by Cat Gardiner
With ironic reflection, Louie’s heart felt sad, realizing that like losing his voice, Will had done the very thing he accused him. One cannot keep memories alive and pass them to the next generation when one disappears for forty years, remaining silent and maybe alone, letting the story die with him.
Louie silently vowed, I will move past this grief. I will find my voice again.
Juliana broke him from the long pause, which thankfully she hadn’t noticed since she was occupied with the box’s contents. “This is all about you during the war. Wow. Can I keep it?” Juliana picked up a snapshot—one of him standing in a bar during his R&R. Another showed him playing cards. He wondered if any of Lillian’s letters or photographs lay at the bottom of the box. If memory served, the box represented the Marines only.
She removed a deck of playing cards from the box, and a small smile developed on his lips. Hello, my lucky fixed cards. From her hands, he took the pack with a big V emblazoned on the front, planning to have some fun with the ex-Army guys at the facility over a seemingly innocent game of poker.
Next, she held up a photograph of him sitting on the USS Wakefield. He was young, dumb, and green upon his arrival in New Zealand, thinking he could conquer the world and kill every Jap who came into his rifle sight. The letter she had read to him was a testament to that youthfulness. Such valiant grit; that kind of tenacity won the war.
“Where is this?”
He turned over the photograph to show her the writing. He knew he didn’t have it in him today to answer her barrage of questions sure to come, but he now wanted the door open, the history told—the secrets exposed. After all, his wartime service was part of his and Lillian’s story, and Lillian’s story—one that Juliana needed to learn—was connected to Lizzy’s story, and Lizzy’s story was connected to Will’s. He had confidence in his granddaughter’s journalistic fortitude. His jewel would find his brother, heal the family, and bring him home or at the very least back into Lizzy’s arms where he belonged. Briefly, he wondered if the pistol was still alive, kicking up dust and making mischief. Damn, she was good for Ducky. What had gone wrong so fast between them? Had they not been as close as he assumed? Why did she stop writing to him? Most likely, Will had a pickle up his ass about something trivial, and she dropped him like a hot potato in early ’43. No doubt, Lil had known and kept that secret from him in that iron vault of hers, too.
He reached into the box and removed the gold-toned pin once tacked upon his Marine Corps garrison cap all those years ago. The EGA emblem—eagle, globe, anchor. His heart swelled. To him it was a prideful sight, a small insignia that stood for such great valor in all the men. It summed up the purpose of the box. It wasn’t images of war within—it was brotherhood, camaraderie, friendship, and patriotic zeal. That was worth remembering.
“What’s that, Grandpa?”
Above Will’s sterling silver pilot wings that she wore pinned to her denim vest, Louie placed his insignia right above it. The Marine Corps was always first. He smiled as she toyed with it, understanding without any communication what it was.
Louie left the room, knowing Juliana would follow with the box. As they neared the hallway, they both stopped when they heard a key turn the entrance knob. The door opened and a blonde woman in her early sixties, wearing a pink, fashion sweat suit, entered holding a Pyrex casserole dish.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Louie. I didn’t know you had company.”
Juliana looked at one then the other and raised an eyebrow when her sight settled on her grandfather and his shit-eating grin.
“Hi. I’m Juliana, his granddaughter.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard about you. Not from Louie, of course, but some of the women on the floor who see you come and go. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Vera, your grandfather’s … um… friend.”
Juliana cocked her brow again when her eyes met Louie’s.
He smiled slightly and shrugged an innocent shoulder.
“Nice to meet you, Vera. I better be going. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
“I do hope so, dear.”
Minutes later, she kissed her grandfather good-bye and left with the Florsheim box in hand, trying hard not to be upset that there was obviously a new woman in his life.
~~*~~
Seven
It Could Happen to You
June, 1992
Juliana’s stomach rolled and cramped from the onion bagel with cream cheese she had washed down with a cup of coffee before hopping the subway to Manhattan. She wondered if it was actually nerves and not the size of what she consumed. Although, she hadn’t eaten like that in ages.
