by Jina Bacarr
I have to calm down before I do something stupid like walk out on the job when there’s the possibility, a slight one I admit, that I’m not fired. I can’t do that to Ma and Pop. They need my salary to keep us going and I willingly give it to them. Funny, when you’re young you can live on love. As long as you have a good family.
I have the best.
To keep my mind occupied, I read through today’s log, noting I penciled off this afternoon to meet the train so I don’t have any pressing work to do. Which means I have to look busy, especially with the government man in Mr Clayborn’s office. I have the feeling he’s watching me.
I go about my work, though it takes me a while to remember where the stationery supplies are. I adjust the margins on the old manual typewriter and my fingers settle on the keys. Like a pair of old shoes, I slip back in time and start pounding them. Not easy. Several keys stick together. What I wouldn’t give for my new electric typewriter. I have a hard time keeping my mind on my work. I’m a better typist than I was back then, which raises an eyebrow or two. I notice other typists looking up in surprise when they hear my staccato typing. I smile. If they only knew.
I pretend I’m typing a business letter – I don’t dare type anything incriminating, so I copy a recipe for meatless soup out of a magazine I find in the breakroom. My stomach growls. I’m hungry. How long since I’ve eaten? I don’t want to think about it.
I keep looking at the clock. My rear end isn’t used to sitting so long in a hard chair. I have to smile. I didn’t notice it back then. All I thought about was doing a good job to impress Mr Clayborn so he’d send me upstairs to deliver the memos. Jeff’s office is on the top floor and somehow I’d find myself going in that direction. I was so in love with him, it’s a wonder I got any work done.
Now I go out of my way to avoid any office romance. I like my job and want to be a full editor someday. I spend a good deal of my day racing from the art department to the print department to taking meetings with the publisher. I’m beginning to appreciate the freedom I have.
Will my life in New York be gone if I save Jeff?
A funny feeling captures my brain. No, whatever happens, I’ll write. I imagine myself the lady of a grand house in the future with three children running around while I bake bread and puddings all morning and write all afternoon until Jeff comes home. Then I’ll make his favorite pot roast and fried potatoes and corn fricassee and we’ll sit by the fireplace and hug each other after we put the children to bed after reading them a bedtime story.
All this runs through my head because I’m going crazy waiting for my boss to call me into his office. I see him arguing with Mr Unger about something, which doesn’t bode well for me. Whatever happens, it’s my own fault. I embarrassed the company. I’m still trying to figure out how I got here. This is what I think happened. I took over the same space on the train occupied by my younger self when I went on board in 1943 to find Mr Unger. Because I was standing in the same place on the same train in the future, that strange coincidence brought me back here. Even the conductor didn’t change. That has to be the answer.
I keep my eye on the goings-on in my boss’s office. The two men go over blueprints and floorplans, nodding and making changes before they shake hands. Mr Unger looks pleased and nods in my direction as he leaves my boss’s office with the blueprints under his arm. Unfortunately, I can’t tell if he’s forgiven me.
‘Come in, please, Miss Arden.’ Mr. Clayborn beckons me from behind his desk.
‘Yes, sir.’ I lower my head, trying to look contrite. I’m willing to fight for my job if I have to. Mr Clayborn doesn’t ask me to close the door, which I take as a good sign.
‘You’re an excellent and skilled worker, Kate.’ I relax. We’re back to him calling me by my first name. ‘Because of your actions, we almost lost that contract.’
Don’t panic. Not yet.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I say in a firm voice. I don’t back down. I’m not going to play the mousy secretary. ‘I was wrong and I admit it. I promise you it will never happen again. We’re in this fight together, but sometimes young people get carried away with the pressures they’re not used to and make wrong decisions.’
‘You mean Lucy.’
‘No, sir. I mean me. All I’m asking for is another chance.’
‘That’s a very mature outlook, Kate, but it doesn’t surprise me coming from you. That’s why I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He looks at me with something in his eyes I can’t read. Disappointment? ‘You let the company down and if Mr Rushbrooke Senior hears about this—’
‘Mr Clayborn, please.’
