“Yes—I mean, no! Darn it, Cathy, don’t you ever care that we finally have a letter from Daddy after all these months?”
“Correction.” Catherine plucked the cocoa cups from the tray her sister was holding and placed them in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes. “Mom has a letter from her husband.”
“I don’t see the difference.”
“Believe me, there is one.” Catherine started to say that Nancy was too young to understand but caught herself. “Think about your pen pal, Nance.”
Nancy slumped into a kitchen chair.
“Think about Gerry and how you feel when his letters arrive. Would you like Mom and me peering over your shoulder when you first read them?”
Nancy plucked at the fringed edge of a Christmas-red place mat. “No, but that has nothing to do with Mom and Daddy.” She paused a moment. “Does it?”
Catherine wiped her hands on her apron and sat down opposite her sister. “First they’re husband and wife, Nance, then they’re parents. If they forget about that first truth, nothing else they do will matter very much, will it?”
Nancy’s cheeks flamed and Catherine longed to comfort her but knew she didn’t dare. Nancy’s moods were as changeable as the weather; her internal barometer measured highs and lows that made it impossible to guess her reaction to anything.
“I’m scared,” Nancy whispered, still staring down at the place mat. “I’m scared something terrible has happened to Daddy.”
“If something terrible had happened, wouldn’t we know about it by now?”
The expression in Nancy’s eyes was easy to read, and it was Catherine’s turn to look away. The news of Douglas’s death had come with terrifying swiftness. She would never forget the horror of receiving a letter from him the day after the funeral.
“Daddy’s not at summer camp, Nance,” she said after she collected her emotions. “He’s fighting a war. You can’t expect him to write every day—or for the letters to get through with no problem.”
Nancy pushed her chair away from the table. “I can’t stand it another second. I have to know what’s in that letter.”
Catherine sighed and admitted defeat. “So do I.”
Nancy tilted her head in the direction of the living room. “She’s not crying. Is that a good sign?”
“I don’t know.” The Wilson women cried when they were happy and they cried when they were sad. They also didn’t cry for the same reasons.
Slowly they headed toward the living room. Catherine’s heart beat so loudly she was sure her mother could hear it from a room away.
“I know you’re out there, girls!” Dot’s voice sailed down the hallway.
They ran into the living room and found their mother clutching the letter to her bosom. “He’s all right.” Dot’s words mingled with her daughters’ cries of joy. “Your father is going to be fine and we have Johnny to thank for that.”
Both girls looked at the soldier asleep on the coach. “Was Daddy injured?” Nancy cut through to the heart of the matter.
“Your father’s hale and hearty,” said Dot, eyes glistening. “They were out on patrol and walked straight into an enemy ambush.” Her voice trembled, but she cleared her throat and continued. “Five men were killed. It would have been six if Johnny hadn’t thrown your father into a ditch and shielded him with his own body.”
“You’re a hero,” Catherine whispered, crouching down near Johnny and adjusting the quilt. “How can we ever repay you?”
Her mother, of course, knew exactly how. “‘Our house is his for as long as he wants,’” Dot declared, reading from Tom’s letter. “‘There’s no guarantee the army will welcome him back once he’s well. He seems gruff and hotheaded but he’s a good Joe. He had no family. Now he does.’”
“You bet he does!” Nancy wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her pink cardigan.
“You don’t have to worry about a thing.” Catherine brushed a lock of dark hair off his brow. “We’ll take good care of you.”
Dot read selected portions of Tom’s letter while Nancy threw more wood on the fire and Catherine sat on the floor next to Johnny and listened to her father’s graphic description of battle—and of death.
“‘Johnny will be going home on medical furlough any time now. I am passing this letter on to him through a medic. I hope it reaches him—and you. You were right, Doro. I had no business leaving you and the girls. War is a young man’s game and I don’t feel young anymore. I feel tired and I want to come home....” Dot’s voice cracked but then she continued, “‘Take good care of Johnny. He’s one of us. Tell Nancy I’m proud of her independence and determination. Tell Cathy that her hard work has made her old man prouder than he can say. And most of all tell them both that I love them....’” Dot refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
The only sounds in the room were the crackle of wood in the fireplace and the soft sounds of Johnny’s breathing as he slept. Tom’s letter had brought the war into the living room the way no newspaper article or radio broadcast ever had. They could almost smell the gunpowder and feel the bitter winds of a European winter.
But there in the house on Hansen Street it was Christmas Eve, and for the first time in years Catherine felt like celebrating. “Look,” she said, pointing to the living-room window. “The Weavers are on their way over.”
Dot leapt to her feet and smoothed her hair with the palms of her hands. “Will you look at the time! It’s after eleven. They must be on their way to midnight mass!” She untied her apron and hurried toward the stairs. “You answer the door, Cathy! I have to powder my nose.”
Catherine met her sister’s eyes. “It’s been a long time since Mom’s been that happy.”
Nancy, whose eyes were suspiciously wet, nodded. “A very long time.”
Catherine flew to the front door and opened it wide. “Merry Christmas!” She hugged Edna and Les. “We’ve received the most wonderful present! We—”
“So have we, sweetheart,” said Edna, hugging Catherine in return. “Our Mac is home for the holidays!”
