by Terrie Todd
She was right about that, but I hadn’t given her an answer yet. It seemed like a big step, knowing I’d have to budget my earnings for rent and food. But the idea of being independent appealed to me.
After Maxine’s graduation, Mr. and Mrs. Ross took us to an Italian restaurant, where the four of us shared a booth. While we waited for our pasta, Max talked to her parents as if everything was already decided.
“Bridget’s moving in with me,” she announced. “Just think of the fun we’ll have!”
“That’s a fine idea.” Mrs. Ross smiled at me and then turned back to her daughter. “Did you still want those old green curtains from your room at home?”
“No, thanks. Too old-fashioned.” Max talked around a mouthful of food. “Our place is going to be the cat’s meow when we’re done with it, won’t it, Bridge?”
“No wild parties, now,” Mr. Ross teased. “You sure you two can get along?”
Part of me wondered how well we actually would get along once we were sharing our living space. But we’d be apart all day, at our respective jobs. I loved the idea of eating or showering when it suited me instead of following the strict routine at the Weinbergers’.
When the meal was over, Max opened her graduation gift from her parents, and the deal was clinched for me: a brand-new radio! We could listen to whatever we liked, whenever we liked, at whatever volume we liked. Her proposal was sounding sweeter by the minute.
“It’s a combination graduation and housewarming present,” Mrs. Ross said. “So that means it’s for you, too, Bridget.”
“Don’t burn all the tubes out in the first week,” Maxine’s father cautioned with a grin.
So it was decided. Since Maxine’s parents were still in town through the next day, I packed up my belongings that night so they could help me move. Not that I owned any furniture or anything. I’d acquired a large collection of nice clothes, though, and I packed them carefully in boxes for the car ride over.
As I was emptying drawers in my dresser, I found something I’d forgotten about: the letter I’d written to Victor Harrison’s mother for the English composition assignment nearly a year before. I scanned it quickly. Feeling suddenly carefree and adventuresome, I scrawled a quick note to add to the letter. I stuffed both in an envelope and addressed it to Mrs. Harrison in Bleak Landing. Before I could change my mind, I added a stamp, carried it downstairs, and left it in the outgoing-mail basket by the front door.
I spent the next morning hanging my clothes in the closet and settling in at Maxine’s place. Except now it was our place! Her mother threw together some sandwiches, and the four of us ate lunch in our little kitchen. The new radio, installed on the counter, played classical music on CBC. After Maxine’s parents said their goodbyes and headed back to Pinehaven, she and I switched to swing jazz and had our own little dance party.
To celebrate, we went to see a new movie called Bambi. Giggling like little kids, we munched our popcorn and laughed at the little fawn sliding around on the ice. But when the hunter shot Bambi’s mother, I was livid. What kind of stupid children’s story was this? I looked over at Max, and she had tears rolling down her face.
“Let’s go,” I whispered.
“No! We need to stay and see how it turns out.”
I really wanted to leave, but as usual, Maxine got her way. With a huff, I settled back into my seat and stewed through the rest of the idiotic movie. As we headed down the sidewalk afterward, I was still angry. “Why would they do such a horrible thing?” I ranted. “Poor little guy needed his mother. They call this entertainment? Are they trying to scare little kids? Mark my words, Max. Bambi is going to be nothing but a big flop.”
Maxine cheered me up with her best impression of Thumper, which didn’t really require much alteration of her personality. It was well past midnight when we finally collapsed on our beds. I fell asleep right away, which was a good thing. Being independent was splendid, but I knew Mr. Weinberger could easily replace me. And I figured that if I showed up late for work in the morning, he might do just that.
Chapter 26
Bleak Landing, October 1942
Victor’s father didn’t say much the day he and Victor’s ma met their son’s train in Winnipeg, but while she wrote down the army nurse’s instructions about how to care for Victor’s stitched-up leg, he thumped his eldest on the back. Clearing his throat, he said, “Good to have you back in one piece, son. Real good. You did just fine.”
