by Jina Bacarr
I choke on a carrot. Jeff? Is there a shift in power I don’t know about?
‘What do you mean, Pop?’ I have to know. I don’t care if I’m overstepping my place. ‘Is Mr Rushbrooke turning over running the plant to Mr Jeffrey?’
I never call him Jeff around my father. He’d deem it disrespectful.
‘That’s the talk on the floor among us supervisors.’
I don’t argue. Pop has worked at the mill since he left high school in the tenth grade to help support his mother. He got an apprenticeship at sixteen. He wanted to be an engineer, but the Depression put an end to his dreams.
Sitting back, looking at my father, I see him in a different light again. When you’re a kid, you don’t think about your parents having dreams because you’re so wrapped up in your own. Pop long ago gave up on his and accepted his lot. He’s a good welder and shaper and he knows what it takes to keep production moving. I’ve often wondered how far he could have gone if he didn’t have us to take care of.
He smacks his lips and when he finishes his stew, Ma is right there with a second helping. She smiles at him and he gleams. He often says he’s lucky to have a good woman and a good job, in that order. I never noticed their affectionate interplay when I was a teenager. I admit, I envy it now. The subtle grabbing of hands and a heartfelt squeeze. A smirk. A sideway glance. A smile. I realize how much I missed about being in love when I lost Jeff.
That only strengthens my resolve to save him. I hope I’ll have with Jeff what my parents have. Like the kindness Pop shows toward Ma and the friendship they share and their love of words. Pop likes to write down his ditties and Ma always has a book in her hand when she isn’t cooking or cleaning. I guess it’s no surprise to them when I become a writer.
For the moment, I have to deal with this new predicament. The mill.
From what I can tell, Mr Rushbrooke has passed on disinformation to his staff about Jeff taking over the mill. Most likely to keep up morale among the workers. It is the direct opposite of what Jeff told me, that he’s going to enlist in the AAF, the Army Air Force. No wonder he asked me not to say anything. I didn’t. Back then I never questioned anything he did.
Not that I followed him around like a little mouse, but I couldn’t see past my nose when it came to him. That he never forgot how I saved him when we were kids was a big moment in my life. I fell for a young man who treated me as an equal. I had no education, but he made me use my mind and encouraged me to think for myself. That was as exciting to me as him picking me up in his strong arms and carrying me up the hill to our cherry tree without drawing a breath. Which is why this news disturbs me. I feel betrayed.
I’m not dumb. Mr Rushbrooke is setting up Jeff’s abrupt departure for overseas in everyone’s mind. A simple but effective plan. They arrange for him to be called up suddenly and it will look unpatriotic if he doesn’t leave for training immediately. They know Jeff is going on a secret mission. It has to look like he has no choice but to leave the running of the mill to his brother, Timothy. Nobody likes or trusts him.
Whether it’s his father’s idea or the War Department’s, I don’t care. They both get what they want. It’s deceitful and heartless. Not just hurting me, but every worker at the mill. We believe in our heroes. Jeff is mine.
I have a strange thought then. That I’ve never seen him in uniform. Every girl loves her man looking so handsome and cavalier in his Army olive drab. I’m denied that moment of female swooning. When he left on the train that morning, he was in civvies. He never came back.
What he told me about joining the Air Force was a lie.
I drop my spoon and it hits the side of the bowl with a clatter. Pop thinks I’m angry, Junior pays me no mind, and Lucy ignores me, excusing herself, saying she has a headache. She glares at me before she disappears upstairs.
I don’t care if my stew gets cold. Doesn’t Jeff trust me? Would you trust a nineteen year old girl who isn’t more than a kid herself? I thought I knew it all since I read a lot, but I had no life experience. Still, it’s time I stand up for myself. Show everybody I’m no fool. That I’m smart, have ambition, and I can do more for the war effort than coming up with the idea of Miss Christmas Wrap. Starting with my own family.
I clear my throat and begin like nothing happened. ‘I heard a certain congresswoman wants to draft women in the military,’ I state with assurance. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the esteemed politician after the war when she was on a book tour. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if women serve in combat roles someday.’
