by Sally Laity
“Well, come in,” Estelle went on. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, even if you aren’t able to pry Nelse out of here.”
Mary’s nerves started up immediately at the thought of being in the presence of yet another stranger as the tall, loose-jointed young man with sandy hair accompanied Estelle into the parlor’s warm lamplight. He lifted an arm in greeting to Nelson before his attention turned in her direction.
“Jon,” Estelle gestured, “this is Mary Malinowski, a friend of mine from Olympic. Mary, Jonathan Gray, Nelson’s best buddy. He lives down the street a couple of houses.”
“How do you do, Mary?” he said, an appraising smile on his long face. The blue checks in the cotton shirt he wore mirrored the hue of his eyes. Eyes that seemed keenly observant in their perusal.
Automatically, she inched back a fraction for more space. “Pleased to meet you,” she whispered, wishing he would at least look away.
He kept up the assessment. “So you work with Stella, eh?”
Mary nodded.
“Good, good. She needs somebody to keep her in line.”
Not completely sure what that meant, Mary manufactured as much of a smile as she could, then checked her watch.
“Oh!” Estelle gasped. “I almost forgot. It’s time for me to walk you to the trolley stop.”
“Need company?” Jon winked at Estelle.
She tilted her head a little, as if trying to decide. “Seeing as how you’re a policeman, we probably should accept—but no. I’ve never heard of a problem on our street. We’ll be safe enough.”
An alarm shot through Mary at the thought of police escorting her anywhere. She reminded herself that this was America, and law enforcement officers were not to be feared. But not until she’d bid Mr. and Mrs. Thomas good-bye and she and Estelle had walked to the end of her block did she truly feel at ease.
“Jon’s a really great guy,” her friend gushed while they walked toward the nearest trolley stop.
“And interested in you,” Mary pointed out. “I see him watching.”
She brushed off the suggestion. “Nah, not really. He knows no one will ever measure up to—” Moistening her lips, Estelle swallowed without finishing the remark.
“About boyfriends we never talk,” Mary said, her voice gentle. “A person so nice, like you, must have many.”
Estelle craned her neck to peer down the cross street they had reached, but no streetcar was in sight. She turned and met Mary’s eyes. “I was engaged, once. My high school sweetheart. The two of us thought we had our whole future planned. But with the war on, he entered the navy, not wanting to ‘tie me down,’ as he put it, until after the conflict was over. Only. . .his ship was torpedoed and sunk. No one made it off alive.”
“I am sorry,” Mary whispered. “I should not pry.”
“So,” Estelle continued, the forced cheerfulness in her voice a little obvious, “that’s why Jon doesn’t pester me. He knew my fiancé. . .most everybody in our neighborhood knows everybody else. I’m kind of glad he treats me like a sister, actually. It’s all I need. Maybe someday I’ll change my mind, but for now it’s just fine.” She drew a long slow breath, then exhaled. “Best of all, Jon keeps after Nelse as much as he can, trying to get him to get out of the house, but my stubborn brother’s being a real stick-in-the-mud.”
“Great pain, Nelson has,” Mary said quietly. “Inside.”
Estelle studied her in the glow of the street lamps. “Well, I sure wish he’d get over it. Very few families in this country came through the war without some personal loss along the way, including me. And we’ve all tried everything we know to help him. The worst thing is, he won’t even come to church—and he used to be there whenever the doors opened, taking part. Now, though, the least little thing, and he’s morbid as a graveyard.”
Unsure of how to respond, Mary held her silence.
“Funny,” Estelle said with a little frown, “he seemed in pretty good spirits earlier, when the two of you talked, while Mom was marking the hem of my new dress.”
Mary shrugged, not knowing what to say.
“Well, maybe Jon can knock some sense into him for real. Sometimes I think that’s what it’s gonna take.”
Giving the dark-haired girl’s arm an empathetic squeeze, Mary wished she could think of something terribly wise to impart. But all she could hear was Corrie ten Boom encouraging the women prisoners to support each other and help anyone else who bore scars from war, whether inside or out.
