Becoming Mrs. Smith (Volume 1)

by Williams, Tanya E

  Merry Christmas to you and your family.

  I am healthy and well.

  Love,

  John

  I am sick with dread. John isn’t where I thought he was. He has already left basic training, and I can’t know where he has gone. I clutch my stomach, and the letter crumples against my abdomen.

  The room feels too warm. I toss the blanket off, and I stand with an abruptness that surprises my feet. I wobble a little before I march into the kitchen and throw open the back door. I breathe in gulps of air and lean against the doorframe until numbness overtakes me.

  I am still in the doorway when Mother comes in, bundled against the cold air that pierces the night. “Violet, what has come over you?”

  “Sorry.” I shiver.

  She closes the door and places her hands on my shoulders. She maneuvers me into the living room and gently pushes me into the chair by the fire.

  Mother kneels in front of me and takes my face in her hands. Words tumble out of my mouth as fast as tears fall from my eyes. I tell her about the letter and that I don’t know where John is. I divulge how angry I was at him. I tell her about my childish behavior and the unopened letters—with both relief and fear.

  Mother’s eyes brim with moisture as she rocks me. “This is what I’ve feared for you, dear. I never wanted you to feel such pain.”

  We sit cradled in each other’s arms. As the tears dry, they leave phantom trails of agony. The night evolves into day. The sun leans its round, luminous body against the horizon, and life begins again.

  ***

  May 4, 1944

  Thursday at the office, the weather has cooled dramatically, but the promise of a warm weekend has all the Realtors preparing for a busy Saturday of showcasing farms and homes. We have a shortage of signage, so I’m on the phone with the printer, charming my way to a speedy delivery of freshly printed advertising. When he assigned me the task this morning, Jim told me I could charm the pants off anyone. I laughed and admitted that I’d inherited the trait from my father, a man who has worked his charming magic on me from time to time. I hang up the phone, smiling to myself. The signs will be ready tomorrow at two. I make a note on my desk calendar, and when I glance up, I notice a shadow outside.

  A bicycle leans against the oversized glass window, causing the glass to rattle in the sill. My breath catches, and a strangled sound emerges from my barely parted lips. I place both palms flat on the desk to steady myself as I stand. The bell above the door jingles. A boy of about seventeen, clothed in the dark uniform of a military messenger, steps toward me with a stiff, unnatural gait.

  “I’ve a telegram for Mrs. Boyd,” he says.

  I shake my head. “No. Please, no.”

  “Are you Mrs. Boyd?” He lowers his voice, and his eyes glance downward apologetically. He steps closer and extends the envelope with a nervous smile.

  “Violet? What is it, dear?” Mrs. Boyd must have heard the door and my lack of reply. She peeks around the wall that separates her office from the reception area. She steps around to my desk. Mrs. Boyd looks from the messenger to me, and back to the messenger. The color drains from her plump cheeks, leaving an empty paleness that, in seconds, ages her by ten years.

  “Ma’am,” he says to her, shuffling his feet. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have a telegram for Mrs. Boyd.”

  She purses her lips and frowns. “Thank you, dear. I—I am Mrs. Boyd.”

  She signs the paper on his clipboard and accepts the letter.

  Her gaze lowers to the envelope as the door whispers closed. A dampened jingle from the bell shivers over the room.

  A tear slides down her face and meanders along contours of her laugh lines. “I had a bad sense about today.” Her shoulders give way to a sob that crumples her body in half. I watch in slow motion as grief fills the space where worry used to live.

  Tears spring to my eyes as I round my desk to embrace her now fragile body. She trembles in my arms and lets out a low, guttural howl—a sound that will haunt me forever. This frightens me, what death can do. It can transform a person into an empty shell so they feel nothing and everything at the same time.

  I hear Jim’s rapid, uneven footsteps on the hard floor before I see him half-running, half-limping toward us. Summoned from his office by the commotion, his face is flushed and full of questions.

  The rest of our coworkers begin to gather. They whisper, standing in a semi-circle around Mrs. Boyd and me. Little is said as we cling to each other.

