He could die. She could lose him. What if he never returned? She would die too. Surely she would die too.
"I love you, Margo. You know I do."
"I love you, too. Oh, Bart. I love you, too."
"Be mine."
"I am yours." Tears streaked her cheeks as she clung to him. "I am. I am. I am."
"Be really mine, Margo."
She didn't know what he meant, but that didn't matter. Margo would do anything for him. Anything he asked, she would do. Anything at all.
* * *
Bart King hadn't been called to war after all. Armistice Day saw to that. And when Margo turned up pregnant a few weeks later, Bart was compelled to marry her. It was either marriage or jail, her father told him. Bart chose marriage, but his love for her, if it had ever existed, proved fleeting, replaced by rancor and accusations that she'd trapped him.
What a foolish girl I was.
The two good things Bart did for Margo in those thirteen unbearable years of marriage were Clark and Dottie. And although Clark was conceived in sin, he was loved beyond measure by his mother.
Oh, God. Don't require him of me.
V-MAIL
To: PFC Gregory Wallace, APO, N.Y.P.E.
From: Dottie King
Sunday, February 21,1943
Dearest Greg,
I haven't received any letters from you since you left Boise at the end of your leave. I can only pray that the address you gave me is correct and that this letter will find you wherever the army has taken you. Every day when I get home from the base, I rush to check the mail, hoping to see your familiar handwriting on an envelope.
I have something I must tell you. I wish it needn't be by letter. I wish I could tell you in person or, at the very least, by telephone. I long to see your face. I long to hear your voice. I long to know everything will be all right with us.
Greg, I'm going to have a baby. (How I hate it that the censors will read the news before you do.) I haven't told anyone else, not even Mother. Especially not Mother. She won't understand. She's never made a mistake in her life. She always does the right thing, so how could she understand something like this?
I know this isn't the way either of us wanted to begin a family. The best way would have been college and marriage and career and then children. But we didn't do things in that order. Remember how you told me at the depot that Jesus is faithful to forgive us? Well, He may forgive (He does forgive), but He doesn't always remove the consequences, does He? And so now I'm asking Him to walk me through the consequences of my choices. I know He'll do it, for He's promised to always be with us.
I don't want this news to worry or distract you, my darling Greg. Be mindful to take care of yourself first. I will be fine. As disappointed as Mother will surely be, she'll be there for me. God will guide me in the weeks and months to come. "I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength."
The war can't last forever. I'll be right here waiting for you, whenever you come home. Our baby will be waiting here for you, too.
One other thing before I close. Frances came to see me today, and you'll never guess what she had to tell me. She's joined the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps! She hopes to be posted overseas eventually. She says she wants to do whatever she can to free up men for combat so the war will get over that much sooner and we can bring everybody home. God bless her. I think she's very brave. Like you.
I'll write more soon. My prayers and love come to you with this letter.
Forever yours,
Dottie
Chapter 7
You did what?" Penelope stared at her sister in disbelief. "Frances, you're much too young to—"
"I'm twenty, Pen. There are plenty of guys younger than me serving in the military. Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I shouldn't do my part to help win the war."
"Then get a civilian job at Gowen Field or Mountain Home. That's all important work, too. You don't have to join the WAACs to help out." She brushed her hair back from her forehead in a gesture of frustration. "And what about your schooling? I thought you wanted a degree.''
"College can wait until I get back."
Penelope wanted to throttle her sister. Frances didn't understand anything. Penelope had given up her chance to go to college, opting for a fancy wedding instead. Marriage had looked like freedom to Penelope, and she'd grabbed it with both hands. Now she wished she'd chosen college. Her life would be so different if she had.
Frances sat on the chair beside Penelope and reached out to take hold of her hand. "Who knows what I'll get to do or where I might end up serving? Think of the adventure I'm about to have. The world is changing for women. Look at the jobs we're doing while the men are gone. Never again can anyone say we aren't capable."
The world hasn't changed for me, Frances. Maybe for you, but not for me. I'm stuck in the same old place.
"Be glad for me, will you, Pen?"
"Your adventure could take you into danger," she said rather than confess her true thoughts.
"You're just envious 'cause I'll get to wear a uniform."
Penelope's smile was forced. "Yeah, that must be it. I'm envious of the uniform."
It was true. She was envious. Not of the uniform, but of everything else. She was more jealous than worried. Frances wasn't chained to a boring existence by a husband and children. Her sister could do anything, go anywhere.
"Hey, Pen." Frances squeezed her hand. "What is it? What's wrong? Every time I see you lately, you look like you're carrying the troubles of the world on your shoulders. Is there something going on I should know about? Is Stuart's back getting worse?"
It took great willpower not to laugh aloud. "No, his back's no worse." How bitter her voice sounded in her ears. Could her sister hear it, too? "It's nothing really. I suppose I'm just tired. You know, working at the air base all day, then trying to keep up with the household tasks after I get home at night."
"You're sure that's all it is?"
"I'm sure." Penelope slipped her hand away, then stood. "Can I get you some hot cocoa? I was warming the milk when you arrived." She walked to the cupboard and took out two large, blue mugs.
