Julia nodded before he’d finished. She was more than happy to accept the testament of a former sailor. Not just any sailor, mind you. A bos’n's mate who had been awarded the Navy Cross from the Great War. A war that should have ended all wars.
“Say,” she said, redirecting, “why don’t I go see if I can help in the kitchen. I have to do something to earn my room and board.”
“You just being here is reward enough,” he told her. “But while you’re at it, you tell my wife I want a double scoop of vanilla. No need to be stingy.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” She saluted and set off to join Cora, in need of the woman’s contagiously high spirit.
The sweet aroma of baked strawberries pulled Julia around the corner and into the kitchen. “Mrs. Downing,” she reported, “your husband has decreed any piece of pie unacceptable without two enormous scoops.”
Cora stood at the counter, an apron tied about her waist, her back to Julia. Three plates of lattice-crusted pie wedges awaited ice cream from the opened carton. She didn’t answer.
Julia stepped closer. “Mrs. Downing?”
Cora jumped, yanked from the basement of her thoughts.
“Sorry,” Julia said. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Don’t be silly, dear.” She swiped her hand across her cheeks, erasing evidence of her private tears. “My mind was just wandering. Happens in old age.” She tossed over a pleasant glance, almost brief enough to conceal her reddened eyes.
Julia hesitated before moving toward the counter.
“Oh no, would you look at that.” Cora grabbed a dishcloth with her free hand and dabbed at the elbow of her lilac sleeve. “Here you’ve made me this beautiful blouse, and I’m ruining it by not paying attention.” A slight shake altered her voice as she worked the fabric harder.
Julia touched Cora’s hand that held a small ladle. “Please. Let me do this.” The woman tightened her grip, a stranger to accepting help. But Julia waited patiently. At last, Cora allowed the utensil to slide from her palm.
A small nod and Julia began salvaging the ice cream, its top layer liquefying to malted milk. She was on the third serving when Cora’s face angled to hers. Sorrow and frustration appeared in the woman’s eyes, a longing to bring back the family she’d lost.
A lump lodged at the base of Julia’s throat.
“Julia …I’m so …”
Julia whispered her reply. “I understand.”
Cora tucked her lips and nodded in gratitude. With a loving mother’s hand, she brushed Julia’s stray curls off her cheek. “Thank you,” she said, “for being here. It’s been a long time since we’ve had laughter in this house.”
After a pause, Cora sniffed once and puffed out a breath. Then she opened a drawer and produced three forks, smile reattached. “What do you say we eat these before they turn to mush?”
Julia grabbed two plates and stood at attention. “You lead the way.”
Lying in bed, Julia flipped this way and that. Her cheeks ached from giggling along with Christian’s parents at the new radio show The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, a nice break from FDR’s Fireside Chats or the nail-biting reports of casualties. Although she’d downed her glass of heated milk an hour ago, its warmth still flowed through her, massaging her spent muscles. She’d packed a month’s worth of activities into a single weekend: tending a victory garden with Mrs. Downing and mothers of Christian’s friends; carting tin foil and scrap metal to a salvage drive; attending a bond rally at a local park.
Julia had every reason to be out like a light. Well, except for one. The fact that the bed beneath her was Christian’s. As was everything in the room.
He’d been away for months, but his scent clung to the fluffy pillow: a mix of mint soap and easeful sleep. Covering the case fabric were images of baseballs and bats, their colors faded from years of laundering in the kitchen sink. He had probably been using the same bedding since he was five. No wonder she could smell his skin, his hair, his breath, in the sheets wrapped about her.
She felt his indentation in the mattress, an impression from his usual side-sleeping position. Rolling onto her hip, she fitted herself within the curves. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine his arms holding her. Just as they’d done the last night they spent together, before she and his parents had seen him off at the station.
