by Sarah Sundin
“All caught up?” he asked in an impatient tone.
“Yes, sir. Please continue.”
“Maggie, it’s not right to ask more of you, but could you send news on my crew? I don’t even know if they’re alive or dead. Fontaine’s probably okay, but Ruben was unconscious when we landed and a mess from what Wisniewski said.”
“Wisniewski?” she whispered. Fontaine? Ruben? Two months, he’d said. That was the middle of April, when she had her last dream. No, it couldn’t be.
“Yeah. W-I-S-N-I-E-W-S-K-I.”
She already knew how to spell it, and knew the man wasn’t Lieutenant Hunter but Lieutenant Huntington. Somehow she forced her pen over the paper.
“Got it?” he asked. Cracker—it was Cracker. If he only knew how much she knew of him, both good and bad.
“Yes,” she choked out.
“Preach is the man I’m really worried about.”
Terror trampled the hope she’d built up. “Preach?” she said.
“It’s a nickname. The letter?”
“Yes, yes. I—I’m writing.” Oh, please, Lord. Please let Walt be all right.
“Preach was in bad shape. Real bad. I don’t know how he landed the plane with only one good arm, but that tells you the kind of man he is. He blacked out after we landed. Wisniewski says it’s a miracle he lived as long as he did, that he got us all home. I just hope he made it.”
Allie’s hand formed the words that confirmed her worst fears—Walt had been gravely injured, maybe even—oh, please, not killed.
“You need her address,” Cracker said. “Sooner this gets out, sooner she can get on with her life.”
Allie wrote it down. Bedford—Walt was in Bedford. Where was he now? Was he even alive? She knew of only one way to find out, but it required breaking a promise. However, this was necessary for Cracker’s peace of mind and hers.
“I—I can obtain information for you. Walter Novak is— was—is a good friend of mine.”
Cracker’s jaw went slack. “You know Preach?”
“Mm-hmm.” She hated how her voice squeaked. “We— we have a mutual friend. I’ll contact her. She’ll know about Walt—maybe Abe and Louis too.”
“Wow. You do know him. I can’t believe it. Listen, I’m sorry you had to find out like this, Miss—Miss . . .”
Tears beaded on her eyelashes. “Miller. Allie Miller.”
“Allie?” Cracker’s jaw hung even lower. “Not the Allie he was always writing to? Not—oh boy, have I heard a lot about you.”
“I need to go now.” The tears threatened to brim over, but she needed to maintain a cheerful façade for the patients. She stood and stumbled around the chair and the beds. Once out the door, she leaned her forehead against the corridor wall. Please, Lord, let Walt be all right. I don’t care if he loves another woman. I just want him to live.
“Allie?”
She lifted her head to see Cressie in her gray uniform.
“The last day is hard, isn’t it?”
“It’s not—it’s—” Her throat swelled shut.
“Let’s go talk in Regina’s office.” Cressie put her arm around Allie’s waist and guided her down the corridor. “Was it one of the patients?”
Allie shook her head, afraid to open her mouth and release a torrent of sobs.
Cressie led her into the empty office and shut the door. “Heavens alive. I don’t know how Regina does such a good job in this pigsty.” She hefted piles of papers from two chairs to the floor and motioned for Allie to sit. “Tell me what happened, love.”
The privacy of the office, the warmth of Cressie’s hands around hers, and the concern in her little blue eyes loosed something. “The—the new patient—he was on Walt’s crew— my friend Walt. He—Walt was wounded, and I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, or where he is, and I never told him I broke my engagement, and I never told him I love him, and he should know, even though he loves someone else, he should know. I have to tell him, and now I may never—may never have the chance.”
“Hush. Hush. Oh dear, what a pickle.” Cressie squeezed Allie’s hands. “Now, first we’ve got to find out Walt’s condition.”
“Betty would know.”
“All right, love, all right. You’re going home right this minute to call her. Don’t you fuss. I’ll tell Regina. You can’t work like this. Now, don’t you wait for the mail. Call Betty. Then if Walt’s alive—and I know he is—you’ll write him a letter and tell him everything you want him to know.”