She just had serious doubts about being the one to help Estelle’s brother.
“Well,” Mary ventured, “if not keeping company with boyfriend, maybe some weekend you have free time.”
Estelle’s piquant face came alive with pleasure. “I have free time every weekend!”
“Then, some shopping we do?” Mary tried not to seem too hopeful. “My apartment. It is—American word—boring. Some pictures I want. Plants. Things to make pretty.”
“Oh, that would be fun! I would love to!” Estelle nibbled her lip in thought. “Would you mind if I come over sometime this week to get an idea about what kinds of things you might be able to use?”
“Sure. I make chicken noodle soup for us.”
“Super. Well, let’s see. I have church and choir tomorrow night, but Thursday’s free. Would that be okay with you?”
“Fine. Thursday.” The very thought cheered Mary no end. Company at her place, two nights from now. And two more after that, a whole day at the stores with Estelle. What could be better?
The wheeze and rumble of an approaching streetcar drew her out of her imaginings. Meeting her friend’s smile, she leaned to give her a hug. “Such fun I have, knowing you. Thank you for supper.”
“You’re quite welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Estelle responded.
“Bright and early,” they both said in unison, and giggled.
Thoughts of the enjoyable evening with Estelle’s family kept Mary from feeling her usual loneliness on the homeward ride. She mulled over the events again and again, remembering the delicious meal, the comforting Scripture, the wonderful oneness of the home.
But the conversation with Nelson she tucked into a different place in her heart, one she wasn’t entirely sure she should visit. She’d be better off not encouraging him to talk at all. At least, not to her. She had enough pain of her own to deal with.
seven
“Wow! What a dish,” Jonathan exclaimed after Stella and Mary took their leave. “Gotta get me a job at a sewing factory.” He moved closer to the window, hands in his pockets, gawking up the street at the girls.
Nelson cast an unbelieving gaze toward the ceiling.
Jon caught the snide look as he swung around and crossed the room. “Come on, Man. Any guy can see she’s a looker, silky blond hair, incredible eyes. . .”
“Yeah, unless he happened to be blind. But Mary Theresa’s got a lot more going for her than just that gorgeous face. She happens to be a very sensitive person.”
“Ah, now.” Jonathan bent to Nelson’s level, a knowing grin spreading from ear to ear. “Do I detect a slight note of interest here?”
A slight note of interest? It seemed the more Nelson tried to keep his thoughts from wandering to Mary, the less successful he was at it. But even he knew the pointlessness of entertaining any grand daydreams. He branded his friend with a scowl. “No. You’re way off base, Pal. Anyway, I thought you were carrying the torch for Stella.”
“Let’s say I’m biding my time.” Straightening, Jon slid his hands back into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels. “And no fair changing the subject. We were talking about Mary. How long have you known her?”
Expelling a weary breath, Nelson rattled off the details, his tone flat as a phonograph record. “She’s a friend of Stella’s who comes for supper now and then. But I’m not interested—in her or anyone else.” A corner of his lip curled in disdain. “As if any dame would be desperate enough to want to be seen with a gimp.”
Jo
n plopped his tall frame down to lounge on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “That’s the sappiest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”
“You don’t say. Well, it didn’t take Nancy long to dump me when she got wind of my little mishap, did it? And she was supposed to love me forevermore, wasn’t she?” Feigning indifference, Nelson returned his attention to the half-finished jigsaw puzzle, making an elaborate pretense of finding a particularly elusive piece.
Several uncomfortable minutes ticked by before Jon emitted a disgusted whoosh of air and stood. “Well, it doesn’t appear you’re in the mood for company tonight. I only came over here in the first place to see if you wanted to go for a ride in my new jitney.”
Nelson perked up. “You got yourself a car?”
“Yeah. Well, okay, so it’s not much to brag about—yet. Only set me back a hundred and fifty clams. But I figure I can knock out the dents in my spare time. Then, a coat of paint, and she’ll be almost good as new.”
Forgetting his aversion to leaving the house, Nelson lumbered to a standing position, unmindful of a few puzzle pieces that fell to the floor in the process. “This I gotta see.”
