"He loves Hannah though," Margaret said. "Even a blind man could see that."
"He does. He loves her and misses her fiercely."
"Well, I must say your regret is a lovely one. If you have to regret something, you might as well regret something that resulted in a beautiful child and a wonderful family."
"Thank you," Claire said.
Margaret collected her thoughts for a moment and then turned her attention to the next participant. She had barely noticed him during the exchange with Claire.
"What about you, Mr. Baker? What's your biggest regret?"
"That's easy," David said. He put down his glass and smiled. "I regret reading Claire's diary in the seventh grade and not telling her about it."
Claire put her hands on her hips.
"David!"
Margaret laughed heartily.
"I'm sorry," David said. "I was young and curious."
Claire stared at her brother.
"You told me you didn't read my diary."
"I told you the truth too," David said. "I never opened your first diary."
"What about my second?"
David smiled.
"Let's just say your college years were interesting."
Margaret laughed again.
"I think you two need to work things out."
Claire, blushing, looked at her neighbor.
"I thought we had."
Margaret looked at her friends with amusement as they exchanged knowing glares. She suspected there was more to this story than she would ever know.
When the family fireworks flamed out, Claire filled up her glass, topped off David's, and shifted her attention to the final participant. She looked at Margaret with kindly eyes.
"I guess it's your turn."
"I guess it is," Margaret said.
"If you don't want to discuss your past, I understand," Claire said. "I imagine you have many regrets as one who grew up in orphanages and foster families."
Margaret sipped her drink.
"I do."
"Is that it?" Claire asked. "Is your biggest regret growing up without parents?"
"No."
"What is it then?"
Margaret took another sip of liquid courage and weighed the pros and cons of candor one last time. She knew her mistakes were no one else's business, but she did not want to hide them — or at least hide them from everyone for the rest of her life.
"It's something more recent and painful," Margaret said. She took a deep breath. "My biggest regret in life is giving up my daughter."
Claire dropped her glass to the table. David opened his mouth. Both stared at their neighbor, friend, and hostess with wide eyes.
"You have a daughter?" Claire asked.
Margaret nodded.
"She turned five in May. At least I think she did. I haven't heard a word about her since the day she was born."
"I don't know what to say," Claire said.
"You don't have to say a thing."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Margaret smiled sadly.
"I've wanted to talk about it for weeks."
"Why?" Claire asked.
"You of all people should know the answer to that question."
"I don't follow."
"You should know because you've gone through something similar," Margaret said. "You lost a baby you wanted. You know what it's like to feel empty, helpless, and alone."
Claire gazed at Margaret with watery eyes.
"I do."
"That's why I brought out the whiskey tonight," Margaret said. She wiped away a tear. "I needed a little push. I didn't know if I'd have enough guts to say something without it."
David lifted the bottle and smiled.
"I guess I should recommend this stuff."
Claire and Margaret laughed through their tears.
"I should banish you to the porch!" Claire said.
David frowned.
"Then I'd miss all the girl talk."
"That's the point."
"Let him stay," Margaret said. She looked at David with admiring eyes. "He's my friend, too, and the person who saved my life. I want him to hear this."
"If you insist," Claire said.
"I do."
David smiled smugly at his sister.
"I guess it's settled."
Claire did not respond to her obnoxious brother. She instead took another sip, turned toward Margaret, and restarted the conversation with a question.
"Did you have a relationship with the father?"
"I did," Margaret said.
"How did it start?"
"It started like all good romances. It began with smiles and laughs and a whole lot of kisses. For ten weeks, it was almost heaven."
Claire rested her chin on her hands.
"Was he a local boy?"
Margaret shook her head.
"Sonny was from Texas. He was a young, handsome ballplayer from Dallas who came here to play in the summer of thirty-nine."
Claire smiled.
"Did you meet him at a game?"
Margaret nodded.
"I met him at a doubleheader in June. He played left field that day. Laura and I sat in the front row on the third-base line. He saw us and introduced himself after the opener."
"Was he nice?" Claire asked.
"He was perfect."
"I've heard this story before."
"Then you know what happened next," Margaret said. "Sonny swept me off my feet with poems and promises and left me with a letter and a baby."
"That must have been hard."
"It was, but it was only the beginning. When I learned I was going to have a child, I contacted an adoption agency — a different agency — and they shipped me off to a maternity home in Nashville. I stayed there until my daughter was born."
"Who else knew about your circumstances?"
"Laura knew," Margaret said. "So did my foster parents. They wanted nothing to do with me after that. By the time I got to Nashville, I was pretty much alone in the world."
Claire frowned.
"Were they kind to you at the home?"
"They were at first," Margaret said. "They were because I had something they wanted. Then everything changed in May. I signed a lot of papers and they pushed me out the door. I didn't even have a chance to hold my baby. They just took her from me."
"That's awful."
"I cried for weeks. It was the darkest period of my life."