As was proper, she had been assigned to stay in his brother’s bedroom next door, with Ian gone off to war. But not even a Nazi prison warden could have kept her from sneaking into Christian’s room once darkness had settled heavy over the house. She’d poked her head in, afraid he had already fallen asleep. Instead, he lay there smiling broadly up at her, as if to say, It’s about darn time, Red.
He slid back the quilt, inviting her to join him. Questions thrashed in her mind: What did this mean? What was she consenting to? Considering the ring he’d given her, though fresh on her finger, weren’t they practically married?
Nerves skittering, she closed the door and tiptoed over the chilly wooden planks. She climbed into the warmth of his blankets. Her head on his arm, they gazed into each other’s eyes. He ran his hand across her cheek, then down her chin and neck. His eyes followed slowly, as if etching every angle into his memory. Her heart picked up speed as he trailed over the shoulder of her nightgown and down the bare stretch of her arm. Her skin came alive with each inch traveled. When he reached her hip, her toes curled in anticipation.
Yet he went no farther.
He threaded his fingers between hers and brought their linked hands to his lips.
“Wait for me?” he whispered, and kissed her fingertips.
She smiled gently, tears welling, and she nodded. When he smiled back, she rested her head on his chest. Through his undershirt, she heard his heart beat in a rhythm of waves lapping the shore. Waves that made no promises in a sea of the unknown.
And so they lay in the quiet, unwilling to sacrifice the moment for sleep, hoping the sun would simply forget to rise. Not until the crack of dawn did she slip out from the covers and back into Ian’s bedroom, only to hear his mother making breakfast downstairs. If his parents had wondered why her eyes drooped as much as Christian’s that morning, they kept it to themselves.
Now, smelling him in every trace of the room, she felt the same inability to sleep—this time regretting that on that night, or a dozen others before it, she hadn’t tossed decency to the winds.
Detouring the thought, she visually collected her surroundings. Moonlight between the curtains slatted lines over photos taped to the wall. The cluster of snapshots was already stamped in her memory: she and Christian rowing a boat at Jackson Park; the two of them on the Navy Pier, sharing the sticky mess of a candied apple; a group of his teenage buddies camping at Saginaw Bay; he and Ian in raggedy trousers as kids, proudly holding up a pair of catfish on a line. Except for their heights, it was hard to tell the brothers apart. Same oval faces, pointed chins, same sparkling smiles.
Her gaze continued to roam, pausing on the shelf of sports memorabilia. An autographed baseball rested in a dark leather glove Christian was always bending and softening. First-place ribbons hung on trophies from various competitions, faced outward and neatly displayed. She began to count them, then realized they could very well substitute for sheep. By the tenth time through, she’d most certainly be out.
One, two …three, four …five—
A noise jarred her. A muffled yell. She froze and listened.
There it was again. Louder this time. And a word, indiscernible, from the next room. Ian having a bad dream?
She tuned him out, resumed her counting.
“Stop!” he said through the wall.
Oh, bother. If he kept this up, she’d never get any sleep. And she still needed time to repack her suitcase first thing in the morning. Maybe Mrs. Downing could calm him down.
Julia scooted out of bed and into the hallway.
“Get out!” Ian cried.
She glanced down the hall toward George and Co
ra’s room. No sounds of movement or light under the door, as dark and still as the inside of a hat.
“Good grief,” she muttered. Resolving this herself would be the more sensible option. His poor mother deserved a peaceful night’s rest.
Julia knocked lightly on Ian’s door. Then a little harder to ensure she wouldn’t have to get out of bed twice.
She waited.
Nothing.
Relieved, she turned for Christian’s room.
“Help me….” Ian moaned.
Of all the words he could have used.
With a sigh, she took hold of his doorknob. She modestly gathered the collar of her nightdress and tipped her head into the room.
“Ian,” she stressed in a whisper. “Ian, wake up.”
“They’re up there! Behind you!”
He was going to wake the whole blasted house.
She scuttled into his room and closed the door. “Ian,” she repeated, now at conversation level.
Back and forth he twisted in the sheet, legs and elbows jerking.
