The Long Path Home

by Ellen Lindseth

  A startled expression flashed over Marcie’s face, as if she had said something she hadn’t meant to. Then the smile was back in full shine, the moment gone. “He’s a businessman, actually. A kind of manager. If he places a bet, it’s only when he’s pretty sure he’ll win.”

  “Nothing like a sure bet.” The soldier grinned and stuck out his hand to Marcie, practically knocking over Vi in the process. “Harvey Wilson.”

  “Marcie May.”

  The two shook hands, and Vi felt, for the first time in what had been a long while, invisible. It was a rather queer sensation, even though invisibility was the whole point of becoming Miss Heart. Still, it was going to take some getting used to.

  While Marcie and Harvey continued their conversation, Vi stirred the canned peas on her plate into the mashed potatoes so they would stop rolling off her fork. Even though her attention kept drifting with fatigue, she learned that Marcie had grown up in New York City, which Vi had already guessed from her accent. That the girl adored football as much as she detested baseball, which was “a real snooze.” That she would love to ride on a motorcycle and, like Harvey, thought it would be fun to fly airplanes. But her father would never allow such dangerous activities.

  When Marcie mentioned she had gone to an all-girl Catholic school, Vi wasn’t at all surprised. Even though she herself had been raised Lutheran, she’d had Catholic friends growing up, and their families were even stricter about rules and morals than hers had been.

  “If I’d had longer legs, I would have been a Radio City Music Hall Rockette,” Marcie confided with a dramatic sigh to the soldier, who was all ears. “But Rockettes have to be at least five feet five inches, and I’m only five two.”

  Vi stifled a snort. She doubted Marcie had been any closer to a Rockette audition than the sidewalk, given all the edicts of her father. But she kept the thought to herself as she pulled the breading off the chicken leg, looking for any sign of actual meat.

  “It’s Radio City’s loss,” Soldier Wilson declared, looking outraged on Marcie’s behalf. “You’re prettier than all of them.”

  Marcie blushed. “Why, thank you, Harvey.”

  “Marcie, eat.” Vi pointed a fork at her travel buddy’s untouched tray. “Rehearsal is coming up fast. And remember the USO rules we just swore to uphold?” As in don’t treat any one soldier as more special than another.

  Marcie’s face fell as she caught the hint. “Oh, that’s right.” Then she frowned in disgust. “Stupid rules. I finally find a nice fella and I’m not allowed to enjoy it.”

  “Don’t worry, miss,” Soldier Wilson said earnestly. “I’ll understand if you can’t write me until your tour is over. How ’bout I give you my parents’ address, and soon as you get back to the States, you can contact them for my forwarding address.”

  Marcie batted her eyelashes and cooed, “You really want me to write you?”

  “Would I ever!” The soldier practically had stars in his eyes.

  Vi sat back and stared. Where had the shy little Marcie gone? And more important, what the heck did the girl think she was doing? Chatting with a fellow, stroking his ego was one thing, but leading him on with promises of more? That was quite another, which made Vi think Marcie might not know the difference between harmless flirtation and outright seduction. It was akin to not knowing the difference between lighting a sparkler and a stick of dynamite, and just as dangerous for a woman.

  “Unit 2-9-1-8,” Sue called out over the clamor of forks scraping and too many conversations. An instant hush followed, allowing her to continue. “Rehearsal in the rec hall in five minutes, so finish up. Late arrivers will be court-martialed.”

  Vi grabbed her tray and stood. “Come on, Marce. That’s our cue to beat feet.”

  Neither Marcie nor Wilson seemed to hear her.

  Irritated with the both of them, Vi wondered if Marcie wanted to get kicked out of the USO. If so, maybe, just maybe, Vi should let her. After all, she had enough to worry about on this trip without having to babysit an obstinate, naive, headstrong girl . . .

  She paused midstep on her way over to where the others were dropping off their trays and scraping their plates.

  Those same adjectives could also be applied to the missing Mafia princess. And Marcie certainly looked the part, with her dark hair and eyes. Catholic? Check. Overprotected? Check. Impulsive and reckless enough to blackmail her own father? Check and double check. True, the name didn’t fit. But what if the girl was using a stage name, trying to hide her identity, much like Vi was?

