Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  Picnic supplies depleted, Betty and Leslie sat in silence, peering out over the dark pool. The soft static of tumbling water alone should have induced complete serenity. But their time together was waning too quickly for Betty to relax. In mere hours, Leslie would be gone, perhaps forever. Considering how many life stories she’d collected from other patients, knowing so little about him didn’t seem right. Not after the encounter they had shared in the supply tent, or the portrait he’d drawn, a peek into her soul.

  “Is it harder for a pilot, being left-handed?” she asked, as if adding to an existing conversation.

  He glanced down at his left arm, flexed his fingers, now free of plaster. “Been a mollydooker all my life. Reckon I don’t know any different.”

  Ah, silly question. “So …what is it you like about flying?”

  He rested the tip of his tongue on his bottom lip, thinking. “Hard to beat the rush it gives ya. And blowing things up isn’t too bad either.”

  A reasonable answer, but nothing she couldn’t have already guessed. “Well,” she said, “what else do you …enjoy doing …?”

  Her words fell away when he brushed the loose hair from her cheek and smiled. A glimmer in his eyes told her he understood the reason behind her inquiries, and yet assured her there was no need for them. They already knew more about each other than any purge or interrogation could reveal.

  At the thought, she found herself leaning toward him, toward the sensual roundness of his lips. But then he pulled his hand away. When he turned abruptly to the water, she sat up, shifted her legs to her side of the blanket.

  His reaction was understandable, of course. Feeling so exposed would usually have frightened her off as well, sent her running for the mountains. Chances were high they might never see one another again, regardless of desire, and clearly he wasn’t the type to promise the contrary.

  “How about a dip before we go?” he mumbled, yanking his buttoned shirt over his head.

  She averted her eyes to a nearby log—for her own sake, not his—as he tossed aside his shoes and socks, and stepped into the water in his uniform shorts. He pushed off with a breaststroke and glided across the surface.

  Betty debated on following. Wasn’t that why she was here—for a swim? She would be a madwoman not to enjoy the refreshing, clean water, particularly after all the effort spent locating the place. And since she was already risking military punishment anyway, she might as well make her delinquency worthwhile.

  Rising, she slipped out of her footwear, then her trousers and shirt. She smoothed the white fabric of her bathing suit shorts and adjusted the cinched center of her halter top. Had it been a conservative one-piece, its stitch work would have made her aunt proud. No one back home would guess Betty herself had single-handedly created the stylish garment, and all from a silk bomb chute.

  She unbound her hair and eased into the pool. With a gasp, she descended past her stomach, up to her neck. It took only seconds for the initial chill to subside. The temperature was that of a lukewarm bath. She floated on her back, casually scissoring her legs. The satiny liquid enwrapped her body, swaying her mane like an artist’s brush. Eyes closed, she caught a scent of flowers and the freshness of springtime.

  Any reason to be somewhere else ebbed away. The rustling in the jungle she’d heard earlier, while on their way here, could very well have been Kitzafenny on her trail, and still Betty would refuse to return.

  “Find your own way back,” she called to Leslie, who was treading water. “I’m not leaving here, ever.”

  “Take to the trees and live off the land? You, all alone?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Well, we know how handy you are in the jungle.”

  Righting herself, she shoved a splash in his direction.

  “See, now,” he said, “you can’t even defend yourself from a brute like me.”

  She glared. “I’ll hire a clan of natives to protect me, then.”

  “Oh? With what payment? Leaves and rocks?”

  She inspected her resources, and spotted a cove mostly hidden by a waterfall. “Gold coins,” she said triumphantly. “Pirates hid a chest full of them in that cave.”

  “Beaut idea,” he replied. “If the treasure weren’t already mine.”

  “Can’t claim what’s not yours, Lieutenant.”

  He nodded, pondering. “Then I’d say first one to find it is a rich man.”

  “Rich woman,” she corrected.

