by Judith Laik
About My Funny Valentine
2nd in the “World War II: When a Hero Comes Marching Home” series
Norma McIlroy is holding out for a hero of her own. It shouldn’t be hard when World War II is raging and every able-bodied young man wants to do his part. But true heroes prove more elusive than Norma dreamed.
Frank Atwater wanted nothing more than the chance to give his all for his country, and was devastated to be rejected by the armed forces. He knows Norma will never see the true love hidden behind his Coke-bottle glasses.
When danger threatens Norma, can Frank prove he’s got the right stuff after all?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
About My Funny Valentine
My Funny Valentine
Copyright
Historical Notes
About the Author
More great stories!
Around the Circle Gently
My Funny Valentine
2nd in the “World War II: When a Hero Comes Marching Home” series
by Judith Laik
Tacoma, Valentine’s Day 1943
“Maybe he got shipped out.” Frank Atwater rotated a brush inside a coffee cup.
Norma McIlroy snagged the last stale doughnut and dropped the plate into the soapy water for Frank to wash. “Nope,” she said around a bite of the pastry. “He told me he was leaving next week.” She walked out of the kitchen and into the main room of the USO club.
The radio was on, Glenn Miller’s Careless playing softly. Her eyes prickled. Don’t start crying again, Norma. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough.
Blinking against the threatened tears, she glanced around the plain, utilitarian room. An attempt to make it festive, red paper hearts on the walls and front windows and crepe paper streamers hanging from the ceiling, only appeared dreary now that the last soldiers had gone. Hollow, like she felt inside.
She and Frank, cleaning up, were the last ones in the club. She’d known him for a year, when the USO club in downtown Tacoma had opened and they both had volunteered. He was doing his part for the war effort, since the armed forces wouldn’t take him. She…well, she was looking for the man of her dreams. The USO was the place to find men. Not for long, though. Never for long before they marched off to battle. This war played havoc with her husband hunt.
She and Frank had their joint teaching careers in common as well as their volunteer work at the USO. She taught first grade at Central Elementary School. Frank was a math teacher at Stadium High School, though he hardly looked older than a high school student himself.
Frank followed her. He’d dried his hands and was rolling down the sleeves of his white shirt. He touched her shoulder lightly. “That guy wasn’t good enough for you, anyway. I’m available, you know.” He wriggled his ears, and she laughed, her blue mood lifting, as it always did with his comical antics.
She pushed a strand of red hair behind her ear. Frank wasn’t very tall, around five-nine. In her three-inch heels, she stood eye to eye with him. The teasing light in his brown eyes, behind the thick lenses of his glasses, reassured her.
He was right. She’d find her own special hero if it killed her. No lying soldier would get her down. She laughed off his suggestion. Frank always kidded around. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll be all right tomorrow. I just pictured a different kind of Valentine’s Day. Let’s get these decorations down, shall we?”
Frank kept his personal life to himself, except the fact that his poor vision had axed him from military service, and he only mentioned that because of the teasing he took from the servicemen at the club. He always deflected the comments with a laugh, saying, “I guess with my vision they were afraid I’d shoot our own men.”
She hadn’t spoken about her life to him, either, until that evening when she’d announced she expected to receive a ring for Valentine’s Day from the soldier she’d been dating. On their previous date, he’d said he had a surprise for her tonight. Then he didn’t show. I guess that was the surprise.
Tearing red paper hearts off the wall was a good antidote to a case of Valentine blues. Frank carried a ladder from the storeroom and tackled the streamers hanging from the ceiling.
Norma’d been searching for Mr. Right for eight years, since she was eighteen years old. The dream itself had started much earlier. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t pictured her future as a wife and mother, just like her own mom, with a strong, dashing husband by her side and two or three children. After the attack on Pearl Harbor and the U.S. entry into the war, patriotic fervor made a man in uniform the perfect husband.
But one guy after another had disappointed her, challenging her optimism and determination. Having attended while her same-age friends all took their walks down the aisle didn’t help, especially as they’d started asking her when it would be her turn. Even her mother—she wouldn’t actually come out and ask her that question, but she’d made a few wistful comments about needing more grandchildren.
Stop being so pitiful. “So, how are things going with you, anyway? How about that boy you’ve been counseling?” she asked Frank.
Ouch. Frank didn’t need the reminder. His failure with Hank Cox tasted bitter on his tongue and caused an ache in his heart. Telling Norma sure wouldn’t make him look like a hero. He pulled off the tape holding up the white streamer carefully so it didn’t damage the paint.
“Yeah, well, he was doing a lot better until he came to our meeting last week and announced he was dropping out and joining up. I didn’t know what to say to him, except to ask if his parents would sign their permission. He’s not even seventeen yet. He said his old man couldn’t wait to get rid of him.
“I suggested he’d be of more service if he hung on in school until he graduated, but I don’t think he was listening. It’s hard enough to see your students getting drafted or enlisting when they graduate, knowing some of them aren’t going to make it back. After trying to help prepare kids for life, you know, I guess you feel sort of responsible, almost like they’re your own kids.”
