Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5)

by John A. Heldt

  Friday, April 13, 1945

  With respect to their size, the two people dancing in the middle of the spacious patio were as different as night and day. One was large, the other small. The lead partner, in fact, was at least a dozen times larger and heavier than his date.

  In other respects, though, the two were strikingly similar. With blond hair, blue eyes, youthful faces, and mellow temperaments, Ron Rasmussen and his daughter were peas in a pod or — as Claire put it — "lovable bundles of Norwegian happiness."

  Claire looked on with admiring eyes.

  "I wish I had a camera."

  Ron patted Hannah gently on the back as he carried her across the dance floor.

  "I'll buy one tomorrow."

  "Please do. These moments won't last."

  Claire smiled at the perfectly matched couple. She was glad to have a reason to smile on a day when so many others were frowning. Much of the city, like much of the nation, had all but shut down following news of the death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

  David had broken the news to Claire and Ron on Thursday afternoon and then spent most of the next twenty-four hours listening to the radio and reading newspapers. He wanted to experience firsthand a historical transition he had studied for years.

  Claire took Hannah from Ron when Dancing with the Stars ran its course and the junior partner started to get sleepy. She sang a soft lullaby to her daughter and then carried her to an outdoor dining table that David shared with Margaret Doyle.

  "I'm going to put her to bed soon," Claire said. She looked at Margaret. "Would you like to hold Hannah before I do? It just occurred to me you haven't had your turn tonight."

  "I would love to hold her," Margaret said.

  Claire nodded and then gently placed Hannah in the neighbor lady's arms. She smiled when Margaret, sitting in a sturdy chair, rocked the baby and kissed her head.

  "You're a natural."

  Margaret looked up at Claire.

  "I wouldn't go that far."

  "I would," Claire said. She waved to her daughter. "I can sense these things. You're going to be a great mother someday."

  "I hope so," Margaret said.

  Claire pulled up a chair at the table and motioned for Ron to do the same. She waited for him to claim his seat and then restarted a conversation that had died after the dinner dishes had been cleared.

  "Margaret?"

  "Yes?"

  Claire took a breath.

  "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question? I was going to ask it earlier, but I sort of got sidetracked when we started discussing the war."

  "I don't mind at all," Margaret said. "What's the question?"

  "Have you heard from Tom lately?"

  "I have, as a matter of fact. I received a letter from him yesterday."

  "How is he doing?" Claire asked.

  "He's doing well as far as I can tell."

  "Is he still on Guam?"

  Margaret nodded.

  "He's stationed at the naval operating base."

  "Is that a permanent assignment?"

  "It's as permanent as assignments get in the Navy. Tom expects to remain on the island at least through the summer."

  "That's good. That's really good," Claire said. She looked at Ron and David and then at her guest. "He's in a safe place for being in the middle of a war zone."

  "I don't know about that."

  "What do you mean?"

  Margaret rocked Hannah some more and then glanced at Claire. She wore the face of a woman who had endured the war for far too long.

  "I mean if we invade Japan, Tom will be right in the thick of things," Margaret said. "The Navy men I know say an invasion is imminent."

  "It's not imminent," David said.

  Claire stared at her brother. She wanted to make sure he knew what he was doing.

  "How do you know?" Margaret asked.

  David looked at Claire and then at Margaret.

  "I have a feel for these things. We will find a way to end the fighting before the summer is out. We won't have to invade Japan."

  "You seem confident," Margaret said.

  "I am," David said. "Trust me on this. The war will end soon."

  "I hope you're right."

  "I am."

  Claire gazed at her sibling with admiring eyes. She now had complete confidence in his ability to address these matters effectively and sensitively.

  Claire mulled David's words for a moment and then turned her attention to her neighbor. She smiled when Margaret kissed Hannah and frowned when she shed a tear.

  "Are you all right?" Claire asked.

  Margaret wiped away the tear.

  "I'm fine. I just get a little emotional around babies."