Catherine looked up in time to see Mac Weaver, resplendent in his navy uniform, march up the snowy path. “Mac!” She flew down the steps and hurled herself at the handsome man. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
“Merry Christmas, princess!” He swept her up into his arms and spun her around.
“What are you doing here?”
“They sent me back to speak at a fund-raiser in D.C. You think I could resist coming home for Christmas?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “I’m so glad to see you.”
He put her down and draped an arm around her shoulder. “We’d better get in before you catch cold, princess.” He bent down and playfully scrutinized her face. “Am I crazy or have you gotten prettier since I last saw you?”
“You’re crazy,” she said, laughing as they entered the house. How wonderful it was to see Mac again! He was Douglas’s big brother and had always felt like a big brother to her, too.
She took his scarf and overcoat and draped them over the banister.
“What’s going on in the living room?” he asked, inclining his head in that direction. “Sounds like a revival meeting.”
“We have company.” Quickly she explained about Johnny and Tom and the shock of finding the young man unconscious on the welcome mat just a few hours ago.
“That’s one hell of a story.”
“Don’t go turning into a reporter on me, Mac Weaver. It’s—”
“Mac!” Nancy’s squeal split the air and the teenager catapulted herself into Mac’s arms. Dot wasn’t far behind. Edna and Les stood in the archway to the living room, beaming proudly, while Dot’s smile could have lit up Times Square before the dimout.
The grandfather clock tolled the half hour.
“Thirty minutes to get to church for mass,” said Les. “We better hit the road.”
“Do you think we can get there through the snow?” Dot asked.
&
nbsp; “Christmas isn’t Christmas without midnight mass,” Edna said. “Father O’Herlihy has had kids out shoveling the sidewalks.”
“Goodness knows we have a lot to be thankful for,” said Dot, glancing at her daughters. “What do you say?”
“I love the snow,” said Nancy. “I’m game.”
“I think you’re all forgetting someone.” Catherine gestured toward the living room. “Johnny.”
“I’d better pass this time, Edna,” Dot said. “I’ll stay home with Cathy.”
“No!” They all turned and looked at Catherine, whose cheeks reddened. “I mean, why should you and Nance miss out? I don’t mind staying home with Johnny.” She could attend mass the following morning.
“Don’t have time to stand there debating the issue, ladies.” Les Weaver winked at his son. “Father O’Herlihy doesn’t wait mass for anyone.”
Catherine waved goodbye from the top step, then went back into the house. It seemed as if laughter still echoed in the hallway. It had been a long time since the old house had been so filled with holiday spirit. The Weavers—including Mac—would be over for dinner the next afternoon. How wonderful it would be to celebrate the Christmas season with the people she loved most in the world!
Her blood fairly bubbled through her veins with excitement. Johnny Danza, a hero. In an act of stunning courage he had risked his own life to save her father. She’d never imagined she would ever know a hero—or that the hero would be someone as unlikely as the wisecracking Johnny. She stood in the archway to the living room and looked over at him. A fire still crackled cheerfully in the grate, casting an orange glow over the room. Shadows danced against the walls, throwing strange patterns of light and dark across Johnny’s face.
Dr. Bernstein had said the medicine would make Johnny sleep deeply, and he was right. He had slept right through the excitement when they found her father’s letter in his jacket pocket, and he hadn’t so much as batted an eye when the Weavers arrived. She supposed she should be thankful that he was getting his rest; sleep, after all, was the body’s best healer. But still...
“Wake up, Johnny,” she said softly, leaning her head against the archway. “There’s so much I want to say to you.”
“I’m listening.”
She took a step into the room. “Johnny?” She hadn’t seen him so much as move his lips. “Are you awake?”
“Mmm.”
What she wanted to do was run to his side, take his hands in hers and pour out her gratitude for all he’d done for her father. What she did was stand in the doorway, feeling as awkward and foolish as she had at her first high-school dance. This is ridiculous, Catherine. You’ve bathed this man, for heaven’s sake. Certainly you can talk to him. She took two more steps into the room. If you’re awake, Johnny, I wish you’d open your eyes.
“You don’t have to tiptoe....” His voice was foggy but his words were clear. “I said I’m awake.”
She jumped, startled. Was he a mind reader, as well? “If you’re awake, why don’t you open your eyes?” Ten more steps and she was at his side.
He opened one eye and looked up at her. “You always so bossy?”
“Yes. I take after my father.”
His laugh was sleepy, his smile a bit goofy. “Sit down. You look ten feet tall.”
“I am ten feet tall.” She pulled a chair close to the sofa and sat down. “I’m surprised you’re awake.”
“So’m I.” He swallowed with obvious difficulty, then ran his tongue across parched lips. “Those pills could knock out a horse.”
She placed her hand against his forehead. “They’re also doing a pretty good job of knocking out your fever.”
He glanced around the room. “Y’know, I don’t really know how I got here. Last thing I remember, I was in a cab with a guy who smoked cigars.”
She laughed and smoothed the quilt that covered him. “You’re heavier than you look, Private Danza.”