Slender legs paced outside her boss’s office, waiting for the door to open and the administrative assistant to emerge. Inside the Tiffany blue box at the bottom of her backpack, Lizzy’s letters to Uncle William, silently signaling to be revealed, ignited her enthusiasm. The wounded daughter in her hated to admit and, truth be told, it was probably the real reason for her agitation, but Susan was right. There was a story to tell about William and the woman he had loved, and the writer in her was here at the magazine to pitch her hook to her good friend, Allure’s senior editor.
The oversized clock seemed to tick by slowly beyond the plate glass window separating the editor’s office from the many small cubicles displaying the visual, creative brainchildren of the magazine’s many contributing editors, layout designers, and account reps. Tacked upon the visible interior of the editor’s office walls, a collage of photographs, advertisements, inspiration, and sketches, hung haphazardly behind and beside her oversized desk.
The door finally opened and a trendy young woman exited holding a stenography pad in her hand. She winked to Juliana, smiled, and motioned for her to go in.
Maxine Grant, a chubby woman in her late thirties lowered her thick black-rimmed glasses and glanced up from her photograph-strewn desk. Short, raven hair and vampy, plum lipstick severely contrasted her pale, matte skin, but Maxine’s signature look was striking, almost, even if her round eyewear resembled Edith Head’s. Juliana always wondered if that was the look she was going for.
Maxine smiled brightly when her junior style writer plopped herself down in the chair before the desk. She noticed immediately the change in Juliana’s appearance and overall aura. First of all, she wore a suit, and that was something the editor hadn’t seen her friend wear since her job interview with Allure.
“Well, this is certainly a surprise. I haven’t seen that pretty face of yours in months, especially since you decided to send your monthly copy up by bicycle messenger,” she said.
“Good to see you, too, Max. How’s business? Circulation up? Growing or are we in the toilet this month?”
From under the mess upon her desk, the editor pulled out the layout of the next month’s cover. “Circulation is growing and trends are cooperating. Long, straight locks are all the rage. I see you finally entered the nineties by deciding to hack that big hair you still sported a few months ago. I’m so happy you just let it go, darling. Only Samson had a reason to hang onto his hair and even he had it cut.”
“Yes, well … I admit I resisted—as did he.” Juliana shuddered. “If you had a mother like mine, you’d buck trends, too, but as a contributing fashion writer it was necessary, I suppose.” She shook her locks. “I’m glad you like it. It was yesterday’s project, and I actually spent the money to do it right at Bumble and Bumble.”
“Good girl. Now that you have it, spend it. Your father would have wanted it that way. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, he would have. He always said I was too frugal—turns out both he and my great-uncle have forced my hand by leaving me all that money, not to mention DVDH. I suppose they were intent on spoiling me even from the grave.”
“Of course your father did. He was a great man. How is your grandfather? How did he take the news?”
“Silently. He’s still not speaking, and he has a girlfriend.”
“A girlfriend? How do you know?”
“She had a key and entered his apartment as I was leaving.”
“He’s a character, huh?”
“You have no idea. Apparently, he’s the strong silent type all the women of the apartment building are chasing after. At least, that’s what the Resident Liaison told me when I ran into her in the hallway. You should see his refrigerator. It’s stocked with casserole dishes.”
Maxine laughed. “What a stud he is! Did you always know this about him?”
“No, I’m shocked, really. He didn’t need words when I asked him about his philandering. That look in his eye was pretty damning. I’m actually a little upset about it—you know, I thought he missed my grandmother.”
“I’m sure he does miss her but even a man at his age has physical needs. They’ll never admit it, of course, but they have emotional ones, too. He’s probably not looking for romantic love, just tenderness to fill the void.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She shrugged a shoulder.
“So, what brings you in to see me on this beautiful day?”
Juliana reached into her bag and removed the box, resting it at the edge of the desk. She noted Maxine’s piqued interest focusing at what was written along the sides of the pretty blue box in black, block letters that caused her to tilt her head to read, “William and Lizzy—My Dearest Darling.”
