by Lynn Austin
But Eleanor’s handsome husband, Richard Trent, was dead.
Their room above the mortuary proved to be the worst possible place for Eleanor to live. Every time Montgomery’s Funeral Home held a service for an area soldier, Eleanor would dress in black and go downstairs to weep as if she’d known the man. At first Cynthia thought that it was a good idea, and she hoped that Eleanor would finish mourning after one or two services. But attending wakes and funeral services soon became an obsession with her. It didn’t matter if the deceased was a soldier or not—old or young, man or woman, an acquaintance or a stranger, Eleanor would sit in the back row and weep as if the casket held her beloved husband. Cynthia confronted her one night when Eleanor came back upstairs, her face ravaged with tears.
“Going to all these funerals isn’t good for you, Ellie. You’ve got to stop.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
Neither one of them followed the news of the war any more. In April they were as shocked as the rest of the nation when they learned that President Roosevelt had died suddenly. The entire nation mourned along with Eleanor. But the nation’s mourning turned to quiet joy three weeks later on VE day. The war in Europe was finally over. Eleanor didn’t seem to notice.
Cynthia was tired of death and ready for a change. On her way home from work one afternoon, she saw a For Rent sign in one of the apartments above the Valley Food Market, and she went out after supper, alone, to have a look. The rooms cost more than their rent at the funeral home, but the apartment had a tiny kitchen with a stove and oven and their own bathroom. Cynthia signed the lease, then went home and gave Mrs. Montgomery their notice without telling Eleanor.
“We’re moving out of here,” she told Eleanor at the end of the month. “I rented an apartment above the Valley Food Market.” Eleanor didn’t react. She made no effort to pack. Her lethargy had become chronic, and she would lie in bed or on the sofa for hours, doing nothing. Cynthia packed all of Eleanor’s belongings along with her own and paid William a few dollars to help them move. But even away from the funeral home, Eleanor’s gloom didn’t lift.
The summer weather turned hot, and their new apartment was stifling. “Let’s go somewhere and do something,” Cynthia suggested one sunny Saturday afternoon. “I’ll pack a picnic lunch, and we’ll go down to Bear Mountain.”
“How can you even suggest a picnic?” Eleanor said angrily. “You have no idea how I feel.”
Cynthia drew a deep breath, trying not to vent her own anger. “You’re right, I don’t know how you feel—I can’t even imagine. But I feel like I’m walking on eggs around you, always trying not to upset you. It’s so hard to see you suffering this way. I want to help you, to lift your spirits—something! But I don’t know what to do.”
“There’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.”
Cynthia had to walk away. She took refuge in their tiny bathroom, attacking their bathtub with a can of Ajax cleanser. Eleanor made her so frustrated and angry at times. Cynthia was tired of living under a cloud of gloom, and she wanted Eleanor to snap out of it. But then Cynthia immediately felt guilty for her lack of patience. How would she feel if she’d lost the love of her life? There must be a way to help Eleanor through this, yet Eleanor refused to be helped. She was determined to mourn for the rest of her life. And Cynthia was sick of it. She longed to get away from her. But no… Eleanor was her dearest friend.
When the tub was clean, Cynthia dried her hands on a towel and went back into the living room to try again. “You need a new start, Eleanor.
Rick is the one who died, not you. He would hate to see you this way.”
Eleanor didn’t reply.
“Please tell me what I can do to help you,” Cynthia begged.
“You can leave me alone. Stop trying to cheer me up. Go out and have fun.”
“How can I go out and leave you this way? You’re my friend!”
“Because I’m telling you to go. That’s the best way to help me—go away and leave me alone.”
“Fine. I’m going, then.” Cynthia was certain that it was the very worst thing to do, but she was tired of it all. She took the bus to Bensenville and wandered through the department stores, then went to the USO dance that night, alone. But the entire time she was there, she couldn’t stop thinking about Eleanor—and feeling guilty for deserting her.
