So there Eddie was, stuck working in some factory making metal parts for the battleships and destroyers that would go out there and get the job done. There were times Catherine longed to put her arms around him and comfort him, but he was as stiff-necked as most men, and she knew he would have hated the gesture. More and more of the male employees were getting their greetings from Uncle Sam. Eddie said before long it would be just Eddie and thousands of women holding down the home front while the men—the real men—went out and won the war.
Just the other day Catherine had been thumbing through the newspaper and noticed a Lord & Taylor ad for an Eisenhower-style jacket that must have been a slap in his face: “Even if he’s 4-F he can feel like a hero...”
But there was nothing Catherine could do to make his world seem right. Maybe one day he would understand that what he did on the home front was important, too. But judging from the set of his jaw as they made their way through the labyrinthine hallway, the prospect was unlikely.
The Christmas party was winding down when she pushed open the swinging doors to the cafeteria. A haze of cigarette smoke softened the harsh whitewashed walls of the cavernous room while the plaintive sounds of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” added to the bittersweet mood. As usual, the men pretended she wasn’t there, but some of the women waved at her and smiled.
All you had to do was look at the careworn faces of the employees of Wilson Manufacturing to see the toll the past three years of war had taken on the people at home. There was Marie Gianella standing in the corner by the big Philco radio that blared dance music every lunch hour; Marie’s boy Andy had been wounded that distant morning in Pearl Harbor, and now she worked and worried about her two other sons who battled somewhere in the Pacific theater. Was it any wonder her lustrous dark hair was quickly turning gray?
And wasn’t that Ella Friedman sitting at one of the lunch tables, her ubiquitous knitting basket by her side? Ella had been the first woman hired by Wilson Manufacturing—and the first employee to lose a member of her family to the war. When her husband, David, was killed in November, 1942, Ella only missed one day’s work. “Sitting home won’t bring my Davey back,” she had said, her blue eyes wet with tears, “but coming to work might bring someone else’s husband home safe and sound.” It wasn’t until Douglas was killed that Catherine understood the full measure of Ella’s courage.
They were all there, all the men and women who made up Wilson Manufacturing, and in a way they were as much Catherine’s family as her mother and Nancy were.
“Let’s hear it for the boss!” Frank Petrie, one of the old guard who revered her dad, sent up the call from the other side of the room. Not many voices joined him in the cheer.
I wish you were here, Dad, she thought as she walked to the front of the room. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, so many decisions she needed to talk over with him. It had been months since anybody had heard from Tom, and while she continued to worry about him, she hadn’t let the company’s progress slow down one whit.
Tom Wilson wasn’t there to make the decisions; his daughter Catherine was. And although this wasn’t the life she had imagined for herself, it was the life God had chosen to give her, and she’d be damned if she gave it—and Wilson Manufacturing—anything less than her best.
She picked up the bright red basket piled high with envelopes. “Come on, everyone,” she called out gaily. “Gather ’round. This is what we’ve all been waiting for.”
Of course, playing Santa Claus was always fun. No wonder her dad had always looked forward to the Christmas Eve party. By noon the Christmas bonus envelopes had been given out, the fresh turkey from Sampson Farms in New Jersey raffled off, and the last of the eggnog enjoyed. Everyone joined voices in a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells”, then some of the older employees gathered around Catherine to wish her a merry Christmas.
“Have you heard from Tom lately?” asked Wally Arnsparger, from the shipping department. “I thought of him the minute I heard about what’s going on in the Ardennes.”
Catherine swallowed hard. The vicious battle in the Ardennes forest near the German border had been uppermost in her mind for days. “I’m sure he’s fine, but the mails have been a little slow lately.” She had to struggle to maintain the composure she was known for. Ten days ago when Glenn Miller’s death had been announced, she’d openly wept. She couldn’t do anything so foolish again.
Wally nodded. “Heavy casualties,” he said, ignoring the crowd of well-wishers waiting their turn to greet the boss. “Frank O’Brien thought he saw his son’s name on the KIA list and started bawling over his morning coffee.” He shook his head sadly. “Turns out Dennis wasn’t on, but his nephew Georgie was.” He pumped her hand heartily, then said goodbye.
“Did you know George?” Eddie whispered as Wally disappeared through the cafeteria doors.
“Not well.” Catherine conjured up the image of a tall lanky boy with dark hair and eyes. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I think he went to school with Mac Weaver.”
“That reporter who joined up?”
“That’s the one.” Mac had come home a few weeks after Douglas died, only to enlist in the army. He was somewhere in the Pacific now, doing something very hush-hush.
“Lucky dog,” mumbled Eddie.
“Fool,” said Catherine. “The draft had passed him by. He could have gotten his quota of excitement covering the war as a reporter.”
“That’s not why a man signs up, Cathy.”
“I know why a man signs up.” They turned to see Bill Collins from accounting. “The whole point is to kill the enemy before he kills you.”
Catherine excused herself and hurried down the hallway to her office. Eddie caught up to her at the doorway.
“You’re crying,” he said.
“Say one word about it and I’ll fire you.”
