Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1)

by Barbara Bretton

  “Don’t you listen to what we been tellin’ you? Don’t get me wrong—we don’t mind workin’ for you, Miss Wilson. But the fact is, there’s no security here.”

  “No security? How can you say that, Harry? We’ve been in business thirty-three years. Why, my grandfather founded the company and my dad’s done a truly wonderful job making it grow.”

  “All of that’s true,” Harry conceded, “but none of it changes the fact that no one can promise your old man will be coming back to work.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “Yeah, but it’s true. Working with girls on the assembly line is one thing. Working for the boss’s daughter is something else. I’m here to tell you that it ain’t going to work over the long haul.”

  Her face flamed with anger and embarrassment. “I think I’ve done an excellent job,” she said, her voice low and controlled. “I doubt if my dad would disapprove of the choices I’ve made.”

  Barnes shrugged. It was obvious he didn’t give a fig for anything she had to say. His mind was made up and nothing she said or did would change that.

  If she had been a man, she would have punched him right in the nose. But she wasn’t a man, as he had so neatly pointed out, so she had to control her temper and use her mind instead.

  “Why don’t your men present me with a list of grievances in writing, and I’ll deal with them on a case-by-case basis.”

  “Your old man would’ve gone down into the factory and talked to the guys face-to-face.”

  She took a deep breath and prayed for patience. “As you told me not five minutes ago, Harry, the men don’t want to talk to the boss’s daughter.”

  Barnes looked discomfited and Catherine took some pleasure from that. He agreed to put the problems on paper, but made it clear nothing would come from the exercise.

  “Eddie Martin,” she said. “Talk to him.”

  Harry shook his head. “Martin’s a good egg, but all he can think about is getting into the army. First second he gets the nod, he’ll be gone so fast your head’ll spin.” He got to his feet. “Darn fool wants to join Uncle Sam so bad he gets himself into a barroom brawl. No, Eddie ain’t the one. You see what I mean? There’s still no one we can talk to.”

  “I’ll do my best for you, Harry,” she promised, extending her hand to him.

  He stuck his hands into the pockets of his work pants. “Like I said, what we need is someone who understands.”

  “You and me both, Harry,” she muttered as he lumbered from the office. “What I need is someone I can talk to.”

  * * *

  Dot awoke that morning with a renewed sense of purpose. Even before she opened her eyes, she knew everything was different. Tom was alive and well! His precious letter rested beneath her pillow—not that she needed to read it again, for every single golden word was etched in her heart.

  The long months of waiting for news of Tom were drifting into memory, and for the first time in ages she believed the war wouldn’t last forever.

  The end wouldn’t come tomorrow or the next day. It may not even come next month, but it would come. The day was approaching when her beloved husband would stride up the front walk, looking strong and handsome in his uniform, and all the empty places in her heart would be filled.

  But that was still sometime in the future. Today she had something else to be grateful for. Johnny Danza, the wonderful young man who had saved Tom’s life, slept soundly in Catherine’s bedroom, and it was up to the Wilson women to make certain he grew stronger and healthier with every day that passed.

  Dot washed and dressed swiftly, then hurried downstairs to the kitchen. The girls needed so little from her, and with Tom gone, she found it hard to find ways to fill her days. She cleaned the house and shopped for groceries and watched the clock, waiting for day to turn to evening and evening to turn into night.

  At least now that Johnny was staying with them, she had a reason to get up in the morning. How wonderful it was to have a man to fuss over again.

  The morning sped by. While she warmed turkey soup for Johnny’s lunch, Dr. Bernstein popped by to check on his progress.

  “Oh, to be young again.” Sy Bernstein shook his head when Dot ushered him into the kitchen after his examination. As she reached for the percolator on the stove, he added, “That fever would’ve felled any one of us.”

  Dot poured coffee into two heavy mugs and placed them on the table next to a bottle of milk. “He’s doing well, then?”

