A Distant Melody (3 page)
He stared at her. What? What did he say?
She turned a page with long fingers.
Roger and out. He sighed and pulled the rolled-up magazine from his pocket. If he couldn’t talk to the girl, at least he could read the news, and finally some good news. Earlier in the month the U.S. naval victory over the Japanese at Midway ended six solid months of defeat.
After they passed through Merced, a magazine ad caught Walt’s eye—a wife in a frilly apron served cake to her furloughed husband. Maybe Mom would have a cake tonight. Or a pie. His stomach gurgled, and he shifted position to make it stop.
He flipped some pages and read about the German advance on Sevastopol. The train swayed and bumped Walt against Green Eyes’ shoulder. He mumbled an apology. No woman had to worry about an advance from him. Couldn’t even make small talk.
Modesto whizzed past. Not long before he’d see Mom and Dad and have a big dinner, maybe roast beef. No, beef was scarce. His stomach rumbled, loud and insistent.
“Pardon me.” The young lady rose, and Walt stood to let her pass.
Swell. Scared her off with ball bearings and stomach gurgles. He grumbled and read President Roosevelt’s announcement of a rubber scrap drive, since Japanese conquests had cut off 92 percent of the rubber supply.
The next article made Walt burn: the Germans—the Germans themselves—announced the Nazi massacre of the Czechoslovakian village of Lidice. Stories like that heightened his desire to go to combat, and soon.
“Excuse me.” Green Eyes looked down at him.
Walt swallowed his surprise in time to remember his manners and let her take her seat.
“Which would you prefer?” She held an apple in one hand and an orange in the other.
His gaze bounced between red and orange and back up to green. “Huh?”
She shifted her square jaw to one side and frowned at the fruit. “I wanted a snack and thought you might like one too. You were so kind to give part of your lunch to the children. This isn’t as lovely as the one you had earlier—it’s rather pale—but there’s also an apple, and I’d be happy with either.”
Walt smiled at her rapid speech. “Thanks. An orange sounds good.”
She handed him the fruit. “I thought so. You said you hated oranges, but your eyes said you loved them.”
He shrugged. “If she knew I wanted it, she wouldn’t have taken it.”
“Perhaps. But I believe every dilemma has a truthful solution.”
“Not always.” Walt peeled the orange. No juice sprayed this time.
“Oh. I assumed you were . . . well, never mind.” She fussed with the apple in her lap.
He stared at her. She assumed he was a man of integrity, and a man of integrity never told a little fib for a good cause? Baloney. “I keep my word. But—well, a white lie’s okay if your motive’s right. Keeps things running smoothly—like ball bearings in the machinery of society.”
She jerked her head toward the window.
Walt grinned in victory. What was her problem with ball bearings? Did Daddy lose a fortune on ball bearings in the Stock Market Crash? Or was her family in some rival industry, and mentioning ball bearings to her was like mentioning Stanford to a Cal man like himself? Or had she lost her true love in a freak ball bearings accident?
He pried off an orange slice, popped it in his mouth, and made a face. Bitter. Almost as bitter as his victory.
What’s
wrong with me, Lord? She buys me an orange, and I make
a mess of things.
The young woman chewed on the apple and gazed ahead at the round hills that edged the San Francisco Bay and the Delta. Her hair curled up around the base of her hat.
Walt cleared his throat. “I guess silence is a truthful solution to a dilemma.”
Her gaze flowed back to him, a refreshing green river, and a smile bent her lips. “Yes, it is. Truthful and effective.”
“I should try it sometime.”
“Perhaps you should. How’s the orange?”
Walt bit back a lie and made a show of shrugging and looking away.
She laughed. “Not very good?”
“A little bitter. How’s the apple?”
“Dry. But I’m spoiled. We have an orchard full of apple and citrus trees.”
He knew he liked something about her, besides her attention to his flying stories. “My parents also have fruit trees. My friend Frank says I miss the fruit more than my family.”
“Is that true?”
“Nah.” He swallowed the last orange slice. “Just that it’s manly to grumble about the chow, but you’re a homesick mama’s boy if you miss your family.”
“I understand.”
The train slowed. Walt’s sigh echoed the long, low whistle. First time he’d had a conversation with an available woman, and now he’d never see her again. He balled up his bag full of orange peel and got to his feet. “Well, Tracy’s my stop. Thanks for the orange.”