‘He won’t, Kate.’ He smiles. ‘It’s our secret. Mr Unger won’t mention it. He’s on a tight schedule and must get back to Washington on the next train.’ He laughs. ‘In fact, he asked me not to fire you. He said you looked like you’d seen a ghost. He was concerned you were ill until Lucy found you and you two got off the train.’
I nod. I can only imagine what he saw. How does one look after traveling through time? Glassy-eyed? Disheveled? I feel a rumbling under my feet, alerting me to be careful. I got out of this mess, but I’m not done yet. I have to keep on my toes if I’m going to save Jeff. I’m about to thank my boss for keeping me on when a uniformed messenger from Western Union rushes by me and tips his cap to Mr Clayborn.
‘Mr Harry Clayborn?’ the boy asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Telegram for you, sir, from the War Department.’
Mr Clayborn doesn’t move. His face goes ashen and he can barely raise his hand when the boy hands him the telegram. He digs into his pocket for a nickel to tip him. His son is serving in the Pacific. He rips open the envelope.
I wait for him to tell me what I already know.
11
‘The telegram is from Mr Rushbrooke.’ His voice trembles, but he quickly regains the steadiness I’ve come to expect from him. Then he heaves out a cleansing breath, the moment every father dreads pushed aside. For now. ‘He won’t be back in Posey Creek until early tomorrow morning.’ He wipes off his forehead with his handkerchief, his voice filled with relief.
A bell goes off in my brain. I can’t remember when, but I’m certain my boss received a Western Union telegram that changed him for the rest of the war when his son ended up in a POW camp in Japan. He’d have done anything to bring his son back safe, even go to war himself. I remember how he registered for the draft, mandatory military service, before they required men over forty-five to do so.
He’s worried sick about his kid. I see the signs on his face. The deepening lines, the long stares out the window. The shuffling of his son’s picture in his Navy uniform from one end of his desk to another, like he carries on conversations with him. But I know his boy came home in 1946, his body thin but his spirit strong.
I give my boss a moment to regroup. When I see him pick up some paperwork, I ask the question burning in my brain. ‘Is Jeff with him?’
Mr Clayborn blinks. ‘How’d you know?’
It all fits. Jeff going to the Capitol before leaving for his mission, what Helen overheard from Mrs Rushbrooke. Yet I can’t let my boss suspect I know what’s afoot.
‘He told me yesterday when I saw him on the factory floor.’
‘That’s strange. I didn’t hear about their trip to DC until this morning.’
‘You know Jeff,’ I say, laughing. ‘He mentioned he’d be out of the office today.’ I have to convince him nothing is out of the ordinary. ‘He worries about the ladies on the floor and asked me to make sure they had fresh flowers in the powder room.’
Mr Clayborn accepts that because he has other things on his mind, like securing the government contract, but he’s willing to share his thoughts with me.
‘From what I gather, Kate, it’s very hush hush. That boy is itching to get into the fight, but old Mr Rushbrooke is dead set against it.’ He picks up a pencil and snaps it in two. ‘I hate
to think what will happen to the factory if he gets called up and Timothy is in charge. Production output, not to mention morale will go downhill fast.’
I bite back my words, pretending to think about what he said. Inside I’m ready to blurt out he’s right. It’s the beginning of the end for Rushbrooke Mills. If Jeff’s father had put Mr Clayborn in charge, the mill might still be in business. I didn’t think of it till now, but I have to make that happen for the workers of Posey Creek. If I talk to Jeff, will he listen to me?
I wipe the perspiration forming over my upper lip. My face feels hot. I’m beginning to find out how exhausting it is to keep up with the consequences of my journey back in time.