Somehow, hearing those words wasn’t as satisfying as Victor had always imagined it would be.
The three Harrisons agreed that before boarding the train to Bleak Landing, a side trip to Wellington Crescent was in order. Victor gave the cabdriver the crumpled scrap of paper with Bridget’s address on it. He’d been carrying it around for nearly two years. He knew Bridget had moved up in the world, but he was not prepared for the sight that met him when the car stopped in front of the mansion. He could feel his palms sweating.
“Why don’t you let me go to the door?” his mother asked. “That way, if she’s not home, you’ll save yourself some unnecessary steps.”
“No, I’ll go.” He swallowed. “You and Pa wait here.”
The iron gates stood open. As Victor hobbled up the sidewalk toward the imposing white house, he felt more nervous than he had since boot camp. An older gentleman answered the door. Victor asked for Bridget, explaining that he was an old friend.
The man sized up Victor and his crutches without moving his head even a fraction. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”
Victor pressed further but got no more information. He wasn’t sure whether the man didn’t know or wouldn’t tell where Bridget had gone. “What about her friend—a blond girl?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I have no idea.”
Lord, Victor prayed as he walked back to the cab, if it’s not meant for me to see Bridget, why did you put her in my path that day? Where is she?
He and his parents rode back to the station in silence. On the train ride home, Victor talked about his war experiences. The story of his getting shot while helping a wounded private had reached Bleak Landing long before, and a group of supporters had gathered to welcome him home. His sisters had baked a cake and hung a banner across the living room. Conspicuous by her absence was Rebecca Olsen, who’d written Victor a Dear John letter as soon as she learned of his injury. He knew it was just as well. Whatever feelings he’d once had for Rebecca evaporated the day he spotted Bridget O’Sullivan’s flaming red hair across the expanse of Union Station.
Life was back to a new normal now, and Victor wanted to be a contributing member of the household—and eventually, of the community. He swallowed the last of his milk and rose from the kitchen table. He picked up the crutches that leaned against it. “Sure have missed Bessie’s milk. The only thing worse than that canned stuff is the powdered stuff.” He started toward the door.
His mother smiled from the sink, where she was scrubbing the last of the garden carrots. But when she realized he was heading outside, her smile turned to a frown. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Gonna give Pa a hand.”
“Victor. Anna and Bobby are helping your father, and Nancy will be back from town soon. Sit down.”
“Those squirts? Some help they are. I figure the Lord allowed me to get wounded when I did because he knew I’d be needed here at harvest time. I aim to help.”
His mother pressed her lips together. “Then come over here and scrub these carrots. You can’t risk getting dirt into that wound until it’s completely healed.”
“Ma. I’m going nutty in here. Do you realize how long I’ve been cooped up?”
Two months had passed since Operation Jubilee. The horror he’d witnessed in Dieppe never escaped Victor’s mind for long, especially if he closed his eyes. The whole raid had turned out to be a miserable failure. Over half the men who made it ashore had been killed, captured, or wounded. He considered himself fortunate to have been only wounded. And, b
y God’s grace, evacuated.
But now that he was home, he couldn’t bear to sit around watching his younger siblings work alongside Pa while he did nothing. His oldest sister, Peggy, had left home to work as a telephone operator in the city and was engaged to be married. He’d been shocked by how much his parents had aged in the time he was gone. But then, they’d said the same about him—except in a positive way.
“Three days,” his mother answered. “You’ve been home three days, which is nothing.”
“It’s been two months of hospitals, Ma. With hardly a breath of fresh air all that time.”
“Then we’ll set you up on the front porch and you can breathe all you want. If you’re lucky, Mr. Berg will be spreading manure and you can get yourself a good whiff.”
Victor chuckled. For as long as he could remember, the odors drifting over from their neighbor’s pigs had exposed the weak spot in his mother’s otherwise gracious temperament. It really was good to be home.