"So what happened then?" Claire said. "How did a poor, lonely, directionless girl become a polished, educated, professional woman?"
"I met an angel."
"You what?"
"I met a woman named Abigail Henry, a rich widow who came by once a week to bring books to the girls. As luck would have it, she took an interest in my welfare. She saw promise in me that others did not and offered to help me out."
Claire looked at David and then at Margaret.
"She gave you money?"
Margaret nodded.
"You might say that. She paid my way through college and set me up with a small trust fund. She was the mother I never had."
"That's beautiful," Claire said. "Is she still around?"
Margaret shook her head.
"She passed away in February."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Claire said.
Margaret took a breath.
"I still have memories of her. That sustains me."
Claire smiled.
"You're something. Do you know that?"
"If you say so," Margaret said.
"I mean it. I have never met anyone who has overcome so many problems to become a productive, well-adjusted human being."
"Thank you."
"Your strong bond with Hannah makes sense now," Claire said. "If I had half the maternal instincts of other women, I would have suspected something right away."
"I love that little girl," Margaret said. "I only hope I have the chance to raise one just like her someday."
"You will."
"I hope so."
Claire frowned.
"Do you mind if I ask one more question?"
"Of course not," Margaret said.
"Does Tom know about your daughter?"
"No.
"Do you plan to tell him?" Claire asked.
"I haven't decided," Margaret said. "I know telling him is the honorable thing to do, but I don't want to risk losing him. I don't know how he would react."
"I see."
"What would you do?"
"I would tell him the truth," Claire said. "You don't want him to find out through the grapevine. If he's the kind of man you say he is, he'll understand."
"Thank you," Margaret said. "Thank you, both of you, for being my friends and helping to make me a better person. I will miss you terribly."
Claire put her hand on Margaret's.
"Ditto."
CHAPTER 49: DAVID
Monday, July 16, 1945
Even before Claire asked to speak to the superior of the superior of the first person she reached, David knew her phone call would not end well. Civilians did not typically succeed in badgering high-ranking Navy officers, even when making legitimate inquiries into the whereabouts of their seaman husbands.
"I just want an answer to a simple question," Claire said. "Where is my husband? He called me Wednesday night and said he was on his way to Mare Island. He said he had to remain there until at least tomorrow morning. Surely you can tell me where he is."
David asked Claire if she wanted help. When she shook her head and shooed him away, he stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where Hannah Rasmussen, celebrated food masher, was making quick work of a buttermilk pancake.
"How is my girl this morning?" David asked.
Hannah stopped eating, looked up, and stared at her uncle like he was a dangerous animal or perhaps an annoying relative out to steal her meal. Then she tore off a piece of pancake, held it high in the air, and giggled when he gobbled it out of her hand.
"You're obviously doing well," David said.
Claire was not doing well. She had gone from happy to concerned to terrified and angry in less than twenty-four hours. At nine o'clock Monday morning, an hour before the family planned to leave for the Chattanooga airport, she was downright distraught.
Ron had not called on Sunday morning. He had not called in the afternoon or evening either. He had not left a message with another party or sent a telegram or done anything to suggest that he was alive and well and ready to escape to Mexico with his family.
David pulled up a chair next to Hannah, as she continued to assault her pancake, and watched Claire pace back and forth in the kitchen. He wanted to help but didn't know how. He knew there was little they could do to compel the Navy to find a sailor on a base filled with thousands of servicemen and civilian workers.
Frustrated with doing nothing, David got up from his chair, returned to the kitchen, and whispered to Claire that he was going to check the mail. He was pretty sure that she had not opened the mailbox on Saturday and absolutely sure she had not done so today.
A moment later, he moved through the living room, opened the front door, and stepped into the muggy morning air. He looked across the street and wondered if Margaret was up. He wondered if he would ever see her again.
David wanted to see her again. He wanted to enjoy her beauty, intelligence, and wit for weeks to come, but he knew he could not. He had a plane to catch and a family to protect. She had a life to live and a fiancé to marry. Some things simply did not work out.
David stepped into his front yard, stopped, and then took a moment to survey his neighborhood. As he did, he noticed the little things: bikes propped on trees, sprinklers on lawns, and American flags that hung from porches and flapped in the breeze. Norman Rockwell, he concluded, would love St. Elmo Avenue. He was sure of it.
The time traveler also glanced at the family's Hudson Six, parked in front of the house, and wondered whether Margaret would use the keys Claire had given her Saturday night. He guessed that she would. Margaret Doyle was the kind of woman who craved freedom and independence. The vehicle, soon to be hers, offered a means to that end.
David took one last look at the car and the street and then continued to the mailbox, a plain gray receptacle that sat on an even less impressive three-foot post. When he reached the box, he opened the door and peeked inside. He expected to find a flyer or two or maybe a bill. He did not expect to find a small white envelope.
