“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.”
“You don’t think I am afraid, too? If I don’t go and at least try to make a difference…” John pulls his chair closer to mine. “Vi, I am more terrified of this war touching down on American soil than I am of dying. I can’t let this war come home to you. I just can’t.” Tears rim the edges of his eyes. “I think about Edward. What world would he have to grow up in if the Germans controlled America?” He shakes his head with angry force. “I won’t stand by and watch that happen. I won’t.”
We are at an impasse—John determined to fight, me determined to hold on to him with everything I have. We finish our meager meal. Spoons scrape the bottoms of our bowls. My body aches with exhaustion. The stress has taken a toll on me. I am desperate to lie down and escape this nightmare. I consider sending John away, but my brain and heart argue, leaving me in the middle of a river with two currents pulling in opposite directions. On one hand, I am desperate to be angry with him, to hurt him as he’s hurt me. On the other, I want to take him in my arms and hold him for as long as I possibly can. Anything to ward off his inevitable departure.
***
Two days later, I have not conceded my displeasure, yet I am seated beside John in the Smith family living room, offering support as he breaks the news—along with his mother’s heart. My tears spring a leak as the reality of the situation moves across Mother Smith’s face.
She gasps, “John—”
John’s father interrupts, patting her shoulder. “We are very proud of you, son.”
“But Samuel.” His mother bursts into tears and turns her face into her husband’s chest.
We all sit uncomfortably while Mother Smith heaves with grief. As night falls, John and I take our leave and he walks me home.
The moment we step onto the front porch, John lets out a lungful of air. He pushes the hair back from his forehead. “Thank you for coming with me. I know you weren’t keen to.”
“You’re welcome.” I am already walking toward the front gate. “Breaks my heart to see her like that is all.”
“She’ll be all right. She’ll have you to help her through. Won’t she?” he says sheepishly.
“I’d do whatever I can for your mother. You know that, John.”
“I guess I’m asking if you’ll be there. Will you be there for me?”
“To be honest…I don’t know about that. Not yet, anyway. I am still angry with you for not discussing this with me. I need some time is all.” I shrug and turn toward home.
John chases after me. “I will give you time, Vi. I will write to you every day, as long as I can. Give me a chance to make it up to you. Please.” He walks beside me, almost tripping on his sideways steps.
I can’t help but giggle.
He wraps his arm around my waist and whispers in my ear. “I love you, Vi. I really do. Someday, I’m gonna marry you, just you wait and see.”
A smile settles on my lips, and I pray he can live up to his promise.
***
The day I have been dreading has arrived. John is scheduled to board the train this morning. His first destination is Fort Snelling, Minnesota. After that, he will be transferred to a camp for basic training—I presume before he is sent off to Europe. I have little information at this point, though I don’t know if John is withholding details or if this is simply how the army operates during a war.
The scene at the station is emotional. John’s mother clings to his arm with one hand and to her handkerchief with the other. His father, a foot shorter than John, appears to stand almost as tall as his son. His stiff posture must be an effort to keep his emotions intact. Apprehension fills the air as we stand like spooked creatures in the early dawn, aware of the thick undercurrent of trepidation.
Edward tugs at his brother’s pant leg, with his thumb nestled between his closed lips. John stoops to pick him up and whispers into Edward’s tiny ear. “Be a good boy for Mother, now.”
The child nods and cradles his head in the crook of John’s neck. My emotions rise into my throat, and I dissolve into a pile of sobs. I turn my head, trying to control my tears, and peer down the track. Smoke from the approaching train billows into the cool air. John will be gone in minutes.
John’s sisters weep silently as they gather around their mother. As he addresses each of them, the first sign of emotion leaves his eye as a solitary tear. I realize his decision to enlist is not without personal pain, so I put aside my anger, still burning deep in my stomach, and prepare to bid him farewell.