“Here.” She grabbed his jacket from a hook by the door and helped him into it while he shuffled the crutches from hand to hand. “It’s getting nippy out there. Take a seat and I’ll bring you a tub of clean carrots to slice for canning.”
When Victor stepped out onto the front porch, he saw Nancy walking toward him with a grocery bag in one hand and a letter clutched in the other.
“Ma!” she called, waving a white envelope in the air. “You’ve got a letter. From Bridget O’Sullivan!”
Victor gaped at his sister and turned back to his mother, who still stood in the doorway. She was staring at Nancy, too. He watched her take the envelope and look at it in wonder. She grabbed a ratty old sweater from a hook behind the door and moved slowly to her porch rocking chair. Nancy disappeared into the house with the grocery bag.
Victor watched as his mother pulled her sweater on and slowly opened the envelope.
“You get letters from Bridget?” He couldn’t believe Ma hadn’t mentioned it before.
“First one,” she said softly. “It’s been well over a year since I wrote to her, with no word back. I’ve wondered whether she even got it.” She read silently while Victor lowered himself to the porch swing and braced his crutches against the wall behind him. Bingo immediately jumped to his lap and rested a whiskery chin on his hero’s knee. Victor scratched behind the dog’s ears and waited impatiently while he surveyed the familiar farmyard and soaked up the crisp fall air. The bright sunshine emphasized the brilliance of the few orange and yellow leaves clinging to the poplars and Manitoba maples, and his mother’s multicolored dahlias still danced in the gentle breeze. He turned his eyes to his mother and tried to gauge her response to the words she was reading.
Victor knew she still prayed for Bridget regularly. In fact, the evening he’d arrived home, they’d gathered in the living room, where Pa read from the Psalms and Ma led the family in a tearful prayer of thanks for Victor’s return. She’d also offered up petitions for a full recovery of his wounded leg, despite the doctor’s prediction that he’d always limp. She’d prayed for each of his siblings, too, of course. Then the O’Sullivans: for Bridget’s safety, and for the Lord to watch over her “wherever she was,” and for God to soften her heart toward himself. And for “that poor man, her father,” that God would bring him deliverance and healing.
Victor had never understood why his mother’s heart held such a soft spot for Bridget. With three daughters of her own, it wasn’t as if she had an empty place that needed filling by a girl. He’d asked her about it once, and she’d said only that “God has a tender spot for each and every one of us, and he doles out to us compassion for others in bite-size chunks that we can handle. Otherwise, we’d never survive the pain of it.”
He guessed his ma’s “bite-size chunk” was for the O’Sullivans, for some unexplainable reason, and wondered if perhaps he’d inherited the same chunk—at least as far as the daughter was concerned. He’d prayed for Bridget, too, though never in a way that anyone else could hear.
Ma finished reading. One hand clutched the letter; the other swiped at tears. Victor was dying to know what Bridget had written.
“Bad news, Ma?”
His mother shook her head and let out a big sigh, wiping both cheeks with the sleeve of her old sweater. She stood and handed the letter to Victor. “No. It’s not all I was hoping for, but it is evidence of answered prayers. It is that.” She picked up a broom from the corner of the porch and began sweeping leaves off the floorboards into the flower beds below.
Victor pushed Bingo’s nose away from the two-page letter so he could see it clearly. It appeared to be two separate letters, the first page more of a brief note, written recently.
Dear Mrs. Harrison,
I was sorting through my belongings as I am packing to move to a new home, and came across this letter I wrote for an English composition assignment over a year ago. I thought you might like to have it. I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your letter or send this one sooner. That was rude, and you deserve better. Here it is now. My instructor gave me a C on the assignment and said it could have been more heartfelt. I received my high school diploma last spring. If you ever see Miss Johansen, you can tell her. Everything I said in the letter about my father still holds.
Bridget
Victor flipped to the other page, dated July of 1941. He’d been overseas when Bridget wrote this, fighting battles bigger than he’d ever imagined could be fought and cherishing every word he received from loved ones back in Canada. Wishing every day for a letter from Bridget. What sort of battles had she been fighting at the same time?
