Lucy retrieved the ration book from the bottom of her purse. "I wonder how long we'll need these," she said softly, speaking to herself.
But it was Howard who answered as he returned to stand behind the counter. "It's a long way to Berlin and Tokyo for our boys. The fighting will be fierce, and there'll be harder times for them before they get better. I remember what it was like in Europe during the First World War."
"You were there?" She didn't know why she was surprised. At forty-five—she knew that was his age because he'd told her on his birthday last December—the grocer was certainly old enough to have served in what was once called the Great War.
"I was there. In France. Twenty years old and full of myself when I shipped out. Thought I was invincible." He shook his head. "Sometimes when I read the newspaper, about the fighting going on in Africa and in the Pacific, I imagine I hear bullets zinging over my head. I remember the terror I felt when the world was exploding around me."
Lucy sucked in a quick breath. "Oh!"
Howard Baxter reached out and lightly touched her upper arm, a gesture of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Anderson. That was thoughtless of me. I shouldn't be talking like that. Not to you."
"It's all right." She blinked back unwelcome tears. "I … I know what could happen to Richard." Her former good mood was forgotten. She was alone, she was frightened, and she didn't know how to keep believing that Richard would be okay.
"Let me make it up to you. I was about to close shop for the night. How about I buy you supper over at Chloe's?" His smile was gentle and somewhat pleading. "You'd be doing me a favor. I'm tired of eating alone."
Lucy was tired of it, too, and despite a little tug in her heart that told her to refuse the invitation, she said, "I'd like that, Mr. Baxter. Thank you."
* * *
Chloe's was a small diner off State Street, a few blocks from Lucy's apartment.
"I'll be right back with your order," the waitress said after Lucy and Howard made their selections from the menu. "You sit tight now."
Lucy glanced around the diner. Except for an elderly man at the counter, they were the only customers.
"This your first time in here?" Howard asked.
"No. I came for lunch once, not long after … after I moved into my apartment." She remembered that visit. It was soon after Richard left Boise. Her sudden aloneness had overwhelmed her, and she sought comfort in the company of strangers rather than eat alone in the hollow apartment.
"The food's simple but good." Howard cocked his head toward the kitchen. "Georgia, our waitress, and her sister, Vickie, have worked for Chloe Barlow since she opened the place in 'twenty-five. They treat every customer like family." He met Lucy's gaze again. "I guess that's why I like it so much. It's comfortable, homey even. They stay busy during the dinner hour, but it's usually quiet like this by the time I close the store and come in."
"Do you eat here often?"
He shrugged. "Often enough. No fun cooking for one."
Lucy didn't want to think about cooking for one or the empty apartment awaiting her. "Have you always lived alone?"
"No. I was married once. Lost my wife to cancer fifteen years ago."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
He shook his head. "You couldn't know."
But Lucy thought she should have known at least that much, something more than his age and his profession. Howard Baxter knew that Richard was a pilot stationed in England and he knew where Lucy worked and he knew about her loneliness and what she liked to eat and even what her favorite cleaning products were. He knew because he was considerate enough to inquire and observe.
"Do you have children, Mr. Baxter?"
Again, he shook his head. "We wanted them but it never happened for us." He glanced out the window but not before Lucy saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes.
She wondered why he was still alone after fifteen years as a widower. Howard was a good-looking man. Not handsome like Richard, but pleasant to look at, especially when he smiled. While he had a slight paunch above his waistband, he hadn't gone to fat. She couldn't imagine why some woman hadn't snagged him years ago. And with the dearth of available men these days, he needn't lack female companionship. Was he, perhaps, still mourning the wife of his youth?
Will I be like that if Richard dies? Will I still mourn him fifteen years later?
"Hey, I'm sorry. I've made you sad again." Howard tapped his fingertips on the table. "Let's change the subject. Why don't you tell me … hmm … tell me what you do on your weekends?" He leaned forward, as if eager to hear her reply.
"Nothing exciting, I assure you. On Saturday I catch up with my cleaning and washing and ironing, and on Sunday I sing in the choir at church."
"And what church is that?"
She smiled. "Redeemer's Assembly, a few blocks from here. It's a lovely church. I've only been attending there for a year, but I've loved it from the start. Everyone makes you feel at home. Have you ever visited there?"
"No. Never been. I rarely go to church anyway. Christmas and Easter mostly."
Her smile faded. "Why is that, Mr. Baxter?"
"I'm not the religious sort, I guess. My mother was. So was my wife." He shrugged. "It just never rubbed off on me."
She felt a sting of disappointment. "It's about much more than religion." She shook her head. "I don't know how I would make it through the week without God's help. My trust in Christ means everything to me. And worshiping the Lord with other believers on Sundays is an important part of that."
Howard didn't reply immediately. He looked at her with an intense gaze, as if weighing the words she'd spoken against the woman he saw before him. Lucy hoped she measured up. She hoped he could see Christ in her.
After a lengthy silence, he said, "Faith can make a difference in how folks meet the hard times in life. I've seen it plenty. Just today, Mrs. Updike was in the store and she told me—" His words were interrupted by the arrival of their waitress.
