Grand Central: Original Stories of Postwar Love and Reunion

by Karen White

  Virginia’s jaw would clench behind her smile. She had already surrendered her aspirations of an Engineering degree, despite her fascination with how things worked, and settled for the more “practical” major of Home Economics. One could say she’d been in training for the role of a professional housewife, destined to marry a man who, like the boy in the library, believed she was there to serve, never steer.

  “I signed up for lessons the very next day,” she said to Millie. “Of course, that was after I marched over and told that fellow what he could do with his theory.” It had not been her most articulate speech, but the guy’s stunned expression was ample reward.

  At this, Millie smiled in approval and a comfortable silence drifted in. There it remained, pleasant as a summer breeze, until Virginia refocused.

  “All right. Enough of this chitchat.”

  Millie scrunched her brow as Virginia snatched up more books from the floor and said, “We have plenty of work to do. So, where should we start?”

  —

  “Next stop: Alliance!”

  At the conductor’s announcement, Virginia bristled in her seat. Her vision sharpened, snapping her free of her memories and a haze from the overnight stretch. Not even the train’s rhythmic rocking had eased her restlessness. She pulled out her powder compact and touched up her makeup, attempting to conceal the dark patches beneath her eyes.

  Through the window, clouds sieved early afternoon rays, producing a mix of yellow and gray. Small clusters of buildings transformed the rural landscape. She felt the wheels begin to slow.

  Clickety-clack . . .

  Clickety-clack . . .

  Once more she was twelve years old, riding the Thunderbolt in Coney Island. Her roller-coaster cart had plodded up the steep incline, and her stomach became a bundle of knots. With her first crush seated beside her, however—a daredevil of a boy named Neal Langtree—she had disguised her fear with a brave face. Same as now.

  She retrieved her travel bag from the rack above.

  Clickety-clack . . .

  Clickety . . . clack . . .

  The locomotive came to a stop and released a heavy sigh, as if having held its breath since leaving New York. When Virginia disembarked, a young boy in overalls a size too small rushed by in a flurry.

  “Auntie!” He threw his arms around a woman from the next train car. Her hat and cape distinguished her as a member of the Army Nurse Corps. A trio of adults caught up and showered her with adoration, their pride for her service shining bright on their faces.

  The sight gnawed at Virginia—not from envy as it might have in the past, back when she yearned for equal credit; accolades for herself had come to mean little. Rather she felt a rise of resentment on behalf of those whose sacrifice would never receive due honors. No flags. No parades. No name etched on a plaque.

  Shoving down the thought, she resumed her mission. With guidance from a ticket clerk, she confirmed the bus number that would take her to Dover.

  Too soon for her to reconsider, the bus rolled up with a shriek of its brakes. She climbed on board, paid her fare, and nearly fell into her seat as the vehicle rumbled onward. The bus was no more than half full, the windows wide open, but still humidity clung to the air, thick and warm as winter fur.

  Virginia shed her sweater, tucked it into her luggage. Perspiration slid down her back.

  Close to an hour trudged by as riders stepped on, stepped off. Virginia’s eyelids grew heavy until another steely shriek alerted her of the impending stop, the one she had been waiting for. She had a mere instant to decide. If she stayed on, the bus would swing her back to the station. Easy as pie, she could hop on a train and return to her parents’ home. She could uphold her façade of normalcy, like Greta Garbo performing on cue. A marionette, hanging by a single string.

  She’s still not herself, she’d heard her mother whisper, just a week earlier. Late one evening, from the hallway outside of Virginia’s room, the observation had slipped under the door, a frustrated, helpless rasp.

  Now, now, Virginia’s father had replied quietly, a professional tone honed for next of kin. Everybody heals at their own pace. She’ll find her way. She just needs time.

  But—if we were firmer, pressed her to talk about it. Perhaps if we urged her to go and see Millie . . . The rest trailed away, and Virginia, cocooned in her coverlet, had envisioned her father ushering his wife off to their room for the night.

  The suggestion was far from a new concept to Virginia. Yet hearing it aloud had affirmed the idea, and after that night she could not stamp it out. She spoke to no one of her travel plans, leaving only a note on her pillow stating her destination.

  There was no need to explain.

  The stocky driver now opened the bus door. Virginia could already picture the look of anticipation on her mother’s face upon Virginia’s return. The curiosity. The hope.

  She gathered her things and hastened outside. The transport drove away, spouting a puff of acrid gray smoke.

  A mix of shops and houses lined the street. Nearby, clusters of trees ran along the Tuscarawas River.

  Aided by a map, she navigated her way through the town. The Bennett family’s address burned in her pocket. How many hours had young Millie spent on these streets, waiting for a barnstormer to zoom overhead?

  Many blocks and several turns later, green grass filled a wide stretch. A park, Virginia assumed, with its scattering of trees. But upon her approach, she realized what she had found. Her heart hammered in her chest. The map quivered in her hand.

  In a town of this size, there would be but one cemetery.

  One resting place for Millie.