Eleanor wouldn’t listen to the radio anymore. She hated the music, saying it reminded her of the USO dances where she’d met Rick. She would shut herself in the bedroom if Cynthia listened to The Abbott and Costello Show or The Jack Benny Program or Dick Tracy. Eleanor hated the news. Even though the Allies were clearly winning, she said it was too depressing to be reminded of all the men who were dying—every one of them a tragedy.
Cynthia bought the newspaper every day and read the good news aloud to Eleanor, avoiding the bad. When the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, in August, Cynthia couldn’t comprehend it. The president explained that it would end the war swiftly and save thousands of American soldiers’lives, but the destruction was beyond imagining. Three days later, they bombed Nagasaki, and for the first time since leaving home, Cynthia went to tiny Park Street Church in Riverside to pray. On August 14, 1945, her prayers were answered when Japan surrendered. The long, terrible war was finally over.
And it was time for her life, and Eleanor’s life, to start over. The war had been like a slow, sad song playing endlessly on a worn-out phonograph. It was time to lift the needle and take the record off; time to put on a new song, time to get up and dance again.
“I bought two round-trip train tickets to New York City,” Cynthia told Eleanor. “We’re going there tomorrow to celebrate VJ day.” She had decided not to consult Eleanor ahead of time but simply inform her that they were going, the way Cynthia had when they’d moved out of the funeral home. Everyone in the factory had the day off from work.
“We finally have something to celebrate,” she continued, “and I know Rick would want you to go. This victory is his. He helped earn it with his life.” She had also made up her mind to stop avoiding Rick’s name or anything that would remind Eleanor of his death. Maybe talking about him would help her to heal.
They took the bus to Bensenville early the next morning, August 15, 1945, then caught the train to New York City. Millions of people thronged Times Square, laughing, cheering, celebrating. The frenzied excitement filled Cynthia with energy and joy for the first time in months—maybe years—and she clung to Eleanor’s hand, her heart bursting with happiness as she towed her through the crowd. The war was over! Life could go back to normal. Groups of strangers broke into spontaneous song, others danced in the street, sailors threw their hats into the air, car horns blared.
Cynthia was content just to wade through it all, feeling like part of the crowd, sharing in the joy of this hard-fought victory. Swept away by everything, she didn’t think to ask Eleanor how she was faring until nearly three hours had passed. When she finally turned to her friend and saw the pained expression on her pale face, Cynthia was appalled. Thousands of jubilant soldiers and sailors and airmen jammed the streets, and Eleanor was scanning all of their faces as if searching for Rick’s. It seemed she believed he’d become lost among them and if she just looked hard enough, long enough, she would find him. Rick should be here, laughing and alive and full of fun.
Coming here had been a mistake, Cynthia realized, as damaging to Eleanor as going to strangers’funerals. “Let’s go home,” she shouted above the deafening cheers. Eleanor simply nodded.
When they returned to work, Mr. Jackson gathered all the employees together on the factory floor to make an announcement. “Well, we won’t be needing bomb switches and gauges anymore,” he said jovially. “You girls did a mighty fine job of filling in for the men when you were needed—a mighty fine job. The good news is that you won’t have to do men’s work anymore. I know most of you gals will be plenty glad to get back to your homes and your families, right?”
&nbs
p; The women broke into cheers and applause, and Cynthia joined them. She was tired of this monotonous job and ready for a change. But she stopped when she noticed that Eleanor wasn’t cheering.
“There are going to be layoffs in the coming weeks,” Mr. Jackson continued. “I’m giving you girls fair warning so you can make other arrangements. We’re going to close down the factory for a short time so we can retool to make appliances. As I’m sure you girls know, consumer goods have been scarce since the war began. But now that our boys are coming home, there are going to be a lot of weddings. We’re going to need a lot of toasters!”
The women cheered again, but Eleanor’s face turned very pale at the mention of weddings. Cynthia groped for her hand and squeezed it. “People say such thoughtless things,” she whispered.
Mr. Jackson finished his speech and dismissed everyone to begin working, but Eleanor stormed after him, following him into his cubicle.