As the train squeals to a stop, John takes my hand and pulls me away from his family. He wraps me in a tight embrace and kisses the top of my head before he murmurs into my ear, “Vi, wait for me. Will you? I promise. I will come back. I will.”
“Mmhm,” I manage between gulps of air.
He lets go too soon. I am desperate to hold on to the feeling of his arms around me. The smell of his skin. The sound of his words. I watch through tear-blurred eyes as John picks up his bag and shakes his father’s hand. He touches his mother’s cheek with his palm and once more tousles the blond head of the littlest Smith. He lifts himself into the belly of the train without hesitation or a glance behind him.
John is a strong man, and he becomes stronger before my eyes as he heads into a war, leaving everyone he loves in spite of his own fears, determined to fight for the freedom of others. My heart’s butterflies take flight as the train chugs out of the station, and I force myself to believe that everything will be all right.
***
August 20, 1943
The summer heat smolders off the brick building. Fans push stale air around the office. The women complain about their liquid lipstick while the men complain about having to wear suit jackets when they meet with clients. Steam rises a few inches from the street’s dark surface, and the fountain shop down the road sells ice cream faster than they can make it. This is August in South Dakota, and this year’s temperatures are higher than normal.
As four thirty rolls around, I see Father park the Chevy in front of the office. I’ve been spending more weekends at the farm since John left four months ago. I am not exactly avoiding the Smith family. I always visit with them at church on Sunday mornings, but I still have not determined whether our conversations are out of obligation or desire. So far, I have avoided Mother Smith’s questions about John’s letters, the ones I have yet to open. They arrive, almost daily, in my apartment building mailbox. I take comfort in knowing that he is well enough to write, though my inability to read them seems attached to the fear and anger filling up my body. So the letters sit, bundled in twine on my faded blue dresser—close enough to see every day, yet tied tightly enough that I resist the urge to read his thoughts, his feelings, his words.
Father steps out of the car and waves his big hand toward the large front window. Jim, the only brave soul left in the building with the heat climbing by the minute, enters the reception area and returns my father’s wave.
“Mrs. Boyd left this for you before she headed home this afternoon. I think you were on the phone.” Jim hands me my paycheck.
“Thank you.” I place the check in my purse as I stand to turn off the fans and flip the open sign to closed.
“Big plans for the weekend?” Jim stuffs his hands into his pants pockets as he rocks back and forth on his good leg.
“Not really.” I shrug. “At the farm is all. I’m sure the garden will need tending to with all this heat.”
“Sure has been some kind of weather. I never thought I’d be looking forward to rain.” He laughs. “Well, have yourself a great weekend, Violet. I will see you on Monday.” Jim waves once more to Father before disappearing toward his tiny office in the back of the building.
“Hello, darlin’,” Father says as I close the office door behind me, overnight bag draped across my arm.
“Hi, Daddy.” I embrace him before walking around to th
e passenger side.
We drive with the windows down. My hair whips about my face, but I make no effort to restrain the waves. Father talks about the week at the farm and Iris’s success with the garden, though he warns she is eager for some help this weekend. I nod, understanding she has been talking nonstop about her plans for the weekend and that they clearly involve me. We pass the fields that lie between our farm and what was once the Smith farm, and I smile to myself when I see the big oak tree. I squint my eyes, blurring the view in an attempt to see John there, as I often found him—sitting among the tall grass under that tree, whittling a piece of a fallen branch, lost in his own thoughts. That is how I prefer to think of him. The boy who could do no wrong, until he did, of course. I know I am being childish, with a good measure of stubbornness to boot. Even so, I can’t seem to get past these feelings, and with the war still raging, I’m not in any particular rush to do so.
***
Sunday morning arrives sooner than I anticipate. Weekends at the farm are seldom dull. There are horses to exercise, pigs to water, and a garden that’s wilting fast in the intense heat.
“Violet, I’ve had a thought.” Mother watches me out of the corner of her eye. She stands beside me, slicing peaches for the oatmeal simmering on the stove.
