Becoming Mrs. Smith

by Tanya E Williams

  Weeks pass before we dig ourselves out from the snow drifts. When the roads are clear and safe, Father drives me back to Cedar Springs for school. I am relieved to learn that Helen has been stuck at her family farm at the opposite end of town. We arrive at the boarding house within a couple of days of each other, determined to catch up on our studies.

  ***

  September 1941

  Little Edward bobs up and down in John’s arms, pure joy emanating from his doll-like face. Mother Smith has left him in our care while she works in the kitchen, preparing for this evening’s company. John and I have been back at school for a couple weeks, and his unwillingness to let go of his five-month-old baby brother is evidence that he misses being with Edward during the summer. I’ve come to view John in a new light these past few months. Though I’ve known he has a kind heart and a gentle smile, his patience and thoughtfulness shine through when he cares for Edward.

  Not only can he instantly quieten Edward when he cries, he’s in tune with Edward’s needs, always anticipating. I wonder if he would be like this with our own children. I smile to myself, knowing he would.

  John, Edward, and I are sitting under the shade of the porch, atop a blanket big enough for Edward to spread out on. The familiar Chevrolet, always with a fresh shine, pulls into the Smith driveway. I stand and wave as Father, Mother, and Iris step out of the car.

  Iris races up the steps to wrap her arms around my waist. “I missed you,” she says, giving me an extra squeeze.

  “Iris, we’ve been apart six days.” I rub her back to reassure her.

  “That is one day more than usual.”

  “Yes, you are correct. I thought you’d enjoy a Saturday evening dinner party. A good reason for me to have stayed in town this Friday.” I try to keep the mood light, as I hope to sell her on the idea of me staying in town some weekends. Graduation is only nine months away, and I have begun to consider what I will do once school is finished.

  “Oh, I do. Thank you for the invitation.” Iris directs this comment to John. He stands and nods in reply.

  John’s sisters, hearing the commotion, come outside to pull Iris into their games.

  Mother and Father join us on the porch, and we exchange greetings and hugs. John cradles Edward in the crook of one arm to shake Father’s hand. Mother leans toward the baby and tickles his bare toes, which elicits a delighted squeal from Edward.

  I gather the blanket from the porch, and we join the rest of the Smith family inside.

  The evening is filled with laughter and good food. Once Edward is tucked in bed for the night, John’s father pours his homemade wine. We retire to the front porch to enjoy the cool autumn breeze as we sip wine and listen to radio music filtering through the window. The evening feels magical. I capture the feeling in my heart, knowing the life I’ve dreamed of is in moments such as these.

  ***

  December 1942

  A year has passed since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. “America at war” is the only news-worthy topic these days, which is why I did not purchase a radio for my apartment in town. I would rather read, anyway, or spend evenings with John when his homework load is light.

  I spend week days at the real estate office. I was awarded the front receptionist position a week after graduation, and I rented an apartment within walking distance of the office. Iris was crushed when she realized I would not return to the farm, the final blow to our tumultuous relationship. I chalk up our differences to the age gap and the fact that I had to grow up much faster than she. Even at thirteen, Iris tries to goad me into silly play or shenanigans every time I see her, testing my patience with each visit. I love her dearly, I do. But I believe the time has come for her to mature into a young lady and to leave all the silliness behind her.

  We have fallen into a nice routine. I walk to church each Sunday and meet my family there. We sit through the service and gather for a shared meal afterward. So far, I have been able to enjoy my evenings with John, as well as the occasional dinner at the Smith house.

  I will spend the holidays at the farm, since the office closes from the twenty-fourth until the first Monday of the new year. If the weather holds, John has promised to borrow his father’s car to join my family for a festive dinner during the holiday season. With my permanent move to town, John and I have enjoyed the luxury of daily time together. His chivalrous side shows each afternoon as he waits outside my office door to walk me home. I give him home-cooked meals and fresh-baked treats, and I once wondered if his dedication to escorting me home was because of the time with me or the food awaiting him at the end of the walk. Either way is compliment to me—my personality or my cooking.

