Through Waters Deep

by Sarah Sundin

  “Are you going to show someone? The FBI?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Maybe it’s time. Something’s going on. You should speak up.”

  Mary’s forehead creased, and she shook her head.

  “Wow. You really don’t like attention, do you?”

  She glanced around at the budding trees. “It’s wrong to call attention to yourself. Pride comes before a fall.”

  “Sure, but there’s nothing wrong with taking a little pride in a job well done or in accepting a little attention for it.”

  Her mouth scrunched up. “Such a fine line between gracious acceptance and reveling in the limelight. Best to avoid attention altogether. Far less dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” This was the same woman he had to drag from a potential riot.

  “I know. I know from experience.” Her voice quavered, and she pressed her hand over her mouth.

  What could have made her so afraid? “Why? What happened?”

  Mary raised startled blue eyes, a strange contrast with the fearless red suit and hat.

  If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t force her. That wasn’t his way. He never pushed, never made waves.

  Jim tilted his head across the street to the Public Garden. “Come on. Let’s enjoy the park. Then we’ll get some ice cream, catch the El back to Charlestown. You can get out of that fool wig and we can see Bunker Hill. What do you say to that?”

  “All right.” Head lowered, she proceeded.

  Jim crossed the street and ambled along the flower-lined pathway, but his stomach clenched. He could usually perk people up and encourage them, but he’d deflated Mary’s spirits.

  She made a good friend, a good companion, but he still couldn’t figure her out. One moment timid, the next bold and determined. Quiet and modest, but she loved to explore and try new things. And he wanted to figure her out, find out what made her tick.

  He puffed out a breath and glanced her way. He wasn’t falling for her, was he? Getting confused by the blonde wig? Nah. She was a nice girl, a pretty girl, but not for him. He liked women who overflowed with energy and joy and confidence.

  At least she didn’t seem to be falling for him. None of that simpering and hair-twirling and fussing over him. Of course not. She knew better. She remembered him as a fool, drooling over the unattainable Quintessa Beaumont.

  Just as well. Wouldn’t be long until they shipped out, and who knew what port they’d call home?

  A miniature suspension bridge stretched across the lagoon, and Jim and Mary strolled onto it. On the silvery green waters, ducks floated, bobbing under to feed. Mary stopped and gripped the railing, and Jim leaned against a stone pillar.

  On the near bank, a trio of children played with toy sailboats. One of the boats twisted into the wind and toppled over.

  “That’s me,” Mary said.

  “Hmm?”

  She pointed, forehead puckered. “It hoisted its sail into the wind so proudly. ‘Look at me! I’m wonderful!’ And it capsized.”

  Jim frowned at the boat, at the child wading into the lagoon to right it. “I don’t under—”

  “In sixth grade. The Christmas pageant at school.” Mary traced one finger along the railing. “I was chosen to play Mary. Not only did I have the right name, but I had a lovely voice, Mrs. Cassidy said, the best in class. It was the most important role, and I was proud, so proud. My mother warned me and told me not to put myself above others, but I ignored her. I’d been chosen because I was wonderful. I reveled in the attention.”

  “Oh.” Jim sank his hands into his trouser pockets, warmed inside that she trusted him with her story.

  “You already know what happened.” She turned a guarded gaze to him.

  “I do?” He searched his memory. So long ago. But he did remember one year, going to see his little sisters Lillian and Lucy as angels, and . . . “There was an accident, wasn’t there?”

  She tucked in her chin. “You could say that. More like I had an accident.”

  “Oh.” He cringed for her sake.

  “I was so excited, so proud, that I forgot to use the restroom beforehand. There I was in my blue gown, holding baby Jesus—the most beautiful porcelain doll I’d ever seen. I was kneeling beside the manger, and I stood up with baby Jesus to sing ‘Silent Night’ and—” She shuddered.

  Now he remembered. He remembered the laughter spreading through the auditorium and his mother’s iron grip on his knee to prevent him from joining in.

