A Distant Melody (41 page)

Allie smiled at the pair, but an empty pit developed inside her. Never again would she savor her parents’ love. Never again would she experience her heritage—her home, her groves, her city. The loss stung her fresh. She’d never even visited San Francisco, and she knew none of its ways.

“No friends,” she whispered. “No work, no church, not even a family.” She had to start over with nothing. She took a deep breath, sick and tired of crying.

Would Walt worry about her, feel sorry for her? The last thing she wanted was to increase his burden. She had to assure him she would be fine, which she would
.

She followed the scent of savory pork to a vendor and bought a taco for an inexpensive lunch. She sat on a low wall to eat her taco and compose her farewell:

“Walt, you deserve much love and joy in your life, and I truly am glad you found it with Emily. Please don’t worry about me. I am content and have no regrets. You’ll always be in my heart and prayers as a beloved friend.”

44

Letterman General Hospital, San Francisco
Thursday, July 1, 1943

Walt slammed his Bible shut. He had to stop reading Proverbs.

He’d stopped lying, confessed to his crew, and taken the consequences. He’d changed, but it wasn’t enough. That last lie to Allie, that stupid, prideful lie. Didn’t want her to pity him, which was nothing but pride. He was supposed to tell her the truth but no, he disobeyed, and now it ate away at him.

Walt leaned forward in his chair and looked out the window of his hospital ward. A BT-13 Valiant trainer flew overhead. Now he had to write Allie and confess his lie as well as his love. Her wedding was next month—no, this month. Swell. Wouldn’t that make a classy wedding gift?

Proverbs 27:5 only deepened his guilt: “Open rebuke is better than secret love.” What kind of man was he? Cowering from rebuke and a wounded ego? Some war hero.

“There’s our war hero.”

Walt groaned and looked over his shoulder to see Mom, Dad, and Ray, who was home on furlough. Walt had been glad to arrive in California two weeks before, but now he was sick of watching other pilots fly, sick of doctors and nurses, and sick of false cheer from his family.

“We have quite a collection here.” Dad sat on the edge of the bed and opened the scrapbook he was compiling for Walt. He had a similar one for Jack’s combat exploits. “Nice article last week in the Oakland paper, and one in the
San Francisco
Chronicle
—no picture, though. The
Antioch Ledger
ran a follow-up yesterday.” He turned the scrapbook around.

Walt peered at the headline: “Local hero convalescing.” Reporters—he was absolutely sick of reporters.

“Isn’t that nice?” Mom said with the wide smile she’d worn since he came home. This situation was beyond her soothing mothering, beyond Dad’s buck-up-and-make-the-most-of-it fathering, beyond Ray’s eager pastoring. Ironically, Jack, who didn’t know what to say, made him feel better than the rest of the family combined. Walt didn’t blame them. They’d braced themselves for death, not for maiming.

“Any word from Jack?” On the 94th Bomb Group’s first mission, Jack’s left thigh and backside had been filled with flak.

Ray straddled a wooden chair. “I got a letter yesterday. He’s doing well, wants to get out of the hospital. And you know Jack—he’s set his sights on one of the nurses.” He said this without smiling.

“Sounds like Jack.”

“He says she knows you, took care of you when you had pneumonia.”

“Lieutenant Doherty? The redhead? Boy, does he have his work cut out for him.”

“Yeah, he said you warned him, as if a warning ever stopped him.” Something sad flickered in Ray’s gray eyes. “He should listen to warnings. Wish I had.”

Walt frowned. How could he expect Ray to make him feel better when he was reeling from a broken heart?

“Before I forget,” Mom said, “I brought more of Grandma’s strawberries.”

“Thanks,” he said, unable to muster a smile. He’d lost an arm, Jack lay in a hospital bed, Ray had been dumped by the woman he loved, and fruit was supposed to help? Nothing tasted good anymore, not even strawberries.

“How are you, dear?” Mom’s forehead wrinkled with pity.

“No change. Arm didn’t grow back.”

Mom’s mouth twitched.

Walt sighed. She didn’t deserve his cynicism. “Sorry.”

“We—we ran into your doctor on the way in. He said you’re ready for a short trip home.”

“Yeah.” He looked out the window. As much as he hated the hospital, he didn’t want to go home and face a town full of pity. “Maybe later.”

“Your mother’s ready for you to come home,” Dad said.

“Well, I’m not, okay?”

“Walter Jacob Novak!”

He squeezed his eyes shut. How could he explain without hurting Mom’s feelings more? “I—well—”

“If your mother wants—”

“Dad, leave him alone,” Ray said.

Walt opened his eyes in surprise.

Ray ran a hand through his straight black hair. “You know, ever since—well, I have some days when I want to be with family and other days when I just want everyone to leave me alone. I think Walt’s having one of those days.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it exactly.” He gave his oldest brother a grateful look. “I know you’re here because you want to help but . . .”

