn’t get the telegram? What if he’d been presumptuous thinking she could up and drop everything to come meet him?

  His questions fizzled away at the sight of a familiar face, a woman’s profile twenty feet ahead. Couples shuffled back and forth between them. The universe slowed as the path cleared, giving him a full view of the knockout blonde clutching her pocketbook. The gap in her beige overcoat revealed a curve-hugging baby blue dress cut just below the knee. A matching large-brimmed hat rested atop her cascading locks.

  How surreal to finally be so close to her. A sudden desire to exchange wedding vows flared through him, assuming their connection in person was even a fraction of what it had been in their letters.

  So what was he waiting for? More important, what was he going to say to her?

  He downed a dry gulp of confidence as he strode forward, trying his best not to limp. Ten feet…six feet…two.

  “Betty?”

  She turned to him.

  “Hi, Morgan.” She lowered her chin, accentuating her blue eyes. She was even more stunning than the image embedded in his memory.

  “So you, um, got my telegram?” What was he saying? Obviously she did. “What I mean is, thanks for coming.”

  She smiled the gentle smile he knew like the back of his hand. “Thanks for the invitation.”

  When he opened his mouth but failed to speak, she giggled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t believe you’re actually here, and I’m here, and …” He paused, then finished the thought simply. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Betty nodded with a look of understanding. That’s when Morgan realized there were no words for this moment. He dropped his bag and whisked her into his arms. She gasped and grabbed the top of her hat. Relying on his good leg, he spun her around in a move that even Gene Kelly would have found respectable. Her laughter filled the air, filled his heart, empowering him with the belief that together anything was possible.

  Now if he could just find the closest chapel.

  42

  October 1945

  Chicago Union Station

  Liz flew through the labyrinth of Union Station—down the grand staircase and past wooden benches, through the underground passageway. Fear and adrenaline tethered her insides.

  Roughly an hour ago, she’d come home early from work to prepare for her college awards reception, hoping for an opportunity to speak privately with Betty—about Morgan, about Dalton, about everything. Yet she’d found the house empty. Not until Liz happened across the wrinkled telegram in the kitchen did she understand why. The message had first induced shock, then panic, which only intensified during her race through the city.

  Barely pausing, Liz tipped her neck back to check the station clock. A quarter to six already! The train was scheduled to pull in ten minutes ago. Her plan for gradual disclosure crash-landed in the realm of impossibility. She had never intended to face Morgan and Betty at once, always separately. But what option did she have? The sooner she presented an explanation, the better.

  She ratcheted up her pace. Through the bright blur of Allied flags and war bond murals, she noted Morgan’s track number. Fourteen. Fourteen was better than thirteen. She didn’t subscribe to superstitions, but she’d cling to anything that could help her today.

  Shooting stars, four-leaf clovers. She would have sought out both if she had the time.

  Scanning for the platform gates, she angled around the ticket booth. Her thoughts of luck splintered when she collided with a wall of a moving suit. A man, paunchy and ruddy-faced, muttered around his limp cigarette, his newspaper pages parachuting into a heap. She registered a fraction of his words—something about dames watching where they were going—before she noticed her handbag on the floor. From its gaping clasp, contents stretched several feet, a trail leading to a shoeshine station.

  “No, no, no,” she cried under her breath.

  She scooped up her purse, inventorying the spill in a flash: a handkerchief, some receipts, a couple of coins. Nothing worth stopping for. “I’m sorry,” she called to the man, whose grumbling diminished as she scrambled down the concourse. She visually skimmed servicemen’s faces while weaving through the bustle. The back of a blonde with Betty’s frame broke into view, jarring Liz’s heart. The gal turned and wiggled her fingers to gain the attention of a stout redcap toting a pair of suitcases. Middle-aged features revealed that the lady wasn’t Betty.

  Of course it wasn’t Betty, because she’d just now be greeting Morgan at the train.

  Liz scurried onward. Finally she reached the entrance to the tracks. But her legs stalled. This was it. Fate awaited on the other side of the wall. The path of her life could be determined by whatever should happen in the next few minutes.

  Hands shaking, she smoothed the sweetheart neckline of her long black dress. She adjusted her pearls, then the collar of her open coat, having no idea why she was primping. Pristine attire would be irrelevant once the phrases began tumbling from her mouth. She could feel the words readying, rising in her throat. She pushed them down and stepped outside.

  Track twenty. Eighteen. Sixteen. At fourteen, a steel locomotive rested after a tiresome journey, its bones creaking as they settled. Only scant groupings of pairs and families appeared on the platform. Her gaze hopped from one uniform to another, each face prompting elimination. She strained to hear voices, but none rang familiar. No sound from Betty. No sight of Morgan. Where on earth were they?