  “Fair dinkum.” He grinned. “All contenders, on your mark, get set—”

  She took off kicking, snagging a head start. Giddiness filled her as she scooped out waves with short but swift arm strokes. At the thick sheet of pounding water, she grabbed a gulp of air and ducked under to reach the pirates’ lair. She broke the surface on the other side. Not two seconds later, Leslie emerged beside her.

  “You dunny rat,” he exclaimed, and ran a palm down his dripping face. “You cheated!”

  “All’s fair,” she giggled, catching her breath. Her feet found the slick, mossy ground. Knees bent, she floated chest-high and marveled at their hideaway. Moonlight filtered through the waterfall in a foggy glow. Sounds of the beating shower echoed off the cave walls, a hypnotic melody. If only she could live here forever.

  She swiped her hands down the length of her hair, draining streams over her shoulders. And that’s when she felt the night change, the air intensify. She angled toward Leslie, their faces level, his mouth slightly parted. His gaze, charged with wanting, altered even the sensation of the water. Her eyes followed the definition of his glistening shoulders, settling on the broad chest she’d often fantasized caressing. An ache coursed through her.

  Once more, her heart whispered a warning. This time, she heard the words: It’s now or never. Not the caution she expected, but true all the same. If the war had taught her anything, it was how precious, how fleeting life could be.

  Submitting to her instincts, she stepped forward through the mist. Moisture carried their unspoken passion into her lungs. Brazenly, tenderly, she touched the pink scar over Leslie’s breastbone. His breathing grew heavier. She leaned down and kissed a trail over the raised line, a passageway to his yearning. He shuddered, rippling the water.

  “Betty,” he said. “We can’t.”

  She lifted her face. Her hand on his tightened chest, she could feel his heart thundering.

  He swallowed. “It’s not fair to you.”

  With her fingers, she covered his lips, quieting him. “I know I may not see you again,” she told him. “But we’re together now. Somehow, nothing else matters.”

  Gently he moved her hand from his mouth. “But, Betty—”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything more.”

  He held her gaze, consented through his silence, drawing her into the transcendence of his eyes.

  A need sweltered inside her, to do what she hadn’t dared during even the few sexual experiences of her life. With each of those boys pledging his undying love, she’d gone willingly, curiously, desperate to fill the emptiness. Then before they’d had a chance to discover the falsehood of her beauty—that the dresses and hair and cosmetics were but a diversion—she would move on to the next beau, sacrificing a lad’s heart to protect her own.

  However, tonight, for the first time, she wanted someone to see all of her. She needed to know that deep down she had the courage to expose herself as the pane of glass she was—with the cracks and smudges, the fragility—and not shatter beneath his judgment.

  Pulse racing, she stepped back and straightened to her full height. The waterline dropped like a robe to her waist. She reached around to the middle of her back, never leaving his eyes, and unfastened the button. The strips separated and dangled, tickled her sides. With trembling fingers, she retrieved an end of the bow tied behind her neck. She released the binding in one fluid pull. The garment fell away, caught by the water’s surface.

  She felt the hands of Leslie’s gaze sliding ov
er her body. Seconds passed like hours as she allowed the terrifying exploration. Gleaming in wonderment, he rose to his feet and moved toward her. He placed a tentative palm on her shoulder, as though expecting to pass through a mirage. His fingers glided downward, following the path his eyes had traveled: over the outside contour of her breast, the in and out of her waist, the slope of her hip.

  “My God,” he whispered, “you’re so beautiful.” He spoke with such fervor, she finally believed she was.

  She linked her arms around his neck. Her chest, then the flat of her stomach, melted into his skin. Her nerves settled and drifted away, natural as the tide. A tide she would surrender to completely.

  He bent and kissed her shoulder, a long sensual movement. She lowered her neck to the side as his tongue journeyed upward. His hands stroked her back, sculpting her into the masterpiece she’d become in his arms. At last his mouth found hers, their forms merging into one.

  Her final thought, before ecstasy blurred her world, was that if this were a dream, she never wanted to wake.

