by Murray Pura
“What about the lady in white?”
The whole club seemed to blow apart. Men shouted and whistled. The clapping was like big surf breaking at Nanakuli during a storm.
“I thought you said this was a posh club,” Becky said to Raven, feeling the heat in her face.
“It is posh. No drunks. No fights. Hardly anyone smokes.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Keep dancing with me.”
“Christian—Thunderbird—I don’t run on aviation fuel—”
“You’re young.”
“I was young. I’m twenty and ancient in March.”
“You’ve got a long way to go till ancient, baby.”
The band struck up again and Raven began to swing her arm to help her get into the rhythm. “Now just stick with me, kid.”
“Kid yourself, old man. Anything you do, I’ll do. And if I decide to cut loose and go solo, catch me if you can.”
Flying and whirling and sliding. Sometimes Raven was with her and sometimes she was alone. She saw the band and the trombone players on their feet, saw the sailors and soldiers and pilots waving at her and whistling with their fingers in their teeth, saw her aunt laughing in Manuku’s arms, felt Raven’s quick kiss on her cheek, thought she could just about reach the ceiling if she jumped a little higher and stretched a little farther. Finally the music ended for the second time and she collapsed into Raven’s arms as the room erupted.
“That’s it. I can’t. No matter how loud they clap and yell.”
“It is pretty loud.”
“I don’t care. I’ve served my country. I’ve made up for all the Amish who never served America during a time of war. I need you to take care of me now.”
“All right. I’ll do that.”
Slowly the clapping and whistling died down. The band was silent. No one was singing. She leaned against him and closed her eyes.
Suddenly a blue spotlight came through her eyelids and she lifted her head. “What’s this?”
“This? Why, this is you.”
“This is me? What are you talking about?”
The dance floor was empty except for the two of them.
The bandleader came up to the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, this little lady isn’t just another pretty face. She’s a flight trainer at Peterson’s and has worked not only with civilians but some of our army pilots to make them the best in the world.”
The army men cheered and someone shouted, “What about naval aviators?”
“So the Army Air Forces decided to give her a call sign. I expect we all could give a gal as sweet as her a lot of call signs. Without thinking too hard I could come up with a couple of dozen myself.” Everyone laughed. “But the boys at Wheeler gave her something special. I don’t think any man of you will be displeased with it now that you’ve seen how she sparkles and shines. Ladies and gentlemen, our lead trumpeter, Mr. Benny Hart, with Hoagy Carmichael’s immortal ‘Stardust.’”
Becky looked at Raven in surprise. The trumpet notes rang out pure and clean and he brought her in close and moved with her gently across the open space. As it sunk in with the servicemen what her call sign was, they began to clap enthusiastically but without any whistles or shouts, warmly expressing their approval of what the men at Wheeler had come up with. A tear came to one of Becky’s eyes and remained at its corner, glittering like a drop of sapphire in the spotlight. The beauty of the music washed over her body and spirit. She felt it going on deep inside her. Raven’s lips brushed her damp hair.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I love it. It’s such a perfect melody.”
“Just like you. I told you that.”
“Don’t be crazy. But thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“Every man in this room agrees with me.” He tilted her chin and kissed her lips. “Shall I take that vote, Stardust?”
The band joined in with the trumpeter. The bandleader said, “Everyone dance, please, everyone dance.” Becky was aware of other couples around them, aware of the slow and sweet movement of men holding women. Once she opened her eyes because she felt something, and she saw her aunt smiling at her, her head resting on Manuku’s white-suited shoulder. She smiled in return and closed her eyes again. Raven continued to dance her softly in the dark, the spotlight gone.
“It’s all so wonderful,” she whispered.
“Yeah, Stardust. It is. Thank God.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Hey. Wake up. It’s Christmas morning.”
Becky pulled the covers over her head. “It is not.”
Nate placed a tray of food on her bedside table. “Bacon. Scrambled eggs. Toast with marmalade. Coffee with cream. A cinnamon roll. Looks like it.”
