Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1)

by Barbara Bretton

  The doctor leaned over Johnny and began to undo the buttons on his overcoat.

  “Don’t just stand there, Catherine,” Dr. Bernstein barked. “Let’s get this boy undressed.”

  Her cheeks flamed despite the chill. Dr. Bernstein noticed. “You’re a sensible young woman, Catherine. Don’t go turning coy on me. I need your help.” He gestured at Johnny. “He needs your help.”

  She took a deep breath then knelt next to the sofa. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of his army-issue shirt as if she was wearing mittens. The doctor was unfastening the soldier’s trousers and she kept her gaze firmly fastened to the task before her. “Danza John,” read his dogtags. “O positive.” Her vision blurred as she tried to make out his birthdate and religion.

  “Get a grip on yourself,” said Dr. Bernstein, his voice gruff but kind. “You’ll have plenty of time to cry later on.”

  He was right. She knew he was right but she couldn’t help the tears. This couldn’t be happening. You simply didn’t fall asleep on your living-room sofa one minute and awake to find an unconscious soldier on your welcome mat the next. Johnny Danza was somewhere in Europe with her father, fighting the war.

  She stripped off his shirt and grasped the hem of his undershirt. Her fingers brushed against his flat abdomen and she watched, mesmerized, as the taut muscles reacted to her touch.

  “I’ll lift him,” said the doctor, gripping Johnny by the shoulders. “You prop him up with pillows.”

  She nodded, smoothing the white undershirt over his stomach once again. He moaned again as the doctor repositioned him on the couch, and Catherine struggled to contain her tears. She wasn’t imagining this. Johnny wasn’t somewhere in Europe with her father; he was right here in Forest Hills. Dr. Bernstein cradled the man in his brawny arms while Catherine arranged those foolish, frilly chintz pillows behind his back for support.

  “Get my bag from the hallway,” the doctor ordered. Catherine was back in an instant with the heavy black leather satchel.

  “Take off his undershirt.”

  She did as he requested. Then both he and Catherine gasped at the sight of Johnny’s bare chest. She felt her knees buckle beneath her, but Dr. Bernstein steadied her and she took a deep breath to calm herself.

  “Shrapnel wounds. I haven’t seen anything like this since the last war. And look at that arm. Nasty infection setting in. Darn good thing the boy made it here or he wouldn’t’ve lasted the night in that storm.”

  This is what it’s all about, she thought, staring at the ugly wounds zigzagging across his upper torso. This is what’s happening over there—to all of them. Dear God, forgive me... I never knew... I never imagined... She’d been as foolish as her little sister, thinking of USO tours and war bonds, knitting scarves for brave young men to take into battle. How wrong she had been. How wrong they all had been.

  She pushed an image of Douglas, torn and dying, from her mind.

  Douglas was beyond her help now.

  And—God help him—her father might be, as well.

  But Johnny Danza was here right now and this was her chance to do for him what she couldn’t do for Douglas. She took a deep breath. “What can I do to help?” she asked Dr. Bernstein.

  The doctor eyed her for an instant. “I’m going to depend upon you, Catherine.”

  She nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand.”

  “First thing, I need more light in here.” He glanced around the darkened living room. “Turn on the lamps and raise the shades. You could develop photographs in this place.”

  Catherine quickly did as he asked. The lamps cast a yellow glow, but raising the shades had little effect, for it was already dark outside.

  “Turn the heat up higher and don’t worry about restrictions. I’ll make certain you good people don’t freeze this winter. Light a fire in the grate, then bring me all the clean towels you have.”

  The doctor rolled up his sleeves and reached into his bag. Johnny moaned again with pain and the sound acted on Catherine like a shot of pure adrenaline. She dashed into the hallway and raised the thermostat, then hurried out into the backyard, still in her bathrobe, to grab an armload of firewood. The wood was wet with snow and she thanked the good Lord her mother had thought to place a basket of dry kindling near the fireplace. Without it she never would have managed the roaring fire that soon warmed the living room.