  The meal cart had turned weightless. Betty effortlessly guided the wheels over the planks of the ward, still riding the crest of her bliss, still feeling the rapture of his body molded to hers. She coasted from bed to bed, taking meal trays. Her grin stretched from ear to ear. Only when she reached Leslie’s bed did her joy wilt.

  The cot stood empty, the sheets disheveled. His belongings had been packed and shipped out with him, proof of his existence erased.

  A ribbon of regret twisted inside her, a knot for which she could blame only herself. She was the one who’d suggested they not see each other following their parting kiss near her barracks—easily done, since his pickup was scheduled for 0600 hours. She’d told him she wasn’t a fan of sappy good-byes. The truth was, she wanted him to remember her as he’d seen her behind that waterfall, not as the blubbering wreck she might have been while watching him being driven away. The reality of his departure, she was determined to take in doses.

  Now, however, staring at the bed soon to be filled by another wounded soldier, Betty would do just about anything to have seen him off that morning, to once more feel the sensation of his lips on hers. To declare she loved him.

  Compressing her emotions, she focused on the chore at hand. She hadn’t brought replacement linens, but she would strip his sheets regardless. Silly as it seemed, she wanted to be the last to handle his bedding. Her secret claim to the intimacy they’d shared.

  Slowly, as if to prolong the remnants of his presence, she pulled the top cover loose and rolled it into her arms. The bundle smelled of earth and rebellion. For a second, she was tempted to hoard the fabric, a sachet to keep his image alive. But she knew that eventually his scent would fade like a whisper, until all that remained was a wrinkled ball of linen and the memory of one perfect night.

  She set the sheet down and reached for his pillow. Hidden beneath, she discovered a folded paper. Scribed in pencil was a single word: Betty.

  She caught herself smiling—a cockeyed smile, no doubt—and took a seat on the cot. Anticipation of the unexpected rushed through her. Yet when she opened the page, she realized the obviousness of his gift. It was the sketch of her face, plus a handwritten note.

  No outlaw should be without a portrait. This one is on the house.

  Missing you already,

  LK

  Betty refolded the drawing and tucked it into her trouser pocket. She brushed away a single tear and stored her tangled feelings of happiness, worry, and longing. She would wait for a private moment to unravel each component, not yet ready to cushion their impact.

  Standing, she resumed her task by gathering the rest of his bedding. In her usual turnover routine, she peeked under the cot, where she found the standard trail: gum and candy wrappers, a pencil stub, eraser shavings, shreds of paper from torn envelope seals. Occasionally, staff would find an item of greater value that would go into lost and found or, depending on the locator, fall under the category of finders keepers.

  Betty couldn’t help wishing Leslie had left yet another sentimental treasure behind for her—perhaps a book of poems by the infamous Joe Byrne. But alas she’d inherited mere litter for her palm.

  About to rise, she noticed a wallet-sized photograph propped between a cot leg and the ward wall. Could it be a picture of him? A portrait of the uniformed pilot for her to keep?

  All this time and she’d never thought to seek out a camera from someone on staff. Not that she needed proof he had been real. He’d left his imprint on her heart, invisible to others but with permanence she detected with every rhythmic beat.

  She knelt and stretched her arm under the bed, then yanked the photo free. The image was clearly a family member, a memento he’d left by accident.

  A disappointed sigh slipped from her mouth.

  Although …it did make a great excuse to write Leslie first. Maybe he’d even dropped it there for that purpose. She wouldn’t put it past him. The scoundrel.

  Curious for details, hungry for anything about his life, she flipped the picture over. A note appeared on the back. She read the words, bewildered. The second time through, the implications materialized. Like the teeth of a vampire, they pierced layer after layer, sinking painfully into her being. She felt her soul being sucked away as she collapsed against the bed, the photo still clinging to her hand.