Becky sat up, blinking and wiping at the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “Who made all this?”
“I did. I was up with Manuku and came home after that. Dad lent me the jeep.”
“What time is it?”
“Two.”
“No!”
“I thought you might be dead so I checked your pulse.”
She took the tray and put it on her lap. “Christian has had me living at the pace of a sixteen-year-old.” She bit into the toast and marmalade. “Thank goodness I had the wisdom to beg off for Friday.” She smiled. “It’s great to have Christmas breakfast three weeks early. Bless you.”
Nate sat down on the edge of her bed. “Aunt Ruth flew for fifteen minutes on her own today. Manuku said she has rock-solid nerves and is cool as a tray of ice with the stick.”
“That’s amazing. But it doesn’t surprise me. I don’t even feel comfortable calling her Aunt Ruth anymore because she’s changed so much. She’s a completely different woman from the person I knew in Pennsylvania. You should have seen her dance last night.”
“Boogie-woogie?”
She sipped her coffee. “Yeah. She’s a natural. Just flows with the music. She looked about twenty-nine when she was dancing to ‘In the Mood’ with Manuku.”
“I heard from him you weren’t much of a slouch yourself.”
“Ha. He exaggerates. Christian knew how to move his feet though.”
“Well, Jesus danced at Cana.”
“It doesn’t say that.”
“It was the culture. He would have danced. It was what you did as a good Jew.”
“And good Jews kept their friends from being humiliated by brewing wine for them.”
“That too.”
Becky plunged her fork into the scrambled eggs. “Did you put ham and cheese into these eggs?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re very good. Well, I never was Amish anyway. Not really. For a few weeks I took instruction. That’s all. It’s Ruth—Aunt Ruth—who has thrown it all out the window. As if she were rumspringa like you and me.”
Nate made a face. “I don’t even consider myself rumspringa. Mom and Dad never raised us Amish. They raised us as stunt flyers and missionary pilots. Sure, a few German prayers popped up from time to time. But I have nothing Amish to toss out the window because I was never Amish to begin with.”
She chewed and swallowed a mouthful of cinnamon roll. “Who baked this?”
“Ruth.”
“I knew it. Mom uses more raisins.” Becky popped a piece of bacon in her mouth, then wiped her mouth. “You never had an Amish girl you fell for. But I had Moses. That’s how the Amish way got into my blood. There’s a lot of good in it, Nate.”
“I know. But would God be able to heal me like he has if I weren’t able to sit in a cockpit?”
“I guess not. But if you had been raised Amish, real Amish, you wouldn’t have been flying to begin with and you never would have been allowed to go to China as a missionary.”
Nate’s face darkened. “I might say amen to that. But if I hadn’t been in China many of those people would never have heard about a God of love. And many wouldn’t have been saved spiritually or physically. The Japanese weren’t able to kill all the ones we hid.” The
look passed, and he patted his sister on the knee that was drawn up under the blankets. “Listen. A couple of things. First of all, the Lexington left today. It had the Chicago, Portland, and Astoria—they’re cruisers—with it. And nine destroyers.”
“What? Where is it going? To meet up with the Enterprise?”
“Who knows where the Big E is? Some say it’s another weekend exercise.”
“Oh, like Enterprise’s weekend exercise that isn’t over yet?” Becky finished the cinnamon roll.
“Right. So no one believes that. People have Lady Lex going to the Philippines, to Guam, to Wake, even to Australia. We’re never going to find out. At least not right away.”
“What else?”
“The Pan-Am clipper brought in a bunch of mail today. The good bishop wrote me again. I thought you might want to have a look at his note.”
“So soon?” Becky put the tray back on her bedside table, plumped up her pillows, and leaned against them with her coffee in hand. “Read it to me.”
