by Jina Bacarr
I nod. ‘I wonder…’ A horrible thought hits me. Does his mother have something to do with Jeff’s assignment overseas? Is she that hateful toward anyone she considers beneath her that she’ll risk her son’s life? Or is she so pompous she doesn’t believe anything can happen to him? I let that thought simmer in my brain. ‘She won’t get away with her prejudices much longer,’ I say with a fervent tone in my voice. ‘Things will change after the war and she can’t stop that.’
‘You think so?’ She wrinkles her nose, as if she finds that hard to believe.
‘I know so,’ I can’t help but add. Women like Mrs Rushbrooke hate change, anything that threatens their pampered world where women of her class rule and don’t want competition from girls like me willing to do what it takes to better ourselves. I fought hard to make my way in publishing, putting up with mundane coffee duties and hard stares from the male staff.
I pick up my pace. I want this conversation to end before I stick my foot in my mouth. Again. Any indiscriminate comment could set my compass pointing the wrong way. Everything I came back to change could go south. Fast. I know what happens when Helen makes good on her desire to leave town. My heart pings. I don’t want to go there. Not now.
We walk along the dirt road, each lost in our own thoughts. I fret like a hen gathering up her wandering chicks. I can’t keep track of every emotion, every fact that splatters my brain like changing hues of color. Some growing darker, others lighter. The good with the sorrow. I want to shut my eyes and a piece of me, a small piece mind you, wants to be back on that train heading home years from now.
Even my aching feet – which hurt more than they have in years from walking in pumps – don’t stop me from going forward in this drama. I’m faced with a problem I never foresaw when I got off the train. Knowing the future isn’t the utopia it’s cracked up to be. It frazzles my nerves, upsets any sense of normality I have, and makes me want to cry like a baby because I know what happens to the folks of Posey Creek. Sadness, happiness… disappointment. Will I go through this insanity every time I run into someone I know? Questioning whether or not I should tell them where they end up after the war?
I’m sinking deeper and deeper into a bowl of thick molasses, as Ma says. It’s then I make up my mind to stop playing fortune teller. Settle down and do what I came back here for. Warn Jeff. I pray to God with all my heart I can set him off on a different course and save his life. Whether or not he comes home and marries me… I can’t hope for everything. I can wish on those stars we saw in the dark sky, the two of us standing under the cherry tree and holding each other tight, that he does return. Wish for a life with him and if I can do good elsewhere while I’m here, I will.
I can’t drive myself – and the town – off the edge into a dark abyss blabbing everything I know about the war and the people who live here. I’ll either end up losing every friend I have or be packed off to the closest mental hospital. I can’t take the chance of anyone stopping me from saving Jeff and that includes Pop. He doesn’t approve of me seeing him. Pop is a supervisor on the factory floor and because there’s a shortage of manpower to cut trees, his duties often take him to the timber camp down by the river to check on the supply of pulp wood. Most likely, he’s there today. Still, I have to be careful. Which means I have to act like it’s an ordinary winter afternoon in 1943 when I say goodbye to Helen.
Then I can walk through the front doors of the mill and into the arms of the man I love.
10
Jeff is nowhere on the factory floor.
Women wearing trousers and turbans scurry back and forth, some smiling, others serious, but all dedicated to their jobs. Their chatter blends with the melodic grinding of the raw materials needed for the war effort. I breathe out a sigh when I hear ‘You’ll Never Know’ with a big band sound playing over the loudspeaker system. A way of reducing fatigue and increasing efficiency among the workers. Women are doing men’s work and doing it well. I get a chill when I see the machines that made the pretty stationery and book bindings before the war replaced by the steel machines that turn out cardboard boxes to hold blood plasma bottles to save lives on the battlefield.
I keep looking, but I can’t find Jeff. That surprises me. He often spent time down here with the workers giving pep talks, checking production times, and flirting with the female workers in his usual dashing style, making them feel special.
He was Mr Jeffrey to them to differentiate him from his father. They loved him and he could do no wrong in their eyes. He always made sure the wicker basket in the breakroom was filled with apples and oranges. Fresh flowers placed in the powder room every day. Once a month, he encouraged them to have a ‘turban contest’ to see which woman had the most colorful turban on the floor. The winner got free passes to the Old Grande movie theater for Saturday night. A way to boost their morale.