  If so, it would be both good and bad news: good because Vi rather liked the girl, despite her irritating moments, but also bad because, from what she had seen tonight, it might be harder to keep her charge out of trouble than she had expected.

  “You could’ve waited,” Marcie groused, coming up beside her. “Now I won’t be able to get his address.”

  “Good,” she said, relieved as much by that news as by no longer facing the possibility she might have to drag the girl to rehearsal kicking and screaming.

  Marcie huffed in annoyance. “Are you always such a killjoy?”

  “Only when I see someone doing something stupid.” Vi handed her tray to a Negro soldier stacking them on a cart to be washed.

  “Virginia”—Marcie stressed the name in a way that made Vi’s hackles rise—“we’re supposed to be warm and welcoming and supportive to the troops. Not prudish wallflowers.”

  “The name is Vi, and just because a fella wears a uniform doesn’t mean he’s a good guy. Uncle Sam is just as likely to call up a no-good rat as a decent man, so you need to be more careful.”

  Marcie scoffed as she handed her tray to the same dark-skinned soldier, who seemed to be following the conversation with interest. “You’re just jealous.”

  Vi wanted to roll her eyes. Considering that just last week she’d had men literally eating out of the palm of her hand, she was hardly going to be jealous over some soldier wanting Marcie’s address. But she couldn’t tell Marcie that. Nor could she say she was also the voice of experience when it came to the dangers of flirting, so Vi merely shrugged. “If you say so.”

  Marcie narrowed her eyes, clearly unwilling to give up the fight. “You know what, farm girl? You wouldn’t last a single day in my world, so stop trying to give me advice.”

  Stung, Vi finally lost patience with the girl. “Look here, princess. I’d be careful casting slurs while wearing those brand-new shoes even though there’s a war going on. Just what kind of ‘business’ does your daddy conduct, anyway? He got some kind of in with the black market?”

  Marcie paled. “He’s just a manager, like I told you. That’s it.”

  Before Vi could even respond, Marcie had spun away, all but running after the other actors exiting through the door of the mess hall.

  “Good job, Vi,” she muttered to herself. “Way to make friends.”

  “Bet you anything her daddy’s tied in with the Mob,” a male voice said from behind her. “I’d watch yo’self around her, if I were you.”

  Vi turned to look at the dark-skinned soldier, one of the kitchen crew, curiously. “What makes you say that?”

  “Her attitude. Her accent. I’ve been around her type before. Waited on them, listened in when they thought no one was paying attention—because being colored is like being invisible sometimes, you know? Though I was never in New York. I mostly worked the clubs in Chicago.”

  Her pulse kicked. “Chicago . . .”

  The soldier leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t you worry, Miss Lily. I don’t know why you’re working undercover with the USO, but I won’t rat you out. You were always real good to my uncle George, even if you never noticed me. But I was only there the one summer before I got called up.”

  Vi forced her lungs to expand, to take in air before she passed out. George was the Negro bartender at Sal’s club, and Vi had never been one to limit her friendships based on a person’s skin color. If someone was willing to be
nice to a fallen woman, she couldn’t help but be nice right back. And George had been a true gentleman, keeping an eye on her when she was mingling with customers, discreetly sending the bouncer over if a patron forgot his manners.

  “Am I that easy to recognize?” she asked, dread squeezing her throat.

  The fellow smiled reassuringly. “No, miss. I happen to have a keen eye for faces.” A flush bloomed faintly under his brown skin. “And I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t think you were the prettiest and best performer there.”

  Vi blinked again, having never been complimented by a Negro. Not that it bothered her. It was just she had never contemplated her attractiveness to anyone but white men. “Thank you,” she said after a moment. “For the compliment, and not giving me away.”

  He winked at her, but his dark-brown eyes were serious. “Have a good evening, miss. And don’t be late to your rehearsal! The stocks ain’t no place for a woman.”

  Reminded of the time, Vi spun around and made a beeline for the rehearsal. On the way she considered and then discarded the soldier’s reassurance that no one else would recognize her. It was a chance she just couldn’t take. If Janet had been kicked out for morality violations, Vi didn’t even want to ponder her chances as an unwed mother turned stripper.

