The Long Path Home

by Ellen Lindseth

  And yet . . . she missed her family. She missed Fern’s eye rolls when she asked to tag along on dates. She missed her mother’s hugs and quiet words of wisdom, even if Vi hadn’t always listened. She even missed her father’s corny jokes, the ones he trotted out whenever she or Fern were in a bad mood over one thing or another.

  But as the days away from home turned into weeks, and then into years, going back seemed even more impossible than ever. How did one tell her parents that not only had she had sex without being married but she had gotten pregnant, given the baby up for adoption, resorted to prostitution for a year to pay the rent, and now worked as a stripper, a job she was not only good at but actually enjoyed? In truth, she was proud of how she had overcome so many obstacles and yet also very aware of how far she had landed from her parents’ dreams for her.

  And that made her think of Jimmy and the small savings account she had set up for him. If she died, her parents wouldn’t know to forward it to his family, but Sal would, having helped her with the paperwork. So perhaps she should use Sal as her next of kin? He, at least, could be counted on to say a prayer for her as he settled her affairs in Chicago. But then her parents wouldn’t know, unless they drew their own conclusions after her semiannual letters, the ones where she regaled them with carefully constructed lies about her theatrical successes all over the country, stopped. Assuming they actually still got them. For all she knew they might have moved.

  On that depressing note, she accompanied the corporal to a small one-story building wedged between two much larger ones, all painted white. There he handed her off to a different fellow, one with wire-rimmed spectacles, who was busy typing on a typewriter. Vi waited while he painfully hunted-and-pecked his way to the end of the form.

  When he looked up, a harried expression on his thin, clean-shaven face, Vi was shocked at how young he appeared. As in he might be clean shaven because he didn’t need to shave. Yes, the draft age had been lowered to eighteen. But she would be surprised if he was even that old.

  Feeling positively ancient at the ripe old age of twenty-one, she managed a slight smile. “Hiya, soldier. I’m here with the USO and was told you have some forms for me to fill out?”

  He glanced up and then blinked owlishly. A dull flush crept up his neck. “Uh, hi.”

  Flattered by his response, she winked at him. “‘Uh, hi’ yourself, handsome. My missing induction papers? The name is Heart. Virginia Heart.”

  “Um, yes . . .” His flush deepened, pleasing her even more, as he sprang into action. Drawers opened and shut as he hunted through file folders. “Hang on a moment, miss. I have them right here . . .”

  She kept her smile as she waited, trying for a nonchalant air even though her heart was beating way too fast. Finally he found the correct folder and pulled out a blank sheet. After briefly fumbling with a pen, he managed to hang on to one long enough to hand it to her along with a personal information form.

  “If you could fill this out for me, miss? Once you’re done, I can make your dog tags and get you on your way to the quartermaster.”

  She hesitated as she ran her gaze over the questions, hardly daring to hope. “Is this everything?”

  “There’s still the physical, but the medical officer will take care of that. And the loyalty oath that needs to be signed. And the form for getting paid, and then another for requisition of supplies—”

  She held up her hand to stem the flow of information. Goodness, the army had a lot of forms! “But for the moment, this is all you need?”

  “Yes, miss. Name, date of birth, address, religion, any schooling, current occupation, and next of kin. Oh, and I’ll need to see your passport.”

  “It’s in my suitcase. May I bring it by later?” She smiled sweetly to disguise the lie.

  He swallowed, his face turning pink. “Uh, sure. Just don’t forget. The army can’t send you overseas until we see it.”

  “Deal.” She set the paper on his desk and quickly completed the form, trying not to overly worry about his warning. There was still time for her to ask Wyatt, or even Sue—who didn’t want to be caught short a dancer—the best way to remedy the situation. With only a small pinch of trepidation she added her signature at the bottom, affirming that all the information given was verified and true.

  As lies went, signing the form wasn’t that big. The only false information on the form was her new name. She had also decided to list Sal as her next of kin, which still didn’t feel quite right. On the other hand, as long as she sent her next missive home from overseas, maybe her family would guess they should contact the USO with any questions?

  “There.” She glanced up. The young man’s gaze was glassy—dazed, even. Too late she realized she had given him a really swell view down the front of her blouse. For Lily the display was rather tame, but for her new persona? Staying in character, she clutched her collar together as she straightened, as if embarrassed. The soldier flushed a dark, guilty red.

  Hastily, she handed him the form. As if she’d just given him a live hand grenade, he leaped out of his chair and vanished into the room behind him. The metal clacking of a machine mystified her for a moment, but then he reappeared with a thin metal-ball chain and two dog tags. With fumbling fingers, he managed to thread the tags and fasten the clasp of the chain.

  “Here you go.” He held the tags out, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “You’re all official now.”

  As she took the tags, all her amusement faded. The warm metal in her palm burned with the enormity of what she was doing. There was no going back now. In for a penny, in for a pound, her grandmother always said. Unfortunately, she suspected she was in for a lot more than a pound.

  Another soldier waited outside the office to escort her back to the quartermaster’s. This one, a slightly older private with black hair cut so short it looked blue, wasn’t quite as awestruck by her as the previous fellow. And, as luck would have it, he was also particularly chatty and well able to maintain the conversation all by himself.