Silence. Pop stares at me like I’ve sprouted horns. ‘You mean, fight?’
‘Why not?’ I say, without batting a lash. ‘Nurses serve on the battlefield, so why can’t women go into battle alongside men?’
‘Fighting is for men,’ Junior says, siding with Pop. I expect no less.
‘A woman can pull the trigger on a rifle as good as any man,’ I venture, sticking up for my sex.
‘Watch your talk, Katie Marie,’ Pop says, using his nickname for me. ‘It’s bad enough seeing those women working down at the mill doing men’s work. I don’t want to see my own daughter caught up in politics she doesn’t understand.’
‘Because I’m a girl?’ I shoot back.
‘Yes.’
‘Girls have brains, too. Pop. Someday you’ll see that when I—’
Go off to New York and get a job in a big publishing company.
I can’t say it, though I want Pop to be proud of me. I see it isn’t going to happen. He rarely includes Lucy and me in the conversation about the war. But deep inside me, I pray tonight is a breakthrough. Maybe if I’m lucky, he’ll remember this conversation later on when I take off for the big city. I’ll never forget that day. Ma was crying, but she helped me pack and made sure I had enough homemade cherry jam to last me a month. Pop wouldn’t come home to see me off, but spent the afternoon down at the local tavern. It was an awful time in my life. He didn’t talk to me for six months.
Now Pop waits for me to finish and get myself into more hot water. I bite my tongue. I’m ready to explode, but Ma, my angel in an apron, saves me.
‘Why don’t you help me serve the dessert, Kate?’ she says sweetly.
I nod. That’s her not-so-subtle way of calling a halt to family arguments at the dinner table.
‘Sure, Ma.’ I attempt a smile. I look at Pop. He pushes away his plate, though he hasn’t finished his stew. ‘What do we have tonight?’
‘Apple pie.’
Her Victory Apple Pie glistens on top and can make the staunchest general get down on his knees. She sweetens it with less sugar than before the war, adding riced potatoes, and sprinkling it with cinnamon. My mouth watering, I slice up the pie while she sets down the tiny dessert plates with the daisy design she’s had since her wedding day. Then she sits down with us. She lets out a big sigh and fans herself with her apron. I hate to see her so tired. She ate her stew in the kitchen. I wish she’d let herself enjoy dinnertime with us, but that’s Ma. The family comes first, especially her man. Again, I feel a pang of envy when she insists he take the biggest piece of pie. She smiles at him and I see his eyes soften. Like I said, that’s Ma.
The pie melts in my mouth as I eat every bite, and I would have a second piece, but it’s all gone. Like the tension around the table. Ma’s pie fixed that. Pop and Junior talk about the upcoming baseball games like the season starts tomorrow, while Lucy comes down and finishes her homework. Words were said, but not forgotten. Still, I haven’t enjoyed a meal so much in years and I make a note to write about Ma’s Victory pie recipe in my food column when I get back.
Again, I have that feeling I’m not here for long.
‘I’ll help you with the dishes, Ma.’ I gather up the empty plates.
‘I’m fine, baby,’ she says, her hands filled with dirty glasses and silverware. She stops, her brow furrowing like a caterpillar, her lips tight. She thinks a moment, leans over and whispers. ‘Go into the parlor and sit a while with Pop while I
clean up.’
Then she gives me that motherly nod I know so well when she wants us to make up. I balk. ‘I will, Ma. Let me help you first.’
I’m not ready to take a step backward and give up the freedom to speak my mind. I thought I’d prepared myself for this dinner, that I’d got through the hardest part of my trip and substantiated my place here without arousing suspicion. I never expected the big kick to my emotions. I may have my differences with my family, but I’m proud of them, watching them do what’s needed to win this war. Ma running the household on her ration books, Lucy and Junior sitting close together before dinner so they can both study using one light. Pop buying war bonds and stamps out of every week’s paycheck. We’re in the middle of a war hard fought and no one knows when it will be over. No one would ever talk about it, but there was no assurance we’d win. We suffered terrible setbacks, like the defeat at Corregidor, but we believed if every man, woman, and child did their part, even the smallest thing like saving paper, then our country would remain free.