“Well, well,” Jon mused. “If I’d have known a bucket of bolts would be all it took to get you out of here, I’d have sprung for one months ago.”
Nelson grabbed his crutches. “Just shut up and lead the way.”
Outside, he gave his friend’s ’34 Ford Roadster the once-over, from the greyhound hood ornament to the whitewalled spare tire mounted above the back bumper. Though the flashy little vehicle showed its age, he could see obvious possibilities. The interior looked more than reasonable. He blew out a silent whistle. “Rumble seat and all, eh?”
“Yep.” The word barely concealed the pride in Jon’s voice. “And peppy. She’s got a Flathead V-8. Belonged to one of the guys at the precinct, but his wife just had twins a couple months ago, so they needed something bigger. Course, it took me awhile to convince him of that,” he said with a wink.
“Well, let’s see what she can do.” Nelson opened the door and eased himself inside, one hand still on his crutches as he inhaled the enticing smells particular to cars. Leather and grease and. . .adventure.
“Here, let me run those sticks up to the house,” Jon offered. “I can grab ’em again when we get back.”
On his return, he wasted no time in folding down the convertible top. “Might as well get the full effect,” he said, his grin just shy of gloating. Taking the driver’s seat, he started the engine and maneuvered the knob-handled gearshift into low, and tooted a jaunty “Aooogah” to Nelson’s parents. When he pulled out onto the street, he headed westward.
This is the life, Nelson thought, reveling in the engine’s purr, the feel of the wind tossing his hair in wild abandon as miles sped by, apartment buildings and shops on one side, and the dark waters of the Hudson River on the other. Too bad my little black coupe has been sitting and gathering rust since I went away. I should sell the thing and give Dad the money, since I’m never gonna use it.
“How ’bout a soda?” Jon asked, turning to him. “I need some gas.” Without waiting for a response, he pulled into a Texaco station just ahead on the right and nodded to the skinny, pimply attendant. “Fill ’er up, kid.”
While the boy pumped the fuel and washed the windshield, Jonathan strode inside the station and emerged with two nickel bottles of carbonated soda pop. He handed one to Nelson before starting off again.
Neither spoke for a short span until Jon braked for a traffic light. “Did you mean what you said back home, Nelse?” he asked. “About being a gimp?” He gulped several swallows of his drink.
“Well, what would you call a one-legged cripple?” Nelson groused.
“You don’t have to be a cripple unless you wanna be,” his friend chided. “So what if you have part of a leg missing? They did fit you with an artificial limb at rehab, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. Right. Super deluxe model, flexible ankle joint, the whole bit. Smooth and shiny as a brand-new penny. Even wears one of my shoes.”
“So, where is it?”
Nelson glowered at him. “In the closet. The stupid thing hurts my stump.”
“It wouldn’t once you got used to it. I know other guys who—”
“Look. Lay off, will you?” he railed. “I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m tired, anyway. Let’s head back.”
“Okay, okay.” Jonathan raised a hand in defense, a muscle working in his jaw as he clamped his mouth shut. But he didn’t remain quiet for long. “But I might as well tell you this, as a friend, before you hear it from somebody else. I’m glad you didn’t end up with Nancy Belvedere. She was messing around with Ray Baxter, down at the precinct, while you were off earning Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts. You deserve a whole lot better gal than her, anyway.”
That piece of news floored Nelson. Could his fiancée really have been making a patsy out of him behind his back? He’d never once doubted her love. On the other hand, he’d never known Jonathan to lie, either. The two of them went back a lifetime. But forcing his thoughts in a different direction during the oppressive silence as they motored homeward, the nagging truth of his friend’s admonition regarding the replacement limb wouldn’t let Nelson alone. It was his own fault he’d never become accomplished at walking with the thing. He hadn’t been one to spend a lot of time practicing. Before, everything physical had always come easily. A little too easily. Maybe he should dig out that ugly contraption, give it another shot.
❧
“Let’s run to Woolworth’s for some lunch,” Estelle suggested. “All this shopping has me starved.”