“William?”
Juliana snorted a laugh. “Yes, and he’s the story I’d like to tell, but I need your help.”
Maxine tapped her Sharpie marker upon the desk and the slick images of Claudia Schiffer and Cindy Crawford. “Do tell. Do tell.”
“It’s a World War Two love story.”
The editor dropped her marker, the creative wheels in her brain turned at the possibilities. “Oh yes, I can see it—in love with the clothing … the elegance even during the ration. Gloves, hats, half-moon manicures, no hosiery, and hand sewed garments. The return to the basics of beauty.”
Ten fisted fingers burst in punctuation. “Here’s your hook: How to obtain an effortless, stylish look on a shoestring budget! How to resemble an MGM starlet during the Golden Age of Hollywood and return to an era of feminine allure and mystique. Rita Hayworth, Veronica Lake, and Brooklyn’s own Gene Tierney—the young bride of Oleg Cassini, fashion designer to the stars!”
Maxine’s voice rose with passionate excitement at the idea. “The hair! Oh the hair! Victory Rolls! All leading up to the pinnacle of post-war change in fashion: ‘The New Look’ by Dior. Yes! Ushering in short hair, cinched waists, full skirts, and luxurious fabrics in a romantic French explosion of sophisticated style. Julie—you are brilliant!”
Disheartened, Juliana responded with a slight grimace of embarrassment. “No, it’s not a fashion love story—it’s a human interest love story—an honest to goodness wartime romantic relationship—sweethearts.”
Maxine’s reply fell flat, deflated with the wind completely knocked out of her sails. “Oh.”
“I know it isn’t something we normally feature, but I’m sure this piece I’m working on could very well be an excellent F.O.B. An article such as this at the front of the magazine could segue into the feature well, covering your idea. I believe in the power of this story between this young couple and … and I intend on finding out what happened to them at the end of my research, which could very well mean a follow up feature story in another issue. Maybe during November for Veteran’s Day or on the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Battle of Peleliu.”
“The battle of what? Julie, we’re a fashion magazine. The only battles we face are those of wrinkles and fat.” Maxine chuckled. “Well, so, I guess the Battle of the Bulge may well be an appropriate topic. Perhaps, we could compromise if you’re insistent on a World War Two hook.” She laughed at her joke. “Get it? Battle of the Bulge?”
Juliana shrugged a shoulder. She had never heard of the Battle of the Bulge.
Maxine slid June’s mock-up cover in front of her friend. “I’m sorry, hon, but see here … ‘Split-Second Beauty’, ‘Diet Doctor.’ Allure offers trends, cosmetics, fashion and hair, an insider’s guide to a woman’s image. That’s what we do. We try to make people feel good about themselves, and if they don’t we tell them how to do so. The closest we get to a love story is how to have an explosive orgasm or how to strip for your man in twelve easy to follow moves.”
Like her editor, Juliana simply replied, “Oh.”
Maxine opened the box and pulled out the thick stack of letters. “Is this your story?”
“Only the surface. The house I was given is at the heart of it. These are the wartime letters to my great-uncle from his girlfriend and his family. I’ve only read a couple, and they are starting to fill in tiny blanks. I’d like to travel to some of the places written on the pages and see if I can connect the dots about this fantastic, heartbreaking love affair. It’s a mystery of sorts.” Juliana swallowed hard. “I’d like to concentrate on this story, Max. It’s … it’s important to me.”
“Why do you assume it’s heartbreaking?”
“Because as far as I know, they never married, or … worse … she died. See why I have to know?”
Fanning the tied fifty-year old letters, the professional in Maxine couldn’t deny the appeal to uncover a good mystery not just for her magazine but for herself, too. Not to mention everyone loved a heart-tugging story about a veteran. She gazed up at Juliana’s stylish charcoal suit. “That pin you’re wearing, is it authentic?”
Juliana fingered the cool edge of William’s pilot wings secured below her shoulder. “Yes, they were William’s.” She raised an eyebrow. “Why? Are you interested? Is there something pulling you toward this story? You see it don’t you?”