“You carried me into the house?”
“Let’s say I managed.” She told about finding him on her doorstep and getting him in from the storm. “You did give me a little help.”
“I don’t remember a damn—excuse me—darn thing.”
“I’m not surprised. You were running a high fever. When Dr. Bernstein got here you were hallucinating.”
He grinned that cocky grin she remembered from the night at the Stage Door Canteen. “I owe you one, Cathy.”
“I’d say we were even.”
Color stained his cheeks. “You, uh... you know about it?”
“Yes, I know about it. We gathered up your clothes to clean them and found the letter from Daddy.”
He looked away. “The old man exaggerates.”
“I don’t think so.” He looked so embarrassed that her heart went out to him. “Not many men would do what you did, Johnny.”
He shrugged. “You asked me to take care of him.”
Please take care of him, Johnny.... She took his hand and held it. There were no words for the emotions churning inside her chest. The grandfather clock tolled midnight, and from the church eight blocks away came the sound of bells.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
He held her hand more tightly, “Merry Christmas.”
`I’m glad you’re here with us.”
He nodded. How simple—how amazing!—it was to sit there by the fire and hold his hand, to feel hopeful when for so long she had felt nothing but despair.
“Cathy?”
She looked at him, eyes misty. She was awash in Yuletide cheer. It wouldn’t surprise her if Santa Claus himself came bounding down the chimney. “Yes, Johnny?”
“Am I naked?”
* * *
Maybe she hadn’t heard him, he thought. He’d try again.
“I said, am I naked?”
He wouldn’t have figured her for the type to blush as red as the Christmas stockings dangling from the mantelpiece.
She released his hand and stood up. “Wh-why would you ask such a thing?”
“Something itches. I figure I’m either naked or I have sand in my shorts.”
“Good grief!” She stared at him as if he was wearing his shorts on his head. “You’re not naked. You’re wearing your... your underwear. The blanket’s what’s making you itchy.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“I told you—we’re cleaning them. Your uniform was a mess, all covered with soot and snow and God knows what else.”
“Who took my clothes off me?”
“Dr. Bernstein.”
“Were you here, too?”
Her face flamed even more. “He needed help with the bandages.”
He thought for a second. “You gave me a bath, didn’t you?”
Some of her embarrassment turned to anger, and she turned the anger on him. “Why are you asking me so many questions? You’re supposed to be sick.”
“Don’t I have a right to know who’s been doing what while I was out cold?”
“You weren’t out cold. You were actually pretty cooperative.”
This time it was his face that reddened.
Her blue eyes narrowed as she looked at him. A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth but refused to commit itself. “Now let me ask you a question—why did you ask me if you were naked when you could have looked for yourself?”
“I figured it would be rude to lift up the blankets and see what was going on.”
“What’s rude is all this conversation about your underwear or the lack thereof.”
“‘Thereof’?” He played with the word, examining it from all angles. “I never met anybody who used a work like ‘thereof.’”
“Stick with me, Private.” Her smile flickered again, then decided to stick around. “I have a whole list of words I can teach you. You’ll be a walking dictionary by the time you head back overseas.”
“No guarantee I’ll be going back. By the time I’m on my feet again, I might have enough time for the
m to muster me out. Cheaper than keeping me on Uncle Sam’s payroll.”
“Well, don’t you worry.” She was all crisp and businesslike again, the cool blond princess he remembered from that night at the Stage Door Canteen. “We’ll see to it that you have nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t need anybody taking care of things for me. I’ve done all right by myself.”
“Spoken by a man who’s flat on his back and weak as a kitten.”
“The hell I am.” He couldn’t argue the flat-on-his-back part, but he’d never been called weak in his life.
Her laughter was sweeter than the church bells that had tolled the arrival of Christmas. “I can see you’re going to be a difficult patient. Dr. Bernstein said it will be at least two weeks before you’re on your feet again.”
“If you think I’m going to lie here for two weeks causing trouble for your family, you’re—”
“Oh, will you please stop pretending you’re in a John Wayne movie? You’re skinny, you’re feverish, and you’re not going any place until I say you can.”
“I’m not going to sponge off your family.”
“You’re not sponging, Johnny. It would be an honor.”
She looked sincere. Hard to believe, but she did. “I’ll pay my own way.”
She waved a hand in the air. “We’ll talk about it.”
He tried to lift his head off the pillow, but a wave of dizziness swept over him.
“See?” Her voice was triumphant, almost happy. “You’re not well, Johnny.”
The room was spinning and he closed his eyes. “Maybe you’re right.” He also felt hot and cold at the same time, and the shrapnel wounds on his chest were screaming for attention.
“Johnny?” She bent down next to him, and he smelled vanilla and cinnamon. She touched his forehead, his cheek and the base of his throat. “Don’t worry. Dr. Bernstein said it would be like this. You’re due for your medicine and another alcohol rub.”
The thought of alcohol on his chest made him wince. “Just the medicine.”
“The alcohol will help bring down your fever.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind the fever.”
“Forget it, Private Danza. I’m the one in charge around here.”
Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1) Page 11