"Here you go, loves." Georgia set the plates of food in front of them. "Chloe gave you the best cuts of meat she had in the kitchen."
"Thanks, Georgia." Howard gave the waitress one of his pleasant smiles. "I'm sure it'll be great."
And it was. Not only the dinner but also the company and conversation. Lucy had expected the earlier pessimistic direction of her thoughts to spoil things, but somehow Howard kept that from happening as he entertained her with lighthearted stories about his customers. She even found herself laughing a time or two.
For more than an hour, she forgot to worry, forgot to be afraid, forgot to be lonely.
It was wonderful to forget.
Chapter 10
Margo stretched out a hand and touched the service flag hanging in her window. One star. One son.
God, protect him, please.
Lucy Anderson had received a letter from her husband earlier in the week, but the mails had failed Margo. She was left to wonder about Clark. Those cursed reports in the newspaper about the war in North Africa only made the waiting worse. Couldn't there be a modicum of good news for a change? Were the American generals complete idiots? They should be in control of Europe by this time.
As she turned from the window with a sigh, a song on the radio intruded on her troubled thoughts. "Don't get around much anymore," the singer crooned.
Too true, Margo thought.
She rode the bus to work. She came home again. She walked to church. She came home again. The Kings didn't own a car, and even if they did, with gasoline rationing and the serious shortage of rubber, they wouldn't have been able to go anywhere in it.
Don't get around much anymore.
She could have gone with Dottie to the canteen, but she didn't approve of those places. Oh, she knew the canteens were established by the USO to help servicemen feel at home wherever they were stationed. But the canteens also provided powerful temptations for young people, temptations that too many of them weren't strong enough to resist.
"But, Mom," Dottie had sa
id when Margo expressed her opinion, "don't you hope Clark's able to find some rest away from the war? That's all the canteens are—an attempt to provide a sense of normalcy when nothing is normal. A place to sit and talk with somebody who isn't in the same unit. Maybe a chance to dance with a pretty girl."
Margo shuddered. She didn't want to contemplate what sort of women Clark might meet in Vichy North Africa. French women of low morals, undoubtedly. She certainly hoped he would have the good sense not to dance with them.
God demanded holiness of His children. Her son knew that. Margo had made certain he did. She'd made certain both of her children did. From the time they were little, she'd brought them up by the rod because to spare it was to spoil the child. She had devoted herself to raising them to be good Christians who walked uprightly before their God.
"Keep them from temptation, Lord," she whispered, fear surging in her heart. "Keep them safe, I pray."
Chapter 11
The canteen was a lively place that Thursday night. Airmen from Gowen Field and Mountain Home and other servicemen home on leave were packed into the building. Music played, couples danced, and voices rose in conversation, making for a loud din. A haze of cigarette smoke filled the room.
"Tell me about your fiancée," Dottie said to the private sitting across from her at a corner table.
With his freckled nose and short hair that stuck out at odd angles, PFC "Mack" McDonald reminded her a little of Alfalfa of the Our Gang fame. He was probably about her age, but he seemed younger.
"Gwen's special," the private answered. "She's studying to be a nurse. Her dad's a surgeon, and she wants to work with him. We're getting married as soon as I'm home again."
"Where's home?"
"Montana. Prettiest country you ever seen." A wistful expression filled his eyes, and he glanced away, staring toward the dance floor. After a while, he cleared his throat and said, "You don't want to dance, do you? I mean, we could if you'd like."
"It's all right. I'd just as soon sit here and visit."
"Gwen says I got two left feet, but she was always trying to teach me." He sighed. "I sure do miss that."
Dottie could have told him she wasn't a good dancer either. While their church didn't expressly forbid it, dancing was frowned upon in the King household.
She let the private's comment pass, instead skillfully guiding their conversation in a different direction, hoping to take the fellow's mind off the girl he'd left at home. For the next hour, they discussed the movies they'd seen in the past year: Pride of the Yankees with Gary Cooper and Teresa Wright, Woman of the Year with Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, and The Pied Piper with Monty Woolley and Roddy McDowall. Together they mourned the recent end of the Amos 'n' Andy broadcasts. The cancellation of the five-nights-a-week show, on the radio for the past fifteen years, had been announced in January, stunning a nation of faithful listeners. They talked about music, Dottie preferring Bing Crosby and the private preferring Gene Autry.
Finally, Mack's friends from the base came to the table and announced it was time to leave before they missed the bus.
As he stood, Mack asked Dottie, "Will you be all right getting home, Miss King?"
"Yes, thank you. I came with some others from my church."
"Okay, then. Thanks for talking with me. You've been great."
"It was a pleasure, Private McDonald. I'll pray that God keeps you safe."
"Thanks."
Then he was gone, dragged away by his army buddies, and Dottie was left alone at the corner table. She closed her eyes and prayed, as promised, for Mack's safety.
Chapter 12
Penelope didn't look up from the sewing on her lap when she heard her husband's approach.
"What's that?" he asked, pausing beside her chair.
"A service flag."
