Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  She turned the acronym over in her head. UTF …UTF …

  Her determination matched that of a military code breaker, not yielding until the translation emerged with terrifying clarity. The power a mere few words could possess shocked her yet again. For the grouping of letters could mean only one thing.

  UNABLE TO FORWARD.

  40

  October 1945

  Evanston, Illinois

  Well past noon and still Betty lay awake in bed, gazing out the window at the tarp of solemn gray clouds. Even alone, she could feel the tightrope beneath her feet. It was a balancing act, looking forward, never backward, maintaining her sanity without a net. Most of all, hoping no one noticed she was treading on a wire.

  Forced by thirst, she pushed off the covers, equally relieved to have a goal and agitated it took her only so far as the Frigidaire. In her closet, her green housecoat drooped on a hanger, cowering in the presence of her WAC dress uniform. The chocolate brown jacket hung stiff and proud, boastful with all of Betty’s “fruit salad”: campaign ribbons for show, overseas bars she’d earned, battle stars she hadn’t. She ran her fingers over the pointed collar, starched from the day they’d dropped anchor in San Francisco Harbor. Fireboats had sprayed glorious colors; a band on a ferry played patriotic tunes. As the servicewomen had disembarked down the plank, a lion’s roar of cheers exploded behind them. Covering every surface of the cruise ship were soldiers extending their heartfelt gratitude.

  She released a sigh and threw on her full-length robe. Her thin white slip now served as her nightly wear; it most closely resembled the feel of sleeping in the nude, to which she’d grown accustomed.

  En route to the kitchen, she passed an open closet full of dusty books, their smell reminiscent of the high school library she’d done her best to avoid. A rumor of something like vanilla added to the mix. The scents must have always been in the house, so how was it she’d never noticed until now? And why did she feel like an intruder in a place she used to call home?

  Everything around her seemed different. Each furnishing and adornment was in the exact same spot as the day she left for basic, yet somehow the house felt altered. Smaller maybe.

  She fetched milk from the icebox and sat at the table. She didn’t stop drinking until every chilled drop had trickled down her throat, a much-missed nourishment that, incredibly, failed to satisfy.

  Behind her, the radiator clanked, then settled. The quiet became unnerving. Already she missed the bustling of her barracks. They’d all been so excited about the prompt demobilization process, Betty hadn’t considered what her life would be like once she returned, left again without a family, without purpose.

  Could she really go back to taking food orders at some greasy spoon? From saving lives to serving burgers?

  She had so much to say and no one to say it to.

  Since arriving home several days ago, she had zipped in and out, exchanging idle talk with folks in town. Some praised her for her service; others looked at her askance, adding links to the slanderous chains of gossip. Evidently, people terrified of societal change found comfort in believing that the primary WAC duty had been to keep up the morale of male soldiers—by any means possible.

  The ignorance of it all.

  She’d come close to venting her frustrations to Liz, but the announcement of Christian’s death had derailed her thoughts. She had barely absorbed the news when the phone rang. Rosalyn had called to share she’d gotten engaged to the combat photographer she and Betty had met after their hospital relocated to Manila. While Betty couldn’t have been happier for her, the elation in Roz’s words accentuated the dim undertones in her own voice, a sullenness that had taken root in her soul the morning she’d found the picture behind Lieutenant Kelly’s cot. With a caption.

  Beloved husband,

  Can’t wait for you to meet your son.

  Enid

  The caption on the back of the baby’s snapshot left no room for doubt: Leslie Jr. (3 mths)

  In that moment of devastation, the world had folded in on itself, trapping Betty within the confines of doubt about all she’d believed. Only from her girlfriends’ persuading while in the Philippines had she slowly ventured out of her hermit shell to attend an occasional dance. And even then, her sole interest had been the tantalizing food spread. Keeping serious company with any man, uniformed least of all, had dropped to the bottom of her list.