  “Mrs. Boyd?” Jim touches her shoulder. “What’s happened?”

  I lift my chin and peer into Jim’s troubled face. “She received a telegram.” I gasp for a solid breath of air. “From the war office.” Fresh tears fall as Mrs. Boyd convulses in my arms. My body is no match for the strength with which she mourns. I cannot let go. If I did, I would feel as if I had abandoned her down the darkest pit on earth. So, I hold on, arms burning and back straining. I am all that stands between her, the floor, and her own personal hell.

  Jim steps around us and gently extracts the envelope from Mrs. Boyd’s grip.

  He takes a few staggered steps toward the window. His tall frame casts a shadow over us. The sound of paper tearing echoes through the room.

  He sighs, before whispering instructions to a colleague. “Go to the lumberyard and fetch Mr. Boyd. Bring him here at once. Don’t tell him any news. Let him know Mrs. Boyd needs him. After that, go find the doc, tell him to bring a sedative to calm her nerves.”

  The door opens and closes, and Jim directs the others to return to their desks. “Violet, why don’t we bring Mrs. Boyd to my office?” He gestures with one arm while the other wraps around Mrs. Boyd’s shoulders, guiding her to the quiet office.

  Mrs. Boyd sits in the guest chair. I sit beside her and hold tight to her hand while I rub her arm. Jim sets a glass on the desk in front of Mrs. Boyd and pours a bit of dark brown liquid. My nose itches at the smell of bourbon.

  “Here. Drink this, Mrs. Boyd.” Jim holds out the glass to her. “This will help.”

  Mrs. Boyd lets go of my hand and cradles the small glass with both palms. The first sip must burn, cutting a path down her throat. Mrs. Boyd shakes her head sharply and then empties the glass, placing it back on the desk with a thud.

  We sit in silence as the minutes pass. Mrs. Boyd’s distraught eyes stare out the window into the distance. An occasional hiccup escapes her throat as she settles into shock.

  My thoughts flow to John. I pray he is all right as I nervously touch the silver heart around my wrist.

  Mr. Boyd arrives at the office panicked. Sweat pours down his round, flushed face as he enters Jim’s office.

  “Jim?” He kneels beside his wife, takes her hands, and searches her face for answers.

  “Arthur,” Jim says with a sullen voice. “A telegram arrived today. I am sorry to tell you that Paul was killed in action.”

  I stand to make space for the Boyds to hold each other. Mr. Boyd leans into Mrs. Boyd. They murmur hushed words between sobs.

  Jim and I leave the office. The weeping from behind the closed door escalates.

  “This breaks my heart,” I say. “So pointless. Paul was their only child. How is it fair they should lose him?” Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back as a rush of emotion pools in my belly.

  “Life isn’t fair, Violet. Life will always have heartache.” Jim shakes his head. “What matters is what you do with the heartache. You can wallow or you can move on. Choice is up to you.”

  Jim’s words are true, but the truth is distasteful to me in this moment. I feel the urge to run away, to hide so the war can never touch me or those I hold dear. I want this horrible, frightful war to end, and I want it to end right now.

  Exhaustion fills every pore. I find myself seated at my desk, in a blank daze. I remain there all afternoon, unmoving, and stare the nothingness of grief in the eye. The Boyds left over an hour ago. Jim took them out the back door and drove them home. There is little for me to do, and eve
n though I don’t want to be here, I already dread being at home, alone with my thoughts.

  As four thirty arrives, I decide to make an impromptu visit to the Smith house. I am supposed to meet the girls at the hall for sewing, but I cannot stomach the thought. I don’t want to tell them about Paul Boyd. Mrs. Boyd has been the cornerstone of our volunteer duties. She moves about the hall with delightful ease. She flits from one group to another, always ready to lend a hand to help, an ear to listen, or a chuckle to lighten the mood. My heart sinks as I think of the Boyds and am once again ill-equipped to assist in any meaningful way.

