by Jina Bacarr
‘You got my attention.’ I keep my voice casual. ‘What gives?’
‘I heard him say our troops are dropping in on the Nazis very soon and have the men and supplies lined up and ready to go.’ Her eyes settle on me. She’s clearly interested in my reaction.
I don’t answer her right away. This isn’t good. She picked up top-secret information about government plans to help the French Résistance.
‘I doubt if it means anything,’ I say, smiling and looking around. The center is humming with volunteers, women and girls, chatting and laughing as they set up tables, chairs, and a big coffee urn. White ceramic cups are lined up row after row on a green felt card table.
‘You can tell me, Kate. Is Jeff in on it?’ she whispers. ‘Is that why you’re acting so strange?’ Her blue eyes glow with curiosity, daring me to give her an answer. I have no choice but to impart on her the harsh reality of what the consequences are for leaking intelligence.
‘You must never repeat what you heard to anyone, Helen,’ I beg her, knowing she’s trying to help me. What she told me is the beginning of preparations for D-Day. ‘If that information falls into the wrong hands, civilians as well as Résistance fighters will die.’
‘Jeff told you that?’
‘Yes,’ I lie, hoping I’m not going to regret it. ‘According to news reports, several Frenchmen were killed by the Nazis in reprisal for the deaths of two German soldiers.’
Too late I catch myself. Yes, it happens. In January 1944.
Helen looks puzzled. ‘No wonder you haven’t been yourself lately.’
I don’t deny it, but her observation gives me a jolt. As much as I want to, I can’t share with her that I’ve come from another time to save the man I love because I can’t live without him. That Jeff will be among the men and women dropped into occupied France and other countries to train the locals for the invasion that’s coming.
I have to divert her attention. ‘I can’t keep the news from you any longer, Helen,’ I say, seizing the moment.
She arches a brow. ‘Did he pop the question?’
I nod. ‘Jeff asked me to marry him in the spring when the cherry blossoms bloom. You know how much he loves Ma’s cherry jam.’ Thankfully, a career in wooing advertisers and dealing with fickle authors has taught me how to think fast and come up with excuses so good they sound real. Helen accepts my explanation, teasing me about having Mrs Rushbrooke for a mother-in-law.
‘I bet she looks into her magic mirror every day,’ she says, ‘but it’s afraid to talk back.’
‘Are you sure she didn’t see you at Wrightwood House?’ God help us both if the woman finds out Helen is spying on them.
‘The butler said she wasn’t home.’
‘She’s probably out buying a new mirror,’ I joke.
We both laugh and I relax, letting her think about it. That will take her mind off the explosive information she heard about the drops into France and Belgium.
Meanwhile, we get the decorations underway for the dance tomorrow night along with the other volunteers. The large public room is flanked on either side by smaller rooms used for club meetings. I hear the loud chatter of women engaged in a discussion over the latest pamphlet about air raid precautions, along with who wore the most outlandish hat to the wardens’ meeting. I smile. Everything is rationed but hats.
Helen and I are in charge of the Victory Booth. Or as it’s known among the servicemen, the kissing booth. The sturdy wooden structure is designed with the top board scalloped to look like a canopy. Every year somebody adds a fresh coat of red paint and more gummed star stickers than the year before. A ‘Buy War Bonds’ sign hangs on the front of the booth.
While the other volunteers string up the lights, Helen and I hang a six foot long green garland of tinsel over the kissing booth. It shimmers like a trail of stardust fallen to earth, its once perfect foils droopy and tattered from being dragged out every Christmas since the Depression. I get up on the stepladder and fasten the tinsel onto the wooden frame with thumbtacks, getting a special joy in remembering how popular the booth was that year. We couldn’t keep up with the demand for soldiers wanting a kiss every time they bought a war bond or stamps. I did my share of kissing and to my surprise, Jeff encouraged me, telling me these boys deserved a kiss but after the dance, those kisses belonged only to him.
Was I that naïve back then? To think he wasn’t jealous? I smile. I’ll make sure to stay away from the kissing booth. No way do I want him to think I have eyes for any man but him. I can’t jeopardize our relationship. He has to believe me when I tell him about the letter. I don’t need anything else clouding his mind.