  Virginia had intended to come here. Of course she always had. Yet she had envisioned paying a visit to Millie’s father first. It was best, she had been taught, to start with the most challenging task. Only now was it clear: Ranking one above the other was ludicrous. Both confrontations filled her with an equal level of dread.

  In the distance, an elderly woman stood before a grave, whispering prayers into a rosary. A caretaker was on his knees pulling weeds by their roots. Off in another row, a young boy in a sailor shirt placed a little flag at the base of a headstone, a woman behind him fixed with a pensive look.

  One step at a time.

  Virginia set down her travel bag, its weight suddenly that of a boulder. She pushed the map into her purse, and her fingers brushed the envelope encasing Taz’s letter. His voice echoed in her mind, boosting her courage, prodding her onward.

  She moved with slow, deliberate steps while reading the names on the markers. The air continued to thicken, each inhale like breathing underwater. For the span of a year, she had been drowning.

  And then she saw it: Mildred Anne Bennett.

  The formality of Millie’s full name solidified reality.

  Virginia’s pulse stalled, skipping several beats, but then returned with a vengeance and pounded in her ears. She fought to keep her knees from buckling. This time, Taz was not here to catch her.

  The caretaker was tidying around Millie’s grave. He glanced over his shoulder and issued a polite nod. He was twisting back to his work when he stopped.

  “Virginia?” he said in a husky tone, and her thoughts spun.

  “How—did you—?”

  “I’ve seen you in the photo. Of you and Millie . . . from her valuables.”

  The obvious struck then. This man was not a groundskeeper, but Millie Bennett’s father. Virginia scrambled to recall the speech she had prepared for this day, for this moment.

  Wistfully, he rose to his feet. He had kind eyes and a small paunch and his hair was salt-and-peppered. “My Millie, she wrote so much about you. I’d always hoped to make your acquaintance one day.” He wiped his palms on his pants and extended a hand.

  When she did not meet his greeting—because physically she could not bring herself
to—he stared, not understanding.

  But soon he would.

  With the deepest of breaths, Virginia gathered her words. At last, she let them spill free.

  —

  The day Virginia and Millie graduated, after six months at Avenger Field, had been a bittersweet celebration. It was certainly a thrill, being congratulated in person by the director of the program, legendary pilot Jacqueline Cochran. But the question of where Virginia and Millie would be sent was an unsettling one. More aptly, the possibility they might not be stationed together.

  Their first study session in the latrine had served as the initial thread connecting them, but thereafter, it was understanding and admiration, laughter and late-night talks, that wove a braid thicker than a seaman’s rope. And always there was the shared love of flying.

  While Virginia had taught Millie insider tips for cramming details from a textbook, Millie helped Virginia to trust her instincts in the air, to know when to follow her gut. They were a perfect complement, in many ways as different as two people could be, but where it mattered they were one and the same.

  Their relationship had done such a swift about-face, Lucy often teased, “Mercy, my neck is aching from the whiplash.” Of course, that did not stop the woman from rejoicing over news that all three of them, along with a few others in the group, were to be stationed together in North Carolina.

  Unfortunately, upon arriving at Camp Davis, they discovered the base had been dubbed “Wolf Swamp,” and for good reason. Surrounded by thousands of airmen, the two dozen female pilots were clearly viewed as lambs in a pen. Their presence, to most, served one of two purposes: a broad to belittle, or a skirt to date. Yet ever gradually, with their completion of advanced training, the girls earned respect by allowing their aviation skills to silence the snipes. Millie’s sharp tongue further helped in that area.

  As for courting, some of the gals relished their expanse of options. Especially after half a year spent at Avenger Field, known as “Cochran’s Convent” for its strict regulations on romance. Those rules had suited Virginia just fine, as any distractions held no appeal. Her transfer to Camp Davis had not changed this. She was there to fly, not to land a mate. There was a real war on, after all. Real soldiers, sailors, and airmen losing their lives. And for that fact, she took great pride in her duty.

  Granted, it was taxing work, ferrying aircrafts back and forth between factories and bases, from one coast to the other. It was not unusual for any of them to be assigned a single flight that multiplied into ten before finally returning to their post. Whenever Millie and Virginia had a chance to catch up, they were never short on tales, but typically nodded off on their cots before finishing a full recount.

  With a schedule like that, who had time for a steady?

  This was the explanation Virginia gave every time she declined a date. Most fellows accepted her answer and went on their way. But not Nick Tazzara, better known as “Taz.” On a clear April morning right after breakfast, he approached her outside the mess hall and, for the third time, invited her to a night of swing dancing at the Officers’ Club. Despite his dark, handsome looks and emanating charm, she responded with her standard brush-off.

  “So, I’ll try again some other day,” he said, unfazed.

  “I suppose you can,” she said, walking away with Millie. “But the answer will be the same.”

  “Well, then . . . I’d better get creative with my asking.”

  She wasn’t sure what that entailed until the next evening. Fresh from a flight, she returned to the barracks to find a white four-petal flower on her pillow. Scribed on a note tied to the twig was her name on one side and Taz on the other. One of the girls recognized the gift as a dogwood, the official state flower of Virginia. The sentiment teetered between sweet and corny, but at least he was resourceful. Who knew where he was able to locate such a specific variety.

