Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5)

by John A. Heldt

  As he approached the table, David eyed the slip and noticed the name "WESTERN UNION" emblazoned at the top. This was it, he thought. This was it. He took a deep breath and reached for the telegram, but he didn't even touch it before he heard a noise in the hallway. He stopped, turned around, and saw Claire enter the room.

  David's heart and stomach sank as he studied his sister's face. When he saw her red, puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, he knew he was not looking at the same woman he had left at three. He knew he was looking at a widow.

  "I'm so sorry," David said.

  Claire did not did reply right away. She instead wiped a tear from her eye and took a deep breath. Her lips quivered as she started to speak.

  "He made it," Claire said in a barely audible voice. She stopped to collect herself. "He was the last man pulled from the water, but he made it. My husband is alive."

  Overcome with joy and emotion, David stepped forward and embraced his sister. He wept and held her tightly in the middle of the living room for more than five minutes, but he didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

  On the evening that Harry S. Truman announced the surrender of Japan, a long, arduous trial for a remarkable woman came to an end. The war for Claire Rasmussen was over.

  CHAPTER 68: DAVID

  Thirty minutes after comforting his sister and reading a telegram that said Ron was recovering from exposure at an undisclosed medical facility, David mustered his courage, stepped out of his house, and walked across the street. He dreaded every step.

  He debated long and hard about approaching Margaret. He did not know what he would find at his neighbor's house and knew he didn't have the right to investigate. He was not a brother or a cousin and even an in-law. He was a mere friend — and a new one at that.

  Even so, he felt compelled to proceed. In hundreds of other homes around the United States, relatives, neighbors, and friends were making the same decision. Faced with the prospect of not knowing whether someone important was dead or alive, they advanced. They advanced because they had to know. In wartime, information was everything.

  David carried some information with him. He knew, for example, that Margaret had been with Claire when the messenger had delivered the telegram. He knew from talking to his sister that Margaret had all the available facts.

  Margaret knew that Ron and Tom had served together on the Indianapolis and that their ship had gone down. She knew that Ron had survived and that Tom's fate was still up in the air. She knew she might not get a telegram of her own before Wednesday.

  David also knew from his own reading that several officers had survived both the sinking and the ordeal at sea, including Captain Charles McVay. If the captain had survived, he reasoned, there was no reason to believe a lieutenant had not done the same.

  A moment later, David stepped onto Margaret's porch. As he did, he noticed that only the screen door was closed. The main door was wide open. He could see a soft light in the living room, hear a scratchy jazz recording, and smell the aroma of peach pie. The residence radiated comfort, peace, and happiness.

  He gently knocked on the door. When no one answered, he knocked a second time and then a third. No one came. No one stirred. So he opened the door and stepped inside.

  "Margaret?" David asked. "Are you home?"

  Margaret did not reply or even make her presence known. Nor did a friend or a neighbor or anyone else checking in on the lady of the house. Only Billy Holliday, who sang a soothing rendition of "I'll Be Seeing You" in the living room, made a peep.

  David summoned his friend again. When she did not answer, he entered her living room and took a look around. He needed only a few seconds to see something important. A bottle of whiskey sat atop a telegram on a small table near the phonograph. The bottle, a pint flask, was open and half full. An empty glass stood a few inches away.

  Debating again whether to advance or withdraw, David decided to proceed. He had come too far, he thought, to leave this house without an answer, so he took the next step. He lifted and moved the bottle, picked up the damp telegram, and gave it a look. He found the answer to his question — the answer he didn't want — in the first sentence.

  "WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR FIANCÉ, U.S. NAVY LIEUTENANT THOMAS B. PENNINGTON, DIED IN ACTION 1 AUGUST 1945 . . ."

  David placed the telegram on the table and the bottle on the telegram. If he did nothing else in this solemn moment, he would leave this place of remembrance undisturbed.

  He said a silent prayer, wiped away a tear, and turned toward the door. A few minutes earlier, he had wanted to find Margaret in her house. Now all he wanted to do was leave that house before Margaret found him. He did not succeed. He stopped in his tracks the second his dear friend emerged from the hallway and stepped into the living room.

  "Margaret, I'm so . . ."

  She interrupted him.

  "Have you come for the pie?"

  "What?" David asked.

  "Have you come for the pie? I just made a pie."

  "I just . . ."

  "It's all right," Margaret said. "You don't need an invitation."

  David stared at a neighbor he had known for more than four months, but he didn't see the neighbor he knew. He saw a woman who had put on pearls and a red silk dress, a person who had picked up her house, a friend who gazed at him with vacant, lifeless eyes.

  "I just came over to check on you," David said. "I was worried."

  Margaret smiled softly.

  "Well, I'm fine. As you can plainly see, I'm just fine."

  David took a deep breath.

  "I read the telegram."

  "I don't care what you read," Margaret said in a defensive voice. "You can't believe everything you read. People lie. People lie every day."

  "Margaret?"

  "Don't come near me!"

  David fought back tears.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't you cry on me now. I have things to do. I have . . ."