“Perhaps.” Maxine slid a letter from the top of the stack and admired the fine penmanship. She ran her finger over the salutation. “This is lovely stationery. Expensive.” She thoughtfully sighed. “I fear the day when this ‘so called’ electronic mail Bill Gates talks about comes along. You’ll see, before long, no one will write letters or even pick up the telephone to say hello. I shudder at what we will become. Hmm … I shudder at what will become of the memory and stories of the Silent Generation.”
She held out the letter to her friend. “May I read it?”
A sly, knowing smile appeared on Juliana’s lips. “Sure, knock yourself out.”
“June 8, 1942
Dear William,
What a delightful surprise it was to receive your letter, especially since I was under the impression that you did not wish an acquaintance. I was sure you interpreted my letter as too forward, even—dare I say—pushy! I have been told, on occasion, that I can be quite relentless in getting my way, but in your case, I was prepared to accept that you weren’t interested. So, with a resounding YES, I would love to meet you at four o’clock, Saturday, June 13 beside the lion at the Public Library closest to 42nd Street! Just look for the girl with a beaming smile of anticipation, that’ll be me.
I am so excited about attending the New York at War Parade on the arm of such a dashing pilot. Are you sure your marching will have completed by then since the parade travels such a long way up Fifth Avenue? Rest assured, I will wait with bells on until your arrival downtown. My sister will be marching with the ARC. Perhaps, we can send your brother a snapshot should we get a glimpse of her. I am so proud of her, and I imagine you are just as proud of Louie. I’m looking forward to hearing any news you have about his destination. Oh, does that fall under ‘careless talk’? Never mind then.
My other sister, Kitty and I have embarked on quite the endeavor since we met you on Memorial Day. I bet you’ll be surprised to learn that we have officially begun a nylon stocking drive because you know how we debs just love our hosiery! Now if I can only get them to donate then I’ll really have something to boast about. However, I do think our other venture may be a bit more realistic. We have decided to volunteer for the Victory Book Campaign through our local library. These old homes around here must all have libraries filled with hundreds of unread, like-new
books, and it is our hope to get our neighbors to part with them for the war effort. I plan on visiting our librarian, Mrs. Tinsdale to discuss our ideas. In a way, I feel as though it is my first real job interview, and I’m very excited!
I wonder, do you enjoy reading? I do. I find it a fantastic escape and now that the Zephyr is in the repair shop, I am thoroughly engrossed in an Agatha Christie novel. I simply adore crime, mystery, and suspense. Once, I stayed awake until the wee hours of the morning just to finish, “Murder on the Orient Express.” That was one of the most suspenseful books I have read.
Well, Lieutenant Ducky Shincracker, I look forward to a swell afternoon spent in your company. Thank you for your letter and the invitation for a date. Don’t worry about my travels into the city. I’ll be taking the 1:15 train from Glen Cove—see I do take public transportation! Ha! If you change your mind, which I sincerely hope you don’t but am sure you won’t (remember I’m an optimist,) my telephone number is ORiole-67126.
Sincerely,
Lizzy”
Maxine lowered the letter. “Ducky shincracker? Oh, I like her—a girl going after what she wants and she wants him. It sounds as though she’s trying to impress him. Any indication of his feelings for her? By the sound of it, he wasn’t too gung ho at first. Are any of his letters in this stack? It would be great if we can hear his voice.”
“I haven’t gone through them all. As far as I can see from the first few, they are mostly hers and placed in chronological order. I’d like to read them as such so I can experience the development of their relationship. I know how he felt about Lizzy. My uncle was head over heels in love. There is a shrine to her sitting on my fireplace mantle that I haven’t had the heart to remove.”
Juliana reached into the bottom of the box and pulled out a photograph she found in the footlocker. “I found this color photograph with a bunch of other snapshots in his military trunk in the attic. I think you’ll understand my desire to explore all of this when you see it.” After glancing at it with a gentle smile, she stretched across the desk to hand it to her friend.