  "Join the club," Claire said. She smiled. "Do you want me to take Hannah?"

  Margaret nodded. A few seconds later, she kissed Hannah on the cheek, lifted her up, and gently placed the sleeping child in her mother's arms.

  "I should probably go," Margaret said.

  "Are you sure?" Claire asked.

  "I'm sure. I have to wake up early tomorrow. I told a friend I would help her manage a yard sale that starts at seven o'clock."

  "Well, let me at least walk you to the door."

  David shot up from his chair.

  "I've got it, Claire. I'll take her home. You stay put."

  "OK."

  David stepped toward Margaret and helped her from her chair. Ron got up from his seat, as a gesture of respect. Claire remained in hers, as a practical matter.

  "Thank you for the lovely meal," Margaret said to Ron and Claire. "I promise to return the favor at the earliest opportunity."

  "I'm looking forward to it," Claire said.

  David looked at his sister.

  "I'll be right back."

  "There's no hurry," Claire said. She turned to Margaret. "I'll pay a visit in the next few days. I really want to see your garden."

  "You're welcome anytime," Margaret said. "Have a good night."

  "You too."

  Claire felt a tinge of sadness as David escorted Margaret into the house. She felt sad because her brother had finally met a worthy woman — a woman who, regrettably, was engaged to another man. She pondered that unfortunate circumstance for a moment and then turned her attention to her husband. She needed only to see the smile on his face to know he had something important on his mind.

  "What's with the smile?" Claire asked.

  Ron chuckled.

  "I was just thinking about something you did tonight."

  "What's that?"

  "You called our daughter Hannah."

  "Oh."

  "Have you already decided on that name?"

  Claire blushed.

  "I have."

  Ron tilted his head.

  "Don't I get a say in this?"

  Claire smiled sheepishly.

  "No."

  Ron looked at his wife thoughtfully.

  "Can you at least tell me why?"

  Claire nodded.

  "I've been waiting to do so all night."

  "I'm listening."

  "Margaret brought me a gift tonight. She gave me a very special gift when you and David were fiddling with the radio before dinner."

  "What did she give you?" Ron asked.

  Claire smiled at Ron, strengthened her hold on Hannah, and reached down with her free hand. She retrieved a book, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward her husband.

  "She gave me that."

  Ron picked up the children's book, entitled Hannah's Moon, and gave it a quick inspection. Then he put it back on the table, turned to his wife, and met her gaze.

  "What's it about?"

  "It's about a girl — a teenage orphan named Hannah who wishes for parents every full moon. She favors full moons because she was born under one. Margaret said the book sustained her through her toughest years. She wrote a message for us in back."

  Ron nodded and took a breath. His eyes, like Claire's, had started to glisten. />
  "I see where you're going."

  "There's more," Claire said. "I checked Hannah's birthday with a 1944 calendar I found in a drawer this week. The calendar shows the moon cycles for each day."

  "Let me guess."

  "You've got it. Hannah was born under a full moon. On June 6, 1944, the day our soldiers and sailors invaded Normandy, the moon was full."

  "Oh, boy," Ron said.

  "Our baby has had a name for ten months, Ron. It's a beautiful name, a name that meant a lot to her birth mother and our new friend," Claire said. "Let's let her keep it."

  CHAPTER 19: RON

  Saturday, April 14, 1945

  As he walked home from a liquor store, with a bottle of whiskey in hand, Ron pondered an irony. The same state that passed the first prohibition law in the United States also produced some of its finest spirits. Twenty-six of its ninety-six counties were dry, nine were wet, and the rest were what locals called "moist." If there was another state in the union that was more schizophrenic about the sale, manufacture, and distribution of alcohol than Tennessee, Ron didn't know about it.

  Fortunately for Ron, Chattanooga and Hamilton County were as wet as wet got. In 1945, eleven years after the repeal of Prohibition, he was able to purchase a fifth of quality Tennessee whiskey his wife had requested and take it home without looking over his back.