“You know your dad’s fine,” he said with an admirable display of bravado. He took her hand. “They wouldn’t put a guy his age in the front line.”
She laughed despite her fear. “You’re a great comfort, Martin. You should try volunteering at the hospital.”
“You’ll hear from him soon.”
“You’re right,” said Catherine squeezing his hand. “Any day now.”
She lingered awhile to finish off some correspondence. The factory was deserted. Not even Maury, the cleaning man, was anywhere around. She hurried through the gate, head ducked against the snow, and made it to the subway in record time, glad to leave the empty building behind. The train was filled with last-minute shoppers with their holiday packages peeking out of paper shopping bags, and her spirits lifted as a little girl in the next car sang Christmas carols at the top of her tiny lungs.
The subway steps were slippery with icy snow and she hung on to the railing for dear life as she exited onto Continental Avenue. “Going to be a beaut of a storm,” said an old man waiting at the corner to cross the street. “You take care getting home, girlie.”
He disappeared into the swirling snow. He was right about the storm; Catherine had to bend low into the wind in order to keep from being lifted off her feet by the vicious gusts. Not only were they going to have a white Christmas, it looked as if they might have a blizzard.
Finally she turned onto Hansen Street and made her way to her house.
“Anybody home?” Catherine hung her cloth coat on the rack in the hallway and draped her snowy scarf over the banister. “Mom? Nancy?” She sat down on the bottom step and yanked off her rubber boots and shoes.
Her voice echoed throughout the empty house, and for a minute she wished she had stayed back at the office and worked on the production schedule for 1945.
“Wonderful,” she said aloud as she padded barefoot to the kitchen. “The only other person who likes to work on Christmas Eve is Ebenezer Scrooge.”
The kitchen was as quiet as the rest of the house. A covered pot of soup sat on the front burner and a note rested against a plate of freshly ba
ked bread.
Your sister and I have gone off to serve Christmas Eve dinner at the hospital. We’ll be home in time for supper. Get some rest!
Love,
Mom
P.S. Remember midnight mass tonight with Edna and Les!
She made quick work of the soup and devoured two slices of bread as if she were famished. Truth was she had hoped the simple fare would fill the emptiness inside her, but that emptiness couldn’t be satisfied with food. She wished her mother and Nancy were home, chattering and laughing and turning the house into a home. A long time ago Catherine had known how to do that sort of thing, but it was a skill she had forgotten. Married women were good at turning on the lamps and drawing the drapes and doing whatever magical things it was they did to make four walls into a haven.
Young girls were good at that, too. Girls like Nancy who believed in love and happily-ever-after and that good things happened to good people, no matter how hard the world tried to tell them otherwise.
But Catherine was no longer a girl, and fate had seen to it that she hadn’t become a wife.
“I never should have had that eggnog,” she muttered as she finished washing her lunch dishes and putting them away. Alcohol went straight to her head, and that spike of rum had obviously been enough to release a flood of melancholy emotions better left hidden.
She tidied up the kitchen and wandered into the living room. The heavily carved mahogany furniture glistened with lemon oil, and the scent mingled with that of cinnamon and bayberry. The tree, a beautiful pine, occupied a place of honor near the picture window, waiting for evening when the Wilson women would transform it into a thing of beauty. In the old days they would invite everyone on the block—from the Weavers to the Lewises to the Fiores—to join them as they strung popcorn garlands and sang carols and draped tinsel on the welcoming branches.
Thanks to the war, of course, everything was different now. It was hard to celebrate Christmas with the same excitement, what with Douglas gone and her dad somewhere far away. Last year Johnny Danza had written to her, telling Catherine of the USO show and a first-run movie they’d watched by the light of a December moon.
She looked out the dining-room window and shivered. The sky was the color of heavy cream and the falling snow had already obliterated her footprints from the path to the front door. The postman had already delivered a batch of Christmas cards and, given the weather, it was unlikely he’d be back to make a second delivery. “A white Christmas,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. How she wished there was something to celebrate, some sign that the war would end and those she loved would come home safe and sound.
The grandfather clock in the foyer announced the hour. Three o’clock. Her mother and Nancy wouldn’t be home for hours. An endless afternoon stretched out before her, as bleak as the weather.
* * *
“You okay, pal?” The cabbie peered at his passenger through the rearview mirror. “You don’t look so good.”
The man’s face was as white as the snow blanketing the city streets.
“I’m fine,” the soldier mumbled, his voice muffled by his upturned collar.
The cabbie hung a left at the corner of Queens Boulevard and Seventy-first Avenue. “Now what was that address you wanted?”
“Hansen,” the soldier managed. “Seventy-fifteen. One of those Tudor jobs.”
The cabbie laughed and clamped his teeth more tightly around his cigar. “They’re all Tudor jobs in that neck of the woods, kid. You gotta have some dough to live there.” He took another look at the soldier. “When was the last time you had a good meal?”
The soldier turned green around the gills. “Just drive, would you?”
“Hangover is it?” The cabbie eased off the gas. “Don’t worry, old pal. I’ll get you home in time to trim the Christmas tree....”
* * *
Catherine frowned and buried her face more deeply into the sofa pillow. Who on earth was making that racket? Didn’t they know people were trying to sleep?