  ***

  April 1943

  I can smell spring in the air. The crisp bite of winter is almost a memory, save for an occasional whippet of wind that seeks out any sliver of ivory skin beneath my nylon overcoat. As rain begins to fall, I clutch at my lapel, tuck my chin, and dash toward the awning across the street.

  “Morning, Violet,” calls Jim, the number one real estate agent in the office. I step inside and soak in the warmth from the radiator.

  “Morning, Jim.”

  “Sold the Bower farm.” He takes the damp coat from my arm and limps a little as he moves toward the picture window. He gives the coat a shake, releasing a cascade of tiny raindrops, and hangs the coat on the rack. “Could you finish up the paperwork today so I can drop the contract by this evening? Mrs. Bower said she’d bake me one of her blue-ribbon cakes since I sold their farm real quick.”

  “Aren’t you the favored one?” I tease, aware that Jim’s interest lies with Mrs. Bower’s daughter, Frances, more than with any cake.

  “With rations and all,” he stumbles, “I thought the gesture a kind one. You know, to thank me for the quick sale.”

  He runs his fingers through his hair with a boyish grin, and I am reminded how handsome he is. At thirty some years old, Jim has yet to marry. He lives above the real estate office and is entirely devoted to the business of property brokerage.

  “I’d be happy to, Jim.” I etch the mockery from my voice to convey my sincere intentions.

  I set to work on the Bower paperwork as Jim retreats to his office, flushed but with regained composure.

  The office is a hive of activity. Warmer weather begins the selling season. Nobody likes to move houses in the winter, so spring is lively. Those unable to keep up farms while their boys fight a war relocate to homes with more manageable expectations. Farms are being snapped up for a right good price, which keeps the office entrenched in the action. I enjoy the busyness—the work hours pass with ease. But on quieter days, I watch the town from the comfort of my desk chair. Men on their way to and from work, students headed to school, and mothers with baby carriages, collecting dry goods from the local mercantile. I am never bored. I am filled with my life’s purpose and fulfilled by my employment. I have the luxury of independence and a little apartment a few blocks away. But my heart longs for the day I am a mother who pushes my own carriage, bakes my own bread, tends to my own vegetable garden, and welcomes my husband back into our home each evening. Those are my dreams, and John’s, too, I imagine.

  John and I have remained constant companions, best friends, two peas in a pod as his mother says. I finished school first, a year ahead. So while I work to save a little money for our future together, he is completing his final year of high school. A high school education is not common for young men, who often leave school to enter the work force. I am proud of John’s dedication to his education and excited about his future opportunities as a businessman in our community. The war will be over by summer, I tell myself, and John and I will begin our life together.

  ***

  At four twenty on the dot, I see John striding toward the brick building. With patience a mile long, he tucks himself into the corner under the overhang and waits for me. My work day seldom ends early, so as I shuffle together the Bower documents and place them in the center of Jim’s
desk, John greets each passerby with a slight nod of his capped head.

  As the clock ticks away the last few minutes, I tidy my desk and prepare to start fresh in the morning. The dark clouds have parted, and the sun follows a narrow escape route toward the horizon. The willowy rays warm the rain-soaked street and make the asphalt shine like a fresh coat of paint. The office is quiet, except the steady tick of the radiator. Most of my coworkers leave much earlier in the day to meet with clients at their homes or places of work, brokering deals as they travel. Mrs. Boyd, the office manager, stays until five thirty. She insists she stays to work in peace, but I suspect home is a much lonelier place now that her son has shipped off to Europe to join the war effort.

  “Good night, Mrs. Boyd. Have a fine evening.” I peek through her office doorway.

  “Thank you, Violet dear. Don’t let that beau of yours wait any longer, now.” She glances up from her accounting ledger. “I’ll get the lights on my way out.”

