Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  44

  October 1945

  Chicago, Illinois

  “You knew all about this, didn’t you?” Betty stood in the office doorway, arms layered, nails dug into her purse.

  Julia looked up from her paperwork. “Betty, what are you doing here?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  Julia appeared at a loss. She spoke slowly. “Why don’t you back up and tell me what happened?”

  Betty studied her, unable to tell whether or not she was playing dumb. “A telegram came today. It was from a soldier named McClain, asking me to meet him at Union Station. That name ring a bell?”

  Julia’s face tightened. “You met up with Morgan?”

  “I suppose that answers my first question.”

  “Does Liz know?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  “Do you know how to find him? Is he still at the station?”

  “I highly doubt it,” Betty sneered. “And with the way he looked when I left, I’d be shocked if he had anything to say to either of you.”

  Behind her desk, Julia sank back into her armchair. “Oh no,” she breathed.

  “'Oh no’ is right. What’d you two think, that he’d get a kick out of your practical joke?”

  Julia’s forehead crinkled as she met her gaze. “Gosh, no. It was nothing of the sort.”

  “Isn’t that good to know.”

  “Betty,” Julia said. “I admit I knew about the letters, but I had nothing to do with writing them. I give you my word.” A deep sincerity filled her voice, attesting to her innocence.

  “Fine. Then, where’s Liz?”

  Julia shook her head, gave a helpless shrug. “I have no idea. She said she was heading home to see you.”

  How’s that for coincidence, Betty groaned to herself. “Well, if she turns up, tell her we need to talk.” With a flip of her hat, she marched toward the entry.

  “Wait,” Julia called once, then again louder. “Wait, let me explain.”

  Betty wanted desperately to shut her out, but the words baited her curiosity—always that same maddening weakness. She turned to find Julia in the office doorway. “I’m listening,” Betty huffed.

  Julia gestured behind her. “Please,” she said, “just come sit down.” Her eyes shone with an appeal, strong as a magnet. Despite Betty’s reluctance, they pulled her back to the room, where she dropped heavily into the visitor’s chair.

  Julia leaned against the edge of her desk to face her, and started. “A lot happened while you were away.”

  “Obviously,” Betty lashed out, then remembered the news about Christian. Her own dilemma paled in comparison. She softened her reply. “Sorry. Go on.”

  Julia laced her fingers across her middle. “It’s true, Liz kept writing Morgan under your name after you shipped out. But you and I were just as responsible.

  “Me?”

  “I believe you’re the one who asked Liz to write him in the first place. Am I wrong?”

  Betty cowered slightly in her chair. She’d forgotten about that. “I guess not.”

  “And,” Julia added, “I’m the one who practically forced her to read the letter he wrote back.”

  Betty felt her humiliation over the debacle with Morgan draining away. But she straightened in her seat, salvaging her rightful indignation. “That still doesn’t explain why she kept writing him after that.”

  “Because she started to care about him.”

  “But—what about Dalton?”

  Julia hesitated. “You haven’t heard?”

  Hadn’t heard what? Betty stared, waiting.

  “It’s really Liz’s place to tell you,” Julia said, “but I suppose you’ll hear soon enough. She sighed before explaining. “They broke off their engagement last February.”

  “Engagement?” Betty suddenly felt like she’d been away for a decade rather than a year. Somehow in her mind, she had always envisioned her friends’ lives going on as usual, even frozen in time. As if her own world was the only one that had flipped upside down. “So why did they break up?” she asked.

  “Liz said they just realized how different they’d become. I guess the war has changed everyone, in one way or another. But then, I’m sure you know that better than anybody.” Compassion flowed like a brook in Julia’s tone, rounding and gentle.

  Betty removed her hat and rested it atop the pocketbook on her lap. Still unsettled, she redirected to the issue at hand. “I don’t understand, though. Why didn’t Liz just tell Morgan the truth? If she cared for him, really cared for him, she should’ve told him.”