  She would have to try harder to be invisible.

  And pray to a god she no longer trusted that her past sins wouldn’t be exposed. At least not until she and Marcie were back home, safe in the States, once more.

  Chapter 8

  “Over to your left,” Sue called out the next afternoon as Ann and the other actors scrambled down the cargo netting as part of their boot camp instruction. “No, your other left, Victor! For heaven’s sake, pay attention. And don’t you dare fall!”

  Vi, having made the same descent earlier with the chorus girls, winced as Ann’s foot got caught, pulling her knee in an awkward, painful direction.

  “Ouch!” Marcie exclaimed, watching the action next to Vi. “That had to have hurt. Good thing she doesn’t have to dance in the show. And why do we have to practice abandoning ship, anyway? Wouldn’t terror alone give a person sufficient motivation to abandon ship as fast as possible?”

  Vi didn’t bother answering what was clearly a rhetorical question. In truth, she didn’t see the logic in the troupe being here at all. Why did a bunch of thespians need to learn how to march in step or handle a rifle, anyway?

  “You know what was the worst?” Marcie continued as the last of the actors made their way onto solid ground. “Testing out the gas masks. I couldn’t believe they made us do that! What if the gas had leaked and ruined our throats? We’d be sunk as a show.”

  “It did leak on Luciana. Remember?” Vi suppressed a shudder as she recalled how the actress, her eyes red and streaming, had been bundled off posthaste to the first aid station. “So we still could be sunk, unless Mr. Stuart can pull another actress out of his hat at a moment’s notice.”

  Marcie made an impatient sound. “He found you, didn’t he? And besides, Mr. Miller is so infatuated with her, he’d find a way to keep her in the show even if she croaked like a frog.”

  Vi glanced at Marcie in surprise. “You think he’s got it that bad?”

  “Haven’t you noticed how he stares at her during rehearsal?”

  “Well, no. I’ve been too busy learning the dances.”

  “I have,” Frances said. Then she arched her perfectly drawn and shaded eyebrows as she continued, “But I doubt they’re a couple anymore, considering how hard he made her cry last night.”

  “What’s that?” Marcie asked, suddenly all ears.

  Nothing like the prospect of gossip to make friends out of enemies, Vi thought with a mental eye roll. And where had Frances found time to apply full makeup between reveille and roll call?

  “Are you sure it was Mr. Miller who made her cry?” Doubt pinched Gertie’s forehead as she joined the conversation. “That doesn’t sound like him at all. He’s so nice!”

  “I think he was breaking things off,” Frances speculated in a hushed voice. “Those two have been thick as thieves since day one. Perhaps things were getting too hot and heavy between them.”

  “You mean they were . . . ?” Gertie’s gray eyes widened. “But that’s against the rules!”

  Frances burst into laughter. “Oh, Gertie. Lord love you. Luciana’s a star! Remember? And when did stars ever have to follow rules?”

  “Wait,” Vi said, her attention caught. “Luciana is a star?”

  Frances waved her hand dismissively. “Only if you count landing the role of an understudy in last year’s premiere of Oklahoma! at the Saint James. Which is what she should have been in this show, too. Everyone knows she can’t cut it as a lead.”

  Marcie snorted. “You’re just jealous because you can’t face the fact that Luciana has a better voice than you and has sung with some really famous bands.”

  “And you’re just sore because I’m twice the dancer you are,” Frances shot back.

  “Stop it, both of you!” Gertie’s sweet face crumpled as if about to cry. “Shouldn’t we be pulling together as a family? That’s what my acting coach always said.”

  “It’s all right, Gertie,” Vi said soothingly, her heart going out to the sensitive girl. “Even the closest of sisters snipe at each other once in a while. It doesn’t mean we aren’t all on the same team.” She shot a meaningful glance at the other two dancers. “Right?”

  Marcie came, somewhat surprisingly, to Vi’s aid and hugged the slender girl. “That’s right, Gertie. Don’t worry. We’ll be like one big, happy family soon, warts and all—which is why I didn’t like it that Mr. Miller made Luciana cry.”