  I am aware that my desire to avoid the girls this afternoon is similar to the way Helen avoided us when she lost Robert. At the time, my only concern was to be a good friend to Helen, to let her know she wasn’t alone. But now, I understand that she would have known—no matter how hard I tried to conceal my thoughts—that while I was there to comfort her, I was also thankful that my John was alive and well. Perhaps that pill is a might bit too bitter to swallow. Helen did what she needed to in order to stem the bleeding of her own heart.

  This war is a monster. It steals from us in broad daylight, and it snuffs out hope and life. Today, the war has beaten me. I slink toward the Smith house, seeking comfort and a soft place to land, even if only for a little while.

  ***

  June 1, 1944

  I stop to collect my mail before climbing the stairs to my apartment. After long days at the office, without Mrs. Boyd’s banter to lighten the mood, these two flights of stairs have begun to feel like a long climb up a water tower.

  Letters from John are infrequent and short, written on any scrap of paper he can find. My mood has been in a downward spiral since the news of Paul Boyd arrived. I’m aware of the darkness that surrounds me, but I don’t know how to address it. Perhaps there is no cure at all. But, I console myself with this awareness all the same. Beth and Lauren visit on a regular basis. They stop by for tea each week after they finish their sewing projects. I haven’t been able to force myself to the hall since Paul Boyd’s funeral service. My volunteer efforts didn’t stop the war, and they didn’t bring John home. I soothe my battered ego as I fall for its lies. I’d rather be right than logical, at the moment.

  I retrieve the letter from the box and allow myself to feel some relief. He was alive and well enough to write this letter. But what about today? Is he still alive today? My shoulders drop as fear takes up residence in my subconscious. These days, dread is in my every thought, my every action. I push the anxiety from my mind and step with heavy legs onto the wooden stairs. The sound reverberates through the hall and through my head.

  I toss my purse on the table and sit down. I attempt to settle my nerves with a few slow breaths before I slide my thumb under the flap and unseal the envelope.

  Wednesday, May 10, 1944

  Dearest Violet,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Your letters reach me fine. Though I understand from your correspondence that mine take weeks and sometimes months to reach you.

  I was sad to hear of Paul Boyd. A fine young man he was. He made his parents and his country proud. Please offer my condolences to the Boyds. They are kind folk, and I know how fond you are of Mrs. Boyd in particular.

  I keep up with a few boys from home, but not as much as I would like. Most days I can hardly find a spare moment to write to you and Mother and Father. We’re training pretty hard right now, but I can’t say what for. I don’t know where we are headed or what we will encounter. Food is mighty good, though, and plenty to go around. They work us all day in the heat, with maneuvers and equipment I’ve never seen before. They sure push us to our outer limits. But come chow time, we are treated to meals fit for a king. I eat more than my weight in potatoes each night, trying to keep my energy up for the next day. So far, this plan has worked in my favor. Some boys have already fallen behind in training, and I can’t let myself worry about what will happen to them once we’re among the enemy.

  I’ve been assigned to a right successful group of men, the First Infantry Division. They have pillaged their way through the war for some time. To tell you the truth, Vi, I suspect we’re headed into something big. The air is electric here. Tension fills every vacant space, like the way smoke permeates every crevice of a room when the damper on the fireplace is shut tight. The boys try to downplay the fear, but we all feel the trepidation.

  I won’t lie to you, Vi. I am scared. I wonder what I will do when I come face to face with the enemy. I know that someone out there wants to kill me, as bad as I am supposed to want to kill them. Truth is, I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t want to be the reason someone else’s life ends. But, most of all, I’m afraid of becoming someone who no longer knows the difference. Someone numb to the act of war. I don’t know who I’d be if that ever happened.

  You are always on my mind and in my heart. If I pay close attention, I can remember the softness of your hair and the taste of your sweet red lips. My favorite memory is that day we sat under the big old tree on your daddy’s farm. Remember how we listened to the crickets and watched the grass sway with the wind? Sometimes I can feel the sun on my arms and hear your laugh as the prairie dogs peek up from their holes, trying to spy on us as they chattered in their secret code. That memory makes me smile every time, Vi.