With hesitation and trepidation, David pulled the envelope from the box, flipped it front side up, and glanced at its markings. He knew even before he saw the familiar handwriting and the bold postmark that the letter was the one Ron had sent from Omaha, Nebraska.
When David saw that the envelope was addressed to Claire, he paused and asked some questions. Should he open the letter and read it first? Should he interrupt her call? He gave the matter a moment's thought and decided to proceed. If the letter contained useful news, he could pass it on to his sister while she still had the Navy on Line 1.
David unsealed the envelope, pulled out the letter, and started reading. He skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the meat of the message. It wasn't long before he found a paragraph that answered a pressing question and opened the door to a nightmare.
"I have been assigned to the USS Indianapolis, a heavy cruiser that has been in dry dock for weeks. I consider this a good thing. As long as the ship is under repair, there is little, if any, chance I will be sent out to sea should our plans hit a snag . . ."
David grabbed the mailbox for support as his legs grew wobbly and his head began to swim. He did not know if he could remain on his feet, much less walk to the house, but he knew he would have to do both. In the next few minutes, he would have to tell Claire the kind of news that no one, much less a devoted wife, should ever have to hear.
Gathering his strength, he stood up straight, faced the house, and walked slowly toward the porch, the door, and a difficult conversation. He entered the house a minute later and proceeded from the living room to the kitchen to his sister.
"I've had it with paper pushers," Claire said. She hung up the phone. "They all told me the same thing. They can't or they won't or they shouldn't. I think we need to get on that plane and look for Ron ourselves. We'll find him. I know we will."
David handed Claire the letter.
"This came today."
Claire glanced at the envelope.
"It's from Ron!"
"I know."
"Did you read it?"
"Yeah."
Claire read part of the letter and then looked at her brother.
"You're crying. Why are you crying?"
"Ron's not at Mare Island," David said. He took a breath. "He's on a ship."
"What ship? Where?"
"He's on the Indianapolis, Claire."
"So?"
David put his hands on his sister's shoulders.
"I know the history of this ship."
Claire stared at her brother.
"David? What are you saying?"
David swallowed hard.
"I'm saying you had better sit down."
CHAPTER 50: RON
North Pacific Ocean – Tuesday, July 17, 1945
Leaning against the rail on the smoking deck of his new home away from home, Ron pulled out a cigarette, lit up his new bad habit, and watched the ocean go by. He had done a lot of smoking and watching since boarding the USS Indianapolis and also a fair amount of thinking. There was a lot to think about when a man steamed away from his home and family and toward a tropical war zone he was never meant to see.
Ron thought about Claire, of course. He wondered how she had taken the news and wondered what, if anything, she was doing about it. If he knew his wife, she was probably calling every number at Mare Island and making life miserable for the junior officers picking up their phones. She was no doubt doing everything possible to put Humpty Dumpty back together agai
n and get on with a life that had been unexpectedly altered.
Ron planned to send her another letter as soon as he could. If he did nothing else from Hawaii or Guam or wherever he was headed, he would offer her some piece of mind.
As he watched gentle waves reflect bright afternoon sunlight, Ron also thought about his precious little girl. He wondered if she even remembered the big blond man who had once danced with her on a patio and concluded she probably did not.
Babies didn't remember their last meal, much less fathers they had known for a month, but Ron didn't let that fact ruin his day. He had a lifetime to reestablish a meaningful relationship with his daughter — and he planned to make the most of it.
The new seaman did not doubt he would see his family again. Though he did not know as much about World War II as his brother-in-law, he knew that the fighting was almost over. In less than a month, American bombers would drop nasty surprises on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and bring this awful conflict to a conclusion.
Ron looked forward to that conclusion and to returning to California. He anticipated the day he could put all this craziness in his rear-view mirror and get on with his regular life.
In the meantime, he had a job to do. Like hundreds of other sailors on this floating fortress, he had a mission to fulfill and goals to achieve. Though he didn't care much for swabbing decks, splicing ropes, and maintaining equipment, he did like being part of a team. He liked the idea of doing something his grandfathers had done.
His participation in that generation's war had begun in earnest Sunday morning with an unlikely trip south. The Indy had backed out of its pier at Mare Island and steamed a few miles to Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, where it picked up more men and supplies and two items that were loaded under the watch of an armed guard: a five-by-five-by-fifteen-foot crate and a black metal canister that required two Marines to lift.
Ron had wondered about the contents of the crate, even after the Indianapolis steamed out of San Francisco Bay, but he did not obsess about it. Unlike many of his peers, he did not worry about things he did not know or understand. He did not have to. He knew that everything the Navy did, at this point, was moot. The war was a done deal.
Ron did not share his knowledge of the future with others, of course. Though he was tempted to correct fatalistic seamen who insisted they would never again see the Golden Gate, he kept his secrets to himself. He looked forward to seeing the smiling faces of his comrades in arms when Japan surrendered and hostilities ceased.
Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5) Page 21