  Frances made a gagging face. Vi elbowed her and got a not-very-sisterly glare in return.

  From across the field, Sue narrowed her eyes at Gertie and Marcie and then came over. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Frances said, stepping forward with a bright smile. “Gertie was just feeling a mite homesick, so we were cheering her up. Gotta take care of each other.”

  Vi rolled her eyes. Of course Frances would take credit for the idea. The other dancer was so obsequious around Sue it made Vi’s teeth hurt. Still, she had to give the brunette credit for trying to butter Sue up. It’s what she would’ve done if she had actually given a damn about advancing her alter ego’s career. The truth of it was, she intended to ditch Miss Virginia Heart as soon as the tour was over and it was safe to return to Chicago.

  The rest of the actors joined them.

  Ann rubbed her injured knee and looked around. “Where’s Luciana? Shouldn’t she be back by now?”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Victor said soothingly, while Sue counted heads to make sure everyone was there.

  “Speak of the devil; here she comes.” Matt pointed toward the dirt road, and everyone turned to look. “Lucky girl. I swear she was probably watching, waiting for the exercise to end.”

  “Do you blame her,” Victor said, sounding amused, “considering how close our Ann came to losing her leg in that net?”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Ann said. She waved as the other actress got closer. “Luciana, thank God. I was afraid the army had done you in already, leaving the rest of us to figure out how to stage the show without a villain.”

  “You’d still have Victor.” Luciana stopped at the edge of the group and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry that took so long, but apparently clearing me to return to ‘action’ required a lot of paperwork.”

  Sue turned to Vi. “Speaking of paperwork . . . Miss Heart, I had a message from the USO office saying your passport information is missing.”

  Vi worked to keep her expression smooth, unconcerned. “There was an error on my first one, so I had to turn it in to get fixed. But I should have it back in time to sail.”

  Sue didn’t seem much appeased. “Let’s hope so, though you should’ve told me before.”

  Vi bit the inside of her cheek and stayed silent, knowing she
would only dig her hole deeper if she tried to defend herself. The truth was she hadn’t applied for anything yet, a situation she knew she needed to remedy as soon as possible—or, as the army said, ASAP.

  As Sue turned to the others and began explaining the schedule for the rest of the day, Marcie sidled up to Vi.

  “Don’t feel bad,” the girl whispered. “It took forever to get my passport sorted out, too. The fellow at the courthouse wasn’t too keen on taking just my parish priest’s word that I’m over eighteen and wanted my parents’ permission instead.”

  Vi glanced at her travel buddy in surprise. “Couldn’t you have just shown him a birth certificate?”

  Marcie shrugged. “I didn’t have it with me.”

  “So why didn’t you ask your parents to vouch for you?” Though Vi suspected she knew what the real problem was.

  Marcie glanced uneasily at Sue and the others. “I didn’t want to bother them.”

  I bet, Vi thought with a laugh. If Marcie was indeed the rebellious Mob daughter who wasn’t supposed to be doing something as risky as touring the Foxhole Circuit with the USO, involving her parents would’ve been the last thing she wanted to do. “For future reference, I heard baptismal certificates work, too.” At least she hoped so, having just forged a baptismal certificate for herself on borrowed letterhead.

  Sue glared in their direction again, so Vi clammed up. The need to stay in Sue’s good graces, at least until the troupe was safely overseas, trumped any further attempts to gain Marcie’s confidence. At least for now.

  Though it sure would be swell if she could confirm Marcie’s identity as the missing Mob daughter. Perhaps if she called Sal to see if Angelina Maggio might be working under a stage name. She had noticed a pay phone earlier, outside the PX, so she would have the means, if not the moola. Not that she was too worried. Sal would likely spring for a collect call, as long as it was from her. And as long as she didn’t make it a habit.

  The problem was finding the time to call. Between Sue and the army, every minute of every day was accounted for, from reveille to lights out. And there was Sal’s schedule to consider, too. Having been gone almost a week, she guessed the show had already closed. So would he be home or at the club working on a new lineup? Perhaps if she sneaked out and called late enough, she might be able to reach him at home—a place she knew existed in theory even if she had never been there.