  Now, shifting her thoughts, she picked up the Chicago Tribune from the kitchen table. She skimmed the first few pages. War, war, and more war. It was over, yet there was still nothing else to report. She flopped the newspaper down, drummed her fingers.

  Liz and Julia probably wouldn’t be home from work until evening.

  She stared at the wax fruit in the carnival glass bowl before her. The red apple reminded her of an old tune, about a girl sitting under a tree and a soldier marching home. About Hollandia and Junior, the last person she would ever sing for. Not because tears over their final moment together would accompany any melody from her mouth, which undoubtedly they would, but because singing for anyone else seemed insignificant.

  A triple knock sailed from the entry.

  “Thank goodness,” she said, in dire need of distraction, and rushed to open the front door. A young, lanky man stood on the porch mat. His hat and uniform identified him as Western Union.

  “Yes?” she said.

  He stared with wide eyes and a slackened jaw. She traced his focus, directly to the lacy V-neck in her exposed slip. Cripes, she’d forgotten she wasn’t dressed.

  She gripped her bathrobe closed. “May I help you?”

  He snapped his head up as if woken from a trance. “Yes, ma’am, um …” His freckled skin flushed while he nervously scanned the page on his clipboard. “I’ve got, um, a telegram, here for, uh, Betty Cordell.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He passed the clipboard and pen.

  She signed for the delivery, and found his gaze back on the gap in her robe. She snatched the envelope from his hand. “Good day.” She grabbed the door handle, demanding his exit.

  “Oh yeah. Thanks.” He stumbled as he turned and scampered down the steps. Spinning around, he added, “If you need anything else—”

  Betty shut the door. “The nerve.”

  She reentered the kitchen and broke the seal, figuring the wired message involved her military discharge.

  BETTY CORDELL=

  821 KIERNAN LANE EVANSTON IL=

  ARRIVING TODAY AT 1735. UNION STATION. PLEASE

  MEET ME. CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN. FONDLY=

  MORGAN MCCLAIN.

  Morgan McClain? Who was Morgan McClain?

  The name was so familiar. Where had she met him?

  Ah, yes …the USO. The GI who’d come to her aid. The one she had written to.

  Gradually, a muted image of the soldier surfaced. As if being dusted off, the portrait gained definition. Dark hair, solid build, nice hazel eyes. Or were they brown? She wasn’t sure. But she did recall his shyness, his mysterious nature. The same traits that had initially piqued her interest in Lieutenant Kelly—

  Her thoughts stopped there. She didn’t need to remember any more. And she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself again.

  She wadded the telegram, tossed it aside. The cable was no more welcome than the letter she’d received from Leslie soon after his departure.

  On her bed she had sat that humid February day, tears trailing her face, streaks born of stupidity. His sealed envelope had called out to her, luring her with its concealed words. How her fingers had ached to break the seal, to feel the pages he’d held. Possible replies had raced through her mind: I love you. I hate you. Come back. Stay away.

  A baby’s picture, a single note, and he had broken her into pieces too jagged to fully repair. And yet the fault was hers. She should have seen it coming, with all those posts from girls presumed to be his sisters.

  Had she refrained from asking, investigat
ing their relations, because she didn’t want to know? Or because she’d known all along but didn’t want the truth?

  Perhaps if she’d looked hard enough, she would have found the answers in his letter. The letter Leslie had sent her. Was it a confession? A declaration of love, an explanation for the facade? She would never know. With large black strokes, she had printed RETURN TO SENDER across the front and sent the missive back.

  She never heard from the pilot again.

  Back in her room, Betty closed the door, recoiling from a life that no longer fit. Like a woolen sweater she’d outgrown as a kid, she could tug at the sleeves, pull at the collar, and still the fabric wouldn’t stretch. In the end, all that remained was an old garment she had once taken for granted.

