Letters From Home (35 page)

39

Late September 1945 Evanston, Illinois

S
eated cross-legged on the living room floor, homework spread about, Liz struggled to concentrate on her assignment. An analytical essay on Shakespeare’s
Macbeth.
She’d attempted an opening paragraph four times. Each time she had crumpled the page and started over.

For most of her life, she had found such literary works glorious and poetic in their tragedies. But no longer. She had since discovered there was no poetry or glory in war, or death, or the loss of a loved one. What she yearned for today was a fairy tale, where the glass slipper fit and the couple lived happily ever after.

A
clink
interrupted her thoughts. It was the postal slot on the front door. That metallic noise, for the better part of a year, had been her favorite sound in the world. Thrill would bubble as she sprinted to the fresh mail pile, soaring on the wings of anticipation. An evolution of images had flipped through her mind, visions of a farmhouse on a wide stretch of golden land. Wrapped in a blanket that smelled of Morgan, she would scribble away on her first novel, while he and their children puddle-jumped in the rain.

Yet such a future, it now seemed, would never come to pass. The crawl of each passing day since mailing her confession, two excruciating weeks, told her as much. And though she wanted to believe hope between them remained, logic told her she would never hear from him again. That all she could do was pray her memory of him would fade over time. That eventually she would remember what life was like before Morgan and his letters.

Dread simmering, she slogged toward the entry. She had already prepared herself for the worst. There would be no response from the soldier. She didn’t deserve one.

As she approached the entry, she spotted a single envelope front side down.

Could it possibly be—

No. It couldn’t. So why were goose bumps forming on her arms?

To think there was a chance he’d already written back
and
accepted her apology was absurd. Such hopes would only pummel her with disappointment when she verified the delivery was for Julia, another card from Christian’s mother.

Liz picked up the mystery envelope and promptly flipped it over. The addressee’s name was …
Morgan.
She tensed at the recognition of her own handwriting, her stationery. Her confession had circled back like a boomerang.

A diagonal pencil line slashed through his address.
Return to Sender
had been stamped in a careless angle. Instinctively, she hunted for the additional notation of
Deceased.
She had seen the typed designation on a pair of unopened letters returned to Julia; they came within weeks of Christian’s parents receiving official word. But that was all during the war.

Casualties at peacetime were unlikely, Liz assured herself. She would have assumed they were nonexistent if not for tales shared by the neighborhood air-raid warden, chatty in his retirement and lacking a social censor.

Liz breathed out at the absence of the military marking. Her mind turned to more minor causes: Had she forgotten the stamp? No, the six-cent airmail sticker was there. An error in the address? As if that were possible. She knew it so well she could recite the words and numbers backward.

As she scrounged for other explanations, she felt a sinkhole forming inside her. A deep hollowing from the possibility that he’d read her letter and, out of fury, pitched it straight back. But the seal, she confirmed, remained intact. There was no evidence the envelope had ever reached his hands. The only other difference was a scribble of three small letters:
UTF.

She turned the acronym over in her head.
UTF
…
UTF
…

Her determination matched that of a military code breaker, not yielding until the translation emerged with terrifying clarity. The power a mere few words could possess shocked her yet again. For the grouping of letters could mean only one thing.

UNABLE TO FORWARD.

40

October 1945
Evanston, Illinois

W
ell past noon and still Betty lay awake in bed, gazing out the window at the tarp of solemn gray clouds. Even alone, she could feel the tightrope beneath her feet. It was a balancing act, looking forward, never backward, maintaining her sanity without a net. Most of all, hoping no one noticed she was treading on a wire.

Forced by thirst, she pushed off the covers, equally relieved to have a goal and agitated it took her only so far as the Frigidaire. In her closet, her green housecoat drooped on a hanger, cowering in the presence of her WAC dress uniform. The chocolate brown jacket hung stiff and proud, boastful with all of Betty’s “fruit salad”: campaign ribbons for show, overseas bars she’d earned, battle stars she hadn’t. She ran her fingers over the pointed collar, starched from the day they’d dropped anchor in San Francisco Harbor. Fireboats had sprayed glorious colors; a band on a ferry played patriotic tunes. As the servicewomen had disembarked down the plank, a lion’s roar of cheers exploded behind them. Covering every surface of the cruise ship were soldiers extending their heartfelt gratitude.