Enjoying the beautiful Saturday, Mary Theresa nodded in agreement. The endless variety of merchandise available in American department stores never ceased to amaze and delight her. Having checked the newest designs in home fashion at Macy’s and Gimbel’s, she’d chosen only a few small items she could not resist, knowing the less expensive wares of the five-and-ten would be more within her means.
Their purchases firmly in hand, the two of them exited the main entrance to the bustling thoroughfare, then headed straight to the popular dime store, where they took stools at the lunch counter, paying no mind to shoppers browsing only a few feet away.
While her friend perused a menu from the chrome holder in front of them, Mary Theresa scanned the daily specials displayed on a small chalkboard. “Good. Today is hot roast beef sandwich. That I get,” she told the slim, redheaded waitress. “And please, a glass of water.”
“I think I’ll have the grilled cheese,” Estelle decided, “with potato chips and a lemonade.”
With a crack of her chewing gum, the freckled girl gave a nod and went to fill their orders.
Mary feasted on her meal when it arrived, especially the mound of mashed potatoes with brown gravy. It tasted a little bit of home. The Old Country.
“I think we’ve done pretty well so far, don’t you?” Estelle commented before biting into the second half of her sandwich. “Those utensils in the rotating stand will look cute on your counter. And the matching towels and hot pads from Gimbel’s will brighten that little kitchenette.”
“Yes. Very pretty they are. But still I must find pictures to hang. Such plain walls.” With a rueful shake of her head, Mary polished off the rest of her roast beef, increasingly eager to survey every remaining inch of Woolworth’s store.
A few hours and a fair amount of money later, the two of them emptied their purchases in a heap on Mary Theresa’s couch, draped their sweaters across its arm, and kicked off their shoes.
“The pictures I want to hang first,” Mary declared, sorting through the stack for the framed pastels she’d chosen. Then her shoulders sagged. “Oh, no! A hammer we forget.”
“Not necessarily,” Estelle said with a smile. “I knew you wanted to spruce up your walls, so I tucked Mom’s steak pounder and some tacks into my purse, just in case.”
Mary seized the girl’s slender
frame in a hug. “Too much, you are. Thank you. Now we must get busy. This picture of wishing well and butterflies I think for over there, don’t you?”
Long after they finished, had supper, and Estelle had gone home, Mary Theresa couldn’t bring herself to turn off the light. Midnight was fast approaching, and she felt bone weary after the busy day, but she couldn’t stop admiring their handiwork. What a difference homey touches like colorful throw pillows, inexpensive figurines, philodendron plants, and sheer curtain panels made in her little place. It looked almost. . .reborn.
With her heart filled to bursting, Mary Theresa slipped to her knees. She could think of no prayer from her years of catechism which could begin to express her deep gratitude, yet she sensed that the good things which had happened to her came from God. But how could she dare to approach Him in the familiar style some people had adopted?
People like Corrie ten Boom and the Thomases were naturally good, Mary reasoned. Like saints. They hadn’t participated in the abominable acts she’d been subjected to at Ravens-bruck. How could she expect a holy God to hear the innermost prayers of someone like her, someone so unworthy?
A fruitless wish rose to taunt her. If only she were pure, like Estelle and the Chudzik daughters. But the vile past could never be undone, and its black shroud bowed her shoulders with an oppressive weight of guilt and shame she could never forget.
God loves us all, she could hear Corrie admonish. No matter how unworthy you may feel, He knows your heart. Each of you is precious in His sight. He wants you to come to Him. He is watching for you and waiting for you to come.
Hoping that were true, longing for it to be true, Mary clasped her hands before her and swallowed the lump of apprehension clogging her throat. “Thank You, dear God,” she whispered. “Thank You.” Her prayer couldn’t begin to express what she felt, but with her whole being she harbored the hope that it would somehow please Him.
eight
“Whatever possessed me to wear my new shoes to work?” Estelle wailed after the trolley’s doors whooshed shut and the conveyance pulled away. “I should have saved them for church. I just know I have a huge blister.”