“Yes?” I scoop the cut fruit into a bowl.
“I know being alone can be difficult at times such as these.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “I thought perhaps you might join one of the volunteer war efforts in town. You know, to help pass the time.”
I offer a weak smile. “I’m not sure I have the energy for that right now. I’ve found myself so tired these days.”
“Of course, that could be this crazy heat.” She waves her hand as if she could change the weather. “Perhaps, though, if you got involved, you might not feel so alone.”
“Perhaps,” I say, trying to neither commit nor dismiss. “I’ve not really felt alone, though. To be honest, I am angry with John for enlisting.”
Mother’s eyebrows rise as her head swivels to face me. “Angry? Really?”
“I know it sounds silly, but—”
“You’re right. It does sound silly.” Mother turns her attention back to the peaches. “You can’t control others’ actions, Violet. You can only control your reaction to them.”
I shrug, knowing when to cut my losses in a conversation with Mother.
“Mrs. Beattie from church is quite involved in the organization of the girls’ volunteer efforts. I will put in a mention for you.”
Mother’s intentions are clear. I will soon meet with Mrs. Beattie, whether I want to or not.
Sunday mornings are filled with song, worship, family, and fried chicken. After I moved to town for school, my family met each week at church. Iris, never shy, nudged anyone aside so she could sit with me. Her favored position was to hold my hand during sermon. Not much has changed in that regard. Iris steps over Father’s toes to slide in beside me.
“Mother says I can sleep over with you next Saturday if you aren’t coming to the farm. I can meet them at church on Sunday.”
“Mother says, does she?” I wonder what possessed Mother to offer such an invitation, and without checking with me first. Irritation at the thought of Iris’s extended company smolders. At fourteen, Iris has yet to embrace the qualities of a young woman. Her exuberance for life, though refreshing, can test my patience on even a good day.
“She says we can even go to a picture show and have popcorn and soda.” Iris bulldozes her way through conversations like she does everything else in life. “After that, we can go to the mercantile and pick out some fancy candy.”
“We’ll have to see.” I hadn’t intended for the edge in my voice to sound so cross. I smile, trying to dampen the fire burning in her belly. Reverend Campbell takes his place at the pulpit, and I shush her into conformity.
The sermon is lovely, with three of my favorite hymns. During prayer, Reverend Campbell mentions each man from our congregation who’s serving our country, including John. I put aside my anger and bow my head, adding an extra prayer for his safe return.
We gather outside the steps with white treads peeling in the summer sun. Mother Smith wraps me in a warm hug as my parents shake hands with the reverend. Father Smith waits patiently for his turn before he puts his arm around my shoulder, giving me a squeeze.
Iris chatters nonstop to Mother, telling her I’ve said yes to a sleepover next weekend.
“Iris.” My voice is serious. “I said we’ll have to see. Someone would need to bring you to town on Saturday, and you can’t always presume Father will have the time or the desire to do so.”
“She’s been asking for months,” Mother says flatly as she exchanges a hug with John’s mother. Iris’s consistent pestering eventually elicits a weary surrender from anyone she harasses. From the look on Mother’s face, I can tell she has reached her limit.
“If she wouldn’t be too much of a bother, honey.” Father lowers his voice and leans toward me so Iris won’t hear. “I can make both trips to town next week. It’ll give me a chance to check on that dripping kitchen faucet you mentioned, too. I know an overnight with you would mean a lot to your sister, and to be honest, I suspect Mother can’t take much more talk on the subject.”
I understand that “no” is not an option. “All right. You can have a sleepover, but I’m not promising any fancy candy.”
Iris jumps in the air, her dress billowing as her feet hit the ground. “I knew this would work out. I just knew it.”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm as Iris bursts out her news to John’s sisters.