I mull over these thoughts as I linger by the sink, shocked to see the steam coming off the hot water and Ma dipping her hands in it. No wonder she’s hurting so bad.
‘I’m getting you some lotion, Ma, to save your hands. No excuses.’
She pats my cheek. ‘You’re always looking out for me, Kate, but I don’t need you wasting what little money you have left over buying lotion for your old ma. Get something for yourself. Like a new lipstick.’ She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘I noticed you’re using up lip color faster than usual.’
I swallow and don’t answer her. So she suspected I’ve been slipping out to meet someone, and now that she knows it’s Jeff, she doesn’t try to hide it anymore. This time I don’t protest when she scoots me out of the kitchen. It’s the only way I’ll see that sparkle again in her eye. Ma likes her home to chime with a happy, clockwork rhythm. Any slip of the second hand upsets that rhythm. I’m already bending time to my will, so I do as she asks and join the family gathered in the parlor waiting for Pop’s favorite quiz show to start. I have to smile when I see them all together. My heart pings and I let my frustration go. My father lighting his pipe, Ma with her ration books lined up on a small card table, stacking one on top of another, while Frank Junior pretends to study his history lesson and Lucy fusses and frets with her Christmas list.
So far, she announces in a bright, gleeful voice, she’s asked Santa for two Army soldiers, a sailor, and one big strapping Marine. She keeps watching me out of the corner of her eye to see if I’ll give her another lecture. I don’t. I have something else on my mind. She opens her mouth to say something to Ma when she sees me grab my coat but Ma stares her down, surprising both of us. Ma doesn’t look directly at me, nor does she say anything when I slip out through the back door. She has no idea Jeff isn’t meeting me tonight, but her silence is a sign of approval. I’ll cherish that for years to come.
I’ll deal with Lucy later. For now, I want to be alone. Like an actor preparing for a play, mine is about to begin. Tomorrow Jeff will be back from Washington and I want to be ready. My body hums with a romantic tune too long unsung. I can’t wait.
The deep shadows hovering under the eaves of the house where I grew up are more forbidding than I remember, the gravel crunching under my feet making me wonder how I ever got away without alerting Ma and her keen ear. I swear the night spirits shoot glimpses of light from their fingertips along the slippery path to guide me.
Until I come to the cherry tree standing proud on the knoll, its bleak branches swaying in the night wind, a hint of moonbeams tinting them silver-gray. I came here often after Jeff left. Holding my heart in my hands and not knowing what to do with it. I never gave it to another man, not completely, which was why I broke off my engagement. In the end, I buried my heart here under the tree. Let it return to the richness of the earth to heal. It was too fragile for me to keep. Now I’m here to reclaim it.
I can’t control the spate of tears falling onto my cheeks. Soon I’ll see Jeff for the first time since that painful day when he left to serve his country. That causes me more anguish than I care to admit, but I’m older now, wiser, and bursting with anticipation. I pat my coat pocket and the crackle of paper reminds me the letter is safely hidden there. I don’t look at it, afraid I’ll jinx it. Then I circle the pattern of the tree’s tender bark with my gloved fingers, saying a prayer that the hours will go as quickly as the years disappeared on my journey back here. These moments are agonizing. I have to wait till morning, then warn him.
What if he doesn’t believe me?
After my argument with Pop, I realize it won’t be easy to exert my power as a woman in this time, though Jeff doesn’t see me as the weaker sex. Quite the opposite. I’m his precocious Jelly Girl who stood up to his father. Still, I have to combat this wild scheme Mr Rushbrooke and a dodgy senator in the War Department concocted to take him away from me. If I fail, no telling what could happen. The worst things I can think of. Pop could get fired. Ma will get sicker faster from the stress. Frankie will lie about his age and enlist and Lucy will run off with the first good-looking serviceman who asks her.
Suddenly I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake coming back here. That the longer I stay, I’ll undo the future in a frightful way I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
13
I get ready for work, easing into my sensible black suede pumps and my navy-blue suit to avoid any more stares from the ladies on the floor. A uniform I wear to fit in with the other office girls down at the mill. Hopefully everyone will assume I wore a fancy suit and silk hat yesterday because Mr Clayborn had an important government visitor. I take more time with my hair, making sure the new style is just so, then put on my slip with the lacy trim. Jeff won’t see it, but it boosts my confidence knowing I’m wearing something frilly.