  “That’s an easy one,” Julia said with a light shrug. “Because she was scared of losing him. And I guess she loved him too much to risk it.”

  As Betty digested the logic of her friend’s response, she saw her own statement for what it was: a vent not against Liz, but against Lieutenant Kelly.

  Was it possible—could it be that Julia’s reasoning applied to both?

  Betty had spent months telling herself that everything with Leslie had been a farce, blame and anger padding her pain. Nonetheless, on occasion, the night she and Leslie shared behind the waterfall would surface in a dream, and she would see his eyes, a loving look in their depths, too ardent not to be real.

  Perhaps her mother’s scandalous affair hadn’t been all that different. Being a fool in love, it seemed, didn’t necessarily constitute a foolish person.

  The thought linked Betty’s focus back to Liz. She kneaded her hat, pressing down the guilt easing in from her earlier behavior. “I only wish I’d known. If I had, I could’ve helped. Or at least handled things better.” She hated to think she’d prevented a dear friend’s happy ending, even if Betty might never get her own. “You think there’s a chance they’ll work things out?”

  Julia paused. “I don’t know,” she said. “I sure hope so.”

  “It’d be nice to think there’s hope for the rest of us.” Betty had tried for a light tone, but the phrase came out solemn, reflective.

  Julia tilted her head, as if remembering. “So I take it you and the Australian pilot…” She stopped at that, inviting Betty to expound on the patient in her postcards. Oh, how things had changed since mailing those cards. Their tropical illustrations, like her writings, had too often represented how she wanted life to be, versus how it was.

  She deliberated over where to begin, regarding her relationship with Leslie. She’d always been one to recount her romances, never shy about spicy details—but this particular story, she decided, was one she preferred to keep to herself, tucked in a warm place.

  “Just wasn’t meant to be,” she replied simply.

  Julia offered a rueful nod. “I’m sorry, Betty.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.” Fending off the moisture in her eyes, she pulled up a half-mast smile. “But hey, not to worry. If my love life doesn’t pick up, I could eventually move in here. A rest home’s a swell place for lonely old maids, right?”

  Julia leaned forward and touched her hand. “Sweetheart, you of all people are not going to end up alone. I promise.”

  As Betty absorbed the assurance, needed so greatly her chest ached in response, a drop leaked down each of her cheeks. “Neither will you,” she told Julia, whose eyes now glistened. Then, following Rosalyn’s advice, Betty dashed away her tears and prepared to forge on.

  “So,” she said, “what should I do now? I’m open to suggestion.”

  Julia produced a handkerchief from her skirt pocket. She handed it over with a warm look. “I wish I could help you, hon. But really, you’re the only person who should decide where your life goes from here.”

  Betty had intended her question to address how she could best remedy the Liz-Morgan situation, yet inadvertently, Julia had stumbled upon another of her troubling crossroads.

  Where did Betty want her life to go? Where would she find her calling, her purpose?

  “I don’t know,” she answered the thought aloud. “The only place I’ve eve
r actually felt useful was working in the hospital. But I can’t exactly run out and become a nurse.”

  “Why not?” Julia asked, a gentle challenge. No hint of teasing. “You could do it now, couldn’t you? Using the GI Bill?”

  Betty hadn’t given any of that much thought. “Well, yes …I guess I could but …”

  “But what?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? Did she seriously have to say it? “School has never been my forte, you know that.”

  Julia sat back and raised an eyebrow at her. “Quite honestly, Betty? I believe you could accomplish anything you put your mind to.”

  At those words, Betty’s memories skimmed through the past year, flashing on things that, until then, she’d have never thought herself capable: nursing duties in leaky tents; emergency care with limited supplies. Imagine what she could do in a nice, clean, civilized hospital. Plus, she couldn’t deny the tinge of envy she still harbored for those fancy blue capes. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “We’ll see.”