She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to conjure up the dream once again. It was Christmas Day and President Roosevelt came on the radio and announced that the war was over. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the doorbell was ringing—
Wait a minute.
She opened one eye and listened closely. “Must have been my imagination,” she said, then pulled the afghan up over her shoulders. But then there was the noise again, only it wasn’t a doorbell ringing. No, it was more like a faint tapping.
She threw back the afghan and sat up, yawning. Maybe the mailman had made it back through the snow, after all, with one last batch of Christmas cards. And maybe this batch would bring the long-awaited letter from her father—and one from Johnny. She hurried out into the hall, praying to see a welcome stack of cards and letters pooled on the floor beneath the mail slot.
Not so much as a postcard. She turned to hurry back to the sofa and the cozy comfort of the afghan when she heard it again, louder this time, a tap-tap-tap at the door. If Danny Tesch from down the block was throwing snowballs again, she’d take him by the ear and march him back to his mother so fast, his ten-year-old head would spin! One broken window per winter was more than enough.
“Danny,” she said, swinging the door open wide, “you stop that this minute.”
But it wasn’t Danny Tesch.
It was Private Johnny Danza.
And he was unconscious on her welcome mat.
Chapter Six
“Oh, my God! Johnny!” She bent down, unmindful of the chill wind whipping through her pink chenille bathrobe. His skin was as white as the falling snow, his jet black hair an angry slash across his forehead. She touched his cheek. “Johnny? Please say something.”
Dear God, what was wrong? She moved her fingers down to the base of his throat, exposed by the ill-fitting army-issue overcoat. A pulse, shallow but steady, beat beneath her fingertips. She shook him by the shoulders. “We have to get you inside, Johnny. Wake up, please!”
He moaned softly and his eyelids fluttered then opened. He started to say something, but she pressed the tip of her index finger against his lips. “Save your strength. You’ll catch your death out here in the snow.”
Struggling to keep her balance on the icy top step, she managed to get her arms around him and slowly, carefully, she pulled him to a sitting position. His head rolled back against her shoulder.
“You have to help me, Johnny. I can’t do this without you.”
He was barely conscious. His lean body was a dead weight as she tried to maneuver him into the house. Her bare feet slipped on the top step, and it took every ounce of strength at her command to keep from tumbling backward, taking Johnny with her. God must have been watching over them both because somehow she regained her footing and half-dragged, half-carried him into the foyer where she laid him down on the braided rug.
“Cathy...”
She knelt next to him in a puddle of melted snow and brought her ear close to his mouth.
“Sorry...”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” she said vehemently. “I’m going to take care of you.”
But how?
She loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. How thin he was; those proud angular cheekbones stood out in stark relief in his strong-boned face. He was shivering uncontrollably, so she kept his coat on and covered him with the afghan she’d cuddled under during her nap. She ran to turn up the thermostat, coal shortage be damned. She didn’t care if they froze the rest of the winter; all that mattered was Johnny.
A shuddering cough racked his body, and it was her turn to tremble at the labored, erratic sound of his breathing. She raced upstairs and yanked the blankets from both her bed and Nancy’s, then hurried back down to the foyer and bundled him up with a few more layers of warmth. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough. His brow was slick with sweat but the shivering increased, and she knew that whatever was wrong with him couldn’t be cured with an e
xtra blanket and a cup of cocoa.
She rushed to the telephone in the kitchen. Her fingers fumbled with the dial and for a moment Dr. Bernstein’s number played hide-and-seek with her memory. She held her breath as it started to ring. “Please be there,” she whispered. “Please... please...”
He was. “I’m closing up shop in ten minutes,” he said, after she explained the problem. “Keep him warm and I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
A half hour later she ushered the doctor into the foyer. “Oh, thank God! I was terrified the storm would—”
“Storms don’t stop me, Cathy Wilson. You should know better.” Dr. Sy Bernstein had delivered both Catherine and Nancy and over the years seen them through measles and chicken pox and assorted cuts and bumps. Seeing him standing there looking competent and trustworthy, Catherine felt better already. Dr. Bernstein handed her his coat and hat. “Toss them anywhere,” he said, bending down over the unconscious Johnny Danza. “First thing we need to do is get this young man comfortable.”
She draped his coat over the banister and balanced his hat on the first step.
“Take his feet,” ordered Dr. Bernstein. “I’m going to grab him under the arms. I’ll bear most of his weight, Catherine, but I’ll need your help.”
“Anything,” she said. “I’ll do anything.” Johnny’s boots were huge, and heavy, deeply scuffed around the toes and heels, and she found it difficult to get a good grip on his ankles. “Okay, Dr. B. Whenever, you’re ready.”
“On the count of three. One... two... three. That’s it... that’s it....” They maneuvered their human burden through the foyer and into the living room.
“The sofa by the window,” said Catherine, wincing as a pine needle stabbed the underside of her bare foot. “That’s closest to the radiator.”
Johnny moaned as they lowered him to the cushions, and Catherine felt as if a fist had grabbed her heart and was slowly squeezing it.
Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1) Page 8