  Dr. Bernstein was bent low over Johnny’s body. “Towels!” he snapped. “On the double.”

  She was back downstairs with a stack in seconds. Dr. Bernstein motioned for her to drape a towel over Johnny’s bared midsection.

  “Look at this.” The doctor placed bloodstained metal fragments on the white bath towel. “Set up an infection throughout his system. Damn war.” Sweat, which had beaded on Dr. Bernstein’s forehead, began to trickle down until drops were balanced on the edge of his eyelashes. “He wasn’t hurt badly enough to die, but he’s not well enough to go back into battle, so what do they do? They give him a thirty-day furlough and the damn fool finds his way back home. What the hell was he thinking of, anyway?”

  Catherine trembled as Dr. Bernstein probed Johnny’s flesh with a fierce-looking pair of tweezers. “Should I call for an ambulance?”

  “Look out the window, girl. Patton’s tanks couldn’t make it through that snow.”

  “What are you going to do?” Her voice rose an octave. “How will you take care of him?”

  “I won’t,” said the good doctor, casting a sharp-eyed glance in her direction. “You will.”

  “But you said he’s in terrible shape.”

  “He is, but he won’t be for long.”

  She almost swooned as he swabbed the angry network of wounds with an alcohol-soaked towel. “I’m not a nurse.”

  “You will be by the time this boy is on his feet again.”

  “Is... is he going to die?”

  Dr. Bernstein chuckled. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not. The kid’s strong as an ox. Get that fever of his down and we’re halfway home.” The medicine would make short work of the fever. Johnny was also exhausted and underweight. With lots of sleep and good home-cooked food, he’d be on the mend before they knew it.

  She listened carefully as he told her what she would have to do, then wrote down every last detail on a piece of pale blue stationery.

  “Do you have all that, Catherine?”

  “I think so, Dr. B.” She read back the instructions. “Bathe him. Dress his wounds every two hours. Medicine every four. Keep him warm, dry, well fed, and let Mother Nature do the rest.”

  He patted her on the shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Cathy. Always have been. Dot and Tom should be very proud of you.”

  “I’ll tell them, I’ve been feeling unappreciated lately.”

  He narrowed his eyes and took a closer look at her. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

  “Probably not. The factory keeps me hopping.”

  “I hope you’ve been getting out and seeing your friends.”

  “Not as often as I’d like. I did get out to see National Velvet at the Elmwood last week.”

  “This blasted war won’t last forever, Cathy. Before long your dad will be home again and you can go back to being a happy young woman.”

  She led him into the foyer and helped him into his coat. “I’m doing just fine,” she said. “I enjoy the challenge.”

  “Home and children,” he said, nodding sagely. “That’s the best challenge of all.”

  She said nothing.

  “Damn insensitive of me, that last remark, what with Douglas and all. I’m sorry, Catherine.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Dr. B. I’ve made my peace with it.”

  “You have a merry Christmas,” said Dr. Bernstein.

  “And you have a happy Hanukkah.” She kissed his weathered cheek and opened the front door. “Get home safely.”

  A blast of wind raced into the foyer, and Dr. Bernstein turned up the collar of his coat. “It’s going to be
a hard winter,” he said as he headed down the snowy steps. “A very hard winter.”

  Catherine stood in the doorway and watched until the man disappeared down the street, obliterated by the swirling snow. Another blast of wind raced up under her bathrobe and she ducked inside and closed the door behind her. All she needed was to come down with a case of the grippe. Who would take care of Johnny?

  Johnny! Energy flowed into her limbs and she raced into the living room. He was sleeping peacefully on the sofa, his lanky frame an incongruous sight against the feminine looking cushions. She tucked the granny afghan more tightly under his chin. “Sleep,” she whispered, looking down at the man in her care. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

  She took the stairs two at a time and raced to her bedroom to change into dungarees and one of her dad’s old shirts. The dungarees were long so she rolled them up to just above her ankles and folded the sleeves of the shirt to her elbows. She slipped her feet into a pair of comfortable old slippers, gave her hair a lick and a promise, then was back downstairs before Johnny had a chance to so much as change position. Grabbing the piece of blue notepaper from the mantel, she scanned the list of nursing duties. Bathe him. Her breath caught. Bathe him? Dr. Bernstein’s words came back to haunt her: “We want to break that fever. Give him a sponge bath, then rub him down with rubbing alcohol before you bundle him back up.”