  And that was the most certain answer she could give. For a powerful truth had come to her: Before she could spring into her future, she needed to smooth over the bumps of her past.

  Betty dabbed at her cheeks, finally knowing what she had to do. She looked at Julia. “Any chance you’d be up for taking a trip with me, in the meantime?”

  “Sure.” She sounded intrigued. “Where to?”

  “Kansas.”

  “Kansas?” Julia echoed. “Why there?”

  “My mom and I—we’ve never been great about writing each other, as you probably know. I just figured a visit might be nice, now that I’m home.”

  After a thoughtful beat, Julia nodded. “I’m sure she’d like that,” she replied. “But are you certain this shouldn’t be just the two of you? I wouldn’t want to intrude, if you’d prefer having family time.”

  “But you are family,” Betty said, realizing that Julia and Liz both were. Their wartime stations may have differed, but they’d all still served together, and survived. “What’s more, I’ll need the support. New Guinea, I can handle; going to Wichita alone, I’m not so sure.”

  “Well, since you put it that way.” Julia let out a giggle and collected her hankie. “Say, what are you doing tonight? Want to hit the town, a way to officially welcome you back?”

  Betty started to accept, then remembered her other roommate. “I’d love to, but I think Liz and I have some catching up to do.” Starting with a strategy of locating a specific GI.

  “Actually,” Julia said, “she has an awards thing tonight. Told me not to expect her until late.”

  Betty glanced at her watch, confirming that not much could be accomplished until morning, anyway.

  “So, what do you think?” Julia asked. “Dinner at Parnell’s?”

  Parnell’s. A beloved oldie featuring the three C’s: chatting, chili, and cherry Cokes. And, best of all, a slice of normalcy.

  “You’re on,” Betty said. “Although I should warn you. After living in a god-awful jungle, my table manners might need polishing.” Over more than the remark, they exchanged smiles, reflective of the women they’d become, enduring and strong. And no matter where their journeys took them, those traits would only grow.

  45

  October 1945

  Chicago Union Station

  In the station’s Great Hall, Morgan stooped while seated on a long wooden bench. A good hundred feet up, the curved atrium ceiling encased the waiting room like a fishbowl. Surrounded by towering Corinthian columns and an ocean of pink marble flooring, he could recall only one time in his life he’d ever felt so small, so lost: the day he stood at his mother’s funeral, devastated in the wake of his father’s lie.

  Once again, someone he’d trusted had pulled the world out from under him. Another brutal swoop had left him sprawled on the floor, too despondent to pick himself up.

  Already, he’d purchased a one-way voucher to reach Belknap. He felt like a fugitive outrunning the law, needing to flee as fast as possible. Given that he no longer had a place to call home, his uncle’s farm was the only destination that made sense. Morgan knew how to harvest a crop, if nothing else. He just wished the thought of going there alone didn’t seem so empty, a feeling underscored by the surrounding scene: servicemen holding their sweethearts, spouting tears and exclamations of bliss. At the sight, a dull ache cycled through his body, from his knee to his chest to his head, then back down again.

  He glanced at his watch. The train couldn’t get here soon enough.

  “Candy bar, mister?” A young boy with plaid knickers and a woolen cap seemed to magically appear.

  “Sorry. I didn’t bring any home.” He didn’t know the D-ration treats were as sought after back in the States as they were overseas.

  “No, sir, do you wanna buy a candy bar?” The youngster gestured to an oversized cardboard box toted by a shorter kid, presumably his little brother, who was dressed in a similar hand-me-down outfit. The pair projected such earnestness Morgan couldn’t bring himself to say no.

  “How much they going for these days?”

  “Eight cents apiece,” the first one replied.

  “Eight cents?” Morgan acted indignant. “That’s a bit steep, don’t you think?”

  “Hey, mister,” said the smaller kid with a slight lisp, “a guy’s gotta make a livin'.” He flashed a grin enhanced by two missing front teeth.