All that changed when Jeff is declared MIA. I’ll never forget the tremendous burden I felt. As if it was my fault, that somehow because he loved me, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That these women would never forgive me. It wasn’t true, and though a few suspected we dated, no one knew we planned to spend the rest of our lives together. I often wonder how they’d have reacted if they did. Standoffish that I was no longer one of them? Or intensely sad, paying special attention to me and taking me into their private fold? I’ll never know.
I walk the factory floor, the steady droning of the machines drowning out the tapping of my pumps. I look around the mill, the busy work atmosphere humming along in perfect rhythm. In my mind, all I can see is the entire work force devastated when they get the news weeks from now, that Jeff is missing. They’ll be whispering to each other, grabbing hands and squeezing them. As if they can bring him home safe by sheer willpower. I remember how the ladies at Rushbrooke Mill held special prayer get-togethers for him, saying a rosary or reading Scriptures.
That was still nothing like when the news comes about him being killed in action. They were beside themselves with anguish. The women couldn’t keep their handkerchiefs dry. The foreman suspended work for an hour, then the women returned in shifts, more determined than ever to do their job and get the mill’s war goods out for shipment.
In the days that followed, they used up their sugar rations to bake cakes and pies and then take them up to Wrightwood House for the family as a way of expressing their grief and support. I doubt Mrs Rushbrooke noticed. More likely, she sent the proffered food downstairs to the servants’ kitchen. I’ll never tell them that.
Jeff didn’t have time for dating when the mill was on a twenty-four-hour schedule but he made time for me, begging me to meet him down at the big ole cherry tree after work. He’d ask me about my day while he kissed my neck, tickling me and making me laugh. In late summer, the air was hot and still and the only breeze came from the swaying branches of the cherry tree when he pressed me against the trunk and kissed the tip of my nose. In winter, the air was cold and frosty and there was no breeze from the long, barren branches, but he held me tight to keep me warm.
I’ve never felt so special again. God, I have to see him.
‘I need Mr Jeffrey to sign off on a memo.’ I grin so widely as I take off my hat, I swear my lie would freeze my smile in place. ‘Has anyone seen him today?’
The ladies stop, look at each other, and then shake their heads.
‘No, Miss Arden, we’d be smiling if we did,’ says one woman, nudging her friend who nods.
‘Thank you, ladies.’
Before I give myself away, I take off for Mr Clayborn’s office but not before I hear the whispering and giggling behind my back. They pretend to fix stray hair escaping from their turbans. I have no doubt they’re gossiping about me. Will my new hairdo ever cease to be a source of amusement?
I check the foyer where the workers clock in, the familiar Buy War Bonds poster pasted where everyone can see it when they punch in. Everybody has a round badge with their name and picture to prevent anyone sneaking in who doesn’t belong. S
aboteurs are not unheard of, even in our small town.
Then I check the lunchroom where the mill kitchen staff serve fresh, nutritious lunches to keep up the workers’ strength. Oh, have I missed these wonderful smells. Gravy and carrots and spice cake. I remember the fresh apple sauce and stews with hearty beans and fresh herbs from the Victory Garden planted on a sloping hill behind the factory. The ladies tended it during their breaks.
I also miss the camaraderie. We were insulated from a lot of what was happening overseas. The closest we came to seeing it up close was when the military trains sped through our little station without stopping, the flatbed train cars filled with tank after tank. The passenger cars would be overflowing with soldiers hanging out of the windows, their faces grim but determined. No wonder we sat through hours and hours of newsreels at the Old Grande showing us what was happening over there. We wanted to feel what they were feeling. Everyone did their best to cheer the soldiers passing through, but I saw the anguish on the faces of the townsfolk. It was no secret the war had already taken a hundred thousand casualties.
I don’t have the stomach to let on what I know about the husbands and sons who never come back. Daughters, too. One of the young women who left to join the Women’s Army Corps is lost in a convoy sunk by the Nazis. She never makes it across the Atlantic.