Green Eyes sat up taller and peered out the window. “Tracy? That’s my stop too.”
“Really?” She looked too sophisticated for the cow towns in the area. He stepped aside and followed her slim figure down the aisle. Once they disembarked, she looked around the platform and stepped into a phone booth.
Walt inhaled fresh Central Valley air to clear his lungs of cigarette smoke and his mind of Green Eyes. Then he headed for the station to buy a ticket for Train 53. The Daylight passed right through his hometown but didn’t stop. Too bad he couldn’t jump off.
“Walter! Walter!”
He turned to see his parents, and he braced himself for his mother’s hug. For a small woman, she sure packed a wallop. “Hi, Mom. What are you doing here?”
She laughed. “Fine way to greet us after a year. We thought it would be fun to surprise you.”
“Thanks. Swell idea.” He pulled away to shake his dad’s hand.
“Let’s see those wings,” Dad said. “Very good. Like Ray and Jack. Of course, Jack made captain.”
Of course. Always one step behind.
“Goodness.” Mom gripped him by the shoulders. “Hard to believe you’re my baby. You get taller and broader in the shoulders every time I see you.”
Walt grumbled, glad his traveling companion was out of earshot. “Let me get my bag, and let’s get home. What’s for dinner?”
“Not so fast, young man.” Mom reached for Walt’s arm. “Betty’s friend from college came on the same train, and the Jamisons asked us to meet her.”
Green Eyes? Could it be? He turned to the phone booth.
She stood in the doorway with the receiver to her shoulder. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. Is your name Walter Novak?”
He nodded, his tongue wooden. She’d be at the wedding. He’d see her all week.
She spoke into the phone, hung up, and walked toward him. He had to speak, had to speak. He nudged his mouth into a smile. “Looking for your chaperone?”
“Um, yes. I, well, Betty . . .” Her hand fluttered toward the phone booth.
Walt’s chest felt fuller, wider with some need to ease her nervousness, and that need melted every frozen muscle. “Let me guess. Betty changed plans and didn’t tell you.”
“Um, yes.” A breeze blew a brown curl across her cheek, and she tucked it back in place. “As bright as Betty is . . .”
“Sometimes she’s a scatterbrain.”
They laughed together, and an odd, warm sensation under Walt’s ribs made him want to laugh with her again.
“You must be Allie Miller.” Dad shook her hand. “I’m John Novak, and this is my wife, Edith. You’ve already met Walter?”
“Yes.” Her gaze darted up to him. “Well, we sat next to each other on the train.”
“But we didn’t know who each other was—were—I didn’t know who she was, vice versa.”
“Well, come along.” Mom took Allie’s elbow. “Pastor Novak will transfer your luggage for you. Goodness, Betty talks about you so much I feel I know you already.”
Walt followed his father and retrieved his duffel. Allie Miller. Yeah, Betty talked about her, but Betty talked too much about too many people. Now he wished he’d paid attention. For instance, did Allie Miller have a boyfriend? How come the most crucial detail was the hardest to recall? Oh well, if she had a boyfriend, he’d find out soon enough.
Walt and his father joined the women on the platform, and Walt grinned at the young lady beside him. He’d looked forward to this furlough for months—his family, his friends, and all the fruit he could eat.
But now it could be the best week of his life.
Antioch, California
Tuesday, June 23, 1942
Allie had heard of whirlwind tours, but with Betty Jamison, a tour was a full-blown tornado. Her feet hurt, her brain hurt, and her elbow hurt from Betty whipping her around corners. “I don’t know how I’ll remember all these names.”
Dorothy Carlisle, a brown-feathered sparrow of a girl, peeked around from Betty’s other side. “I don’t expect you to keep this cast straight. I can’t keep track of Betty’s college friends.”
Betty’s smile lifted her plump cheeks. “Honestly, you two are such homebodies. Why do I love you so much?”
Allie squeezed Betty’s arm. “Because we slow you down long enough to think.”
“Oh, I hate thinking. Takes away time from the fun stuff. And oh, we’ll have fun this week. I have something planned every day.” Betty swung around a corner, and Allie scampered to keep up. “That’s the end of the tour. We’re early for dinner, but Mrs. Novak won’t mind.”