“That must be rough. Lucky for me, my kids are too young to march off to war. I hope it’s over before they reach draft age.”
“I’m sure it will be.” Would he have any better luck with Norma if there were no soldiers marching off to war to engage her sympathy—and her hero worship? He kicked himself for the foolish thought.
“Well, let’s finish up and get out of here, okay?” Norma took down another paper heart. “We’ve both got students to teach tomorrow.”
Mid-May, 1943
Stormy Weather, the Billie Holiday song, was playing on the radio. The very young GI Norma was dancing with was trying hard not to cry. He stumbled over Norma’s foot, making her wince. “Sorry,” he said, for maybe the tenth time. “I just don’t know what to do. She said there wasn’t somebody else, but she just couldn’t sit home alone all the time. She’s so pretty, I know she’ll find somebody soon, even if she hasn’t already.”
“She must be young,” Norma guessed. This boy couldn’t be more than nineteen himself. “Girls that age don’t always know what they want. Maybe after she looks around a bit, she’ll learn to appreciate you more.”
The guileless blue eyes in a smooth face (had he even started to shave yet?) reflected hopelessness, along with a wish to believe her optimistic words. “Maybe,” he conceded. “You’re awful good to be so nice to me.”
“You’re a nice person yourself.” Unshed tears inside her tightened her throat. He had told her he’d ship out in another week. Why couldn’t his girl have at least considered the effect of her breaking up with him at such a time? The hardest part of Norma’s job was to buck up young men like him who had problems back home. They needed their optimism and their ability to focus in order to
face the horrors that awaited them.
When the dance ended, a couple of the young soldier’s buddies collected him, one of them saying, “Let’s go have a couple of beers to cheer up.” They headed out the door. How could they expect to be served anything alcoholic at a club or tavern? None of them could be twenty-one. Maybe they had an older friend who’d buy them something. She sighed, finding it hard to let the boy’s problem go, and headed for the sidelines.
“The young men are restless tonight.” Mrs. Gillespie, senior hostess and director of the USO club, waved a be-ringed hand at the room. Norma took in the signs she hadn’t noticed earlier: the boisterous knot of soldiers pushing at each other in one corner—good-natured at the moment, but an actual brawl could erupt at any time. A couple of men danced exuberantly with junior hostesses, doing their darnedest to turn a waltz into a two-step.
“I think it’s the good news about the war in North Africa,” Norma said. “They’re pumped up about it.”
“I wonder if singing a few songs would help, dear.” Mrs. Gillespie patted Norma’s arm. She affected a motherly attitude toward the younger volunteers at the club, trying for a family-like atmosphere. She didn’t realize she came off as patronizing.
“How would that help?”
“Ah, they say ‘music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,’ don’t they? I’d think the daughter of a music professor would know that quote.” The older woman smiled impishly.
“I’ve heard it a time or two.” She resisted rolling her eyes. “It might work. It’s worth a try, at least. Otherwise there’ll likely be a fight soon.” Norma walked over to the radio and shut it off. The couples stopped dancing, nearly in mid-step, and sent dirty looks her way. “Okay, guys,” she announced. “We’re going to have some live music. Frank, would you accompany me?”
He detached himself from duty by the coffee urn. “Sure.” He met her at the piano and they briefly conferred over the sheet music tucked away in the bench before he sat and played the opening bars. Standing by the piano, Norma launched into the song they had chosen, Why Don’t You Do Right. “ ‘You had plenty money, 1922…’ ”
The guys cheered. She grinned as she sang. Sharing her music with the boys and gathering in the returning waves of admiration kicked up her energy so high she could almost fly around the room. Her voice, an unremarkable alto, had a growl in the lower register that men seemed to like.
As she settled into the song, people started to collect around the piano. Clumped together, more people seemed to occupy the club than when they were scattered around the room. Maybe forty or fifty came closer to listen. She finished the song and segued into I’ve Got Rhythm, and then It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing). After the song was done, she said, “I know you’ve all heard the good news. Let’s celebrate the enemy’s surrender in North Africa.”
Cheers drowned her final words. Norma waited until they died down, then added, “We’ve got ’em on the run, boys. It’s only a matter of time now!” She sang Victory Polka, accompanied by Frank. The boys roared and clapped. After the noise subsided, she and Frank swung into a duet. Norma sang All I Do Is Dream of You and he sang You’d Be So Nice to Come Home to, each singing an alternate verse, Frank in a pleasant, relaxed baritone voice.
After that, calling out “I want you all to join in,” she launched into God Bless America, her signature closing number. What the multiple voices lacked in musicianship they made up for in enthusiasm.
Norma glanced at the clock on the wall. Not closing time yet. She flipped the radio back on, announcing, “There’s time for a little more dancing.” It was still tuned to the dance program, one number just finishing.
Soldiers immediately besieged her for a dance, but she saw that Bob had come in the door. They’d gone on a couple of dates recently, and the situation appeared promising. He was twenty-seven, his hairline already receding, but he had beautiful blue eyes and loved to dance. She walked over to him, smiling.