  I look forward to your next letter. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again, but I promise to send another letter as soon as I am able.

  In my thoughts and prayers always.

  Love,

  John

  I glance at the calendar and count the days. He wrote this over three weeks ago. I gasp as my chest tries to cave in. He could be anywhere by now. He could be deep in battle with the Germans or the Italians—or the Japanese. My heart drops into my stomach, and out of fear or habit, I pray for his safety.

  I wonder if he has written to his parents since. I grab my purse and dash out the door. The Smith home sits at the edge of town, a little over three miles from my apartment. I walk as fast as I can without flailing into a run. The blood pounding in my head spurs my movements. Sweat drips down the sides of my face as I clutch John’s letter.

  My walk turns to a run as the quaint cottage-style house comes into view. Mother Smith is in the front garden, digging with a hand shovel. “Violet, dear. What brings you by?”

  “A letter. A letter from John arrived.” My words are halted by my breathlessness.

  Mother Smith wipes her dirt-stained hands on her apron as she steps out of the shade to greet me. “A letter? Violet dear, did you run all this way?”

  I shake my head and the motion makes me feel nauseated. I stumble, one hand clutching my stomach while the other reaches for my sweat-covered forehead.

  Mother Smith’s expression changes from pleasant to worried, right before I feel myself leaning. I grapple for the porch railing, and everything goes black.

  ***

  “She’ll be fine. Really, Liz. The doctor has already come and gone. Fainted is all.” Mother Smith’s voice drifts through the house. My eyes, narrow slits, take in the furniture of the Smiths’ living room. “Of course you are welcome to come, but we’ll keep her here overnight, just to make sure. No trouble at all. Okay, I will talk to you in the morning. Bye.”

  My hand moves to my forehead, where I find a cool, wet cloth.

  “You’re awake.” Mother Smith peers down at me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired, I guess. Did I really faint?”

  “Yes, dear. Not to worry at all. Doc says you’ll be good as new in no time.” Mother Smith kneels beside the sofa and places a cool palm to my cheek.

  I notice her other hand is wrapped in gauze. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Scraped against the railing when I reached out to catch you. A little scrape is all. I’ll be dandy.” She smiles.

  “You caught me? Thank you,” I stammer. The thought of Mother Smith catching me sends a shiver of embarrassment through my body.

  “I
wasn’t going to watch you fall.”

  “Was that Mother on the phone?” I ask.

  “Yes, I called her as soon as the doctor left. Everything is already sorted. You’ll stay the night with us, and Father will return you to town once you’re up and around.”

  I offer a feeble, “Thank you.”

  “Grief can trap you in the underbelly of mankind, you know. No person should spend too much time there. The soul cannot withstand a life lived in grief.” Mother Smith putters about the living room, finally settling herself on a stool near the sofa.

  Tears prickle in the corners of my eyes. My voice is solemn and vacant. “I don’t know what to do with all this sadness.”

  “Sadness has a time and a place. It serves a purpose, allows us to get by and it can make us stronger. But you, dear Violet. You need to move past the sadness and reclaim your life.”

  “How do I do that?” I roll onto my side to face John’s mother.

  “You decide to move forward is all.” A kind, knowing smile spreads across her face. “And you eat. Look at you, skin and bones. No wonder you fainted. This we can fix.” She pats my arm and heads toward the kitchen.

  As Mother Smith moves about the kitchen, I think, What do I do, if John doesn’t come back? The question looms like a dark cloud until exhaustion finds me again.

  ***

  I fall in and out of sleep as the Smith family meanders about the house. Mother Smith feeds me chicken soup and fresh bread with butter. Edward, curious at three years old, sneaks into the living room to visit me, often enough to be admonished by his mother.

  The sky grows dark, and the house’s chatter begins to subside. Edward’s bedtime is announced, but before he is captured and escorted to bed, he makes his way to my side and places a soft, wet, gentle kiss atop my forehead. “Good night, Vi.”