I’m daydreaming about my wonderful man and the joy I get kissing him when I catch a glimpse of the ladies leaving the wardens’ meeting. I nearly fall off the ladder when I see the raging storm in a mink lined coat with a matching pillbox hat coming my way. A huge feather waving in the air like a battle flag. Mrs Rushbrooke.
Oh, Lord, what have I done now?
‘I see you paid no attention to what I said, Miss Arden,’ purrs the elegant woman, not caring who hears her. ‘A pity, since it’s so close to Christmas.’
What does she mean by that?
‘I suppose your spies told you Jeff and I were together yesterday.’ I smirk. Brazen words on my part, but I refuse to allow this scheming woman to get the better of me. I imagine the night watchman couldn’t wait to tell anyone who’d listen over a beer at the tavern. Words spoken in such places have a way of spreading like bee’s pollen to a poison flower like Mrs Rushbrooke.
She curls her lip. ‘Mark my words, my son will have nothing more to do with you.’
‘I don’t wish to argue, ma’am,’ I say with as much courtesy as I can. Every woman, from her cronies to the girls stringing up the lights, hangs onto our conversation like we’re giving away ration stamps. ‘As you so aptly put it, it’s close to Christmas, so let’s speak of goodwill toward our fellow…’ I pause, then add, ‘… women.’ Whispers. A few handclaps. A ‘Merry Christmas’ or two.
Mrs Rushbrooke ignores my heartfelt gesture. ‘I hear there may be an opening down at the mill soon,’ she threatens. I ignore her. I’m not worried about my job. Mr Clayborn will stand by me.
‘Sorry, Mrs Rushbrooke, Helen and I are busy hanging tinsel for the dance.’
I turn my back on her. Too late I realize I broke my own rule. One I learned my first month as an editor at Holtford Company. Never ever let the client think you’re ignoring them. They always come back at you with a stinger – and this one is a good one.
Mrs Rushbrooke clears her throat. ‘I hear we have too many superintendents on the floor.’ She fiddles with the feather on her hat with gloved fingers. ‘Your father is a superintendent, is he not?’
No, not Pop.
I climb down the stepladder, taking two steps at a time. ‘What are you up to now, Mrs Rushbrooke?’
‘Me?’ she says, keeping her expression blank, as if she found a note in a bottle and she’s floating with the tide. ‘I merely suggested to my husband the company could cut production costs by retiring unnecessary workers from the floor.’
Retire? Pop is in his forties. Even if he could, he has no intention of retiring and never does. He stays on the job till the mill closes. What she means is fire him. She’s trying to pull a fast one. I smile in spite of the woman’s meanness, marveling she thinks she can get away with it.
‘You mean retire him with a year’s severance pay and a full pension,’ I come back at her like a bullet. Straight to her heart, though I doubt she has one. ‘I’m sure the union will be very interested in the company’s change of policy to let men go because of your whims.’
Her eyelids flutter. She’s a clever woman when it comes to making people’s lives miserable, but she has no idea how the mill runs. Or that I know anything about the power of unions and the hard-won benefits Pop and the other workers spent years fighting for. They can’t let him go because she doesn’t like me.
&
nbsp; Besides, my father loves that job. It’s his life and his workers speak highly of him, bringing him homemade goods on his birthday every year, though everyone knows no one can cook like Ma. It’s a tribute to Pop, the man and the superintendent. Not to mention that job is my family’s security. He needs to keep working because that union pension keeps Ma in our house after Pop passes.
I stare her down. Her lower lip quivers. The woman is bluffing. That doesn’t mean she’s finished with me.
‘You think you’re a clever young woman, Miss Arden.’ She takes a step forward and for the first time I notice she barely comes up to my shoulder. I think of her as being much taller. ‘I’ll see to it you never set foot in my home again. You have my word on it.’
What she’s saying is she won’t allow Jeff to marry me.