  He picked up his step as he walked north on St. Elmo Avenue, past the intersection with Forty-Seventh Street, and anticipated an evening of cards with his wife, brother-in-law, and possibly the neighbor lady who was still something of an enigma. He looked forward to holding and hugging his delightful daughter, whom he had not seen most of the day, and spending quality time with the people he loved.

  Ron had agreed to make a last-minute liquor run because he wanted to make his wife happy and celebrate a productive month. In barely two weeks, he and Claire had made a seamless transition to a distant time, integrated themselves into a new neighborhood, seen things that few others from the future had seen, and adopted the child of their dreams.

  Ron anticipated a pleasant spring and an active summer. He particularly looked forward to August and September, when the family, with a legally adopted child, would tour the country by car on its way back to Los Angeles, 2017, and a normal existence. He thought about all these things and more until he passed an alley and heard a sound.

  He slowed to a stop, listened again, and heard voices. He heard threats, pleas, and ugly epithets — racial slurs he had heard only in movies and television.

  Ron walked back a few steps, to the entrance of the alley, and peered into the dark, narrow passageway. He needed only a few seconds to see what he expected to see: two young, white ruffians harassing a smaller, older black man.

  For a few seconds, as the thugs continued their shakedown, Ron wrestled with his conscience. He knew he could walk away or try to find a cop, but he knew if he did, a crime in progress would probably result in a much worse outcome.

  After assessing the size and strength of the aggressors and his own capabilities, Ron turned toward the alley, took a deep breath, and stepped toward the trio. He did not know what he would do or what he would say when he reached them. He knew only that he had to put a stop to this nonsense before someone got hurt.

  "Knock it off, you two," Ron said as he approached. "Knock it off now."

  Just then, the larger of the two troublemakers, an ugly twentyish man with a crooked tooth and vacant eyes, turned his head. Like his partner in crime, he wore a white tee shirt, cuffed dungarees, and black work boots. He stared at the interloper and snarled.

  "You better take your leave, mister. You better take it now."

  "I'm not going anywhere until you let that man go," Ron said.

  "We're not letting anyone go, darkie lover. Now you just get your ass out of here before we take a look at what's in your pockets."

  Ron put his bottle down and glanced at the others. As he did, he saw the smaller white man pin the black man against the side of a brick building with his arm.

  "I'm giving you until the count of three to leave this scene," Ron said. "If you don't, I'm going to push my fist through your skull."

  "I'd like to see you try, Yankee."

  "One . . . two . . . three . . ."

  Ron coiled his right fist, stepped forward, and prepared to rearrange a face, but he was stopped before he had the chance. The smaller thug released his captive and jumped on Ron's back as he approached his target.

  Crooked Tooth used the opening to deliver two hard punches to his opponent's sternum and then another to his face. He managed to get in three more blows before Ron shook off the smaller man, took a step back, and prepared for another assault.

  When Ron glanced again at the others, he saw the white man slowly get off the ground and the black man run away. He dispatched the smaller thug with a kick to the head and then returned to his larger buddy. He charged forward with a fury.

  Crooked Tooth was ready. He ducked the flying fists, punched Ron in the stomach, and delivered a left hook to the face. Then he pushed Ron to the pavement, stepped toward him, and prepared to finish him off.

  Realizing that he could not win a standing fistfight, Ron changed his strategy. He fought not like a boxer but rather like a football player — a football player wearing a button-down shirt and pleated gray slacks. The former linebacker sprang to his feet, blitzed the large ruffian like he was a quarterback, and quickly forced him to the ground.

  Within seconds, Ron assumed a position of advantage. He sat on Crooked Tooth's chest, pushed his arms away, and delivered blow after blow to his face. He stopped only to look back at the smaller thug. When he saw that the man was unconscious and flat on his back, he resumed his attack on his primary problem.

