Becoming Mrs. Smith

by Tanya E Williams

  Helen pulls away, wiping her own damp cheeks. “Me, too. Robert was drafted seven months ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Helen. I don’t think I know Robert.”

  “No, he’s a few years older. We met in July, just after graduation.” She examines her hands, clasped together in her lap. “We were to be married in September.”

  “I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other.” I rub her shoulder, only now missing the companionship we shared in school.

  “Well, you stayed in town to work, and I went back to the farm until I could save enough money for college.”

  “That’s right. You wanted to be a nurse. How is that going?” I ask, eager to change the subject from her indefinitely postponed wedding.

  “I never went.” Helen sighs. “I fell in love instead. Robert was going to be a good provider, and he wanted to start a family straight away, so I put it off. Foolish now, I guess. I don’t have Robert or a career.”

  “No, not foolish Helen. There is nothing foolish about falling in love.” I shake off the notion that my words are good advice for more than just Helen.

  “So, what volunteer group are you joining?” Helen brushes her hair back with long, pale fingers.

  “I’ve only started to read through all this.” I hold up the papers. “I’m only here because Mother insisted.”

  Ignoring the displeasure in my voice, Helen says, “I’ve decided to join the Production Corps.”

  “What is the Production Corps?”

  “Sewing for the most part, at this chapter’s location. But I’ve read how great of an impact the comfort kits and the surgical bandages have on the health and welfare of the troops. I knew straight away that if, God forbid, Robert needed surgery,” Helen says raising her eyes to heaven, “I wanted to do everything in my power to be part of the movement that brings our fellas home.”

  “Production Corps. Okay, I’ll join you. Though I haven’t sewn before.” I laugh. “I will give it a try. This could be interesting and, at the very least, entertaining.”

  Helen laughs and squeezes my hand. “I look forward to spending more time with you, Violet.”

  “Me, too,” I say, and I really mean it.

  I don’t need to read any further. My decision is firm, so I close the booklet and wait for the meeting to begin. Mrs. Boyd sits beside me, coffee in one hand, homemade cookie in the other. I introduce her to Helen.

  “You all settled?” she asks, nibbling at the edge of her treat.

  “I am, I suppose. I want to make those comfort kits. I’m not much of a sewer, but I am eager to learn.”

  “Wonderful, Violet. This is wonderful news.” She jostles me with her shoulder. A drop of coffee dribbles down the side of her cup, but she doesn’t notice. She shines at me like a proud mother goose.

  The meeting begins, and as I listen to the importance of the volunteer effort, I suddenly wish I had even more time to offer, more to give. I suppose Mother knew what she was talking about, though I have no intention of admitting that to her.

  I feel a renewed sense of ambition, a sensation I haven’t felt since John delivered the wretched news of his enlistment. The ambition lifts me up, if only for a moment, from the despair that has engulfed me these past months. Perhaps, in this place, I may work out my anger with John, though I’m not certain he deserves a pass just yet.

  The women describe each volunteer position, and hands go up as young women sign up. I learn that the Productions Corps is the largest of the Red Cross’s volunteer movement and has been instrumental in supplying dressings for surgical wards, which are dispensed to hospitals around the country and beyond.

  A small group of four, which includes Helen and myself, has volunteered for the Production Corps. We huddle together while the leader of the local chapter’s Production Corp details our next steps. “We meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.” She points to a doorway that leads to the back of the building. “On the other side of that door is the room where we sew. You are, of course, welcome to use any free day to work on projects, but we do require you to be as committed as possible. Our troops need all the support we can give them, after all.”

  We adjourn our meeting, promising to be present the next evening for an “introduction to sewing” class. I’m relieved such a class exists. I locate Mrs. Boyd and say goodbye to Helen, already anticipating seeing her again tomorrow evening. I walk Mrs. Boyd home and thank her for her company, before walking the additional five blocks to my own apartment, eager to make a quick sandwich and turn in for the night.

  I step a little lighter on my way home. For the first time in months, I feel comfortable in my own skin. I scold myself for my moody behavior and decide that, to move forward, I must stop glancing back. The road I must travel is before me, and I am thankful to have found a purpose amidst this war.