“Mr. Jackson—wait.”
Cynthia went after her, afraid of what her friend might say. It was obvious that his speech had infuriated Eleanor—and calling them “girls” had probably been the least of it.
“Mr. Jackson, I need this job. I don’t want to be laid off. Not all of us have husbands to support us, you know.”
“I know,” he said with a smile. “But young girls as pretty as you two shouldn’t have any trouble finding one.”
Cynthia’s mouth fell open in astonishment. When Eleanor took a menacing step toward Mr. Jackson, Cynthia was certain she would punch him in the nose.
“I am married, Mr. Jackson. My husband was killed over in Germany. I don’t want another husband—what I want is to keep my job!”
“I-I’m sorry. I’m very sorry for your loss. … But I have orders to lay off all my temporary defense workers and make room for returning servicemen who need these jobs.”
“I need this job, too!”
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Well, you won’t have to lay me off, Mr. Jackson, because I quit!” Eleanor ripped off her identification badge and threw it on Mr. Jackson’s littered desk. Then she pushed past Cynthia and strode from the building.
Cynthia didn’t know what to do. She was afraid to leave Eleanor on her own, afraid of what she might do. But she knew that Eleanor would never accept consolation, anyway—not when she was this angry. The truth was, Cynthia didn’t want to be around her. And she didn’t want to quit working until she had to. She mumbled a vague apology to Mr. Jackson and went back to her workstation.
Cynthia spent all day rehearsing what she would say to Eleanor when she got home and planning what she would do with her own life after she was laid off. By the time the three o’clock whistle blew, Cynthia had her speech all prepared. She trudged up the steps to their second-floor apartment and found Eleanor lying in bed in her work clothes, staring at the ceiling. Cynthia drew a deep breath.
“The way that Mr. Jackson went about things today was really stupid and thoughtless,” she began. “But I have a feeling we’re going to hear a lot of thoughtless comments from people in the months to come, and you can’t take it so personally, Ellie. People are sick of the war, sick of thinking about it and talking about it and living with it. There’s a feeling of prosperity in the air, and everyone wants to forget about all the suffering and move ahead to something new. People want cars and houses and a normal life. … Eleanor, I know you’re tired of hearing this from me, but you have to get on with your life, too. You and I came here to Riverside to start over three years ago. It was hard work, but we did it. And now we’re going to have to do it again.”
Eleanor didn’t respond. Cynthia hadn’t really expected her to. Most of Cynthia’s speeches were met with silence or anger, and she found she preferred the silence. She kicked off her shoes and began changing out of her work clothes.
“I read in the paper about a secretarial course they’re offering at the business college over in Bensenville,” she continued as she undressed. “They teach typing and dictation and everything else you need to know to get a good secretarial job. The fall semester is just starting, and I’ve decided I’m going to sign up. Why don’t you take it with me? If we start going to classes now, at night, we’ll be well on our way by the time we get laid off. And they’re bound to need plenty of secretaries down in New York City.
We can find an apartment down there, and—”
“You can be a secretary if you want to. It’s not for me.”
Cynthia paused, bracing for all the usual arguments. “All right, then.
You used to talk about going to college, remember? Isn’t that what you’ve been saving your money for?”
“No,” Eleanor said angrily. “I’ve been saving so Rick and I could start a new life together.”
Cynthia sighed. “I know I’ve said this before, too, but Rick wouldn’t want you to mourn like this. He’d want you to get on with your life. You used to want a career, remember?”
“Well, I don’t feel like it anymore.” Eleanor climbed out of bed and began changing out of her clothes.
Cynthia groped for words. She had rehearsed a much longer speech, but she was too discouraged to remember it all. She was getting nowhere. She watched as Eleanor combed her hair, then put on her hat with the black mesh veil—and suddenly she realized what Eleanor was doing. She was dressing in black to go to the funeral home again. Tears of anger and frustration filled Cynthia’s eyes.
“What are you doing, Ellie? Come on—please! No more! It’s morbid to keep going to funerals of people you don’t even know. You’ve got to stop.”