"I'd love some, sis. Do you have any marshmallows by chance?"
"Sorry. They're more scarce than sugar, I think."
"That's okay. I'm getting used to doing without those sweets I crave. I guess we can get used to anything, huh, given enough time."
"I guess," Penelope answered, but she wasn't sure it was true. She didn't think she would ever get used to the way she felt about her life. Not ever.
Her thoughts churning, she poured the heated milk into the mugs. After adding cocoa, she stirred the hot chocolate with a spoon, then carried them to the table. For a time, the sisters sat without speaking while they sipped their beverages. The kitchen was cozy on that cold February evening. From the living room came the muffled sounds of a radio program, accompanied by Stuart's occasional laughter. Otherwise, all was still. Stuart had put the children to bed nearly an hour before.
"Pen," Frances said at last, "I meant to ask you. Does Dottie King seem all right when you see her at work?"
"Dottie?" She shrugged. "Far as I can tell. Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. I dropped by to see her earlier today, and I had a strange feeling, like something was wrong."
Penelope raised an eyebrow. "Same kind of feeling you've had about me?"
"Hmm." Frances gave her a sheepish grin. "You're right. It is kind of the same thing. Guess I'm becoming a worrywart."
"I think that's supposed to be my job. I'm the big sister."
"And the best big sister any girl ever had."
"Oh, Frances." Tears welled in her eyes. "I wish I could go with you. What will I do when you go away?"
"You'll be fine. You've got Stuart, Alan, and Evelyn. You'll hardly know I'm gone before I'm back."
Her sister didn't know how wrong she was.
Chapter 8
During the lunch break on Monday, Lucy received a pa
cket of seeds from Margo.
"It'll be time to plant your peas before you know it," Margo told her. "I thought I'd give you a head start."
"But it's still winter." Lucy glanced out the window.
"The weather will break soon. You'll see. Boise goes from bitter cold to surprisingly warm before March bellows into the valley. You've lived here all your life. You should know that."
To be honest, Lucy hadn't noticed. She only knew she was glad when winter ended and the snow disappeared from the mountains. She was most definitely a fair-weather girl.
Margo patted Lucy's shoulder. "You needn't look so hesitant. There isn't that much to gardening. You till. You plant. You water. You weed. You harvest. You preserve."
"I must seem pathetic. Thirty years old and clueless about planting a garden."
Lucy supposed there was one positive aspect about Richard's departure shortly after their wedding. He didn't have the opportunity to learn how inept his bride was. By the time he returned from the war, she hoped to be a better homemaker.
Lucy's mother, Karen Grover, had known how to make a man's home his castle. She'd been the consummate hostess, an accomplished cook, had decorated her home with flair while never overspending, had maintained glorious flower beds, and had canned jar after jar of foods from her garden every fall. If Lucy's mother had lived, she would have seen to it that her daughter became as accomplished in all things domestic as she had been.
Why was it, Lucy wondered, that people put off so many things, expecting to do them tomorrow? Tomorrow too often didn't come. It hadn't come for her parents. It might not come for Richard.
Richard, I want you to have twenty thousand tomorrows. Take care of yourself. Oh, please. Take care of your todays so we can have those tomorrows.
Another week had passed without any letters. Lucy knew that didn't have to mean anything was wrong. Everyone talked about the slow mail service. People often received several letters from overseas on the same day. That had happened to Lucy before. On those occasions, she'd taken the envelopes, arranged them by date, oldest first, and then read the letters in the order they'd been written, savoring every word.
But she would settle for one letter today. Just one. She longed for news of her husband.
In a recent newspaper column by Ernie Pyle, the reporter had told of the leading American flying ace in French North Africa. Lucy had wondered if they knew Richard.
Can you tell me anything about my husband? she'd wanted to ask the pilot and the reporter. Have you seen him, flown with him? Is he in Africa, too?
But the newspaper had been silent about Lt. Richard Anderson.
He hasn't had all smooth sailing by any means, Ernie Pyle had written about the fighter pilot. In fact, he's very lucky to be here at all. He got caught in a trap one day and came home with two hundred sixty-eight bullet holes in his plane. His armor plate stopped at least a dozen that would have killed him.
Her heart nearly stopped beating when she recalled those words. Two hundred and sixty-eight bullet holes in his plane. Had Richard come under the same sort of attack in his B-17 bomber? Would a German in his Focke-Wulf 190 or Messerschmitt 109 come zooming from behind a cloud and riddle the Flying Fortress with bullets?
"Hey. Where are you, Luce?"
She looked up.
Dottie stood nearby, compassion evident in her brown eyes. "You were a million miles away."
"Not a million," Lucy answered, her voice husky. "Just an ocean."
Dottie nodded in understanding, then said, "Lunch break's over. Mom and Penelope already left."
"Oh. I didn't hear them go."
"I could tell."
Lucy rose from the chair, slipping on her coat as she did so.
Dottie hooked arms with her. "Maybe there'll be letters waiting for us both when we get home."
"Oh, Dottie. I hope so."