  I crawl into bed, wearing my lightest cotton nightgown. I tilt my head toward the open window and watch the curtain billow in the light breeze. I enjoy the feel of the wind as the soft air caresses my cheek. I drift to sleep with images of John, and my hardened shell of anger begins to crack, if only a sliver.

  ***

  December 1943

  The winter wind bites my face as I tuck my chin into my jacket’s upturned collar. My scarf, no match for today’s frosty temperature, trails behind me like a flag whipped about by wind. These past few icy days have caught me by surprise, as the weather has been unseasonably warm until now. The air feels as if winter realized its mistake and is determined to make up for those early days.

  I walk with urgency as the clouds gather, threatening snow. The wind slams the door behind me as I enter the Red Cross volunteer building. My cheeks sting in response to the warm air as I peel off my mittens and hat.

  “Violet.” Mrs. Boyd bustles over to greet me at the door. “Oh dear. Sure is a blustery one out there.”

  “Yes, indeed.” I shake my jacket from my shoulders before managing to extract myself from the scarf threatening to strangle me.

  “Not to worry, dear. Not to worry. A cup of hot cocoa and you’ll be good as new. This weather is not fit for man nor beast.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Boyd. That is most kind of you.” My toes tingle as sensation returns to them.

  “Nonsense, dear. Only take a minute. No trouble at all. Now come, let’s get you a warm drink.” She leads me to the coffee station, her short, thick legs moving with a speed that contradicts their size.

  Lauren and Beth are in the sewing room. I hang my coat on the rack, my wayward scarf tucked into an armhole. I sip from my mug, and the steam rises to meet my nose.

  “We figured you’d thought better of sewing tonight.” Lauren glances up from her fabric to cast me a mischievous smile. “Thought perhaps the weather was too much for you to venture out.”

  “I’m not late.” I blow on my cocoa. “Early for tomorrow is all.” I send her a playful wink.

  “Don’t mind her.” Beth stands with both hands on her hips, her role as a schoolteacher evident in her posture. She covers her laughter with a thin veil of seriousness. “She only arrived herself, she did. Hustled her butt into that chair an instant before you walked in.”

  Lauren throws a rolled-eye look in Beth’s direction before she laughs and pats the seat beside her. The four of us—Lauren, Beth, Helen, and I—have become fast friends.

  “Where’s Helen?” I ask. “Sure isn’t like her to be late.” None of us, in fact, have ever beaten Helen to the sewing room. Each of us has tried to arrive early and beat her here, to no avail. Helen always arrives first. Until today that is.

  Beth shrugs as she settles herself in front of her machine. She examines the thread and begins to pump the pedal.

  The machines hum, and our voices climb over the sound as Lauren tells an animated story about a humorous mishap at the hardware store, the family business where she works. Beth and I join in the laughter when Lauren, talking with her hands, forgets to remove her foot from the pedal, which results in an out-of-control sew
ing machine.

  Lauren squeals, fueling our laughter even further until Mrs. Beattie enters the room.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Beth says at the sight of the prim, no-nonsense woman.

  “What? No. Beth,” she stammers with an apologetic smile.

  “Ma’am?” Lauren says as Mrs. Beattie stands in the doorway with a strained expression.

  “Ladies,” she says, “I have some unfortunate news.”

  We wait. All three of us hold our breath as Mrs. Beattie finds her words.

  “Helen won’t be with us for a while. She has suffered a great loss.”

  Beth gasps, bows her head and motions the sign of the cross over her body.

  Mrs. Beattie begins again. “Helen’s beau, Robert, fell from a ladder a few weeks back. He broke several bones in his leg. The leg became infected and was amputated.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Lauren whispers. Her nail-bitten hand covers her mouth. “Poor Robert. Poor Helen.”

  Mrs. Beattie’s throat emits a strangled sound. “The infection spread. Robert passed away yesterday. News reached his mother this afternoon.”

  “Died?” My voice wavers as the news hangs in the air. “How does one go from a fall off a ladder to dead in a few weeks?”