  34

  February 1945

  Evanston, Illinois

  “Jules, I’m home!” Liz tapped her snow-tipped shoes against the entry baseboard. She pulled off her damp black mittens and tossed them onto the heated radiator. “My group wanted to finish the whole project tonight,” she called out. “Believe it or not, I was the first one to leave.”

  She shook the moist flakes off her braids as she headed down the hallway. The notes of “As Time Goes By” flowed from Julia’s illuminated bedroom. Passing the kitchen, Liz flicked a glance at the rooster clock on the wall.

  Late but doable. If they hurried, they could still catch the newsreel preceding Lifeboat, Hitchcock’s latest, followed by some new Loretta Young flick even Liz had been wanting to see.

  She rubbed her hands together and hastened her steps. Approaching the door, she stifled a sneeze. Infiltrating the air was the overpowering woodsy scent of the perfume Julia had recently received from Christian as a Valentine’s gift.

  Leave it to a guy to choose a fragrance that smelled like a campground.

  Liz poked her head into the room. “Jules, do you have any gloves I could—” Her words broke off at the sight of the redhead adorned in her sheer, shoulder-length wedding veil, seated at the vanity. Again.

  By now, it was a wonder Liz noticed the accessory at all. Since Julia’s shopping excursion in Manhattan, the veil had been on constant exhibition around the house. Laundry, homework, dishes, dusting—no chore was too mundane for the display.

  “You’re not really going to wear that to the movie, are you?” Liz said. “You’ll block half the screen for all the lovebirds sitting behind you.” She marched over to the shortwave radio on the nightstand and clicked the power off. “Come on, let’s scoot. I hate getting stuck in the back of the balcony.”

  Julia wasn’t cooperating

  “All right, Mrs. Christian Downing.” Liz snatched the empty boutique box from the foot of the bed and held it out. “Either I’m going or the veil’s going, but not both.”

  The redhead didn’t budge.

  “Hel-looo,” Liz sang.

  Julia gazed into the mirror, a stoic expression carved on her face.

  A spark of concern pulled Liz to the vanity. “Jules, what’s wrong?”

  Slowly Julia handed over the folded beige papers from her lap.

  “What is this?”

  No response.

  Setting the box aside, Liz combated a list of assumptions. Grief streaked each scenario. Hesitant, she knelt on the floor before unfolding the pages. An embossed emblem of a golden eagle with ropes and anchors appeared at the top. Recogni
zing the stationery as Christian’s, she could already feel the hem of Julia’s world loosening.

  My beloved Julia,

  If you are reading this letter, darling, it means I will not be coming home. The mere thought of us not being together brings tears to my eyes. For as long as I can remember, I have dreamt of little more than spending every minute by your side. I have so looked forward to the day when I would make you my bride, when I could hear you declare to heaven and earth that you had chosen me.

  On nights like tonight when I can’t sleep, I often lie here in my bunk making plans for our future. I imagine the home we would buy and the children we would fill it with—sons who are strong but fair, daughters with your grace and soft red curls. I can just see us, sitting on the front porch many years from now, reminiscing over memories of days gone by. Even in old age, I know you will be just as beautiful as the day I first saw you walk into my uncle’s store, a day that changed my life forever.

  If, for me, tomorrow doesn’t come, this would be my solitary wish: to spend one more day holding you in my arms, kissing your lips, and telling you how much I love you. No matter how short our time has been together, please know that you alone have carried me through this trying war, and given me the true reason to fight for our country’s freedom.

  There is no question in my mind that our souls will one day reunite at heaven’s gate. However, until then, I plead that you live a happy and fulfilling life, regardless of my absence. As hard as it is on me to envision you in the arms of another man, I will only rest peacefully knowing you will someday marry a fellow who will cherish you as dearly as I, and have a houseful of children to bring you joy.

  You have so much love to give, so much kindness to share, that you must promise to follow the journey God has laid out for you. I ask simply that you think of me every once in a while and recall the teenage boy you met one summer, who for a short time was given the chance to touch your heart.