  Nodding pleasantly, as if following the discussion, she instead reflected on what had happened in the office moments ago. Would Virginia have flirted with the fellow? Was she giving herself away through unconscious behaviors like leaning over without thought to her cleavage?

  The answers were likely no and yes, which meant she had to do a better job of staying in character or risk being kicked out of the USO before she even got signed up. It was so frustrating, really. Projecting an air of innocence around women was relatively easy, but around men? Not so much. For some reason, the Y chromosome always brought out the siren in her.

  She was literally going to be her own worst enemy if she didn’t get her act together.

  By the end of the day, however, Vi was worried less about maintaining her disguise than not having a nervous breakdown. At every turn the army seemed determined to erase any hope of privacy. There were official photographs taken for army records. Fingerprints inked on numerous official-looking cards. A very thorough physical that had her, of all people, blushing with embarrassment, and a whole plethora of vaccinations that left her feeling like she’d been accosted by a rabid porcupine.

  The ultimate trial, though, was having to sit through the mandatory lecture on avoiding venereal diseases. The doctor, an older man who looked just as uncomfortable discussing the topic as she felt hearing it, also advised her to stock up on feminine pads for her monthly periods, since the army didn’t stock those items and supplies overseas would be sporadic at best. And, by the way, becoming pregnant would get her sent home immediately, and on her own dime, so it would be best if she “kept her knees together.”

  Vi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that piece of advice. While she appreciated his concern, that horse had left the barn long ago. The only way she could get pregnant now would be through divine intervention.

  Finally, the army decided it was through with the troupe for the day. No more briefings on codes of conduct or the importance of military discipline or
the need to keep quiet about anything they might see or hear. A hot meal and a brief rehearsal afterward were all that she had left to endure. Then it would be sweet, sweet bedtime. Vi could hardly wait.

  With thoughts of soft pillows and clean sheets dancing in her head, she followed the troupe into the mess hall. Her stomach immediately growled at the smell of fried chicken and buttery mashed potatoes. She looked around to see where the line started, her frazzled nerves starting to relax, when she caught a soldier staring at her from across the crowded hall. Not staring as if she were the prettiest thing he had ever seen. No, staring. As if he thought he recognized her but couldn’t quite place the where and the why of it.

  Her fingers suddenly numb, Vi tucked a strand of dyed hair behind her ear. There was no way he could have recognized her. In her modest garb, with no stage makeup, and hair recently returned almost to its natural brunette color, she was as far from Lily Lamour as she could make herself without surgery. She had to be imagining it.

  Chapter 7

  “Does that fellow know you?” Marcie asked, coming up beside Vi.

  Vi’s hopes that she had been imagining his stare crashed and burned into complete ash. “I don’t think so.”

  She ran through all the faces of fellows she’d known growing up and desperately tried to place him while Marcie cocked her head and considered the soldier with naive curiosity.

  “Maybe he thinks you’re pretty. In any case, you should probably go talk to him. You know, to practice our new role of goodwill ambassador.”

  Vi gave a shaky laugh. “You can. I’m too exhausted, and I don’t actually like talking face-to-face with strangers. I’m at my best when my audience is at least three feet away and speechless with awe.”

  Marcie frowned. “Truly? I always thought theater people would be a more social lot, given how gregarious they are in public.”

  “I think a lot of us are much shier than people give us credit for,” Vi said, a bit surprised by the girl’s use of “they,” as if she didn’t consider herself a theater person. “How many shows have you been in?”

  Marcie gave a small shrug as she picked up a tray and joined the mess line. “Not many. I mean, probably nothing you’ve heard of.”

  “Try me.” Not that Vi was familiar with New York theater, but there might be some overlap with the Chicago scene.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Marcie said airily as one of the cooks put a scoop of mashed potatoes on her plate.

  Again Vi was surprised. Most thespians loved to go on and on about their various roles. That her travel buddy kept demurring likely meant she had very little actual experience, which begged the question of how the girl had gotten a role in the show. Maybe the production wasn’t quite as top tier as Vi had expected? True, Sal had gotten her a spot sight unseen, but she was also a seasoned performer, having worked up to nine shows a week for the last two years, so the risk to the show was small.

  “What does matter,” Marcie continued with more enthusiasm, “is that I’ll have a chance to help cheer up our men fighting overseas.” Then she added, with a rueful laugh, “And I’ll get away from my parents for a while. They can be rather . . . strict. Especially my father. He tries to run my life, thinking he knows what’s best for me. But he doesn’t!”

  Vi could empathize. Looking back, she could definitely say the smothering weight of all her family’s rules had contributed to her recklessness with Robert. Of course, now she could see her parents had been trying to keep her safe, but at the time she had felt unjustly confined, which had only added fuel to the fire.

  Her sister hadn’t helped the situation by warning Vi that she was “too young” to understand things like adult love and real desire and should leave romancing to her elders.

  “What you feel is just puppy love,” her sister had said. “It’s not real.”

  Vi had been incensed.