  Beth stands and positions herself behind me. She hugs my shoulders as Lauren leans in to both of us. We sit huddled together in a weak effort to support one another. We mourn for our friend and her Robert.

  Mrs. Beattie excuses herself, apologizing again for the interruption and the news.

  After several minutes of silence, I follow Lauren and Beth’s lead and stand behind a sewing machine. The sewing is slow and methodical. The machines drum out a beat, and the white noise traps me in my own thoughts. I try to hold the panic at bay, but fear creeps in. My thoughts are with John. How many ladders does he climb? I have been under a delusion of his safety as his letters pile up on my dresser, thinking only of wartime injuries, not those resulting from mundane tasks. I have taken solace in Mother Smith’s assurance that he is still immersed in training. I have convinced myself that he is distant from real danger.

  My eyes dart around, and an intense pressure pushes against my chest. Breathing becomes unbearable. The room feels smaller, thick with warm, stale air. With my eyes elsewhere, I leave a trail of crooked stitches on the fabric. My heart pounds, surely loud enough for others to hear. My imagination is ignited with possibilities. What if he is in an automobile accident or a target practice mishap? What if he cuts himself peeling potatoes and gets an infection? Here I’ve been worried about tanks, guns, and Germans when I should have seen fit to worry about ladders.

  I bolt upright, my chair tipping backward to the floor. “I have to go,” I stammer, hands shaking at my sides. “I have to go now.” I walk with haste toward my jacket hanging on the hook near the door. I push my arm into the sleeve but it’s obstructed. “Damned scarf,” I mutter as I wrench the long, thick fabric from the sleeve, discarding it to the floor.

  “Violet? Are you all right?”

  I hear Beth’s voice as she stands to face me, but her words don’t penetrate my brain. Frustrated with my coat, I toss the heavy wool over my arm, grab my purse, and run out of the building. The door slams behind me as my face embraces the cold. I gulp in welcomed air, before my body betrays me and gives way to a shiver running the length of my spine. My cheeks sting as the frigid wind turns my tears into crystals. My shoes, unsuitable for the weather, slide over the snow-dusted street as I stride with drunken steps toward home. Toward the comfort of my cozy apartment. Toward the words in John’s letters.

  The tragic news of Robert’s death ignites a desire to know more. To feel more. To be more for both myself and for John. I’ve been childish to hold on to this anger. I turn left and see the lights of my building, flickering in the distance. I dash toward the comfort of my apartment with little regard for my appearance as desperation propels me foreword. Chills fill my body, but I realize the frigid night air is not the cause of my shivers. The reality of war is at fault.

  I throw open the door to the apartment lobby, gasping for breath. I pause before the narrow mailboxes. The flutter has erupted in my chest. I ignore the feeling and pull open the mailbox labeled 2B, retrieving the single envelope covered with John’s neat handwriting. Without a moment’s thought, I draw the envelope to my nose and inhale deeply. I climb the stairs to my apartment, knowing I want John in my life. War or no war, my heart still beats for him, and the time has come to tell him so.

  I throw my coat and purse on the bed and fetch the letters bound with twine. Seven months of almost daily correspondence. I grip the latest envelope between my teeth as I balance the pile, walking through the kitchen toward the dining area. The envelopes land with a thump onto my tiny eating table. I stifle a yawn. I’ve little time to be tired. I must read John’s words before I can write back. I don’t have a clue what I will say. All I know is that I won’t be able to live with myself if the last words John hears from me were fueled by resentment, anger, and self-pity. I sit in front of the pile and retrieve the first letter from its imprisonment.

  Monday, May 3, 1943

  Dearest Violet,

  Only a week has passed since I watched your sad face vanish from sight. I don’t think you could see me pushing my cheek against the window, but I never took my eyes off you while the train pulled out of the station. My heart is heavy, knowing how unhappy you are about my decision. I never meant to cause you pain. I’ve only ever wanted to love you and for you to love me. I do hope you will forgive me in time. Mother says that time heals all wounds. I pray she is right. I am counting on it, to tell you the truth.