  Mary covered her face with her hand. “I had to walk to the front of the stage for my solo. Everyone behind me could see. I can still hear the laughter. Mrs. Cassidy realized what had happened, and she screeched and ran to me on stage and lifted up the gown, insisting she had to get me out of my wet things. I couldn’t stop her because I was trying not to drop the doll, and I . . . well, she didn’t know I was only wearing my little slip underneath. I was mortified.”

  He made a face. “And you ran and fell—”

  “And the doll shattered. One of the boys cried out, ‘She broke Jesus!’ That’s all I could hear. All I could think about. I did it. In my pride, I broke Jesus.” A breeze blew fake blonde curls across her cheek, and she didn’t brush them away.

  Jim let out a low whistle. “I can see why you don’t like the stage.”

  “Do you blame me?” Her voice came out small and strained.

  “Not at all.” He rubbed the scars on his palms. “Some moments sear themselves in your memory.”

  She nodded, her face still covered.

  Now for some encouragement. “But look at you now. Miss Independent Career Girl, living in the big city and standing up to saboteurs.”

  Mary peeked at him and raised a tiny smile. “Am I?”

  “Absolutely.” He gave her his best serious look.

  The smile grew. “Your mom helped.”

  “My mom?”

  “She was my Sunday school teacher. She heard the snickers in class, saw me becoming more and more withdrawn. So one day she kept me after class and coaxed it out of me, my guilt for breaking Jesus. Your mom sat there watching me, and then she said, ‘I broke Jesus too.’”

  A smile twitched on Jim’s lips. “Good old Mom.”

  “I didn’t understand. So she told me when we sin, we break Jesus’s heart. And then he went to the cross, willingly breaking himself so we could be made whole. I’d heard the story all my life, but that was the first time it made sense, the first time I felt the weight of my sin and the need to be saved.”

  Jim sighed and nodded. He’d felt that weight himself, that burden.

  “Your mother was wonderful. She explained breaking the doll wasn’t a sin, just an accident, but I’d done other things to break Jesus. I knew I had—my awful pride—and I prayed and asked for forgiveness and received it.”

  “Mom always cuts through the nonsense and leads you back to truth.”

  “Quintessa helped too.”

  Jim’s heart jolted at the name, but he kept the same expression. “I’m sure she did.”

  “She moved to town that summer and took me under her wing. When school started, everyone wanted to be friends with her, but she told them, ‘Anyone who wants to be my friend has to be nice to Mary.’ Believe me, that put an end to the teasing.”

  “It would.” He stared at the dancing blonde curls. That was what was missing in the women he dated. They matched Quintessa for vivaciousness, but none had her compassion, her willingness to stand up for the underdog. “She’s unforgettable.”

  Mary brushed aside the fake blonde and gave him a soft smile. “You still love her, don’t you?”

  His face scrunched up, and he glanced away to a Swan Boat being pedaled across the lagoon with half a dozen families and couples on board. “Don’t know if I’d call it love. Just a foolish, one-sided crush.”

  “Unrequited love is still love.”

  “And foolishness is still foolishness.” Something restless squirmed inside him, and he pushed awa
y from the stone pillar. “Now, come on. I promised you ice cream.”

  Mary swiped aside the curls. “Then I’ll let you help me burn this wig.”

  He headed across the bridge. “Arch will be heartbroken. It’s his favorite.”

  She rewarded him with an amused sidelong glance. Good. He’d actually cheered her up. Even if it meant he had to admit something he preferred to keep hidden. But so had she.

  Now her fear made sense. It did. An embarrassing moment like that couldn’t be forgotten.

  No wonder she hated attention. No wonder she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, even for something as noble as catching a saboteur.

  Jim stopped in his tracks, and Mary gave him a quizzical look.

  Before him rose a statue of George Washington. He circled to the front. The great general rode on horseback, sword drawn and ready to attack, to defend. “Our founding fathers were willing to fight for what was right, to risk their lives for the sake of freedom.”

  “True.” She inclined her head.