  I remind myself to invite the Boyds to lunch next Sunday after church as I wrap my coat around my shoulders and loop my purse into the crook of my arm.

  Outside, John’s eyes sparkle in the disappearing sunlight as he wraps my free arm in his own. “Good evening, Miss Sanderson.”

  “John.” I giggle like a schoolgirl at his formality. After so much time together, my tummy still flips whenever he smiles at me.

  “I thought perhaps we could dine at the Fountain tonight.” He cradles my elbow as we step into the street.

  “Mmm, I’d enjoy a sweet tea right about now. Yes, that would be wonderful.”

  We stroll arm in arm toward our favorite diner, the warmth of the setting sun on our faces.

  “How was your day?” John asks.

  “Busy. Good, I mean. Busy is good. Lots to do with the start of the warmer weather,” I say in a cheerful tone, though I know the day’s intense concentration has tired me a little. “And you?”

  “Same. The push is on to the end now. Prep for exams has begun.”

  I nod and remember how my last semester of school felt like an eternity.

  The Fountain is busy tonight, which is unexpected for a Tuesday. I suppose the little bit of sunshine brightened everyone’s spirits enough to want an evening of social entertainment. We sit across from each other in a booth.

  Within minutes, my sweet tea and John’s chocolate shake arrive at the table. Sandwiches ordered, we sip our drinks as the restaurant’s buzz fades to white noise.

  I am lost in my thoughts when John reaches for my hand.

  I seek solace in his gaze and realize this isn’t the comfortable silence we usually share. This feels different. I am not familiar with this dead air.

  John holds both my hands in his. I consider what to say, but no words fit this new, unknown silence.

  “Vi, I’ve made a decision.”

  I watch him intensely and filter out the noise of the crowded diner. A proposal of marriage flits across my mind, but I know from the way he peers through me that this isn’t one of those occasions. He leans closer and appears to beg for forgiveness before he has uttered a word. I know my heart is about to break.

  He clears his throat. “I’ve enlisted.”

  “What?” Astonishment mixes with a huge dose of confusion. “You’ve done what?” My instincts tell me to rip my hands from his, to run out of this diner and never look back. But my heart tells me there must be a misunderstanding. Why would I run away from the only person I’ve ever wanted to run toward?

  “I understand you’re upset.” His eyes focus on the table. “I know I should have spoken with you about this, but I anticipated how difficult this would be, and I—I would have been drafted in a few months anyway.” He looks straight into my angry blue eyes. “This is a stand I have to make, Vi.”

  I shake my head in bitter disagreement, wrenching my hands from his grasp. “You don’t know that. The war may be over in six months. Why did you have to offer yourself up? How could they let you? You’re not even nineteen yet. They aren’t brazen enough to take boys off the schoolyard, are they?” My voice escalates into a high-pitched shrill as fear engulfs me and my dreams for our future crumble.

  Angry tears fueled by sheer panic sting my eyes. I dab them with a paper napkin and try to control my shaking voice. “Why wouldn’t you talk to me first?” I hurl words full of fury. A moment of complete disdain engulfs me, and I want him to feel my fear.

  “I knew you would talk your sense into me,” he says in a hollow shadow of a voice.

  “Of course I would have. We have plans. We have dreams. We were building a life together.” My voice cracks as my love for this man bubbles out, broken. “I don’t understand why you would throw our future away. Throw us away.”

  John drops his head into his hands, and when he searches my face again, his is stained with anguish. “You may never understand my reasons, but I did this for us. We can’t live our dreams when others suffer. This is the only way I can ensure our happiness.”

  “I can guarantee you, John Smith, that I won’t be happy when you’re dead.” I stand, eager to leave. I bump into the waitress who has approached our table and offer a weak apology as French fries scatter onto the floor. “I have to go.”