“I need to go to funerals,” Eleanor said in a hollow voice. “I need to try to grasp the fact that he’s really gone.”
“But it isn’t helping. Can’t you see that? It’s been months and months, you’ve gone to dozens of funerals, and you still haven’t grasped it. You’re still in mourning.”
“That’s because I know it isn’t really him in the casket.” She gave a strangled sob and sank down on the bed, weeping. Cynthia sat beside her, rocking her in her arms.
“You’re too young to stop living, Ellie. You’ve got to figure out what it will take to get over this and do it.”
“Maybe if I saw Rick’s grave…”
“Then, do it, Ellie. For heaven’s sake, go to Albany or wherever he’s buried and put flowers on his grave. Then maybe you can get on with your life. You’re only twenty-one years old.”
“Will you come with me, Cynthia? Please?”
Cynthia remembered the confident, poised woman she’d met on their first day at the electronics plant—shaking hands with their new boss and telling him not to call them girls—and she wondered what had happened to that woman. Eleanor was begging for help like an insecure child. If this is what happened to a person when her heart was broken, then Cynthia didn’t ever want to fall in love.
“Of course, Ellie. Of course I’ll go with you. I’ll pick up a bus schedule, we’ll go to Albany next weekend, and we’ll put flowers on Rick’s grave.”
Chapter
18
ALBANY, NEW YORK— 1945
By the time they reached Albany the following Saturday, Cynthia was sorry she had agreed to come. Riding the bus had exhausted her. It had stopped in every little town between Bensenville and Albany, crowding dozens more people onboard, it seemed, than the bus could hold. Albany was a good-sized city, and Cynthia didn’t know how they would ever find Rick’s grave—or if he even had one here. It had occurred to her after promising to come that thousands of servicemen had been buried overseas near the battlefields where they had died. The task of finding Rick’s grave seemed insurmountable. But she would sail to Europe with Eleanor to see it if it would help her get on with her life.
As she stood in the noisy bus station feeling hot and dazed, Cynthia wondered where to begin. Eleanor clung to her arm, looking sad and lost. The old Eleanor would have taken control, recruiting every porter, ticket clerk, and security guard in sight to help her.
They would be turning the town upside down by now, as they helped her search for Rick’s grave. But that charming, confident woman had died along with Rick, leaving behind a bewildered girl who gazed around the bustling station as if she’d just awakened from a nightmare and didn’t know what to do. Cynthia knew she would have to take the lead.
“There’s a phone booth over there,” she said, as if spotting a lifeboat.
“Come on, we’ll look up his father’s name and see if there’s a listing. Rick was Richard Trent, Jr., wasn’t he?” She saw Eleanor wince and realized she had referred to Rick in the past tense.
“Actually, he’s ‘the third,’” Eleanor said. “Richard Trent III. I used to tell him he sounded like an English monarch.”
They crowded into the phone booth, their breath fogging the glass as Cynthia dug in her purse for loose change. She could hardly believe their luck when the information operator gave her Mr. Trent’s phone number and address. She scribbled down the information on a napkin. “Do you want to call him or should I?” she asked Eleanor.
“Neither one of us.” Eleanor took the receiver from Cynthia’s hand and hung it back in its cradle. “From the way Rick described his parents, they’ll probably hang up on me. Let’s just go over there. We’ll ask one of his servants.”
Cynthia went to the information booth and got directions. They had to take a city bus across town, then walk several blocks through an upperclass neighborhood until they found the right street. Cynthia’s steps slowed as she counted off the house numbers. The sheer size of the homes shocked her. She walked slower and slower then halted at the end of a tree-lined driveway.
“That’s Rick’s house,” Cynthia said in a hushed voice. She saw tears in Eleanor’s eyes and wondered if maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
“We should have called first, Ellie. You don’t go barging up to ‘old-money’houses like these and pound on the door asking questions.” She was about to suggest that they walk back to a drugstore and find a telephone when Eleanor gripped her arm.