I see the girl’s mother, working the lever on a big machine, doing her job. Head down, I do my best to avoid eye contact. No, I can’t live with that knowledge eating me up inside. I’m so attuned to these workers, more so now, because this factory is my whole life during the war. So I do the unthinkable. I break a rule and it’s a big one.
I spin around on my heel and head back to the woman.
‘Have you heard from Carol Ann?’ I ask her. She looks up, surprised I remember her daughter’s name.
‘Yes. I have her last letter in my locker.’ Her grin is so huge, I want to cry. ‘She’s doing mighty fine, Miss Arden. She’s a motor pool driver chauffeuring all them bigwigs around the Capitol, but she’s itching to go overseas to help win this war. I don’t know when, but the Lord does and He’ll watch over her.’
Her words make me hesitate.
‘I’m going to write her after work,’ the woman continues. ‘I’ll tell her you asked about her.’
‘Please do, ma’am, and when you write her, tell her…’ I stumble, waiting to see if the floor rumbles beneath my feet, warning me, or a light flashes in my face. When it doesn’t, I get a little braver, more confident I’m right in my thinking. I continue or I’ll bust with misery and regret it for the rest of my life. ‘Tell her our boys here need her, too. That what she’s doing is as important as serving overseas.’ I lean down and whisper. ‘I hear Mr Jeffrey is headed to Washington to meet with the brass and he’ll be disappointed if Carol Ann isn’t there to drive him around.’
It works. The woman’s eyes light up.
‘Carol Ann will never forgive herself if she let Mr Jeffrey down. Yes, Miss Arden, I’ll be writing her tonight and make sure she doesn’t go volunteering for overseas duty just yet.’
I’m not surprised my words have the reaction they do. Jeff has that much power over women. Including me. The only question is, will there be repercussions for my deed? I’ll never know. It gives me more courage to tell Jeff about the letter. I breathe out a sigh of relief. I might have saved a young woman from death. Now to save my fiancé.
I finish my tour of the factory floor, my spirits lifted, but I can’t find Jeff anywhere. I could go up to Wrightwood House and sneak in through the servants’ entrance when the cook isn’t looking. I did it all the time when I was a little girl. We’d often meet and he’d sneak frosted cakes and hard candy for us to munch on. What if Jeff isn’t there? I have more of an opportunity to find out where he is here at the factory. Besides, I’m embarrassed to say I’m so filled with joy at doing good I take a few moments to enjoy my triumph. I swing my hips and hum a familiar holiday tune I heard on the radio last week. ‘I’ll be Home for Christmas.’ Sure of myself, aren’t I? Like I’m living a wildly romantic novel, except that instead of daydreaming, I have it in the palm of my hand. Until I run into the last person I want to see.
Timothy Rushbrooke.
‘If you’re not busy, Kate, we can go for a ride,’ he says, baiting me.
‘Sorry, Mr Rushbrooke, I have to get back to work.’
He acts like he doesn’t know there’s a war on.
‘Too bad,’ he says. ‘I thought we’d drive over to Suttertown and take in a movie.’
So your mother’s spies don’t see us together?
It’s no secret Timothy is a disappointment to Mrs Rushbrooke. He’s lazy, irresponsible, gambles, and drinks too much. Jeff is her golden boy, which makes things worse for me. She’s considered me a bad influence on him ever since we were kids. She hates me but, according to Helen, she doesn’t know for sure I’m dating her son. God help me, she never will until we’re married.
‘I’m sure you have more important things to do, Mr Rushbrooke, than treat an employee to the pictures.’
‘I’m supposed to be checking on production, but I find it rather boring.’ He leans over and whispers in my ear. ‘Let’s get out of here. I won’t tell, if you don’t.’
‘If I do… tell?’ I don’t back down. ‘Then what will you do? Fire me?’
He knows that won’t go over well with Jeff. He turns on his heel without so much as a leering look and leaves as abruptly as he came. No one on the floor likes Timothy. They see him as a privileged, spoiled brat. More than one female worker walks past him with her eyes down to avoid being the object of his attention. He sugar-talks the new girls into going out with him. The ones not smart enough to see through him end up with a bruised ego and a pink slip. His presence here bothers me. Something’s up, but what?