Allie glanced down the street lined with trees and well-kept homes, but nothing like her own Magnolia Avenue with its citrus groves and mansions. They crossed the street to a modest-sized Victorian painted yellow and white. A maple tree eclipsed the sidewalk, and an orange tree greeted them by the steps—depleted of ripe fruit.
As in so many homes, a white banner with a red border hung in the window. The Novaks’ banner sported three blue stars. “Three sons in the service?” Allie asked.
“All three, and not even a daughter to keep them company.” Dorothy rang the doorbell. “Is your boyfriend in the service? Baxter’s his name, right? He must be aristocratic with a name like that.”
Allie’s grip on her handbag stiffened. Dorothy asked so many personal questions. “Baxter’s exempt. His job is defense related.”
“Hmm,” Betty said. “He matches his first name more than his last. He’s so neat and proper—a Baxter, not a Hicks.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Novak untied an apron from around her slender waist. “My, you ladies are early. Well, come on in.”
Chagrin knotted Allie’s stomach. To arrive early and catch your hostess unprepared was even ruder than tardiness. “I’m sorry we’re early, Mrs. Novak.”
She grasped Allie’s hand. “No apology is necessary. When the boys were still at home, the young people were in and out at all hours. Please make yourselves at home.”
After she left for the kitchen, the ladies removed their hats and smoothed their hair. In the parlor Allie brushed her fingers over the keys of an upright piano. Three portraits of men in uniform sat on doilies on the piano top.
“You recognize Walt,” Betty said. “These are his brothers. Aren’t they gorgeous?”
Neither had Pastor Novak’s odd nose or Mrs. Novak’s full cheeks. Walter, however, inherited both. Since Allie also suffered from an unfortunate mix of family traits, she felt an affinity with him.
“Admiring my boys, are you?”
Allie looked up and smiled at Pastor Novak. “You have fine sons, sir.”
“We’re proud of them.” He picked up the first portrait. “This is Raymond, the oldest. He followed his old man into the ministry but joined up when he saw war coming. He trains pilots at Kelly Field in Texas.”
Pastor Novak proceeded to the next photograph. “Jack’s also in the ministry, but he joined the Air Corps right out of seminary. He’s based in Australia now. Quite a war hero, was in the squadron of B-17s flying into Pearl Harbor during the attack.”
“Oh my.”
“Oh yes,” Betty said. “He got written up in the
Ledger
and everything.”
“Then there’s Walter.” Pastor Novak gestured to the last portrait. “Chose engineering rather than the call of God. He’s done well for himself, considering.”
Considering what? Allie already knew the answer—considering he wasn’t Raymond or Jack and didn’t meet his father’s expectations—as she didn’t meet her mother’s.
Footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor, and she looked up from Walter’s portrait to his face. Black curls abounded on top of his head, although the sides were trimmed short. Goodness, she was glad the Air Corps didn’t shave the men’s heads.
“Hi, Allie.” His tone was so warm, she again regretted being so touchy on the train.
“Look at you. Look at those wings.” Betty sprang forward and grasped the silver wings pinned to Walter’s khaki shirt. “But where’s the jacket? The hat?”
He drew back but smiled. “Uh-uh. I’m on furlough.”
George Anello’s laugh rang from the entryway. “Should have known. Betty saw the uniform and forgot all about me.”
“Nonsense, darling. You know I adore you.” Fair, voluptuous Betty ran over and kissed her dark, lanky fiancé.
After George shook Walter’s hand, he approached Allie with his uneven gait. One leg was longer than the other, which made him 4-F, “unfit for military service.” His handshake bounced Allie’s arm like a jitterbug. “Hiya, Allie. How was the grand tour? What do you think of Antioch?”
She searched for the truthful solution to her dilemma. “No town could live up to Betty’s billing.”
George laughed. “Ain’t that the truth?”
Walter crossed his arms, a hint of a smile on his lips. “What did you like best?”
He knew what she was doing. Nondescript buildings flew through her mind, in contrast to Riverside’s showcase of neo-classical, Mission Revival, and Spanish Renaissance architecture.
“The hills . . . the trees are lovely.” The insufficiency of her answer appalled her. “Oh, and Pastor Novak, your church is a charming slice of New England.”
He glowed with pride. “Thank you. Mrs. Novak is from Rhode Island, and she couldn’t imagine a church without clapboard and a steeple.”
Allie listened to him relate the history of the church. She refused to give Walter a glare or a triumphant smile, although either would have been deserved.