Then I add a silver brooch to my jacket lapel with a tiny red ribbon for the holiday. I borrowed the slender piece of velvet from Lucy’s ribbon box. She won’t miss it. She’s already fleeing out the door, her mouth filled with crackers and cherry jam. Nothing out of the ordinary here.
I beg off breakfast and Ma takes it as a sign I’m too infatuated with Jeff to eat. She has no idea of the excitement roiling through me. I toss on my red coat and old black hat and my feet move so fast to the bus stop, I swear I sprouted butterfly wings. I don’t notice the cold wind coming up off the river, something we feel down here when the temperature drops. I button up my coat, all six buttons, reminding me the war hasn’t yet taken my love from me. If I have anything to do with it, they never will. Somewhere on a distant mount, the gods of time are playing games with me. My desperation to see Jeff rattles my insides so much, I dash to make an earlier bus than usual. Seven twenty. Which means Mrs Canton is the bus driver.
If there is ever a character out of a Dickens novel bent on making my life miserable, it’s Sarah Canton. She’s a busybody on wheels. She was pretty once, but her body softened like uncooked dough and her mouth contorted into a perpetual snarl no red lipstick can fix. She never keeps her opinions to herself and has nothing good to say about the young women who ride her bus to the mill every morning, including me. She can’t wait to comment on my new hairdo.
‘You expect me to drop you off at the factory with that hair?’ She slams the door shut behind me with a loud bang. She took over the bus driver’s job on a temporary basis when her husband went to sea before the war. Talk is he signed up on a freighter to get away from her nagging. When the war started, she stayed on, much to her riders’ dismay.
‘Maisie said Victory rolls are all the fashion,’ I say with a casual nod, hoping to defuse an uncomfortable situation. I don’t need a lecture, but I’m not going to let her take advantage of me either. I’m not as naïve as I was then. She seems particularly anxious to pick on me this morning.
The bus is nearly full so I take a seat in the back and fuss with my hair, trying to keep the big curls under my hat, planning what I’m going to say when I see Jeff
. I let my thoughts ramble as the bus makes its way along the country road, stopping to pick up passengers. I’m friendly with all the girls, but this morning I don’t participate in the usual chitchat. They respect that, but their curious eyes and hushed whispers tell me they find my conversation with Mrs Canton a welcome respite on what is usually a quiet, boring ride to work. As for me, I want to soak up what I missed when I moved to the big city. That rural perfume that revs you up in the morning with the bountiful scents of nature, so unlike motor oil coming up off the asphalt and the uniform smell of humanity on the move on city streets.
A thick forest surrounds Posey Creek on the east, while acres of farms cozy up to the south along the river where the mill has stood since the early nineteenth century. I love the ride through the thick forest with its unique earthy smells that somehow turn festive during the winter months.
How am I going to keep my emotions under control when I see Jeff? I can’t do anything stupid, like blurt out something about the war that hasn’t happened yet.
Mrs Canton won’t let me be. ‘You girls and your peekaboo hair,’ she says in a loud voice so I hear her in the back. The other ladies on the bus hear her, too, and giggle. ‘I bet your ma ain’t happy about it.’
‘Ma loves it,’ I say sweetly, not letting her get the best of me. Several women shoot me the ‘V for Victory’ sign in approval. I can’t resist adding, ‘She’s having hers done up like mine next Wednesday.’
Screech.
Mrs Canton slams her foot hard on the brakes and I lurch forward in the bus seat, a flash of darkness hovering over me, its tactile presence so acute, I feel cold fingers tap dancing up and down my spine.
I hold my breath, my hand going to my stomach, fearing a nausea attack. Nothing happens. I let it out, slow. I’m still here. All eyes dart to see why she stopped so suddenly, but I need a moment to compose myself. I smooth down my coat and adjust my hat. That was close. I can’t explain it, but a tiny voice in my head keeps telling me that I’m hanging on by a delicate string.