She released a sigh and threw on her full-length robe. Her thin white slip now served as her nightly wear; it most closely resembled the feel of sleeping in the nude, to which she’d grown accustomed.

En route to the kitchen, she passed an open closet full of dusty books, their smell reminiscent of the high school library she’d done her best to avoid. A rumor of something like vanilla added to the mix. The scents must have always been in the house, so how was it she’d never noticed until now? And why did she feel like an intruder in a place she used to call home?

Everything around her seemed different. Each furnishing and adornment was in the exact same spot as the day she left for basic, yet somehow the house felt altered. Smaller maybe.

She fetched milk from the icebox and sat at the table. She didn’t stop drinking until every chilled drop had trickled down her throat, a much-missed nourishment that, incredibly, failed to satisfy.

Behind her, the radiator clanked, then settled. The quiet became unnerving. Already she missed the bustling of her barracks. They’d all been so excited about the prompt demobilization process, Betty hadn’t considered what her life would be like once she returned, left again without a family, without purpose.

Could she really go back to taking food orders at some greasy spoon? From saving lives to serving burgers?

She had so much to say and no one to say it to.

Since arriving home several days ago, she had zipped in and out, exchanging idle talk with folks in town. Some praised her for her service; others looked at her askance, adding links to the slanderous chains of gossip. Evidently, people terrified of societal change found comfort in believing that the primary WAC duty had been to keep up the morale of male soldiers—by any means possible.

The ignorance of it all.

She’d come close to venting her frustrations to Liz, but the announcement of Christian’s death had derailed her thoughts. She had barely absorbed the news when the phone rang. Rosalyn had called to share she’d gotten engaged to the combat photographer she and Betty had met after their hospital relocated to Manila. While Betty couldn’t have been happier for her, the elation in Roz’s words accentuated the dim undertones in her own voice, a sullenness that had taken root in her soul the morning she’d found the picture behind Lieutenant Kelly’s cot. With a caption.

Beloved husband,
Can’t wait for you to meet your son.
Enid

The caption on the back of the baby’s snapshot left no room for doubt:
Leslie Jr. (3 mths)

In that moment of devastation, the world had folded in on itself, trapping Betty within the confines of doubt about all she’d believed. Only from her girlfriends’ persuading while in the Philippines had she slowly ventured out of her hermit shell to attend an occasional dance. And even then, her sole interest had been the tantalizing food spread. Keeping serious company with any man, uniformed least of all, had dropped to the bottom of her list.

Now, shifting her thoughts, she picked up the
Chicago Tribune
from the kitchen table. She skimmed the first few pages. War, war, and more war. It was over, yet there was still nothing else to report. She flopped the newspaper down, drummed her fingers.

Liz and Julia probably wouldn’t be home from work until evening.

She stared at the wax fruit in the carnival glass bowl before her. The red apple reminded her of an old tune, about a girl sitting under a tree and a soldier marching home. About Hollandia and Junior, the last person she would ever sing for. Not because tears over their final moment together would accompany any melody from her mouth, which undoubtedly they would, but because singing for anyone else seemed insignificant.

A triple knock sailed from the entry.

“Thank goodness,” she said, in dire need of distraction, and rushed to open the front door. A young, lanky man stood on the porch mat. His hat and uniform identified him as Western Union.

“Yes?” she said.

He stared with wide eyes and a slackened jaw. She traced his focus, directly to the lacy V-neck in her exposed slip. Cripes, she’d forgotten she wasn’t dressed.

She gripped her bathrobe closed. “May I help you?”

He snapped his head up as if woken from a trance. “Yes, ma’am, um …” His freckled skin flushed while he nervously scanned the page on his clipboard. “I’ve got, um, a telegram, here for, uh, Betty Cordell.”

“That’s me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He passed the clipboard and pen.

She signed for the delivery, and found his gaze back on the gap in her robe. She snatched the envelope from his hand. “Good day.” She grabbed the door handle, demanding his exit.

“Oh yeah. Thanks.” He stumbled as he turned and scampered down the steps. Spinning around, he added, “If you need anything else—”

Betty shut the door. “The nerve.”

She reentered the kitchen and broke the seal, figuring the wired message involved her military discharge.