‘Do you want me to send a reply to Mr Rushbrooke, sir?’ I don’t ask any more questions. We’re expected to be fast, efficient typists but little more. Fortunately, I know Mr Clayborn isn’t as strict as the other factory bosses and listens to my ideas. He enjoyed having a woman’s viewpoint since he became a widower. Long after the war, I remember him as a kind and hardworking man who never got the recognition for his efforts to keep the mill productive during this time. Mr Rushbrooke gave Timothy the credit when the mill received an ‘E’ award for outstanding service to win the war. I’d like to change that, too, while I’m here.
Still, I have to know, why is Mr Rushbrooke in Washington at the War Department? Why is Jeff with him? Does it have anything to do with his mission in France? My throat tightens. Does Jeff already know he’s leaving for an overseas assignment and there’s no time for us to get married? I don’t want to believe that.
‘No reply, Kate,’ Mr Clayborn says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I need you to type up the notes from my meeting with Mr Unger.’
‘Yes, sir.’ My disappointment shows on my face. When Mr Clayborn hands me the notes, he looks at me funny, as if he has something on his mind. ‘No hurry, Kate. I planned to wait until tomorrow. I thought you asked for time off today to help at the canteen.’ He scratches his head. ‘I guess I was wrong.’
No, you’re not. I’m not supposed to be here in your office.
That explains a lot. Why I don’t remember this happening. It didn’t. I blissfully spent this time getting ready for the holidays with Ma and Lucy, not knowing Jeff was in Washington with his father. He told me later he went to Philly to see about securing new equipment for the factory. I never questioned him.
Outside the office window, I see dusk slowly settling down like a filmy veil on what has been a long day and the next shift filing in, ready to work through the night. Production never stops, even with the holidays approaching. Which gives me an idea.
‘What are you doing for Christmas dinner, Mr Clayborn?’ I feel guilty for my mishap this afternoon. ‘Ma would love to have you, and so would Pop.’
‘That’s swell of you to ask me, Kate, but I’ve got a place to go.’ He doesn’t say where, but I remember he drove to Suttertown on Christmas Eve. They had a canteen set up in the church community center for the servicemen and women. He volunteered to serve up Christmas dinner to the men so he could feel closer to his son. I don’t try to change his mind. Some things in the past are best left as they were.
‘Speaking of Christmas, Kate, we sure could use some help getting people to donate their old paper and not waste it wrapping Christmas presents.’
‘Mr Clayborn…’
He takes a step back when he sees my arched brows. ‘I’m not trying to ruin Christmas, Kate, but the military needs paper. We’re on our way to a shortage.’ He stops, calms down. ‘Every piece of paper we save is a step closer to bringing our boys… my boy, home.’
I hate to see this wonderful, kind man so upset. He’s right about people not giving a second thought to saving paper with the holiday wrapping in full swing. What we need is a catchy slogan to remind them. My work with the publicity department at Holtford gives me an idea.
‘If you don’t object, sir,’ I begin, remembering an ad from the war I saw in a magazine when I researched a story last Christmas. ‘What if I ask Mr Neville to take a picture of a female worker sitting on a big box wrapped up for Christmas?’
‘Go on.’
‘Instead of fancy wrapping paper, the box is covered with scrap paper or left bare and decorated with hand-drawn holiday decorations like candy canes, holly, and Santas. A way to encourage folks to make their own wrapping paper this year.’
‘What a great idea, Kate.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I beam. Score one for the local girl.
‘I want you in the ad.’ Tapping his fingers on the desk, he catches my eye. He’s not joking.
‘Me?’
‘You’re the prettiest girl we’ve got here.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m sure I’m right in saying Jeff would agree.’
I blush. I have enough sense to keep my mouth shut. I can’t hide anything from him. He knows about my frequent visits to Jeff’s office to deliver memos. I never fooled him.
He isn’t finished. Mr Clayborn rubs his chin. ‘Too bad there’s no spot for you in marketing, Kate. Mr Rushbrooke would never go for it. He hates the idea of women working anywhere but behind a stove.’
I give him a knowing look. ‘Someday he’ll be surprised what we women can do.’