“But—”
“Didn’t you hear yourself? First you fretted about his welfare, then you fretted because you never told him you love him. So tell him, love. Tell him. One thing this war should teach you is life is short, and you’ve got to seize each day.”
“Carpe diem,” Allie whispered. She had never adopted that motto, but perhaps she should.
A warm wind shut the door behind Allie. She tossed her pocketbook on the mail table, dashed for the phone in the hallway, and gave the operator Betty’s number.
“Allie? My, you’re home early.”
She turned as the phone jingled. Mother stood in the archway to the sitting room in a pale pink dress. “Hello, Mother.”
“I’m glad you’re home. Your father and I have something to discuss with you.”
“Not now. I—I have to call Betty. It’s urgent.” She turned away. How could she get Mother to leave? She didn’t want to ask about Walt in front of her.
“Anello residence,” George’s deep voice declared.
“George? Hello, it’s Allie Miller.”
“Allie! It’s good to hear your voice. Betty will be sorry she missed you. Say, you must have gotten the announcement.”
“Announcement?”
“Wouldn’t you know my daughter showed up two weeks early? Impatient like her father.”
“Oh, congratulations.” She swerved from concern for Walt to joy for George and Betty. “What’s her name? How’s Betty?”
“Judith Anne, and she’s the cutest little thing you’ve ever seen. Betty’s just as happy as can be.”
“That’s wonderful.” Allie bit her lower lip. While thrilled about the baby, she was desperate for news of Walt, and long-distance phone calls were restricted to five minutes. How could she politely change subjects? “So—so when was she born?”
“June 14. I’m on my way to fetch Betty from the hospital right now. Wait, I thought you got the announcement.”
“No, not yet. I was calling—”
“Uh-oh. If you didn’t get the announcement, you didn’t get the reply to your wedding invitation. I mailed them the same day. Betty will be fit to be tied.”
Allie stared at her own drained face in the mirror over the telephone. “Wedding invitation?”
“Last month you tell her you broke your engagement, and now this,” he said with a laugh. “Wow, that’s some fancy engraving. Betty’s got it on her bedside table at the hospital. Sure sorry we can’t come. Say, that’s a week from today, isn’t it?”
Allie had cancelled the printing order. She looked to her mother in the archway. “George, I’ll talk to you later.” She settled the receiver back on the hook.
“Mother?” She held a lid over her simmering emotions. “George Anello says he received my invitation. How can that be? I cancelled the order.”
“I know. I had a terrible time setting everything back up again and locating all your friends’ addresses. I’m afraid the invitations were a trifle late.”
The lid came off to release a roiling boil. Allie marched up to her mother. “How dare you send invitations when I called off the wedding?”
Mother stepped back from her steam. “Don’t raise your voice at me.”
“Don’t plan my life for me. Did you honestly think I’d marry Baxter just because you planned a wedding?”
“Well, yes. We have over a hundred people coming. That’s what your father and I wanted to discuss with you today. We raised you to value propriety, and it would be most imp
roper not to show up for your own wedding.”
Allie strode across the marble entry. “This is absolutely unbelievable. First you thought I’d marry Baxter just to make everyone happy. You were wrong. Then you thought I’d cave in when you stripped me of my inheritance. I didn’t. What makes you think I’d give in to this scheme? Did you think I’d disobey God for the sake of propriety? I don’t care about gossip or scandal or propriety. I don’t!”
“Allie Miller!” Father stormed down the hallway from his study and to Mother’s side. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at your mother. You owe her an apology.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, satisfied by her own indignation. “I am twenty-three years old and perfectly capable of making my own decisions. You can’t force me into an arranged marriage. This is 1943!”
Mother’s face reddened. “That’s no excuse for treating us with disrespect.”
“I’ve never shown you anything but respect, but you refuse to respond likewise. I am an adult, and it’s time you treated me like one.”
Father’s face set into shattering steel. “You want to be treated like an adult? Fine. As of July 3, we are no longer responsible for your support or housing. Marry Baxter, or you’re on your own. I doubt you’ll care for that aspect of adulthood.”