“You look good tonight,” he said. “That dress looks good on you.”
She was wearing a blue dress, one of the colors that went well with her carroty hair. She smiled her thanks.
“I just got leave finally.” He grinned. “You want to dance?”
Benny Goodman’s Let’s Dance came over the airwaves, and they both laughed. “Seems like a sign.” Norma raised her arms, and he swept her onto the dance floor. Bob was a good dancer, maybe a little too aggressive, pushing her around the dance floor like a puppet. He’d probably danced with women who didn’t know how to follow. When they became better acquainted, he’d surely relax a little more around her. It was too early to tell whether Bob could be her special hero. The song finished and Artie Shaw’s Alone Together came on.
“Would you like to go somewhere and have a drink?” Bob asked. “I don’t have to report back in until midnight.”
“I’d like to. But I usually stay and pick up after we close.” She didn’t want to miss the chance to get better acquainted, though. “Let me see if someone else can take over, okay?”
“You bet.”
In the kitchen, Frank was washing coffee cups. His sports coat hung on the back of a chair and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. “Thanks for accompanying me,” Norma said. “I wasn’t expecting to entertain tonight, but Mrs. Gillespie suggested some music to break up the tension. The boys were getting a little out of hand.”
“You’re welcome.” An unusual brusqueness edged his voice.
“Is everything all right?” Norma almost reached out to touch his arm but held back. Their friendship didn’t include such personal gestures on her part.
“Sure.” He turned to her, a big, goofy grin on his face that struck her as off-kilter. Oh, well, he would talk to her if he wanted to.
“I was, uh, coming to ask you if you could close up without me tonight. Bob asked me out.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“Why not?”
He turned back to the sink, carefully drying a cup. “You don’t know him very well.”
“We’ve been out a few times already. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Well, good.”
“So, can you close up?”
“Yeah. Hey, call me a worrywart, but take your own car, okay?” He shot a glance her way.
She had planned to drive to wherever she and Bob went, anyway. Her home in the North End was the opposite direction from the base, out of his way. “Okay. And thanks.”
Friday, May 28, 1943
“Miss McIlroy, Miss McIlroy!” Rachel waved her arm energetically.
“Yes, Rachel, what is it?” Norma smiled at the petite girl with glossy brown ringlet curls.
“What’s Declaration Day?”
“Decoration Day?” Norma asked in surprise, trying to collect her thoughts. How could she explain the holiday to the children? A day to honor those who had died in service to their country? Many of the children in her class had a father, uncle, or older brother overseas, at risk.
Joey, a skinny boy with dark, curly hair, was the youngest of seven children and his two oldest brothers were both in the Army. Michael, a stocky redhead, had a father who’d been engaged in the recent North African campaign. Rachel had probably heard about the holiday from her family as they prepared to honor her uncle, killed in the Pacific. Her father was in the service also, based at Ft. Lewis. Would explaining make these children realize death could happen to a loved one?
Then there was Brenda, whose father had recently been killed in the Pacific. The shy girl sat in the back of the room, her drawn little face contrasting with the always neat, freshly pressed clothing, golden hair arranged in French braids. It struck Norma anew how the tragedies of war had taken their toll on those at home.
The silence had gone on too long and Norma needed to say something. The children, intuitive as kids always were about a fraught situation, were focused on her. “Er, Decoration Day. Right. Do any of you know what that means?”
> “We make decorations?” Joey snickered.
Norma smiled. “I think you know better, Joey. A decoration is an honor given for courage, and it’s a day to remember the brave servicemen who gave their all for our country.” There. True, but stated vaguely enough to maybe pass over their heads.
“All our servicemen—soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen—are heroes. But you can be heroes, too. You can all take part in doing something that helps with our war effort. You can ask your family if you can help grow a Victory Garden, or you can write a letter to cheer up our men overseas. In fact, I think it would be a very good idea if we all wrote a letter! I’ll help you with that tomorrow.”
The children’s faces brightened with the idea that they could do something to help.
The bell rang, ending the school day.
Saturday, February 12, 1944
“Come on, Carmen. We’re shanghaiing you.” Norma and her youngest sister Addy presented a united front.
Their in-between sister, Carmen, blinked at them, frowning. “What’s this?” She clutched her book and turned sideways on the sofa, pulling her legs under her.
Norma scanned the comfortable living room, the oriental carpets on the floor, fire crackling away in the fireplace. It didn’t provide any incentive to leave home on a rainy winter evening, but Carmen needed to get out and experience life again.
“We’re going on a sisters’ expedition,” Addy said. “Like old times. Remember the three caballeras? It’s been too long.” Despite the three years between each of the girls, they had been nearly inseparable as children.
“Go without me. I don’t feel like it.” Carmen turned back to the book she pretended to read. The light from the floor lamp beside the sofa turned her dark auburn hair to copper flame.
Norma grabbed the book. “What is this? The Good Woman of Setzuan? You can’t even read just for fun, can you? That settles it! We’re definitely kidnapping you.”