I have to admit, I feel proud of myself for using my publishing experience to solve the problem, a way to show Jeff’s father I’m no slouch, that I’m a force to be reckoned with. I’m determined to change the past. Determined to marry the man I loved.
I type up the requisition in record time in spite of the sticking keys, and run it downstairs to the marketing department. Mr Neville loves the idea, assuming it’s Mr Clayborn’s. I roll my eyes. It never occurs to him I had something to do with it.
Careful, don’t get too smart. You’ve got a more important job to do.
I have only a week to set things right between Jeff and me.
Heading back to my desk, I’m hot and sweaty from running up and down three flights of stairs. For all the adrenaline pumping through me, it’s the lie Jeff told me that makes my heart pound. He knew he wasn’t going away to basic training that day at the train station when we said goodbye. Even now, knowing what I do about wartime secrecy, I’m hurt. He could have given me a hint, a word. He didn’t. Still, I can’t let go of the idea that if I warn him, we’ll be together and I’ll have my perfect home and husband. Yes, I believe that because if I don’t, I won’t have the courage to tell him about the letter and how I got here. Of course, he’ll say I watched too many outer space serials at the Saturday matinees when I was a kid, but when he sees how serious I am and I show him the proof, he’ll have to believe me. I breathe out, slower.
When the factory whistle blows at five, I collapse, exhausted. But I have another hurdle to face before I see Jeff.
Something else is pulling at my heartstrings. A need to return to the nest. To rest my head against her shoulder. Tug at her apron and ask her to make me a cup of hot cocoa like she did before the war. With vanilla and cinnamon.
I need to see Ma.
I’ll never forget seeing three housewives huddled around the dinner table going over a huge map that covered a square wooden table from end to end, the smell of baby powder sticking to their clothes and the rich scent of kitchen grease clinging to their hair.
Posey Creek ladies, who before Pearl Harbor knew little about submarines or convoys, fought the war in their own way. Their crochet needles and balls of yarn would be put aside as they argued over where our Army would strike next. I forgot how serious these weekly meetings were with the women poking knitting needles into France or Holland and saying their piece with as much fortitude and surety as any general.
‘I say the Allies hit Amsterdam next.’ Mrs Bloom grabs a piece of hard candy out of the jar. Ma gives her a disapproving look. That jar is for servicemen when they get off the train. ‘What with all them bridges the Nazis got hold of.’
‘You got bats in your snood, Gert?’ says Mrs Sims. ‘I say we hit ’em hard in Poland.’
/> Ma grabs the candy jar before Mrs Bloom helps herself to more sweets. ‘You’re both wrong. Our boys will hit the beaches in France to win this war.’ Then she smiles when she sees me. ‘You forgot the candy jar for the soldiers when you left this morning, Kate.’ Smoothing down her apron, she nods in approval. ‘Maisie done right by you with the new hairstyle. Makes you look even prettier, if that’s possible.’
‘Thanks, Ma.’ I beam. Her words reaffirm I look the same. Thank God.
That isn’t what’s making my heart race, my insides twist like a loaf of her braided bread. I miss her so much, it takes every ounce of my strength not to grab her and hug her close. Never let her go. My heart kicks me in the ribs as I study her closer. Eyes drooping, cheeks flushed, she looks tired. She’s barely forty-two.
I try not to let my concern show. I hate how the years will take their toll on her. Her long, brown braid entwined around her head like a queen’s knotted crown turns gray – she never cut it. Her lively hazel eyes dulled by loss. Her shoulders bent forward. Most of all, her hands. Fingers gnarled like tiny branches, but she never stopped putting up her jams even when she couldn’t screw the lid tight on the glass jar. It hurts me. I vow to take care of her while I’m here, make her life easier.
‘’Course we won’t have nothing left for them boys if Gert keeps feeding her sweet tooth,’ Ma finishes.
‘I’m as patriotic as you are, Mary Katharine Arden,’ chimes in her friend. ‘I donated my old girdles to the war effort, didn’t I?’