Sad, calm determination settled in Allie’s soul. On her own? It was for the best. How could she live with people who didn’t truly love or respect her? She turned for the stairs. A week was too long to remain. Perhaps she could sleep on Cressie’s couch while she made plans.
“July 3,” Father said. “Show up at St. Timothy’s, or you will no longer be our daughter.”
“We’ll only welcome you in this house as Mrs. Baxter Hicks,” Mother said.
Allie placed her hand on the graceful banister she never dared slide down as a child. She gazed down at her mother’s beauty, marred by angry tears, and at her father, no longer her defender.
“I shall miss you both very much.”
“Have some more tea, love,” Cressie said.
“No, thank you.” The saucer rattled when Allie set the teacup down. Everything shook inside her from the day’s turbulence—the news from Cracker, the worry over Walt, the confrontation with her parents, the hurried packing of her belongings into Herb Galloway’s cab, and her conversation with Betty on Cressie’s phone.
Walt was alive. Praise the Lord, he was alive. Betty had told her of his grueling mission, his wounds, the amputation of his right arm, and his transport to the Army hospital at the Presidio in San Francisco.
Allie’s tears of joyous relief mixed with selfish grief for his right hand. The hand that smashed hers on the piano keys. The hand that circled her waist when they danced and cupped her chin when he kissed her cheek. The hand that carved the cow, the plane, and the tiny piano. The hand that penned the letters she cherished.
He would adjust. Walter Novak, with his ingenuity, faith, and good humor would adjust, but she couldn’t imagine what he must be going through.
Cressie settled among the red and orange upholstery roosters, and rested her elbow on a purple doily. “Well, love, you need to make plans. I’m sure someone needs a boarder. We’ll put out the word tomorrow at church.”
Allie folded her hands in the skirt of her Red Cross uniform. She hadn’t taken the time to change. “I can’t stay in Riverside.”
Cressie frowned. “Why ever not?”
“I need to start over, away from reminders of my home and family. I’ll miss Groveside and all my friends, especially you and Daisy, but I need to go away.”
“Hmm. Hmm. A bit hasty, but maybe you’re right. Where will you go?”
“Antioch. I can’t stay long because of Walt, but I’ll visit Betty a few days while I look for a job in San Francisco. My friend Louise said one of her boarders moved out.”
“You stay here as long as you need.”
Allie shook her head. “I’ll leave Tuesday. Tomorrow I’ll say good-bye at church and resign my pianist position. On Monday I’ll quit my new job and go to March to tell Cracker about Walt.”
“A right good plan. I’m flabbergasted, plumb flabbergasted. I’d have thought you’d be completely discombobulated.”
“Oh, I am.” Allie lifted a trembling hand and smile. “Discombobulated and terrified, but I know the Lord will see me through.”
“That he will, love. That he will.”
Union Station
Tuesday, June 29, 1943
“No tickets, miss. Trains are full. Civilians aren’t supposed to travel.” The ticket agent scowled over his glasses at Allie and pointed to a Southern Pacific poster on the wall, which read, “Don’t take the train unless your trip is essential.”
“It—it is essential.”
He grunted and waved her off. “Come back tomorrow and earlier in the day.”
Allie stepped away from the window. How could she come back tomorrow? She couldn’t afford a round-trip to Riverside or a hotel in LA. She had emptied her savings account of the earnings from her pianist job, but she needed every penny for her trip north, job-hunting trips into San Francisco, and a deposit for an apartment if Louise couldn’t take her in.
What could she do tonight? She glanced around the cavernous station, filled with the echoes of hundreds of conversations. A sailor bumped into Allie and apologized without meeting her eye.
She was alone, utterly alone. What was she doing? She should go home, marry Baxter, and make everyone happy.
She groaned and headed across the lobby. She should disobey God, be miserable for the rest of her life, and forget everything she learned the past year? Impossible.