  So of course you decided to prove her wrong, Vi thought in self-disgust. Never one to let a challenge pass unmet, she had redoubled her efforts to make Robert fall in love with her. She’d already had a crush on the fellow, and with Fern declaring she was no longer interested in dating someone “who only wanted to be an auto mechanic”—something that hadn’t bothered Vi in the least, since she had planned on having a wildly successful career in theater—Vi had decided to pull out all the stops.

  If only she had bothered to run that plan by someone, they might have pointed out how wrong it was for a twenty-two-year-old man to agree to meet a fifteen-year-old in private. Or agree to kiss her less than chastely. Or suggest they go even further in the back seat of his father’s car. But she hadn’t because she was so sure she could handle “adult” matters on her own.

  Yep, and you handled it like a real pro, Vi . . . a professional fool.

  Having reached the end of the chow line, her mouth watering at the delicious smells rising off her tray, Vi joined Marcie, who was looking around for a place to sit. To Vi’s dismay, the soldier was still staring.

  Victor, the older actor, stopped beside them. “Need help finding a table?”

  “It is rather crowded,” Vi said.

  “I doubt we’ll have trouble finding seats, though,” Marcie said with a surprising hint of bitterness. “If you haven’t noticed, Vi is attracting a lot of attention.”

  “You mean all us gals are,” Vi corrected, because it was true.

  Marcie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. A person would have to be blind not to see you’ve got all the curves. The rest of us look like chopped liver next to you.”

  “Hey,” Vi said, stung, “there is absolutely nothing wrong with your figure. And I won’t be blamed for how I look. You want others to love what you’ve got? Love it yourself first. Or at least pretend to.”

  “Ladies, ladies,” Victor interjected smoothly, soothingly. “Remember: we’re ambassadors for the United States now. Everything we say or do from here on out will be part of the public record. So sheathe those claws—everyone is tired and road weary—and eat. We have rehearsal in fifteen minutes.”

  Clamping down on her irritation—because the actor was right about being road weary—Vi followed Marcie to the closest table, which also happened to be where the staring soldier was sitting. Vi pasted on a smile for the men they passed, even though what she really wanted to do was bean her travel buddy over the head with her tray. Did she not hear Vi say she didn’t want to talk with strangers tonight?

  Why, oh why, couldn’t her travel buddy have been a male?

  A man would’ve listened to her. Men Vi knew how to talk to. Men she could charm with a smile or a flutter of lashes over her big green eyes. Her power over the male sex was so unconscious, so innate, she hadn’t even realized she had it until she had entered fifth grade and the other girls began to hate her for no reason she could pinpoint. She truly hadn’t understood the problem at first. Yes, all the boys hung around her, but it wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in town. That was her sister, Fern. Nor was she the smartest, though she studied hard. Or the most athletic, despite being naturally good at dance. Or the most anything—except maybe sought after.

  What she did possess was a genuine affection for men, and she’d never had any qualms letting them know it. She liked the way they looked and smelled, the way they sounded, the texture of their skin, their beards . . . everything. Or rather she liked most men. Not the rude ones, or the ones who assumed her body was up for grabs, or the ones who tried to boss her around. Or those who dared threaten Jimmy.

  Especially not those.

  “Hiya,” Marcie greeted the soldiers as she set her tray down on the table in the space that had magically appeared for her.

  Calling on all her acting ability, Vi took the seat next to the soldier who had been staring at her, and smiled shyly. Tiny sparks of unease prickled her skin as she tucked her hair behind her ear. Lord above, she hoped she could pull off the innocent act this time and not let it slip like she had at the induction office. “I hope this seat wasn’t taken?�
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  “It’s n-not,” he stammered, his brown eyes as round as dinner plates. About her age, with thick chestnut hair and an adorable chin dimple, he didn’t look like someone who would deliberately want to ruin her life, but she had been wrong about such things before.

  “Where are you from?” she asked, giving him her full attention. Might as well get this over with.

  If she was going to be exposed for a fraud, it would happen in the next few seconds. And perhaps it would be better for it to happen here than overseas, since the army had just told them that disgraced USO performers would be responsible for their own tickets home.

  She was painfully short on dough at the moment.

  The soldier’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Canton, Ohio, miss.”

  “Canton? I’ve never been there,” she answered honestly, as a small spark of hope took hold. Maybe he hadn’t recognized her. “Is it nice?”

  “Nice? It’s only the birthplace of the National Football League!” Marcie leaned over Vi and shot the soldier a mischievous smile. “Never mind my friend, here. I love football. It runs in the family. In fact my father nearly named me Cantonia to celebrate the Bulldogs winning the championship in ’23.”

  The soldier laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish.” Marcie rolled her eyes. “I was born the day after the game, and he was still in a good mood, having won a ton of money on the point spread.”

  Vi stopped cutting her chicken and raised an eyebrow at her travel buddy in surprise. “Your father is a gambler?”

  Most of the gamblers she knew were perpetually broke, and Marcie’s wardrobe was anything but cheap. Not that Vi begrudged the girl her expensive duds. Once upon a time she had worn nice clothes, too, not just secondhand outfits from better-off friends or ones she had sewn by hand.