  Countering her trepidation and heightened nerves, optimism mounted in drifts. Maybe he hadn’t come off the train yet. And Betty was late, made a stop on the way. That’s it. That had to be it.

  But then, why was the platform so empty?

  Liz looked around. There were other trains farther down. She must have misread the track number. He could be on four instead of fourteen. Or else his train was delayed, and the one in front of her was merely borrowing space.

  She moved toward a dark, elderly station worker sweeping the ground nearby.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  He arched his neck up to see her, quirking his mouth to the side.

  “There’s a train scheduled to arrive at five thirty-five. Do you happen to know if it’s late, or which track it might be on?”

  He swung his glance toward the locomotive beside her. “That there’d be the one, ma’am.”

  She shook her head. Shook it again. He had to be mistaken. “No,” she protested. “It can’t be. There’d be more passengers out here.”

  “Train got in early.”

  “Early?”

  “Yes’um. Twenty mi
nutes ago, I’d say.” He shuffled off, not waiting for a response.

  As his statement replayed in her mind, the fresh consequences rained down, drops of iron on her shoulders. They rolled over her arms, wearying her limbs. Her handbag fell to the concrete.

  Just then, a whistle blew on another train, the signal for its departure. At the sound, deep inside, Liz felt something shatter: It was the last bit of hope she had tried so desperately to keep intact.

  43

  October 1945

  Chicago, Illinois

  Morgan settled beside Betty on a city park bench overlooking the Chicago River. Ignoring the passing pedestrians and cruising motorboats, he studied her eyes. He searched for a deep sense of familiarity, yet even her powdery perfume seemed foreign. Everything about their interaction suddenly resembled the discomfort of a blind date.

  But what was he expecting? They’d need a little time to warm up, to transfer their affectionate messages from paper into verbalized words. Words like: Will you marry me?

  “So, Betty,” he said, “how have you been?”

  “I’ve been extremely well. Thank you.”

  He waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t.

  As he sought another conversation starter, he noted her eying his cane propped against the bench. No wonder she was so quiet. She was probably deciding on a proper way to ask about his injury.

  “If all goes well,” he assured her, “I shouldn’t need this old piece of wood much longer.” “Oh?”

  “Just went back to duty a bit early. The doc at Fort Dix thought it’d help the knee heal faster.” The explanation seeped relief into her face. “I suppose I should’ve warned you. But I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Of course,” she said, followed by an interminable pause. He fought the urge to fidget.

  Awkwardness was firmly planted on the bench between them. To boot off the invisible, unwanted guest, all Morgan had to do was imagine what he’d write to her at this very moment. Before he knew it, his words flowed out. “It’s hard to believe you’re here. Truth is, you’re even prettier than I remembered.” And she was. Not even her starlet-ranking photo did her justice.

  “You think so, do you?” She smiled, angling her hat with a tip of her head.

  “Betty, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at the picture you gave me.”

  “My, my. You certainly know how to make a girl blush.” She covered her cheek with her gloved hand, but then protruded her lips as if hit by a disconcerting thought. “To be honest, I didn’t get the impression you were all that interested when we first met.”

  The USO dance, where it all began. In rapid flashes, his mind rounded up a scattering of scenes: his encounter with Betty, the swaffled petty officer, the captivating brunette with no last name.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Guess things were a little wild that night.” He needed to keep the focus on Betty, let her know she was the only person who mattered now. “You definitely got my attention with your beautiful writing, though.” An understatement, but the declaration appeared enough to refresh her spirits.

  “Yes, well…I’m glad you liked it.” She immediately fluttered a glance at the Army bag resting at his feet. “So did you bring me back anything special?”

  The way she brushed past the subject of their letters surprised him. But at least the tension between them was dissipating.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said, recalling the gift he’d been saving for months. Out of his barracks bag, he pulled a small paper sack, scarred with wrinkles from its voyage. Despite his growing anticipation, he downplayed the offering. “It’s nothing as fancy as you deserve. Just a little something I found in Paris.”

  “Paris?” Excitement ripened on her face. He placed the bag in her expectant hands, slowly, to increase the buildup like a silent drum roll. With the giddy look of a child, she slid out the book and flipped it over to read the title: Classical French Poetry. In a blink, her expression fell.

  “A book of poems,” she breathed. An emotion he could only interpret as utter disappointment entered her eyes, soaked her voice.

  “Betty?”

  She veered her gaze to his. Her smile had changed. “Thank you. It’s …terrific.”

  He’d been certain the souvenir he had purchased at a shop near Gare du Nord would be perfect for her. All this time, he’d refrained from mailing it, preferring to enjoy her delight in person. How could he have been so wrong?

  “Guess I’m not very good at buying presents. I just assumed, from what you wrote, that you’d like this sort of book.” Apparently, he didn’t know her as well as he thought.