  Her mother and Nancy wouldn’t be home for hours. The notion of bathing a man was shocking, but Johnny couldn’t wait for her mother to come home and tend to his needs. Catherine placed her palm against his forehead. Dr. Bernstein was right—he was burning up.

  This was no time for maidenly virtue. Mustering her resolve, she went into the kitchen and filled a soup kettle with warm water, then grabbed a bar of Ivory and the clean towels Dr. Bernstein hadn’t used.

  She carried everything back into the front room where Johnny slept and placed the paraphernalia on the floor next to the sofa.

  “Johnny.” She laid her hand against his cheek. “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

  His breathing was labored. His lips looked dry, cracked. She went into the kitchen and filled a jelly glass with cool water. Back in the living room she knelt by his side and held the glass to his mouth. “Come on, Johnny. Take a sip.” She dipped her fingers in the water and ran them across his lips. He swallowed reflexively, his tongue touching the moisture on Catherine’s fingers then darting away. Her breath caught for an instant, then escaped in a long shaky sigh.

  His lids fluttered open. She’d forgotten how blue his eyes were. Even glazed with fever, they were as deep and beautiful as lapis. Hands trembling, she pulled down the covers and draped them over the back of the wing chair near the fireplace. His chest was bare, save for the light layer of bandages Dr. Bernstein had placed across the shrapnel wounds, and she was horrified to discover that only a pair of army-issue boxer shorts covered him below the waist. Even his feet, long and narrow and pale, were bare. Somehow the sight of his bare feet seemed more intimate, more disturbing, than his bare chest and legs.

  The Johnny Danza she had met that long-ago night at the Stage Door Canteen had been brash and cocky and funny. The kind of guy you imagined would breeze through life with a smile and a wisecrack for everyone. Through his letters she had slowly come to know a different Johnny Danza, one who was sometimes vulnerable, sometimes angry, sometimes a better friend than she thought she deserved. But eighteen months of letters hadn’t prepared her for the sight of him, helpless and sick, on her mother’s sofa. She felt as if she was invading his privacy and she was sorry about that, but it was unavoidable.

  She tested the wash water with her elbow, then soaked a clean face towel and lathered it up with soap. “I’m going to give you a sponge bath,” she murmured as she brought the cloth to his chest. “This will make you feel so much better....”

  He winced as the fabric touched his skin but—thank God!—he didn’t shiver. Working swiftly, she moved the towel across his shoulders, over the unbandaged portions of his chest, down to his rib cage and—

  No! She bypassed the narrow portion of flat belly exposed above the waistband of his shorts and drew the soapy towel over his lower thighs and legs. Despite the fact that he was skinnier than when she saw him last, his legs were still strong and well muscled, heavily furred with crisp curling black hair. They were also covered with goose bumps, so she quickly finished and rubbed him dry with a large towel she’d left near the fireplace, then massaged rubbing alcohol on his burning flesh. The important thing now was to keep him warm.

  A low sound of contentment broke the silence, and Catherine smiled as she covered him again with the afghan and quilt. The worry lines between his thick dark brows had eased, and she could almost swear that color was coming back into his face.

  She picked up the makeshift washbasin, then started for the kitchen to empty it in the sink.

  “Don’t go.”

  She stopped in the doorway and tilted her head. No. It must have been her imagination. Once again she headed for the kitchen.

  “Cathy.”

  She put the washbasin down and was beside the sofa in an instant. His eyes were closed, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. She touched his hand. “I’m here.”

  A smile, shaky but very real, flickered across his face as his fingers linked with hers. “Stay with me.”