  “He’s doing well.” Dr. Bernstein fixed his coffee. “I’d like to take credit for it, but I have a feeling your TLC has as much to do with his progress as any of the medicines I’ve prescribed.”

  Beaming, she took her seat opposite him. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

  “Wish I could agree with you, Dorothy, but I have a feeling I’m not giving you and the girls enough.” He took a long sip of coffee. “Delicious. I’ve told Betty time and again to ask you your secret.”

  “There’s no secret, Dr. B. Just Eight O’Clock coffee from the A&P and my trusty old Silex.”

  They chatted awhile about Johnny. Dr. Bernstein explained something technical about the shrapnel wounds on Johnny’s chest and how they had affected his fever, but all she could think about was the fact that they would have the boy’s company for another few weeks. He was her link with Tom, and she welcomed a chance to repay his valor in some way, however small.

  After Dr. Bernstein left, she bustled upstairs to Catherine’s room with the turkey soup and soda crackers on her grandmother’s silver tray.

  Johnny was lying on his side, flipping through a stack of Life magazines. He glanced up when she entered the room, and her heart was gladdened by the look of pleased surprise on his face.

  “Sit up,” she ordered brightly. “Lunchtime!”

  He tried to do as she asked. She noted that he had trouble pushing with his right arm. The effects of the shrapnel wounds must be more far-reaching then she had realized.

  “Ouch!” he said, rolling back on his side. “I feel like a pincushion.”

  “No complaints, Johnny. According to Dr. B, you’re doing splendidly. It won’t be long before you’re out there jitterbugging again.”

  “At least I’ll be good for something.”

  She placed the tray on Catherine’s dressing table and propped some pillows behind the soldier’s back. “That’s a gloomy statement. Dr. B is so pleased.” She settled the tray across his lap and sat at the foot of the bed. “Is there something he didn’t tell me?”

  He took a spoonful of soup before he spoke. “I’m doing great,” he said after a while, “but not great enough for the army.”

  Maternal outrage filled her soul. “How dare they! Why, a body takes as long as it takes to recover from something as dreadful as the experience you went through. Who does the army think it is, forcing you out of your sickbed before your time?”

  “That’s not it, Mrs. Wilson. What I mean is, they don’t think I’ll recover enough to go back in.” He explained that he’d been in the army since before Pearl Harbor, and his time in the service combined with the injury meant he was liable to be honorably discharged sometime in the next couple of months.

  “Well, that’s wonderful news, Johnny! You’ll be safe and sound and you can pick up your life exactly where you left it years ago.”

  He fiddled with the silver soupspoon that had been her grandmother’s and her grandmother’s grandmother’s before hers. She wanted to reach out and hug him the way she hugged her own children, but she knew men could be funny about things like that. If Johnny Danza knew she sensed his sorrow and loneliness, he’d back away from her quicker than a cat from a rocking chair.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, mustering a smile. “It’s really wonderful.”

  She fussed with the dog tags and wallet and other items on the nightstand next to him. “Well, I’ll be...” She shook her head and reached deep into the pocket of her apron. “How could I forget?” She plac
ed a thin envelope next to his St. Christopher medal. “We found this with the letter from Tom. There was no name on it, so we figured...” She let her words drift delicately away.

  “Thanks,” Johnny mumbled, cheeks turning bright red. “It’s nothing important.”

  You’re as transparent as one of my own children, she thought, casting a glance at the soldier propped up in bed. You’re wearing your heart on your sleeve, Johnny Danza, but you’re just too stubborn to admit it.

  She’d bet dollars to doughnuts the letter was meant for Cathy.

  December 28, 1944

  Dear Gerry,

  This is my lunch hour but I thought it would be smarter to write a letter than to eat my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. I’m still full from Christmas cookies.

  I still can’t get used to writing on these V-Mail sheets but they get to you so quickly it’s worth a try. Isn’t it hard to believe this letter will be put on microfilm and shipped across the Atlantic with a thousand other letters on the same film? I can’t imagine how they turn the film back to letters again. Modern science!