I bite back the words aching to spill over my lips. I can’t tell this woman what I think of her. I can’t blurt out we’re eloping in a few days. Anything I say will only make things worse, so I say nothing. It kills me not to fight back. I want to tell her off in not-so-nice terms, but I won’t do anything to jeopardize saving Jeff’s life. Even if she’s right and he never marries me, I want with all my heart to keep him safe.
The woman taps her foot, waiting for my comeback. When it doesn’t happen, she takes my silence as an affirmation of my defeat. I have no choice. She’s Jeff’s mother and I hear Ma in the back of my head telling me to respect her, even if she’s wrong.
Helen, on the other hand, has nothing to lose. She jumps right into the fray and lets her have it. ‘I saw snakes in the grass when I was a kid, Mrs Rushbrooke. How they come crawling out of their holes with sharp fangs to feed their egos. I never saw one strike out with so much venom.’ Hands on her hips, she cocks her head to one side. ‘You should apologize to Kate.’
‘Apologize?’ She lifts her chin. ‘What gives you the right to speak to me like that? You’re nothing but the daughter of a woman from the wrong side of the tracks.’
Helen takes another step forward. Mrs Rushbrooke doesn’t back down. ‘You leave my mother out of this.’
I lay my hand on Helen’s arm. ‘She’s not worth it, Helen, let her be.’
Mrs Rushbrooke is in fine form and eager to redeem herself with her cronies hanging on to her every word. ‘We all know what your mother was before she came to this town. I believe they have a word for it.’
There are gasps and whispers around us. No one ever says it out loud, but we all heard the rumor Helen’s elegant, beautiful mother worked in a dime-a-dance joint raided for illegal gambling before coming here. Thankfully, the good womenfolk of Posey Creek dislike Mrs Rushbrooke so much, they don’t give a hoot what Mrs Linder did in the past. She has other talents that far outweigh her nefarious reputation. There isn’t a woman in town who doesn’t own at least one hat crafted by her hand.
With the excitement over, Mrs Rushbrooke leaves the building quickly, her cronies dutifully following her like ducklings wearing fur lined coats. I refuse to acknowledge her when she swishes by me and continue decorating for the dance. I wonder if I’ll pay for my folly.
Helen pulls me aside so no one can hear us. ‘I’m done in this town, Kate. I’m tired of the petty talk and stupid hierarchy that puts women like Mrs Rushbrooke at the top of the heap instead of good, God-fearing ladies like your ma.’
‘What about your mother… she’ll be devastated.’ I implore her not to go.
She manages a weak smile. ‘She’s not my mother.’ Her voice is steady but emotionless. She lets her shoulders slump, as if her admission took a weight off her back.
‘Then who is she?’ I ask her quietly. Helen never revealed that information to me. Why now?
‘My real ma worked with Nadine – that’s what I call her when we’re alone – as a dance hostess. She died when I was born. I never knew my father and Nadine promised her she’d raise me. She’s done her best, but it’s time I move on.’
Helen was never a quiet girl. Indeed, quite the opposite, so I understand how difficult it is for her to keep her past hidden. I feel guilty for not sharing my story about how I came back here, but telling her will only complicate this turn of events. So I listen, nodding my head up and down when she speaks to me in low tones, volunteering bits and pieces of information. From what I can gather, Helen’s father paid off Nadine rather than cause a scandal. She brought the girl to Posey Creek and opened a shop. It also explains why I never saw any family resemblance between the two women.
‘Where will you go, Helen?’
‘I’m headed out west as soon as I get a ticket on the next train.’ She squeezes my hand, her eyes upon me. ‘Don’t let that woman stop you from being with your man. I know her type. She’s capable of doing anything to get her way.’
I should pay more attention to her ominous words, but I’m still reeling over the news my best friend is leaving town. I don’t judge her; if anything, I admire her spunk. When I think back, I remember Helen went out west to California in 1944 to work in a defense plant and she married a Marine. He was killed at Saipan. Last I heard, she entered a convent. Now my meddling spurs her to leave town sooner. Does a different outcome await her? I hope so. That Marine, too.