“I know.” Ray stood and extended his hand—his left hand—for Walt to shake. “Sometimes doing nothing is the best kind of help.”

The Key System train clattered over the lower level of the Bay Bridge. Allie tried to concentrate on the visions of the San Francisco Bay flashing between the steel girders, but she had other matters on her mind. Within the hour she’d face the man she loved. No fantasy or letter could prepare her. Her body weighed heavy from Tuesday’s poor sleep in Union Station’s lobby, yesterday’s crowded train ride, and a late night talk with Betty.

Allie rested her temple against the cool window glass and watched the wooded mound of Treasure Island pass by. She refused to dwell on one thing Betty said, that Walt hadn’t mentioned Emily. Betty also said he was depressed. Allie understood. He’d lost his arm, he wasn’t able to do what he did best, and he was ripped from the woman he loved. He didn’t mention Emily because he didn’t want to talk about her.

In the past Walt might have told Allie in a long letter. Not anymore.

She swallowed hard. She was tired of crying. She would not cry today, especially before she saw Walt.

She folded her hands on top of her handbag with the letter inside. She hesitated to bring it, afraid she’d use it as a crutch to avoid speaking the words. At the last moment she stashed it inside. What if the ward was crowded? What if he had visitors? Whether oral or written, she had a message to deliver and a day to seize.

Walt flopped one shoelace across the shoe, then crossed the other lace on top and tucked it under. He anchored one lace with his stump and tugged the other. At least the stump no longer hurt and the stitches were out. He kept the sleeve pinned up so he wouldn’t have to see. Grotesque, useless.

He formed a loop and braced it with his stump while he looped the other lace. His shoes looked ridiculous with the striped pajamas and blue bathrobe, but he had to get out. He had to get away from the stench of cigarette smoke and disinfectant. He had to get out into the sunshine before the fog rolled in and reminded him of England, where men were flying and dying, and Walt couldn’t do a thing to help.

The first loop slipped loose. A low growl rumbled in his throat. He started again. Last thing he wanted was to ask for help from one of the Red Cross ladies in their gray uniforms like Allie Miller wore. Some time this month she’d be Allie Hicks.

The loop popped free. For the first time in his life, Walt wished he were a swearing man. How could he hold down a job when it took fifteen minutes to tie his stupid shoes?

Walt glanced outside, where fog crept over the treetops. Too late. He yanked off a shoe and hurled it across the room.

Butterflies flitted in Allie’s stomach as she walked the unfamiliar corridor. No, not butterflies, but a swarm of locusts, chewing, jumping, gnawing.

Allie paused at the door to the ward. She shouldn’t be there. She should leave.

Outside the door she closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. No, she had to see him. She had to tell him she loved him. She promised herself, she promised Cressie, and she promised the Lord.

“May I help you, miss?”

Allie opened her eyes to see a brunette in a white nurse’s uniform. “I’m here to see Capt. Walter Novak.”

The nurse tilted her head to the door. “Right in here, but let me warn you. He’s in a foul temper.”

Allie gave her a stiff smile. How inappropriate. Regina would never allow such talk about patients. Nevertheless, the comment stirred the locusts into a frenzy.

“Are you waiting for me to announce you?” the nurse asked.

Allie blinked at her sarcasm. “No, of course not.”

She ducked in the door and stopped. Twelve beds lined the walls. Men lounged in bed or stood chatting and smoking. Which one was Walt?

At Betty’s wedding, Allie said she’d recognize him in fifty years, but now? Why, it had only been one year. How could she love a man she didn’t even recognize?

“Hiya, doll.” A man with bushy brown hair passed Allie and winked.

She gave him the thinnest of smiles. Then she saw Walt.

By the last bed on the left, he sat in a chair at a window with his back to her. The right sleeve of his bathrobe was pinned up over the stump of his arm. Fresh sorrow coursed through her. How little she knew of his suffering.

Allie forced her feet down the room, surprised she hadn’t bent the frame of her handbag in her grasp. A shaft of sunlight pierced the fog and illuminated tiny, adorable curls at the nape of his neck. He wore only one shoe, with laces lying limp on the floor.

She drew a deep breath. “Walter Novak?” she said in a tinny voice.

He didn’t turn from the window, but he let out an interminable sigh. “Listen, lady, I’m not doing any more interviews. I know you’re a fine writer, and you’d do my story justice, and your editor sent you all the way here, but I’m sick of interviews. No more. Besides, taking a few bullets through my arm doesn’t make me a hero.”

Despite the cold tone, the sound of his voice was a warm tune to her ear. “Perhaps not, but landing a heavy bomber when you’re close to death makes you a hero in my eyes.”

He whipped sideways in his chair to face her, fire in his eyes. “Listen, I’m not doing any—” The fire extinguished. “Allie?”

She raised a soft smile. “Hello, Walt.”