  We’ve settled into a nice routine at home. At first I thought having Johnny around would feel strange—it’s been a long time since there’s been a man in the house! But he’s a really great guy and we like taking care of him. After what he did for Daddy, it’s the least we can do.

  The whole house seems to revolve around Johnny these days. Mom takes care of him during the day. She and Uncle Les bathe him and do all the things Mom thinks are too “personal” for Cathy and me to do. Of course there’s still plenty for us, although Cathy seems determined to do the lion’s share. I play cards with him and read him the funny papers and I’ve been doing my best to catch him up on all the scuttlebutt about the Yankees and the Dodgers, even though baseball hasn’t been the same since the war started, with Joe DiMaggio and all the other heavy hitters in the army.

  Nobody enjoys caring for Johnny the way Cathy does. He’s only been here for four days now and already it’s like she’s become a different person. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve heard her laugh the way she does when she’s with Johnny. Not that she has as much time as she’d like—there’s some kind of problem at work and she doesn’t get home until way after dinner. I’ve heard some talk along the assembly line that a union organizer is putting pressure on Cathy, but she won’t talk about it with me.

  Last night, however, I was stacking sheets and towels in the hallway linen closet and I heard her talking to Johnny. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together and come up with trouble. The men at the plant don’t want to talk to a girl and the fact that she’s the “boss’s daughter” makes it even worse. It hurts so much to see the look in her eyes when she walks into the cafeteria and the men ignore her. The women like her a lot. I guess they feel she’s on their side, and having another girl in charge makes going out to work less scary.

  But you know what hurts the most, Gerry? It’s knowing that Cathy’s really good at her job. The accountant told Mom that Wilson Manufacturing has had a banner year. Some of Cathy’s decisions paid off in spades. She even gave everyone a little Christmas bonus, and do you think anybody thanked her?

  Well, maybe in a few months this won’t matter anymore. With the big success our troops had in the Ardennes forest, it seems it’s just a matter of time. Daddy will come back home and Cathy can put all of these troubles behind her. Who knows? Maybe one day she’ll even find someone to love.

  Whoops! I just looked at my watch. It’s almost twelve-thirty and I have to get back to work or Cathy’ll have my head on a platter. I’ll mail this on my way home and write you another letter tonight.

  I love you so much, Gerry.

  Nancy

  * * *

  Catherine wasn’t sure if it was luck, skill or divine intervention, but the production quota of 6,000 units was made before work ended on December 31. Harry Barnes had given her a partial list of grievances, and she had gathered her courage and confronted the workers with her own partial list of remedies. That they hated talking to a mere woman was obvious; but also obvious was that, like it or not, she was the boss.

  Wilson Manufacturing was ending 1944 in better fiscal shape than it had started the year, and Catherine Wilson was responsible. Unfortunately that didn’t make facing New Year’s Eve alone any easier.

  She got home that evening in time to help Nancy primp for a party at her best friend Elaine’s house; once Nancy was on her way, it was time to curl her mom’s hair. The hospital where Dot volunteered was holding a social and her mother was in charge of entertainment.

  “Have a great time,” Catherine said, kissing her mother’s cheek.

  “Are you certain you won’t change your mind, honey? We’d love to have you.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I’m exhausted, Mom. I think I’ll stay home, listen to the radio, then go to bed early.”

  “Don’t forget Johnny’s medicine.”

  “I promise.” The truth was, she intended to do everything she had to do as quickly as she could, then call it a night.

  After her mother left she went upstairs to check on Johnny. He was sound asleep, still gripping the Daily News, and she smiled as she gently pried the newspaper from his hands and tucked the blanket around his torso. She placed the pitcher of water on the nightstand and rested the pill next to it. On a piece of notepaper she scribbled the words “Take this” and balanced it against the glass.