  Tears blurred her vision. “Don’t worry, Johnny,” she said, her voice soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The grandfather clock tolled seven, then eight, and still Catherine sat on the floor next to Johnny. He slept as if drugged, awakening only to hold her hand more tightly and reassure himself of her presence. Her back ached, the fire needed tending, and she knew she should give her mother a call at the hospital and tell her of their unexpected visitor, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave his side.

  With her fingers linked with his, she felt connected to another human being for the first time in so very long. She willed her strength and warmth to become his. She wanted somehow to communicate how important he was—and how she would do anything in her power to make him well again.

  Outside the winds howled and rattled the windows in their casings. From her spot on the living-room floor she could barely make out the Weavers’ house beyond the window, for the falling snow obscured everything beyond the foot of their front path.

  But inside, the radiators glowed with blessed heat and the lamps blazed merrily and, as she held Johnny’s hand and prayed, Catherine felt her icy heart slowly begin to thaw.

  * * *

  “Thank heaven for the subways!” said Dot as she adjusted her scarf and smiled at her daughter. “We’d be stranded at the hospital all night.”

  “If it wasn’t Christmas Eve you wouldn’t have been able to drag me out. I was having a swell time at the party.”

  “Now, none of that. You know we couldn’t leave your sister home alone tonight.”

  “She’d never notice,” said Nancy, grabbing for the railing as they climbed the slippery cement steps to street level. “She’s probably still at the factory.”

  Dot glanced at her younger daughter. “Are you two having difficulties?”

  “Things are fine, Mom, but you have to admit she works longer hours than President Roosevelt.”

  “Your sister takes her responsibilities seriously. She’s determined to make Daddy proud.”

  Nancy looked down at her feet in their battered rubber galoshes. As if Catherine needed to do anything special to make their father proud. All Catherine had to do was smile and all was right with Tom Wilson’s world. And now she was running Wilson Manufacturing single-handedly—and turning a profit to boot! Nancy had been working there since her return home from her Long Island adventure, and half the employees still didn’t know her name. She bet she could tap-dance on top of the tool-and-die machine and not one person would take notice.

  The street was deserted and it took a second for them to gain their bearings. It was diff
icult to tell earth from sky; everything, everywhere was a uniform shade of white.

  “Well, one good thing,” said Nancy as they made their way down Hansen Street through knee-deep snowdrifts. “At least we got a white Christmas.”

  Dot looked at her and laughed despite the cold. “You’re right, honey. A white Christmas! We should be happy we’re healthy and together to enjoy it.”

  Of course they weren’t all together. For months they’d waited in vain for a letter from Tom. This was their second Christmas without him and the old saw, Absence makes the heart grow fonder, was truer than Nancy had ever imagined. How she missed the way things used to be, with the whole family gathered around the fireplace, singing carols and sipping eggnog. Last year she had wanted to run as far and fast from Hansen Street as her legs would carry her. This year she was glad to be home.

  James F. Byrnes, the director of War Mobilization and Reconversion, had placed a ban on horse racing, effective January third of the new year. Severe meat shortages were predicted, and citizens were being asked to save their Christmas wrappings for salvage because “paper is too precious.” Across the ocean, the Maginot Line was cut as the Twenty-sixth and Thirty-fifth Infantries united and the Seventh Army was only four miles from the Reich. Peace on earth, good will toward men... Nancy thought.

  Her mother looked up at the snow-laden sky and frowned. “I’m afraid we might not make midnight mass, honey, if it keeps up like this.”

  Nancy peeked at her graduation watch snuggled under her mittens. “It’s not even eight o’clock yet, Mom. It might slow down.”

  “Strange,” said Dot as they approached their house. “I’m surprised Cathy doesn’t have the blackout shades drawn.”

  “I know what’s even stranger,” Nancy offered. “The only light on is in the living room.” Usually Catherine was holed up in Tom’s den, working on budgets or forecasts or whatever other boring things were necessary for running a business.

  “Will you look at these front steps,” her mother exclaimed as they struggled their way up to the front door. “We’d better get these shoveled before somebody breaks a leg.”