  “Oh, no, it’s grand,” she insisted, and set the hardback on her lap, front cover down. “You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been a long week. I’m still travel weary.”

  He smiled as best he could. “I understand what that’s like.” He wasn’t fully convinced that was the reason for her lackluster reaction, but he really had no way to read her yet. Not off the page. “Say, where’d you just get back from?” he asked, jumping on the next topic.

  “Houston,” she replied. “That was my last stop, anyway.”

  “Houston—as in Texas?”

  “Actually, I should’ve said Fort Sam Houston. I was there to be processed out.”

  “Processed out? You mean from …?”

  She nodded proudly. “From the WAC. I was serving in the Pacific.”

  It took several seconds for what she’d said to register. “You mean the Women’s Army Corps?”

  “Yeah, I joined a year ago. That’s why you never heard from me again. I suppose I should’ve written to tell you I was leaving, but it all happened so fast.”

  “Hang on.” He held up his hand to interrupt, but additional words escaped him.

  “I know,” she sighed. “It’s hard to imagine me slaving away in some hospital out in the middle of a jungle.” When her lips curled upward, he mentally stepped back. Reviewing her claims, he felt a grin spreading, his confusion rolling away.

  “Okay.” He laughed. “You had me goin’ there. For a minute I thought you were serious.”

  In an instant, the corners of her mouth dropped. Angry slits replaced her large blue eyes. It was a glare he recognized, a hardening for battle. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those macho dogfaces who think women in the military are nothing but a joke.”

  The stern comment knocked the props out from under him. “N-no, of course not. I didn’t say that.” He had no inkling what had just happened. Her expression, however, made it clear she wasn’t pulling his leg, and that he’d better explain himself but good. “It’s just that…” He struggled to assemble the mismatched pieces. “If you were overseas all this time, well, then, you couldn’t have got my letters.”

  “Letters? What letters?” Her knitted brow shifted from irritation to a perplexity equaling Morgan’s. Then her forehead relaxed as if a revelation came to her. “No wonder. I just got back a few days ago. I haven’t had a chance to go through my mail at home yet.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he told her. “I meant the letters you answered.”

  She paused, again appearing baffled. “What ever are you talking about?”

  “Your letters. The ones you’ve written me over the past year.”

  “Look. From what I remember, I only wrote you once before I shipped out.”

  That couldn’t be right. The letters she’d sent weren’t imaginary, nor was her photograph. So why would she say such a thing?

  A pair of possibilities quickly formed in his mind, threatening to strip him of all he held dear. The loss would be unimaginable.

  Yet he had to know.

  “Betty, you don’t have to make up a story.” He strove for a smooth tone but could hear it roughening. “If you’ve met someone else, or are having second thoughts now that I’m here, you should say so. Just tell me the truth.”

  In the old days, he never would have been so blunt, but he simply didn’t have it in him to wast
e time anymore. And he wasn’t about to walk away from the best thing in his life without a fight.

  “I am not lying to you.” Her voice turned to ice. “Like I said, I only wrote you once.”

  Something within him was picking up speed, a tornado destroying everything in its path. He yanked the cigar box out of his bag and opened the lid. “You expect me to believe you didn’t write all these?”

  “I don’t expect you to believe anything.” She tilted the carton set sideways on his lap, barely affording the envelopes a glance. “But no, I didn’t write them.” Crossing her arms, she sat back on the bench. “You clearly have me mixed up with another girl.”

  He discounted the excuse, the impossibility, with a rigid shake of his head. If she didn’t want to be with him, he at least deserved to hear it outright. “You’re telling me there’s another Betty Cordell? On Kiernan Lane?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. “Let me see one of those.” She grabbed the top envelope and pulled out the pages. A moment later, she presented the expression of a detective who’d solved a crime yet wasn’t pleased with the findings. “It’s my name and address, all right. But I’m not the person who wrote these.”

  He peered at her, searching for the truth. What he discovered in her eyes was honesty, a frightening find. “If it wasn’t you,” he said, “then who did?”

  “Based on the handwriting? I’d say my roommate’s had some fun with you.”

  Roommate? But—that would mean—

  At the conclusion, the city fell silent, the bustling disappeared. His body weakened under the pressure of air that now stifled him. He clutched the corners of his box as if it were a life raft, afraid to let go. Afraid to accept that his greatest love was an illusion, the result of a stranger’s joke.

  Betty rose and held out the poetry book. “I’m sorry about the mix-up,” she intoned.

  Morgan remained mute, motionless, paralyzed. As if part of him had died.

  She waited, placed the book beside him. “Take care of yourself, Private.” Her voice dipped with a fraction of sympathy, a strained consolation from a fellow victim. Then she turned, hailed a Checker Cab, and climbed inside. “Guthrie Nursing Home, Lincoln Square,” she commanded to the driver, and slammed the door closed.