  She grabbed her tattered teddy bear from the floor, the one person who’d always stood by her, provided comfort, never judging. As she headed for the bed, however, a sight halted her. A woman she hardly recognized stared from the mirror. Although she’d managed to maintain most of her weight and the yellow had faded from her skin, the corners of her mouth had fallen and sadness had replaced the twinkle in her eyes.

  Moving toward the woman, Betty discovered she was wrong. She did recognize the features; they were her mother’s. Another person foolish enough to fall for a married man. Would her own ending be the same, no matter her efforts?

  The question clung to her as she lamented the photos lining the oval mirror. Between gaps from Christian’s missing images hung snapshots of the three girls together, an evening at a fair, another at graduation. In their caps and gowns, they smiled, aglow from their newfound freedom and the potential of their futures. She ran her finger over the picture, her makeup pristine, hair perfectly coiffed.

  That Betty was gone.

  Even Morgan McClain’s telegram wasn’t truly for her. He was inviting the person she’d been when they met, a person she couldn’t get back—not without a time machine. Wouldn’t that be nice? A few levers and blinking lights, and poof, the year never happened.

  A year. Was that all? She almost laughed at the realization. Someday that year would be a speck, a piece of lint she had moth-balled with her uniform, packed away, nearly forgotten. Oh, why couldn’t she do that now?

  Her mind snatched the rhetorical question, pulled it back for review.

  Why couldn’t she do that now?

  If nothing else, her service in the Pacific had taught her anything was possible. Compared to what she’d survived, this was a cinch.

  She padded over to her closet and extracted a favorite. The dress from her USO days, the one Julia had created for her. A Rita Hayworth knockoff, but better. Eye catching with its form-fitted blue fabric, the garb would inspire Betty’s new outlook, her new objective. Now all she needed was Morgan, her time machine. With him, a guy who still saw her through the eye of his memory, she could substitute for the girl she’d lost—until she was no longer pretending.

  In the mirror, she held the dress to her body. She forced her mouth into a smile, not resting until it matched her old one in the photo. Only someone who knew her well could differentiate between the two, and she wasn’t about to allow any man that close to her heart again.

  She could do this. She could be the woman, the wife, the socialite she was meant to be, and all in a life destiny was going to deliver.

  Whether it wanted to or not.

  41

  October 1945

  Nearing Chicago Union Station

  Aloud thud caused Morgan to jump. He jerked his head toward the sound. A paratrooper had yanked his bag from the luggage rack and dropped it onto the floor of the train car.

  Morgan wiped his moist palms on his trousers. He exhaled a long breath, trying to relax, though not even a barber’s blade could cut the tension binding his muscles. Too much movement in a small area, conjuring the franticness of a stirred-up anthill. His inability to see what people were doing behind him cranked his jitters up to a level bordering on nausea. Or perhaps it was simply the knowledge that he could soon be facing one of the most pivotal moments in his life.

  In the aisle seat beside him, a pint-sized girl hummed away, five years old if he had to guess. Though indiscernible, the tune was a whole lot more soothing than the scuffling shrieks she and her toddler sister had let loose in the neighboring row before their mother divided them. He only wished the separation had occurred more than ten minutes earlier.

  Evidently enjoying her newfound independence, the girl swung her legs as rhythmically as windshield wipers, keeping time with the rock of the creaky Pullman. She alternated licks between both sides of her lollipop, its green apple scent sweetening the smoky, wool-musty air.

  So that’s what it felt like to be young. Morgan could hardly remember.

  He turned to the window and focused on the passing buildings, the huff of the wheels, the hiss of the steam engine. Crouched beneath the overcast sky, the city—no, the world—appeared different than he remembered.

  “Are we almost there?” The girl’s elfin voice and tug on his coat sleeve interrupted his thoughts.

  “I’d say we’re getting awfully close,” he answered. Flashes of her kelly green tongue pulled his lips upward. “Are you heading home?”