She moved closer, a cautious invasion of his private space. The moon’s glow from the window outlined the muscles of his bare chest, increasing her discomfort. She nudged the back of his shoulder with her fingertip. “Wake up,” she told him.
He rolled toward her, his breathing uneven. His eyes twitched beneath closed lids. Still dreaming.
A last resort, she reached down and gave his arm a shake. In an instant, a violent blur, she was hurled onto her back. Ian’s hands clenched her throat as he straddled her on the bed. His eyes, stretched wild, trained on his own grasp, set on destroying the enemy. She battled to breathe, pushing at his wrists, at his chest. Pressure mounted against her skull.
“Ian,” she choked out. “It’s me.”
She clawed at his fingers as her throat convulsed. Her legs kicked worthlessly beneath his weight. Dizziness and horror nibbled the gray edges of her mind.
Abruptly, Ian relinquished his grip. Air flooded her lungs. Starved for oxygen, they drank in too much. Her hands guarded her neck as she coughed. Her heart slammed into her chest wall, an aftershock of terror.
Curled in a ball, she calmed her breathing while rubbing her neck. Sore but safe. After a long moment, with concerted effort, she forced her head up. On the corner of the bed, Ian sat in his boxer shorts, knees drawn, fists pressed to his temples.
“Oh God,” he rasped. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Choppy breaths flowed in and out. He looked at her with an expression of vulnerability unlike any she’d ever seen. The remorse in his eyes trumped her concern for her own well-being.
Slow with reluctance, she dared to reach for him. When her hand grazed his elbow, he jerked away, an animal wary of a trap. His body shook.
Lord Almighty …What had they put him through?
She leaned toward him, meeting his gaze. “I’m okay.” She touched his arm again and spoke with conviction. “It’s not your fault, Ian. Believe me, it’s not your fault.”
A silent beat passed before the ridges in his forehead began to fade.
Julia stood and lifted the top of the crumpled sheet. “Try to get some rest,” she told him.
He didn’t move.
She encouraged him with a smile and tip of her head. “Go on, now.”
Gradually, he unfolded onto his side and into place. She layered him with the sheet, then the blanket. In a final gesture, she smoothed a wrinkle in his pillowcase. As she started away, he grasped her hand, tensing her arm.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered.
Still cautious, she turned to face him.
“I just…” Despair filled his eyes. “I don’t want to be alone.”
She glanced at the door, considered what his parents might think if they happened to come check on their son.
“Please stay,” he pleaded. “Just till I fall asleep?” His tone hinted at embarrassment from having to ask. The sound tore at her heart.
She tightened her grip on his hand, a signal of agreement. When she reiterated with a nod, he relaxed his head into the pillow.
Perched on the edge of the mattress, she watched his eyes close, his worries drift away. Shadows graced his face, creating a replica of his brother. Comfort and serenity poured over her like a hot bath. By morning, reality would replace the illusion, but for now, in this moment, her dear Christian slept beside her.
With her thumb, she gently brushed his temple, verifying he was real. “Shh,” she soothed as she stroked his hair, already knowing that against her better judgment, she would stay until the first sobering rays of dawn.
15
October 1944
Chicago, Illinois
Liz opened the front door and tooke. Volunteers buzzed about the room on interwoven paths. Banners and posters streaked the walls in red, white, and blue. A carpenter on a ladder hammered repairs—alternating tap-tap-taps and bam-bam-bams—over the strident rings of a phone. From sign-age on straw hats to campaign buttons pinned to lapels, the credo was clear: Harris for U.S. Senate—a vote for America.
“Are you here to volunteer, miss?” The narrow woman with a large helmet of hair emerged from the swarm, clipboard in hand. Her wide-set eyes shone with such earnestness Liz hesitated in replying.
“Actually, I’m looking for Mr. Harris.”
“Ah,” she said, a sharp breath. “Which Mr. Harris do you have business with?”