  “You don’t want to report your findings for fear of drawing attention to yourself. But what if something happens? Someone gets hurt?”

  Her eyes went from blue peace to silver shock.

  Above them, George Washington stared down the future, ready to take on any enemy for the sake of liberty.

  “So . . .” Mary cleared her throat. “So I should be willing to stand up and speak out.”

  He tweaked her pancake of a hat. “And maybe wear a little red.”

  Her expression solidified, and something new lit in her eyes. “Maybe I will.”

  7

  Tuesday, April 29, 1941

  Mary climbed Monument Avenue on her way to work, notebooks in her arms, her camel-colored spring coat swinging unbuttoned around her knees.

  “You shouldn’t do it.” Yvette’s heels clipped on the sidewalk beside her.

  Basswood trees waved their new spring leaves above Mary’s head. After all the hard work of talking herself into this, she didn’t need any discouragement. This was the right thing to do, and as long as she didn’t yield to the temptation of taking pride in her actions, she’d be fine. “I need to let Mr. Pennington know my suspicions and ask his advice.”

  “Americans are so naïve. You do not see the danger.”

  “But I do see the danger. That’s why I need to act.”

  “You do not understand.” Yvette waved her red-tipped fingers in front of her face. “The war will come here. The Nazis will not stop. They are ruthless and powerful.”

  “If that’s true, I need to help.”

  Yvette’s brown eyes riveted her. “Do you not see? If the Nazis are here, sabotaging our ships, do you not think they will hurt those who stand in their way? They are brutes. Man, woman, child—it matters not. They can hurt you and no one will ever know.”

  Mary let out a sigh. Strange that the thought of public acclaim frightened her more than physical danger. “Don’t you always say the biggest mistakes the French made last year were trusting in false security and ignoring the warning signs?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I won’t make the same mistake.” The Bunker Hill Monument rose high before her on a green hill, the granite obelisk puncturing the blue sky. Almost two hundred years earlier, colonists had hunkered behind wooden ramparts, outnumbered, fighting against impossible odds.

  Surely one secretary could dare to share her notes.

  At the northeast corner of Monument Square, they turned right, down the hill toward the Navy Yard, past Charlestown’s neat brick homes.

  Mary filled her lungs with warm spring air. Jim would be proud of her, and her heart leaped. How ridiculous to let herself develop a crush on him. He liked gold, not silver, and he still loved Quintessa, for heaven’s sake.

  Mary crossed Chelsea Street and frowned. Was she being shallow? She hadn’t been interested in him in high school, so why now? The only thing that had changed was the breadth of his shoulders.

  That wasn’t completely true. In high school, they rarely spoke. Hugh and Quintessa did all the talking, and Jim and Mary listened, enraptured. This was the first time they had truly conversed.

  The lovesick boy had become a bright and funny man, kind and insightful, adventurous and thoughtful. And not one bit lovesick.

  The whole thing was quite hopeless.

  Mary straightened her shoulders. Regardless, she’d enjoy his friendship and encouragement until he shipped out.

  She and Yvette showed their photographic identification passes and entered the gate to the Boston Navy Yard. They passed the octagonal Muster House, such a darling Victorian building for a military base. To her left, the long narrow building of the ropewalk stretched for a quarter mile, where men spun hemp fibers into rope for the entire US Navy. They turned left and entered Building 39, a solid structure of brick trimmed with granite blocks.

  Yvette headed for Accounting, while Mary headed for Mr. Pennington’s office in Personnel.

  After she hung up her coat, she set up her desk for the day, her notebooks beside her. Today would be perfect to talk to her boss, in the lull between the busyness of Mondays and Fridays, and before the end of the month with its rash of reports.

  Mr. Pennington swept into the office, tossed his hat onto the rack, and hung up his suit jacket. “Good morning, Miss Stirling. Don’t you look lovely today?”

  “You say that every morning.”

  “Because it’s true, my dear. You have your grandmother’s eyes and her sweet spirit.” He tapped his temple. “You know I had my eye on her until your grandfather stole her from right under my nose.”