  “Yep, yep, yep,” she twittered. “My daddy just got back from, um, the hospital. He was fighting bad guys, and, um, he’s a big hero, so they gave him a pink heart. And they said he could go home ‘cause Mommy said he took all his medicine.”

  Notions of which limbs her father might have permanently traded for his Purple Heart arose from the dark caverns of Morgan’s mind. He immediately shoved them down and held tight to his smile. “Well, that’s great news,” he told her. “I’m sure he misses all of you very much.”

  “Do you know my daddy?” she asked expectantly.

  Morgan’s olive-drab dress uniform must have been a clear sign that he knew her father. After all, how many soldiers could there be?

  “Not sure. What’s his name?”

  She beamed with pride. “His name is Butt Sergeant John L. Morris.”

  Containing his laughter, he considered teaching her the difference between “Butt” and “Buck,” then decided her choice was better.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, “but I’d bet a lot of other guys know your daddy.”

  She sat back, noticeably comforted. “What’s your name?”

  He was about to reply factually, but then thought better of it.

  He leaned toward her, shifting into a hushed tone. “You can’t tell anyone, but my name is actually Superman.”

  She tilted her head and studied his face, then let out a dismissive puff. “If you were Superman, you wouldn’t need to ride a train.”

  Good point. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

  “Union Station! End of the line!” the train conductor bellowed before disappearing into another car.

  The girl sprang onto her knees. She stretched her neck to peer out Morgan’s window, her eyes the size of harvest moons.

  Morgan’s anxiety mounted with every rotation of the slowing locomotive’s wheels. Minutes dragged in a marathon of time. Tick, tock…chug, chug …tick…tock…chug …chug.

  The platforms of the underground station swelled as they approached.

  “I don’t see him.” Distress twanged her munchkin voice. She turned to Morgan with fully pouted lips. “Do you think he forgot?”

  “Mmm, something tells me he wouldn’t have missed this day for anything.”

  A smile bloomed on her round face.

  “Why don’t you tell me what he looks like and I’ll see if I can help out.”

  “Well,” she said, “he’s got, um, brown hair and brown eyes. And he wears a uniform and hat.”

  All right, that narrowed it down to half the station.

  “Let’s see if we can find him together.” He turned his attention to the raindrop-smeared window. However, instead of hunting for the child’s father, Morgan searched for the gorgeous blonde who had drawn him here. Hi
s pulse increased with each face they passed. When the train hissed to a final stop, his heart took off in a gallop.

  “Mommy! I see him, I see him!” The girl bounced on her heels as if awaiting the pop of a pistol to unleash her from the starting line.

  “Okay, sweetie bug, but you need to wait for Mommy.” The travel-weary woman across the aisle returned to spit-shining the cheeks of the toddler on her lap, who wiggled as though seated on marbles.

  Morgan’s neighbor ignored the directive, launching herself through the coach like a self-navigating V-2 rocket. The ruffles of her lollipop-stained dress flailed as wildly as the hair that had fallen from her pigtail ribbons. She burrowed through the blockade of passengers who stood to collect their belongings, clearly unstoppable until colliding with her target. Within seconds, she lunged from the train car steps and into the arms of a uniformed sergeant with brown hair and brown eyes.

  Now it was Morgan’s turn.

  He cocked his wool garrison cap on his head. Cane in hand, he tossed his barracks bag over his shoulder, his letter box stored safely inside. He took the full breath of a cliff diver about to plummet, then moved toward the exit.

  By the time he reached the steps, the youngster was planted on the ground, gripping her father’s hand. The sergeant grinned as he hugged her sister and mother with his other arm. Morgan maneuvered down the stairs, his knee stiff from the lengthy train ride. He was halfway around the family huddle when he made eye contact with the little girl.

  “Bye, Superman,” she stage-whispered.

  He shot her a wink.

  Leaning on his cane, he swiveled and scanned the buzzing platform. Plenty of gals, a speckling of blondes. But no sign of Betty.