“Okay. But I’m not going to read all of it line by line. He says right after he sent the letter to you, what he calls his un-Amish letter, he felt the Lord tell him to read Isaiah 55. He asks if I remember Grandfather Kurtz reading the verses from that chapter—you know, my thoughts are not your thoughts, your ways are not my ways, says the Lord.”
“Sure. At the kitchen table. I remember that.”
“Then he asks if I remember that his last words to us were from the same chapter—as the rain and snow come down from heaven and don’t return without watering the earth so is God’s word, which will not return to him empty but accomplish what he desires. We were all standing on the porch.”
“And he drove away in his buggy. That was goodbye.”
“So he writes out verses 12 and 13 and says he believes they are for me and also for our entire family.”
For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth in peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree, and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree: and it shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.
“But what does it mean, Nate?”
“Well, it’s about change for the good, isn’t it? Something is bad but now instead of the bad a beautiful thing is going to replace it. There was a bush of sharp thorns and it’s gone and a tall fir tree stands in its place. There was a tangle of briers and it doesn’t exist any longer because a myrtle tree is where it used to be.”
Becky set down her coffee cup, drew up her other knee under the covers, and wrapped both arms around them. “It sounds like us.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was a thornbush as far as my heart and Moses went. Then God brought Christian into my life. After China your life and soul were a tangle of briers. But God gave you back the sky. It’s changing you. A myrtle tree is growing up inside you instead.”
He smiled. “Yeah.” He patted her knee again. “Not just us. Ruth and Christian too, don’t you think?”
She thought about it. “Yeah.” She looked at Nate. “So did Bishop Zook send it for us? I mean, is it just about us?”
“He doesn’t know himself. He ends by writing that he’s not sure exactly who or what these verses apply to. Just that he felt he was meant to send them.” Nate stood up. “You know there’s a Christmas meeting at the house tonight. I promised Mom I’d do cleanup to make sure the house is ready.”
Becky snorted. “Oh, sure. Clean it up so the army pilots can mess it up.”
“Something like that. Want to help?”
“I’ll be right down.”
That night several of the pilots were lucky enough to drive up to the Whetstone house in the crimson Packard with Billy Skipp, Skinny happily at the wheel. The others came by jeep. Somehow Kalino, Hani, Manuku, and Ruth were drawn into the planning group, but Skipp didn’t care. He said he’d grab as many as he could if it would help the squadron pull off a great party.
“If I do invite Admiral Kimmel to stop by I want the best food, the best band, and the best tree.” He sipped at a glass of fresh pineapple juice. “And the best Santa Claus. Who’s eager to put on the red?”
No one spoke up.
“I’m not asking you to do a suicide mission. You’re sure to come back alive from this one. Juggler? Shooter? Whistler?”
Shooter shook his head, still wearing his aviator glasses in the house. “No can do, sir. Bird and I have the chow detail and that’s taking a lot of work, let me tell you.”
Skipp nodded at the attractive young woman sitting beside Shooter. “Peggy, is it?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No, sir.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. It’s Megs.”
“No, sir. Sydney. My dad is chief of your ground crew.”
“Archer. You’re his daughter?”
“Sydney Archer, yes, sir.”
“You don’t look at all like him.”
“Thank you, sir. He’s put on a lot of weight in the last six months.”
Skipp leaned toward her. “What do you think? Is the chow going to be good?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I have Mrs. Whetstone, Ruth Kurtz, Kalino, Hani, and Shirley Peterson on the team. And your wife.”
“My wife?”
“Yes, sir. As of noon today. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson are supposed to be joining us this evening. Perhaps that’s them now. Mrs. Peterson can tell you all about what your wife’s going to do.”
They could hear car doors slamming and Flapjack’s loud voice.
Sydney carried on. “We also have Pastor Thor’s church on the runway, sir. All sorts of lists are being circulated. But we do need to know how many to expect. Have you sent out your invitations, sir?”