Dear Mrs. Harrison,
Thank you for your letter and for your concern for me. My friend Maxine says God places angels in charge of us, and sometimes I think you were always a bit of an angel in my life when I was growing up. I never ever told anyone, but I used to wish I could belong to your family, and it was because of you. Even though we only saw each other when I came to collect eggs, your kindness and gentleness spoke to me in ways I can’t describe. I’m sure you guessed that I didn’t experience that sort of thing in my own home, which brings me to your question about my father.
The household in which I now find myself is carrying deep grief for a beloved son missing in action. I am witnessing firsthand the devastating effect on the parents, and I have been burdened with guilt. Still, I am not prepared to contact my father, and if you knew my reasons, I think you’d understand. But if you wish to tell him I am alive and well, you may do so. Yes, it was me Victor saw in the train station that day and my friend Maxine who gave him my address.
Maxine reminds me of you. I mean, she’s boisterous and talks way too much—which is very unlike you. But she seems to know God the same way you do. She talks to him all the time, and she talks to him about me. Her family has shown me love as well, and gave me a Bible of my own. I intend to read it one day soon.
I trust that your whole family is well. I see no reason to write to Victor or to hear from him, but I do hope for his safe return and wish him well.
Thanks again for the positive influence you have been on my life.
Bridget
Victor checked the return address corner on the envelope. Clearly, Bridget had no desire to be pursued. She had written only her name, and her last name was definitely missing its O.
Chapter 27
Winnipeg. December 1942
Maxine and I were arguing. Again.
“This was a dumb idea, Max. We used to be able to go to the movies or buy a Coke now and again. Now we can’t even keep up with the rent and food. And now that winter’s here, we’ve got to pay our share of the heating—and we’re not even warm!”
“Quit your grumbling,” Maxine said, rolling her eyes at me. “You got so used to living in that fancy-shmancy house, you’ve forgotten how the rest of the world lives.”
“I have not! I just know I was better off before this big idea of yours.”
Maxine’s plan for us to share an apartment had once
seemed like an excellent opportunity to become more independent. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“Remember the fun you promised?” I challenged her. “I’m still waiting for the fun to start. We both walk to work to save bus fare, slave away all day, trudge home after dark, open a can of soup for supper, and bundle up in blankets to listen to a scratchy radio. Half the time, we can’t even count on hot water for a bath. And our neighbor across the hall has bedbugs!”
“Oh, he does not.” Maxine folded a blue sweater into her suitcase.
“Well, he stinks.”
“He’s just a sweet old man! And it’s hard for him to climb all those stairs. You should be nicer to him.” She closed the lid on her suitcase. “Anyway, we’re getting out of here for a few days. Once we get home for Christmas, you’ll quit being so surly. Think of all the yummy things we’re going to eat in Mom’s kitchen. She said she has enough sugar rations saved up for us to bake shortbread cookies.”
I sighed and closed my own bag, not knowing whether to feel warmed or resentful that Maxine referred to home as if it were mine as well as hers. This would be my fourth Christmas with the Ross family. They always treated me like I belonged. It was I who felt otherwise. I knew I didn’t deserve their acceptance, no matter how much I longed for it.
Maxine’s usual chatter had given way to silence by the time we reached Pinehaven. It was going to be the first Christmas with both of her brothers overseas. They’d been conscripted for home defense only, but both had volunteered to fight.
I studied my friend’s face as she peered out the train window to see who would come to meet us. “It’ll be all right, Max,” I said. It wasn’t much to offer, but I could tell she was nervous. She’d said the same words to me more times than I could count.
She looked at me and smiled. “I know.” She turned back to the window. “They’re both here.”
Sure enough, Mr. and Mrs. Ross were waiting on the platform. While her father picked up our bags, Maxine’s mother embraced her daughter first, then me. It seemed to me she hugged me a lot more tightly than she had the year before.