Stuart moved toward the kitchen. "Who're you making it for?"
"Obviously not you," she muttered.
She heard the icebox open and close, then the sound of Stuart taking something from the cupboard. A short while later, he reappeared in the doorway, a glass of milk in hand.
She hated the sight of him.
"What'd you say?" He gestured toward the flag. "Who'd you say that's for?"
Through gritted teeth, she replied, "It's for Frances. Remember, I told you she joined the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps."
"I hope she knows what she's doing." He took a drink of milk, then shook his head. "I'd hate to see her get hurt. I think she—"
"Nobody asked what you think!" Penelope's anger boiled over. "Nobody cares what you think."
Stuart looked at her in genuine surprise. "What've you got stuck in your craw?"
"You. I've got you stuck in my craw. My little sister's doing something to help end this war while you sit around on your behind and drink beer and sleep. You don't have to be in the service to do something to help, you know. You could work in a defense plant. You could volunteer for rubber drives. You could do something."
"For cryin' out loud, Pen. Do you think I like the way things are right now? Don't you think I'd rather have a job and be able to take care of my family? I feel useless, but I can't work and you know it. Not with my back the way it is."
"Your back." The words sounded like a curse.
Silence fell between them, thick and ugly.
Rather than glare at him, Penelope lowered her gaze to the service flag and the star she'd been stitching into place. She wished she were the one going into the women's auxiliary, that this star could represent her. If it weren't for Stuart and the children, she would have joined the WAACs with Frances. If she weren't married and a mother, she could have joined and been posted far away from unexciting Boise, Idaho.
I hate it here.
Tears blurred her vision.
Why did it turn out like this?
She heard the back door slam and knew Stuart was gone.
I could leave, too. I could leave Stuart for good.
Except, of course, she couldn't. Where would she go? She didn't have any money saved, and her father would never let her return to his home, even if her mother would. Her father believed once a girl married, she stuck it out, no matter what. No one in his family had faced the disgrace of divorce, and he wouldn't allow either of his daughters to be the first.
She was trapped. While Frances was free to have the adventure of a lifetime, Penelope was trapped in her ordinary, boring, uneventful life.
V-Mail
To: Mrs. Margo King and Miss Dottie King
Boise, Idaho, USA
From: Corporal Clark King
Saturday, February 6, 1943
Dear Mom and Dottie,
Sorry it's been so long since I wrote you. We've seen lots of action, and that hasn't left much time for correspondence. I can't say where we are, but I think you can guess.
My unit's always on the move. We set up our tents and catch some shut-eye; then we pack up what we can carry and head out. Three days in any one place is a lot. The thing I miss most is the chance to get clean. Really clean. Here, we wash when we can, and that's not often. I never knew how much I liked a hot shower until I came here.
The guys who smoke are having a hard time of it because there's nowhere to buy cigarettes. I'm glad smoking wasn't something you let me do, Mom.
We've got a couple of guys in our unit who are from Arizona, and they say this landscape is pretty similar to there. All I know is, I'll be glad when we finish our job. I miss the Idaho mountains. Right now, I even miss the snow. I'm tired of the heat and the sweat. We roast all day and then we freeze at night, (I never knew how cold it could get in the desert after the sun goes down).
I'm doing okay for the most part. War is just what they say it is, and there are times when I'm plenty scared. But I know God's with me. If I don't make it out of here, I know where I'm going. Maybe that's small comfort to you, but it helps me when things are at their worst. Some of these boys don't have that. I can see it in their eyes, and I feel sorry for them.
>
You might tell the folks at church to send Bibles to me, the smaller the better since we're on the move so much. I'll be sure to give them out to the guys who don't have one. Might help some of them. You never know.
I got letters from you both last week. They sure were appreciated. It took them quite a while to catch up with me. Dottie, if you find out for sure where Greg's stationed and it's where I am, let me know. I'll keep an eye out for him. I don't know what the chances are that we'd wind up in the same place, but if that's what God wants, it'll happen.
The men here have plenty of heart. We've got good equipment, and we've had good training. I don't doubt that we're going to win. Hitler better get ready to see the red, white, and blue snapping in the breeze in Berlin, because we'll be on our way there soon. You'll see.
I love you both, and you're in my prayers.
Your loving son and brother,
Clark
Chapter 13
On the last day of February, the weather turned surprisingly mild, almost balmy, and Lucy enjoyed her walk to church that Sunday morning. It was nice not to have a bitter cold wind biting her bare legs.
Arriving at church, she entered the building through a side door near the parking lot and made her way to the choir room.
"Good morning, Lucy," Ruth Norris, the choir director, greeted.
"Good morning." Lucy shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the rack. "Did you hear from Walter?" Ruth's husband, Walter, had taken a job in a defense plant in Seattle.
"Yes, he was able to call me at my brother's house last night. He found a place to stay. He says it's an attic room with enough space for the bed and a chair and that's it. But it's better than the shacks and tents many men are living in. There isn't enough housing in Seattle for them all." Ruth gave her a searching look. "How about you? Did you get a letter yet?"
The Victory Club Page 5