Outside Building B-301, the air buzzed with the sounds of airplane engines. Several Flying Fortresses, the same kind of planes Richard piloted, were headed out on their practice runs. They would fly over the desert and drop their hundred-pound concrete-filled bombs, training for the time when they would unleash real bombs on enemy targets.
But these men were safe in the good old USA while Richard—
"We've got to have faith," Dottie said above the noise of the aircraft. "We've got to, or we'll go mad."
Madness might be a kind of comfort, Lucy thought after she and Dottie parted company. If she were mad, perhaps she wouldn't think about Richard every second she was awake. If she were mad, perhaps she wouldn't dream about him at night.
Or maybe thinking and dreaming about him all the time will drive me mad.
Seated at her desk again, Lucy rolled a piece of paper into the Underwood, but her thoughts remained far, far away from the form in her typewriter.
She had waited a long time for the right man to enter her life. Alone in the world—without parents, grandparents, or extended family—Lucy had seen her friends marry and start families, and she'd wanted the same for herself. But she'd also wanted the man God chose for her. So she'd waited … and waited … and waited.
At the age of twenty-seven, she began to wonder if God was calling her to a life of singleness.
And then she met Richard.
He courted her, wooed her, won her—although, truth be told, he hadn't needed to work hard at it. She lost her heart to him almost immediately, believing he was the man God had planned as her mate. Richard's love completed her in a way she hadn't known was possible. If she were to lose him now …
Lord, she prayed, her fingers falling idle on the typewriter keys, keep him safe for me. And please send a letter soon. Please let me hear from him.
V-Mail
To: Mrs. Richard Anderson, Boise, Idaho, U.S.A.
From: 1st Lt. Richard Anderson
Sunday, January 24, 1943
My beloved Lucy,
It is cold and damp where we are, somewhere in England. The boys in the squadron miss their wives and sweethearts back home, especially in this gray, gloomy weather. We all wish we could hurry up and start bombing the Nazis in Berlin and get this war over with so we can come home. It doesn't help that two of our guys received Dear John letters last week. It makes every man here wonder what's going on back home. Just about every man, I should say. Not this one. I can feel and hear your love for me in every letter. I'm looking right now at the photograph from our wedding. Hard to believe it was taken more than a year ago. Seems like yesterday. I swear I can still hear the music and see you waiting down the aisle in your beautiful gown of white, all smiles as you look at me. I thank God for you, my beloved wife, every day of my life. I pray that God will protect you and give you comfort, the same way He's doing for me over here. I carry the new Bible you sent in the pocket of my jacket. The small size lets me do that. Whenever I open it, I remember how God brought us together and made us one in marriage, and I rejoice. I know you're lonely, and I hate that we've spent the first year of our marriage so far apart. But this war won't last much longer. Maybe a year. Maybe two. But the Allies will triumph over evil; I promise you that. The Germans, Italians, and Japanese may not know it yet, but we do. Ask any guy in my squadron, and he'll tell you the same thing. I can't thank you enough for the many letters you write. I know you said you're afraid they must be boring, since all you do is go to work and then go home again. But they're not boring—I promise you. They help me "be there" with you, hearing about the people and places that fill your day. That's more important to me than you'll ever know. In case I haven't said this in a letter before, I want you to know, darling, that I'm sorry I'm not with you, because I miss you so much. But I can't be sorry for serving my country this way. When I come home to you and we start a family, I want my kids to grow up in a better world than the one we've got now. I know the Bible tells us there'll be wars and rumors of war right up to the time Jesus returns. Who knows? Maybe that's sooner than we think, and I'll be meeting you in the air at His sudden appearing. But if H
e tarries, then I'm glad to do my part. I hope you agree. Well, I've squeezed in as much as this V-mail will hold. Hope the writing isn't too tiny for you to read. I love you more than I can express, my dearest Lucy.
Always and forever, Richard
Chapter 9
Well, look at you, Mrs. Anderson." Howard Baxter leaned his elbows on the counter and grinned at Lucy. "You've had a letter from that husband of yours, haven't you?"
"Yes. I got one yesterday. It was written a month ago, so I know there are others still to come. Richard's good about writing often."
"The mails are tricky things these days. No telling how many letters are sitting around in the back of a building, waiting for somebody to find and deliver them." Howard straightened. "Was he able to tell you where he is?"
"Somewhere in England as of the letter, and he didn't mention any orders. Of course, if he tried to tell me where he was or where he was going, it would be cut out by the censors. He's careful about minding those rules."
The grocer nodded. "Good thing, too. Loose lips might sink ships."
Or shoot Flying Fortresses from the sky.
As if he'd read her thoughts and wanted to distract her, Howard became all business. "I received a small shipment of beef this afternoon. Are you interested?"
"Really? You have beef? Yes, Mr. Baxter, I'm very interested. I still have several stamps left in Ration Book One." She placed her pocketbook on the counter and opened it. "I also need some extra heavy waxed paper and a package of gelatin."
"You're in luck. I've got both of those items. I'll get them for you. Be right back."
Funny. She was in luck because waxed paper and gelatin were in stock. Oh, for the days when lucky meant something far more than that.
The Victory Club Page 4