A year ago to the day, she’d been in the same station, Walt’s kiss still tingling on her left cheek, Baxter leaning to kiss the same cheek, Allie offering her right cheek instead.
She wore the same brick-red traveling suit, but everything else had changed. A year ago she never would have considered spending the night in Union Station, but tonight that was exactly what she would do. Her luggage resided with the porter, and she had a new book, The Robe, to read and stationery so she could write Walt. She would tell him in person, but a letter would help her compose her thoughts.
Allie stepped outside, walked a bit, and turned onto Olvera Street, the heart of Mexican Los Angeles. She passed a stall with souvenir sombreros for men on furlough and another with tooled leatherwork.
Her letter, her speech, would have to be as well crafted. First she’d give words of appreciation for his sacrifice and encouragement for his future. Then she’d tell him she’d broken her engagement and why she’d done so. Next she’d confess why she hadn’t told him before—she loved him and wanted to tell him in person.
Allie proceeded to a stall with shelves of painted clay pots. That would be hard to write, near impossible to say to his face.
She’d preface the statement of her love: “I feel led to relate things that may make you uncomfortable. Cressie told me life is fleeting, so seize the day. I’d rather say this and humiliate myself than keep it secret and regret it forever.”
Allie traced a red bloom on a round pot. She felt a tug on the hem of her skirt. A tiny girl wrapped pudgy arms around her knee. She wore a dress with a profusion of red and green ruffles, much against War Production Board standards. Perhaps the dress had been in the family for years, a part of her heritage.
Allie set her hand on the girl’s silky black hair. “Hello, there. Shall we find your mother?”
The girl raised startled black eyes, let go, and stepped back. “Mama?”
“Rosita? Aquí,” a woman called from across the way.
Rosita scampered over, and her mother kissed her and swung her up on her hip.
Allie smiled at the pair, but an empty pit developed inside her. Never again would she savor her parents’ love. Never again would she experience her heritage—her home, her groves, her city. The loss stung her fresh. She’d never even visited San Francisco, and she knew none of its ways.
“No
friends,” she whispered. “No work, no church, not even a family.” She had to start over with nothing. She took a deep breath, sick and tired of crying.
Would Walt worry about her, feel sorry for her? The last thing she wanted was to increase his burden. She had to assure him she would be fine, which she would.
She followed the scent of savory pork to a vendor and bought a taco for an inexpensive lunch. She sat on a low wall to eat her taco and compose her farewell:
“Walt, you deserve much love and joy in your life, and I truly am glad you found it with Emily. Please don’t worry about me. I am content and have no regrets. You’ll always be in my heart and prayers as a beloved friend.”
44
Letterman General Hospital, San Francisco
Thursday, July 1, 1943
Walt slammed his Bible shut. He had to stop reading Proverbs.
He’d stopped lying, confessed to his crew, and taken the consequences. He’d changed, but it wasn’t enough. That last lie to Allie, that stupid, prideful lie. Didn’t want her to pity him, which was nothing but pride. He was supposed to tell her the truth but no, he disobeyed, and now it ate away at him.
Walt leaned forward in his chair and looked out the window of his hospital ward. A BT-13 Valiant trainer flew overhead. Now he had to write Allie and confess his lie as well as his love. Her wedding was next month—no, this month. Swell. Wouldn’t that make a classy wedding gift?
Proverbs 27:5 only deepened his guilt: “Open rebuke is better than secret love.” What kind of man was he? Cowering from rebuke and a wounded ego? Some war hero.
“There’s our war hero.”
Walt groaned and looked over his shoulder to see Mom, Dad, and Ray, who was home on furlough. Walt had been glad to arrive in California two weeks before, but now he was sick of watching other pilots fly, sick of doctors and nurses, and sick of false cheer from his family.
“We have quite a collection here.” Dad sat on the edge of the bed and opened the scrapbook he was compiling for Walt. He had a similar one for Jack’s combat exploits. “Nice article last week in the Oakland paper, and one in the San Francisco Chronicle—no picture, though. The Antioch Ledger ran a follow-up yesterday.” He turned the scrapbook around.