  Margaret didn't finish her sentence. She couldn't. At nine o'clock on what was surely the most difficult evening of her difficult life, she could do little more than stay on her feet. She quivered and dissolved into tears as David stepped forward.

  "I'm so sorry," David said. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. "I am so, so sorry."

  Margaret buried her face in his chest and sobbed uncontrollably.

  "I loved him so much."

  "I know."

  "We were going to have a family. We . . ."

  "I know."

  David said no more. He had no words for a moment like this. So he just stood upright, pulled himself together, and held a woman who could no longer hold herself.

  As he did, he thought of things that mattered, things that didn't, and things one could control. He pondered the unfairness of life, the cruel hand of fate, and the relevance of both in one beleaguered woman's life. He considered the possibility that Margaret Doyle, a magnet for misfortune, would never recover.

  Like many other women, she had devoted herself to a man who was now nothing more than a memory. She had kept the faith and done her part, only to be denied her prize at the very end. For her, for them, and for thousands of others, the war was just beginning.

  CHAPTER 69: CLAIRE

  Saturday, August 18, 1945

  Claire waited three days. Like her heartbroken brother, she waited three days and then some before walking across the street to check on her unfortunate neighbor. Though she knew that grieving people needed time to themselves, she also knew they needed contact. She knew firsthand the corrosive effects of social isolation.

  She had reason to believe grief was taking a toll. Not once in seventy-two hours had she seen Margaret step out of — or others step into — the house across the street. So at ten thirty on a warm Tennessee morning, she set out to fix that. With Hannah in her arms, she led David out the door, through the yard, and onto her neighbor's property.

  "Do you think she's up?" Claire asked.

  "I do," Davi
d said. "At least I hope she is."

  Claire gazed at her brother as they started up Margaret's walk and noticed that he seemed particularly concerned. She knew why, of course. He had seen their friend in a highly fragile state and knew what days of depression and loneliness could lead to.

  David had not shared many details of his encounter Tuesday night. He said only that he had arrived at an opportune time and managed to break Margaret out of a daze brought on by news of Tom Pennington's death.

  A moment later, Claire reached the porch, walked up the steps, and went straight for the door. She knocked twice. When no one answered, she handed Hannah to David, walked to the living room window, and peeked inside. She saw nothing.

  "If she's awake, she's not inside," Claire said.

  David moved his head back and forth.

  "Let's walk around back. She might be in the garden."

  Claire nodded in agreement. She started to follow David and Hannah down the steps but stopped when she saw something partially hidden under the welcome mat. She lifted the mat and found a white envelope bearing the names "David," "Claire," and "Hannah."

  "Hold up," Claire said. "She left us something."

  David stopped and turned around.

  "What is it?"

  "I think it's a letter. Come back."

  Claire picked up the item, walked to the swing, and sat down. She opened the envelope just as David carried Hannah back onto the porch and joined her on the moving seat.

  "Is it a letter?" David asked.

  "Yes," Claire said. "It's a long one too."

  She pulled three sheets from the envelope, turned them right side up, and started reading the handwritten letter. She needed only seconds to see that Margaret had been gone for two days. She had left the house on Thursday and probably left for good.

  Dearest friends,

  It is with a heavy heart that I leave Chattanooga and your lives. I have never been good at goodbyes — or hellos, for that matter. Like most cowards, I am happiest when I shirk my responsibilities. Today, as I head for the train station, I am taking the easy way out.

  I am off to Nashville, where I will spend some time with Tom's family, see old friends, and bury the memory, if not the body, of my beloved fiancé. In this new setting, I hope to find peace and understanding and perhaps make sense of a senseless tragedy.

  I apologize for not delivering this in person. It's the least I could have done for people who have done so much for me. So I hope you accept this letter as it is and know that it comes from a woman who loves you all and will never forget you.

  That is especially true with you, David. For the longest time, I resisted a deep friendship with you because I feared what might come of it. Laura Wilder often tells me that single men and single women cannot be friends. She insists that attraction, mutual attraction, will always get in the way. Thanks to you, I no longer believe that is true. You have taught me that true friendship is possible under any circumstances and given new meaning to the words honor, loyalty, and commitment. I will miss your sense of humor, your keen insights, and your kindness. In all my years, I have never met a kinder, gentler, more thoughtful man.

  I will miss you as well, Claire. I admit I was not in a missing mood Tuesday night. When I received my telegram, I silently cursed you and all the women celebrating the survival of their loved ones. If I had to cry, I wanted you to cry too. I wanted you to know what it was like to feel crippling emptiness and gut-wrenching pain. Then I remembered that you did. I was ashamed of myself for thinking such things. Because of that shame, I could not bring myself to face you again. I hope you forgive me. I want you to remember me as a good friend and a kind neighbor and not as a mean or insensitive person.