  Boy, did he sound familiar.

  “Your name wouldn’t be Charlie by any chance, would it?”

  “Naw, it’s Tommy. But fellas call me Lucky, ‘cause I’m so popular with the dames.”

  Morgan smiled at the vision of the grade schooler chasing little shrieking girls around the playground, girls who would undoubtedly be chasing him in a few years. “Then I guess I’d better buy something, so you can take care of those pretty ladies of yours.”

  Lucky vigorously nodded his capped head.

  “So how many would ya like?” the elder brother asked.

  “Let’s see …eight cents apiece, huh? How does three bars for twenty cents strike you?”

  After a few seconds of silent calculating, the salesman sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, but you got yourself a deal.”

  Morgan scrounged his pant pocket for loose change, yet came up with only a dime. He’d stowed all his cash in the bottom of his cigar box—just about the last thing he wanted to rifle through. The enthusiasm brightening the youngsters’ eyes, however, gave him no choice.

  From his barracks bag, Morgan pulled out the container. He released the binding rope and flipped open the lid. His fingers naturally slid into the weathered cardboard grooves. He fumbled beneath the pile of keepsakes until he located a wrinkled greenback. When Lucky handed over the merchandise, Morgan presented him with the money.

  “Oh, no, mister,” the older one said, holding out his palm. “I’m in charge of the dough.”

  Smart kid.

  “Well, then, here you go, John D. Rockefeller.” The boy accepted the buck and reached into his jingling pocket to make change. “It’s all right. Keep the difference.”

  “No foolin'?” he exclaimed as if the single dollar bill were a million.

  “With all your brother’s girlfriends, sounds like you’re gonna need it.”

  “Thanks a lot!” they chimed, and trampled off, probably out of fear that he’d have second thoughts.

  Morgan shook his head, imagining how similar the “rowdy McClain brothers” must have been at that age. He was about to close the carton when his gaze caught the corner of a snapshot amidst the letter stack. He knew what the image was before pulling it out: a photo Frank had given him during his visit in New York. The picture, taken on a Leica camera “liberated” from a German POW, featured Morgan and Charlie at a camp in a Belgian village. Side by side they stood, caught mid-laughter, layered with Army gear from head to toe.

  No longer were they kids dressed in handmade costumes to play cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians. They had become realli
fe soldiers, men who were willing to sacrifice everything for the needs of strangers and fight for something greater than themselves.

  His eyes settled on Charlie’s face. “So now what do I do?” he whispered. Never in his life had he wished he could turn to his little brother for advice like he did at this moment. “Just tell me what to do.”

  As if receiving a reply, Morgan felt his attention pulled from the snapshot in his hand to his open box. There lay Betty’s photo. He picked up the worn keepsake, placed it over his brother’s, and for the umpteenth time, he studied her striking features. Here was the image of a woman whom he apparently didn’t know the first thing about. Yet it was with her he’d envisioned spending his future, her face he’d melded with the very letters that had brought him comfort while shivering in sodden foxholes, praying he would survive until morning.

  Recalling the note that had started it all, he flipped over her picture.

  To Morgan,

  Take care of yourself.

  Betty Cordell

  It was so obvious now. Even the handwriting should have been a dead giveaway. Not a single stroke in the scrawled message mirrored the eloquent script in the letters he’d been duped into believing were from her.

  The letters.

  Were there clues he’d missed all along? Hints that would have exposed the ruse had he just read between the lines?

  Reluctantly, he picked up the top envelope. He unfolded the paper from inside, its feminine scent fading along with his dreams, and revisited the words he knew by heart. He was only a third down the page when his train rolled into the station.

  46

  October 1945

  Evanston, Illinois

  A cape of darkness fell over the room as day passed into night.

  Seated at the kitchen table, hand propping her head, Liz stared at the telegram. The lilting jazz tune playing on the radio did little to alleviate the throbbing behind her eyes.