I linger a few moments after he stomps off. I think about going after him, hoping to find out what’s behind his sudden bravado to show up here at the mill, but it isn’t my job to stick my nose into company politics. That point is brought home to me when I hear a gruff voice behind me bellow, ‘Where on earth have you been, Miss Arden? Sipping tea with Mrs Roosevelt?’
Oh. No. My boss. Mr Clayborn.
His bark is worse than his bite, but today he sounds as angry as a big bear with his paw stuck in a spilled jar of honey. I stepped right into the mess. He never calls me Miss Arden unless Mr Rushbrooke Senior is within earshot. Did he see me talking with Timothy?
I turn around slowly, knowing this is a real test to see if I can pull off this charade. The man works with me every day from eight to five. He knows my quirks, my mediocre typing, and my penchant for daydreaming. Here we go.
‘I’ve been right here on the floor, Mr Clayborn,’ I say with a nonchalance I don’t feel. ‘Checking production schedules.’ Luckily for me, he rarely notices what I wear so he doesn’t give more than a quick glance at my silk suit.
‘I don’t care if you’ve been to Timbuktu and back. I want you in my office now!’
I recognize the man from the train sitting in my boss’s office. The silver-haired businessman seems amused yet puzzled. He says nothing, as if he’s accustomed to being the man in charge and doesn’t bother with office staff – though he’s taken an interest in me. That worries me. What did I do? It turns out, it’s what I didn’t do.
‘I sent you to meet Mr Unger at the train station, Miss Arden, but he says you walked right past him.’
‘I… I didn’t recognize him and then my sister Lucy came to fetch me.’ I come out with a half-truth. I have to get out of this somehow.
‘Family matters can wait.’ He thinks a moment. ‘It’s not your ma, is it?’ He’s fond of my mother and I often thought he had a secret crush on her when they were younger.
‘Ma’s fine.’ I wish he’d drop the subject so I can find out whether or not I’m fired. ‘Lucy lost her ration card and wanted to know if I took hers by mistake.’
A lie, but it works. He nods, satisfied.
Mr Unger whispers something to my boss, which makes him nod his head up and down several times. He turns to me, but he doesn’t look at me.
Here it comes. The heave-ho. How am I going to explain this to Ma?
‘I’ll deal with you later, Miss Arden. In the meantime, Mr Unger and I have important government business to discuss. If you’ll excuse us…’
He ushers me out and closes the door. Leaving me wondering if I still have a job.
I have to admit my nineteen year old self is more efficient than I remember. Her desk is in order with each memo carefully marked and stacked, her logbooks are up to date, and her typewriter ribbons clean. Somewhere along the way, I developed bad habits in the workplace.
I fumble through the memos until I find the one from Mr Clayborn asking me to pick up this mysterious Mr Unger. It all comes back to me. After I had my hair done on my lunch hour, I raced off to the train station in the company car with Mr Rushbrooke’s driver at the wheel and then jumped on board the train, going from car to car until I found him. Then, after making sure he was on his way to Rushbrooke Mills, I ran into Lucy and we spent the afternoon meeting and greeting the soldiers. It was our patriotic duty, so I got permission ahead of time.
I exhale, relieved to figure it out. So everything that happened already happened, except for the lively conversations I had with Lucy and Helen. So far, so good. I breathe out a sigh of relief when I find my purse inside the bottom drawer of my desk. I left the office without it, something I never do back in my own time. Amazing how our priorities change. I find my red lip tube and, using my round compact mirror, I apply fresh lipstick. I feel like me again. Now what?
I think about leaving my desk and asking Mr Rushbrooke’s secretary where Jeff is – using the same excuse about needing his signature on a document – but I don’t have that kind of freedom. I’m here to work, but I’m ready to jump out of my seat after spending twelve years without him. My need to see Jeff is eating at me because I know he’s alive and I can’t find him. He’s my love, a man who fulfills my needs with every touch of his hand or every funny word he says. He claimed my heart and trapped me forever in a world where I want only him. I’m his and he’s mine. So why are the fates toying with me like this?