  You are in my heart and on my mind always.

  Love,

  John

  I lay the letter facedown, tucked into the envelope. I imagine him here in front of me, our knees touching. I can see his eyes pleading with me. I wish I could go back in time. I sigh and tear open the next envelope. I read several more letters before I pause to sip my now lukewarm tea.

  Tuesday, May 11, 1943

  Dearest Violet,

  I have arrived at basic training. The place is a hive of activity, men running this way and that. They always seem to be in some sort of a hurry. I’m sure I will get used to the busyness, but for now, the place feels like a thriving city, nothing like the snail’s pace of Cedar Springs. I settled in to my bunk fine, and I have met a few guys about my age. Boys from all over have traveled here to fight this war. I enjoy hearing stories of life in places like San Francisco and the backwoods of Montana. Places we should visit once this war is over.

  Tomorrow, the real work begins. I look forward to the training. Idle hands and all. I hope my letters are reaching you. I’ve sent a couple to Mother and Father, too, though no replies have come my way yet. I am eager for word from you, Vi. Please let me know that you are well.

  You are in my heart and on my mind always.

  Love,

  John

  Guilt bubbles within me as I drop the letter onto the pile. These letters, from months ago, requesting correspondence from me are heavier than the paper they are written on. What kind of man holds on that long with no reciprocation? I’ve been foolish to let my anger control my actions. I’ve never been more ashamed of myself than I am in this moment. I am desperate to write to him, to say that I am still his.

  Sunday, June 27, 1943

  Dearest Violet,

  I hope this letter finds you well and that you are enjoying summer weather. The days are long and hot here, and the nights seem shorter than they ought to be. You were in my dreams last night, so my sleep was fitful as I tried to grasp hold of you. Your smile draws me in, but those crystal blue eyes of yours make me believe you are real. Time is passing quickly, a good situation, I think, since I don’t much enjoy digging foxholes in the clay. Though I know they may one day save my life, I hope that European soil is a might bit softer.

  Every day is training day here. We rise early. March everywhere. Test our
skills and learn new ones along the way. Crawling through mud under barbed wire is by far my least favorite, but a necessary task, I suppose. Not much time for thinking is left at the end of the day, once I’ve washed my uniform and crawled into bed. By design, I imagine. Nobody wants soldiers with fresh weapons training to have too much time to think of where they’d rather be.

  I apologize that my letters are short. Time is short, as well. But I sure could use a few words from you. If you could spare me a few thoughts, I’d appreciate the gesture.

  You are in my heart, in my dreams, and on my mind always.

  Love,

  John

  My heart feels as if it is free-falling to the pit of my stomach. I am only a fraction of the way through the first bundle of envelopes, each one a glimpse into his daily life. Each letter reassures me of his continued love for me. I’m certain Mother Smith has written to him, letting him know I am well, but I wonder if he has told her about my lack of correspondence. Another wave of regret washes over me. Until now, I had thought anger would eat me up inside. I’m beginning to realize that shame may be just as powerful. I’ve got to fix this at once.

  I reach for the letter that arrived today and slice open the envelope with brash urgency.

  Friday, December 3, 1943

  Dearest Violet,

  Winter has reached us here at camp. The tents, which seemed airless and intense this past summer, are now unable to keep a light breeze at bay. I’ve taken to wearing the mittens Mother knitted me to bed each night, sliding them on under the shield of darkness so as not to alarm the other men. The new fallen snow has inspired a variety of maneuvers, which exhaust us even further. Some days I dream of digging foxholes again. Same as that stubborn old wandering bull at home who couldn’t stay put, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.

  Mother sent me a fine photograph of the family last week. Edward is growing faster than I imagined. Her letters seem all right. I don’t imagine her worry is less, but she is keeping solid footing. I’m not sure what to think about the holidays. The thought of Mother’s bread pudding makes my mouth water. I don’t imagine there will be much celebration here, but I’ll be attending a service on base the twenty-fourth. I will be thinking of you, especially that evening, Vi. Praying that you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I miss you every day.