  The following day a second dogwood lay on her pillow, this time with Dear on the front of the card, and on the back, simply me. Its recipient and sender evident, there was apparently no need for specifics. But to Virginia, his addressing her as Dear struck as much too familiar. How many other girls had he successfully baited with this approach?

  At the discovery of a third flower, Virginia warily picked up the card to review both sides: date and please. Nothing more. His literacy level appeared no higher than that of Tarzan, and his note the next evening only upheld the notion.

  “Allow and 1930?” she read aloud. “What on earth am I supposed to allow at nineteen thirty hours?” She groaned, tossing the note aside, exhausted from the workday. “The guy acts like he was just born in 1930.”

  “You know what’s funny.” Millie paused while hanging laundered clothes in her locker. “He sorta reminds me of this boy I knew in third grade. Sometimes he got his words all mixed up. Course that was after he got kicked in the head by a goat.”

  Virginia couldn’t imagine the Army allowing a man with brain damage to fly their expensive contraptions. Then again, she had heard Taz was a test pilot. Anyone willing to serve as a guinea pig had to be short a few marbles.

  “Mixed up . . .” Lucy repeated. “That’s it!”

  Virginia raised a brow at her friend, who was finishing a crossword on her cot. It was Lucy’s usual way of relaxing, as she’d claimed her mama insisted an idle mind left room for the devil’s work.

  “Let me see those notes again,” Lucy said, shuffling over. “All of them together. From the start till now.”

  The only thing Virginia wanted to do was bathe and collapse on her mattress, but she knew better than to resist Lucy’s persistence. Once Virginia had handed over the cards, Lucy began to write on a piece of paper. She tilted her head, then erased and scribbled some more. “I knew it,” she said to herself. “It’s a scramble of sorts. Lookee here.”

  Though reluctant, Virginia followed Millie in peeking over Lucy’s shoulder.

  Dear Virginia

  Please allow me date 1930

  Taz

  “You gotta admit,” Millie said, “the fella did come through on the creative front.”

  Virginia rolled her eyes. “Too bad he’s not coherent.”

  “Or . . .” Lucy added, “maybe he’s just not done yet.”

  And she was right.

  Every evening, more girls in the barracks circled around to read the additional clues. By Saturday, Virginia deciphered a request for the pleasure of a date on Sunday at 1930.

  Pressure mounted for her to accept, even from Millie, who volunteered to take Virginia’s flight if she were assigned to an overnighter, or find someone else who would. Given all of Taz’s efforts, coupled with Virginia’s upbringing, it seemed discourteous not to appease the airman with a single outing. Besides, his name was not among those listed on the wall by the phone, a Do Not Date compilation from fellow women pilots.

  And so, when Sunday evening arrived, Virginia opted to wear basic trousers, a cotton blouse and cardigan, and the lightest swipe of lipstick. “Just because I’m going doesn’t mean I’m getting dolled up,” she told Lucy, who had urged her to at least don a dress for the occasion.

  Millie laughed. “Looks like my stubbornness and fashion sense are rubbing off.”

  Waiting outside, Virginia could feel a throng of stares behind her, unsubtle spies in the windows of her barracks. She regarded her watch. He was seven minutes late. Three more and the date was off. Already this was turning out to be a huge mistake.

  Just then, Taz strode up in his khakis, his Army-issue duffel in hand.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting. Had to snag a few supplies for the show.”

  “The show?”

  “Uh-huh.” He did not elaborate, merely offered his elbow. “Shall we?”

  She had every right to be agitated. But how could she be, given the smile that lit up his eyes, a rather mischievous but genuine glimmer. Not to mention
his air of familiarity. While this might have been off-putting from another stranger, something about his words, his tone, the way he angled his arm in waiting made her far more comfortable than it should have.

  Against her better judgment, Virginia accepted.

  They zigzagged through the base, making small talk, with no hints of their destination or what “supplies” filled his bag. Compared to her usual dates back in New York, this one promised to be wonderfully adventurous—not that she would say so. It would be wrong to lead him on. She would only be joining him for one evening.

  They continued past the airstrip and into the field, ending at a long line of trees. Taz dropped his bag, out of which he unpacked a pair of Army blankets for a picnic on the grass. There was no champagne or wine, no stuffed olives or caviar. He had brought beers and Reuben sandwiches and Twinkies for dessert—which just so happened to be her favorite childhood treat. Everything about the meal broke the mold of expectation. It was free of pretention and . . . perfect.

  “I thought you said there’d be a show,” she reminded him, once they had settled on their respective blankets.

  “Oh, there will be.” He handed her a bottle that he clinked with his own, and they traded smiles before downing a few swallows.

  As the sun slid away, purple and pink streaked an orange sky. In the distance appeared the silhouette of a B-17. Its four engines thrummed as it approached for landing.

  “Just look at that,” Taz murmured, his gaze on the sleek bird. He straightened, attention rapt, as one would respond to the tuning sounds of an orchestra minutes before a concert.