“Oh, excuse me.” Liz had forgotten to clarify. “It’s Dalton Harris I was hoping to see.”
“You have an appointment, I presume?”
Liz had the sudden feeling she’d broken a cardinal rule. “No, I’m—afraid I don’t.”
“I see.” The woman peered down the slope of her pointed nose. “I believe Mr. Harris is on a very important call to Washington at the moment. So it might be a while before he can get to you.” She exuded an air of being in the know, depositing Liz on the outside of that privileged circle. “May I tell him who’s here?”
“It’s Elizabeth. Stephens.” Then, having second thoughts, she added, “But if he’s going to be tied up—”
“Miss Stephens?” Her expression illuminated as if a revelation had shot sunbeams straight through the ceiling. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I …didn’t know—”
“That you’re only the most talked-about couple in Chicago?”
The dramatic shift in attitude left Liz struggling for a response.
“Your engagement announcement,” the woman explained. “In the Daily Times this morning. It’s been quite the topic today. Everyone gossiping over losing its most-prized bachelor.” She shook her head and sighed. “And now I have the honor of meeting the woman responsible.” Despite the gal’s smile, Liz felt as though she were being sized up like a long shot at the Kentucky Derby.
Liz cleared her throat. “As I was saying, I’d be happy to stop by later, if it’s more convenient.”
She caught Liz’s elbow, titled her head. “For you, dear, I’m certain he’ll make time. Come, come, follow me.” She navigated a trail around boxes and tables. Paint fumes, from what appeared to be a parade sign, assaulted the air.
Upon reaching a door across the way, the woman rapped gently on the frosted glass panel. She peeked inside. Murmurs were exchanged before she pivoted, grip possessively on the handle, and swung the door open for Liz. “Please, go on in,” she whispered.
Liz crossed the threshold to find Dalton seated at an oversized oak desk. The door rattled closed behind her.
Dalton lifted his chin at her in greeting, a handset pressed to his ear. “Definitely, sir. I couldn’t agree with you more.” He nodded as though the caller could see him. Then he laughed, a negotiation woven into the rise and fall of his voice. His sleek black tie swagged beneath two unfastened buttons. Rolled sleeves exposed forearms leading to hands that promised to sculpt the country’s future.
“We stick to the plan,” he went on, “and those suckers won’t know what hit ‘em.”
L
iz gripped the handles of her purse, feeling intrusive. She noted the engraved nameplate propped on his desktop, the official-looking documents splayed over the stacked file folders. The magnitude of his importance was never so palpable.
He concluded his conversation and dropped the phone onto its cradle. “Lizzy.” Face brightening, he rounded the desk. He cupped her shoulders and gave her a kiss, an act so routine her lips barely registered the touch. “What are you doing here?”
He seemed tired but happy. Too happy for her to tell him the core reason she’d come.
“I had a few hours to kill between classes and work. If you’re free, I thought we could sneak away. Maybe share a sundae or something.” The suggestion conjured memories of swiveling on stools at Tasty’s, the two of them playfully fighting over the prized syrupy cherry.
Dalton laughed as he glanced out the window, where a gray wall of chilled sky had blotted out the afternoon rays. “A sundae? In this weather?”
She rolled her shoulders. “Someone has to keep dairy farmers in business.”
A look of serious consideration swept over his face. “Now, that”—he wagged a finger—“could be a helpful tactic if our points ever take a dive.” He paused before boosting a grin.
Liz sighed, relieved he was only kidding. Although …the idea of gobbling Rocky Road for the benefit of the nation was awfully tempting.
She continued with alternatives. “We could get soup instead. Or just take a walk?”
A tap on the door preceded the reappearance of Liz’s greeter. “Excuse me, Mr. Harris. I apologize for interrupting, but Mr. Field’s office just phoned.”
He perked. “What’s the verdict?”
“His secretary said he could squeeze you in to discuss the commercial zoning bill, if you can be there in twenty minutes.”
Letters From Home Page 13