  Angered by the punk's racist words and his treatment of a defenseless man, Ron turned his opponent to pulp. He did not slow down until he heard voices in the distance and did not stop until he heard the click of a revolver.

  Ron turned his head to the right and saw both triumph and trouble. He saw the elderly man he had saved from a beating and a uniformed police officer.

  The cop aimed his gun at Ron's head.

  "Raise your hands, mister. Raise them high."

  Ron did as instructed. As he did, he thought of his wife, his child, and the difficult days ahead. His smooth ride through 1945 was about to get bumpy.

  CHAPTER 20: RON

  Wednesday, April 18, 1945

  Eighteen hours after being charged with first-degree assault and posting a thousand-dollar bond, Ron followed Claire, Hannah, and David into the law office of Anderson, Maine, and Galloway, took a seat next to his family, and waited to hear what he was up against.

  From what he had gathered from fellow cellmates in the Hamilton County jail, he was up against a lot. People who assaulted others in Tennessee often served months behind bars. People who appeared before Judge Franklin P. Jones often served years.

  Ron took a deep breath as Carter Galloway, a noted defense attorney, entered the room, closed the door, and took a seat behind his desk. The accused occupied the second of three chairs that faced the front of the desk. Claire and Hannah sat to his left, David to his right.

  "Good morning," Galloway said. The trim, handsome lawyer, who didn't appear a day over forty, settled into his chair. "Can I get any of you some coffee before we begin?"

  "No, thank you," Ron said.

  Claire and David shook their heads.

  "Then I'll get right to it," Galloway said. "I have reviewed the police file, contacted the district attorney's office, and spoken with Mr. Jamison, the primary witness in this case."

  "What did you learn?" Ron asked.

  Galloway folded his hands atop his desk and leaned forward.

  "I learned you're in a lot of hot water."

  Ron frowned.

  "How hot?"

  "Very hot," Galloway said. "Let me start with the good news. Mr. Jamison, the colored man you saved, said you acted valiantly Saturd
ay night. He said you came to his defense just as he was about to be robbed. He said you tried to peacefully intervene."

  "That's right. I did. So what's the problem?"

  Galloway sighed.

  "The problem is that you did more than intervene. You put two men in the hospital and almost put one man in the morgue. He's still in pretty rough shape."

  "He deserved it," Ron said.

  "I'm not here to argue, Mr. Rasmussen. I'm here to keep you out of prison."

  "So where is this going?"

  "I'm not sure," Galloway said. "There are several factors complicating this case. Some may work against you. Some may not."

  "What do you mean?" Ron asked.

  "I mean you're an outsider. You're a white man who aided a black man. You're a person who nearly killed the son of one of Judge Jones' best friends."

  "Should any of that matter?"

  "It shouldn't," Galloway said. "It shouldn't, but it might if we go to trial."

  Ron looked at Claire and saw the sadness and fear in her eyes. He could only imagine what she was thinking right now. He turned again to his attorney.

  "Are those the only factors?"

  "No," Galloway said. He sat up straight, glanced at Claire and Hannah, and then returned to Ron. He frowned. "Your daughter is a factor as well."

  "How on earth is she a factor?" Ron asked.

  Galloway eyed his client.

  "Mr. Pearson, the prosecutor, knows you recently adopted a little girl. He also knows that adoption is not yet final."

  Ron bristled.

  "Are you kidding me? Are you telling me he might use Hannah as leverage to win an assault case?"

  Galloway frowned.

  "It's something we have to consider. I have battled Mr. Pearson many times in the past ten years and know he will stop at nothing to force a guilty plea."

  Ron looked again at Claire and saw tears well in her eyes. He wanted to grab her hand and take her away from this nightmare. He wanted to take her to a place where prosecutors did not punish good deeds by breaking up families.

  He was angry about this miscarriage of justice. He was angry with himself. He had let his family down in a big way. He pondered his mess for a moment and then looked again at his legal defender. He saw a man who did not have clear answers.