My coming here also changes something else in my universe. When I get back up on the stepladder, a rumbling vibrates beneath my feet. My pumps wobble, my footing unsteady. A new crack in the walls of time is vying for my attention.
I learn no one in my family is immune.
18
‘Where’d you get that shiner, Junior?’
I catch my brother poking around the icebox to see if he can find something cold to put over his right eye. Deepening in color into a black and blue wonder, a reddish shade circling his eye with a droopy lid.
He must be in a lot of pain, but he doesn’t make a whimper. He doesn’t answer my question either. He lowers his head and won’t look at me. He takes his time shuffling around the icebox. He draws his lips together so tight, they nearly disappear. I know that look.
Go away, you’re a girl, you don’t understand.
Back then, the other me didn’t think much about his standoffishness. He was like a shifting wind. You couldn’t predict what he’d do next, or if he’d bother to notice he had two sisters who care about him. Like the time he got lost in the woods when he was six. Lucy and I spent hours looking for him until we found him sleeping under a tree with his pinewood model airplane clutched in his hand. The wings broken off. His arms and legs bruised. His nose bleeding. He never said what happened. He carried his mental pain from Korea the same way.
‘You get hit by a baseball?’ I grab ice chips from the bottom tray. Luckily, Pop used his overtime pay to get us a new icebox before the war. We marveled it had a light inside. Now that light shines bright on my brother’s black eye as I wrap the ice in a dishtowel and hold it over his swollen lid.
He won’t tell me what happened – back then I’d have hugged him and let it go. Not now. Something about the guilty look on his face makes me dig deeper.
‘Who were you fighting?’ I ask straight out.
He looks up at me, not denying it.
That takes me by surprise. My kid brother is into sports, not looking for fights, though during the Korean War he will earn a purple heart and several medals for marksmanship.
‘You know Ma will get it out of you,’ I urge, ‘so spill it and save her the trouble.’
‘I can’t, Kate.’
Finally, the boy talks. I won’t get it out of him unless I keep probing. I won’t fail him, even if I have to be harder on him than I like.
‘Listen, Junior, Ma’s awful tired and Pop has an extra load down at the mill to carry, so you’re stuck with me.’ I grab more ice, applying it gently to his swollen eye. My younger brother is tough, but at the moment he’s as fragile as a blackbird with its wing broken. ‘I won’t bite your head off, I promise.’
‘You won’t?’ He stares at me, wanting to make sure.
‘Promise.’
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p; ‘Even if it’s bad?’
‘Cross my heart.’ I mean it, but I don’t like the way he keeps staring at me, as if we’re on unfamiliar territory here with our relationship and he’s testing the waters. Did he also figure out I’m different?
‘You’re not going to like it, Sis.’
‘For gosh sakes, Junior, what’s going on?’
‘Me and Skip were hanging out at the soda fountain in the drugstore, when two hoodlums came in and acted tough and tried to take over our booth.’
‘Was it just you and Skip?’ I tease him.
‘No, we were talking to the Butler twins.’
I nod, remembering the cute sisters who giggle a lot. ‘Go on.’
‘I recognized them fellows right away. They got caught last week slashing the upholstery in the seats at the Old Grande. They do stuff like that to impress girls.’
I nod. Thrill saboteurs, delinquents who steal purses and try to derail trains by putting stones on the track.
‘They tried to butt in and when we said no, they started calling us names and saying we were trash.’ Then he gets real quiet and huffs up his chest, snorting out hot air from his nostrils. ‘Then one of them said…’
‘Go on.’
He sucks in a big breath. ‘One of them said you were doing stuff with the boss’s son so that makes me trash, too.’
‘They said what?’ I collapse onto the kitchen stool, landing on my rear with a thump. ‘No, don’t tell me what else they said, I can guess.’
‘I’m so sorry, Kate. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘So you socked him.’
‘We took it outside the drugstore and started arguing, them yelling awful, disgusting words. I yelled back it weren’t true, but they wouldn’t give up.’ He buries his head in his hands. ‘I did what Pop said, I tried to reason with them. When the bigger one took a punch at me, I couldn’t take it no more.’