BETTY CORDELL=

821 KIERNAN LANE EVANSTON IL=

ARRIVING TODAY AT 1735. UNION STATION. PLEASE

MEET ME. CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN. FONDLY=

MORGAN MCCLAIN.

Morgan McClain? Who was Morgan McClain?

The name was so familiar. Where had she met him?

Ah, yes …the USO. The GI who’d come to her aid. The one she had written to.

Gradually, a muted image of the soldier surfaced. As if being dusted off, the portrait gained definition. Dark hair, solid build, nice hazel eyes. Or were they brown? She wasn’t sure. But she did recall his shyness, his mysterious nature. The same traits that had initially piqued her interest in Lieutenant Kelly—

Her thoughts stopped there. She didn’t need to remember any more. And she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself again.

She wadded the telegram, tossed it aside. The cable was no more welcome than the letter she’d received from Leslie soon after his departure.

On her bed she had sat that humid February day, tears trailing her face, streaks born of stupidity. His sealed envelope had called out to her, luring her with its concealed words. How her fingers had ached to break the seal, to feel the pages he’d held. Possible replies had raced through her mind:
I love you. I hate you. Come back. Stay away.

A baby’s picture, a single note, and he had broken her into pieces too jagged to fully repair. And yet the fault was hers. She should have seen it coming, with all those posts from girls presumed to be his sisters.

Had she refrained from asking, investigating their relations, because she didn’t want to know? Or because she’d known all along but didn’t want the truth?

Perhaps if she’d looked hard enough, she would have found the answers in his letter. The letter Leslie had sent her. Was it a confession? A declaration of love, an explanation for the facade? She would never know. With large black strokes, she had printed
RETURN TO SENDER
across the front and sent the missive back.

She never heard from the pilot again.

Back in her room, Betty closed the door, recoiling from a life that no longer fit. Like a woolen sweater she’d outgrown as a kid, she could tug at the sleeves, pull at the collar, and still the fabric wouldn’t stretch. In the end, all that remained was an old garment she had once taken for granted.

She grabbed her tattered teddy bear from the floor, the one person who’d always stood by her, provided comfort, never judging. As she headed for the bed, however, a sight halted her. A woman she hardly recognized stared from the mirror. Although she’d managed to maintain most of her weight and the yellow had faded from her skin, the corners of her mouth had fallen and sadness had replaced the twinkle in her eyes.

Moving toward the woman, Betty discovered she was wrong. She did recognize the features; they were her mother’s. Another person foolish enough to fall for a married man. Would her own ending be the same, no matter her efforts?

The question clung to her as she lamented the photos lining the oval mirror. Between gaps from Christian’s missing images hung snapshots of the three girls together, an evening at a fair, another at graduation. In their caps and gowns, they smiled, aglow from their newfound freedom and the potential of their futures. She ran her finger over the picture, her makeup pristine, hair perfectly coiffed.

That Betty was gone.

Even Morgan McClain’s telegram wasn’t truly for her. He was inviting the person she’d been when they met, a person she couldn’t get back—not without a time machine. Wouldn’t that be nice? A few levers and blinking lights, and poof, the year never happened.

A year. Was that all? She almost laughed at the realization. Someday that year would be a speck, a piece of lint she had moth-balled with her uniform, packed away, nearly forgotten. Oh, why couldn’t she do that now?

Her mind snatched the rhetorical question, pulled it back for review.

Why
couldn’t
she do that now?

If nothing else, her service in the Pacific had taught her anything was possible. Compared to what she’d survived, this was a cinch.

She padded over to her closet and extracted a favorite. The dress from her USO days, the one Julia had created for her. A Rita Hayworth knockoff, but better. Eye catching with its form-fitted blue fabric, the garb would inspire Betty’s new outlook, her new objective. Now all she needed was Morgan, her time machine. With him, a guy who still saw her through the eye of his memory, she could substitute for the girl she’d lost—until she was no longer pretending.

In the mirror, she held the dress to her body. She forced her mouth into a smile, not resting until it matched her old one in the photo. Only someone who knew her well could differentiate between the two, and she wasn’t about to allow any man that close to her heart again.

She could do this. She could be the woman, the wife, the socialite she was meant to be, and all in a life destiny was going to deliver.

Whether it wanted to or not.