  Dinner was soup and a sandwich by the fire. She listened to Edward R. Murrow’s report and smiled at Jack Benny’s New Year’s Eve show. A light snow was falling outside and it was pleasant to sit there, curled up on the couch, watching the world go by.

  * * *

  “Cathy.”

  She burrowed her face more deeply into the sofa cushion.

  “You’re going to miss New Year’s.”

  Johnny? She opened her eyes and found him sitting on the arm of the sofa. “What on earth...?” She yawned, then quickly ran her hands through her hair.

  “Don’t,” he said. “I like it kind of mussed like that.”

  She sat up, tugging at the hem of her sweater. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the darkened room. “Looks that way.”

  She stifled another yawn. “What are you doing up? You should be in bed.”

  “Got the all clear from Bernstein. Time I started getting my legs working again. Besides, I wasn’t about to welcome in 1945 by myself.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten to midnight.”

  She sank back against the sofa cushions. “This is a far cry from Times Square, isn’t it?”

  “Angie and I went there the year we got married. Too crowded, if you ask me.”

  “Angie?”

  He stood up, tugging the belt on her father’s old bathrobe. “My ex-wife.”

  “Oh.” She swung her feet to the floor and felt around for her slippers. It was hard to remember Johnny had once been a married man. She’d never known a divorced person before. The notion of marriage being dissolved in a courtroom was as alien to her as the idea of space travel. “Why don’t I get us some eggnog. I can’t imagine welcoming in the New Year without a toast, can you?”

  He rose to his feet and held out his hand to her.

  She hesitated, then put her hand in his, rising to stand next to him. Again she was struck by how tall he was. His leanness only served to emphasize the natural power of his frame, the breadth of his shoulders, and she wondered how it was she had managed to forget what now seemed all too apparent.

  Motioning for Johnny to follow, she led the way through the dimly lit hall to the kitchen. Why had she picked tonight to wear this foolish blue sweater? It pulled too snugly across her breasts and rode too high on her waist. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, and she wished she had a rubber band to tame it into a ponytail.

  “Six minutes,” said Johnny, pointing to the clock over the sink as she flicked on
the overhead light.

  “Sit down. I’ll have it ready in two shakes.”

  Thank heaven for something to do. She found it so easy to talk to Johnny when he was lying beneath the covers in her bedroom, looking vulnerable and needy. These past few days she’d told him more about what was really going on at the plant than she’d told her mother in the past year. So why was she finding it almost impossible to breathe as she poured the eggnog into the heavy goblets? The only difference that she could see was that now Johnny was vertical instead of horizontal. But for some reason, that one little difference changed everything.

  She handed him his goblet. “Three minutes,” she said with a nod toward the clock. “Here or in the living room?”

  “Living room.”

  Once again she led him through the hallway, conscious of the sway of her hips, the soft brush of her hair against her cheek, the idiotic way her heart was thudding in her chest. She switched on the table lamp in the far corner of the room, then tuned in the radio to a live report from Times Square. Johnny sat down on the sofa and motioned for her to join him. She felt as if she had lead inside her slippers; each step required an act of will.

  She sat down on the cushion next to him. Her right knee brushed against the hem of his bathrobe and she blushed like a schoolgirl.

  The radio announcer’s voice filled the room: “... and as the clock approaches midnight, the world eagerly awaits the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and forty-five—a year we hope will bring an end to war...”

  She lifted her glass. “To peace.”

  He lifted his glass in answer. “To your dad’s safe return home.”

  “... eight... seven... six...”

  “To your health,” she said.

  “To you.”

  “... three... two... one... Ha-a-ppy New Year, everybody!”

  They clicked glasses. She raised the glass to her lips, but before she could take a sip, he took it from her and placed it with his on the coffee table.

  “Johnny.” Her voice was tremulous, low with both surprise and anticipation.

  He took her hand. “Happy New Year, Cathy.”