  “I’m glad he did.”

  Mr. Pennington laughed and smoothed his semicircle of white hair. “So am I. Gave me my most efficient secretary ever.”

  Mary grabbed her notebooks and followed him into his office, where he plunked into his chair and tugged his vest down over his belly. Now was the time. She inhaled a deep breath and exhaled a quick prayer. “Mr. Pennington, I’d like to discuss something with you.”

  “Oh?”

  Her ankles wobbled. “You know there’s been a lot of unrest among the men lately, a lot of accusations.”

  “Ah yes, the saboteur,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I wouldn’t worry about it. The entire nation is on edge. First the US declares the Western Hemisphere off-limits to Axis ships, but the British are quite welcome. We’ve chosen our side, and some people don’t like it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He spread out his hands. “And here in America our great hero, Charles Lindbergh himself, appears at an America First rally at Madison Square Garden and tells us the only way to save our country is not to fight. And then our great president calls our great hero a defeatist. And then our great hero resigns from the Army Air Corps.”

  Mary smiled. “It’s been a busy week.”

  “That it has. So I expect some grumbling from our boys on the docks.”

  “I’ve been keeping track.”

  Silver eyebrows rose. “Hmm?”

  She shifted her weight from one shaky ankle to the other. “You always call me your little spy, so that’s what I’ve been doing. I record everything the men say about the sabotage.” She set the first notebook before him.

  “It’s in shorthand.”

  “Yes. I can take down over two hundred words a minute, so I can write faster than they speak. Since they’re used to seeing me take notes, no one thinks anything of it.”

  He leafed through. “Very smart, young lady.”

  The compliment swelled inside her and threatened to turn to pride. “I’m just doing my duty. Then in the evening, I transcribe my notes into other notebooks. I started with a page per person, but it wasn’t enough.” She opened the second notebook.

  “It’s still in shorthand.”

  “In case anyone happens upon it. The left column is what the person said. The right is what others said about him.”

  “Very organized.”
r />   “Do you think I should show it to the FBI?”

  His head jerked up. “The FBI?”

  “They’re still investigating, aren’t they? Perhaps they’d find this useful. People say things in front of me they’d never say to an FBI agent.”

  Mr. Pennington rubbed his heavy jowls. “This is very clever and foresighted of you, but it’s nothing but gossip. Smith says this about Jones. Jones thinks Smith is a fink. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He settled back in his chair. “The FBI wants cold hard facts, not rumors. I’m afraid if you showed this to them, they’d think it was rather silly.”

  Mary gathered her notebooks, her chest tight. Innuendos and grudges and name-calling might seem like gossip, but they might point the way to those cold hard facts.

  She headed to her desk.

  “But Miss Stirling . . .”

  “Yes?” She turned in the doorway.

  Twin furrows divided his forehead. “It never hurts to keep a record. Keep it up.”

  Mary hugged her notebooks. “I plan to.”

  8

  Friday, May 9, 1941

  The giant crane grumbled as it lowered the number two gun mount to the deck in front of the bridge. Workmen shouted over the noise, pointed, and yanked lines to direct the gun into position.

  Jim stood by the bow, out of the way but close enough to watch the installation. The Atwood would have four of these multipurpose 5-inch guns, two fore of the bridge and two aft, useful against ships, surfaced submarines, and aircraft.

  He looked up to the new Mark 37 fire director, the tank-like steel compartment on top of the bridge superstructure, where the gunnery officer and his crew would direct gunfire during battle. Looked like the head of Frankenstein’s monster, with three portholes for eyes and the optical rangefinders sticking out on each side like the bolts.

  That would be his responsibility. Well, the responsibility of Lt. Dick Reinhardt, the gunnery officer. Jim served only as his assistant, thank goodness. Better that way.

  “Getting arthritis, old man?” Arch nudged him.

  Jim was rubbing his hands again. He chuckled to cover a grimace. “Old scars. They get tight sometimes.”