We pick a flat piece of shady grass and lay out our blankets. Since the Smith family moved to Cedar Springs, where John’s father works in the bakery, Sundays are the only day our parents visit. I only realized after John left for basic training just how connected our two families are. Prior to their move into town, our farms were close enough to pass by. There were occasional shared buggy rides to school and extra helping hands whenever one was in need.
We empty baskets filled with coleslaw, potato salad, and fried chicken onto the blankets. Mother has baked a wild plum pie, and my mouth waters as the scent reaches me.
The younger kids run about, playing tag and other games while the adults relax in the shade. I adore these moments, surrounded by those I love, but John is never far from my thoughts. My heart aches as I yearn for him, so far away.
***
I am far from surprised when Mrs. Beattie’s tall, lanky frame stands before me at the office the following Tuesday. She offers a thin smile as she peers across her narrow, pointed nose, sizing me up. She goes through a list of tasks I might be suited for, rattling them out as if I should understand what they mean. I agree to attend the information session the following evening, and after a quick hello to Mrs. Boyd, she is off to sweet talk another unsuspecting young woman.
“So wonderful of you to join the effort, Violet.” Mrs. Boyd stands on her tiptoes to reach the top file drawer.
“I am not certain I have the time. Or the energy. Or the desire, for that matter. But Mother feels I should become involved. She is worried I am too lonesome.”
“Of course you are, dear. All those left behind feel a bit blue.” She says this so matter-of-factly that I am struck by the realization that I have begun to wallow in self-pity.
“Of course. I am sure the meeting will be well worth my time.”
She cocks her head to one side as she appraises the skepticism in my voice. “Yes, dear. I can promise you that.”
Mrs. Boyd pivots to leave, but pauses in front of my desk. “I know the situation is not easy, war and all. God knows I understand what you are going through. The worry, the grief, the sense of doom over your head.” She gently places her plump hand on my arm. “I’d be happy to join you for the information meeting if you’d like. I can introduce you to some of the other girls.”
I recognize an olive branch from a kind woman. “That would be n
ice. Thank you, Mrs. Boyd. I appreciate the gesture and your time.”
The temperature rises as the day passes, and flies circle in a waft of stale air. My thoughts revolve around the meeting at the Red Cross. I hate that I was goaded into it, but I know better than to ignore Mother’s advice. I wonder, for the first time, if John would want me to join the war effort. Then I think I don’t care much about what John would want. By the time four thirty comes around, I have argued myself to death. I am sick of the anger within me. Mrs. Boyd’s comment made me recognize the guilt that lies there, too. Juggling these emotions is a full-time job. I have a small desire to move past them, but I can’t seem to let John off the hook. So I hang on.
Wednesday evening, Mrs. Boyd and I assemble with twenty other nervous young women. The meeting is in an empty commercial building a few blocks from our office. The large red letters of the American Red Cross are painted over the previous tenant’s whitewashed business name. Rows of chairs face a long table, where two women sit flanked by stacks of papers. Mrs. Boyd introduces me to the ladies at the table, and they give me a pencil and a package of papers to review, fill in, and hand back to them at the end of the meeting.
Mrs. Boyd chats with women near the coffee station while I sit near the back of the room to review my information package. I fill in my name and address, and I fabricate a reason for my interest in the volunteer program. I scan the documents, glancing over the many opportunities within the organization. Administrative Corps catches my eye, since I am already trained for that type of position. But I continue to read, hoping to find a task a little less like my day job and a little more inspirational than paperwork.
As I flip the page, I catch a flash of red hair from the corner of my eye. “Helen?” I ask as the tall, lanky girl pivots toward me, a smile erupting across her face.
“Oh my gosh! Violet. Wow.” She sits beside me, and we wrap our arms around each other. “I can’t believe you’re here.” Helen cocks her head to one side. “Why are you here? Does that mean John—” Her hand flies up to cover her open mouth. “I’m so sorry.” She wraps me in another hug and tears sting my eyes.
Becoming Mrs. Smith (Volume 1) Page 5