“Well—” Skipp drank from his glass which was empty. “I don’t want to be premature—”
“So here’s where half my flight school is—goldbricking.” Flapjack walked in wearing an orange-and-pink Hawaiian T-shirt. “Please don’t wait. Just start without me.”
He flopped down on a couch next to Manuku and Ruth. “I hear you were up when Lady Lex stretched her legs.”
Manuku nodded. “Ruth was actually on the stick.”
“How was that?”
“Impressive sight, sir, with the three heavy cruisers.”
Ruth had her hands folded in her lap. “I loved watching all the wakes. So many of them. So white. Like knives slitting water open.”
“I meant, how did Ruth do?”
Manuku grinned and put his arm around her shoulders. “Great. Just great.”
Ruth drew close to him. “Thank you.”
“I’ve been baking, baking, baking.” Flapjack’s wife, Shirley, came into the living room, her round face dotted with pink splotches and her curly red hair damp with perspiration. She was carrying several tins stacked on top of each other. “Shortbread. I don’t care where a person lives in the world. You celebrate Christmas with shortbread.” She looked around at all the faces. “Tell me, Lyyndaya, when was it that you and your husband decided to adopt a squadron?”
Lyyndaya took the tins from her. “I have no idea. It started with Becky and Christian. Nate got into it somehow. Then the church. Of course knowing Billy since 1918 probably helped.”
Shirley took one of the tins back. “I want the boys to try them out. The others are for your freezer. You said you wanted to fill it up, didn’t you?”
“I do, Shirley. Thank you.”
Shirley pried the lid off, folded back the wax paper, and gave the large tin to Batman. “You just take a few and pass them on, please, Lieutenant.”
“You can count on me, ma’am.”
Shirley sat down next to her husband. “What did I miss?”
“I have no idea.” Flapjack raised his eyebrows as high as he could. “I think they were talking about food.”
Billy Skipp raised his empty juice glass to Shirley and
Flapjack. “Food and the number of guests. I’ll say three hundred.” He turned to Sydney. “How’s that?”
“That’s a lot.”
“See what you can do. Invitations go out Monday.” He caught Batman’s eye. “How’s Glenn Miller coming?”
“We’re doing the best we can, sir, with what we have. Juggler has the list, sir.”
Juggler tugged a ragged piece of paper out of his hip pocket. “Um, we have Harrison for lead trumpet.”
“Who’s that?”
“Radioman on the Coast Guard cutter Taney, sir. He’s really good. We’ve listened to him.”
“Good, huh? I’d like to hear him play for myself.”
“Sir, he’ll be at the service on the beach Saturday night.” Juggler kept his eyes glued to the list. “He’s going to play a hymn. You could drop in.”
Skipp pointed at him. “We need at least ten players to give us a big sound. Never mind the state of my soul.”
“Our friend David Goff—”
“Who’s this Goff?”
“USN, sir. He’s talking to guys on the Arizona and Maryland and West Virginia. I think we have a drummer and a bass player lined up.”
“We need more brass.”
Batman spoke up. “If the colonel could suggest some of his pals in the upper ranks, we’d be happy to teach them how to blow a horn.”
“Ha ha, wise guy. It won’t be much of a party without a band, will it?”
“Juggler is doing navy. I’m doing marines and army. Even if we only have six players we’re setting up our first rehearsal for Sunday night.”
“That’s more like it.” Skipp turned to Wizard. “What about my pine tree?”
Wizard had just been whispering in Hani’s ear and she snorted and put her hand over her mouth to stop a laugh.
“Well, do share, Lieutenant.” Skipp looked around Lyyndaya’s shoulder as she poured him more pineapple juice from a pitcher. “We could all use a good laugh.”
“Nothing, sir. Private joke.”
“Let’s make it a public joke, Lieutenant, shall we?”
Wizard made a face and shrugged at the same time. “Lockjaw’s on snowflakes. And a cold front. We’re hoping the meteorologists will bring subzero temperatures in from Russia for the party. I want Hani to do a hula dance during the blizzard we plan to come up with.”