  ***

  Days drag on like months. My heart flutters more often than before. I decide my heart must be broken, and I have no idea how to cure its misery. I haven’t seen John for three whole days. I suspect he’s attempting to give me space, though sometimes I fear he has given up on me altogether, and I wonder what I’m doing. He chose this path. Surely, I should be the one who deserves to be angry. This thought causes tears to drop like spring rain, never ceasing once they start.

  As the weekend nears, my anxiety grows. My emotions exhaust me as they alternate between anger and dread. At the office, I keep myself busy enough to get through each day. But today is Friday, and I’ve no idea how to pass two torturesome days before Monday. My apartment’s walls close in a little more each evening, suffocating me as I lie awake reliving John’s words as he called after me from the diner doorway. I consider telephoning Father and asking him to collect me for the weekend. I could most certainly use his warm, loving embrace, but the thought is overtaken by the admonishment I might receive when Mother hears how I behaved in public.

  I am ashamed of how I acted, of how childishly I behaved. Until that night, I hadn’t realized how much of a fantasy I had created about our dreamy future. I believed the fairytale with such vigor that I managed to block out life’s realities. Perhaps John wasn’t in the mindset of marriage at all. For all I knew, I might not be a good mother or wife. Perhaps this damned war will claim more than the love of my life. I may have to sacrifice all my dreams too. The more I consider potential outcomes, the more heartbroken I become, and I realize this isn’t John’s fault. The responsibility belongs to me. I am guilty of my utopian dreams.

  Mrs. Boyd stands at my desk, a worried frown running the width of her lips. “Violet dear, we should close up for the night.”

  “Oh! I hadn’t realized the time. I am sorry. I hadn’t meant to keep you late.” I hastily gather papers into a pile.

  “Oh no, dear. You aren’t keeping me. John is ready for you. He has been outside for the past hour.” Mrs. Boyd shuffles her stout frame sideways so I can see the door. “I didn’t want him to wait any longer than need be.”

  “John?” I stand to gain a better view of the street. “I hadn’t realized he was there.” My cheeks warm. I bow my head to shield them from his intense eyes, gazing at me from outside.

  “I am sure you two can sort through whatever the problem is.” Mrs. Boyd pats my arm. “Oftentimes, one needs a little bump in the road to get their attention.”

  I nod without speaking, trying to keep my emotions in check.

  She gives me a sly wink. “Off you go. Have fun.” Mrs. Boyd waves to John through the glass and walks back to her desk.

  I close the filing cabinet and wrap my coat around my shoulders before openin
g the door.

  “Hello,” I say. An unintended briskness fills my voice. “I apologize. I didn’t realize you were out here.”

  “I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me.”

  “Is that a question or a statement?” I ask.

  “Vi, please. Can I walk you home? I’d like to talk with you.”

  Afraid of another public display if I speak, I loop my arm through his and tug him in the direction of my apartment.

  ***

  I heat some soup and divide the broth between two bowls. I spread a thin layer of butter on two slices of bread before placing the plate on the table, a gourmet meal in my exhausted state.

  I sit at the table, spoon in hand. “So. Talk.”

  John takes a drink of water and clears his throat. “I’ve been following the broadcasts. They need men, like me. Father says—”

  “To do what? Sacrifice themselves so Uncle Sam can feel good about the war.” I shake my head in disgust. “War is simply the government giving men permission to harm others. I don’t want to believe you think killing is a tolerable pastime.”

  “I don’t like the idea of killing any more than you do. But I do believe others are suffering needlessly. That is what I am standing up for.”

  “What about my suffering?” Tears flow down my cheeks. “Do you care about me? About my suffering?”

  John slides his chair back from the table and swivels to face me. Our knees touch, and his soft gaze is pleading. “I care more than you realize.” His hand brushes the tears from my cheek. “I love you, Vi.”

  “Then don’t go.” My words are soft and desperate.

  “I need to.” He looks at his hands. “I promise you, I’ll come back.”

  “You can’t promise that, John.” I pull my face away from his hand. “That’s the point. I am afraid I will lose you forever.”