  As for you, Hannah, what can I say? You will probably never read this letter or remember the batty woman who doted on you one summer, but I will remember you. I will remember your infectious smile and gentle manner and the ease with which you brought so much joy to so many people. I will remember you every time I see a loving parent, a happy child, and a full moon in a starry sky. Please honor your parents as you go through life and use your gifts to benefit others. I want to know that the wonderful girl I once held in my arms turned out to be a wonderful woman.

  Give my best to Ron when you see him. Tell him that no matter what he does in the future, at least one person from his past will appreciate his courage in the face of injustice, his kindness toward strangers, and his service to our country.

  As I said, I am off to Nashville. I intend to stay a week or two and then visit Laura and Jack. If I like it in Detroit, I'll remain. If I don't, I'll go somewhere else. If there is one thing I've learned from my globetrotting neighbors, it's that the world is a diverse and interesting place. I think it's time to get out of Chattanooga and see some of that world myself.

  Please think of me as you reunite with Ron and start your new life. I will think of each of you often and fondly. You have touched my heart in so many ways.

  With deepest affection,

  Margaret

  Claire lowered the letter to her lap, took a deep breath, and gazed at the house across the street — her house. Stunned, overwhelmed, and burdened by new guilt, she shed a few tears and handed the letter to her brother.

  "What did she write?" David asked. "What did she do?"

  "She reminded me that the world is still a beautiful place."

  "Claire? You're crying."

  "I know," Claire said. She turned to face David. "We had quite a neighbor."

  CHAPTER 70: DAVID

  Quay County, New Mexico – Monday, September 10, 1945

  Two miles west of the tourist traps of Tucumcari, David flipped down his visor, stepped on the gas, and resumed his love affair with the Mother Road. He loved Route 66. He loved the greasy spoons, the quirky motels, and even the fill-up stations where smiling men in uniforms rushed to his window and asked if he wanted his oil checked.

  He could not wait to tell Ron what it was like to drive his car on America's Highway when it was new, freshly paved, and loaded with more nostalgia than the History Channel. Then again, he couldn't wait to tell his brother-in-law a lot of things. Ten days after leaving Chattanooga for the last time, he had a lot of information to share.

  David looked at Claire, who held Hannah in the front passenger seat, and smiled. He liked seeing her as a mother after so many childless years. He liked seeing her at peace. She had fought far too many battles in her difficult life, but now most of those battles were behind her. They were really going home, he thought. They were really going home.

  The final days in Tennessee had passed in a blur. David, Claire, and Hannah had said goodbye to Carter Galloway, Millard Finch, and even the fine ladies at the Family Aid Society. Sarah Preston and Marie Weatherford, blissfully unaware of FBI arrests, sinking ships, and even malfunctioning Ferris wheels, sent the Californians on their way with hugs.

  Then came the telegram. On August 26, the Bells informed David and Claire that they had reached San José, Costa Rica, and received their messages. David and Claire responded immediately, updating Geoffrey and Jeanette with a telegram to their hotel.

  After two days of sending messages back and forth, the four adults agreed to stick to the original rendezvous date to accommodate Ron's expected arrival in San Diego in late September. The Bells said they would go to Candy's Café in Los Angeles on September 27 and return every day thereafter until the others arrived to meet them.

  By the time David, Claire, and Hannah left Chattanooga on September 1, with their assets but not their crystal, David was a man at peace. For the first time in weeks, he was able to laugh, smile, and move freely without having to look over his shoulder.

  David conceded that the family's clean exit had not been entirely clean. Claire continued to have nightmares about sharks, Hannah continued to fight a nasty cold, and he, David, continued to obsess about the beautiful woman who was once his neighbor. He had thought about her every day since reading her goodbye letter. />
  He knew it was pointless to think about her. She no longer existed as a friend or a neighbor or an actual person in his life. She was already a memory from his past.

  Margaret was in Detroit, Michigan, and would likely stay there. She would deal with her grief, find a teaching job, and then meet an auto executive or obstetrician or litigator who was worthy of her love. She would finally find the happiness she needed and deserved. More to the point, she would do all that and more in 1945. She was a product of this world and would stay in this world. She would live the life she was meant to lead.

  David, on the other hand, would live the life he was meant to lead. He would return to 2017, Long Beach, and his job at Pacific Crest High School. He would jump back into the dating pool, perhaps find a Pilates instructor who liked the Dodgers, and live with their 2.3 kids in a gentrified neighborhood. He would be content and maybe even happy, but he would never be complete. He had left a piece of himself in Chattanooga.

  David was also mindful of how Margaret felt about him. Though she loved him, she clearly saw him as a friend. She had spelled that out in her letter. He was a friend to her, a kind and thoughtful man who had helped her get through a difficult time. He might occupy her mind for a little while, but he would not stay there.

  That was just as well, David thought. He had his own life to live and more pressing matters on his plate, including some big ones coming up. He had to get Claire and Hannah safely to San Diego, facilitate Ron's transition from sailor to civilian, and deliver the entire family to the café in Los Angeles, where Geoffrey and Jeanette Bell would take them all to the Painted Lady, a mysterious tunnel, and the familiar world of 2017.